*This post is dedicated to Rudy, Joe P., Harbinger, K Pete, and N. Shneider*
Writer's Note- The following is a work of journalistic fiction. 70/30 fact/fiction ratio. Believe what you want to believe. It is whatever you want to believe. This is from the National Affairs Desk.
I'm sitting down here in an ice storm aftermath wondering how hundreds of thousands of hard working households along with a few squatters (Hi there!) tossed in could be out of power after what was basically a glorified "wintery mix". I posed the idea that DTE should prorate everybody's already bloated electric bill to compensate for the outages. It received a few "likes" from people who aren't afraid to like my non-satirical posts. Hours later I received notification that somebody has tried to access my e-mail along with my Twitter, which hasn't been used in probably a year. I just laughed and muttered, "I want to see how much worse it can get," and went to my therapist's appointment. I've already gone off topic, even though the topic has not been established. The topic is just a clue, maybe a warning, maybe something else.
Before I get to the crux of this post, which is meant to be entertainment, an escape, I want to give an update on the New Dodge situation. They have officially posted that they are not pay to play which is cool, and I actually may believe it because they had karaoke on Paczki Day and a Wednesday house DJ. I did contact them for a comment (and to book JCM for a show there), and I also have an idea that they could, and should, bring me on as a "special consultant/counsel" for about $100 a week which is half of what the previous booker was making. I have not heard back yet. I really wanted to hit Hamtramck to cover Paczki Day, something I have never done, but I ended up sleeping in. I did see some pictures from New Dodge, that one bakery, and Smalls. The bakery seemed packed which is cool. New Dodge was a little ehhhhh "we might need a special consultant/counsel". And Smalls seemed okay but not as packed as previous years. I did catch some of The Strains set which mostly seemed to be covers (not a bad business model) along with local legend Hiawatha Boring and Woodman (of course). It was fine. Harmless. That's my local update. The following is an account of a show I actually attended in November of last year. It is meant for entertainment purposes, an escape, and I kept saying "I'll get it done, I'll get it done, I'll get it done," and as my ex wife will attest, I always keep my promises.
Free Speech in Hell- W.A.S.P show review at Harpo's Detroit
"I have an extra ticket for you if you want... 40 years man. It could make a good post. I know you're not that big of a fan, but it'll be a real corker of a show."
I am on the phone with my bootlegging Wizard, and Wise Man, Kentucky Pete who is trying to sell me on going to the 40th Anniversary Show of W.A.S.P at Harpo's (ugh) on Friday, which coincided with Veteran's Day. I had the day off, yet was still cautious. It seems lately, whenever I hang out with friends things seem to get a little out of control.
"I'm not sure, man," I tell him, "Lately, whenever I hang out with friends things seem to get out of control.
"It could make for a good post for your blog," he continues, unfazed, and my phone starts buzzing so I have to click off for a minute to take the call. It is JCM tambourine player Elizabeth First...
"Are you fucking serious? You are going to do a blog post and not have me included in it? This is completely unacceptable," she shouts and I wonder how she found out about this post.
"Well, I thought you would have no interest in seeing WASP at Harpo's," my only reply.
"I am sitting in the morning at the diner on the corner and I am waiting at the counter for the man to pour my coffee," she says, "What else am I going to do?"
"I can relate (what? I don't drink coffee)," is all I can say. She ignores my effort to empathize.
"And he fills it, but only halfway, and before I can even argue, he is looking out the window at somebody coming in. So, while trying to get a hold of you despite your obvious efforts of screening me, I open up the paper and there's this story of that actor who died while he was drinking and it made me think of you, but the actor was no one I heard of, so I turn to the horoscope and look for the funnies..."
"Wait!" I interrupt, "Nobody says 'the funnies' anymore," I correct her.
"Sorry Mr. Elite, I meant the comics. Blame the edibles. I feel that somebody is watching me ('Did you know that I am a spy?')".
"Raise your head," my only offering.
"There's a woman on the outside and I wonder if she sees me. No, no, she does not really see me because she is seeing her own reflection. This wintery mix will continue through the morning, and I'm listening to these bells of this cathedral, and I am thinking of your voice and of the midnight bonfire, once upon a time, before the rain began."
"Finish up your coffee," I insist.
"So, how are you going to work me into your next post?" she asks, "Hurry up, I have a train to catch."
"I'm not sure. You weren't there."
"Oh so 'She's not there'! Make up something. Make up something. Make up something, I promise you, you won't feel a thing at all" she chants into the phone and then it clicks off, and then I think "I won't feel a thing at all", and I switch back to Kentucky Pete.
"You're missing out," he says.
"Well, if you say so, okay, count me in, but tentatively, because I am going to need an angle. I can't just keep posting about me and the Crew and what trouble we get into, no matter how true and hilarious it might be because it could get tedious and because the local music scene is dead, I need to pick my poison," I say/whine.
"I got it!" he replies, "Censorship. Keep in mind that WASP was blacklisted and attacked by the PMRC back then. The JCM is blacklisted in Detroit. It'll blow their minds. Pow!"
Kentucky Pete was right. In 1985 WASP was labelled as one of the "Filthy Fifteen" (my nickname in high school), a moniker which aimed to censor, ban, and alienate teenage fan bases as part of something called "The Satanic Panic". I guess "Riders of the Afterlife" was taken. The consequences of this censorship and the weaponizing of fundamentalism had a severe impact on heavy metal. And what you think it meant to every outcast whose life was made harder for the expression that liberated them. Gosh, I could never imagine. Hysteria is dangerous (but a great 80's album). No promoters, even those at the New Dodge Lounge, could sell tickets, but a widespread demand from fans said otherwise.
"Okay, count me in. You're damn right JCM has been blacklisted in every part of this town. Plus I like pro bono tickets.. That is the angle. Freedom of expression," I reply, both excited and worried.
"Cool, the ticket is on me but we will need to take your Silver Hornet. I can't risk my car broken into at that dump by some linthead."
"That should be okay. I will hook up the Growler", the high pitch alarm device designed to make them bleed from the ears.
"Also, my buddy is coming. Don't worry, he'll be the muscle."
"Perfect. I'll start to get ready," I reply and click off. It was time to give the people what they want.
In reality, "getting ready" meant taking a half-assed shower and gathering up any military themed clothes/props I had, including a green t-shirt, my uncle's Korean War coat, a walker, and the American flag. I even went to the store and borrowed an eye patch. By this time, K Pete had found and messaged replica VIP passes for me to print and insert in my press pass lanyards. This took over an hour.
Because Kentucky Pete and the "muscle" were late picking me up so that we could switch cars, I decided to do a test run to ensure I could pass off as a veteran, bypass any lines, free drinks, maybe score some lines ho ho ho.
Finally, K Pete and the muscle arrived and we switched cars. I had already loaded the walker which was meant to be a surprise.
"Metro, this is my buddy, Harbinger," K Pete says.
"Harbinger?" I ask, but maybe not, "Is that like German?"
"I dunno," Harbinger replies.
"Okayyyyy, well for the rest of this episode we are going to call you Buddy. Is that cool with you?"
"Cool with me. Whatever works," Buddy replies.
"Metro, what is with the military motif?" K Pete asks as he takes a pull from a high octane cider I didn't notice he had.
"Veteran's Day," I reply, "I figure we are going to tailgate and word is this thing is sold out which means they probably sold too many tickets and I don't plan on waiting in line in 30 degrees, plus wind, with a bad heart."
"He has a bad heart," K Pete says to Buddy who nods, "Brilliant. But what are me and Harbinger going to do?"
"You two are going to be my sponsors. It's fool proof," my explanation.
"We're going to hell."
"Yepp, we'll be there in 15 minutes according to the GPS."
"Hell?" Harbinger/Buddy asks, starting to get concerned.
"It's whatever you want it to be," I turn and say, no longer watching the road, and then ask K Pete how he was able to secure the money to get tickets for the three of us.
"The candle business," his reply.
"What?" my reply.
"I've been selling candles on Etsy. I make them myself. I take all of the fat that I drain from the ground beef, and steak, and pasta, and toss a wick in it after it solidifies. I give them clever names. It's actually very disgusting."
"How do you not get busted?" I ask, genuinely interested because I am always looking for a big break.
"I have over 15 accounts. I just shut them down after I make the sale. All the Fat Candles are shipped from the house on Parkwood so they'll never find me," he explains, and I may be on board with this scam.
We arrive just as the VIP portion is starting. After 10 minutes (and one unfortunate curb jump), along with a few more high octane ciders for K Pete and Harbinger/Buddy I finally find a parking spot only three blocks away. We decide to skip trying to use the bootleg VIP passes that I spent an hour working on at the official meet and greet because we saw where the tour buses were parked.
"We probably should have another round," K Pete offers, so we spend the next 45 minutes having another round as the line grows longer and longer. I had never seen so many people at Harpo's. I receive a message and fear it may be from Elizabeth First ("Where are you?") but it instead from my trustworthy assistant Sebastian Owl, which oddly unnerves me more.
"Keep your eyes open. Zoe V. might be there," the message said, ominous, a warning, checking all the boxes. Zoe is a figure from the past who most likely despises me, but also might possibly be in love with me, and looks okay in a bikini. I make a mental note to keep an eye out for her, for multiple reasons that K Pete and Buddy did not need to know about and decided it was time to lurk around the tour buses.
After pissing for the seventh time, K Pete heads out to take point. It was then that I brought out the walker, our Ace Card.
"Brilliant," K Pete says, "That is a thing of beauty. Where did you score that?"
The walker was from when I was in detox a few years ago. My legs had atrophied (?) and I couldn't walk. Insurance paid for it. Karma is creeping in.
"I got it at a garage sale," I lie and we head to the buses, and this is when K Pete inexplicably stops in the middle of the road and starts waving the fake VIP passes around. The staff immediately responds.
"Sir, you are going to have to leave," the stooge says.
"I'm VIP. Got the pass right here," K Pete says as I grab Buddy/Harbinger and move us into the shadows.
"You are in the street," the staffer says.
"I'm in the middle of the road?" K Pete asks, but not really a question, and then I have an eerie flashback, and this is the point I decide to jump into action. I flip open the walker and toss on the eye patch and explain to the security that this man is my sponsor (by this time I have adopted a handicap persona).
"Sir, your sponsor is obviously drunk. Please just go."
They let us leave without calling the cops, who actually were just around the corner, but wouldn't have responded anyway.
"These VIP passes are useless. We took too long, man," K Pete says, obviously transitioning from the manic stage of drunkenness to the introspective one. And of course what happens after that is the chaos. I try to avert this as long as possible.
"Let's sell them. I have around twenty. Did you see the line back there?"
"Brilliant," his lone reply, as he takes a swig from the can I did not see in the middle of the road, and we head back to the front of the building where the line has not moved, but there is money to be made. K Pete gives Buddy a handful of the fake VIP passes and Harbinger begins to sell them, but at a discount, to these waterheads in line who immediately leave to go to the back where the tour buses are and I start cackling because the line is finally moving. Harbinger returns.
"I think we should split. Those people are going to be pissed," he says.
"We'll be fine. The line is finally moving," I reply.
"I've been down a river of sadness before," Harbinger says, ominous, and K Pete interrupts the dread with more dread.
"Why didn't you invite your tambourine player, Debbie Schaffer? She likes free speech," he asks and I shudder as my phone vibrates at that very moment. It is Amy from back in L.A.
"You fucking suck," was the simple text and I don't reply because it might be true.
"Her name is E First, not Debbie Schaffer, and no one told her about it."
"Then how did she know?"
"Why should I care?"
"I don't think the three of us have ever hung out at the same time," he claims and I am momentarily confused because he might be right.
"Enough," I snap, hiss, "Grab Harbinger. The line is moving. We need to get in there before those people start coming back. When you work hard to do something right you don't want people to forget it."
I put on the eyepatch and we jump the line using a combination of the disabled veteran with a walker, two sponsors, and a fake phone call just to be safe. Harbinger is not used to the "hustle" and he is sweating profusely.
"We made $50 on those fake passes," Buddy/Harbinger says as we get past security, an actual small victory. His confidence has returned and I start to get optimistic which actually worries me even more.
"Perfect. Then drinks!" I exclaim, command, frothing, but then turn around to see that Kentucky Pete has changed into his "Uncle Jasper" costume which he must have had the entire time.
The Uncle Jasper costume
The Uncle Jasper costume is an alternate persona that Kentucky Pete sometimes uses just to throw people off, make some potential psychopath with a sidearm think that "Hey, there might be somebody here that's even more crazy than me," but I really think he just uses it because he has no plans to wait in a line for the bathroom.
Because of my walker we are allowed to jump the ridiculous line at the bar. This is when things get bad. WASP is still 30 minutes from starting...
"Pal, you switched your eyepatch," K Pete says, "It's on your other eye. A minute ago it was on your right eye; now it's the left. They are going to catch on. Wait, you forgot to wear it when we were in line. We are completely doomed."
"Jesus Christ, I can't see shit. What do you want from me?" I shout.
"Hey man, you a vet?" a stranger asks.
"Yes," I reply, hesitant at first, but then an absolute demon.
"I really respect what you've done," the stranger says.
"What? The Detroit Music Award?" I ask completely drunk and confused. The stranger understands.
"Hey this one's on me," he says, and Harbinger leaves the line, possibly weeping.
"Actually, I was in Nam and Korea. Can you make it two?" I ask.
"Why not," the stranger replies and K Pete leans into me and mumbles, "Absolutely shameless."
After we secure our spots (very decent thanks to the walker), I head back to the bar and pull the same veteran ploy and get us even more cool drink, too much, and K Pete devours it all.
"Hey you lost your eyepatch," Harbinger notices. I had indeed lost my eyepatch but I just giggle, and things are about to go off the rails.
"Maybe we should have just gone to a strip club instead," I say to K Pete and Buddy, actually believing myself, but K Pete has the Rage, the Crazy Eyes. He has consumed all of the drink I had grifted earlier and now in addition to the eyepatch, I have lost the fucking walker.
"You lost your eyepatch," K Pete says, ominously as WASP starts to play, "I need more drink."
"Great observation. We're not going to last five songs," I plead.
"Hey Buddy!" somebody shouts and Buddy jumps, sweating.
"How do they know me here?" he asks.
"Hey buddy," somebody asks, a different person. Harbinger/Buddy is in a dark place with the Fear.
"I'm just wishing my whole life away," he mutters.
"Easy living," K Pete adds, not really helping.
Buddy walks away, sulking, and somebody else yells, "Hey buddy!", and he doesn't stop and just shakes his head.
Jump, flash cut, and K Pete is also gone, vanished, which is more of a concern because all of the remaining drink I had borrowed are also gone. I then get a text from E First. Of course, because I keep all my promises.
"I've been down the river of sadness," is all it says.
"Well, I've gone down the river of pain," I reply, now getting frustrated.
"That was my nickname in college," she says, laughing, and then abruptly clicks off. I sit listening to the dead line and that is when I see the chaos, the altercation, the beginning of the end for this night.
Kentucky Pete is being escorted, no dragged, to the lobby. He is vastly incoherent and Harbinger/Buddy, the supposed "muscle" has disappeared again. The security staff sit K Pete in a chair in the lobby to try to calm him down and I wonder why they didn't just kick him out. It's not like we were paying for drinks anyway.
"Shouldn't you just remove him," I suggest because I just want to get home at this point and this is when WASP begins their fifth song, an omen. This is the part where K Pete snaps and jumps up and starts throwing chairs. I am looking around for any type of help and see Harbinger running to the scene carrying the walker I guess I left somewhere.
"We Are Leaving!" I shout, but they have already tossed K Pete outside. The bartender notices the walker and shouts, "This guy has been getting free drinks all night. He can walk. He don't need no walker!" Yes, we are definitely leaving.
Harbinger and I rush out the front, me cackling, him possibly sobbing, and we carry K Pete, who was lying on the sidewalk, back to the Silver Hornet.
"So, what was your take on the show?" I ask, a stab at a real conversation.
"It was frustrating. I kept hearing 'Hey Buddy' and I thought is was you guys but it wasn't. Why did you pick Buddy for my name?"
"I can't answer that," I reply because I actually forgot why we picked that name. Jump cut and we are on the road.
"I lost my phone," K Pete says, finally waking up.
"Oh Jesus Christ," I shout, frantic, "If somebody finds that, with all the messages, we are completely doomed. That's it. Fuck it. I'm not going back. I deserve this," I am shouting.
We get back to the JCMsTown Compound and I deposit a semi-lifeless K Pete into his car while Harbinger fiddles with his phone, and then K Pete springs to life...
"Wait, it could be in your car, might have fallen out," he slurs as he attempts to enter the Silver Hornet. Of course this sets off the Growler, which is the audio/sensory device I have installed to prevent Midnight Intruders from breaking into the car. The high end side effects from this custom device are bleeding from the ears and mild seizures. We all grab our ears, in absolute pain as every light on the street turns on and everyone else is clutching their heads and then I start to see squirrels falling from the trees and birds are flying away but not in time, and Sebastian Owl, the loyal assistant, is shouting out the window, "What is the matter with you?"
We finally turn off the Growler and Harbinger drives K Pete back to Harpo's where he gets his phone (Buddy had tracked and located it before the Growler incident killed the entire neighborhood). It turned out that the phone was actually left on stage (How? No clue. The VIP passes? The missing walker?), and the phone was recovered by the bass player from WASP, Mike Duda (thank you btw), so in the end K Pete actually got that meet and greet. Funny how things sort themselves. I ended up in bed, looking at my Senior Year High School Yearbook wondering what happened to everybody. And then I found out. But that is for another post.
From the Iceman Commeth,
The Boy Next Door
Dr. Bryan Metro
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