An Even Bigger Butterfly, Part 8.
Sometimes we do stupid things to impress people. This includes climbing Savin Rock while steaming drunk, throwing a sleeper sofa to emphasize our displeasure with the leadership of the Furniture Department, and driving eighty billion miles from civilization into the heart of West Nowhere.
Or we invite Drummer Matt over to jam. That does just as much damage, but it let me stay home.
We decided to start with Working Man by Rush, since it doesn't require much guitar anyway...and we had, well, none. I plugged in my twelve-pound warhammer of a bass into my 300-watt combo, and away we went, he on his plumbing experiment and me on my loud black metal ensemble.
The air turns solid when we do things like this; the molecules get so agitated that their vibrations can be felt hundreds of feet away...I'd swear you could taste the air around us, probably the same ash-nylon-voltage taste that I got when I played somewhere with bad grounding. About fifteen minutes into this orgy of minor chords and overdriven low end, Jacques stuck his head around the corner and mouthed the words "cops at the door."
I have always been a responsible citizen, so I went upstairs and spent some quality time with the Bringers of Law. It seems my loving neighbor, Mr. Rudnicki, had summoned the gendarmerie yet again. It was nowhere near his first time, and it would not be his last.
Fortunately, the police were reasonable men (as well as being musicians themselves.) After two more such complaints, they stopped responding.