About me
subject appears to be a white male, early 50's, pathologically tall/skinny. brain patterns show evidence of a life in alcohol - first swimming in it then running from it. fingers show wear from years of guitar playing. heart presents slow repair, through writing, from being broken by rock and roll.
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FARM REPORT: TAKE 2 (THE EXPLAINATA)
Greetings, poetry lovers. I must first apologize for the brevity of my last post. I was on my lunch hour from the farm and rushed for time. The original Farm Report was a 6 page handwritten attemp to tie together the Sex Pistols, Suicide, Spirituality, the No Wave and my own search for self down on the farm into something less than a manifesto, more than a whine. It was, to me, roundly unsuccessful so I'm gonna try to get to the gist of what I've been feeling lately and hopefully include more recent events inthe concise and entertaining manner that readers of punkrockblues are accustomed to.
So, here goes.....
As I stated earlier, Lydon/Rotten went from the gutterblast cleansweep of all that sucks in life with the Sex Pistols and presented an entirely new approach to music/art/life with the original PiL. That that band eventually devolved into nothing much more than a might fine danceband was perhaps inevitable, but sad at the same time. It seemed to me that, amidst the hordes of punk clones stretching from the Dead Boys all the way up to Green Day and Simple Plan, only Rotten gave the impression that he meant the vitriol he spat and, more importantly, knew that bitching wasn't enough. Also I felt that amongst all the mott the hoopla of the punk scene Rotten alone understood, and was not cowed by, the responsibilities and opportunities that that stage and microphone represented. On the bootleg of the Pistols' last show I have he ends the set with the classic line "Ever get the feeling you've been cheated?" He has reported that he was referring to himself, that he felt cheated out of the opportunity to be understood by an audience that couldn't see past the safety pins and vomit, abetted by a media that couldn't (wouldn't) see past the freak show aspects of the band and the 'movement' that tried but failed to congeal around them.
I believe him. Punk rock was, to me, about reinvention. A spiritual housecleaning that could lead one to the 'better person within'. Hokey, I know, but when one has a complete lack of core beliefs, as I do, one is apt to look for salvation in strange places. My choice ( a poor one as it turns out) was rock and roll and punk rock in particular. Bands like the Pistols and my dear Suicide HAD to be acting out of neccesity. Screams looking for mouths (I'm not sure if Lou Reed said that or Hubert Selby Jr, but what a great line, huh?) unafraid of ridicule and certainly unconcerned with commercial success. Suicide in particular were a force to be reckoned with. I remember one night at Max's Kansas City seeing a film of a Suicide performance and being riveted in my drunken chair, the very bejesus scared out of me. I regret never gatteing to see the band in person, but maybe the film was enough. Rev's keyboard drone grew exponentially in pitch and hysteria while Vega, mouth bloodied, shortless under a black leather jacket roamed through the floor of a Berlin nite-club, swinging a tire chain, breaking glasses and giving the punters absolutely no quarter as he intoned over and over aagain: "They're fucking us over"
And I had no doubt that they (and we all have our own 'they) were, much as they still are every day unto this day. Of course the 'art terrorism' approach of Suicide, as well as the relentless noise assault of much of the No Wave movement (Mars, DNA, Teenage Jesus & the Jerks, James Chance etc) offers little in the way of a true solution to real and imagined social oppression but sometimes just the venting of the rage is enough to clear the mind to the point where one can plot their next move. The beauty of the No Wave, to me, was the chances that these bands were taking. Appearing on the heels of the Pistols' breakup, the scene was wide open. Too many bands were like Little Pistols, regurgitating and repeating ad nauseum, poor imitations of a truly great band. The Pistols did it right. One album (never mind the repackagings and live crap available on Amazon.) Bollocks was/is the only Sex Pistols record, perhaps the only punk rock record that was really neccessary. It stated it's case: rock and roll had become top heavy and bloated and had become a weapon of the enemy. So too had the Pistols in a way but at least not by their own volition and at least Rotten knew enough to split while the getting was bad and at least made an attempt to move on w/PiL. 'You never listened to a word I said' he sang on 'Theme', 'you only loved me for the clothes I wore.' A line that Lester Bangs reviled repeatedly in print, but to me an honest statement of regret on having been so totally misunderstood, much like when Ronald Reagan wanted to co-opt 'Born in the USA' for his 84 campaign. Another case of not seeing past the style into the substance. The Pistols statements of 'no feelings' were not a celebration of such, but an horrific admission that numbness was suddenly becoming a sought for conditioned by far too many people. The shock to the system that Bollocks represented was absorbed and codified quickly by a media (and I'm including the notorious 'rock press' in this silly indictment) that was afraid of the connotations that this facing up to represented and the difficulty, the plain hard work that responding to this throwdown and the throwdown of PiL. Just like we qall got off the bus when the Beatles offered love as a solution to the world's problems ten years earlier. Too much work, we'd rather smoke pot.
OK this is still garbled babbling, but I'm getting on to something here. The reinvention process has been a constant companion in my life, particularly in recent months due to the survival instinct kicking in throughout the many, many moves and situation conversions I've encountered since my divorce, just a little more than a year ago. I've been tossed by circumstance into the role of stepfather (neither the woman and child involved nor I was equipped in any way, shape or form to pull this off), unwanted houseguest (the whole Denver debacle: see posts from Jan-March of this year for details) to my most recent adventures as a self employed yard worker and house painter leading up to my most recent incarnation as perhaps the worst farm hand to ever confuse a pitchfork with a pig (not really, but you get my meaning, right?)
I've been on that hary, mousebitten search to 'find myself' for far too long now. I've been here all along and have been trying for far too long to fit myself into too many others' worlds and worldviews. Trying to become something I am not in order to keep the peace and food on the table. Take the farm job (please). I've been working (myself into a lather) for some very nice people that I have zerozilchnadanothing in common with in a vain attempt to 'fit in' and a not so vain attempt to make some money. Survival has been the name of the game and I've been surviving. Buster and the kids are eating well, probably better than I and that is of course the priority but I have to STOP THIS SHIT and get on with My life!
Over the last year I have shed many identities/titles: Husband, Boyfriend, Guitar Player, Brother (my sister's still not speaking to me and apparently my brother has been in town twice this summer and failed to look me up, so I guess I'm the black sheep again.), Vidstore clerk, and finally lawnworker/housepainter/farmhand.That's right I'm leaving the farm. I explained to my boss that this job just isn't for me. Seeing as how over the course of less than a month I've almost gotten killed driving a tractor across the highway (forgot where the brake was. Cut me some slack I'm a New York psuedo-intellectual liberal who had never been in a tractor until 2 weeks ago), poured antifreeze into the gas tanks of another 5 pieces of machinery (hey, a hole's a hole, right?) and generally taken far too long to accomplish things a real farmhand could do in his or her sleep, the boss didn't give me too much argument trying to change my mind. He did however berate me for 'not sticking with it' and suggested that if I did indeed 'stick with it' that I would learn to do the job better. Of which I have no doubt but to what end? To further isolate myself in this small and small minded community? The boss came right out and told me that the reason he was so het up to keep me on was that I was/am a White guy (little does he know..) and that he didn't want a Mexican on the farm (the only people willing to work the ridiculous hours of hard work for the ridiculously lowpay this job offers: $300/week for 7 days a week work, amounting to more than 70 hours a week or less than $4/hr). I know that this is the reality of the agricultural 'experience' and all, but I really want more than a future of listening to this man talk of the 'Brown Plague' that is destroying America while I freeze my skinny ass off at 5 am feeding his cattle for the aforementioned slave wage while he rakes in the dough, traversing the spaces between here and Denver in one of his 3 private planes. Viva revolucion!
So, no, I have left the farm. I've worked there long enough to gather a little money, enough to get my car insured, pay my rent and allow me a few weeks to find a job more suited to my talents in the closest thing to a 'big city' out here on the prairie. And you know what? I feel good about it. I didn't say 'piss on this' and bolt the 1st day. I proved to myself that I could do the job, after a fashion. I got hung up for a while worrying about the 'resposibilities and opportunities' that that tractor and pitchfork represented and agonized over the decision to leave (ie: 'there you go, quitting another job you lazy useless etc' the sounds of my father in my head yet again) but this time I just said no (thanks, Nancy). The prospect of a future spent (in honest labor, no doubt. No disrespect to the American Farming Community is intended here) traversing snow packed fields at ungodly hours in the company of only 1 or 2 other (nice) people who I'd never be able to discuss anything more involved than hay with, scared me more than the prospect of finding yet another job. I need to extricate myself, slowly of course but a little quicker than I've been, from this small Colorado town. I need a city, a place to meet new people in the flesh, a place to play music again in more places than Dan's basement, a place where I can be myself and not 'Tara's brother' or 'Lynn's ex-husband' or 'Jackie's ex-boyfriend' or 'that New York guy who can't hold a job" or whatever (if anything) passes through the minds of this settled (and settling for) smalltown populace when my black clad frame crosses their collective visage.
God save the Sex Pistols and the spirit of renewal that blast from the past represent(ed)s. God save the working man. God bless the motime universe and God help me during the next few weeks. Be back soon. Sorry this was so long and garbled but in many, many ways, so am I.
peace and noise,
tim
Posted by: timbyrnes at 16:51 |
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