mikenips

[mikenips]

Anemone

The first time I ever really checked out the Brian Jonestown Massacre goes back to the first time I played Outer Limits in 2019.  I had only known Brendan for a few months at that point.  But he offered to put a tape out for us on his label Remove Records.  We were playin’ with the Pontiac Stags.  With all five members.  And they did a cover of “Anemone.”  I was on acid that night.  We played a horrible set.  But that cover really reverberated through me.  So in a roundabout way, Brendan’s the one that got me into this mess in the first place.

Fast forward another month.  It’s my twenty-first birthday.  I’m on molly in my kitchen makin’ pizza rolls.  I got a band playin’ upstairs.  And the house is full of a buncha faces that would soon become recognizable to me in the drunken blur of shows to come.  “I pulled up behind a car with a Brian Jonestown Massacre bumper sticker and knew I must be in the right place.”  This guy says to me as he fills a bottle of water.  Hit a joint.  I’ve never met him before.  But he’s supposed to do an acoustic set in my back room under the name Kid Infinity.  After his set he asked if it would be ok if he set his projector up for the other bands to use durin’ their sets.

Fast forward a few years.  Just a few months ago.  Second annual Freaksgivin’ is just gettin’ started at Bowlero.  208 is playin’ near the end of the night.  And I’m coked out.  Makeup runnin’ down my face from sweat.  And frustration at my inability to figure out how to get a fuckin’ DVD player to work.  Forgetting the crucial first step.  Turn it off then back on.  So I pull up Dig! on the laptop and play that through the bowling alley instead of Gimme Gimme Octopus.  “You know they just showed a full cock on the screen right?”  Gabe asks me as he DJs and I speed off to do a bump and help get the first band set.  The goal was to find somethin’ family friendly at the beginning of the night.  But the only movie I could think of that was free on YouTube was the BJM doc.

You can see how the Brian Jonestown Massacre became a bit of a motif in my life.  Appearing as an omen for something beautiful about to begin.  A sign that I’m at the rest place.  And I don’t think anyone idolized Anton the way they did Iggy.  Well…  Maybe Joey.  Everyone has at least one time they remember him putting on Dig! in their presence.  So it made it all very surreal when I checked my phone as my acid was kickin’ in today to a message from Kyle.  “We’re opening for BJM tonight.”

The benefit of workin’ for ultra neo-lib bosses is that they will do whatever the fuck you ask if they think it will help their image.  So I had already gotten some free tickets to BJM.  “Whatch you’re sayin’ is 208 is just the little cherry on top of your trip tonight?”  Will raises his eyebrows at me as we stand outside smokin’ cigs after their set.  Yes.  That’s the best way to put it bud.  208 is the rotten cherry bomb.  Caked in fuzz and drenched in blood and spit.  With a short fuse to send your fractured teeth rattlin’ in your fuckin’ skull as you bite down on the crunch of guitar and drums.

“That’s a huge jump.”  Josh, the bartender I know at the Majestic, says to me as he turns down a shot.  Gotta keep it professional behind the bar when you’re workin’ the Theater apparently.  “I thought it was a typo when I got in and saw the set times.  They’re an above the lanes band.  Not an opener for a show like this.”

It is a huge jump.  I look out my bedroom window to the front lawn I plan on doin’ house shows on this summer.  Again.  Another mess of sludge and dirt that I got rooted into once I met Brendan.  As I smoke a cig.  Thinkin’ this is some crazy delusion caused by the D in LSD.  I can see the spot Kyle first gave me a 208 tape durin’ a show at my house a couple years ago when him and Shelby moved here.  They didn’t say much to me then.  Shit.  We still don’t even say much to each other now.  It’s always hard to have a conversation over the feedback.  The drugs.  And the general lack of social skills we all have that probably brought us together in the first place.  They just thought I might like their band.  They heard about me through some clout chaser whose name won’t even tarnish this fuckin’ beautiful moment.

Now if you were one of the boomer acid casualties in the audience for BJM and saw Kyle doubled over.  Spittin’.  Screamin’.  And bleedin’.  With the mic held between his teeth.  Shelby behind a pair of sunglasses.  Still behind the kit.  But beatin’ the shit outta the toms.  Every bit of chaos distinguishable through a PA of this quality.  If that was your first impression of 208.  You might think the two are unapproachable and terrifyingly cool.  And that last part is still true.  But they are the two most genuine people you could meet.  Quiet.  Tame.  They aren’t there for the party.  They aren’t there to get in with Hala or the false prophet of garage Jack White.  They aren’t even lookin’ for a good anecdote to tell their grandkids when they catch ‘em smokin’ grass.  They are there for the same reason any of us have been there.  Cause that shit makes our tinnitus sound siiiiccckk!!!  Clippin’ just right.  They’re just tryin’ to vibe like the rest of us.  They both are there because they simply enjoy the music.  It just so happens we’ve all become friends along the way.

“Do you ever think of looking into doing something else in the music business?”  My mom asks me that afternoon.  I’m not on acid yet.  208 doesn’t even know they’re openin’ for BJM at this point.  I was just tellin’ my mom about this movie I watched last night.  24 Hour Party People.  The story behind Factory Records and Tony Wilson.  I started tryin’ to summarize it.  But just watch the movie.  It’s good.  All you need to know is Factory Records never really existed.  It was just some words Tony Wilson put on a sleeve so Joy Division could have full creative control of their music.  None of this is about makin’ money.  Or bein’ immortalized in underground, subculture Reddit threads.  It’s about feelin’ the sound guy turn the subs up after Anton bitches at him that there doesn’t need to be that much low end.  Even if it does sound sick.

Even if it does trigger Sean as a sound tech.  That chaos.  That noise.  That feedback, delay, fuzz, reverb.  Six twelve string guitars.  The pretension and desire to be seen and heard.  That audible mess is what makes the constant noise in our brain feel it belongs.

My mom has only smoked weed once in her life.  She took one hit and didn’t like it cause it hurt her throat.  But she loves watchin’ and readin’ about Warhol and the Factory.  About the Beats.  These little cliques of artists that have sprung up time and time again.  I tell her stories of house parties or what happens when an after hours gets raided.  I tell her Dee is workin’ on an interview with Half Japanese for our blog that nobody ever remembers to promote their writing on.  And it’s always “you guys need your own little thing like the beatniks…”  And she doesn’t get it.  We don’t need to be immortalized.  We live our own urban legends in real time.  The shenanigans of doin’ whip-its and makin’ pancakes at three in the morning means just as much as if nobody else ever knew about it.  It wasn’t just Kerouac and Ginsberg ya know?  And it wasn’t just Warhol?  There were vast networks of artists feeding into each other.  Through space and time and the whole damn continuum.  It’s all the same sound wave.  Just ran through a few different pedals.  It’s all the same energy.  Kerouac is Warhol is BJM is 208.

It’s not just one party.  It’s not just one gig.  It’s constant.  The old heads are talkin’ with the up and comin’ scenesters.  Everyone’s there.  All the faces radiate in familiarity in the red lights of the Theater.  Spot a Stool.  A Toehead.  I’ve missed things like this.  A guy collapses face first from a combination of body heat.  Probably a psychedelic of some sort.  And the raw sounds of 208.  These sounds.  These sights.  These vibes.  This community of people that aren’t afraid to admit they have no idea what the fuck is happenin’ anymore.  I’ve missed it.  Goddamn!  I picked the wrong month to finally get off blow.  Although…  A lawyer once told me if you drive on psychs just deny.  They can’t test ya for it.  Addiction is nothin’ more than a habit we form to cope with the burden of bein’ human.  But sometimes the habit we turn into an addiction can be a healthy coping mechanism.  Like sacrificing your hearing in the name of tone.  Or beatin’ the shit outta each other and lobbin’ beer cans at someone’s skull.  These addictions form bonds.  These bonds form community.  And I’ve been too busy turnin’ other habits into addictions.  Somethin’ as visceral as 208 can’t help but make you think.  All that bottled up, raw emotion from the humble duo released into raw sound.  You can’t even call this shit noise rock anymore.  It’s just sound.

Em steps back inside after Kyle spends at least four minutes tearin’ strings from his guitar.  Every bit of noise distinguishable.  Speakers clippin’ just right.  White noise for the deranged.  Head welted from him bangin’ the wood against his skull.  They said last time we played Outer Limits they know good psych when it feels like they’re gonna have a panic attack.  And I know some of the punk purists don’t wanna say noise is psych cause they don’t like hippies or Deadheads.  The guy that talks the most shit about the Dead just had to play an hour set.  And mostly jammed feedback.  At least Jerry played fuckin’ notes man.

Regardless.  Sean says good psych gives the panic attacks a feelin’ of purpose.  Now there’s somethin’ at least to attribute to the general anxiety.  “What was the name of that band?”  An older woman behind us asks.

“208.”

“Ok.  I need to know so I know never to see them again.”

“I’ll tell Kyle and Shelby you said that.”  Don’t worry ma’am.  They’ll take it as a compliment.

I went to see Melvins and Ministry a few days ago with Sarah.  And she described the experience as spiritual.  Well…  That doesn’t nearly compare to the spiritual experience I have everytime I see 208.  Spiritual in the way Kyle supposedly sold his soul to the devil.  It feels like my soul just nutted.  Or maybe that was me puking.  I don’t know.  I drank that PBR too fast.  And I don’t know how Joey got from the stage to the crowd to start a pit so fast.  All I know.  I fuckin’ needed 208 in my life.  It never gets borin’ tryin’ to come up with new and exciting ways to describe the noise.  The midwest, construction bumble of Shelby’s drums.  And the staggering mess of Kyle emerging from a swamp of sound in his Remove Records t-shirt as he throws his guitar in the air and the mic crunches against the floor as it falls from his teeth.  Glob of drool hangin’ from his lip.  I imagine that was how he was walkin’ on the shitty scaffolding when he got vertigo readin’ the text “do you wanna open for BJM tonight?”

I could sit here and describe how mesmerizing Kyle moves on stage.  I could tell you how my head spirals following Shelby’s sticks.  Describe how mind blowing it was to hear them fill a room that size with so much dissonance.  I could tell you how sore my neck is.  Or make jokes about all the BJM fans that couldn’t understand seein’ genius before their very eyes.  But you really just have to be there.  Be here now in the moment to truly understand the ritual of 208.  I let the euphoria of that surreal, beautiful experience exist on its own.  I didn’t buy any blow.  And it’s a lot harder to write comin’ down from acid without it than I thought.  I’m addicted to these people and the way they kill the dreadfully mundane.  I enjoy the moment with the community I feel at home in.  The place where the mess of noise in my head feels it belongs.  BJM has always been a sign I’m in the right place.  If you wanna see the set you’ll have to see Kid Infinity’s footage eventually.  He was on stage filmin’ the whole thing.  All I’ll tell you.  It was fuckin’ sick.  Watchin’ them figure out how to fill an hour set.  I don’t think they’ve ever played longer than twenty minutes.  And the two of them deserve every fuckin’ second of that hour.  Even Shelby cracks a triumphant smile on stage.  The two radiate on stage.  Open in full vulnerable expression like an anemone.  Reminding us all just to relax and enjoy the beautifully surreal chaos this life spirals us through.

#bjm #brian jonestown massacre #208 #detroit garage rock #rocknroll

[mikenips]

Love Sounds

Love sounds like plaster Being obliterated by a fist It sounds like wooden frames Being smashed against walls Glass shattering on kitchen tiles It sounds like beer cans cracking Snorting blow through congestion Desperately believing hallucinations Love is afraid to remember how Xanax feels When everything I own still has your essence Love sounds like “My name is _______ And I’m an addict” It sounds like crying during Masturbation Breakup songs And rom-coms At 3:47AM It sounds like the silence Of texts no longer sent Leftward swipes Cause nobody else paralyzes me Love sounds like a rant to a Stranger on Tumblr About how much I want you back Love drips like lighter fluid On my eczema It hits potholes at Ninety miles an hour Love sounds like my finger tips Pounding the keyboard Or distorted screams From shitty speakers Hoping you think This song Is cool Love is finally learning What regret Feels like Love sounds like an apology For refusing to feel Love is asking “Will you still Love me Tomorrow?”

#poetry #brief moments of clarity #vague glimpses of beauty #will you still love me tomorrow

[mikenips]

Do Sitting Ducks Take Acid

Woke up today with the same fear I wake up to everyday.  The mail on the table isn’t addressed to me.  But I’ve been known to break the law here and there.  So I read the open letter anyways.  The federal government with the news of the oncoming impending doom.  Twelve hundred in the bank account.  Sincerely.  President Donald J. Trump.  It feels surreal.  A sittin’ duck listenin’ the broken record skip for the past four years.  The loop echoes in the news and Facebook comments.  But just now recognizin’ that every revolution brings you back to where you started.  Recognize you’re stuck in the loop and there’s no way to spin on.  Move past it.  Pick up the needle at his signature copied to millions of people.  It’s real.  There’s nothin’ left to do now but face it.  And hope you can jump the acid loop.  Skip past election day.  And it’s all over.

All things must pass.  Everyone out here strokin’ the Beatles off.  But don’t wanna face the reality of George Harrison’s oncoming impending doom.  All things must pass.  The lines of ecstasy drip into the nosebleed.  Eventually come down.  Left sweaty and shirtless in your room.  Alone.  Watchin’ Big Bird sing at Jim Henson’s funeral.  Made it through years of revolution.  Revolution is comin’ to a doorstep near you come this November.  Look outside.  Wish the sun good morning.

Grow up.  Jim Henson’s dead man!  Step on the porch.  Nose clogged with baby lax and amphetamines as the hundred from unemployment unravel into ones.  Light a cig with coffee as the sunrises.  Maybe it’s the ketamine or acid or the fuckin’ coffee.  But step outside and realize you don’t remember how to get to Sesame Street.  And the neighbors you’ve lived next to for three years but don’t know their names don’t wanna see this shit outside their doors every morning.  Shit man.  There’s kids that live here.  They don’t wanna see you gaspin’ for air.  Hidin’ from the sunlight.

“I’m fine grandma.  Just sat down to play Scooby-Doo with the homies.”  Heathcliff the Big Cheese spits the oncoming impending doom into the phone.  Another story for her to tell her friends.  The needle keeps spinnin’ on the edge of the wax.  He tells you if you don’t beat the game the whole world is gonna implode.  Shit.  Between the Pentagon confirmin’ the dude from Blink-182 isn’t just a cook from our childhood but was onto aliens long before the CIA.  California is lookin’ like Blade Runner 2049.  Or some other movie set Hollywood uses to make underdeveloped countries look overly polluted.  A facist is paying our rent while plannin’ a coup.  And the hundreds of thousands dead are just sacrifices to keep Wall Street above the risin’ sea levels in the midst of a pandemic.  2020 is really turnin’ into some type of apocalypse film.  Arthur Lee always said the news of today will be the movies of tomorrow.  But I’m not so sure I wanna stick around to see the ending.  Not sure if I want this chapter included in my semi-autobiographical choose your own great American adventure novel.  I want the thrill of meetin’ new people and them sayin’ they’ve heard a lot about me.  Just don’t know if this is a part I want them to hear.

Drag on the cig while takin’ in the drag of reality outside the living room.  The grass seems more vivid.  More harsh.  But the neighbors don’t see the cosmos exhaled.  They don’t see the constellations of ash and clouds smoked through your nostrils to avoid a dry socket and another couple hundred dollar dental bill.  They don’t see the cliche survival story of hours spent researchin’ sellin’ plasma to pay the bill.  They don’t see that me and my friends are out here birthin’ our own cosmos.  We know the world can be as simple as Fraggle Rock.  And now without Jim Henson it feels like someone is pullin’ the puppet strings in a different direction.

We are the lonely and desperate people John Sinclair told you about.  We collage together sound bites and Harmony Korine B-rolls.  News broadcasts and Instagram photos.  Makin’ our own vibe boards.  Boredom is the vibe.  Cause no matter how far you move the needle.  You keep revolve in the same loop.  The constant struggle to make the moment bearable.  The Guilty Undertaker tries to drone it out behind chord organs and omnichord beats.  File it under the audiobooks on Bandcamp.  Like some self-help book that didn’t include an instruction manual.  It reads like noise.  But in relative pitch plays back like a symphony on the reel to reel.  But it just revolves back to where you started.  Nothing.

“Yeah.  I think hating yourself is just part of your twenties.”  PJ Banana tells you this.  While pissin’ into the oncoming impending doom in my front yard.  Takes a bump with a Gumby like omnipresence.  Downs the beer with toddler like chaos but is too old for childhood games like kick the can and nitrous oxide.  Somethin’ about that last third makes ya puke up all the drunken coherence.

We resist.  We take the streets.  We play rock and roll music in sweaty basements till one in the morning.  Record revolves in the living room.  Nobody is listenin’ to any of it.  No matter how much the record skips we just fall into the loop.  We grow into somethin’ we hate.  Throw in the towel after he says he deserves a third term for reckless endangerment.  Then pack it up for the burbs.  A place the news and movies don’t wanna go.  Replace the familiar characters of Oscar the Grouch and Cookie Monster with Phil the dentist who treats himself to another year of golf at the club on your unnecessary root canal financed by your plasma.  The lobotomizing mundane doesn’t hurt as much as the oncoming impending doom.  Call it god or Santa Claus.  But at the end of the day we’re still gettin’ punished.

Unwind in a hammock without the sound of duster cans firin’ in the distance.  Unsure if your actions are an ironic joke at your own expense.  You always said don’t take yourself so seriously.  Shove metal through your flesh.  The good memories never stay.  Only the nasty wounds scar.  You let your life imitate the art you once lived.  Masochistically ink yourself.  Tattoo the good memories that burnt up with the braincells from aluminum foil bowls.  You don’t remember the stories.  But you can still see Skaterino outside the club askin’ where the party’s at.

You can’t see his face or the Carhart beanie that probably stays on durin’ sex.  But you can see his smile.  Nicotine stains in his teeth glisten with childlike optimism at the oncoming impending doom.  Every morning I wake up with the same fear his question left with me that night outside the ol’ OLL.  Every morning I wake up to the shower head I don’t recognize.  But the familiar dirt on the ground.  Every morning I wake up to images of people that did terrible things to their bodies taped to my walls.  Everyday I wonder if I know where the party is at when I wake up.  A room of burnouts and drunks like sittin’ ducks gets you the fix we all crave when they say they’ve heard a lot about you.  We all live in the hopes someone else shares our urban legend to people we may never know.  A room of burnouts and drunks like sittin’ ducks in the rain dancin’ their cares away with the fraggles will always be more aware than Phil the dentist pullin’ a tooth from your skull with pliers in the most unprofessional medical procedure.  How much college do you need to learn how to destroy lives?

Everyday I wake up with the same fear that this is the day the party ends.  The drugs come down.  The fascists burn the Constitution in an Antifa organized wildfire to spread climate change propaganda.  Everyday I wake up with the fear that this is the day the fear ends.  I meet Jim Henson in the dead end alley where Sesame Street and Fraggle Rock converge with the oncoming impending doom.  Everyday I wake up with the fear someone just moves the needle forward and we’re still in a loop but with a different revolution bringin’ us back to where we started.

I see his name signed on a piece of government mail.  It surreally makes this apocalypse film a reality.  The Guilty Undertaker hits a bowl of salvia.  PJ Banana screams his head hurts.  His hands are sweaty.  And his face is hot, man!  His face is hot!  Before lockin’ himself in the bathroom with a fifth of Hornito’s.  But I know outside my door.  And outside my neighbors’ doors.  Revolution is happenin’ all around us.  People are birthin’ their own cosmos in the midst of space and time and whole damn continuum.  We’re all writin’ our own semi-autobiographical choose your own great American adventure novel.  Somewhere outside all our doors the ducks are on acid, dancin’ their cares away in the puddles and rain.  Somewhere Skaterino is askin’ where the party’s at.  Nicotine stains glistenin’ with childlike excitement and naivety.  Somewhere the angels are screamin’ at every single one of us sellin’ our bodies to the plasma bank.  While tryin’ to make the most of the oncoming impending doom and over inflated cost of dental work.

All of this must pass.  And we all wake up with the same fear that this is the day the scene ends.  This is when we forget how to get to Sesame Street and move to the burbs instead.  We wake up with the fear that someone is gonna skip our needle forward to a new loop on a broken record.  But hopefully someone sees the constellations in the clouds we smoke.  And are comforted by the hope someone out there is sayin’ they’ve heard a lot about us before we even meet ‘em.  But everyday we wake up with the fear that the reassurance our urban legends of cosmos we create are recognized won’t be enough to end the revolutions of the dronin’ loop of our oncoming impending dooms.

#psychedelic vomit #vague glimpses of beauty #brief moments of clarity #grown up fucked up #somewhere the angels are screaming

[mikenips]

“Comfort the Disturbed”

“Art should comfort the disturbed and disturb the comfortable” - Cesar A. Cruz

#words of wisdom #brief moments of clarity #a vibe #grown up fucked up #artistic disturbance

[mikenips]

Septic Tanks

Some nights I sit in bed Have dinner at 1AM Watch Buffy Smoke a little grass And think the day Wasn’t so bad After all The exact amount On my nearly maxed Credit card Escapes me And the vampires Reassure me I wasn’t the only one That went to high school In hell I smoke a cig Lookin’ at the lawn I just cut And here my old neigbor Next door justifying The protests on the news Put on a Billy Joel album I haven’t heard In forever And dance naked In the shower The walls sway And my vision swirls Down the drain To the septic tank Where the possum just Moved in As I close my eyes Body movin’ with the walls Droplets fall from my Old beard Freshly showered In compliments By cats younger than me I admire They add to the pool Filled with falling out hair The exhausting mundane victories Puddle at my feet And I know I’ll pull the plug Soon Clean the catch And I’ll drain with them We’ll all drown Together In the septic tank graveyards Filled with vermin We build houses and dreams And lives on But some nights I can keep my head Above the water

#poetry #vague glimpses of beauty #brief moments of clarity #grown up fucked up

[mikenips]

#detroit diy #just guys being dudes #doctor!!! it hurts when i do this

[mikenips]

#blow yer eardrums #a vibe

[mikenips]

You Can Never Go Home Again

“Artur?”  Pop a different tape in the player.  I can’t even watch that tape yet.  And I didn’t even know the guy personally.  Just one of those figures you see walking around town.  The type of character you wanna ask all the questions to.  But also afraid to approach.  Our inspirations will always hurt us more than the people we know.

“Yes.”  The smashed beak of a nose gets you first.  He’s a quirky looking man.  Wears those big, goofy glasses nerds wear in your 1950s nostalgia.  “You say your making movie on Bart?”

“Yeah.”  My camera shakes as I get outta the car.  Nearly dropped the fuckin’ thing.  Quick shot of the puddle it would’ve sunk in.  Brown.  With a faded can of Miller High Life pacing back and forth with the breeze.  You can tell someone shotgunned it.  Wonder if it’s a remnant of Pharm House.  The rusted whip-its in the street aren’t.  See more of them on the streets of Hamtown than ants or rats.  “It’s for a class project at Wayne State.”

“Good school.”  He nods.  Pats the head of the dog in the backseat of his Jeep.  Crack swooping down the front driver’s side windshield.  “Come.  I show you house.”

The house is set far back on the yard.  Red siding giving it that farm look.  Probably was a house for farm animals or something.  Smaller than the rest of the homes on the block.  But also stands taller.  Gets higher than the rest of the block.  No matter how much weed Bart shared with the neighbors as they watched from the safety of the porch.  Staring at the graffiti covered tree.  “Bart was good kid.  Good tenant.  Always remind me to pick up rent.  You know.  I forget those things sometimes.  Spent many nights drinking with him.  He was always out and about.  Caught him buying coke from a bartender one time.  Tell him he shouldn’t do that.  He laughed.  Said he knew.  So I laugh.

“Shame when I tell him I had to evict him.  But he’s real smart.  He knew he was in the wrong.  Admitted it.  Left like he was supposed to.  Can even tell he tried fixing the damages.  I give him security deposit back.  For the effort.  Plus now I have this artifact.  I see kids, just like you, checking it out all the time.  I don’t know how they find it.  But they come to the house.

“See!”  He points to a dip in the lawn.  Patchy grass attempting to cover the dirt there before it.  “I talk to Bart after he leave.  Ask for stories.  Why these kids come to my house?  Just to look!  He give me tour.  Now I do the same for you.

“In Summer.  He throw a big barbeque.  Neighbors sit on their front porch and watch too.  They all spoke highly of him after he left.  It was for the homeless.  And the bands play right out here!  Crazy right?”

The banister of the porch is cracked.  My head plays the video from Shithole’s Facebook page.  Dooley attempting to hurtle the three foot tall plank of wood.  Catching his Croc on it.  Yanks it all down before landing on the rusty screws and splintering bark where the dip in the lawn would be.  Brad running up and stealing his sunglasses.  The pit swirls to the fuzzed out guitar still ripping through the chaos.  Dooley coming to his feet and hurling the bass at Brad.  Ripping the jack from the body.

And the whole time.  Barf stands quietly behind the mess.  That smile cuts through the grainy video from somebody who clearly owns an Android.  No shirt.  Fringe vest.  Jeans torn to shreds.  Camera around his neck.  Sipping on a bottle of champagne.  Standing next to his grandma.  Claps triumphantly over the crowd.  “Kids.  The bands play.  They run around.  Hit each other.  I see it sometimes at the shows here.  So interesting.  Not for me.  But fun to watch.”

“Yeah.”  I laugh a bit.  “We call that a mosh pit.  Let’s out all that aggression people tell you it’s not ok to let out.”

“Mosh pit…”  He stares at the patchy lawn.  “It did make pit alright.  But Bart always cut grass himself.  Sometimes I drive past and see him doing it.  No shirt.  Drinking Stroh’s.  Make me laugh everytime.”

Get on the porch.  As he unlocks the door my camera takes in the front window.  Backstage seats.  See an occasional face in the footage of the show.  Bits of shower curtain still stuck to the red siding from front lawn movie nights.  “It crazy.  Still feels weird coming in.  I always give Bart his privacy.  I don’t want to intrude on him.  But when I see house after.  Maybe I should have.  Damages everywhere.  Look here at steps.”

His arm sweeps in the direction of the stares.  But the camera continues to film the rest of the walls.  A mattress in the middle of the living room.  Chipped paint and random bits of tape still clinging by an inch to the drywall.  Wooden chairs around the feet imprints of a coffee table.  Instantly I can scrap book various images and videos to fill the rest of the now empty home.  Some characters in black and white.  Others pixelated and grainy.  In off hue colors.

Zoom in on the wooden landing below the staircase.  Slivers of empty space dart across the square panel.  Trying to find an escape from the pressure dropping on it.  “Not many know this story.  Very old story from Bart’s twenty first birthday.  He said he didn’t know many people then.  And nobody knows what the future will find worthy of keeping.  So not so many videos of that party.

“Bart says a friend of his.  Record producer that joined the Navy did it.  Bart says he looks around living room.  Everybody pointing and gasping at the stairs.  Bart standing just inches from landing.  Doesn’t see him jump.  Flies from second story to landing on Bart’s skateboard.  And he break the floor.  Looks at Bart laughing and says ‘at least the skateboard is in tact.’

“Back of house or upstairs first?”  Camera fixed on the floor’s POV of the second story.  You can tell he never swept his stairs.

“Well.  The upstairs was the main stage for shows.  Let’s get shots of the rest of the house first.  Capture the essence of the party before goin’ to the main attraction.”

“Sounds good.  I like that.  I went to house party one time.  A friend of Bart’s.  Bart always invite me over here.  But I can’t impose on him.  I don’t know if I would want to know what he was doing.  Ignorance is bliss.”

The hallway splits into three rooms.  Pan camera left.  Once I start editing gotta superimpose the Instagram photos of that sink filled with two empty thirty racks.  One of the few photos from the twenty first birthday party.  The cigarette butt that blew up the gas station.

Spin one eighty to the second bedroom.  Which was really more of a glorified closet.  The yellow page of a legal pad still taped to the doorway.  Bart’s handwriting all over it.  “See.  He catch me.  I never wrote in lease that he can’t smoke inside.  But at least he kept it in the spare bedroom.”

We walk through the door.  Blue carpet singed and stained with spray paint.  “I still remember seeing videos as a teenager.  Can barely make out all those artists and musicians sitting in this room through the smoke.  I can hear Dooley, while looking dead at the camera, ‘nicotine hot box!’  Yelling at someone to keep the window closed.”

Tilt from the carpet to the window.  “Very funny story.  I assume this Dooley did.  Bart said he walks in the room.  Can’t breathe.  Can’t see.  Claustrophobic.  Tries to open window.  And somebody slams it from his hand.  Tears the blinds off.  Everybody laughs.  Now.  Blinds don’t close.  That’s still the sheet Bart hangs up over the blinds to block window.  Always wonder why he didn’t buy new blinds instead.”

The peacock couch is long gone.  A thirty five dollar purchase Bart made while on acid thrifting in high school.  Great clip of Cole Sanders from the Turds sitting on the couch.  Paisley shirt and leather jacket.  Looks like he’s trying to sell molly to teenagers.  Smoking Spirits.  Talking about listening to new wave.  While Echo and the Bunnymen play in the background.  The seam of his pants splitting wide open.

Tucked in the closet are various paintings.  “Do you know where these are from Artur?”

“No.  I find them hanging throughout the house after Bart leave.  Just lost artworks.  Some collage.  Some photography.  Some paintings and drawings.  All different people I assume.”

Flip through them.  Some standard CCS bullshit.  Some pop art homages.  Recognize the outsider doodle.  An original Cole Sanders.  Got a few hanging up in the apartment.  Then I see it.  Propped by itself on the opposite corner of the wall.  A surrealist portrait.  Oil on canvas.  A puke puddle of tie dye morphing to the doorways and walls of a house.  The colors give way to textures of fur and skin.  Even a slight haze of smoke.  The blobs lava lamp in the familiar image of Bart.  Camera zooms in on the interpretation of the image shared on Facebook this morning.

I recognize the style from the walls of Jenkem.  The holy grail in the mythos of Barf’s scene.  The piece Tara painted of him.  Something along the lines of paying him back after a bender that whole group went on.  She offered to paint him a portrait.  But the piece was lost after Pharm House got busted.  You can see it in a handful of videos all the way back on some people’s Instagram highlights.  If you know whose account to stalk.  “Can I take this?”

“Go ahead.  They just sit anyways.  Come see the bathroom.”

The white tile wall is stained orange.  Strands of hair stuck to it.  Stuck to the tub.  Stuck to the floor.  Stuck to the wall behind the door.  How the fuck do you even get hair stuck there?  A nice gradient of the off white tub fades from two circles to pitch black.  Two feet protecting some bit of fake porcelain from the dirt that would pool up.  “You know.  When I get house back.  The drains are all plugged in the bathtub.  So I cut into wall.  Take out pipes.  Pumpkin seeds!  There are pumpkin seeds in the drain.  Causing it to clog.  How do pumpkin seeds get in the bathtub?  I never ask Bart that.”

“There was one show here.  A band performing smashed a pumpkin upstairs.  Must’ve just gotten stuck to his foot or something.  Just trying to wash it all away.  Flush everything down the drain.”

Zoom in down the moldy drain.  Cutting off the rust colored stain on the bathroom floor.  Don’t even need to explain what that’s from.  I don’t know.  It seemed artsy at the time.  Now it just seems so pretentious.  The whole fuckin’ tour of the house seems pretentious.  Who does shit like this?  Maybe that’s Barf’s biggest illusion.  Getting people to create their own illusion of a home.  When nothing at all ever actually happened there.  Just a guy living life.  Never cleaning the bathtub because “the bathtub cleans me.”

“So this is my favorite part.”  Artur’s teeth crack the seal of his lips.  With the smile of a proud father.

Turn the corner at the top of the stairs.  A quick shot out the window at the top.  A toilet when Barf was too spun to figure out how to use stairs to go back down.  The master bedroom takes up the whole second floor.  The main stage.  Most people said they didn’t even know Bart actually slept up there.  Thought the mattresses were just decorative soundproofing.  Maybe the whole house was just a decoration.  “What’s that gash in the wall?”

“Cymbal.  Bart says hi-hat.  From Navy man’s going away party.  He says they cover ‘Blew My Mind.’  I forget the singer.  Chaos ensues.  How the hi-hat got behind the drummer?  Beats me!”

The famous send off show for the king.  Shitholes’s drummer.  Devil’s Night.  Dooley tryin’ to do coke off the amp during the set.  But the room had too many bodies.  Too humid.  Dooley yellin’ “it’s not working!  Fuck!”

“But this my favorite.  Look up!”  Tilt the camera to the angled ceiling.  A purple splatter that runs the length of the wall.  “Bart tell me he stand in back watching band.  Guitar gets stuck in chandelier.  Again.  Beats me how Bart never broke the chandelier.  Somebody as you said ‘moshes’ and falls into Bart.  His forehead hit bottle and it spills everywhere.  Even on ceiling!”

“So why’s that your favorite part?”

Focus back on Artur; with the same proud father smile.  “It’s jezy!  Good Polish boy drinking Leroux.  He always stay true to heritage.  Even that bar he buys.  Classic bar here from his grandparents’s time.  He buy it and revamp it for new kids to come to Hamtown and celebrate history.”

“That’s perfect Artur.”  The camera drops to my side.  But always keep it rolling.  Even when you think you got enough.  You never know what you’ll pick up on.  A random splice of life.  An absurd image that you never thought would mean something to you.  Like a still shot of a clump of hair in the corner next to beer a splattered and blown bass amp.  Probably Dooley.  He was famous for that shit.  “If you don’t mind I’m gonna get a few shots of the house from the outside.  But you can lock up and go if you want.”

“Of course.  Film!  Film!  Capture every moment.  That is why I don’t fix house.  This is history.  Other people need to see what happened here.”

As Art’s car takes off a neighbor’s voice calls from the porch next door.  The POV spins rapidly to the old black man.  “Are you another one of those punks here to do something crazy?  I’ll have you know this is more than some party house.  This is our neighborhood.  Bart never would’ve let stuff like this happen here.”

“No sir.  I’m actually working on a student film about Bart.  What do you mean he wouldn’t let stuff like this happen?”

“Well.  Bart threw parties.  And a lotta times they got outta hand.  But that’s what your twenties should be about.  Having a good time with your friends while you can.  But as the parties got bigger, they turned into free for alls.  Bart was trying to showcase new artists.  And it spiraled into this mess from giving everybody a platform to letting anybody do shit.  And now all these young kids show up and try to recreate those moments without really understanding what was going on.  How old are you kid?”

“Twenty one.”

“Exactly.  You were too young when Bart lived here to see what he was actually doing.  Things got outta hand.  But he always picked up the empty cans.  And he always made sure we felt welcome and comfortable.  He would move cars so we could park in front of our own houses.  He would pass the joint.  Bring us food he made.  He was providing a neighborhood for everybody to join.  Not just throwing parties.”

“So you think he was doing something good for the city?”

“He gave young people a place to celebrate themselves.  He just got carried away with it all.  And I don’t think it was him.  I think it was you kids that just looked at it as all fun and games that ended up with him being hurt.”

#jenkem #novella #vague glimpses of beauty #grown up fucked up

[mikenips]

[mikenips]

[mikenips]

Just Guys Being Dudes @ Belmont House Mud Season 4/26/2019 by Jake Aho

#photo dump #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #a vibe #just guys being dudes #belmont house #mud season

[mikenips]

Sui @ Belmont House Hamtramck Neighborhood Arts Festival 10/12/2019 by Nips

#photo dump #a vibe #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #sui #belmont house #HNAF

[mikenips]

Pleasantries @ Belmont House Hamtramck Neighborhood Arts Festival 10/12/2019 by Nips

#photo dump #a vibe #pleasantries #detroit diy #belmont house #HNAF

[mikenips]

Together Now

Fuck.  People better start showin’ up soon.  Ate the tab too early.  Already did my Johnny Thunders makeup.  Shirt with a missing sleeve Dylan tore off.  And the classic shredded denims around my waist.  Even wore a dog collar this time.  Jake better have been serious about gettin’ people to dress up.  Hope he was able to find one of those oversized greeting cards.  Went to three places and couldn’t find one for Brendan.  Even rearended someone in the process.  Some Vietnam vet that didn’t even bother to take the cig outta his mouth while gettin’ my info.  That’s what I need to calm these nerves.  A cig.  Bought a second pouch in case I start chiefin’ ‘em.  That’s how the acid goes.

Take a shot of etizolam.  Half dose.  Don’t wanna kill the trip.  But definitely need to slow it down.  Would’ve been fine if I had waited another hour.  But wanted to peak during Brendan’s last Toeheads set before dippin’ for the Navy in Rhode Island.

Blink and the living room is startin’ to fill with bodies.  Jake’s orange wool hat clashin’ with his costume.  “Brendan isn’t here yet is he?”

“Nah.”

“Cool.  Pass around this poster board.  Have everyone sign a goodbye card for him.  Couldn’t find a real card.  So we’ll fold it in half.  You got any good photos of him?”

Tear the one off the wall.  Stimmed out in the cig room at the end of Summerfest.  Tape it to the center.  Not a bad turn out so far.  For a show thrown together in a couple days.  Luckily Wednesday is my off day at work.  Devil’s Night.  Fifteen minutes after start time.  Hour after load in was supposed to be.  Jake never did clarify what time music was gonna start.  Just asked to use Belmont for the occasion.

“We’re on first right?”  Chuck says from the front door behind me.

“Yeah.  Go ahead up and you can start settin’ up.”

Jake hides the card in the coves upstairs where 208’s gear is already tucked away.  KQ adjusts Jordan’s kit.  While Owen and Ben plug in amps.  Chuck sets a pumpkin on the ground.  “PHARMA” scrawled over the front in Sharpie.  A large pill bottle with the label torn off next to it.  They dip for the front porch for a preshow cig.  Cig room already hotboxed by Dee and everyone at Ham House.  They do this shit everytime.  Just need to step in for a minute.  And the second hand smoke smothers the urge for the cig you just rolled up.

Dylan is on the front porch with a sheet over his head.  Makin’ everyone guess who the ghost is.  Drew and Tina drinkin’ Buzzballs in the kitchen.  X’s on their foreheads.  “They taste like a flat Four Loko.  Not good.  But named appropriately.”  Pop the empties on the shelf in the kitchen with the memorabilia from after parties and other sets here.  Glad people actually wore their costumes.

Everybody’s here and the benzos are makin’ the night extra surreal.  Like this night is somethin’ from a dream we all avoided sleepin’ through.  The King of the Scene arrives.  Different pair than his normal octagon sunglasses over his eyes.  Stroh’s already cracked as he walks in.  Peter’s upstairs testin’ the projector setup.  His hazy visuals on the ceiling and the Peanuts sheets on my mattress propped against the wall.  Time to uncork the liter and a half wine bottle.

The feedback whistles from Owen’s cranked amp upstairs.  Whistlin’ everyone into the dark bedroom.  The neighbors only complain about the noise when the hardcore bands play.  So tonight might not be their favorite show.  But after this Belmont is closin’ for the season.  Gotta clean the bathtub for my landlord’s property inspection next month.  Can’t believe I’ve been here for two years now.  And averaged a show a month this past year.  Couldn’t pick a better closin’ ceremony the King’s departure.

The crowd stands anxiously against the wall as Pharma plows through their first song.  Chuck pacin’ around the room with mic in hand.  Scoops the pumpkin from the ground as KQ beats the sticks together.  One two three.  And on the fourth the orange splinters on the blue carpet.  Tyriq shoves Joey mid kick as Chuck’s screams clip the speaker.  Everyone’s flesh collides.  Oozes against each other before slidin’ off the sweat.  No amount of AC or open windows able to stop the humidity of body friction.  Bones crack and disintegrate to the marrow of our lives.  Rail the line and jump in.  Bottle in hand.  Joey’s skull makin’ contact with the base.  Spewin’ a geyser onto the wall from the palm of my hand.

The red wine paints streaks on the white drywall that still stands defiantly against our chaos.  Drops run down at a fraction the speed of Owen’s blurred hand makin’ the strings wail.  And in ten minutes, the masochistic treatment of our eardrums unfortunately ends.  Light flicks on.  Showin’ a mess of pumpkin guts.  Seeds.  And capsules of an unknown drug woven into the carpet by our feet.  When did that shit burst?  “Nips, you want me to clean this up at the end of the night?”  Chuck pants.  Red in the face.

“Nah man.  It really ties the bedroom together.”

He smiles as Kyle drags his amp from the cove for their set.  Shelby adjusting the kit.  Walks away as Jake towers into the room.  Emptyin’ a Stroh’s into himself.  “Thanks for askin’ us to play Jake.  Super stoked to get to play a show with Toeheads.”

“Man.  Thanks for comin’ here from Florida.”

“Well thanks for acceptin’ us into this.  We didn’t know anybody here when we moved out here.  But you all made us feel so welcomed into this family.”

Gotta get a cig in before this set.  Once 208 starts you’re gribbed in.  As tight as the stranglehold Kyle has on the neck of his guitar.  The reverb slaps back with the thud of Shelby’s drums.  Bouncin’ you from wall to wall.  Body to body.  Drowns out the thoughts reverberatin’ off the walls of your skull.

He’s gotta have the shoes off every show.  Release the hounds!  Let the brutalization of instruments begin.  The things we do for tone.  He mumbles almost incoherently into the mic behind shags of hair.  “This next one’s ‘Hotel California.’”  Shelby’s tom thumps in the background as Peter’s lights pulse on the walls.  Kyle droppin’ to the floor.  Body twitchin’ with each crunch of distortion he bends outta the amp.  Until it gives out.  Forcing a finale from the duo.

“I forgot the tambourine!”  Drew yells to Joey.

“Fuck.  Should we run down the street to grab it.”

“I got bongos.”  Pass ‘em to Drew while the three Toeheads debate their setlist.  Gonna play the full EP that drops at midnight.  Cassettes from Remove Records comin’ soon.

Grab a beer from the fridge.  Drew standin’ in the kitchen.  Joint tucked between lips.  Greasy hair falls on the shoulders of his bright shirt.  Tappin’ the bongos surrounded by women with X’s on their foreheads.  “That’s gotta be the most cult leader lookin’ thing I’ve seen in my life.”  Joey passes by.  Tosses a beer can in the sink.  And grabs a plate to set upstairs.

The ceiling and wall covered in shots of the trio performing on the front porch.  The same front porch I first spotted Brendan and Jake from at the first show I threw a year ago.  Just two goons sittin’ in a red Dodge.  Drinkin’ Labatt.  Heavy.  And the one hidin’ behind octagon shades tells me about this tape label he started.  Remove Records.  “King of the Scene!”  Drew yells perched on the head on top of Joey’s 8x10.  Jake cuts his goodbye speech off early.  Don’t wanna get too heavy before the heavy music.

The chords crunch under his fingertips.  The brass crashes under Brendan’s sticks.  Joey gettin’ some futuristic fuzz from the bass.  This is the future of garage.  Happenin’ right before my dilated pupils.  The noise ceases as Jake’s mumbled first line grows into a scream.  Then pounds faster.  Harder.  Sloppier.  How can Peter’s camera even handle this noise?  “With a knife!”

Standin’ by the stairs the group begins a cover of “Anna (Go to Him.)”  The crowd dances with each other.  Belts the chorus in unison as the peak takes my brain into this dream.  Everybody gathered in this sweaty bedroom.  Vibin’ together.  What more could you dream of?  One last night for all of us to be together.  Together right here.  Right now.  Hidin’ the makeup streakin’ under my eyes in the cig room from Rae and Kyle from the Waterheads.

The group ends the onslaught of feedback.  Screeches.  Of both instruments and vocal cords.  Reverb.  Thuds and crashes.  Hi-hats through the wall.  And every jarring sound your ears dream of bein’ berated by.  Joey trades the bass for a second guitar.  Yells for a pick.  While Jake begs for some noise to stop him from continuin’ a corny speech.  It is Devil’s Night after all.  Brendan trades his sunglasses for the pair of octagons in his leather jacket while takin’ a bow.

“Burn down Midtown!”  From Drew.

“Has anyone seen my wallet?!”  From Dee.

“It’s not fuckin’ workin’!”  From Joey who can’t rail a line through the humidity.  Gives it up before his ode to DMT and a rambunctious cover of “Blew My Mind” to close the set.

“Don’t we have a bunch more?”  Joey yells across the room.

“Well some of us working class folk have a job to go to in the morning.”  Evan jokes.

“Alright.  We’ll do an encore for Brendan’s last ride.”  Jake plugs back in.  Drew stands in the center of the room.  Pulls back up the bongos in sweaty, red hands.  “This one’s called ‘Demon House.’

“I’ve been livin’ in a demon house!”  None of the notes are distinguishable in the final barrage of sound.  But the bodies crash into each other.  For one last connection to the King that gave everybody somethin’ to show their parents.  I can still hear him behind the bottle of Stroh’s at Painted Lady before we bootlegged the Milk Bath gig at Outer Limits.  “Just somethin’ to say ‘you guys might not be into this.  But somebody out there thinks it means somethin’.’”

As the party filters out, Jordan video calls me on Snapchat to say goodbye to Brendan before he sets sail.  Says the broken hi-hat stand was the least he could offer in return to the King of the Scene.  Joey spills the bottle of wine next to me.  Looks up from rollin’ around on the floor.  “That’s the difference between me and Jay Retard.  I know when not to break shit.”  The words fill the holes the acid burns into my brain as he dips to prep Ham House for the after party.  Leavin’ his shoes behind.  The picture of me and him in his underwear will surface in a few days but doesn’t help fill the gaps in the night.

Sittin’ next to me, Brendan dents a Stroh’s can in his hand.  Hood over his head.  But no octagons to hide the tears in his eyes.  “It’s just…  For the first time…  I feel like I finally got a family.  And now that I have that feeling.  I gotta leave my home behind.  Over a mistake I enlisted in months ago.”  He sniffles and kills the can.  Somethin’ about the way that last drop of beer hits makes you puke it all up.  “And I don’t know how long until I’ll be able to get back to that feeling.”

“But that’s the beauty of it.”  Take a swig from the remains of the wine bottle.  “No matter what happens now.  You got the security of family.  We’re all still gonna be here.  And whenever you get back, the empty space you left will still be here for you.  Ya know now no matter what you always got a family somewhere.  Forever.  Maybe the scene ends.  Maybe Joey moves somewhere like New Mexico or some shit.  Maybe I finally clean the bathtub like my landlord and Jake keep askin’.  But no matter where any of us are or what’s different.  You’ll always be able to show up and have people and a place where you belong.  No matter where we are we’re all together now.”

One by one people nod to sleep at Ham House.  People find their way back to their beds.  And don’t have to dream about a home.  Cause they got a place to be free.  Like Manson sang about.  Brendan hugs me goodbye.  And I find my way to the after hours where my friend Josh asks sincerely if I’m doin’ alright tonight.  Cause he knows it’s not just the acid and benzos makin’ everything feel surreal.  But at least when I get home.  There’s a pair of octagon glasses in the explosion of pumpkin seeds and prescription strength anti-inflammatories.  I’ll end up losing ‘em in a few months.  Life’s cruel that way.  Even all the shit that means somethin’ to us will pass.  But at least we got it together now.

#hail the riff #grown up fucked up #toeheads #belmont house #pharma #208 #vague glimpses of beauty #remove records #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #a vibe

[mikenips]

A Message to Bootlickers

Y’all need a fuckin’ Q-tip Cause it’s pretty obvious You haven’t heard the Tear gas canisters or LRADs You haven’t listened to The screaming notes Billy clubs beat from Innocent people In the streets

I mean shit I was stoned And half asleep in school But even I learned Hitler was elected into power Compliance is what had My ancestors fleeing Poland For the US Only to end up in the Same place With a different name

Homework assignment Read a fuckin’ book Or a few Either history Psychology Or sociology Side effects may include Educating Your ignorant ass

Wait I can tell by your Facebook comments You didn’t learn to read Didn’t learn to research Or even think Just regurgitate to Pass the test

News flash Fox News is propaganda Crime isn’t random It’s a synonym for Lack of resources Like you lack of education But your Stockholm Syndrom Has you thankful for Your brainwashing

Thank god Whoever that asshole is That he left you blind To your own stupidity I wouldn’t wanna face it Either At least Jesus stood With the oppressed Helping those in need

And maybe if you had A goddamn Q-tip You’d be able to hear What people need An equal education A decent working wage A nice place to live To not be killed in the street When they cry for help Try walking miles For eighty seven days When nobody will Look or listen When the Stanford Prison Experiment Tells us Humans naturally abuse power When prisoners are slaves Putting out wildfires And producing your Amazon delivery When the government is Violating the Geneva Convention On citizens Proving the American Nightmare Extra credit If you learn some Empathy Cause human rights Aren’t a political debate

#poetry #ACAB #human rights #Detroit Will Breathe

[mikenips]

Pinheads

“What the fuck are you doing back here?  You aren’t even working tonight.”  One of the other managers at Bowlero, the new bowling alley and venue, says to me.

“I’m playin’ tonight.”  We all wish we had known the Stools were doin’ a live album recording down at OLL tonight before we booked it though.  Rae said Chuck told her before I picked her up that they don’t play till midnight.  So the goal is to rush the sets so we can get there in time for their set.

“That explains the war paint on the eyes.”  Chip, the mechanic that once got fired as a carny, says as he spits dip into a coffee cup.  “Ya know ya got some jeans with those holes though Mike?”  Damn.  That’s pretty clever.

My mom’s side of the family is down at lane one.  And my dad’s side is hangin’ in the lounge.  Even my uncle from New Mexico is in town for the holidays.  Jordan is setting up the kit.  Sound checkin’ the violin.  Drew walks into the storage room that doubles as a green room for gigs.  Me and Greg the bartender are hittin’ a vaporizer before I get on stage.  We play first.  “You see how Drew walked in here man?  He walked up like he owns this bitch!��

And the scene really does own this bitch.  I’m the bar manager at twenty one.  Drew just started training to bartend.  Dom works the front desk here and there.  Everyone else askin’ if we can pull some strings to get them hired or booked.  Just waitin’ on Sugar Tradition.  Gotta make sure they don’t get carded.  The kids are still in high school.  And we’re eighteen up.  Like the owners would really care though.  They got history too.  One of ‘em owning the Garden Bowl.  The other is one of the top lawyers in Oakland County.  Used to own the Falcon Club in Hamtramck in the nineties.  Actually even was Johnny’s lawyer to get Outer Limits their liquor license.

We open with “Haunted House.”  I’m fuckin’ baked.  And already forgettin’ the lyrics.  That shot of jezy Greg fed me probably didn’t help.  Nobody is here yet besides my family.  A few members of the Hand.  And some Royal Oakies waitin’ on lanes that don’t understand what the fuck is happening.  We’re botchin’ even our classics.  At least the Oakies are gettin’ a real weird show.

Yelp into a drone cover of “Real Cool Time” as Jordan saws away at his violin behind me.  Antonio rollin’ across the stage in front of me.  Glad they got in alright.

Fuck it.  We got a show to get to tonight.  “This is gonna be our last one.”  A piece of glitter falls into the corner of my eye.  “It’s about when it’s five am.  You’re blacked out.  Shirtless.  Pissin’ on the side of a 7-11.  Smokin’ a spliff.  Shotgunnin’ a tall boi.  If you could all raise your drinks.”  Rip through “Miller High Life” before boltin’ for a cig while Sugar Tradition sets up.

“Dude!”  Jordan says to me as we load some gear into the car.  “I think that was the worst set we ever played.”

Dee comes up behind us.  “What are you talkin’ about?  That’s the best part about Just Guys Being Dudes.  There’s no bad sets.  Every set is it’s own experience.  I really dug it.  The owner was behind me and Rae vibin’ too.”

Take a drag.  “Thanks Dee.  That means a lot to me.”

Walk back inside.  Didn’t even realize how many people had showed up.  Sean’s dad, my old high school film teacher, is here.  Still doesn’t know he showed my dick at the student film show at the end of the year.  Even fuckin’ Ian Ruhala showed his bitch ass.  There’s no way that was coincidental.  Not when his girlfriend’s sister is performing with Zilched at the Stools show.  Joey’s gonna lose his shit when he gets here from the wedding.

“That was sick Michael!”  My coworker Reagan says to me.  “Wanna celebrate by doin’ a shot of Jager with me?  You don’t even gotta give me a drink ticket.”  I’m about to be trashed tonight.  What am I talkin’ about?  I already am.

“Why not?  I’m gonna need seven shots of jezy too though.”

“Wakin’ up I got a nothin’ to do!”  Sugar T kicks into one of their many rippers.

Cy, my GM, walks over to me.  “These guys are really good.”  I can barely make out her words over Kevin’s spastic style of jazz drumming.  “They’re like a psychedelic Mudhoney.”

“Yeah.  They’re also only seventeen too.  Don’t tell the managers though I booked some minors.”

She laughs.  “Nobody should be that good at that young of an age.  Do they have a CD?”

“Nah.  We put out their debut album on the cassette label I’m helping run though.”

“What the fuck are you kids doing making cassettes again?”

“Cause they’re fuckin’ sick!  You wanna hear this fuzz on something just as fuzzy.  We don’t wanna clean this noise up!”

Walk back to center stage.  Jake is in the corner with Evan.  Owen layin’ on the floor in front of the couch.  Crossed the border for this night.  On the couch next to Rae is Joey Molloy goin’ hard to Sugar Tradition’s set.  Gotta love Joey.  Nobody goes as hard at a show as good ol’ Joey Molloy.  Bleached tufts of hair whippin’ through the air the same way their brain whips back and forth in the skull.  Everyone takes the Polish, purple nectar.  Jeżynówka.  A Hamtramck staple.  A little piece of home all the way out here.

Joey walks in, still in his suit, and helps Drew wheel three cabs into the crammed lounge as I meet Antonio at the merch table.  They spent over a mill on this remodel.  And the Hand is about to shatter all the windows here when they hit their first note.  This will be the first and last time they let a stoner metal band in here.  TJ stoned as fuck on the floor testin’ out the Juno.  Sean, equally as baked, clicks open the briefcase synth he made.

“Yoo Antonio.  Whenever you guys are ready I’ll take you to the office so the manager can cut you a check.  You just gotta fill out some tax forms.”

“Shit…  This is like a legit gig then?”

We weave through the overfilled lounge.  Drunks and stoners attempt to file towards the stage.  BO and fuzz forcin’ the yuppies to wait for their lanes elsewhere.  Tonight, this bitch is ours.

Paperclips and loose change vibrate their way off the desk in the office as the Hand strikes their first drone.  “Wait…  Kev,”  Antonio spins in the desk chair.  “What’s my social security number?”

“How the fuck should I know?”

“You guys don’t know your social security numbers?  How?”

“Dude.  We’re in high school.  We’ve never had to use ‘em before.”

“Honestly,” my coworker cuts in.  “We don’t really need the W-9.  If you take it with you and bring it back in a couple days it’s probably fine.  But I really don’t give a shit if you do.”

Head back to the bar.  All the freaks headbang in unison to Joey’s screams before Drew rips into a solo.  Greg hands over two shots before I even flag him down.  “I knew Drew was gonna shred because he never talks about his band.  The quiet ones always shred.  Good job putting this together Mike.  Not a huge drinking crowd.  But I’ll take a chill night.  Gettin’ stoned to some chuggin’ bands whenever it comes.”

Or at least I think that’s what he said.  I can’t hear over the riff.  Hail the fuckin’ riff!  Wrappin’ it just before midnight.  Nobody says goodbye to each other before we all dip.  It’s every man for himself.  Drag racin’ down I-75 to get to OLL.  Somewhere in the night Caveman Woodman is yellin’ about the Stools.  Tellin’ folks to fuck off if they think rock n’ roll is dead.

Walk into Outer Limits greeted by the familiar unbearable humidity of a crowd of familiar faces.  Not a single face you don’t recognize.  Greeted with a free Stroh’s and shot of Hornito’s courtesy of Johnny.  Kid Infinity on the stoop of the stage.  Documenting the entire night on camera.  208.  The Long Stairs.  The rest of the Waterheads.  Everyone from the Bowlero show there too.  Sweat gluing bodies together as flesh meets flesh.  “This one’s about a spooky dream Will had!”  KQ shouts into the mic as Chuck uses his already soaked shirt to wipe sweat from his forehead.  As Will’s screeching guitar bends, cuing “Black Fly Stew.”  Two step tune off their latest seven inch from Third Man Records.  Jack White may be a prick.  But he sure puts out some good ass music.

This time I’m not gonna concuss myself on Joey Molloy’s eye socket.  They speed and slop their way through their discography.  Dig into some tracks Will claims are older than some of us.  Kirk recording every second through the soundboard to be put out on Chuck’s cassette label Painter’s Tapes.  “How does two more sound?”  KQ asks after finishing up a version of “Q-Nails” that’s half the length of the studio version.  But still has all the original notes. Bodies make their way off the concrete ground to their feet.  Stomachs cramp from downin’ Stroh’s.  Lungs attempt to catch their breath.  Jake yells back to ‘em “Eat shit Mike Duggan!”  We don’t need no curfew.  Unplug us and we’ll scream louder.

Mikey of the Waterheads discusses Sigmund Freud on the patio while we all pass joints to each other.  Never give those lungs a break.  Kyle of 208 passes out Remove Records t-shirts.  Tells us none of us need to pay for ‘em.  But we all force money into his hands.  “This is what the scene is about man.”  My words come out half coherent.

“Exactly!  That’s why I’m so glad me and Shelby came here from Florida.  This is what music should be about!  Community.  Doing it for each other.  Fuckin’ being there!  Cause without each other, none of what’s goin’ on is possible.  We’re like one big, happy, chaotic family!”

Jake punches my shoulder at the bar.  Radiating the energy of the Bananas in Pajamas.  A loose and excitable toddler ready to play.  We each get a shot of jezy.  “You here anything yet about HMF Nips?”

“Nah.  I saw they ‘leaked’ some of the lineup.  But it was all like Hala.  Legume.  Who Boy.  The indie bands ya know.”

“See.  And that’s what’s fucked man!  They don’t fuckin’ get it like we do.  We’re out here every fuckin’ night playin’ these joints.  We’re all at every show for each other.  They make one appearance a month.  Half the time not even in Hamtramck.  They don’t support each other.  They’re in it for the clout!  And fuckin’ Who Boy gets picked before any of us?!  That’s fucked up man.”

“It is dude.  But don’t worry so much about it.  I’m sure it’ll all pan out for us.  Cause we get it.  And they don’t.  You wanna come over to my place after?  Make some pancakes or some shit?”

“Oh heeeellll yeah!  Pancakes at Belmont.  I’ll rally the troops.  We gettin’ trashed tonight!”

As if we aren’t already.  Rip through a fifty pack of whip-its in twenty minutes.  Sittin’ around eatin’ pancakes at three in the morning.  Listenin’ to the 13th Floor Elevators as Joey tries persuadin’ everyone into watchin’ Pirates of the Caribbean.  “Dead Man’s Aaaaasssss…” his whipped voice whispers to every single one of us individually.

Jake does his first popper as if he’s huffed it before.  Panicking in the barstool in my living room.  “I’m sweaty.  My head hurts.  And my face is hot, man.  My face is hot!”  Before locking himself in the bathroom with a sealed fifth of tequila.  We continue to chainsmoke in the house I rent.  No mention of not smokin’ in my lease.  Dunkin’ chocolate chip pancakes in a bowl of syrup.  He re-emerges from the bathroom.  Quarter of the bottle now inside him.  Or possibly in my toilet.  “Rae.  You gotta finish this.  I can’t do it.”

Owen spits up on Giovanna while tryin’ to rush to the bathroom.  Attempts to wipe the bile off her knee before returning to the cool tile floor around the toilet to sleep for the night.  Jake arguing with me and Rae about ordering him an Uber home.  “You’d fuckin’ love it if I crashed on your futon Nips.  You’d fuckin’ love ordering me an Uber home wouldn’t you Rae?”

“Jake dude.  I don’t know what you want from me man.  Your car is at Evan’s anyways.”

“I just wanna shit on my toilet!”

So eventually he consents.  Tells Rae he’ll Venmo me the ten bucks she spent on him cause he’s “Venmoed Michael Nipples before.”  Even though I’ve never had one.  Yells back to us with the passenger door open “what’s its name?”  As he struggles to crawl into the whip.

And as Rae and I go to sleep.  My phone buzzes with three texts from the drunk Toehead.  “Uh oh…”

“Help…”

“We listenin’ to Dough Boyz!”

Fuckin’ idiot.  Pinhead.  That’s what we all are though.  Or at least what we pretend to be.

#bowlero #hail the riff #just guys being dudes #vague glimpses of beauty #outer limits lounge #the stools #the hand 420 #sugar tradition #remove records #painters tapes #grown up fucked up #detroit garage rock #detroit diy #a vibe

[mikenips]

Beautiful People

I like to surround myself With beautiful people Call me Superficial

I like the ones Whose shoelaces Are tied back together Housing Toeless socks Their pants cut into shorts Uneven While they’re still inside The logos on their shirts Made of mothholes And tie dyed with Sweat stains and Coney dog droppings Paint chipped from Overgrown fingernails Ink scars flesh With forgotten folklore Adorned with rusty metal Around their neck Their earlobes Their nose, eyebrows, Bellybutton, and nipples Greasy hair Knots a noose And could probably use a Good shave Or new tape to hold Their glasses together

I like the ones assembled By WD-40 and duct tape Nicotine stains as lipstick Smoked through their nostrils To avoid a dry socket When bone rots outta their gums Their lungs have freezer burn Nostrils run red Sleep in too late for a Morning routine If they even own a stick Of deodorant

I like the ones transported Through space and time With one headlight and no AC The tabs in the middle of Their plates Not even a full set of silverware Passin’ out on a Sheet of cat hair And mattress of hardwood Next to a wine stained Couch from an alley No China cabinet in the Living room But the finest collection of Hand blown glass The liquor store has to offer Vintage Playboys As coffee table books For the articles

They have wax spinnin’ In their ears Can’t hear the difference between Feedback and tinnitus And read theories by people The FBI killed In their sleep Absorbed by their last Remaining braincell Resembling a raisin The prunes weaving mazes Of a fragily coherent psyche Observed through Dialated Bloodshot lenses In their thick skulls

I want to be surrounded by These beautiful people No money in their wallets Livin’ off absurdly rational Survival skills Preachin’ the ugly truth From a barstool That can only be swallowed With forged scripts But once it kicks in All you can feel is The beauty In this nightmare Wet dream

#poetry #brief moments of clarity #vague glimpses of beauty #somewhere the angels are screaming #grown up fucked up