i miss walking down Western Ave in Logan; Carl, Rob, and a coupla other guys usta have a house down there, which was frequently haunted by whiskey ghosts from other planets who liked to dance and break the furniture. this path i've treaded many times, even barefoot over broken glass caterwauling beatles tunes with Oem, a noisy, dirty, buzzing, laughing street, passing Arturo's, the ice creamery, the flag store, the neon store, the spy store (where Carl's spit is on camera file) down to Fullteron and the big ol' Old Style sign marking the Mutiny. I ditch my tallboy and walk in without any hassle, the doors playing and somebody who should've been wearing a sailor hat shooting pool. At the back of the club on the low stage Baby Tornado is gearing up. tired from work, I sit on the floor in front of the stage.
Carl screams and makes faces like an ancient evil alien ghost clown, dancing around in his loafers and nerd-o sweater like yr drunkard old man after a week neglecting his psychotropic medication.
Baby Tornado played pretty damn hard for a mystical alterverse connecting rod. Rob destroyed the drums, drunk and fulla rage, then switched with Ryan (who is not an accountant but a spook for wind-power in high tops who kicks ass), grabbing the gee-tar and turning his back shy.
"Sometimes There Are Bats Everywhere."
people dancing and passing around pitchers in the swarming black of the club (broken only by the red splash of the Helter Skelter 'giny pisser). the speakers ripple an aneurism through my ribs. a lot of people in this room seem to be missing chunks of koolaid hair & sporting sleeves of violent ink.
at the break we flood out onto the street where the owner keeps count of who's outside and keeps trying to shuttle us all back in when we're done with our squares. this is necessary because folks don't seem to want to go inside, they wanna talk loud and jump into old friends and shake off the sweat in this wierd July cool (Al Gore has been notified). Back inside, People Sometimes is playing, Watman is screaming and shaking wet hair on the crowd, and the lead guitarist takes the mic and and brings it down into the crowd. the crowd calls to the drummer, "take off your shirt!"
"I'll take my right shoe off".
i missed most of Tea Party's set in quest of pizza; they kept the frenzy building up to Roche Moche. everybody went nuts, man- stripping off clothes, pogoing and dancing and trampling in one big sweaty lektrik body.
after the show we went to a dying party and laid out on the roof. the guy who lived there was convinced we were comin down from acid.
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