Well...yes, it was, as I'm sure you have already guessed, surreal.
As I opened the door, a harsh sonic wind stung my ears and seemed to slap me backwards like cheap reverb in a small room. The sound was deafening. I clamped hard onto the doorframe and half-staggered/pulled my torso through the door then stood there, briefly, trying to breathe, thinking this must be what awaits a talented but condemed musician as he steps through the gates of hell.
To my right, in a clusterfuck of grimey, mottled hair and entangled guitar chords, sat a dozen or so pre and post pubescent creatures of undiscernible sex, each enthusiastically dipping into their shallow well of talent while over-amplifying the resulting musical atrocities with the mystifying eagerness of a fool who insists on defending himself at his own trial.
Murderous mutants with their Axes.
I steered my way through the rubble of stomp boxes and fallen guitar stands toward the classical guitar room. Amost there. A sales zombie brushed against me near the bass amps, hesitated and turned, then stared through me with dead eyes and mouthed the programed words: "Finding ever'thing alright?" I nodded and pushed forward, avoiding his eyes. He may not have been one of the undead, but he was under their influence.
Once inside the sancutuary of the classical guitar room, I pulled down a nice Esteve from its perch and began to caress a simple melody from its delicate mating of nylon and wood. Then, just as I was about to execute a stylish little turn-around...
Bvroomafrappafrappa Scoureeech!!!
I jerked my head around, stared through the plexiglass, and...and...it was horrible. I can't describe it. A bass, a boy, and a big-assed amp...and no supervision. Nastiest thing my ears have ever been exposed to.
Panicked, I ran, crawled, fought my way out of that fucking store like Charles Bronson trying to get out of the collapsing tunnel in "The Great Escape." I don't remember anything about the 30 minute trip home, except I drove in complete silence. And now, still alive, and much, much wiser, I am telling my story to you.
Do NOT go to Guitar Center on a Saturday.
It is the den of the dragon.
As I opened the door, a harsh sonic wind stung my ears and seemed to slap me backwards like cheap reverb in a small room. The sound was deafening. I clamped hard onto the doorframe and half-staggered/pulled my torso through the door then stood there, briefly, trying to breathe, thinking this must be what awaits a talented but condemed musician as he steps through the gates of hell.
To my right, in a clusterfuck of grimey, mottled hair and entangled guitar chords, sat a dozen or so pre and post pubescent creatures of undiscernible sex, each enthusiastically dipping into their shallow well of talent while over-amplifying the resulting musical atrocities with the mystifying eagerness of a fool who insists on defending himself at his own trial.
Murderous mutants with their Axes.
I steered my way through the rubble of stomp boxes and fallen guitar stands toward the classical guitar room. Amost there. A sales zombie brushed against me near the bass amps, hesitated and turned, then stared through me with dead eyes and mouthed the programed words: "Finding ever'thing alright?" I nodded and pushed forward, avoiding his eyes. He may not have been one of the undead, but he was under their influence.
Once inside the sancutuary of the classical guitar room, I pulled down a nice Esteve from its perch and began to caress a simple melody from its delicate mating of nylon and wood. Then, just as I was about to execute a stylish little turn-around...
Bvroomafrappafrappa Scoureeech!!!
I jerked my head around, stared through the plexiglass, and...and...it was horrible. I can't describe it. A bass, a boy, and a big-assed amp...and no supervision. Nastiest thing my ears have ever been exposed to.
Panicked, I ran, crawled, fought my way out of that fucking store like Charles Bronson trying to get out of the collapsing tunnel in "The Great Escape." I don't remember anything about the 30 minute trip home, except I drove in complete silence. And now, still alive, and much, much wiser, I am telling my story to you.
Do NOT go to Guitar Center on a Saturday.
It is the den of the dragon.