Update : This post was re-uploaded 08/25/2013. Enjoy, NØ.
Something to listen to while reading, if you so desire.
Side A -
No Better
Feel Hunt
Side B -
Spread Split Slap
Reality Beat
plus extra non-ep bonus track
No Better (Gatekeeper Freundshaft remix)
& now on with Story Time
Saying things didn’t start too well on this mini-tour, this southwestern soiree, would almost be a joke if any of us were inclined to laugh about it now, but we’re not, so... We just threw this tour together on our own, calling friends & bars, using phones & maps, counting our shekels & busting our piggy banks. I’ll admit, on paper it looked good...really good...BOOK OUR OWN FUCKIN’ LIFE good...this is IT...what a life.
L.A. went smooth as Ex-lax. We played Hell’s Gate. We’ve played there before & they seem to like us all right...at least they don’t throw shit. Hell’s Gate...what a hole. But just the hole we needed to feel our creepiest & play our freshest. Damn, we even got paid $86 so we all fooled
ourselves into believing it was the (false) portent of good future.
Outside of Mesa, AZ...the first problem with our van. The true Mother of all our van problems to follow. Just something simple, right, no problem. The fan belt breaks...& wraps around the fan...& bends the fan...which gouges the radiator. I cut free the fan belt, straighten the fan blades, crimp closed the leaks in the radiator coils with some needle-nosed pliers we just happened to have... BE PREPARED (yeah). Dirt & I hitch to the nearest town/gas station for a new fan belt & more beer, leaving Slag & Pete to keep watch over our gear in the 100
o + van. Soon belt, beer, & on our way. Get to the Mesa show late & have to play last. Maybe three people stay for our set after The HeadLiners finish. We’re hot, greasy, & tired. We couldn’t really give a flying fuck about this late night ‘practice’ session, but we give it all we’ve got & then some. The three who stayed liked us. Also, Sean, the punk who hooked us up for the gig, really appreciated the effort & could relate to our road woes. He let us park the van in his driveway. Next day when we finally joined the living, we all got showers & breakfast courtesy of A Righteous ‘Zonian. He even gave us $20 for gas. Thanks, Sean!
50 miles from Durango, CO. More van trouble. Seems the fan shaft had become bent when the fan belt broke. The bent shaft ruined the water pump. Then the water pump froze-up, the fan sheared off & this time devoured the radiator to such a degree that first aid was not going to help. Pete shagged a ride to the nearest phone. Called a tow-truck in Durango to come & get us. Put it on some bad plastic he was burning up. We rode in the van on the back of the tow-truck into Durango (highly illegal but way cool, just sailing alone with no one driving, no one even looking outside. We cranked up the tunes & smoked out. Left the van at a garage in Durango & went to check out the club where we were playing. Turns out the owner is some cowboy redneck shit-kicker. He informs us, thumbs in suspenders & pistol on desktop, that the show has been changed to tomorrow. By the time we get back to the garage after hassling with Cowboy Roy, the place is closed & locked up. The van & all our gear out of reach, locked in tight, well-fenced & guard-dogged. We go back to the club & using our nicest manners, threaten Cowgurl Pearl into putting us up for the night. He finally agrees to let us stay in the club. After it closes at 2:00am, the cleaning crew (bartender [redneck], waitress [redneck’s sister/wife] & bar-back [Hispanic]) take another hour of extreme noise terror & merciless CW mu-sick-sick-sick bombardment. We feign sleep until the dogie-punchers vamoose. Then we help ourselves to an enormous amount of the club’s beer & liquor supply. We drink ourselves to oblivion. We crack our eyelids about 2:00pm & head back to the garage. They’ve already replaced the water pump, the fan, & the belt. They’re just getting ready to put in the used radiator they found at a Pick’n’Pull. Before long, we rolling again...now totally broke. Back to the club. Cow-owner, none too thrilled with our bar tab...informs us that The College Radio Stars who were headlining tonight have canceled so now it’s a free show. No pay. Gas money. $15. We were burning but we were broke. We couldn’t refuse. We couldn’t revenge. All we could do was play our best & pass the hat. We collected $21, sold two T-shirts for $10, & three cassettes for $9 for the huge total of $55. Luckily our next gig was in Aztec, NM, only 120 miles away.
Aztec is where our fortune changed for the as they say better. I don’t want to sound totally bonkers. I don’t want anyone to think my time on the road finally drove me completely insane, but I have to believe it was a direct result of the sacrifice. Normally, I’m the last person to fall for that supernatural mumbo-jumbo. I live in the Here/Now & revel in my own reality. But I saw what happened that night & have experienced all that has transpired since. It is of that sacrifice which I now speak.
Aztec, New Mexico (the Land of Enchantment). Nestled serenely in the arms of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Yes, the Blood of Christ mountains. Aztec. Population 6384. Never played a town this small & not at all certain as to the outcome of this venture. We call Zarak, our contact in Aztec. He sounds genuinely enthusiastic if a bit ‘spacey’, but gives us precise directions to his place. He lives on the outskirts of town in a place that used to be a chicken ranch. It’s called The Chicken Ranch. No, really. We find our way to The Chicken Ranch with no problems & are warmly greeted by our host, Zarak. He led us to the bunk-house, which though Spartan, was clean. It afforded us the luxury of spreading out more than van floor or bar booths had thus far. He told us to come up to the main house after we got settled in & washed up. We could discuss plans for tomorrow night’s full moon extravaganza. We unpacked our sleeping bags & back-packs, washed up, smoked a few dubes, then headed up to the house.
Right away Zarak starts smoking us out. Huge hookah bowls of his personal-grown Indo mixed with native Peyote. He had home-made cactus liquor to drink. Before long, the long road was falling away behind us. He started telling us about his plans for this show that he was putting together up on this ridge above the town. Under the full moon. The ridge was a holy Anasazi place. Supposed aliens landed there in 1948. Zarak’s got his own generator. He’s invited thousands of acquaintances. He wants us to really get into it, be the soundtrack to this dream of his. He’ll pay us $1000. He’s going to sacrifice a virgin & eat her heart. We’re all righteously fucked-up. Bound into the web he has woven with smoke & drink & magick. It sounded huge & radical. It sounded fierce. Dangerous. We unanimously agree. We wake up the next evening from our drugged debauch to the sounds of progress. 15 or 20 people are loading equipment & supplies into an old ex-military half-track with the generator loaded on a trailer behind. The show is on. We follow the growing convoy of vehicles to the ridge above Aztec & near the stage find parking in the dust-swept lot. The next hour is a buzz & blur of activity. Zarak comes by, thanks us & pays us in advance for playing. He gives us a generous supply of weed & peyote & cactus liquor. Tells us he wants us to start the show just as we see the moon coming over the horizon.
At first I’m not positive it is the moon coming up. I’m so high. But Dirt, Slag, Pete, & I all vote. We decide it’s time to get the show started. We stumble onto the pale moon-washed dimness of the stage. With a sudden gigantic surge of feed-back we go live, we rip into the start of “Howling at the Moon”. There are several thousand people staggered around the ridge & ancient ruins. The only lights are from our equipment, the moon, & eyes glowing in the night. The moon & the power of the place, the sum of this one moment in time carry us to greater heights. We play as we know we can.
Some time unmeasured later, out of our drug/musick rush of joy I notice torches approaching the stage from the distant darkness. The torch-bearing procession parts the crowd of revelers much as Moses must have parted the Red Sea of lore. A masked High Priest leads a smiling maiden in virginal white to the front of the stage. The musick swells to touch the moon. The moon shines in the midnight sky. The virgin laughs a laugh caught by the microphone & amplified above the cacophony. The knife blade flashes in the wavering torch light. A dripping hand raises high, holding a still beating heart. Zarak throws back the High Priest’s mask. He sinks his teeth into the throbbing organ. I see his scarlet liquid grin in the spotlight moon. I see our musick caress the moon. I smell incense & jism. I smell brimstone & funk. I hear the multitude baying on the night breeze. My fingers are bleeding on my bass strings, but still there’ll be more.
We awaken in our van, alone. We drive around Aztec but can’t seem to find The Chicken Ranch. No one we ask in Aztec has ever heard of it. They all look at us extremely weird. We try Zarak’s phone but the number is no good.
But the $1000 is good. & our next show in Taos, NM is sold out. Word about the Full Moon Show is on every lip. Everyone seems to be expecting a sacrifice. A riot ensues. We’re asked back the following night for double the cash. Another sold-out performance. Plus all our T-shirts & cassettes are sold. It’s just grown from there. Great gigs. A recording offer. $$$. We’ll be back in Sacramento in about two weeks. We’ll see how it goes at home. Slag, Pete, & Dirt all say they vaguely remember eating some raw heart. I tell them it was just the drugs, but... Who knows. Just glad I’m a vegetarian. I’ll never sign on that dotted line. Oh, no.
Enjoy,
NØ
