Fuck You

(2011)

A few years ago someone handed me a tape of my first band. It had been recorded at a university radio station in very early 1980.  A live broadcast. Those were my Santa Barbara days and I was all of  22 years old.  The tape was shocking…the band was so ferocious, so funny, so crazy, so scary, so punk. Unbelievably punk. You could hear me, hear Ron E, hear Danny and Chuck. Phyllis cackling savagely in the background. Hearing the dead guys, Danny and Chuck, so spontaneous and alive….wow.  It was midweek that 1980, I remember, about 3 or 4 am, and I was barely awake, held up only by cocaine and weed. To hear Fyl, like a live wire, pure man killing energy. We had fucked on the floor of an empty sound booth earlier. Dust and tile and wires and us. We fucked everywhere all the time back then—got caught fucking in the men’s room of a gay bar off State Street even. Some old queen caught us. You can’t do that in here! she said, this is a gay bar! They kicked us out and we laughed and laughed and laughed and probably went and fucked somewhere else. What a time. So young. I recognize myself in that old tape, that voice, low and flat, I know it’s me….but at the same time it’s completely alien…like it’s not me at all. Every one of those cells in me then has been dead for years….what I am now is many, many cellular generations later. The body has utterly changed, the brain but a fraction of its size then, and full of a lifetime of memories, experience, hardwiring. I could have been hearing my great great grandfather on that tape it felt so remote. No connection at all except a vague memory of having been there. Hearing that tape for the first time since 1980, wow…one of those stunningly profound moments. I could remember childhood then. I can imagine old age now. It was too cool a thing, that tape. Man…to be young during revolutionary times has to be the greatest thing life can offer…you live the rest of your life on that stored up high. The energy never completely disappears, does it?  Somehow it gives us an edge. People feel the electricity still coursing through our beings a zillion years later, they reach out to touch and zap, it  shocks them. Fuck you we tell them. But why? Just because, you boring little prick. Fuck you. And we cackle, slap them on the back and say come on, just kidding. Can’t you take a fucking joke? That’s the revolution talking. That’s us then still, never growing up. Getting older, but never growing up. Fuck you.

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5 thoughts on “Fuck You

  1. I was tending bar the night you got kicked out of the bathroom. The old queen was my manager and I caught hell from him and wasn’t allowed to invite my “straight” friends anymore. Didn’t get fired though because he was hoping to get in my pants. Never did succeed I’m happy to say. As I recall you left the bar and went up to that creepy old mansion I lived in and fucked in my bed. -love, Spike

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  2. Pingback: The jazz that I knew and loved | Brick Wahl

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