My band appears to be breaking up, various members are drifting away on their own commitments and musical directions. However, change can be inspiring, I am writing music on my own now and ironing out old album ideas from the dark closets of my mind. I play old synthesizers and sing into a microphones on black stands in my tiny studio, just me on a nest of wires with speakers on all sides. Dark room, blinking lights of equipment. Traffic in the streets below the window. Black sky and yellow fog. How does the evening find you?
Keys open like an old friend behind a false ivory confessional booth. 88 tongues and no judgements. Rhythm grasping time quicker than a 4-alarm deadline from a CEO and his sprawling minions. But soft. I used to sleep to the vibrations of bass amplifiers below and wake up to the smell of opium and the sounds of downtown traffic. I picked up the plastic instrument and waded out the door through a snowfall of wadded up paper, bottles, and sleeping forms. On the steps in the morning I played, it echoed through the cheap tile hallway, rebounded off old vomit puddles, dribbled over the caving in ceiling, mingled with toxic asbestos walls and exited over my head carrying ghetto casserole reverb.
The apartment steps were sandwiched between the art center and a metal bar. Legs blurred by like giant candy-stripe spiders. Johnny O drew my portrait one morning. He was a cock rock drummer with a chicken bone through his nose, a drawler with empty words, a mover and shaker in the visual medium. Last time I saw him he was working at McDonalds. Bad luck is likely the cause of his monetary failure in the art world. But could also be the pride he took in having a phone number that translated to "485-FUCK". Would such a business card offend you?
Once Crackhead Ned sat beside me on this pidgeon shit stoop. He was a battered-looking black man with the eyes of a nervous wolf on rabies. He dressed like a pimp who was just spun in a washing machine for a few hours, clothes and all. His voice stuttered through broken yellow teeth, he carried a guitar with no strings. Tap, tap. Pick strumming wood.
"The Navaho shamans conjured spirits through sound and rhythm. If you keep playing, you will bring spirits of your own in with the wind." He spoke without stuttering.
"Groovy. Would they hook me up with Peyote?" I said.
"They will arrive for a purpose. The valley this town rests on is a nexus, the umbra converges in it like a lake gathering rivers. Destructive forces have control of this center, and one day you will help the spirits heal the damage and bring life back to the air here. They may find you peyote if you ask." said Ned.
"Cool. When will that happen?" I asked.
"When you are ready. This is a dangerous undertaking. Have you grown into a warrior? Can you carve a twig into an arrow strong enough to slay a buffalo? Can you stand against the earths tide? Can you watch a Pauly Shore movie without blowing your head off? When." He grimaced, "There is an old saying; White men watch the clocks, but the clocks watch the Indians. Keep your connections growing and they will find you when the time is right. Nothing is certain, but your destiny rides the moon. Be well."
Ned stood up and spoke again, "H-h-h-h-ey m-man, you g-g-got 50 c-cents for c-c-cigarettes?"
Searching my pockets, I found 75. I handed Crackhead Ned 2 quarters and practiced Beethoven as a storm rolled in. |
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