Psychotic Pulp Vol. 2: Restless stumbling through space time
July 29th, 2009 by Christopher Nadeau in Commentary, Local Music, fiction, psychotic pulp
Restless again. My band stops playing and a smattering of applause fills the void of sound as the barkeep kicks on the punk jukebox. Love Comes in Spurts pipes through the shitty speakers as Richard Hell’s whiney voice affirms the nihilistic undertones of modern living. I look down at my sweat-stained shirt and a tiny button of Hell’s vacant stare pinned above my left breast pocket catches my eye. For a second, its blank straight-mouthed expression curls into a shit eating grin and he whispers up at me, “I know punk sounds better through the filter of a canned, thought-out and planned recording” as I rub my eyes, pick up my amplifier and carry it hastily out the back door.
Fresh air stings my lungs, billowing smoke escaping through the closing door behind me. I drop my keys, set the amp down on the pavement and pick them up. After throwing the amp in the back seat of my car, I reluctantly re-enter the bar from the back to finish cleaning up.
Unexpectedly, the door leads directly into my parents’ house three towns over. The sun burns through the large windows as my hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I must have really shaken something up in my head last night with that show, I tell myself in a panic. I can hear my parents arguing in the next room:
“Why can’t you use your gift of music to serve the Lord?”
“All you do is yell, scream and make noise. Don’t you remember what that guy told you? That singer up in Madawaska? What did he tell you? He told you to keep God close or you will be tempted by the Devil.”
Then I hear an even stranger sound; my own voice!
“I don’t think God is interested in mediocrity and banality.” I peak my head around the corner of the entryway and peer into the living room, and I can feel my eyes popping out of my skull as I find a version of myself standing with both my parents. My other self continues, “If anything, Satan is busy lowering the standards of culture with your national television karaoke contests and hack musicians who only play for money and don’t really believe in what they do!”
I sneak out the front door into daylight and run down the walkway to my car. “What the fuck is going on?” I ask aloud as I pat my pockets for my keys but can’t find them. I blink, my eyelids closing very slowly as I continue to scour the insides of my pockets so I can make my getaway.
As I open my eyes, the darkness of night shocks my vision and I feel tears swelling below my corneas. A rag covered young oi-looking punk with a Crass patch on his left jean leg leans against the outside wall of the bar and lights a cigarette. “I really dug that set,” he spouts without looking toward me as smoke trickles from his mouth. “I love that punk noise shit. Do you have a couple bucks?”
Still in shock, I reach into my pocket and throw him two one dollar bills. “Thanks for the kind words, man. I’m glad you enjoyed it,” I hear myself respond as I wander back into the bar.
A television flashes headlines too bright to ignore: Hurricane Warning… Headed Directly For Tampa Bay… and immediately cuts to a Home Depot commercial featuring images of gas-powered generators and storm shutters. The pounding rhythm of Ghost Rider by Suicide fills all ears as Martin Rev croons, “America America is killing its youth!” and I see him inside my head smash a microphone directly into his mouth three times. The disheartening thwoks of amplified violence cause me to cringe and smile a devilish smile at the same time.
Suicide- Ghost Rider
July 29th, 2009 at 7:08 pm
I’ve had this same dream !
July 30th, 2009 at 9:46 am
Rev is on keyboards. That is the one and only Alan Vega singing!