SHARKFORUM: OPINION WITH TEETH

Two days later we’re finally expelled from Satan’s anus and landed with a thud on the Bowery, outside of CBGB’s in New York. It was my turn to stay with the van while the rest of the band went inside to check out the scene. The usual throng of punks, junkies, pimps and hookers were hanging around outside of the Palace Hotel, next door to the club. A moment later three cop cars pulled up and the boys in blue jumped out with their heaters drawn. I immediately got down on my knees and hid beneath the dashboard, only popping my head up occasionally to witness this little slice of life. Everyone on the street froze while the cops rushed up the stairs of the Palace, Kojak style. A minute later they came swaggering down the stairs, shoving their pistols back into their holsters, frustrated over a false alarm.

After sound-check I met my friend Gregg at an Indian restaurant on Sixth Street. We went into a tiny basement with a blue parrot painted on the door and ordered a small feast. The waiter fetched a tray of little dishes filled with lentils and onions and chutney while a sitarist with a bored expression on his face twanged the eternal Hindu blues. Gregg was in the midst of recounting his grind at the New York Times when suddenly a large rat darted up the heat pipe beside me and into a hole in the ceiling. I stood up and put on my coat while Gregg kept talking. Between mouthfuls of vindaloo, he looked up and asked where I was going. “Gregg, we gotta go. Right away. I’ll explain once we’re out of here,” I said. Just before we reached the door the manager grabbed my arm to ask what the problem was. I told him his restaurant had rats and if he wanted to cause a fuss over the bill I’d be sure to let everyone else in the joint in on the secret. “Oh yes the rats,” he said, with a smile, “they are an omen from Lord Ganesh. Thank you! Thank you very much!” he said, sounding delighted as he opened the door and whisked us out.

I walked with Gregg over to the Astor Place subway stop, through the urchins and tourists on St. Mark’s Place. He had to get back uptown. Since I had nothing better to do I headed back to CB’s to catch the opening act. Just as I’m crossing the street, a chartreuse Chevy Caprice with a rash of rust spots and a torn black vinyl roof came screeching up beside me. The man in the passenger seat was obviously not well. His complexion looked like someone forgot to put the mayonnaise back in the fridge. His eyes were all glazed over, like a fish gasping for breath on a deathbed of ice in a Chinatown market. The driver leaned across his friend’s limp body and screamed in panic, “Where’s the hospital? Where’s the nearest fuckin’ hospital, man?”

I stood motionless for a minute, recalling the faces of frogs and baby pigs I was once forced to dissect in tenth grade biology. “Your buddy doesn’t need a hospital,” I told him. “He’s dead! Take him to the morgue!” With that the driver stomped on the gas and peeled out.

When I finally got back to CB’s, the opening band, a group called Evil Twin was in full throttle. They featured a pair of gruesome dudes with heavy metal poodle hair-do’s playing matching double-neck guitars.

At last it was show time. The band had been a little edgy for the last few days. We’d been on the road for nearly three weeks as the opening act for a popular new wave art rock band on the comeback trail. At first I was pretty excited about the gig until we got to know them a little better. The lead singer who resembled my Uncle Alfred, a portly kosher butcher from Chicago, was a Jehovah’s Witness and the drummer (who never took a shower and always wore the same T-shirt that smelled like burnt cheese) was some sort of snotty Marxist. They were always arguing over everything, including us. They didn’t approve of our song lyrics and wanted us off the tour if we couldn’t find anything else to sing about other than sex, drugs and religion – which comprised our entire repertoire. It was the first night in weeks we didn’t have to put up with their crap. The band cut loose and played a wild and inspired set. After the last number, we stumbled off the stage in the dark while the crowd howled for more but before we could make our triumphant return, the soundman cranked up an old Iggy Pop record and robbed us of an encore.

With the show over, I made my way through the crowd and out the front door for a breath of fresh air. Hanging out with the creatures in the street, I momentarily felt relieved, certain that my baptism in the shit was over for the moment. Suddenly the boys in blue were back with their lights splashing and sirens screaming. Everyone froze as they jumped out of their cars and ran up the steps of the Palace Hotel again. But this time they were too late and a minute later an ambulance arrived. A pair of poker-faced attendants yanked the stretcher out of the back and pushed through the crowd. The cops came back down the stairs dragging a young guy, cursing in handcuffs, followed by the ambulance attendants carrying a body on their stretcher, covered from head to toe with a white sheet oozing big red splotches.

With that I marched back inside the club to get a drink and grab my gear, to beat a retreat. Just as I was lifting my amp some young goateed freelance hipster with pad and pen wanted to know if he could ask me a couple questions for his fanzine. “Sure,” I told him and set the amp back down. “What do ya want to know?”

“Why did you move to Milwaukee?”