Check it out, heres an article we wrote entitled "Addiction and Farkel" that is featured in the current (June/July) issue of Lone Star Music Magazine.
Addiction and Farkel
It is 8:30 on a Saturday morning, we are Texas Renegade and we're in the midst of yet another weekend road trip and we're addicted to music. We've come think of ourselves as a small army, crisscrossing the state of ..Texas.., and at times ....Oklahoma...., with the hope that one day we will be able to segway the music that we love making into an actual career, and perhaps even make a name for ourselves in the process. On this particular morning we more or less resemble a small, hung over troupe of gypsies as we set out to cover three quarters of the state on little sleep and even less money. We are packed, somewhat uncomfortably, into our seven-mile-per gallon, gas guzzling Ford Regency van which we have affectionately dubbed "....Regina....." We have in tow our small, yet astonishingly heavy, and alarmingly rusty equipment trailer, which we have rather non-affectionately come to refer to as "That Piece of Shit," and which we have somehow managed to fill completely, using precise, Tetris-like tactics.
As we navigate across the assorted fault lines of the state, allowing various forms of the Saturday morning Blues to begin to melt away, conversation naturally ensues. As you might expect from a group of five young gentlemen, talk of politics, religion, philosophy and astrophysics occur; interrupted intermittently by various, but amusing attempts at "fart-lighting," and less frequently, the age old pastime of super gluing truck-stop quality knick-knacks to the dash board. On this particular trip concerns seem to be at an all time high. Our mechanic recently informed us that the Van's transmission was undoubtedly on its "last leg." Coupled with this is the information that our bank account is overdrawn, thanks in large part to the fact that a sizeable check from the private party we played the week before has somehow become "lost" in the mail, and although a series of lengthy calculations seem to show that we have enough cash from last nights gig to make our destination no one seems to be completely at ease.
We are all seven hours older when we arrive at the bar. Much to our dismay however, we learn that the sound guy is running late. We wait around the bar for quite some time, figuring out who is exactly the worst pool player of the group (it ends up being an embarrassing tie). Throughout our wait we receive intermittent yet dubious looks from the locals and regulars who have quickly deciphered that we are neither locals, nor regulars; and through a series of unlengthy interrogations have learned, much to their distaste, that we don't play anything by Mr. Chesney or Mr. McGraw. Eventually the sound guy arrives and informs us that the monitor speakers haven't been working for the last week or so. We will officially be flying blind for the night, or at least deaf.
After a moderately productive sound check we hurry to the motel, only to learn that there are no rooms for us. Turns out the bar forgot to book them, it also turns out that the bar's manager is out of town, meaning that we will have to pay for our motel room out of pocket (of which we can only afford one), subversely meaning that roughly half of us will be sleeping on the floor. (Note to aspiring musicians: always travel with a couple extra sleeping bags). After a quick wardrobe change and a shower in which we utilize techniques we learned off of a Reckless Kelly DVD, we head back to the bar only to discover that contrary to what was agreed to in our rider, the band actually doesn't receive any free beer (this is where things can get expensive).
Finally downbeat comes and we start our set. This is when something amazing happens, people start showing up quite a few people in-fact. And they don't just show up, they start clapping, they start cheering, they buy us a few beers, they buy us a shot or two, they even buy a few CD's and t-shirts. There are even a few people singing along with the songs. Singing along with our songs! It's an incredible feeling, all be it short lived, but it reminds us why we're here in the first place, and that musical addiction sucks us in a little deeper. In three short hours we have enough fun to more than make up for the entire sixteen hour van trip, all the worrying, and all the bull shit we've had to put up with over the last five years; suddenly it's all clearly and unmistakably worth it.
After the gig it's back to the hotel for our post-gig ritual: "Farkel". What is "Farkel" you might ask? The unofficial "Farkel" rule book states:
["Farkel" is a dice game involving, yet not requiring, an extremely small amount of skill in mathematics, and additionally requiring a far less amount of strategy. A bottle of fine whiskey (usually Bellows) shall be present and included in the festivities. Moreover, cartoon network shall be provided in order to supply contestants with an ample amount of ambient back ground noise. However, it is not required that a player still be awake to win the game.]
We awake at ..9a.m... on Sunday morning to the annoyingly loud knock of a nice young lady from housekeeping who apparently overlooked the handmade "DO NOT DISTURB" sign on the door. Now wide awake, we commence our seven and a half hour drive home, complete with talks of astrophysics and demonstrations of proper and improper fart lighting techniques. All things considered the weekend develops into another successful, although stressing, road trip; a scenario that we will be happy to repeat next weekend and, if possible, every other weekend in the foreseeable future. After all we're addicted to music, and there's nothing cooler than being in a band.