SLOWLY, AND NOT AT ALL SURELY

Hey, it's been a minute.

But what was I gonna do? Post copies of the e-mails upon e-mails upon e-mails that I sent to Hamlet (all of them with a cheesy-corny subject line along the lines of "LINKS: u beta check these, there's someone special in here, i feel it")?

(Obviously, there never was anyone special on there.) (I mean, there surely was, just not that special match.) (But then again, maybe I was right the first time? Craigslist is FULL of morons. Which might be why Hamlet refuses to post himself up on there.) (Anyways.)

I could've posted copies of those e-mails, I guess, or of some of the better ads out there. But that's about all the action there'da been to report for a few months.

That's because Angel, the cool, quiet drummer with whom Hamlet had been having productive, weekly jam sessions with for a few weeks, managed to break his hand, which sidelined him and left us wondering what was next, who was next and when, if ever?

All while Hamlet dropped $300-some a month to pay for his side of the now deserted lockout, which is being shared with another as-yet-incomplete band who used the spot as often as Hamlet did: None at all.

Sad, about that room. It used to be so full of life (read: drama). It used to boast two of the loudest bands on that whole damn second floor, in the alchemist element and The Cobras/Blood on the Stereo.

Now it sits lonely -- and clean.

How strange.

But what can you do when you have no one to play with? And nowhere to stash your PA, amps and other equipment?

Usually, Hamlet would like between none and five of the candidates behind the batches of six-to-20 links I sent his way. On average, I think he'd respond to two of the ads -- which were for drummers, singers, bassists, nearly full bands and avant garde multi-instrumentalists -- a week.

Here's the weird part. The odd, disillusioning, worrisome part.

He heard back from none of them.

Never a "Thanks, but not thanks, we already found our guy" lie.

No "I don't think you'd be right for us."

Not a single, "Dude, give me your number and we'll set up a jam session (so I can flake on you later)."

Nothing.

It was as if Hamlet were sending e-mails directly into a black hole. Or sending them straight to these cats' ever-unchecked junk mail folders. (People: if you've got an ad up, CHECK YOUR JUNK FOLDER EVERY NOW AND THEN!)

But maybe that's all good, because Angel called a couple weeks ago to find out when Hamlet wanted to play again.

And, again, the expensive lockout went unused.

That's because the dudes played -- picking up just about where they left off on their live-programmed experiment, I hear -- at Angel's folks' house, which features a soundproofed room that's reportedly accomodated full band practice without complaint till 2 in the a.m.

The craziest part, Hamlet marveled, was that the joint was AIR CONDITIONED.

"I had no idea it was hot outside," Hamlet said when he got home Saturday afternoon, as I begged for details and analysis of the session.

For the record: The world felt right-er, suddenly, that day, all day, to me.

And it will feel right-er still, if Downtown Rehearsal's Room No. 282 gets to see some action again soon. Like, if perhaps Hamlet checks out and moves on, making space for the latest, greatest, scaled-back, stripped-down, trendy-assed indie band to step in and bring, you know, one-tenth of the sound back.

But we'll see. Gotta get Angel The Cool Drummer to keep his fists off the fridge first.

Please do wish us luck. You'll want to hear what comes of it.

rock on be well peace

(I'll add photos 'n shit next time -- and there will be a next time.)