Coke Dealer (2002)

Dr. Jeckyl and Me
Harlem Greenwood, Coke Dealer 

"For my people are foolish, they know me not, they are stupid children..." -Jeremiah 4:22

"I'm a deep thinker. I like to question life. I like to look at the headlights of a car as it's coming down on me and say, "This is happening to me right now."- Harlem Greenwood

You Get Cut Before You See It
A Coke Dealer performance is as interactive an experience as an underage Tracy Lords video, and just as shameful an indulgence. Both will propel you to act in some deviant manner, to express an ugly, forbidden lust through messy self-gratification, to lay bare your primal instincts, to channel the sweaty, greedy beast within. Only one, however, is likely to get you smashed in the head with a bottle, or duct taped to a chair and kicked into unconsciousness, or just degraded and humiliated in public, at high speed, with the volume on 10. Coke Dealer, you see, is Rock City's tribute to it's own demise, a cunning deconstruction of the whole creaking concept of 'entertainment', the layers of separation between audience and performers, of music and hostile, intimidating noise, of fun and horror, all peeled back like layers of angry skin, until there is nothing left but blood, bone, booze and a bittersweet tragi-comedy that no one has yet to even name, never mind explain. Suffice to say that the clown will get punched, citizen- it's just up to the band which role you're playing. 

Ostensibly- and laughably, really- Coke Dealer are a 'lounge act', although they're more John Wayne Gacy than Wayne Newton. Locals know the routine. After spending the evening knocking drinks out of people's hands and manhandling the ladies in the house, the Dealers of Coke mount the stage reeking of sin, looking like yesterday's news wrapped in dimestore threads. They slap together a bizarre array of dubious looking gear like low rent mad scientists, and crank up all the volume knobs to wound-opening levels. Then they bicker and push each other around for twenty or so minutes, making sure to spit beer or worse at anybody foolish enough to be standing near the stage. And just at the part where you laugh it off and head for the exit, they unleash a tidal wave of both sonic and physical violence on anyone or anything in their path, clearing the room for good in under five minutes and going home empty handed, bloodied, and friendless, with several weeks of splints, bandages, and apologies to look forward to for their efforts. 

So, what the Hell is it for? What sort of benefit can come from all this madness? Is Coke Dealer the "New Art Riot" so often promised but never delivered by generation after generation of bleeding edge hip young dudes who could never quite cross that line in the sand between outlaw and artist, until now? Or are they the living embodiment of Ziggy Stardust's Rock and Roll Suicide, the final nail slammed into the lid of a coffin built long ago? Or maybe they're just a bunch of obnoxious assholes, having fun at your expense? To answer these questions, we need to know just what the fuck we're dealing with here. We need to stare straight into the eyes of the devil, and see who blinks first. 

Coke Dealer- the band, the security force, the production team, the greasy muscle of the Rock City Mafia- is the sum of many parts, congealing like a puddle of sick on the dance floor into one repellent force of nature. Familiar faces in the Boston rock scene abound, musicians of various temperament, neuroses, and ulterior motive. Sometimes they wear literal masks, sometimes just figuratively, but on any given Night of Coke, you might see Darryl from Milligram, Glenn from Liquor Tricks, Nick from Cracktorch, or any other combination of surly rockers heading for the stage with Dealing on their mind. Of course, they won't answer to their regular names, wouldn't even recognize their own mothers, and certainly don't remember how to play their instruments, because Coke Dealer changes everyone that dares take on the improbable mission. No longer operating under their own volition, the band are merely pawns in a strange and terrible play, written in blood by a man of both savage conviction and ludicrous name- Harlem Greenwood.

It Ain't So Lonely Without Your Heart
Harlem is the jive party stopper in your nightmares, the gutless bully, the Cold War kid that wears his polyester like camouflage and his scars like medals, who treats his audience like a demon to be exorcised by any means necessary. He is violently insane and in any sensible culture, they'd just throw him in jail, or chemically castrate him, or perhaps just drive him to the edge of town with a sack over his head, and leave him in a ditch. But this is not a sensible culture, or a sensible time, and so he continues his path of destruction unabated.

Of course, it could be argued that Harlem Greenwood is not really Nero reincarnated as Frank Sinatra's drug dependent bastard grandchild, but merely local rocker Marc Schleicher on some bum trip, just another one of his many spiraling musical personas. But that would be a foolish assumption. After all, was Tony Clifton merely Andy Kaufman at his most obnoxious, or a whole new sinister entity? Is Mark Manning Zodiac Mindwarp, or the other way around? Can Axl Rose ever go back to being innocent, corn-fed Bill Bailey? Of course not. At some point, performance art becomes hideous truth, public personas blend with private lives like a creeping madness, and even the mirror can no longer be trusted. Fucked By Rock, as we like to call it in the business. And nobody's more fucked then Harlem Greenwood. 

I see Schleicher almost every weekend, as you can't really have a rock and roll show in this town without him, but the last time I met up with Harlem was last summer in a sleazy karaoke bar called the "Irish Eyes". Over the din of surly drunks and his girlfriend's off-key caterwauling massacre of a bunch of Johnny Cash songs, he ranted, rambled, and made more than a few empty promises. There was the long awaited Coke Dealer album, "13 Ways to Deal Coke", the oft-rumoured live rendition of riot-baiting 'Song that cannot be sung', "Birthday at the Party", and an unending string of proposed suicides, murders and lawsuits. None of which materialized, as far as I knew. So when Harlem called me a few weeks ago, demanding that I monitor an ill-advised Coke Dealer meet-and-greet with some local community planners (please, don't ask), I figured that I'd better meet up with him beforehand to figure out just what the hell's been going on with the band in the last 9 months. 

This Here's My Brother on the Drugs
"There's been too much monkey business going on, and I don't have a lot of time to waste, so I don't need you asking me a bunch of stupid questions", Harlem tells me, in lieu of a friendly greeting. It takes all of about 30 seconds before our interview erupts in violence and chaos. I should have known better than to follow Harlem into one of his favorite haunts, a sleazy spoon called the Newtowne Grille, known mostly for being the preferred hang-out of mental patients and third stage alcoholics. After being seated by an beleaguered looking waitress at Harlem's favorite booth and ordering 4 dollar plates of spaghetti, we both watch as the guy next to us gets up from his booth, where he and his wife were getting hammered while their two twin babies screamed, and karate kicks a plant. Then he yells at some guy across the room, "Where do you get off threatening my child?" The other guy takes the bait, and the fight spills over into the bar next door. "I'm sorry for my brother Jimmy's behavior", Harlem smiles. "He gets a little crazy with the liquor sometimes." As the police swarm in, we begin. 

Noise: What's happening with "Birthday at the party?" Are you still banned from playing it?

Harlem: It's called "Laugh with the Clowns". The Clowning Commission of Boston won't let us play it. They have certain laws. 

N: The Clowning Commission of Boston? 

H: I make a lot of money around here. I don't want to lose money to some clown. Next question. 

N: OK. What happened to your album, "13 Ways to Deal Coke"? 

H: Well, usually my timing is impeccable. That's why I've made so much money. This time, though, somebody dropped the ball. It's been a rough year, so now it's down to "9 Ways to Deal Coke". You might see it in 2004, if you're lucky. 

N: What about the Coke Dealer security force? What's that about? 

H: Yeah, that's going well for us. Recently though, we had to up it. Too many people trying to meet the band, touch the band, and we didn't have the manpower to handle it. 

N: So you're the band and the band's security at the same time. 

H: Yeah. That way we can double dip. 

N: It can't be easy being a performer and a bouncer at the same time. 

H: We've got like 15 people in the band, you know. I don't need all of them. Some of them are like interns. They take the punches for you. 

N: How about the Coke Dealer production team? 

H: What about it? 

N: I talked to one band that told me that you spent most of the time sleeping on the couch in the studio.

H: I'd say that part of that is a lie, and the other part isn't. See, when you're in the studio, you pull long hours- 37- 42 hours a night, and there might be some sleeping during that time, but listen, I'm on the ball, I know what's going on, nothing gets by me. 

N: Well, they also said that you had some kind of fight with them, and you took their master tapes and threw them under a truck. 

H: That could've happened. I also know that my Cadillac got stuck in the mud, and I needed something to get it out of there. Their little tapes provided the necessary support. It's not really my fault if their tapes won't run in the machine after getting run over by a Cadillac. 

N: Well, we both know what band I'm talking about- if you hadn't ruined their tapes, would it have made any difference? 

H: Probably not, they're a horrible band. I'd rather be recording Broadway and show tunes kind of stuff anyway.

N: You run into that kind of stuff much? 

H: No. Boston's kind of a wasteland as far as music is concerned, as you know. I go to way more plays than I do quote-unquote "Rock shows". 

N: Plays? Theater district kind if things? "Rent"? 

H: No, the Chinatown District. "Chickie Tickie For Two" is one of my personal favorites. It's like off-off Broadway, like two 'offs' and 'Broadway' is probably spelled wrong because the people that are writing out the letters, English is like their third of fourth language. That's where I'm at.

N: Well, did you ever think about taking Coke Dealer out of the rock arena and into more of a live theatre kind of environment? 

H: Yeah, I've toyed with the idea, but it's hard. Those people aren't as easy to pay off as they are in the rock circuit. Drugs and sex go along way on the rock circuit, but you know, Broadway is more about angel wings and bow ties. 

N: I haven't talked to you in a while. Has your life changed since 9/11? 

H: For the worse, yeah. 

N: Do you take new precautions? 

H: I carry a suitcase now. And a roll of quarters in a sock. 

N: Well, this has been as pleasant as ever, Harlem. Before I go, you want to tell me what Coke Dealer are up to for the summer? 

H: That's none of your business. You'll know when you need to. I'm like a cobra, I know exactly when to strike. 

(Coke Dealer are currently banned from every club in town, so you should be safe for awhile.)