In Which I Elaborate Further (And Further) Upon My Weekend.

The Underground Tour was a bust. I called ahead to reserve tickets, was informed that no reservations were allowed, and then arrived on time -- but they were sold out.

Fine! I didn't want to go on your stupid tour anyway! ...Piri and I wandered through an adjacent antique mall, bought some discounted silverware, and visited an incredible toy store which sold a lot of things we remembered fondly from our far-off youth, as well as many new toys nobody has ever heard of before. One toy, a softball-sized plastic sphere with a random motor inside, was allowed to run wild about the room, and kept startling me by banging up against my heels. For auld lang syne, I picked up one of these. It is sprouting in my kitchen at this moment. In fact, I feel the sudden urge to go check on it....

Hmm, no foliage yet. Anyway, our next destination was the Globe Cafe, where In Gowan Ring was performing. But first, Seattle had to have its way with us. Neither of us have any real sense of direction, and both were already weary, and we therefore spent the next couple of hours taking wrong turns, driving for miles looking for a place to turn around, and trying to remember why we ever wanted to return to this city which was apparently designed by a kitten with a ball of yarn. No trip to Seattle would be complete without such an episode. (Okay, actually it would. But if I pretend I enjoy it hard enough, maybe someday this wretched city will not allow me to get lost, just to spite me.)

In Gowan Ring is some guy with a name nobody knows how to pronounce, who plays acoustic songs about fallen leaves and the way moonlight reflects on the sea. His music is folk in the old British sense (folke?). His lyrics feature antique grammar and arcane wordplay, and are poetic in the Wordsworthian tradition. His following is apparently small (there were less than 30 people in attendance) but fervent. He played quite a long set, most of which would make nice napping music. I refrained from napping, though my mind wandered quite a bit. The highlight of the evening, for me, had already happened: throat singing.

The opening band, Novemthree, featured a friend of Piri's named Pythagumus Toadstool. (No, really.) Two guys accompanied him, one with hand drums and a cute scarf, the other with piano/recorder/vocals. On their last song, the latter, an unremarkable-looking white chap, started emitting this buzzing harmonic drone. He was able to modulate each of the pitches independently (I could only hear two, but there might have been more). Now, I've seen Genghis Blues, I've heard recordings by Yat-Kha and Huun-Huur-Tu, but I'd never actually witnessed live throat singing before. It was wiggidy-wack. I am putting it on my list of things to learn how to do (right between tai chi and reefing a sail).

And it could come in handy. After my semi-successful recording experiments today, Piri invited me to join her new band, Arrowwood. I am in a band! Awesome. Never mind that we live two hours apart and are unlikely to ever get up the courage to perform live. We have a band. Move over, Gary Benchley. Fame and fortune are surely just around the corner.