Seattle Subsonic

The Fierce and the Dead, Gas, Bass, Traffic

March 12th, 2010

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First thing I noticed this morning when leaving Camano Island to head back Seattle way was that I was low on gas. Damn. There between the odometer and the speedometer, the gas light was on. That wasn’t good. I had a 10:00 meeting with a client down in Redmond, and it was already 8:45. I’d wanted to take a leisurly drive south and listen to the 19 minute experimental opus from the English band The Fierce and The Dead and gather my thoughts about it in order to pen them here. Instead, I’d be fighting time, pushing the gas pedal, checking the rearview for cops. If the music was good, it would distract me from all that. Good music can distract from anything. It demands focus. That’s why I don’t listen to music while programming because I’ll do just that. I’ll listen. And then of course I’ll pick up the guitar or the bass and play along while thinking, “Work? What work?” I popped the CD in and drove on out planning to make a quick stop for gas before I got to the highway.
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A vibrating guitar note came in as I sped down a back road toward the Shell station. Then there was a bass playing E notes, octaves, low-low-high, bum bum buuuum, bum bum buuuum. I drove faster. I would be cutting it too close given the hour drive in good traffic. If rush hour didn’t cooperate I could end up with one less client. Given that I’ve just struck out on my own in private web development, losing a client would not be a good thing. I know, I know, then why the hell was I leaving so late? Set the alarm, get up early, and get a move on, right? Well, I’d been up late working on the new mix for my own band and answering an email from a certain woman, both very necessary things no matter the hour or the obligations of the following morning. I finished the email just before 2:00 A.M., re-read it, and sent it on its way. I then went to bed thinking about that woman, amazed at how the smile of another person can be permanently lodged there just behind the eyes. By 2:30 I was asleep, and preoccupied as I had been with that smile, the alarm/cellphone right there next to the bed was not set.
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The bass notes continued and the guitar continued wailing and vibrating. One thing inevitable came to mind, Pink Floyd’s Careful With That Axe Eugene. This tune was faster, but the the influence was obvious, and I mean that in a good way. I’m quite fond of Pink Floyd’s older trippy psychedelic stuff. I’m the guy who put on A Saucerful of Secrets (for the faint of heart check it out from the 5:25 point of the video) once at a frat party, not my frat mind you, and was surprised that Pink Floyd got five minutes into their space and noise before someone said, “What the fuck is this?” I pulled into the Shell and got out with the idea to just pay ten in cash and be quickly in my way. I went into the station thinking of The Fierce and the Dead and Pink Floyd and gave ten to the cashier, “Ten on pump four, please. Thanks.” The woman working took the money without saying anything, and I left without waiting for a receipt. As I walked back to the car, I had that bass in my head, bum bum buuuum, bum bum buuuum. I was only a few minutes into the 19 that it was, but it was promising thus far. Thinking such, I got in the car and drove off in a hurry to make my appointment. The song came back on. There was the bass, the guitar. The drums came in and the bass started to descend a little between the low E notes. As I got to the highway, my fears became reality. There was traffic, heavy and languid, that lurched along at intervals of feet and inches. Like the bartender at The Monkey Pub a few weeks ago, it was my turn, “Son of a bitch!”
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I had no choice though, I was going south, I had to get to Redmond, and it was already 9:01. I eased into the traffic and began the stop and go dance all the other cars were doing. Stop. Go. Stop. Go. Stop. Long pause. “Son of a bitch!” If the traffic didn’t clear soon I’d have to call the client and tell him I’d be a little late. The Fierce and The Dead suddenly upshifted in contrast. Some distorted guitar chords came in under the bass to give it a little beef while the lead guitar continued a little noodling and a little soloing with a not quite Pink Floyd delay. The drums did a few tom rolls. Not I though. Stop. Go. Stop. Traffic inched along. I figured the steam coming from the cars was as much from people’s frustration with the traffic as it was from the cars themselves. 9:05. The Fierce and the Dead downshifted, hung mellow on that same groove and then upshifted again still in the same groove. Eight minutes on they were still trying to say something with it, bum bum buuuum, bum bum buuuum, but I wasn’t sure what it was.
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Go. Stop. Inch. Inch. I realized there was no way I was going to make my appointment. I’d have to reschedule. I fished my phone from my pocket, and opened it to call the client. I knew there were laws against driving and talking on cell phones in Washington, but as I was stopped at the moment with miles of stopped cars in front and behind, I figured I was safe. I opened the phone. The screen was dark, and I knew right away I was screwed. The battery was dead. I’m prone to letting it do that because I so like my solitude, but it comes back to bite me sometimes. This was one of those times. I clicked the on button in the hope that I could get a few moments, enough maybe to call my client. The screen lit up. There was a pause and then a message that informed me the battery was low and that the phone would thus power down. “Son of a bitch!”
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The brake lights went off ahead of me and there was movement. We all moved five, ten, fifteen feet, and then of course we stopped again. The Fierce and The Dead changed to a droning distored guitar and then a droning bass joined it. When the drums came back in I thought, “Whoa, Radiohead.” The beat and the feel of this section were from something right out of OK Computer. I tapped my fingers. Similarities aside, it was pretty cool. That’s when I noticed it, the gas light. It was still on. I got that empty feeling in my stomach. I gave ten dollars to the woman back at the Shell station, and then drove off thinking about the bass, about Pink Floyd and how late I would be for the meeting. I never put gas in the car. I was on the highway. I was stopped on the highway. The needle hovered below empty. My client would soon be a thing of the past. I would probably soon be on the side of the highway walking to the next exit. There would be no meeting. It started to rain.
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“Son of a bitch!”
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The rain made soft sounds on the roof and windshield of the car, and I thought about the only thing that could get me through the traffic without putting my fist through the dashboard. I thought about that smile, the email I had sent last night, and the fact that she, that certain woman, was probably checking her email right about then. And with that, the meeting did not matter. The client did not matter. The traffic did not matter. The only thing that mattered was the next time I would see that smile. The car lurched and chugged, and I managed to pull to the side of the road before it finally ran out of gas. I parked and sat there on the side of the road as The Fierce and The Dead finally got to something that sounded like The Fierce and The Dead, a few staccato bass chords and then a descending bass line of chords and notes with a driving beat, a few drum rolls, and the noodling solo with delay that had been ever present all of the past 18 minutes. Yeah, I’d go see them if they came to Seattle. Ignition off, gas can in hand, hood up, I headed south.
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