Words by Nips
Fuck. People better start showin’ up soon. Ate the tab too early. Already did my Johnny Thunders makeup. Shirt with a missing sleeve Dylan tore off. And the classic shredded denims around my waist. Even wore a dog collar this time. Jake better have been serious about gettin’ people to dress up. Hope he was able to find one of those oversized greeting cards. Went to three places and couldn’t find one for Brendan. Even rearended someone in the process. Some Vietnam vet that didn’t even bother to take the cig outta his mouth while gettin’ my info. That’s what I need to calm these nerves. A cig. Bought a second pouch in case I start chiefin’ ‘em. That’s how the acid goes.
Take a shot of etizolam. Half dose. Don’t wanna kill the trip. But definitely need to slow it down. Would’ve been fine if I had waited another hour. But wanted to peak during Brendan’s last Toeheads set before dippin’ for the Navy in Rhode Island.
Blink and the living room is startin’ to fill with bodies. Jake’s orange wool hat clashin’ with his costume. “Brendan isn’t here yet is he?”
“Nah.”
“Cool. Pass around this poster board. Have everyone sign a goodbye card for him. Couldn’t find a real card. So we’ll fold it in half. You got any good photos of him?”
Tear the one off the wall. Stimmed out in the cig room at the end of Summerfest. Tape it to the center. Not a bad turn out so far. For a show thrown together in a couple days. Luckily Wednesday is my off day at work. Devil’s Night. Fifteen minutes after start time. Hour after load in was supposed to be. Jake never did clarify what time music was gonna start. Just asked to use Belmont for the occasion.
“We’re on first right?” Chuck says from the front door behind me.
“Yeah. Go ahead up and you can start settin’ up.”
Jake hides the card in the coves upstairs where 208’s gear is already tucked away. KQ adjusts Jordan’s kit. While Owen and Ben plug in amps. Chuck sets a pumpkin on the ground. “PHARMA” scrawled over the front in Sharpie. A large pill bottle with the label torn off next to it. They dip for the front porch for a preshow cig. Cig room already hotboxed by Dee and everyone at Ham House. They do this shit everytime. Just need to step in for a minute. And the second hand smoke smothers the urge for the cig you just rolled up.
Dylan is on the front porch with a sheet over his head. Makin’ everyone guess who the ghost is. Drew and Tina drinkin’ Buzzballs in the kitchen. X’s on their foreheads. “They taste like a flat Four Loko. Not good. But named appropriately.” Pop the empties on the shelf in the kitchen with the memorabilia from after parties and other sets here. Glad people actually wore their costumes.
Everybody’s here and the benzos are makin’ the night extra surreal. Like this night is somethin’ from a dream we all avoided sleepin’ through. The King of the Scene arrives. Different pair than his normal octagon sunglasses over his eyes. Stroh’s already cracked as he walks in. Peter’s upstairs testin’ the projector setup. His hazy visuals on the ceiling and the Peanuts sheets on my mattress propped against the wall. Time to uncork the liter and a half wine bottle.
The feedback whistles from Owen’s cranked amp upstairs. Whistlin’ everyone into the dark bedroom. The neighbors only complain about the noise when the hardcore bands play. So tonight might not be their favorite show. But after this Belmont is closin’ for the season. Gotta clean the bathtub for my landlord’s property inspection next month. Can’t believe I’ve been here for two years now. And averaged a show a month this past year. Couldn’t pick a better closin’ ceremony the King’s departure.
The crowd stands anxiously against the wall as Pharma plows through their first song. Chuck pacin’ around the room with mic in hand. Scoops the pumpkin from the ground as KQ beats the sticks together. One two three. And on the fourth the orange splinters on the blue carpet. Tyriq shoves Joey mid kick as Chuck’s screams clip the speaker. Everyone’s flesh collides. Oozes against each other before slidin’ off the sweat. No amount of AC or open windows able to stop the humidity of body friction. Bones crack and disintegrate to the marrow of our lives. Rail the line and jump in. Bottle in hand. Joey’s skull makin’ contact with the base. Spewin’ a geyser onto the wall from the palm of my hand.
The red wine paints streaks on the white drywall that still stands defiantly against our chaos. Drops run down at a fraction the speed of Owen’s blurred hand makin’ the strings wail. And in ten minutes, the masochistic treatment of our eardrums unfortunately ends. Light flicks on. Showin’ a mess of pumpkin guts. Seeds. And capsules of an unknown drug woven into the carpet by our feet. When did that shit burst? “Nips, you want me to clean this up at the end of the night?” Chuck pants. Red in the face.
“Nah man. It really ties the bedroom together.”
He smiles as Kyle drags his amp from the cove for their set. Shelby adjusting the kit. Walks away as Jake towers into the room. Emptyin’ a Stroh’s into himself. “Thanks for askin’ us to play Jake. Super stoked to get to play a show with Toeheads.”
“Man. Thanks for comin’ here from Florida.”
“Well thanks for acceptin’ us into this. We didn’t know anybody here when we moved out here. But you all made us feel so welcomed into this family.”
Gotta get a cig in before this set. Once 208 starts you’re gribbed in. As tight as the stranglehold Kyle has on the neck of his guitar. The reverb slaps back with the thud of Shelby’s drums. Bouncin’ you from wall to wall. Body to body. Drowns out the thoughts reverberatin’ off the walls of your skull.
He’s gotta have the shoes off every show. Release the hounds! Let the brutalization of instruments begin. The things we do for tone. He mumbles almost incoherently into the mic behind shags of hair. “This next one’s ‘Hotel California.’” Shelby’s tom thumps in the background as Peter’s lights pulse on the walls. Kyle droppin’ to the floor. Body twitchin’ with each crunch of distortion he bends outta the amp. Until it gives out. Forcing a finale from the duo.
“I forgot the tambourine!” Drew yells to Joey.
“Fuck. Should we run down the street to grab it.”
“I got bongos.” Pass ‘em to Drew while the three Toeheads debate their setlist. Gonna play the full EP that drops at midnight. Cassettes from Remove Records comin’ soon.
Grab a beer from the fridge. Drew standin’ in the kitchen. Joint tucked between lips. Greasy hair falls on the shoulders of his bright shirt. Tappin’ the bongos surrounded by women with X’s on their foreheads. “That’s gotta be the most cult leader lookin’ thing I’ve seen in my life.” Joey passes by. Tosses a beer can in the sink. And grabs a plate to set upstairs.
The ceiling and wall covered in shots of the trio performing on the front porch. The same front porch I first spotted Brendan and Jake from at the first show I threw a year ago. Just two goons sittin’ in a red Dodge. Drinkin’ Labatt. Heavy. And the one hidin’ behind octagon shades tells me about this tape label he started. Remove Records. “King of the Scene!” Drew yells perched on the head on top of Joey’s 2x12. Jake cuts his goodbye speech off early. Don’t wanna get too heavy before the heavy music.
The chords crunch under his fingertips. The brass crashes under Brendan’s sticks. Joey gettin’ some futuristic fuzz from the bass. This is the future of garage. Happenin’ right before my dilated pupils. The noise ceases as Jake’s mumbled first line grows into a scream. Then pounds faster. Harder. Sloppier. How can Peter’s camera even handle this noise? “With a knife!”
Standin’ by the stairs the group begins a cover of “Anna (Go to Him.)” The crowd dances with each other. Belts the chorus in unison as the peak takes my brain into this dream. Everybody gathered in this sweaty bedroom. Vibin’ together. What more could you dream of? One last night for all of us to be together. Together right here. Right now. Hidin’ the makeup streakin’ under my eyes in the cig room from Rae and Kyle from the Waterheads.
The group ends the onslaught of feedback. Screeches. Of both instruments and vocal cords. Reverb. Thuds and crashes. Hi-hats through the wall. And every jarring sound your ears dream of bein’ berated by. Joey trades the bass for a second guitar. Yells for a pick. While Jake begs for some noise to stop him from continuin’ a corny speech. It is Devil’s Night after all. Brendan trades his sunglasses for the pair of octagons in his leather jacket while takin’ a bow.
“Burn down Midtown!” From Drew.
“Has anyone seen my wallet?!” From Dee.
“It’s not fuckin’ workin’!” From Joey who can’t rail a line through the humidity. Gives it up before his ode to DMT and a rambunctious cover of “Blew My Mind” to close the set.
“Don’t we have a bunch more?” Joey yells across the room.
“Well some of us working class folk have a job to go to in the morning.” Evan jokes.
“Alright. We’ll do an encore for Brendan’s last ride.” Jake plugs back in. Drew stands in the center of the room. Pulls back up the bongos in sweaty, red hands. “This one’s called ‘Demon House.’
“I’ve been livin’ in a demon house!” None of the notes are distinguishable in the final barrage of sound. But the bodies crash into each other. For one last connection to the King that gave everybody somethin’ to show their parents. I can still hear him behind the bottle of Stroh’s at Painted Lady before we bootlegged the Milk Bath gig at Outer Limits. “Just somethin’ to say ‘you guys might not be into this. But somebody out there thinks it means somethin’.’”
As the party filters out, Jordan video calls me on Snapchat to say goodbye to Brendan before he sets sail. Says the broken hi-hat stand was the least he could offer in return to the King of the Scene. Joey spills the bottle of wine next to me. Looks up from rollin’ around on the floor. “That’s the difference between me and Jay Retard. I know when not to break shit.” The words fill the holes the acid burns into my brain as he dips to prep Ham House for the after party. Leavin’ his shoes behind. The picture of me and him in his underwear will surface in a few days but doesn’t help fill the gaps in the night.
Sittin’ next to me, Brendan dents a Stroh’s can in his hand. Hood over his head. But no octagons to hide the tears in his eyes. “It’s just… For the first time… I feel like I finally got a family. And now that I have that feeling. I gotta leave my home behind. Over a mistake I enlisted in months ago.” He sniffles and kills the can. Somethin’ about the way that last drop of beer hits makes you puke it all up. “And I don’t know how long until I’ll be able to get back to that feeling.”
“But that’s the beauty of it.” Take a swig from the remains of the wine bottle. “No matter what happens now. You got the security of family. We’re all still gonna be here. And whenever you get back, the empty space you left will still be here for you. Ya know now no matter what you always got a family somewhere. Forever. Maybe the scene ends. Maybe Joey moves somewhere like New Mexico or some shit. Maybe I finally clean the bathtub like my landlord and Jake keep askin’. But no matter where any of us are or what’s different. You’ll always be able to show up and have people and a place where you belong. No matter where we are we’re all together now.”
One by one people nod to sleep at Ham House. People find their way back to their beds. And don’t have to dream about a home. Cause they got a place to be free. Like Manson sang about. Brendan hugs me goodbye. And I find my way to the after hours where my friend Josh asks sincerely if I’m doin’ alright tonight. Cause he knows it’s not just the acid and benzos makin’ everything feel surreal. But at least when I get home. There’s a pair of octagon glasses in the explosion of pumpkin seeds and prescription strength anti-inflammatories. I’ll end up losing ‘em in a few months. Life’s cruel that way. Even all the shit that means somethin’ to us will pass. But at least we got it together now.