The Three-Hour Furlough

I was dragged out on a Thursday by my brother last night. What was once de rigueur is now a rarity. It's not as if I am shackled; the whole concept of 'chasing the night' is best left for the single and/or the childless.

As I found out pretty early with my firstborn is that kids do NOT forgive hangovers. Peeling a toddler off of chairs, the armoire, and from the top of the stairs is a painful job. Doing it with a proverbial ice-pick jammed between your eyebrows is downright brutal.

Speaking of brutal, let's re-cap tonight's entertainment. After having a beer at an overtly caucasian drinking establishment, we ventured elsewhere. My brother suggested a visit to La Luna, in the middle of Buffalo's Chippewa District. My stomach dropped, dreading the idea of squandering the evening in an overcrowded bar on an overcrowded street with tons of slutty looking girls that wouldn't look my way if i were ablaze. Something about being married. It feels like being on the bench, while everyone else on your team plays. Fortunately the place was closed and my brother decided to throw in the towel.

I suggested going to Roxy's, but my brother was on the prowl. A lesbian bar just wouldn't do. I guess Club Diablo would. My neighbor opened the bar recently, so I thought I might check it out. It was what I expected... Dim, with red ambient lighting and walls full of Satan. What I didn't expect was the stage. Live music. That was a pleasant surprise. Sort of.

I watched the band set up. Some outfit called The Frame Up, I believe. Hitting the skins was local emo-choad Glenn. I hate to say it, but I was pre-disposed to dislike the band. To add salt to an open sore, I don't personally care for the bassist. I could tell it was going to be a short night. Then they started to play.

Mid-tempo, great guitars, but zzzzzzzzzz. Firstly, it took them a while to get the bass through the PA. It made them sound marginally better, but not enough to win me over. They were fronted by one of those whiny/screechy guys with lots of feelings. Now, I might be alone on this, but I really can't stand bands with front-men. Unless you're a young Mick Jagger, Guy Piccioto, Chris Robinson, Milo Auckerman or, on a local scale, Snapcase's Daryl Taberski, I say pick up a goddamned guitar and pull your own weight.

You really have to have huge balls and charisma to be an effective front-man. It's a tall order to fill. People will focus on you, and unless you're good enough to warrant the attention, lack of an instrument can make you as exciting as a wet fart. No, wait... a wet fart is more dynamic. I was relieved when my brother wanted to bail. He drove.

They didn't fare better making my brother a fan. One could make the argument that "At least they're up there." My brother equated it to the drunk guy who hits on the hot chick with an obscene pick-up line. After he's shot down, he says "Hey, you gotta give me an 'A' for effort." "No," my brother suggested, "maybe a "C+."

On our way out, I ran into a friend from High School. He introduced me to his wife. As I chatted about our upcoming 20 year reunion, his new bride mentioned that she was 2 when we graduated from high school. Hmmmm. Chasing the night worked for somebody. One can't get too mad at that. The crappy rock band, maybe... If we'd been made to pay the $2 cover.