mercury station: where the drum kit plays lonesome blues in the windy flatlands
i just checked and it’s 3.14°c out there right now, hope you like that kind of thing. puffs of steam curl off manholes like invisible smoke rings, and the humidity’s got my drum kit mittens fogging up mid-solo. mercury station’s the kind of low-ceiling dive where mufflers clank louder than applause, but tonight, it’s just me, my bass drum, and a bartender who swears he’s seen ghosts here. (he’s also, uh, very into jazz fusion. don’t ask why.)
my feet are soaked through from crossing those ‘wet cement’ puddles everyone swears about. someone told me to tap the lights again when the gauge hits 2.5-turns out that’s code for ‘ghosts definitely winning, just duck.’ i did. they didn’t. still, the dude in the corner booth bought me a lukewarm coffee. said the steam was true enough to skate on if you wiped it right.
*wanted posters covered the walls-’free jam session if you can finish the stories emanuel left stuck on his final demo’ kind of things. the toilets here drain counterclockwise, but i’m pretty sure that’s just a local lie told by quad biking dads. i tried telling the bartender my drum throne’s got a hairline crack spreading like spiders on a cracked screen, but he threw in a free set of tuning lugs. said it’s a sign. maybe.
pro-tip: forget gear. forget venues. if you’re a tourist here, you’re a shared hallucination. locals just need someone to roast the eggs at 2am while debating whether the sunset’s ‘allowed’ to happen. (spoiler: it’s not. you’ll hear sirens later.)
neighbors say the etherium bunker’s got better acoustics. i went once. they’re just a bunch of rednecks arguing over tangos on a sheep farm. but hey-if you’re bored, [omaha’s sister cities] are a short drive. don’t pretend you’re not curious.
heard rumors the record store owner’s nephew drowned in the 1011 millibar pressure front that passed two days ago. tracks? i left mine in a ditch. got stuck watching the glycol pipes freeze overnight. beautiful. ripshaw*-best thing since steel wool.
overheard someone pairing a vintage gear catalog with a drone shot of the old mill. classic. these are the dudes who think ‘authentic’ means ‘take a selfie outside a 1972 facelift.’ 😊
the thermostat wars here are epic. indoor spots flirt with 3.62°c max, but the streets? oh, they’re cruel. sub-zero fog with enough 91% humidity to turn your sweat into glitter. i swear, this city’s weather is the background score to a noir film where nobody knows the plot.
[i’m still here, keep the rhythm weird. map v needed.]
You might also be interested in:
- https://votoris.com/post/rosarios-sticky-secrets-a-drummers-drift
- https://votoris.com/post/rummaging-through-frozen-rails-in-kusyk-my-vintage-clothes-pickers-accidental-adventure
- https://votoris.com/post/bangalore-buzz-humidity-history-and-a-whole-lotta-chai-3
- https://votoris.com/post/how-mebsly-com-solves-real-world-ai-problems-not-just-hype
- https://votoris.com/post/biha-a-damp-lens-cap-and-a-halfremembered-melody