The poster had five bands that no one outside the city had heard of, but those are always the best shows, aren’t they? Lined with locals like nothing else matters, cause who gives a shit about a national act when we’ve got all these guys and girls who can really fucking play right here in our own backyard. Jerry and Layne opened for Iggy last time he came through town, and now are just too big to play casually around. Mark stays out in the burbs mostly and only anoints us with his presence on special occasions. Kurt’s in Wisconsin recording his second record. Andrew died.
You ever see that movie, The Warriors? That’s Seattle. Not quite as violent though. Sure, we fight, but mostly things are about the music. Roving groups of guys, sticking together like a pack, almost all of them in bands of their own, or multiple bands, or hell even theoretical bands that will probably never see the light of day. I’ve had a couple of those myself. Out of the game now though. Lose the beat enough times and the other musicians stop calling for a drummer that can’t keep time. Jeff and Stone would be okay. It was sad about Andrew, but word is they’re picking up the pieces just like they did after Green River.
The box isn’t so heavy, but it does cover my view. Parked across the street from Off Ramp, it’s not the safest decision to cross a major street blind like this, but I say fuck it and bolt out into the middle of the road with my eyes closed praying to a god I don’t even believe in and hoping that the cars stop for me instead of plowing my skull into the pavement ending it all early — but things could be worse than going in an instant. Yet, I make it to the other side without hearing so much as a screech and kick open the double doors with my foot. Brook is running security so I give him a nod and don’t have to make excuses about “what I think I’m doing” like I’m not selling merch here at least once a week Gary you absolute fuckhead.
Hit the folding table in the back while Tad finishes up soundcheck, Check check. Check 1-2. Check 1-2. A little more guitar. Testing out the scream for good measure. “Aggghhhh!” Yeah, that’ll work just fine. Scream always works. It’s what separates us up here from any other local scene: some really good screams. But not just for the sake of it, real raw-emotion like. Everyone I know has been through some serious shit and that properly comes out in their music. No posers here. I drop the box and start rifling through custom shirts I printed in my garage to find for each band and lay ’em out on the table making sure that perfect retail fold stays intact. Some experience at this even if my job at JC Penny only lasted the summer. Prints looked clean. Did good. Tad, Cat Butt, Flop and Dickless all in a row. One other band on the bill, but they weren’t interested, so I’m not interested in them either. Don’t even know their name. Don’t care.
“How much for a Dickless shirt?” a voice asks before I’m able to take out the blank piece of paper I brought to write $10 on, and in process eliminate this question.
“$10,” I say without picking my head up out of the box, confirming inventory counts and size suspicions.
“Trade you a ten strip for it.”
She can’t be more than fourteen. Little kid with her palm outstretched and ten hits of LSD right in the middle of it. I look around, panicked. Whose little sister is this? Some kind of joke? Doors aren’t even open, and yet here’s this girl who shouldn’t even be allowed inside this kind of place offering me a drug I hadn’t had the pleasure to come across in this short life. Heroin, Cocaine, Mushrooms, Marijuana, the usual sure, but not this one. Wasn’t a prank show, hidden cameras — nothing out of the ordinary: just everybody working hard at minding their own business, completely indifferent to our exchange. Her eyes are deadly serious, like this is all the bartering power she has in the world and is going to get that t-shirt no matter what I say. Might as well cave instead of her stealing it later.
“Where’d you get that?” I ask.
“My brother saw the Grateful Dead in Sacramento this summer. He traded it for my allowance this week because he got ripped off on some bunk weed,” she responds, spitfire, far older in soul than actuality. Just a baby. “Do you want it or not?”
Of course I want the drug. What did we learn from Andrew’s death? Not a lot, but I mean, acid isn’t heroin. Acid is acid. Plus, I don’t feel great about this fourteen year old holding onto a powerful drug like that. Taking it would be bettering society. Yeah. I’d be making a difference.
“Yeah,” I tell her.
“Great,” she responds. “I’m a small.”
Goods and services and I slip the stuff straight into my flannel chest pocket, only realizing later in the bathroom that she’d given me only nine hits instead of ten. I wonder for a moment if she lied to me or her brother lied to her or where did the buck stop? And it’s only when I take a hit and hold it on my tongue, staring into the mirror and hoping that my eyeballs turn to goo, that the thought of her taking a hit for herself comes to mind. Of course that’s it. Fourteen ain’t as young as it used to be.
When I emerge, Cat Butt’s on stage and the young girl is at the front of the club jumping up and down like an animal caught in a trap, but still partying about it. There aren’t many people here, but the band plays like they’ve got a full room anyway. This was the energy. Bring all you’ve got and the rest will come. Or not, I don’t know, I just make t-shirts. The girl is clearly high. Is that how I’ll look? I hope not, but decide not to think too hard about it. Cat Butt are weird. I like that.
The acid hits and counting change becomes impossible. It’s like money doesn’t matter and music sounds much more fun anyway. Dickless is on stage and Kelly’s voice is something else, I’ll tell ya. I wonder if it’s natural, or if she’s destroying her vocal cords for the entertainment value. I look around, but don’t see the girl anymore. Sure, the room has filled in a bit, but you’d think– buying the shirt and being a 14 year old high on LSD and all– that she’d stand out a bit more. Oh well, not my problem.
Some fucking guy comes up at a moment where I’m particularly entranced and asks how much even though there’s a sign to tell him. I turn my view from the stage and stare him dead in the eyes and say “not for sale.” He calls me a punk and I laugh in his face and we stand off for a moment before he tries to flip the table, it not getting more than a few inches off the ground before my reflexes kick in to keep it back on earth. I feel like a superhero and give him the middle finger as hard as I know how. A simple, nothing, altercation and yet Gary, the piece of shit motherfucker of a bouncer, tells me to pack it up and I can’t be bothered to argue with Gary so I shove the shirts into the box and tell him Tad’s gonna be pissed about this and I’d be telling him who’s really at fault here.
Hide the shirts behind a speaker before things really start to become a blur. I pogo and I mosh and I run into and subsequently avoid an ex and I watch the strings of instruments blur in motion, wobbling under the pressure of fingers playing to a rhythm I could never manage to keep myself. Music is awesome. I love this city.
Jeff and Stone stand in a corner with a couple of guys I’ve never seen before, but social anxiety be damned and I head that way anyway because they’re old friends and I haven’t seen them around much lately. Some low-key high-fives and I’m sure they can tell I’m high. “What’s the name of the new band? I eventually ask. They tell me “Mookie Blaylock” and I say “that’s a good name” even though I don’t mean it. “Let me know if you need any shirts.” “Thanks we will.”
Body language tells me they don’t really want to be in this conversation any longer so I turn to leave and avoid overstaying my welcome but realize I have something that might actually be worth their time. “Do you guys want some acid?” I ask, feeling good and figuring they could too. Acid? They light up, both looking like they want to accept, but some guy steps in and politely turns it down on their behalf. Something about a meeting in the morning. Sounds sell-out to me. Eyes hit the floor dejected instead of at me or their friend, silently accepting their fate. The city was attracting a lot of out-of-towners lately, hangers-on like this guy. Build something worthwhile and everyone wants a taste.
Later, they hit the stage, with that new friend on vocals, and only then do I realize they had always been that fifth band on the bill and it probably wasn’t the right time or the place to offer them the kind of drugs that would prevent them from playing to the best of their ability. New guy’s got something, if not a little bit too much self-righteousness. Those guys probably think I’m an asshole. No way they let me make them shirts now.
***
KKUURRTT is glad you read his thing. He’s on the internet — @wwwkurtcom.
***
image: Ashley Beresch. Check out more of her work on Instagram @ashleyberesch
Rejection Letters 