“We’re runnin’ to the store Nips. Ya need anything?” Nah. But it was thoughtful of KQ and Jess to ask. As they slip out the door. Baphomet stamped on their hand. Not that they needed it. But Kyle made the stamp that afternoon. Every person enterin’ the show marked with arcane perfection for the weekend. Always wondered how much of this satanic shit is for aesthitics. But I don’t think I need to ask anymore. The Mystic Seer from Twilight Zone starin’ at me from the spiral over the stage. Tyriq cries into the mic as he pounds on the drums. I gotta pop into the sound booth with Sean to see Virtue. Kyle with back to the crowd plows on the bass strings. Wish I could stick my head in the subs for this one.
Pour Shelby a beer. Pop open the lock pliers to let the PBR flow through the tube. Busted the party pump pretty quickly on. Leave it to one of the anarchists to know how to DIY the keg. Rushed Dee Obscenity, the most beautiful human out there, a beer to the stage when we got it rigged durin’ his cover of “Cheree.” Shelby thanks me for workin’ the door. But I should be thankin’ her. For lettin’ me see those massive pieces she made. I can’t imagine how fuckin’ good it feels to assemble a piece of that size. “I know bein’ stuck at the door all night durin’ a show must suck.” Are you kiddin’ me? It’s actually the perfect balance of social interaction for me. Gives me somethin’ to run off to when I get overwhelmed. That feelin’ when you’re hyper aware of your skin on your body. I haven’t felt this anxious since high school. It’s amazin’ the parts of yourself you rediscover when ya get off blow. Plus ya know. There’s always some oddball interactions to keep things interestin’. An old head askin’ if I know where to get medicinal mushroom chocolates. People pop over to hang out for a bit. Jake dressed as the guy that anxiously stands near the keg durin’ the party. Cam dressed as Cameron from Ferris Bueller.
“You want this beer?” They ask. Holdin’ up the cup I stuck my hand in to get the broken plastic out. “Way to be a good friend Cam!” Jake punchin’ ‘em in the arm. “Nips quit drinkin’. Fuckin’ asshole.” Swallow a weed cookie instead. Joey callin’ me an evil man for passin’ out the devil’s sacred lettuce. Mystery strength edibles. Me and Kaleb mixin’ the dough with bare hands.
No. But door is good for me. I can feel myself startin’ to withdraw. It’s usually this time of year the fog comes. I’ve been feelin’ like an alien lately. Probably why I don’t dig dressin’ up on Halloween. Feels like there’s this space between me and the life happenin’ in front of me. Feeding into detachment.
But this world. These spaces are where ya learned how beautiful life can be. The red bubbles and smears of Tyriq’s abstract mural. Shelby’s question marks. Red lights. Geometric and spiralin’ projections. The noise that drove up here from Indiana blowin’ my mind. Namen Namen. Gui-tar shreds. Feedback squeals. Drunken laughter. Bodies smash together. Pogo. Splat of beer on the ground. These sights and sounds. Remindin’ you to enjoy this inevitable hopelessness. While you’re still breathin’.
“Ya know. That’s exactly why I do it. It’s somethin’ I enjoy that brings people a smile in the middle of the night.” Matt always has five amazin’ costumes for Halloween. Costanza. Nardwaur. Fantano. He tells me how he doesn’t always keep up the Cool Bugs and Stuff page. But I love it everytime I scroll through it. Beats Wikipedia wanderlust. It’s important to know what’s worth bein’ distracted by. It’s all just somethin’ to soothe our souls. Art. Bugs. Noise. Lights. Cameras. Fuckin’ ACTION man. Stop feedin’ into this distance. It’s the small things that keep us breathin’. That want and desire to smile. With good company.
Now. I barely remember readin’ Dharma Bums. But Buddhists will tell ya that it’s these wants and desires that are the root of all sufferin’. Leadin’ us to inevitable hopelessness. And that’s why I kinda dig the Satanists. The party’s gotta end eventually. Strings will break. The drugs will come down. And we’ll all feel like shit in the morning. But before all that. There’s nothin’ wrong with pursuin’ humanity. Setting intentions to enjoy the beautiful process of life. The sweet, sonic serenade squealin’ in your eardrums. The visuals. Lights and projections. Distorts the possibilities of reality. Take a picture of Wayma. Gettin’ his picture taken in front of his biblically accurate self-portrait. Live life in the truest image of yourself. Keep this world unapologetically non-generic.
“Everybody wants to be DIY till their van looks like this!” Jake tossin’ the wet and empty keg in the back. Namin’ off the salon chair. Amps. Guitars. T-shirts and vinyl. Slams the door. Wonder which was more wet. Joey durin’ the keg stand. Or the aluminum barrel. Frosted window covered in stickers. Names of bands and labels most people will never discover in reality. The unknown pleasures of life that keep us breathin’ and sweatin’. Hipsters sneak in through the back. Midtown folk debate if they wanna pay cover for this filth. The only people eager to pay door are the same people ya see at every show. There’s a joke in there about punk cultures survivin’ on the same money shufflin’ hands. Cause only the people breathin’ off this junk are the ones that understand how life and death creating actually is.
“We might all be from Indy. But Detroit always feels like a home.” Maxwell’s sincere appreciation seems contradictin’ the primal abrasiveness his band put through the PA. But makes sense when ya think about the pure emotional release. I’ve been told the scene is unwelcoming. I’ve been told people seem unapproachable. I wear my sunglasses inside a lot now. Maybe it makes me look pretentious. But eases the feelin’ of my skin on my bones. ‘Sorry. Did I interrupt? Everybody went silent and started starin’ at me.’ I’ve seen this interaction take place time and time again at shows. Groups of people that have known each other for years. None of us outgrew our social ineptness. Sometimes the communication skills aren’t strong. And the introversion can look a lot like a ‘fuck off.’ But shit. That’s why so many learned to speak through paint and ink. Unintelligible lyrics drownin’ in a swamp of reverb. Fuzz. Delay. Occasional wah-wah to imitate our cries for a lil’ piece of mind. Hell. Even makin’ fuckin’ films to put our hearts, minds, and souls on display.
This is a full circle moment for 208. Their first show here was at Spread Art. As the shindig kicks off with Danny and the Stools. Burnt cork under their eyes. Kyle stares at the concrete floor. Smilin’ that he booked that motherfucker. Kyle prances on stage in his suit as Toeheads close the show. Scepter in hand. Devil mask on. Bodies collide as the wood floor bounces with the bass. Shelby hypnotizin’ everyone with the spiral. How does she get it to look so fluid? If you open up a dictionary in the future. All you’re gonna see next to the word “artist” is a photo of Shelby and Kyle in 208’s Night of the Living Dead. The two put the entire crowd in a trance. Remindin’ us we are stardust. We are billion year old carbon. And we are the Devil’s Martyrs. The purpose of life is to fuckin’ live it.
