What Would Jesus LasVegas Do?

Tuesday evening. I had been freaking out only just a little bit all day, because the people I worked for were helping me book a gig in May. I was worried because people were asking me for my details: INKA’s website, the Facebook page, a bio — a bio?! I had to write a bio to go up on a website?! It all seemed like a big deal, and I felt a sliver of embarrassment when I thought about the state my online content was in. So with this hanging over me, I’d been distracted at work all day, still getting things done but catching myself staring wide-eyed out of the window more times than usual. When I got home I whipped my laptop out and started the painstaking task of crafting a few lines which would sum me and my music up best, but I needed a second pair of eyes. My UK friends were all asleep, so I called Mr. Swipey. We talked the whole thing over and I eventually managed to get something together to send along and put up on my site.

We talked about music and writing. I wondered aloud what I should be doing at this time — should I be performing more? Should I be looking for band members? Should I be trying to record something? I grumbled as I acknowledged that I hadn’t written anything half-decent since I’d come to Canada. I heard the light strumming of a guitar coming from Mr. Swipey’s end of the line. Apparently I’d called him in the middle of writing a song. He played me the chords and talked me through the approach he was taking, speaking in generalities about movement and lyrics. I tried to sound as casual as possible when I asked, “So what’s it about?”
“…what, what is it about?”
“Yeah. What’s your song about?”
“…it’s about… it’s abouuuuuttt… uhhh,” I smiled as I heard him floundering. “It is about… being friends with someone for a while,” — at this point I was beaming. He’s writing a song about me, I thought. I bet you anything he’s writing a song about me! As Swipey continued to explain the premise of the song, my suspicions seemed to be confirmed. A song about a “mountain girl,” coming down from her “high estate,” to become friends with the narrator of the song… and the more the narrator speaks to this girl, the more he realises that she has some kind of dark, tragic side to her that she’s completely unaware of — hold up, tragic? I’m not tragic. I’m not tragic, I scoffed inwardly. Who the hell does he think I am? Despite my few moments of weakness, where I stated quite clearly to him how lonely I had been feeling, I didn’t ever think that there was some sort of tragedy to my predicament, or how I was reacting to living alone in this new country.

But that’s songwriting for you. One person can spark it, and you start writing their truth, and before too long the song comes to life and wrestles itself from you, beginning to exaggerate and romanticise the whole thing, the whole person, or situation. The truth becomes warped, even though the subject is still somewhat recognisable. That’s what always happens when I’m writing songs — I don’t think I’ve written a wholly truthful song about one person, ever. By the end of the writing process, I’ve crafted something which amplifies my emotions to ridiculous degrees. If I sat down every person I’ve written a song about and played them their song (or songs, in some cases), they’d most likely run a mile, because, the way I’ve written it, it sounds like I’m either head-over-heels in love with them, or I despise them entirely. Of course, by the end of the week I’d written my own untruth about Mr. Swipey (coming soon to a Soundcloud near you).

The next day, I was still thinking on the subject of my fledgling music career, if I could even call it that. I needed to do something, and quickly. I had to be impressive, incredible by May, so my colleagues would be proud. I put an advert up on Craigslist, looking for bandmates. It couldn’t hurt, surely.

The next day, which was technically my day off of work, was the busiest one ever. I had been given a handful of posters and was actually getting PAID a meagre amount of moolah to embark on a great journey to stick them up all over the city. Sellotape and posters in tow, I left my workplace with a slice of pizza (lunch) hanging from my mouth. I was an intern! I was on the go! I was busy and I was being helpful! I felt like I needed roller-skates or a bicycle or something. I scooted down the street and hopped on the bus to my first destination uptown. About two seconds after I got on I heard the wrong stop being announced. I got on the wrong bus! Ok! Take two! I hopped off and crossed the road. I’m an intern! I’m busy and helpful and sometimes I get on the wrong bus! But it’s ok!!!

Half an hour later: I’m standing with my hands on my hips, surveying a lamppost. Yes, this one will do. Out comes the sellotape and one pristine poster. As I pulled it out of my backpack, the paper started flapping frantically as it was caught by the wind. What then followed was a wrestling match between me, the poster, the wind and the sellotape. I’d stick one half of the poster up, take my hand off the lamppost to find the new edge of the tape, and have the poster come flying off the post and smack me right in the face, like you’d see in any Looney Tunes episode. By the end of the ordeal, the poster was firmly attached to the lamppost, swathed in sellotape, slightly ripped at the edges, definitely positioned at a jaunty angle. Nice handiwork! I congratulated myself.

The rest of the day involved much of the same, except my technique improved massively, thank goodness. However, if you did see someone chasing rogue posters down Bathhurst street, or kneeling on the ground nibbling sellotape next to public noticeboards, you’ll know who it was. By four o’clock, I was lagging. My feet were heavy and I was tired. I stopped at one of my favourite cafes nearby for a rest. Checking my e-mails, I saw I had a reply to my Craigslist advert from a girl who was a singer-songwriter herself, looking for a connection. She sounded cool. We started talking and decided to meet an an open mic in Kensington Market that night. I headed home and had a quick dinner, which consisted of bran flakes and several carrots with hummus (the hummus, on a side note, came from a local produce store and I swear it is the ambrosia of the gods), before heading back out downtown, guitar now in tow.

No matter what, there’s always something that I can take away from open mics, whether it’s just another performance under my belt or a connection with another musician. I sat down at one of the small tables. Already there was a smattering of people — this open mic was always a quieter one, but had some interesting regulars (do you remember the “I’M A DINOSAUR” guy? Yeah, well, him for one). I hadn’t been there for long before a tall, older man approached me and shook my hand with a smile. “I’m Olivia,” I said.
“Jesus LasVegas,” he said. He walked back to his side of the room. Hold on, did he just say his name was Jesus LasVegas? Did I hear that right…? Jesus… LasVegas? I couldn’t tell if I’d misheard him or what, either way I didn’t want to go and ask him again just in case he wasn’t actually called Jesus LasVegas, that would ruin the whole thing. Jesus LasVegas.

It wasn’t too long before my Craigslist buddy came through the door. Her name was Angèle, and she was a darling. We started chatting away about ourselves, what kind of stuff we play, what kind of projects we’re working on. A couple of guys turned around and one declared that he recognised me from the Supermarket open mic, so we all started talking. One of the guys was called Joe, a man from Detroit who owned about half a dozen bass guitars (I know, I’ve seen the photos). He was super: “anytime you girls need a bass line! Anytime!” Angèle and I played a four-song set each, and found common ground talking over guys who wanted to be “just friends.” 

At the end of the night I was content. I went to bed, congratulating myself on being able to make a friend. I was glad that I had been out and doing things with new people. No matter whether the song Mr. Swipey was writing was about me or not, whether it had been an exaggeration of me or not, I didn’t want to be a tragic figure. I didn’t want to be seen as mysterious and lonely and damaged. Not for me, definitely not for him, not for anyone.