He was drinking a malt liquor in a can, smelling of beer and whiskey. I declined drink as I gave that up, and as a pet peeve playing and drinking alcoholic beverages is a must not. As the strange roleplayer over the internet RE:'d alcohol is a mocker. The broadband preacher was on the mark, because the togetherness or what the Hindus call darshan is lost if there is the rhythm section drinking water and the guitar soloist slightly brimming. I can't even stand the smell and I'd rather not talk about drinking at an audition, even if I was drinking vodka, he was sipping malt liquor smelling beer in a can. He'd wonder, if that is so distasteful, why not drink expensively if he is a cheap boozer.
I'd little to say about the style of his playing and he seemed decided over a few things that he must have not thought were my business. I hate interviews and came off mockingly terrible. I asked him had he heard, "You have come in your hair and your dick is hanging out" and he had, so I finished my sentence, "then you will know what I mean when your next song needs to be slower, because that is really how to make it sound You Have Come," the older version not the sped up kind.
I note that having rosin on my bow would make the last piece have gone better, but I cannot replay the song here, and unless that interview ended up on YouTube. In answer to what brought me to the String Bass, "My great-grandfather brought music from Russia to my Zadie who passed on to my mother and her children, and my uncles and theirs," which is needlessly complicated, "Oh, Gary Carr, and I've been playing for seven years, twenty-three years." I hate that question, because I always feel I am stabbing my teachers with the tip of my bow. I left wanting to know and not having said a whole lot, but the car started and ran down the hill where that counts, and the only thing I regret is rattling on the creator of my K-Bass at great length, as it seemed to offend Mr Krestovsky.
I auditioned with Koussevitzky, under rehearsed second movement of the 2nd Concerto with un-rosined bow sounding bright as a cello to an audience expecting Indie. Thumped out a few Charlie Parker tunes, Blues for Alice and Confirmation. I have yet to recieve any confirmation from Well-Dressed Records. I'm quite the idiot in shorts and white shirts with a sporty Hassidic Jew beard and shaved head. I was imitating Charles Mingus shown below:
What a Prince Myshkin there! I walked seventeen miles from Towson took York and Greenway to 33rd street and up University Parkway all the way to Ted's in Mount Vernon. My mother stopped by there on her way from work and bought me a case just hours earlier, saying that her son preferred dark rosin. I came in close to closing and asked for a case of Carlson, dark rosin and Ted said he only had Pop's. There had just arrived a case that morning shortly after my mother, and I had gotten the Pop's but missed the irony until greeting my angry mother, an hour and ten minutes late for the Sabbath and she was worried sick which I won't bore with the dialogue we had. Here is a picture of the Prince Myshkin:
There are stories out there if you just have to find them, and the chance to get out and perform are proliferate as nuclear power in the Star State. I write and have as now, two stories under my belt I need to write, "For Pop's Rosin" and "Romanians in the Attic," and my belt is at the belt shop which I won't get until Saturday when the belt serviceman is moving for a new location. Where, I have yet to wonder?
