Brooklyn hardcore band Disparager recently wrapped up a tour in support of their EP, Timeless, Ageless. Singer/guitarist Chris AhKao is contributing a tour diary.
I found out this tour that Jason really likes How I Met Your Mother. I never knew that about him before. For those of you who are not familiar with HIMYM, it is by far my favorite television sitcom, and for those of you who are not familiar with Disparager (probably most of you), Jason is my guitar player, one of my best friends, and my brother in arms. My biological brother Philip also came on this tour as TM, and Philip also loves HIMYM. I digress.
This entire tour Disparager has met many nice, supportive, awesome people who I will remember forever. The fact that so many people have embraced my band is mind blowing. That everyone was nice, genuine and supportive gives me restored faith in humanity; that everyone actually embraced my music reaffirms my faith in myself.
Not that I need them, or you, or anyone. I will continue to write the music I want to write regardless of anyone’s opinion, and that’s that. But again, I digress.
That morning I get “cut out of a decision” while I’m in the shower. We are now, unbeknownst to me until we’re practically there, eating breakfast at some shitty fast food place and one of the roommates is “tagging along,” not “to-go” either, ignoring the long drive that awaits us, ignoring that if we are late there are consequences. I’m pissed. And, being self-aware to the point of borderline neurosis, I fully acknowledge that this nice generous and talented roommate is probably just excited to meet new people. And I don’t blame him. I blame my band. I’m silent for the meal.
Like Minerva’s owl, these events lead me to my favorite moment, at least spiritually, of the entire tour.
In walks a woman who instantly takes my breath away. We meet. I later describe her to my friends as a hard working dancer and mother of a young kid, and she’s funny and smart. But I can’t describe the intangible part. That feeling. Someone else who fucking gets it. The “it” that lies somewhere between Kerouac and Ayn Rand (barf), the “it” that the owl brings tomorrow but never today. We chat, and I leave with that good feeling you so rarely get. I’ll probably never see you again, but thank you for that my dear.
Til next time