Mondays are an easier pill to choke down when they come at you in disguise. Think Mom’s applesauce trick. Or your poor dog and the peanut butter. Hidden evils are better swallowed this way.
Let’s paint an early in the week slab of majesty, shall we?
It’s in the 60s and you’re a couple miles and change away from where it is you’re headed, use your legs. Be a sidewalk hiker. Skip across cobblestone brick. Run into a smiley neighbor while his Corgi takes a dump at dusk. Memorize the last traces of an orange and white sunset. Taunt a preening swan and fate.
And go watch some bands pretending pretty well that it’s already the weekend. There are a lot of fans in and around your city all wanting to do the same. This is an event already in progress. This is your inevitable happy place.
Monday wasn’t broken but Beach Slang fixed it anyway. They knew the dad beards in the room weren’t gathered there for them—and proceeded to make mention of that at least once—but they “punched everyone in the heart” anyway.
It was energy and motion and magic. They sang some Pixies, goofed on Santana, and half-assed their way through a mostly acoustic “Wonderwall”, just because. But those were just highlights. Imagine what a more excited School of Rock era Jack Back would look and sound like if he fronted a really really good punk emo band? That was Beach Slang.
Most were gathered there for Minus The Bear.
It was a second-time-ever MTB experience for me. It felt absolutely more right than it did the first time. Maybe it came down to really wanting to hear a bunch of melodic guitars. I do think I know why I enjoy them now—maybe moderate fandom got a shove forward this time round—and it’s because they’re that round peg not fitting rightly in the square hole. How do you fully explain what it is they do? I can’t. I shan’t. Know this: they feel and sound worlds better than they ever have. I’ll learn the words so I can shout-sing along with that lot next time. (And there certainly will be a next time.)
There was a lot of heartfelt Orlando love being passed around, whether it was by the bands’ very affable front men offering praise or from those doing the applauding. Mutual love, man. It’s a good thing.
But, let’s get back to that disguise real quick.
Once everything’s over and done with, when your ears have taken a very proper aural beating (in that good way), amble back home to get some of these words down while your mind’s still impossibly beaming. Slow down near where the air’s been perfumed by flowers. Marvel at how seemingly no one else is doing what it is you’re doing tonight. Too few have seen all you’ve seen and heard and you want to knock doors. You want everyone to know about what you now know about.
Marvel at your stroke of luck. Strip. Hit a pillow. Dream some dreams. You’ve out-Mondayed Monday.
And you can sleep just fine with that.
MINUS THE BEAR PHOTOS
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SIGT MAGAZINE ISSUE #02
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