Playing Music With My Brother

Picture two Salamone boys, armpit-stinky, dead broke, and somewhere
between the ages of 24 and 28, rocking out in the living room with
their rich roommate's music gear. Bass, bass amp, acoustic guitar, some
pics, and a glass of water for me. It's easy, this music gig. Learn a
few chords, learn to string them together in a compelling sequence,
repeat that sequence. Then change it up with a different sequence. Then
figure out the corresponding bass triads, let them walk all over the
chord structure, then start playing out with rhythm on the guitar
proper. Hot night, a few cars going by.

Song starts to morph, the need for vocals announces itself. The image
of the rich roommate pops to mind, song morphs into a "day-in-the-life"
diatribe showing the pussy-whipped roommate feeding dogs, watering
plants, washing dishes, and making the beds while the near-wife sleeps
sleeps sleeps sleeps. The joke is there is no chorus: right as the
refrain ends, it reverts back to the next verse, proving the endlessly
futile round of repetition said roommate is a slave to, the poor guy.

Song stops, declarations are made. "This is so easy!" says one of us.
"No shit," says the other, "our roommate should be here!" But alas he
is not, which is probably a blessing. His skills were too advanced, and
his tastes too specific. Every experimental chord progression we came
up with reminded him of an old song by Weezer or Johnny Cash or Weezer
or the Melvins, which he would inevitably slide into. New material
became cover songs, over and over.

Said roommate sleeps in another town now, and Los Hermanos Salamones
have numb fingers and chord-echoing heads.