As there hasn't been a practice in the 24 hours since the launch of the official shnap! website, and in the interests of demonstrating the general weirdness that surrounds the ol' artistic life, for the inaugural shnap! blog posting, it seems only fitting to memorialize an incident that occurred during a show.  This, then, is the tale of...

The Night of the Damp Drummer

It was a dark and stormy night in the wildest outback of Flagstaff, AZ; a night where cruel winds bit through clothing and young hoes sucked with abandon at reduced priced drinks while musicians, smoking like the dark satanic mills of Victorian England, carefully adjusted knobs. A night when evil stalked the land; where the ghosts of Christmas past and J.F.K. danced with abandon to the unmitigated funk oozing from instruments wet with sweat; where Bill O'Reily snuggled with an underage sheep under a blanket of intricate design and scorn; where a sudden gust exposed the shortcomings previously hidden beneath a plaid skirt, and the word "Abercrombie" struggled to maintain proportional coverage of a highly enhanced, yet unbalanced bosom. On such a night as this, unbidden and unwelcome, the putrid vulture of vomit came to nest.

For it was as a vulture that it came: of a sudden from the sky, with neither warning nor apology, swooping with unerring accuracy for the head of an innocent; indeed, the head of that most innocent of creatures: the funky drummer. Who is less prepared for such an abomination than this lamb of funk? Who is less deserving of such an attack? Hath not this creature hands, and eyes, and legs as a man? Hath not this creature muscle and tissue? If you cut him, will he not bleed? And if you vomit upon him, will he not revenge? Evidently not, although he did get pretty pissed off.

We were set up underneath a balcony that was supposed to be unused. Some fellow evidently felt said balcony was an admirable place to deposit Exhibit A- one fairly blah and extremely drunk girlfriend, who he sat at a table. The job of maintaining upper-torso verticality being beyond her, she leaned (fell, dropped, keeled over) onto the table. At some point in the keeling, just as we in the band were beginning the count for "Talking to Chris" (#1 on the Samoan charts, 3 weeks running), Exhibit A allowed her mouth to open, thereby displacing Exhibit B, a great amount of vomit and bile which immediately fell through the cracks of the wooden plank balcony. Unfortunately, Exhibit C, a drum set complete with all accessories including living, breathing, funky drummer, was directly below the table upon which Exhibit A had disgorged her evening; and the inevitable occurred. The funky drummer became considerably funkier.

Thus it came to pass that shnap! took a forty minute break to clean fresh vomit from drummer and drums, as well as to freshen drinks and exchange pleasantries with some of the larger breasted members of the audience in passing, before proceeding. And proceed we did; ‘cause that’s just the sort of band we are.
 
-- as recalled by Dizzle, 9/6/06