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Psychedelic Furs |
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"You saw her
bathing on the roof, her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you..."
-Cohen |
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| My friends Dustin, and J.B. were in love with her, too-I think everyone was. She eminated sweetness and light, but she was whipsmart, too, and had a way of disarming bullies which I loved her for. Her associates were doctor's kids and Catholic cheerleaders, and they were absolutely appalled by me, even though a cautious few of them had taken to wearing paisley and hair goop. My circle of hellions and have-nots from the wrong side of town resented the time I'd invest, and lengths I'd go to, just to see her, they ridiculed me for starting to care more about my appearance, and for making concessions to what they saw as the phoney, lily white, country club class she was part of. She started dating a Chess King kinda kid with a car and a Depeche Mode haircut, and his Mom was a teacher at my high school. My guidance couselor confided to me that they were turning screws to have me drummed out for lookin' weird, and askin' too many questions about the Constitution, and Columbus. "A disruption to the learning process", read one of many illegal memos circulated by the administration, regarding my earrings and eyeliner. I kept it framed for years. |
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I ran away to NYC,
but continued to correspond with her, through the mail. Her uncool
step-father was apparently ENRAGED by the shitty punk rock "Art" I'd use
to decorate the envelopes. Paint splatters and band logos seemed really
threatening to uptight, A-type straights, back then. Those John Hughes
movies everyone remembers so fondly always felt like a thorn in my side,
because the subtle social-programming seemed to be that the nice girl
should always spurn the weirdo for the sensitive richkid in the Miami Vice
jacket. I felt like the spurned weirdo. And the richkids in the Miami Vice
jackets We knew, really weren't all that sensitive. All those guys grew up
to be dentists and property owners and world travellers with boats, and
second wives with fake lips, and ski vacations, I suppose, but who the
fuck wants to be a dentist? Myself, I was obviously, Born To Rock.
The world's gotten alot smaller since my new wave eighties, and there aren't many places left to run to, anymore. They keep tearing down every last bohemian enclave to make way for more Condos and Starbucks, establishing the green zone for yuppie elitists in all our towns and cities. I've woke up horrified each day, for years, now. Even the lowest paying jobs have kiosks for online psych-profiling, mandatory drugscreens, and background tests. It really is an Orwellian slave state for those of us on the economic bottom. There's just so little that I recognize, that still rings true to me, anymore. The Pod People have completely infiltrated rock'n'roll, turning it into sports, or shopping. The past really is gone-the present is tedious, and lacking. Nothing is mine. War is America's favorite pastime. Killing, and shopping, cell phones and botox, TV, and surveilance, rigged elections, and I-Pods, and Myspace friends, and everyone's on the government pills. They put up a poster saying we earn more than you. Cattle lining up to get micro-chipped obediantly. I can't even drop-out and enjoy my decline, with the fully-cognizant recognition that all is lost, because the constant want, worry, fretting and fear about having to endlessly produce more RENT, with like, no dentistry skills, whatsoever. Some nights, I'm afraid I'm on the verge of going DENTAL. _____________________________________________________________________________________________________________ HIGHWIRE DAYS.... |
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I've made friends
with a number of creepy hermits and luckless losers in recent
years-divorcees, veterans, drop-outs, "grateful" twelve-steppers, and
weird nut conspiracy theorists you probably wouldn't talk to, who were
basically content to live out their last days in seclusion-either as petty
pill-pushers, or on S.S.I. "genius grants". Five, six years back, I really felt sorry for all these lone rangers with their nature documentaries from the public library, and nicotine-stained decks of Solitaite playing cards, sitting at thrift-store kitchen tables, talkin' 'bout the old times. The better days way behind them, and fading photographs of their estranged kids, ex-wives, and dead parents enshrined in cheap little frames, upon unscrubbed walls. |
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Woe was in those
filthy brown, and beige, death-cell apartments. You wondered how many
stiffs had already been gurneyed outta that same, sad, little spider-hole.
Myself, I was still ready, six or seven years ago, for a big stinkin' comeback. Rock'n'roll never forgets, and all that jive....I still craved the applause and excitement-the romance, and adventure, and the carrot of legitimacy, and I was willing to taunt the wrath of an entire zombified village. I scorned the program, the rulebook, the television, the mall, and openly advertised my maverick contempt for not only the spoilt, scenester, poseur cliques, but also, for the eroding values of my own former allies and neighbors, cashing-in their individuality for some pitiful mirage of belonging--these are darkening times. Reality is forged by former sit-com writers who work for bankers, and right-wing think-tanks, while everyone obediently worships the murderously power-mad, decadent rich. We've all learned to scoff along with Rove, Rush, and O'Reilley about tree-hugging eco-nazis and feminists and peacenik, "cut & run" liberals. We're all afraid of being outed as a free-thinker. If you with-hold your consent, or openly oppose the human rights violations, constitution neutering, election rigging, and outright lying and killing amidst the pervert, blood-drunk New Regime, you suffer certain consequences: Look what the Clooneys and Dixie Chicks put up with. They're millionaires. It's alot worse if you're poor and try to stay true to what's right . "Break your back to earn your pay-and don't forget to grovel..." |
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Last year, they
taught me in rehab that my quality of life was only the result of my bad
choices as an addict. When I tried bringing up Paris & Lindsay, or George
W., or Teddy Kennedy, they shut me up, like high school. So here I am, a
garden variety outsider, with aching muscles from a seven dollar an hour
job, where the higher-ups treat me like a dog, with almost no hope for
redemption. I had to borrow money against next weeks pay-check from one of
those Checks Advanced predator-lenders that sprouted up everywhere, out
here, in the red-zone. They dangle false hope to rubes like
me-malt-liquor, lotto tickets, game-shows and vacation give-aways. All my
ex-friends abandoned me on the side of the road. It's like Jimmy Reject
without the band, or books, or boat, or pills, or parents. It's getting
grim. I understand profoundly why so many of my old amigos, quit this
life. Fuck this shit. Nobody's cool, anymore. You're on your own, Jack.
All that.
Is it any wonder I still draw so much comfort from the music of yesterday? Nothing's coming but more abuse, explotation, poverty, and humiliation. What's the use? I still treasure the little things--notes from loved ones, old magazines in my beatup footlocker. Days when I get to sleep-in, and let my damaged old body heal. I really relish a day-off, those fleeting moments of peace in a hot bath, or when I'm sleepin'. Of course, I retreat into my prayers and dreams, and broken memories. The old times, that were mostly soundtracked by the Furs and Hanoi Rocks. |
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The comfort of a cup
of coffee and the twenty-five cent thrift store Psychedelic Furs cassette.
I quit smoking about forty days ago cos I'm too poor to buy 'em. Almost
everyone I ever loved is gone, and I have no means to pay the bills for
the last few who've stayed in my luckless proximity. Dignity fled from me
years ago-resettled in some historic home in the Great Northwest, takes
trips to Tibet, without so much as remembering me. I don't blame her,
much, anymore. It's no longer the treasures of the world that mock me.
It's the helplessness and agonizing inability to provide for those I care
about the most, or even maintain something like an imitation of self-sufficiencey. I
no longer have the alcohol to blur my vision, so what's left is the want
and worry. Albums & Amends that I can't make. Broken hearts, broken homes.
Stress, anxiety, grief and loss will cripple you after awhile. It just
wears you out. Each day, I've woken up absolutely horrified for years now.
This can't be real. A graveyard and those golden arches--people compliment
the view. The Psychedelic Furs songs are sometimes your only friends.
Until the end. |
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Older Psychedelic Furs fans will tell you that this elpee signaled their
decline, but those are probably the same college geeks who try to get you
to like R.E.M., and the Violent Femmes. I got a sentimental spot in my
heart for this record, for a number of reasons-the first being, that aside
from the Moby Grape, Leonard Cohen, Peter, Paul & Mary, and BeeGees vinyl
my Ma handed me down from my anti-war activist Father's college days, and
a small handful of photographs I've since, very regretably, lost, I'd
known nothing of my real Father, until on my 14th Birthday, he sent me
some pretty gear vinyl in the mail. Elvis Costello, David Bowie, Marshall
Crenshaw, and these Psychedelic Furs!