Cole of the Massacre rises from
stage left, with spit hanging from his possibly cocaine numbed mouth. Like a
breeding mantis he sucks the dribble from the hanging corner back into the
cradle of his mouth, lubricating his voice with the cold saliva before wailing
into the next number. Though he appears distant and inebriated-concerning
perhaps even the most drugged of downers scurrying the mob of screaming
fans-this “spit trick” is a regular antic of the band and his voice is stronger
than ever. I’d never heard a voice like Cole’s-a screeching, enigmatic growl of
sandpaper soul that shocks the classically trained with unexpected range. The
venue is quite small and incredibly dark with the surreal placement of audience
and artists almost arms reach away. I light another cigarette and nearly burn
the underage girl dancing next to me while sardonically thinking stadium
entertainers wish they could be as intimate and communal as the nomadic
vanguards filling the Punk Rock Club.
“Do you have another one?”
“HEH?”
She repeats herself, I hear the youth in her voice. How the fuck did she manage
to get in here?
I don’t need to answer, so I hand her my last red. I wasn’t attached to this
particular pack as I had snatched it moments earlier from the dance floor with
finish-last luck. I turn my head up, and notice Cole bleeding. He has cut
himself now with the sharp end of his b string, spilling blood from his thumb
as he imitates a slide-guitar like motion. Using his voice as an instrument to
close the continually distorting song, I watch the mighty King Cole strum
faster and faster with the drummer and bassist following behind-the speakers
blaring louder than sirens of war. Now I see fans gathering to join the Black
Hand Massacre on stage, the blood of a punk rock star now drying on his squire.
I see the expressions of the bouncers standing way too close to the band
growing less patient. The rest of the band seems to notice as well. Cole takes
his now blood drenched thumb and attempts to place it in the mouth of the
scarier-looking bouncer. The new makeshift backing band roars in awe as Cole
falls and is beaten by the bouncers, who are built and dressed like aged
wrestlers out of the Regan era. Most of the great new music is unappreciated by
the guards, and their company is all but a security device catering to pussies
of the lowest order. How a club with
such taste could only assemble dopes for protection is a classic outcome. Bewildered
by the cries of the moshing public, he gasps for air in the mire of blood from
his own instrument. His hands are trembling, saliva lactating from his
dry mouth, and the bold echoes from his colleagues beg him to cease the thunder
of his guitar feedback and in place bless the public with the vibrate sounds of
the pedal board. I watch him from a growing distance, walking further away from
the chaos, envying his ability to whore the masses. Even in envy of the youth violence I
prematurely feel too old for.
This was the life I was still destined to live, as a folk hero of
self-destruction at odds with the status quo. As if I have known his band in
previous lives I dare wouldn’t share openly to protect the false sense of pride
left in the naysay Generation. In this strange, post-apocalyptic future
following the death of rock and roll, music has evolved into a crazed cesspool
of indie confusion. None have made a better mark or impression, to me at least,
than the Black Hand Massacre. Cole is the martyr of punk rage and an ambassador
of psychotic genius void of any faux pas, like a Herzog leading man. In the
crowd I see his body being passed like communion bread amongst the hungry fans.
Men and women grab at his loins and smear the blood from his now severely wounded
thumb, screaming obscenities at the bouncers. I see his blood drenched body hit
the wave of zombies in their Deerhunter shirts and purposely mismatching
colors, as no mercy is shown the barbaric swarm engage in a rock and roll suicide.
Even the term “indie rock” is a bastard child of what we consider original, or
God forbid even ironic- Richard Hell and Patti Smith make love in their
decaying memorial while Darby Crash is crucified by Neo Nazi Punks.
While the guards run authority on the menace, the frustrated true colors of the
bassist, Mr. Hollywood, begin to shine as he is to sing the next song. He
is a true talent himself, an ambitious co-founder of such a radical project, he
shows no empathy for his ragged guitarist Cole, who is now taken as a burnt
offering for the swarm. Still I must commend him for letting the show go on in
the midst of an apparent professional crisis. Mr. Hollywood has gained some
weight since the early days of the Massacre (perhaps from his recent absence of
hard drugs), his voice now strangled in an asthma ridden, almost cowardice
croon singing a dope tuned hymn where he asks if there's a God in Heaven.
"I got the Virgin Mary laying naked on my bed,
Sweet Lord Jesus living in my head."
He wears glasses wide as his face at this point, once thin except for an
awkwardly protruding, small paunch- possibly used as percussion instrument for
early recordings in broke times. I know the history of this band very well. Mr.
Hollywood now puts his bass down, at the insistence of the concerned lead
guitarist, he attempts to lend a hand for his withered guitarist. A woman with
high breasts, glasses matching Hollywood, rubs her shoulders next to me as the
dope kicks in. She is in all black as I am, and struggling to fight the noise
from the speakers placed next to our heads, I tell her the tale of my arrival.
It has been a glorious night, I got into the festival after hitchhiking across
the country from Memphis on the hunt for Jesus Christ and cocaine.
The festival, upon my arrival, was like Thompson venturing with the
San Francisco angels. It was a
wasteland of scruffy brutes and noblemen to drug-induced desecration ruining
the woods of mother nature with used needles, empty bags, and cans of Pabst
Blue Ribbon. Like a city boy gone Bonnaroo, I demeaned their company for the
presence of their young female companions.
"Oh hey man, can I hit that?"
I'd brought my own supplies and as always catered to the whim of those looking
for cheap thrills, never disclosing how spiked my stash truly was. A young fan,
whose brother was the same man I'd betrayed by channeling his woman
into adultery, couldn't handle the high and ended up slashing his wrists
in front of his posse. They'd found me in bed with his brother's
woman, and like Cole I was beaten during the opening of Edward Sharpe. A
frontman of zen like Sharpe should have noticed the bewildering reality of his
pathetic followers, the taste of dreads in my mouth seasoned in my blood ending
in a fractured nose. I don’t think the musicians would have approved of this.
This new era made me think of my old life with Trisha, who had broken my heart
like no old soul could have broken, my Bonnie laid with my own neighbor, which
led to my cross country exploration to find myself or in other words just get the
hell out.
So here I was, watching the Black Hand Massacre, the brainchild of my God
founder Anton NuKumeyer. The founder and frontman, he stood with his nestled
stringy hair in the dead center, stoic and almost stone compared to the wild
activity of the rest of the band. He must have taken the roughest blow from
their rock and roll past.
Here they were, with feedback and bliss, playing the incredible Anthems of
Glory before an audience saturated only in what they’d previously heard in
records. This was their first appearance at the festival. A moment like this
meant more than life with any companion.
I had traveled so far just to find the
women in my fantasies, to defy my broken past that still lingered even with the
self-medicating aid. While I explain this to the mistress of the show, all she
wonders is what this had to do with the festival and the band. She strokes my
scars and our bodies interlock with interest yet little passion.
Sadly, the great Cole is taken hospitalized while I make my move on the black
clad princess, almost feeling the pulse of her vulva as the band plays Miss
June '75.
"She makes me live...she makes me liveeee...
My God, I'm gonna live forever
We'll be like two bloody stars up in Heaven..."
I mutter Hollywood's sweet words into her ears, and goddamn I finally feel
alive again. Aside from the affair that gave these scars, this was the first
encounter of what would be many in my travels, in the vein of Hemingway and
Byron I was a Casanova of criminals. I couldn't mention any of my dirty work
but I spoke with my black hands to show her the danger of my perversions.
At excellent timing, Anemone plays with the sexual vocals of a faceless
angel (the lighting covers her for some reason), and I harmonize with Anton as
she mouths the words. I shut her with tongue and feel like the very men I
despise, but this was simply heroin speaking and this was the time. I can even
taste her drugs. The needle was something I'd feared in my youth and had no
time for, after the dysfunctional nature of me playing a worried Clyde for my
lover, but now nothing seemed to matter but living each day expecting it to be
the last. No longer was a fear of death relevant but a desire for it, spiting
the worry signs from all the concerned squares from back home. I never knew the
woman's name, and she is one of the first I can call woman and not girl, being
only twenty years old I could felt something of a the sea change come over me.
I am the Gonzo of my generation.
The Miller of America. The Cohen of New Kings.
The sitar is now brought out and we decide we must make love in midst of this
madness, which wasn't my suggestion, but the idea was rooted by crowds around
us. My humility called me to button my shirt up and yet I let down the bandanna
sporting nasty liquors as I was stained with the aroma of Coors.
How a woman could be so drawn to such a mess even bothers me.
Now the music becomes just as disturbing as her prowess, kissing me below the
waist before the blackout occurs.
I awake, in handcuffs, sitting in the same cell as my idol. I am dreaming?
No, Anton NuKemeyer. In the flesh, and somehow he was in trouble like I was. I
am speechless, knowing his appearance from every era-I wonder how he ended up
in here with me. I wonder if he was treated the way I was by the police,
another memory I can’t recall. He looks in better shape than I do, his scars
healing from the guards. The shattered mirror of the jail cell shows me that I
have been beaten by the same guards that led him to this demise. Only
difference was he was getting out of this early, I was to stay in holding. My
hands are cold and lazy, my sunglasses were shattered in my pocket and the
music plays no longer. I wish I had the confidence to tell him how big of a fan
I was, but he seemed just as dissociated with life and the moment as
I.
"I'm a huge f..."
He passes out, cold and in a pool of what I fail to tell is either my blood or
his. I'm not sure if my idol has been killed in the midst of this, yet emotion
and reaction seem delayed. I blame the drugs. And this was when I realized the
true nature of music festivals, mere retreats from the aimless lives of those
with good taste.
Bonnaroo was not the land of free love it once was, now it was a dumpster and
safe haven for the under-aged and depraved. Aside from the only two
acts I had ventured out for, the festival was now a product I'd despised. Shards
of glass were piled at the corner of the cell, and the only music heard was the
static from the Police walkie-talkies. Saving me as always, I can hear Anton
quietly singing. My idol is now coughing up the lyrics of a classic I couldn't
even remember, something from Sweetheart of the Rodeo. Or the soundtrack for
Easy Rider. The greatest isolated vocal take ever heard.
The police arrive now, in uniforms that look shoplifted, and explain to me and
my idol we are to confined for another 48 hours. They are rent-a-cops I’m
almost certain but they manage to inflict fear like the duty requires.
They told me the girl I'd encountered was sixteen years of age and
charges were in the process. Anton was free to go but I could face years in the
pen. Unfortunately he was passed out, and when asked my
name I said I was his brother; that I had no recollection of the night before.
With this they were hesitant to let me go, so paid a fine that consisted of the
money I had left in my pocket. The money that would have gotten me home, but of
course there was no home anymore.
Upon my release, the sunshine covering over the ruins of trash and soiled youth
left behind, I was walking towards the campgrounds on an endless road. A van is
close in distance, and I call for them. Whoever they are. Three men, quite
hairy yet no older than me, peer out smoke-pouring windows.
“Hey man, you need a ride?”
“Yes, do you have drugs?”
“We just may. Hop in.”
I found myself hitching a ride with a small clan of the very people I'd come to
the festival to avoid. But as they offered me a smoke, a brew, and
playing the best of Black Hand in the pot-smoked van- I feel a new chapter
being written. I had joined a bandwagon of drifters following incredible new bands
I'd yet to encounter. And though no wives for the taking were present, none of
this seemed to matter. Perhaps I’d find less trouble wherever we were to go.
Only with music can we be instantly and enigmatically healed, the stigmata of
my wounds became no more once I heard Anton imitating the British yet again,
mesmerized by his performance last night that was now like a religious
experience, and All Around
Us blares until it fades with the final crash of a makeshift
tambourine.
"Just like you,
Everyone is so happy here
Here it comes, Here it comes..."
Beautiful lyrics heard just the night before, in person, if only I could relive
that show once more. I rejoice the echoing repetition of the very familiar chorus
and let myself float. As the flashbacks of LSD grace me by
the presence of such a sound, I know there is no end to the journey I
was to embark upon. I was young Anton. I was my own idol. In the horizon I
could have sworn the face of God had shown itself-in that moment where the
worry dies and the drugs take over-so perhaps it was a mere side effect of the
trip. Only in the moments of musical trance or psychedelic tension will I
contemplate the volatile realities of an afterlife.
I wish to mention my encounter with
Anton to my new friends, but perhaps that was our sacred intervention not meant
to be shared to all. Even with the wounds of yesterday’s brutalities I have
trouble believing if any of it, even the show itself, had happened at all.
Knowing they were there and my meeting was very real (at least to me), I’m
brought back to Earth and away from a diluted self-made Heaven. We exit the
campgrounds without remorse, and now the stereo sounds busted.
Whether there is an afterlife at
all, I thank my Gods of musical expertise for usually answering for me.
Even at the worst fidelity.
