Tigertronic is Dead

It's time for a new update. For real. I've missed writing here a lot, even if only to get my thoughts on the page while filling some extroverted need for attention. Here's an attention grabber:

I think my band, Tigertronic, is dead.

We've fallen victim to the Contrarian Virus, which endangers democracy-based bands across the world on a daily basis. Here's how it works:
1. A new band forms, socializing happens, dreams are shared, music is played, alcohol (in this case, large, sometimes scary amounts) drank.
2. A decision-making group arises in the band, democratic rules abound, compromises are made.
3. One person in the group begins to feel left out. He/she begins to disagree with everything, if only to have a larger say in the workings of the band. They are known as the Contrarian.
4. The Contrarian desires to rule the band and become the main decision-maker, causing major amounts of strife, and sucking all fun from the band. In his/her own mind, they will cause so much hassle that eventually all will simply ask him what he wants instead of upsetting the rest of the herd by proposing new ideas without Herr Contrarian's prior advice.
5. Band breaks up from non-interest due to excessive negativity and everybody goes their own way.

This has happened to every band I've ever been in where democratic rules were enforced. It's shockingly similar to Aristotle's own theories on democracy and its eventual yet inevitable decline into tyranny. Funny how ancient political theory can still relate to the modern world, huh?

But in order to save the beast, sometimes we must kill it. The three main songwriters (including me) will soldier on in a different form and the same name, but it just won't be the same. However, I'm out there looking for a new band as well, hopefully controlled under an iron-banded dictatorship. I just want to play music.

There's promise. Check these guys out and let me know what you think. They're doing the whole alt-country/indie rock Wilco-thing that I've been listening to and playing in garages since the age of 16. Maybe it's time for a return to my Southern roots? Plus, they play mah jong every Friday night. Better for the complexion, that Mah Jong. There's some other options, including some pretty big local bands I've booked before (and whose flyers have appeared here,) but I can just hear my Hammond rumbling along humbly underneath or a flashy trumpet sounding out brightly on a few of these Rosemont kids' numbers.

Last night, I was really down, losing the faith, wondering if music should mean as much as it does to me. Gazing at the black, dingy tolex of the Fender Rhodes, I figured it was time for a good cleaning. Wedged back along the wall, dust rag impossibly dirty, a batch of my old piano books were found hidden in the well of my amp. Pulling out a selection of Claude Debussy, I flipped the switch and started into "Claire de Lune," my piano masters' class recital piece from my 3rd year at UVa. Clunking through, clumsy, ill-tempered (in a clavical way), I felt that old familiar warm tingle creep up the back of my neck, raising hairs, mingling, swirling, flushing my cheeks, teasing the corners of my mouth into a smile before settling in my eyes, becoming shiny and brilliant. Last chord slowly sings its way off into the distance. There it was, lost but no forgotten, found exactly where I had left it.

Don't worry about me, I'm fine.