Last night, Mark & I came home and our doorman told us that our neighbor below us wanted to speak to us.
My stomach lurched. I was terrified that she was going to tell us that our practicing in our eat-in-kitchen was disturbing her.
We thought we had finally found the perfect place. We live on the top floor and our kitchen is a separate room with a folding door we can shut. When we first moved in, Mark had me play guitar acoustically and sing in the kitchen with the door closed and him outside to see if he could hear anything. He could barely hear a thing even when he went outside into the outside hall. So these past few months we’ve been thinking we’re in the clear. Hooray we can play!
We never play past ten pm and usually not even past nine. So I don’t think we’re the problem. But all musicians are considered problems. But every single apartment we have lived in, people have banged on our ceiling. But then again, they have banged on the ceiling when we turned on the TV at 8 pm. Let me say that we have lived beneath some freaks. If only I knew what the hell they were doing up there.
This one asshole upstairs at our old apartment at 58th Street would move furniture or something extraordinarily heavy a couple nights a week for months. The walls would actually shake at times. Whatever he was doing went on for hours until 4 am in the morning and he was the one who would bang on our door if we were warming up vocally at 6 pm for 30 minutes before going to a rehearsal space, shouting something like “I know you’re playing music in there!”
It’s like we’re doing something illegal by playing music, by living your dreams part-time.
Luckily last night, our neighbor only wanted to tell us that our old air conditioner is leaking and we should replace it. Done!
Whew! So we’re safe for now.