Chris Layton – The Pleasurecraft

June 16, 2010

Antone’s CLOSED

Having fun can be a real bitch. There is almost always a certain amount of effort involved. Sure, you can attempt to minimize it to a certain extent. You can position your recliner within arm’s reach of your Red Bull and Snickers stocked minifridge, get your joystick optimally situated so that you barely have to move your wrist, strap on a urinary condom and a collection bag so that you rarely have to even go to the bathroom, but what kind of life is that? Sitting around all day basting in the funk of your own nervous sweat worrying that you might get ganked by a hostile World of Warcraft mob? Fuh-hun! A few years of that and your Jabba the Hut-looking ass will have exactly zero chance of getting laid by anything other mail-order sex toys. Scary as it sounds, there is something to be said for getting out and about – not just making vampirish runs to the grocery store at 3:30 in the morning to pick up more Red Bull and Snickers, but actually going out and engaging in activities that bring you into contact with real people, not just the automated checkout machine. Such risky activity does require a modicum of social skills and a wardrobe with slightly more depth than a cat-fur-coated bathrobe, sagging tube socks, and torn house slippers. For instance, let’s say you start slow. Maybe you rent a kayak on Lake Ladybird. Since it’s June, you clearly haven’t done your homework, but hey, credit for taking a stab, right? Nothing like kayaking in June to bring home the valuable epiphany that being on the water is not the same as being in the water. Anyway, you will at least have to interact with the cashier at the boat rental stand: a few unintelligible mumbles, a quickly scrawled signature on the credit card slip, and you’re off. That wasn’t too painful, and is this fun or what? Slowly floating down the Bird in a plastic log, body bent into an excruciating right angle, blanketed in sweat from the 100% humidity. Enjoy yourself. Soon enough you’re going to have to paddle back up river to claim your deposit. OK, so maybe that hypothetical was a bust, but surely there is some sort of fun activity that doesn’t involve a slave galley ship re-enactment. How about Frisbee golf? Bam! There you go! Frisbee golf is just like real golf, only no one cares if you’re actually good at it. Genius! You could scream “I am the number one rated Frisbee golfer in America!” at a crowded cocktail party, and conversational din would go on uninterrupted. Similar results could be achieved with the phrase “I am really good at masturbating!” Yawn. Everybody thinks they’re the Tiger Woods of masturbation, and, ultimately, that’s true. It’s just nothing to write home about. Of course, masturbation, like Frisbee golf, is fun that can be had with a relatively low risk of injury and limited arm/wrist movement. It’s probably best not to do it in public parks though. Having fun isn’t always easy. Managing to endure the hellish drudgery of day-to-day existence requires a Herculean amount of imagination, creativity, and courage. Blessed are the entertained, for they shall inherit the stuff suicidal people leave behind. Staying entertained can be exhausting. It’s no wonder why so many people try to spice things up by turning to drugs and alcohol. Unfortunately, some end up believing that drugs and alcohol are the fun itself. That’s often the point at which the fun ends, when an exciting choice turns into the grim necessity of chemical dependency. Being chemically dependent is ugly at any age, but especially so for teenagers, who haven’t yet been exposed to the wide array of possibilities life has to offer without drugs and alcohol. Fortunately there are programs like the Palmer Drug Abuse Program that help teenagers deal with chemical abuse issues and life in general through peer counseling and support. As the song goes, it’s easier “to get by with a little help from [your] friends.” And PDAP is doing just that this Thursday night at Antone’s when Eric Johnson, Chris Layton, and Scott Nelson perform a fundraiser called “Eric Does Hendrix” – a night of Jimi Hendrix music performed by Grammy-winning Austin guitar god Johnson, along with ex-Stevie Ray Vaughan drummer Layton and bassist Nelson. If you’re into Hendrix, Eric Johnson, or just helping kids make it safe through troubled times, this show should be big, easy fun.

June 3, 2008

Austin is a guitar town. You can’t throw a pick into an audience without hitting a guitar player – and he’ll probably just toss it back because it’s not his brand or thickness. Anyway, nice throw because he was standing in the back of the room with his arms folded thinking, “This guy isn’t such hot shit.” After the show he’ll come up to the stage and shove a napkin into the tip jar on which he’s scrawled his MySpace page with his girlfriend’s eyeliner pencil. You can pretty much bet that if you go, there the first thing you’re going to hear is diddly diddly diddly wah diddly diddly diddly. Fuck. He is better than you. What were you thinking? You just got suckered into the musical equivalent of looking at other guys’ dicks in the shower. Turns out your show isn’t nearly as impressive as you thought it was. Lesson learned: Keep your head up. Hendrix kept his eyes turned toward the heavens. Why? Not because he was checking out the competition, but because the only person he had left to impress was God. Besides, as every true guitarist knows, if you have to look down at your fretboard, you’re a hack. SRV kept his eyes closed for entire songs, and on the rare occasions when he did open them, he was playing guitar behind his head – not just cheesy hammer-ons but complicated, jaw-dropping improvisational runs that barely drowned out the collective whoosh of thousands of panties hitting the floor. Why were Stevie Ray’s eyes closed? Because there was this other kid, a hometown hero named Eric Johnson, who was playing a bizarre clusterfuck of jazz, fusion, and rock with New Agey elements tossed in – intricate, technically dazzling, and mathematically precise fretwork that earned hushed respect from metalheads to chicken pickers and everyone in between. E.J.’s lead runs sound like something Steven Hawking would dream up in a sensory deprivation tank. Perhaps even more intimidating is that he looks like he got his clothes and hairstyle at the mall. Seriously, if you’re going to blister like that, you at least need to pop a few buttons on your shirt and throw some scarves around your neck. Being a guitar god in a guitar town ain’t easy. You can’t walk around Mount Olympus in a plain, white tunic and expect that everyone will recognize you as Zeus. Even Redd Volkaert rocks that Notre Dame mascot beard and a leather hobo hat. Truth is, there are just too many awesome guitarists in Austin. Our D-list is an average city’s A-list. If you really want to test your chops as a guitar god, there’s no better place to do it than right here in River City. On any given night, you can see at least five or six guitar slingers who will blow your socks off. For instance, this Sunday Antone’s is hosting Guitars Rock for Van Wilks and Prostate Cancer, a benefit to both raise awareness about prostate cancer and to help with medical expenses incurred by veteran Austin guitarist Van Wilks, who was diagnosed with early stage prostate cancer last Christmas. The heavyweight lineup includes Eric Johnson, David Grissom, Carolyn Wonderland, Derek O’Brien, Chris Layton, Tommy Shannon, the Dave Sebree Band, Joker Fireants, and, of course, Van Wilks. If all that musical talent depresses you just remember: Keep your head up.