The man without a bass

I’m back from the Northwest, where the Makes Nice just played a few shows. You should believe me when I say it was fun. Do you require ocular proof?

At the Towne Lounge in Portland, we had to play last of four bands. When you’re an unknown band, it’s especially hard to fight the gravitational pull that persistently draws show-goers back to their places of residence towards the end of the night. We hurried to set up. Immediately into our first song, the strap on my bass came undone, but I refused to stop. I attempted to play strapless, which is as difficult as it is humiliatingly awkward, until I realized the low string had actually broken. Still, I refused to stop. I dropped the bass, since only douchebags carry instruments they’re not playing, and finished the first song. Examining my fallen ax, I noticed it now had a crack in the neck. Broken. All those years, now just a memory.

Since none of the other bands that stuck around had a bass, our friend Joe said he’d rush home to get his. I severely doubted anyone would bother waiting for his return, so I decided to not be a prima donna. In an uncharacteristic moment of spontaneity for the Makes Nice, I grabbed Josh’s spare guitar and we continued rocking in that fashion. A few songs later, Joe carried in his bass, and we finished the set. The five or six people that remained were incredibly charmed and entertained. Totally worth it!

In a way, it was beautiful how I could transcend technical difficulties and inebriation and become a pure, humble vessel of rocknroll. On the other hand, it’s kinda tragic how my ongoing efforts to not be a douchebag can cost me the things I hold so dear. I guess it’s worth it, though. To not be a douchebag. Right…? Anyway, now I have no bass. The tour brought in enough cash to replace it, but my jerk bandmates seem to think that money’s better spent paying for all that gas we just guzzled. Can you believe that?