Golden, er… Turquoise Handcuffs

This post’s title refers to the turquoise all-access wristband I received in exchange for providing transportation services to some of the Decibel Festival artists. It seems to be getting tighter and tighter as the weekend goes on. By Sunday night, I fear my hand will turn purple, detach from my body, and strangle the next person to ask me to wait a minute. (Handy music industry time conversion: 1 minute to you and me = 20 minutes to most of them.)

Okay, I’m being overly dramatic, but last night was rough. I am writing this after an excellent night’s sleep though, so I’m apt to remember the good parts rather than how I was trying to operate on four hours of sleep after a full day of normal-people work and an earlier East Side rush-hour fare.

Most of my Decibel drives were to and from Motor, which is way the hell south of everything. I seriously felt like I ran for the border five times last night. I drove Emancipator mostly and played phone tag with Beats Antique for much of the evening.

If every performance hadn’t ended at the same time, I might have also fetched Modeselektor. I caught most of their show at Neumos and could have justified staying up there to wait for them since they were on my schedule, but I had promised Emancipator I’d get them from Motor. Remember, Motor might as well be Mexico if you don’t have a car. Neumos is an easy haul, and Modeselektor seemed to have half the city up their ass that night so I know they were taken care of. All I really wanted to do was tell them I enjoyed their set, especially their goofy lip-syncing to Bjork and Antony’s “Dull Flame of Desire”. I nearly jumped through the roof watching that.

Anyway, after a night of driving artists, friends, friends-of-friends, and strangers with money, I got my cookies at the hotel when I dropped off Beats Antique. Another volunteer saw me and said, “Hey, Flying Lotus asked about you.”


He said some other stuff about how was talking to them, how they heard about the hearse, etc. but I don’t remember any of that. I just remember thinking, “Good. Because I asked about them too. A lot.”

So FlyLo, I know you had to go, but maybe when you’re back up this way, you can call a bitch instead of letting some random guy named Eddie call the shots, huh?

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