x-x-x-x-x. Politics of Sex, Noise and Depression

| | | — | | To disclose Mad Happy’s standard fee for the club we played last night in Long Branch, New Jersey would embarass both the club, the reader and the author. Suffice to say that we played for the other acts and a few friends. Post Cinco de Mayo depression? Who knows? Our vehicle broke down on Interstate 95 last Thursday. Called triple-a (automobile club of america) for a tow, but as it turned out, our membership had expired three weeks previously. So we spend 40 miutes on hold between departments to become re-instated, then another hour waiting for a tow truck. An hour which included walking 1/2 mile or so down the highway to find a mile marker. On my return to the van we found no less than six deer ticks crawling up my pants and legs. We also got a call informing us that the weekends festival had been called off due to probability of rain, and we would not be paid. Not two minutes after the tow trucked pulled away, the Sears Automotive expert said, “This is bad. We can’t do this here. I wish he hadn’t left yet”. So after the show that night Rivka and I returned to that van at 3:30 AM and crashed out. Cops pulled up as I was crawling into bed, but after explanation, they let us stay in the Sears lot ‘till 7:00, when we called another local shop and had the van towed again. Our choices were simple. One, pay more that we were hoping to sell the van for to replace the motor; Two, scrap the van. So we rented a U-Haul trailer (homeboys hooked us up in exchange for a blunt), and our friend, Nathan Brown from Fort Worth, Texas, who we’ve been doing a few shows with, dragged us up to New York City just in time to perform at Sidewalk Cafe, having missed almost all the other acts of a night we had put together. There has been a ton of back and forth with the club at which we might be performing tonight. Still don’t know what the situation will end up being. My man Carlo, our mechanic up here by my parents in Union City, found a mini-van for sale real cheap. We need something small after the Ford Econoline, 8-cylander experience (12 miles to the gallon), especially with gasoline prices soaring as they are. So interesting how Exxon/Mobile Corporations earnings first quarter of this year were their highest ever, and how the owners of these companies also own stock in, and most of the equipment operated by the Middle-Eastern OPEC companies. But what do I know. In feudal times, our history teachers used to tell us, people paid out fifty percent of their earnings to the feudal lords. Amazing that the people stood for it. Adding al the taxes we deal with, including tickets, sales tax and all tat shit, comes to well over fifty per cent. Anyway - we got this Dodge Grand Caravan. It’s got like a million miles on it and it’s leaking oil like a … like a fuckin’ hole. So last night was another 4 1/2 hour sleep and hopefully these guys can hook it up before we have to leave, tomorrow at the latest, for the rest of this tour. Shit’s making some ill-ass clunking sounds when we turn, too. Maybe it’s the “bushings”. Learn all about this shit when you buy enough cheap vehicles. Way behind on the booking job. One has to think months ahead of time, and often that’s too early, so you also have to keep ON these places. Then you find out a week before a show that’s been booked for months that either the place has closed, or they booked a private party, or the Rolling Stones are doing a free concert down the street, at the same time as you show, ot the guy who booked you got fired, and was never s’posed to be booking in the first place and they only have cover bands. And there’s no money for recording and no time for writing and no money for food. Then you do a show and blow everyone away and they’re like, “You’re so ahead of your time”, and, “Thank you for being so inspiring”, and, “My band is based on yours” or something, or you write something new and brilliant and you have hope again. And you just know that you will eventualy be vindicated, even if it takes another twenty years. And you feel that the divine nature of the universe is speaking through you, and you’re blessed with ears that translate the language of angels, and that life is a momentary flash of consciousness, and true success is beyond our comprehension anyway. You wake up and meditate, and aren’t plagued by the myriad and sundry phone calls and emails that you need to make and send, and the posters and promo packs that need to be mailed, and friends that need to be contacted, and money that neds to be earned and that the next month is racing toward you at chaotic, break-neck speed, followed by poverty, old age, lonliness and death. You meditate without identifying with these meandering deamons, simply experiencing the light and powerful images which spring from the unconscious; mandalas, native american and hindu dieties, angels, monsters. Breath deep. A hundred thousand pounds of faith, packed into a nut the size of a mustard seed. God, or a god, or some godness is on your side, and faeries carry you from precipice to precipice. On to the next adventure… laughing all the way,Señor iLL |

24/04/2001