Snapshots.

August 24th, 2009. 8:35-8:37 PM.
Sandgate, VT.

The night in Vermont is black and silent, cut only by the sound of a stream gurgling in the distance. The only light glows faintly from the house behind me, shrinking back behind me as I walk into the night. The gravel of the road beneath my feet, I can feel through my shoes.

Bugs chirp. The water gurgles further. I see a shadow on the road ahead of me, unsure if it is my own, or a trick of my eyes, or just the trees in the moonlight. I walk quietly, mumbling only to myself. A lone power line stretches overhead.

There is a small clearing ahead, almost invisible in the dark. I look into it briefly, wondering what wildlife, seeing far better than I in the dark, stares back. There is a rustle in the bushes nearby. I ignore it. Something glints on the side of the road. I bend down to see what it may be. It is nothing.

Pie;590000 wrote:

go north

classicman;590189 wrote:

RUN, RUN like hell!

dar512;590246 wrote:

Invalid command.

Shawnee123;590288 wrote:

You silly goose: invalids can't run, not when they can't even leave the house! :p

Crimson Ghost;597259 wrote:

Whattza matter? Don't want our man-musk all over you?

monster;597425 wrote:

Thsi si just wrong on so many levels.....

Sharing only glances, not words, the drummer and the guitarist hammered out a crunchy rock-and-roll jam. Their chemistry ebbed and flowed. Sometimes the drum fills and guitar riffs clashed – a look would always be exchanged, an unspoken territorial glance. The guitarist would sometimes take the lead, changing his style or chordage or taking a solo without warning, leaving the drummer playing catch-up to fit the new beat. This clearly seemed unfair to the drummer, who would get his share of the leadership much the same way – occasional unpredictable changes in rhythm kept the guitarist on his toes. The two vied for control of the improvisation, and their interesting twists of style, all around a common theme or riff, made for a very dynamic piece, the personalities of the musicians shining through as clear as day. Bluesy pentatonics gave way to grinding power chords, moving the drums from up a notch in intensity to match; power chords melted into dreamy arpeggios, slowing the drummer down again. A classic blues closing starts to develop; the drummer hears it and gives a rising patter on his cymbals, crashing to a finale with the guitar. The two talk it out for a moment, kicking around ideas for another song to base the jam around, settling on a nod to The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly as fingerpicked western chords burned their way through the muddy distortion and the drummer built up a country rattle in his rhythm. Their glances and facial cues built up layers of complexity as they worked their way through various changes in rhythm. The drummer, keeping one eye on the clock, built up to a crescendo finale, but the guitar howled straight on through, leaving the drummer with no choice but to continue with a second crescendo, and again a third before the guitarist took the hint, building up to a rising coda before they ended their jam with a crash.