everybody hates the flagpoles
“Can you turn down, I’m trying to talk over here!” yelled a guy on the outside edge of the crowd. Apparently he was serious. The Flagpoles were in another San Francisco back yard playing a party. We all looked at each other and turned down.
We’ve gone across the Bay Bridge to play a house warming and were asked to stop after our second song.
“We don’t want to start off on the wrong foot with the neighbors,” he said, hoping we’d understand how bad we sounded when the amplifiers were plugged in and turned up.
The Flagpoles sound great in the living room at 604 where we practice. It’s something in the wine and the 20 pack of whatever’s on sale and the hip shooter of Jim Beam that makes an appearance out of Doug’s pocket unannounced. No one is there to listen. I can get all the way through a song playing one fret too high on every note and no one complains.
“Sounded groovy me brutha’s,” Collin will say. “Say, Jon, what was that dynamite sound you were getting?”
Playing out is a considerable challenge, especially when your mind goes blank under stress. People in the crowd may notice the bass players hand is sitting idle on the neck as he watches the guitarists roll through chords of a song we’ve played hundreds of times. He’s craning his neck forward like a cat when the yarn first begins to move.
“What is that movement over there?” the bassist is asking himself. He is shellshocked. The last chorus comes around and suddenly it floods back and he pulls on those strings like he’s an electric basket weaver. The sudden wave of low end makes the rest of the band look around in confusion. Perhaps a speaker blew? Oh, it’s Rolston, he just remembered the song. And, end.