Performing Friday night at the Downtown Art Walk
Our first show was behind a tattoo shop, Tuesday night. We got extremely lucky on the first go, opening up for Texas-touring band Fuckvirus. You had to walk through the parlor chairs to get to the back garage, concrete walls sprayed over in graffiti and a mustached-man selling Bud Light out a rolling party cooler. $5 scribbled in black sharpie on a cardboard sign, I wasn’t ID’d so I bought four.
I hid my backpack under a parked car, and I watched the frontman of the opening band crowd-surf christ-like carried around the circumference of the garage, only about ten people there. Play it loud, the fish restaurant next door will regret that lease, the laundromat the next. I threw up behind the big amp after our first song, I trashed the bathroom after the next. I thought I could handle performing drunk, screaming pig-squeals after the girl I like ditched our show, but that mirror looked like it needed a few more cracks and a knuckle-blood stain. Needless to say, we earned a reputation.
Next show at an art gallery fundraiser for muscular dystrophy, always some deformity that never gets cured. We went after the child ballet, headliner of the night. The mosh pit got so violent that the Cops had to mace and jail our number one fan: Jenkum Jimmy. He had a tiger tattoo and a coke problem, we watched from the foot-high wood pallet stage as he bit the tip of the nose off of the smallest pig. He ripped his tank-top in two and barked nigger at an all-white squadron as they made him dogmeat, our title track Criminal Spacewalk beat in the background. “Free Jimmy” t-shirts sell out at every one of our shows. He got stabbed in the drunk tank.
We were always the youngest band in any circle, we made our T-shirts out of plain white Hanes iron-on patchwork on top. The drummer’s mom’s van’s trunk was our merch table, we never got any groupies. No glory for a death metal band in the early stages, none of us were pedophiles either. I’ve known these guys since elementary school, we’ll die together if we’re lucky. Our last bassist lost his right index finger in a bicycle chain, we went on hiatus until Craigslist gave us a 35 year-old with his own transportation. He’s the one we could do without, hopefully the cirrhosis kills him after our friend can afford the prosthesis.
I used to be afraid of running out of ideas, but High School bites ass and learning about Dark Arts Satan keeps me satisfied. I read Aleister Crowley and Lovecraft an hour a day, I do one hundred push-ups and one hundred sit-ups and exclusively drink sugar-free Monster. I’d cut out this babyfat myself if I had a big enough knife. Sometimes my cat looks tasty, but the last time I tried to lick him he licked me with the whole of his claw, I dig the scratch deeper into my cheek so I get a cool scar.
The first time I smoked pot it was sprayed over with WD-40, I felt my blood pump to gasoline and my eyes crystallized when I looked into fluorescent lights. I was inspired to write, but all that’s in my notebook is scribbles and dick drawings. My parents couldn’t tell the difference, teenage is about learning how to be a convincing liar, they were too busy watching the nightly news to hear me crack in and out of the window of my locked-door demon den. They want me to be famous, I want me to die at 27 and become the tortured tearjerk legend.
All goals end in glory if you adjust your expectations.