story time – first-ever-gig edition!

as the anniversary is coming up in a few days, you get this story …

so back in nineteen aught ninety-something, my Loki and I were goofing off with music – he couldn’t find a band he wanted to join here in the desert, so I bought him a drum machine, got myself a cheap-ass pawnshop bass & helped him work on songs & shit, which we recorded for college credit in a pretty nice studio at Scottsdale Community College (Go Artichokes!)

except he wasn’t into singing anymore, really – he wanted to focus on guitar & programming & engineering – so we asked the first cool person we found at the goth night at the Atomic Cafe, Dot, who introduced us to Sage, who could sing.

and so we became Paris Burning, and in the fullness of time, we booked our first show: at the Mason Jar, December 16, 1998. it would be my first show, too, that wasn’t, like, grade-school choir-type shit. it was the dawn of the niche mailing list, so we notified the AZGoths that this was going down, and they turned up in their scores, and yelled, and danced, and took photos and it was a great night in that regard, if in no other.

the main problem was that we had 40 minutes of set time, but less than half an hour of original music. and so we decided to learn a couple covers: California Dreamin’, and this gem:

my beloved Mimi had turned us on to Six Silver Spiders, and we LOVED Insane. we worked out a stepped-down, slightly-faster version, with which we planned to close our set. things … did not go as planned. we ended our set on Insane, and Sage’s dad of blessed memory was there to videotape the entire thing:

I feel it is safe to say that this shit right here is the start of my stage fright. I mean, I’d been nervous before we went on, but this catalyzed my complete and utter gut-churning terror of Shit Going Wrong – even though I was the only one who did not fuck this song up. well, me and Azrael Abyss, the drum machine. Rhythm section represent! and Loki didn’t screw up, but he did break a string, so

that night was the catalyst for a bunch of really cool shit – stories for another time – but that’s how that show ended: not with a bang, but with an off-key, out-of-tempo thunk

at least the audience cheered?

the entire set is here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL55D73C36DA198168 if you didn’t get enough contact embarassment with just the one song. 

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2k2nqor

story time – first-ever-gig edition!

as the anniversary is coming up in a few days, you get this story …

so back in nineteen aught ninety-something, my Loki and I were goofing off with music – he couldn’t find a band he wanted to join here in the desert, so I bought him a drum machine, got myself a cheap-ass pawnshop bass & helped him work on songs & shit, which we recorded for college credit in a pretty nice studio at Scottsdale Community College (Go Artichokes!)

except he wasn’t into singing anymore, really – he wanted to focus on guitar & programming & engineering – so we asked the first cool person we found at the goth night at the Atomic Cafe, Dot, who introduced us to Sage, who could sing.

and so we became Paris Burning, and in the fullness of time, we booked our first show: at the Mason Jar, December 16, 1998. it would be my first show, too, that wasn’t, like, grade-school choir-type shit. it was the dawn of the niche mailing list, so we notified the AZGoths that this was going down, and they turned up in their scores, and yelled, and danced, and took photos and it was a great night in that regard, if in no other.

the main problem was that we had 40 minutes of set time, but less than half an hour of original music. and so we decided to learn a couple covers: California Dreamin’, and this gem:

my beloved Mimi had turned us on to Six Silver Spiders, and we LOVED Insane. we worked out a stepped-down, slightly-faster version, with which we planned to close our set. things … did not go as planned. we ended our set on Insane, and Sage’s dad of blessed memory was there to videotape the entire thing:

I feel it is safe to say that this shit right here is the start of my stage fright. I mean, I’d been nervous before we went on, but this catalyzed my complete and utter gut-churning terror of Shit Going Wrong – even though I was the only one who did not fuck this song up. well, me and Azrael Abyss, the drum machine. Rhythm section represent! and Loki didn’t screw up, but he did break a string, so

that night was the catalyst for a bunch of really cool shit – stories for another time – but that’s how that show ended: not with a bang, but with an off-key, out-of-tempo thunk

at least the audience cheered?

the entire set is here: https://www.youtube.com/playlist?list=PL55D73C36DA198168 if you didn’t get enough contact embarassment with just the one song. 

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2k2nqor

story time! lost in my drafts edition

so we are attending a New Year’s Eve party at the house of our Delightful Friends, and there is a kid there, the son of another friend. he’s maybe 3? somewhere in there.

so friends and I are sitting around the dining table when this kid walks in, finger up his nose to the second knuckle

and he’s staring at us

with this thousand-yard stare

this kid’s SEEN THINGS

DARK THINGS

he’s one of those kids that looks like an old soul is staring out of tired eyes

Anne Rice would use the word “preternatural” to describe this kid

anyway, kid is dark af

and he basically stares around at us for several long minutes, not a word spoken, finger halfway up his nose or rimming the nostril weirdly, but it all culminates with him walking over to the wall and wiping his nose-picking finger on one of Delightful Girl’s paintings

we were powerless to stop him

and then he turned and walked out with a slight backwards glance, as if to say, 

“You saw NOTHING, understand?”

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2scfSmH

story time! New Orleans edition

Friends are in New Orleans, my old stomping ground, sort of.

image

Why indeed? Money, mostly, but also because my New Orleans is long, long gone – was long gone before Katrina, even, lost to development and neglect and gentrification. My New Orleans floats in a haze of heat and alcohol and all-day strolls around the Quarter or the Garden District, spending my hard-earned pennies on trinkets from the French Market, or a muffaletta without the meat, or Campari anywhere I could find it in a town awash with hurricanes and Dixie beer. 

My New Orleans is Skinny Puppy on the Too Dark Park tour, in an old movie palace off Canal, fireworks in the pit projecting shadows of the moshers on the sculpted plaster ceiling. It’s standing gothily outside Anne Rice’s house, hoping she’d come out and say Hi, contenting ourselves with petting her dogs. [Since this pre-dated the internet, we had to find it based solely on descriptions in The Witching Hour, and were pretty pleased with ourselves when we did.] 

My New Orleans is cramming my CRX full of friends and caravanning down to UNO with a friend in his CRX likewise crammed, to see the Cure on the Wish tour. 

My New Orleans is dimly-lit goth clubs, grubby occult stores, a random dive bar with Bauhaus on the jukebox, a cafe where I took my sweetie that one time he visited me in the swamp. It’s where I went after finals every semester – my reward – dragging my bestie, probably less than $20 in my pocket, not enough to get the CD version of 1979-1983 and lunch. 

My New Orleans was Bloodletting come to life – we got the ways and means, to New Orleans, going down by the river where it’s warm and green. We’ll have a drink, and walk around – we got a lot to think about, oh, yeah.

It’s a hallowed place, full of mostly fun times, sometimes with too much alcohol, always with a selection of my beloved friends, who have since dispersed to the far reaches of the globe or departed this vale of tears.

I haven’t been back in ages, and I’m not sure I can go back, now. It would be too … different. Wrong. Maybe one day I can go back, if I can make it be a new place in my head, not my old place.

But maybe … maybe it’s best it stays frozen in amber. 

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2nbzesi

story time!

Friends are in New Orleans, my old stomping ground, sort of.

image

Why indeed? Money, mostly, but also because my New Orleans is long, long gone – was long gone before Katrina, even, lost to development and neglect and gentrification. My New Orleans floats in a haze of heat and alcohol and all-day strolls around the Quarter or the Garden District, spending my hard-earned pennies on trinkets from the French Market, or a muffaletta without the meat, or Campari anywhere I could find it in a town awash with hurricanes and Dixie beer. 

My New Orleans is Skinny Puppy on the Too Dark Park tour, in an old movie palace off Canal, fireworks in the pit projecting shadows of the moshers on the sculpted plaster ceiling. It’s standing gothily outside Anne Rice’s house, hoping she’d come out and say Hi, contenting ourselves with petting her dogs. [Since this pre-dated the internet, we had to find it based solely on descriptions in The Witching Hour, and were pretty pleased with ourselves when we did.] 

My New Orleans is cramming my CRX full of friends and caravanning down to UNO with a friend in his CRX likewise crammed, to see the Cure on the Wish tour. 

My New Orleans is dimly-lit goth clubs, grubby occult stores, a random dive bar with Bauhaus on the jukebox, a cafe where I took my sweetie that one time he visited me in the swamp. It’s where I went after finals every semester – my reward – dragging my bestie, probably less than $20 in my pocket, not enough to get the CD version of 1979-1983 and lunch. 

My New Orleans was Bloodletting come to life – we got the ways and means, to New Orleans, going down by the river where it’s warm and green. We’ll have a drink, and walk around – we got a lot to think about, oh, yeah.

It’s a hallowed place, full of mostly fun times, sometimes with too much alcohol, always with a selection of my beloved friends, who have since dispersed to the far reaches of the globe or departed this vale of tears.

I haven’t been back in ages, and I’m not sure I can go back, now. It would be too … different. Wrong. Maybe one day I can go back, if I can make it be a new place in my head, not my old place.

But maybe … maybe it’s best it stays frozen in amber. 

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2mZUvoT

story time!

Friends are in New Orleans, my old stomping ground, sort of.

image

Why indeed? Money, mostly, but also because my New Orleans is long, long gone – was long gone before Katrina, even, lost to development and neglect and gentrification. My New Orleans floats in a haze of heat and alcohol and all-day strolls around the Quarter or the Garden District, spending my hard-earned pennies on trinkets from the French Market, or a muffaletta without the meat, or Campari anywhere I could find it in a town awash with hurricanes and Dixie beer. 

My New Orleans is Skinny Puppy on the Too Dark Park tour, in an old movie palace off Canal, fireworks in the pit projecting shadows of the moshers on the sculpted plaster ceiling. It’s standing gothily outside Anne Rice’s house, hoping she’d come out and say Hi, contenting ourselves with petting her dogs. [Since this pre-dated the internet, we had to find it based solely on descriptions in The Witching Hour, and were pretty pleased with ourselves when we did.] 

My New Orleans is cramming my CRX full of friends and caravanning down to UNO with a friend in his CRX likewise crammed, to see the Cure on the Wish tour. 

My New Orleans is dimly-lit goth clubs, grubby occult stores, a random dive bar with Bauhaus on the jukebox, a cafe where I took my sweetie that one time he visited me in the swamp. It’s where I went after finals every semester – my reward – dragging my bestie, probably less than $20 in my pocket, not enough to get the CD version of 1979-1983 and lunch. 

My New Orleans was Bloodletting come to life – we got the ways and means, to New Orleans, going down by the river where it’s warm and green. We’ll have a drink, and walk around – we got a lot to think about, oh, yeah.

It’s a hallowed place, full of mostly fun times, sometimes with too much alcohol, always with a selection of my beloved friends, who have since dispersed to the far reaches of the globe or departed this vale of tears.

I haven’t been back in ages, and I’m not sure I can go back, now. It would be too … different. Wrong. Maybe one day I can go back, if I can make it be a new place in my head, not my old place.

But maybe … maybe it’s best it stays frozen in amber. 

from Tumblr http://ift.tt/2mZUvoT