Jeff Reichman
Weird
This is a moment: There are only fifteen people in the
crowd. Eef Barzelay, lead singer of Clem Snide, hesitates; he should have
started the next song by now. He is looking down at the set list by his
feet. The band has taken a break for a beer and a quick smoke, leaving Eef
to fend for himself, ninety miles away from his home. I can feel my heart
pump, almost in time to the beat of the last song.
"Weird."
Eef looks up at me. He is within arms reach, but that’s
not really important to either of us. "Okay," he says.
He leans into the microphone, though he doesn’t need to.
That’s what I was going to play anyway, so I guess it all
works out.
He pauses to stamp out his cigarette on the stage and
speaks into his chest: "This is the first song I ever wrote."
It’s not a song on any of their records, and most of the
crowd looks perplexed as he begins an upbeat country chord combination of
G-C-D. He sings:
You tell me you’re different
You tell me you’re strange
You tell me that there’s something wrong with your brain
Your mother found God
And your dad likes to drink
But you’re not as weird as you’d like me to think
No you’re not as weird as you’d like me to think
The crowd laughs, and Eef begins to relax. Pete
Fitzpatrick, the all-purpose musical instrument man for Clem Snide, pokes
his head out from the side of the stage, testing the water. He emerges
carrying a tuba, leans into the microphone and begins to play.
Pete Fitzpatrick on the euphonium!
The crowd claps and laughs at the band’s self-conscious,
self-deprecating demeanor. I know that it’s not so much self-deprecating
as it is a way to cope with being on tour, not being able to sleep at home
for at least another six weeks, and anticipation of waking up the next
morning, showering, and still not being able to get the stale smell of
cigarettes out of your hair.
You painted your sneakers
You talk to yourself
You won’t eat with me ‘cause you care for your health
And you wrote me a poem
And it didn’t rhyme
Eric Paull, the drummer, is now onstage, clapping and
dancing and sharing a microphone with Eef.
But you’re not as weird as you act all the time.
A few audience members are dancing and forgetting the
posturing that goes along with seeing an alternative band at an
alternative bar. They are dancing, ugly and free, swirling and singing off
key. Everyone is clapping along.
No you’re not as weird as you act all the time.
Now the tuba is swirling and weaving from note to note,
thumping out a bass line, shaking the floor with each thunderous note.
Eric is turning around in circles, clapping and hollering, singing in
every direction. I can hear him fade in and out of the celebration.
One more time—
The tuba stops. Pete leans into the microphone, Eric at
his side. The dancers continue to dance, though they have stopped swirling
and some of their heads are cocked, eyes on the stage, waiting for it to
begin again. Everyone knows the words now.
You tell me you’re different
You tell me you’re strange
You tell me that there’s something wrong with your brain
Your mother found God
And your dad likes to drink
But you’re not as weird as you’d like me to think
No you’re not as weird as you’d like me to think
I am singing. Everyone is singing:
Jeff retired from the music industry at the age of 20
after a nine week tour that left him drained mentally and physically.
He later enrolled in the MA Creative Writing program at Temple University.
"Weird" was his first attempt to reconcile the experience of live music
with the power of language. | 