I managed to underdress rather spectacularly today, don’t know what I was thinking. I’ve got a long-sleeved top on, but Birks with no socks. It’s raining and overcast and cold out. I had to bring a sweater in from the Jeep to wrap my feet up in under my desk.

I went to J’s house today at 12:30 for a band photo. It’ll run in the Fairfield Weekly Reader on Thursday to announce our gig at Cafe Paradiso this Saturday. (Yes, I’m playing a coffee shop. I mean, it’s appropriate for the material – ain’t no loud blues gig, this.) I guess we’re rehearsing Thursday night. The whole band has literally never played together before; I met the violinist for the first time today.

J still wants to re-record one of the songs, and is bordering on miserable that an album recorded for less than a grand has flaws on it. He seems particularly depressed with his own singing, which is More. Than. Perfectly. Adequate. He mentioned something about wishing this project measured up to what it would be if he’d spent four months and twenty-five thousand dollars on it! G told him to revise his standards downward from ‘perfect’ to something more mundane like merely ‘excellent,’ and K told him that even bands who can afford multi-tracking often choose to record live in the studio, sacrificing the ability to punch in for the synergy of actually playing together. I told J he’s totally vata-deranged.

So I’ll be doing my first bona fide roo gig on Saturday: singing Western bhajans in a smoke-free, booze-free coffee shop. My God, I’ve turned into TSR!

I’m actually excited; it’ll be fun. But one must endeavor to engage in a healthy amount of self-mockery, eh?

Local jargon file is here.