fishpiss

DON’T LOVE MUSIC EVER IT’LL ONLY BREAK YR. HEART o.k.?;(for mr. bobby darin), efrim

From Vol. 2, No. 4

DON’T LOVE MUSIC EVER IT’LL ONLY BREAK YR. HEART o.k.?;(for mr. bobby darin), efrim
THERE IS A PROMISE THERE when something loud & holy falls out of some speaker somewheres and you are drunk or on drugs or like so sober even and/or maybe you have not slept for real for 1,000,000 days and there is this weight in you that is like yr. onliest loneliest closest friend truly- this heaviest intimate weight scraping yr. face w/its lousiest chin hairs— BUT THERE IS A PROMISE THERE, buried there in the loud chords or quietest goddamned thrummings or skritchy whisperings there of music! Music! MUSIC!, the space between the notes always like gentle rows of weed-growth to tiptoe thru, or else like burning walls of airplane spew, vast curtains of plummeting steel, wreckage and burning oil, a hurting thing that puts so many tiny holes in you just so’s tiny perfect sweetest angels can come and nest there & stroke yr. heartstrings with feathery nestlings?; there is a PROMISE there that most/ many people don’t ever get— so many distracted maybe by the hollow fireworks in somebody else’s sky that jeez they can’t even hear the trees burning there in the corner even, BUT STILL & EVEN, THERE REMAINS a smallest clan of us man, lost for years and so desperate for promises that we even often drop small handfuls of $$$ to gaze into a miserable well that’s maybe been dry for years? (a boring state of affairs ok?) and I mean NO, most of us’ll never be seventeen again but many of us are still stupid enough to try to believe in that promise there, the accidental words tumbling outta some skinny lady w/a guitar or the halo above some googly-eyed drummer’s head or the hunchbacked piano player moaning in the corner and the piano itself is on fire from the wind that scorched the valley where the retarded bass-player played E-C-G-B over & over & over again? meaning I swear I seen things on some stages, corners or floors that were holier & sweeter than any hinterland sunset w/armies of birds chirping even, meaning that I still believe in the STUPID shit and still follow fading lights in the desert though mostly wonder why lately ‘cause I fear I am getting old in this fucking church and lately all the other parishioners seem like so many effete pricks giggling and screaming “me! me! me!”, while all the while many blinded honkies drop adverbs or adjectives from the gilded rafters like so many lazy dipshit pennies when they are so not even READY TO TESTIFY… and I am evermore feeling like either affronted or like an aging prideful sap shaking my cane, ‘cause I’m still waiting here for that AWESOME HOLY PROMISE to manifest like a kiss on the forehead, like an army of fluttering pigeon wings, like a mighty mighty steamtrain as long as the world is wide, like the one true gesture, the hinted-at TRUEST gesture, the always whispered could-a-been’s, that goddamned promise buried there in stupid fucking chords and phlegm-wail, the stupid shit that broke my skinny teenage spine and breaks my dumb stubborn heart still, the promise the promise the wonderworking promise-promise-promise (wow…)

there was a time I swear there was a time when music belonged to the people, when songs were the things that we made for each other in spite of, prettiest wordings or saddest angriest warblings to pass between us like hugs or handshakes, the sacredest sacrement of peoplehood’s dreamings, hopes, resentments & confusions, or like the ringing of chords like perfect bells to smite wicked politicians, judges or occupying armies, or like all the mucky messy mess of our wandering livings here all wrapped around gutstring or torn throat-chords choking on a tuneful rhyming riddle; a thing that belonged to we the people here all strewn across this muddy spinning rock, a fiery spittle-vapour that clung like fog to the cold cold dirt the FREE dirt of this prettiest starving land, hung there like sacred harps in the fog, cradling sweet skinny tubercular babies to dream a little while— A SAVING GRACE that was once and COULD STILL BE AGAIN… and it still flares up like a mighty fever sometimes, the stubborn yearnings of all of us yearning to be free, the buried desires, the pissed-on candle-flames catch fire again, the great beating, roaring things in our chests loosed like giddy shih-tzus or tumbling circus clowns; it all adds up sometimes IN SPITE OF, sometimes a fire burns there between people gathered in scattered rooms, a mighty yell trumpeting around the world for a second, against all the crummy odds, and all of a sudden YOU KNOW EXACTLY WHICH SIDE YOU’RE ON, and proceed accordingly and gather with the other yearning/ burning ones and strive to fucking tear some motherfucking shit the fuck down, fuck… and why but, or, BUT WHY?, or just “why?”- why’s the promise stifled aways, why’s it choked or stabbed in the back & thrown in the pissy river, abandoned in the attic w/the rusty pistols and heartbroken hand-me-downs, how is it that in the year 2003 us handful of true believers are lost in the fucking desert again, square as 7th-day adventists, subsisting on little more than watery soup and a terrible nostalgia for some imaginary past that was never nothing but dust & promise anyhow… meaning that nobody believes that music threatens anything anymore, meaning that no murderous fascists need to break Victor Jara’s guitar-picking fingers in no Chilean football stadium/ internment camp ever again, and no need for any spectacular panics in the house un-American anymore ‘cause the BATTLE GOT LOST, and all the good guys packed up & left the frontlines a long time ago, and doesn’t everyone agree, same as it ever was & and ever will be- music is just court jesters and panda bears with cute tambourines…

AND JEEZ, the shit lately, the awful shitty shitstream of shitshit flowing lately, the “new shit” or “next shit”, the endless interminable “NOW” stuff all wheatglued to those endless construction hoardings all across our rotting company towns, that endless sad parade of wide-eyed puppies all tumbling towards the slow-moaning puppy grinder w/their pocketfuls of natty riffs and useless starsearch daydreams, all them proud clever poor little girls & boys convinced that they’ll break the machine before the machine breaks them, so this goddamned hateful industry of lies prances onwards blindly, selling our wonderings back to us at double dividends, its bland thieving pretenses hardly challenged, AND MY OH MY, WHAT LAZY MANICURED HANDS REST ON THE LEVERS OF THESE WRETCHED MACHINES, (and yes they really do live in beige castles in the clouds, them money-bagging kingmakers talking on telephones in the clouds, all bedecked in the finest of linens, and all stinking of bedevilling pomades & colognes, keepers and purveyors of the “new shit”, the “now shit”, these desperate & vain robber-barons worrying over their rugs & jewels, so neurotic them and their camouflaged minions, staggering thru screenings and showcases and after-show soirees, presiding over all that shiny TV & radio caterwaul, those gilded-castle transmissions, saying “YES!YES! THIS IS THE NEW THING, YES! THIS IS THE BEST AND MOST EXCITING NEW NEW THING, YES! BOLD EVEN! EDGY EVEN! YES!YES!YES!”), and all them righteous misled troubadours shucking & jiving at the emperors’ ball like blind whinnying mules with extravagant manes, all decked out in silver saddles & stirrups, mooning w/their pretty pretty eyes and I’m like “lord, make me into a bullet, a small precise hurtling thing, and aim me in yr. infinite, majestic wisdom &send me on my way”, or else I’m like “gimme a gallon of chocolate ice-cream and 300 cigarettes & shut the fuck up, CAN’T YOU SEE I’M TRYING TO WATCH T.V.?”…

and so what fresh hell is this?, and um WHERE DO WE GO FROM HERE?; (I thought I knew once, and now for sure I do not know anything at all…) it’s like that american TV show that’s just endless videotape of high-speed police chases, and you’re rooting for the bad guy, & the bad guy almost always nearly gets away, but then blows a tire or flips the car and it all ends with handcuffs & shotguns & chins to the pavement = A LOUSY FUCKING NARRATIVE that only ever breaks your heart, and sometimes the entire history of modern music seems like that to me, a rigged system where no on ever gets away with the giddy shit for too long and nothing ever changes; so FUCK THAT RIGHT NOW, ‘cause the world’s a mess, but I swear I am still in love with all our crummy depressions and joyous hollerings, and have only ever found answers while being swept up or under our manic ebbs & flows, and I am still enraptured somehow by the endeavours of local friends & strangers (though we’ve all had our hearts broken countless times by the unintended meanness of insecure local strangers & friends), and am still amazed at the eternal disconnect between people who make rent by talking or writing about music and those who actually look for answers on dim stages, and ONE THING I KNOW FOR SURE = in these times, the answers we try to cobble together in smoky rooms are like a redeeming thing I think, and may be our one last true hope, and these tiny flames that burn sometimes still need to be sheltered from wind & rain, and we stupid believers have to stick together somehow in spite of, and build mighty rockets from spit, tin cans & twine, and find some tiny patch of humble righteous goodness here and refuse to move ever, ok?… and that earnest racket pounded forth by some nervous unit of skinny teenagers on some windy & dour Thursday night, is it not worth saving? that righteous warmth it imparts in our bellies for a second or two, that important vital heart-sustenace, is it not worth prolonging? does it not belong to us & us alone, we worried decipherers and answer-seekers? and should we not covet the heritage there, the history there of human noisemaking, manifesting in fumbling & virtuosity both, like whole centuries of toothless emphysemic string-batterers and high lonesome yelpers & groaners striving to loose some endless chains somehow, or else the awesome mystery & wonder of this MIGHTYMIGHTY perfect human thing of making songs out of NOTHING, manipulating wood, wire & spit to manifest the HOLY noise, (and shit, you gotta believe that god is just a broken-hearted boy or lady or red-haired dog moaning up or down some worried scale while whole continents spasm, bleed, & slowly groan across the oceans’ floor…) and don’t we all of us tumble out of our mothers’ bellies gurgling & singing & crying? and don’t we all still sing, gurgle & cry? and love those things that break our hearts the most? and the first verse goes “pummel me with kisses”, and the second verse goes “repeat until you die,” so when the chorus comes please lets all just tumble like crazy pigeons in the wind…