Trey Oswald and Paul Bakija of Reagan Youth
Ugly scene at the punk show. Gurz and I wound up going at it. Savage exchange. Dude fights dirtier than me. Beat me to the salt shaker. Then beat me with the salt shaker. Right there on the dance floor. While the band played on. I thought I’d met my match, but remembered a move called Monkey Steals A Peach. That took the proverbial wind out. Cops showed up and arrested us both for felony assault. Essington posted our bail. We paid him back by stealing his car.
Hmm. It’s a good start for this piece. I mean I really like it. Right away we’re up to our elbows in action. The writing is snappy and scrappy. Lean and tough. I get to work in a salt shaker and Monkey Steals A Peach reference. Getting busted is rich. The evil burn there at the end, too. The whole paragraph is so me. We’re talking signature shit.
There’s only one little problem. It’s a balls-out lie.
Personally, I don’t have a problem with that. It’s just that Gurz or Essington might yap. Then everybody will think/know I’m a liar. Which would suck. And oh yeah, I’m supposed to try to be as honest as possible, in order to help stay sober.
Fucking staying sober. Always tripping up my game. Saving me from humiliation.
You want the truth? You think you can handle it? Well handle this-
I went to the show and had an okay time. Got along with Gurz and Essington. Nothing crazy happened. Was asleep in my motel bed by 2AM. Had a nice breakfast with Brisa and Dennis the next morning. Came home. The end.
After all that build up, that’s all you get. I’m sorry, but that’s the truth. No drinking. No drugging. No fist-fights. No stage-diving. No strippers. No hookers. No cops.
Not so hot on the truth now, are you? Yeah, it’s easy to pay it lip labor, but another thing to have to endure listening to it. Or in this case, having to read it. It could set you free, but the truth just might lull you to sleep. Like a bellyful of antihistamine-fed turkey, cold hard facts can be quite soporific. Plain old boring truth.
Here’s some more boring truth- I hate writing music reviews. Mostly because I suck. I’ll write “they sound alright, like some band I can’t remember the name of, only more hoppy-boppy,” or “the chick playing bass looks like someone my buddy went out with, back in Santa Fe, during the 90’s. A real clingy, emotionally needy, pain in the ass. The girlfriend, not the bass player. I don’t know what her story is.”
I’m no Lester Bangs. And don’t want to be. First off, he’s dead. Second off, I recognize my limitations as a writer.
Add that to the fact that nothing amazing, funny, or insane happened at the show, and you’ll know why I dragged ass getting here. This thing became a book report I couldn’t find the Cliff Notes for. I kept putting off writing about the show with a Part One, Part Two, Part Three, hoping I’d find some angle to make it interesting. Well, the angle never came. That’s when I decided to try to lie my way out. Like a cornered rat.
Sure, lot’s of uninteresting things happen to me, all the time, and it’s never stopped me from writing about them. But there’s usually some internal component, some gleaned insight or entertaining thought process to report. Not this time. The only thing I remember thinking was, “this music is okay, but I’m ready for it to stop now. It’s starting to hurt my ears.”
Not much to hang your hat on. Even for Lester Bangs.
Thank God, Michael Essington was there. He can write about music. Or anything else. He’s prolific. Smart. A natural writer. Very readable. In real life, a solid down-to-earth character. No posturing or posing. And that comes through in his work. I wish we could have talked more that night, but the music was…too loud.
Anyway, while I hemmed and hawed, waiting for some God Machine to descend from the sky, he banged out a review of the show. You can read it here.
Okay. That gets me off that hook. No need to review the show. And that should be lesson to all you kids out there. Sometimes procrastination pays off. So don’t put it off.
I’ll will add that while Essington was jumping hurdles trying to get to the show, I saw the whole thing. 13 Scars and Reagan Youth managed to tap into the wellspring of youthful angst and delivered the notice. Especially noteworthy, since both bands are made up of generally older dude types. It was good to see middle-agehood could still shred shit up. Good for morale. A mighty hammer blow struck against the evils of ageism.
But like I said, at one point my ears just gave out. It wasn’t the musicianship, or even some age-crisis induced introspection, but the physical discomfort of decibels relentlessly beating against the skull that made me ready to bail. But I didn’t. I clung on to the bitter end.
And am a better man because of it.
Michael Essington and David Gurz
If you read part one of this saga (and my stats show that’s not likely) you’ll know that I went primarily for the book-signing, Essington and Gurz were doing for their joint effort, Under a Broken Street Lamp. It was good to finally meet Gurz. A deeply troubled individual. Dangerously deranged old punk. Ex-con. Ex-heroin junky. Street survivor. You’re just not going to find a more subterranean creature. If I had a stick that night I would have poked at him, just to watch him claw and hiss, the madness and menace glinting in his eyes. A fascinating specimen of Demonous Nocturnous.
And all that comes through in his work. But lots of other stuff too. Sinister resume aside, Dave is a sweetheart. Intelligent, funny-as-fuck, and–oh, he’s gonna kill me–sensitive and caring. That’s right. He’s what is known in folklore as a Noble Scoundrel. Standard archetype, really. What the turn-of-the-century criminal, Jack Black, called “a good Yegg.”
Anyway, we’d been corresponding and talking on the phone for over a year before this, so it was great to actually meet in person. And not be able to communicate. But hang out anyway.
That’s what this whole odyssey was about. Making the effort to connect with friends. Going against my selfish inclination for the apparent comfort and safety of isolation, and coming out to the show. Just to be there. To hang out. To talk loudly to somebody who can’t hear you, and then not hear them tell you that. To build that bond that comes from nodding and shrugging at each other. Clueless. While droplets of blood roll from your ears.
I wouldn’t trade it for all the treasure in Timbuktu.
Okay. That’s not true either.
Damn.
TRUDGING THROUGH THE FIRE 