Rockin the cough

Or coughin the rock. I’ve been in a psychic duel with my body lately. Like all things, the paradox is that I’ve also been allowing my body to do its thing. It’s been a drag, no question, to pass on a ton of parties and events the likes of which I havent seen since before the dot com bubble popped. I’m doing my best to preserve my health and voice for tonight’s show. Day before yesterday, I went for a random walk through Boston and came across the Really Real Democratic Bazaar in the Boston Commons park. There were probably, oh, five or six hundred people in the vicinity, mostly anarchists and Haight-street style punks. I thought it was kind of ironic that the anarchists were organizing. And generally baffling about what they propose should replace our f’d up system.

Anyway, there were two soundstages set up and in wandering around found the schedule for the stages duct taped to the walkway. Bunch of names of bands and artists I didn’t recognize, (which isn’t saying much – I’ve never been one for remembering names of artists) and noticed there was open mic between sets.

So I ambled over to the soundstage with the larger audience and hesitated for a bit. I told myself the whole reason I’m out here is to play music, so I pushed myself to approach the angry punk lookin dude who was sitting off the stage and ask about signups for the open mic. I got the last slot, 6:21- 6:26. Another moment of irony that Anarchists would have such a tight schedule.

I jumped the T (thats’ Boston’s version of Muni, “the Train”, or “the El” depending on what metropolitan transit authority you’re familiar with) back to the dorm. I played Unamerican a couple times then packed up my box and started retracing my path back to the Commons. I gave myself an hour to make the trip, allowing for missed trains, and the widely expected random searches. I thought that maybe a giant black box on wheels might attract some attention.

Interestingly enough, I made it through all 5 stops and was hitting the button to the elevator to the street when a SWAT-swathed Transit Police person approached me. “So, what’s in the box?”

“A piano”

he muttered something into his shoulder mic, and the elevator door opened. I got in the elevator, and said I’d be happy to show him if he wanted to take a look. He said sure. We rode up to the street, and now completely outside of the Transit system, opened my case for inspection. I noted the fact that I’d managed to get all the way through the system without being stopped, and it wasn’t until I was out of it that I was stopped. He said something about keeping an eye out for terrorist, BLAH BLAH BLAH.

Between that and seeing Faranheit 9/11 (which you must see before you make a decision about voting this year), I can’t say that even with the Department of Homeland Security I feel any safer.

There were plenty of mounted and riot police on the perimeter of the park, though. Certainly there to protect the anarchists from being atacked by terrorists who “hate their freedom”.

I’m takin the train to Harvard to visit a friend frmo the Bay Area for lunch, then heading to the last hour of the Progressive Demomcratic Convention. Rehearse for an hour, then pack the bags and head to the Paradise for setup and sound check. Still don’t know what time I go on, or how much time I have. Taking my lesson from campout two weeks ago to time my set appropriately.

More in a bit.