2004-04-04 at 7:07 p.m.

Sometimes, I wonder why I agreed to play piano for the Allegri Singers.

(Well, I guess they are paying me. And at the rate I'm going, any money I can get will be well and truly welcome in my rather depleted bank account).

To be fair, it wasn't really the choir's fault. They too were mere victims of circumstance, like my good self and countless other musicians/victims of yesterday's concert. I place the blame squarely on whatever bright spark decided that the best place for a lovely afternoon of folk music was right in the middle of a dry riverbed located about two hundred miles from anywhere.

When your venue is a freakin dried up riverbed, fer chrissakes, one is bound to run into a few logistical problems.

Firstly, I was a bit concerned about the keyboard I'd be forced to play on. I was envisaging having to play on a dinky little Casio keyboard with twenty keys and the demo button that plays 'Little Spanish Flea'. (Perhaps you think I'm being a bit picky about this. "It's just a keyboard, Michelle!" I hear you all cry. "Pull your head out and deal with it!" Look. I am a pianist, not a keyboard player. There's a pretty big difference, really. And asking me to play Elgar on a half-size keyboard with no pedal is rather akin to being given nothing but a knife and then told to eat a huge plate of spaghetti. Sure, you may get through it eventually, but there'll be a godawful mess. Your shirt front will make you look like that dude from 'Alien'. And I believe that's the first time that the music of Elgar and the movie 'Alien' have been used in the same metaphor. Correct me if I'm wrong.)

Anyway, the keyboard was fine. A Roland, nice weighted action, pedal and everything. (So there's no need to read that last paragraph, okay?)

The real problems began when the wind picked up.

Music refused to stay on stands. Microphones started making funny feedback noises. And... well... it hasn't rained around here for a while. And when it hasn't rained on a dry riverbed for a while, something starts to become rather prevalent.

Dust. Tons and tons of horrible, fine, silty dust.

The singers couldn't open their mouths without copping a digestive tract full of the stuff. Additionally, the choir uniform calls for black pants. By the time the concert was over, we were covered, crotch to ankle, with dirty brown streaks.

That's it. From now on, every gig I do will - nay, must - be held indoors.

Unless kazoos are involved in some way. I may make some allowances for that.

I feel really sorry for all those people who find my website through search engines.

I've been checking my stats lately, and it seems that a lot of my traffic, such as it is, comes from web searches. And the poor sods who click on my web page have nearly always come to the wrong place.

For example, the last two search engine results that led people to my webpage were-

Australian man to man fucks. I was search result number nine. The poor bastard who did this particular search found this entry. Hope it was useful.

And

Naked pictures of William Shatner. I was search result number three. And let me assure you, when I typed that sentence in this entry, I assure you it was in jest. I did not believe that such a thing could exist. The mind boggles, passes out and enters some sort of fugue state when faced with the information that someone actually wants to see such pictures.

I'm more of a 'naked pictures of Spock' girl, myself.