This week I brought a copy of the (almost mastered) Black Diamond Express Train to Hell demo CD along for the driver with whom I get to and from work twice a week.
He slid it into the car stereo and slide guitar and banjo and cajon started coming out of the speakers. (On car radios the bass just completely disappears on this mix.) Then the singing starts, and Driver Man says, “Is that your voice?” He sounds astonished.
“Yeah, that’s me,” I tell him.
“Wow, I never would have guessed it,” he tells me back.
“Why is that exactly?” I ask him. This is not the first time someone has said this to me. Usually it’s “You don’t look like you can sing like that!” To which I always ask how exactly people who sing look? I am still awaiting some sort of reply. Driver Man had one for me.
“Well, you hear music like this, and you immediately think of a woman with long, curly blond hair wearing a cowboy hat and holding a guitar. And you don’t look like that at all.” I had to laugh. No, no I don’t.
All that is to say that we are playing another show this weekend, one that fell onto our laps all of a sudden. It is in Elkenroth in Westerwald, at Cafe Kunterbunt, the ex-bakery house whose address I don’t know. It’s a small town, so I assume that if you live there, you probably already know what I’m talking about. And if you don’t live there, you can probably just follow the music to the hoard of out-of-place-looking punks.
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