In which I work on becoming a big fish in another small pond.

RB came and picked me up Saturday afternoon, and we went over to his studio (which is actually his mom’s basement, but you can still record albums in it) and we listened to stuff. Then C came over and we talked about possible bass players (of course I don’t know anyone in town, so they had that discussion themselves) and then we talked about the covers we could do to start out with.

Eventually C had to leave, so RB and I sat around and listened to more music (including his album Blue Movie, which is really fun and worth a listen) and shot the shit for awhile longer. We hit Taco Bell on our way to The Oasis to see C sit in with a local country band, the name of which escapes me.

During the band’s second set, I sat in – with RB on bass – and sang Stormy Monday. The crowd didn’t really seem care much for me (they were there to line dance, not listen to the blues), but the band pretty much dug the shit out of me. And I dug them: they were all really hot players. I was impressed as hell.

After singing, I proceeded to get drunk and disorderly with C’s girlfriend, Syl. (She kept ordering tequila.) RB went home. I stayed because Syl said she and C could drive me home. I thought we’d be out of there by midnight, but I didn’t get home until two because C had to wait to get paid for the gig.

It definitely was not the type of bar I usually find myself in. There was a lady with the most amazing hair I’ve ever seen: it was a huge tall gravity-defying beehive, with a braid up the back. (It must have taken a whole can of Aqua Net to keep that where it was.) There was a wheat farmer with ink all over his throat and arms, and big smooth buttons embedded in his earlobes. I kept harassing him ’cause he let me; he was a good friend of the monster guitar player in the country band.

Everybody else was totally normal looking… if you think Western wear is normal. I wore the only nose ring in the whole place, and my usual silly drunken dancing was way over the top for the venue. I ignored the looks and danced anyway because it wasn’t my fault they think country’s gotta be danced a certain way. At some point Syl smacked me because she thought my dancing was inappropriate. I sat down for a few minutes and then started dancing in my chair, which she seemed to think was even worse. All those stiff-backed line dancers, jeez. C’mon, find your root chakras, people!

The band was playing rock covers by the time the last set arrived because most of the line dancers were gone home. I was gyrating in my chair lip-syncing ZZ Top’s Tush while a couple near my table was grinning at me and bouncing along in their own chairs. (The women at the table behind me were appalled that I even existed, probably because I was having entirely too much fun, but whatever.) An Alaskan logger tried to take me back to his hot tub but I made Syl pretend she was my angry girlfriend until he went away. I had a great chat with the bass player. Eventually I fell into the back of C & Syl’s van and they drove me home. Syl and I had a brutally graphic discussion about fellatio.

Been exchanging MP3s with RB via email, and he offered to take me to the open mic on Wednesday. Hopefully we’ll be able to run a song by then, and hopefully C and whoever they get to play bass will be there too so we can see how we all feel about playing together.

Long story short: I have managed to bypass all the self-styled garage rockers and am already meeting the actual players in town. RB, who is proud of himself for finding me, says, “Every time you sing people ask, ‘Where’d you get her?,’ and they’re already talking about you at the Blues Society meetings.” COULD MY HEAD GET ANY BIGGER?