This piece was for Anne Fitzsimmon's WRT 305 class. I think that I wrote it in response to literary theories that remove an author from the text. I was influenced by: Anne's views on comfortable writing, Mark Leyner's convoluted prose, and Tobias Wolff's brilliant memoir skills. I love writing, but, at times, these piece made me want to beat my head against my word processor. This piece, like the rest of our reality, is fiction--anything else would be untrue .. .
Barbara Hunter bobbed her sexy purple hair in my direction . . . filling my body with a blistering erotic charge. She turned towards me, sluiced her Evian back out of her mouth--into my eyes and howled, "How does it feel?" A mob of violent hard-core fans started screaming and going out of their way to kick me in the head or cause me harm. The humanity of it all left me ecstatic--dreadfully, dreadfully ecstatic.
The encores kept blistering through the run-down old warehouse that masquerades as a bar. The guitarists dueled in a feedback frenzy until they ran out of talent, energy, and sweat. At that point it was fine if they stopped because the audience had gone deaf hours ago. I watched them leave the stage and slowly stopped dancing. I surveyed my status: wallet = $10, B.A.C. = .18+, and damage = an itty-bitty bruise and a few meaningless scratches. I had infiltrated the counter-culture of the Lost Horizon without being maimed or flagellated. I decided it was time to stop avoiding reality and see if I would regain sobriety or get home . . . .
I "discovered" this concert while on Marshall Street. It's the college microcosm's version of food, folks, and fun - pizza, Greeks, and alcohol. It was late Wednesday night (early Thursday morning) and if I could have seen straight enough to read a watch, I would have known it was about 2:15 am. I was trying to enjoy the stagger home from "half-price pitcher night" at Chuck's, "spare change night" at Maggie's, and "Geoffrey drank too much here night" at The Olive and The Orange.
In this state it made no sense for me to start reading flyers posted along M-street. My mission, if I chose to accept it, was to repress regurgitation until I got home - not hang out until the hill's version of a traveling minstrel, Elijah "Eli" Harris, could find me and get the last scraps of my financial stability thrown into his guitar case. I read the flyers anyway - Divine Providence.
"PIGFACE - Monday January 25 - PIGFACE - Lost Horizon"
Pigface is one of my absolute favorite bands. They have put out five albums, with a constantly changing army of talented musicians - the new album ("Fook") has fifteen band members! Their inimitable style is a combination of mechanical crunch and raw vitality. I was thrilled that Pigface was going to play Syracuse.
I "borrowed" the poster and made it home. I expect that I dreamed about Pigface, because I've wanted to see them to four years. They are one of the best bands for pure volume, distortion, feedback, and aural violence. I would have to play hooky from a good number of things to catch this gig, but I'm willing to do almost anything for a loud industrial show . . . including sacrifice vestal virgins . . . or my Mom. I looked forward to the 25th . . . anxiously.
I started getting ready for the show about two and a half hours early. I envisioned myself as a mortal about to meet the unquestionable Gods of the industrial music scene. I went for the T-shirt (nine inch nails) / jeans / flannel look, but then topped it off with a Sherlock Holmes-esque overcoat. It's always been strange for me to make my entrance; I tell people that I'm a young Dan Akroyd on a diet or an extra from "Invasion of the Tall, Brown-haired, Conservative People." Most male hard-core fans appropriate some of the biker look when they go out, but I haven't "dressed up" for a show in years. I was one of the few twenty-one year olds at the Lost Horizon, legally, and I was one of the few who looked remotely human. I won a free poster for "most likely to be an undercover narcotics officer," and I felt a bit out of place. I must have been disoriented, I'm used to blonde hair (Syracuse University has lots of it) but chartreuse and fuchsia are relatively rare.
Worse than my confusion, Pigface is also a band with an intensely devoted cult. People sardined into cars and traveled for hours and hours to see these idols. I just dialed 4SU-TAXI and waited for my chauffeur. I had gone the "easy way" and it was another cardinal sin, but just luck - I would've traveled many-a-mile if they'd chosen a different venue.
I was ruminating and decided that my uniqueness was because I was a college student, but then I was encountered by a similar band of roving Syracuse students. They were nearby, and I still had a chance to mumble suggestively to a random alternative beauty (Trust me - there are always R.A.B.'s at alternative shows). We went to the pit and all started dancing to the techno-tinged tunes blasting out of the speakers that were cleverly tucked into any cranny that could harm eardrums. I'll grade DJ Wilhelm, the opening act, with a 74 out of 100, it had a good beat, and you could dance to it. We kept gyrating, and once again I noticed that I, even with the over-twenty and needing to look respectable crowd, wasn't weird enough. At least they laughed when I said that I had a cool haircut for a few weeks, but then I had to get a job.
I wandered back to the R.A.B. for the evening, Teresa a.k.a. "Trickle." She was your normal radiant, wasp-waisted, blue-haired goddess. We discussed oral sex platonically and then grabbed each others hands and spun until we were dizzy. She thought I looked like an extra from "Dick Tracy." She hung out and giggled for awhile, but eventually she said that she had to leave on a spacecraft. I wasn't that sober, but I think we traded conspiracy stories and concluded that I was unloved as a child. To her, this explained my conspicuous lack of punkness. Then again, she left nonetheless.
I have earned respect in the university alternative crowd because I've been around long enough for them to have forgiven my outward conservatism. They know that industrial music has always been one of the grooves that I'm most comfortable with. I've spent five years listening to Pigface songs like "Hips, Tits, Lips, Power" and "We're going to fuck you over" and, their classic, "Suck!" When I hear lyrics oozing with angst, self-sacrifice and satanic imagery, I can't keep my foot from tapping. I would rather see any alternative band than bow to the false idols of top forty.
I'm more involved with the raw power of young and angry music. I sway to the long dyed hair of the alternative rhythms. I love the women with nose rings and blue hair. I befriend the men with the big, burly tattoos, but I don't look like them. I considered all of the years that I could have changed my hair color and figured that I had missed that punk merit badge and was old enough to stop trying to earn it. I don't go to these events to be seen. I go to enjoy the music, dance like a dervish, and throttle gin and tonics - the one thing these kids can't do. I thought of all the shows that I've seen and realized that I was seeing The Dead Milkmen when some of these kids were in elementary school.
These youngsters were using temporary hair dyes, and had to argue with their parents to go out on a school night. I'm in a different situation. My parents love to hear something about my life and love to relate to my music. I know it's an oddity, but my mother likes Nirvana and tolerates nine inch nails. I'm not your typical industrial music fan, because a traditional mosher is a rebel. I go to the concerts because it's a hobby and an addiction. I can't condemn the slam-dancing youth of today because I understand and respect all of their trappings, but I just can't embrace them. I'm not a wild and crazy non-conformist. I'm a college student with a strong academic record. I'm probably going to law school . . . and I'd look very silly going into a judge's chamber with a mohawk. Then again, is anything wrong with looking silly?