Today The Moon Tomorrow the Sun. With Who? The Ropes. That’s Who.

The Show

Ah… the 529…a gaggle of gathering hipsters wasting their money and brain cells. What is it about music that helps us socialize as young humans? The answer doesn’t really matter, though. The answer is too obvious. And if you’re confused by that, then…well I probably haven’t met you.

This night was like others. The moon was out. The polluted canvas of the Atlanta sky still enveloped the flicker of a star. That might be cancerous. This night was unlike any other in that there were bands playing that were worth a listen.

The Ropes came from New York to dazzle drunkards with a Lo-Fi multi electronic sound.

Today the Moon Tomorrow the Sun: a band that should already be famous.

And I’ve seen them play on many an occasion throughout the past six months. But this occasion I felt as though it was like being with a faraway, but fond lover. Sometimes you’re forced to make love to them, but there are those moments. There are those weird moments where it all seems to fit, and the lighting is skating across the spectrum, and she makes the right move, and she makes the right sound and you can’t help but flop on your back to imbibe such an unpredictable, ancillary beauty. Even so, you still sort of hate her for it.

In short, they deserve the record deal that’s coming to them. I didn’t tell you that.

When the Going Gets Weird, the Weird go to Starbar

So since the nights tend to meld together in such a mellow fashion in this town, I’m reminded of a later show at the Starbar. A heavy electronic show played by the Octopus Project.

The next most astute observation overheard since the one-eyed hobo lady was Derek Lyn Plastic: “this band sucks.”

For the first time in a couple of moons, I stood on my own ground. I kept my opinion wide open, like the vaginal hole of a Clermont Lounge beauty, tempting you into a hallway of love. I disagreed with Derek Lyn Plastic that night.  I sat pensive afterwards, enjoying my new favorite band…Octopus Project.

I wondered if anyone else drew a thought from their mind while tirelessly dancing, or drinking, or just hoping they would get laid again in some sort of depraved stupor.

Mostly, though, I just forgot about what people cared for, what lies they told to their friends, what music they could jump up from their normal life to see, what they actually did with their boogers, or what lady might meander my way to satisfy my own depraved desires while I sit in an inebriated torpor on my ridiculous bed.

It turned out that I just drove home and smiled a bit. Just a little bit. Just long enough to stop thinking. Just long enough to realize that eventually the inevitability of conscious thought would come upon me again in it’s ironic wonder. Smiled just long enough to sleep.

And then I woke up to a lady sprawled across the bed next to me.