This is this past week filtered through a haze of asphalt, blood and manic heights. Get wet or get out of my sphere.
Last Monday:
Travis, BBQ Bill and Myself were pulled over in the hoop due to, unknown to me, an expired license. Instead of letting another person drive it two blocks away to the Mind Gaze Hut, they towed the hoop and left me stranded with my guitar and amplifier. BULLSHIT. The following days were spent on my knees, making threats to no one specifically, and screaming at bureaucrats and other low level technicians of our glorious republic.
First, the DMV
Then, the CHP
I racked up two pleads of, "sir, will you please calm down" during this period. In the end, I got kicked deeper in debt and pushed further toward absolute insanity. Ultimately I drove away with the hoop, blaring Thin Lizzy and pushing that bitch to extremes. Driving is freedom. Don't ever fuck with my freedom. DON'T EVER FUCK WITH MY FREEDOM.
Last Saturday:
Hung out with John and Sam in the city. They ended up fighting in the street for reasons I'm still not quite sure of. John got mad because Sam knocked out his earring and sent it flying into the gutter. Sam got a gash on his forehead. John's girlfriend, Christina, sat in the car and texted hawt d00dz. I stared into the sky and waited for God's Hammer to crush us all out of pure jealousy. Fuck non-believers. Jesus is coming.
Wednesday:
The Awful Lot played with Dirt Dress, Grand Lake, and Big, Round at the Stork Club. Sam, John, and Johnny Corpseyburton wore corpse paint to celebrate freedom; Not our nation's freedom from the British, but freedom from societies' mother fuckers. Here is a picture of Johnny exhibiting FREEEEEEEDOOOOOOOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMMM.
Here is my play by play. For video and a more descriptive example of the night, go to Adam's blog.
The Awful Lot sounded like shit. My strap fell off on the first note of the first song, Travis found pain killers, Max's mustache was telling him to shred, and Bill bled all over a borrowed tom.
Dirt Dress was a good rock and roll band from LA. I played with them before in San Luis Obispo when I played with Grand Lake. I remember liking them, but I can't remember much about San Luis Obispo except for sun, white people, and beer. The bass player is from Fullerton, I'm from Anaheim, so we talked about the 91 freeway and burritos, or whatever the fuck is down there.
Grand Lake was good. They bought delay pedals and sing through them now. I heard Caleb say something about "adult contemporary music." "Song for Louise" is a great song. They shouldn't have kicked Erika out. Caleb blocked me on Facebook and Twitter the following day. Bummerrrrrzzzzzzzzzzzz.
Big, Round fit the midnight mood nicely. Evan tucked his shirt into his jeans and played a trumpet. I wanted to get up on his cowboy ass and show him how the west was won. BBQ Bill's screaming was louder than a trumpet. Hometurf advantageeeeeeeeeeeeeeee.
Friday:
Ali and I went to Indus Village on University and San Pablo in Berkeley so that Ali could meet another "Ali" but with a different pronunciation of her name. Its the best Pakistani joint in the Beast Bay and one of my favorite restaurants in the world I live in. Go there and get the Palak Ghosht. Don't worry about the Yelp reviews that yap about cockroaches in their take away Tika Masala. Those idiots deserve bugs in their food for not enjoying the ambiance of giant, multi-colored chairs and four Salvadorians blaring banda music from the kitchen.
After that we went to Mama Buzz and watched Tall Grass and Shiny Things cover the spectrum of lust. Macy cut his hair again. He doesn't know how good he's got it. Sam would trade a testicle for that flowing mane of sunshine.
(DELETED PICTURE OF SAM'S TESTICLE)
BBQ Bill tore shit up on Johnny's Lucite Ludwig kit. He needs to get a real kit of his own so he can bleed on his own snare for once instead of pouring his plasma on some other dudes skinz. If he didn't eat ribs everyday then he could probably afford it. However, DON'T EVER FUCK WITH HIS FREEDOM.
Today is Saturday, July the 25th:
I'm back in the laundry room feelin' good and clean. I've been revising a series of Land songs that I hope will be re-recorded with James and Evander as part of the current recordings. I want to drive down to Anaheim in the upcoming weeks to record with Jefferson Song, the wunderkind drummer of Land who grew up running around Philippine cities only to come to Anaheim at the age of 15 and beat the fuck out of a kit. We use to get hopped up on coffee and weed and spend all night in my father's machine shop making the music that we wanted to hear. No thought of an industry based around suburban kids with guitars, no need for merchandise or business tactics, and no pandering to contemporaries. Just bass amplifiers, down-tuned guitars, my buzzing DL-4, a penchant for the surreal and, of course, big, repetitive beats. It would be a shame if nothing tangible came from that period. I am ready to destroy again. Fuck all non-believers. Jesus is coming.
It feels like summer again in Oakland. I've got a good woman, good friends. I'm finally going to be out of debt by the end of summer. I'm purging every idea I've been holding on to for the past few months. I'm going to play with Pipkin again. I've got a good interview on Tuesday morning at Ice Man's work. Sam is moving back into the neighborhood come August 15th. Order has been destroyed again and insanity will once again hold sway. Feelin' good. DON'T EVER FUCK WITH MY FREEDOM.
-B. Hamilton
