Keyboardist needed urgently

Prefabsprouter

Right. The search continues....... got a band/project going. The music is all originals but in the vein of Al Green, Van Morrison, Soul with Jazz influences. We currently have Lead Guitar, Vocalist, Drummer, Sax and Trumpet but now looking for Keyboardist. Are you that person?
The type of keyboardist we want is someone with a number of years experience who likes the above type of music and wants to try something a bit different. We are looking to record and possibly gig as well, basically we want to play music!!!
So come on all you keyboard players. Take a chance and pm me!

Prefabsprouter

Bump!!!

Prefabsprouter

As the Bassheads once sang "Is there anybody out there???"

SuperGrover

...

Prefabsprouter

O Stony Grey Soil of Monaghan..................................

galwaypianist

Hi,
your influences are kinda my stuff too. Give me more details.

Prefabsprouter

O Stony Grey Soil of Monaghan..................................
The Laugh of my love you thieved..............................

Prefabsprouter

You took the grey soil of my passion.......................

Rigsby

Are you sure it's not poetry your into and not music.


Try a different approach :

I wondered lonely as a cloud

That floats on high o'er vales and hills

When all at once I decided to seek...

A keyboardist, in the hope my band he fills.

Prefabsprouter

Well I was trying to avoid the classic "Bump" that everyone else was doing. But I like your style!!

SuperGrover

I am the mental hospital piano and I have seen hands.
Yes, you would call them hands, but I call them night-creatures
clasping chords in their teeth, translucent spiders cooing dawn home.
I’ve been touched by black boil-fettered fingers fat as tarantulas,
let me tell you about the spiders I’ve seen …
These are not hands, these are sky-scouting web-weavers.
These are not hands, these are teeth and eyes, and fingers like legs,
running, jumping, leaving, they are the quiet legs of children standing after being left,
they are the hospital-socked shuffling arrivals at 2 a.m. come to sleep in aluminum beds.
I have heard them speak in the language of pressed flowers: take me home.
And I remember every single last one of them:
Shamanistic surgeons, they tore music out of me with a rusty knife.
Dogs the color of urine, they howled hymns in neon hospital moonlight.
Heroin-blooded teenagers who wet the bed they were so terrified
of their hallucinations, they smoked me instead and got higher than Jesus.
I remember those towering monuments to loneliness
you call hands. They were peacocks spreading in front of me
and I saw their coats of bruises.
They sang like the dying, sang like mothers to children,
sang like a choir of prophets in jail.
They wanted me honest. They liked me honest which is to say I was broken.
Nobody on staff fixed my raspy keys.
My notes remained sour and they played me like loving:
not quite perfect, unlearned, without a how-to-book—played me solemn,
like tortoises making at loving, slow and fevered and with their eyes closed.
And though some were old, they were all ancient,
they were all legends for sleeping in hell while others walked through and got out.
They played symphonies that tore-down the walls
so drugged up hall-walkers fled their loneliness and joined in the fever.
They played onetime, completely improvised, endless and sky-scraping AIDS cures,
they played healing and they tore off their tourniquets for me to kiss
their bloody wildfires.
I have never belonged to opera-houses or your mother’s cushy living room.
I live with those who bang daylight out of moondust,
now you tell me how you do that unless you are built of magic.
They study their own burning bodies.
They transcribe smoke signals and tear the lightning from their throats.
I have heard five-tongued creatures smash sunrise into pulp.
I have seen rhododendrons blossom thunderously
with the quiet hope and hunger of living and dying
as they play and bloom and smash and burn.
And you call them hands,
you call them hands.

Septico

Check out this:

www.whowantstojam.com

Set up by a friend. Great idea but still new.

Prefabsprouter

Looks good.

NEED A KEYBOARDIST!!!


I met a traveller from an antique land
Who said: `Two vast and trunkless legs of stone
Stand in the desert. Near them, on the sand,
Half sunk, a shattered visage lies, whose frown,
And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command,
Tell that its sculptor well those passions read
Which yet survive, stamped on these lifeless things,
The hand that mocked them and the heart that fed.
And on the pedestal these words appear --
"My name is Ozymandias, king of kings:
Look on my works, ye Mighty, and despair!"
Nothing beside remains. Round the decay
Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare
The lone and level sands stretch far away.'

Prefabsprouter

SuperGrover wrote: »

I am the mental hospital piano and I have seen hands.
Yes, you would call them hands, but I call them night-creatures
clasping chords in their teeth, translucent spiders cooing dawn home.
I’ve been touched by black boil-fettered fingers fat as tarantulas,
let me tell you about the spiders I’ve seen …
These are not hands, these are sky-scouting web-weavers.
These are not hands, these are teeth and eyes, and fingers like legs,
running, jumping, leaving, they are the quiet legs of children standing after being left,
they are the hospital-socked shuffling arrivals at 2 a.m. come to sleep in aluminum beds.
I have heard them speak in the language of pressed flowers: take me home.
And I remember every single last one of them:
Shamanistic surgeons, they tore music out of me with a rusty knife.
Dogs the color of urine, they howled hymns in neon hospital moonlight.
Heroin-blooded teenagers who wet the bed they were so terrified
of their hallucinations, they smoked me instead and got higher than Jesus.
I remember those towering monuments to loneliness
you call hands. They were peacocks spreading in front of me
and I saw their coats of bruises.
They sang like the dying, sang like mothers to children,
sang like a choir of prophets in jail.
They wanted me honest. They liked me honest which is to say I was broken.
Nobody on staff fixed my raspy keys.
My notes remained sour and they played me like loving:
not quite perfect, unlearned, without a how-to-book—played me solemn,
like tortoises making at loving, slow and fevered and with their eyes closed.
And though some were old, they were all ancient,
they were all legends for sleeping in hell while others walked through and got out.
They played symphonies that tore-down the walls
so drugged up hall-walkers fled their loneliness and joined in the fever.
They played onetime, completely improvised, endless and sky-scraping AIDS cures,
they played healing and they tore off their tourniquets for me to kiss
their bloody wildfires.
I have never belonged to opera-houses or your mother’s cushy living room.
I live with those who bang daylight out of moondust,
now you tell me how you do that unless you are built of magic.
They study their own burning bodies.
They transcribe smoke signals and tear the lightning from their throats.
I have heard five-tongued creatures smash sunrise into pulp.
I have seen rhododendrons blossom thunderously
with the quiet hope and hunger of living and dying
as they play and bloom and smash and burn.
And you call them hands,
you call them hands.

This is more or less the job description for keyboardist in the band. Please use this as a reference if called for interview.

SuperGrover

there once was a man from kanturk...

Prefabsprouter

Who had a yearning for work.....................

Prefabsprouter

Septico wrote: »

Check out this:

www.whowantstojam.com

Set up by a friend. Great idea but still new.

Thanks for the link Septico.

SuperGrover

on finding a job...

Prefabsprouter

His boss was named Bob.....

SuperGrover

not the builder but the jerk

Prefabsprouter

The boy stood on the burning deck