For the 4th straight week, my Tuesday nights have been devoted to Cowboy Grill Malate, worshiping this little-known band who plays excellent Queen and Pink Floyd covers. Oh yeah, I'm not a very big fan of beer joints like Cowboy Grill or anywhere else, since I prefer having my brew in the comforts of my own home. But since I heard this band's music some time in December, I could not resist but venture into this bar frequently, despite its mass appeal and not-so-fab reputation. The band is called Pryzm, a 6-man gang within the 30-50 age range. They have a front man that sings like Freddie Mercury, a balding guitarist with Mark Knopfler fingers, and a keyboard player who can do such an excellent falsetto that will make even Prince or Barry Gibb blush. Over all, the band is so good that all my friends that I brought along during the past 4 weeks, who, I'd have to say, all have a refined and brilliant taste in music, were hooting over Air Supply and Chicago songs, inspite of themselves.
I'm afraid I'm already a familiar Cowboy Grill persona every Tuesday night. Not that anybody would even notice, but it just feels weird how the security guard or the waitresses look at me as if I'm no longer a guest, as if I can find my way around the bar without their assistance. I don't blame them. It's not very often that a solitary lady, looking quite respectable and definitely plain and even ugly, wanders into a bar like Cowboy Grill, drinking a beer all by herself, in front of a stage that plays good old classic rock music. Oh no, I'm not a groupie. I just listen to the music and there's definitely no sex involved! That could be bad news, if seen from a different perspective. But anyway...
Even amazement dwindles down into plain appreciation if you do it 4 weeks in a row. Sure, it still feels great to hear Van Halen's Jump or Queen's I've Got to Break Free again. But sometimes all we want to hear is something different. Nothing will ever be as good if you get too much of it.
My groupie days are over. Moving on is a good thing.