Band Practice: 1. Spitting Tyrant

Inspired by the late 70s punk scene and lit by a nagging call to music making and band association, Amos set his course.  And ours.  Some sort of execution mandate and mysterious ability to form a thing.  Written down and visioned, willed into existence.  Proposed and agreed to, declared and acknowledged, a done deal.

Every mountain needs a pass, every bird needs wings, and every band needs a bandleader.  A foul-mouthed, demanding, sweating, spitting tyrant.  He was none of those things.  His initial recruitment focused on the leftover husks of the Men From Nantucket, a guitar constructor of wild talent, a young bass prodigy, and a list of possible drummers.  So backwards and unconventional, upfront and invading, outlandish and gutty.  

Any band with an ounce of a drop of a chance to do anything groovy or spastic or clean or dirty must have a name.  Amos immediately voted to dust off Some Dude Named Amos, his cover band of the late teens and early 20s, like voting mattered in a band.  Already been done, no do overs in music, no Jefferson Airplane becoming Starship crap. Mork Square, the lead guitarist, offered Metallic Salmon, Forever In Cream Jeans, and others; I offered up Eye Crust, Squizz, and Pee Cans.  No telling where this whacko band of limping, brain demolished, blind, and deaf bandits land, probably be a big flop, but maybe not, we got Austin The Bassist.

Our Party

The local scene is the epicenter of the edge of the thing.  My county over country approach is now active and in constant alert status.  To spit in the face of 800 citizens and vote 7-0 the other way is a blaring horn.  A certain gesture in a double gesturing manner to the citizens of my great town.  And the predictable double gesturing from the citizens back to the city council, produced a recall petition to sign.

The mayor, a man of little words and smaller ethics, seems befuddled.  The former mayor, full of unfiltered bullshit and goofy glares, seeths at the inquiries.    This house of cards seems flimsy, brokers and builders and busted budgets.  Ramifications are only ramifications 'til the assaults go down, then it's retaliation.  The goons are out, it's a public fight. 

Here comes the chaos, the light, the sledgehammers.  Been happening since time was known, especially when the industrial age hit.  Bandits and robbers, fraudsters and slicksters, interlopers and the weak within.  This is the opposite of peace.  This is our party.

Simple Day

 

This simple day.  Blood pressure spot on, coffee came like I like.  No back ache today, no indigestion, no weird tooth thing or eyeball twitch.  Both feet painless and flexible, both hands gripping tight, no tendon issue or thumb jam.  Spine basically straight.

And the air, the refrigerated air, streaming strong inside through ducts and vents.  Fans swirl the cold throughout.  Essential technologies of last century.  Television is off, as usual, music hits so much better in the morning.  Without the stress and worry, with some truth and telecaster solos.

And the cancers stayed away another day, not everyone is as fortunate.  No scans for me, no regular check ups, we'll wait for the blood to appear, or some collapse or cardiac event.  Been down that road, always made it back.  So far.  Enjoy the simple days, complications ahead.

Pot Hole

 

To use as a prop, like rodeo clowns, like duck decoys, like shiny objects, like a lock box from the 90s.  Fooling the ignorant people with nothing to lose.  They've never been there, they don't plan on going, the ignorant people have other things, less significant things, to whine about.  We don't want whiners anyway, they have no impact on society.  We want the mockers, out of their heads, into their hearts, finding their guts, bleeding and beat up.

Mind your own business, get water to the population, do some schooling, fill a pot hole.  Your progress is giving me stress.  Untouched, the way we enjoy it.  Remote, the way we like it.  Leave it as you found it, litter is unacceptable.

The chants won't stop, the ridiculous conventions, and parties resembling shit shows.  Like that Jaffe tune.  Glad I'm on the record, but it's a small gesture, nothing will stop the ruin.  Like all empires on Earth are ruined.  Weak officials did this--Blue, Red, and Otherwise.

  

No Wall

(Chorus)

I don't want no wall.

No, I don't want no wall.

I don't want no wall.

At all.

Let's have a little fun.

Beat on some big ole drums.

Listen to Two Tons.

Of Steel.

(Chorus)

Wish I had a vote.

All I gots is notes.

Wonder if their bullshit floats.

In beer.

(Chorus)

Jamming at Railroad Blues.

Planet Marfa gives me Exile juice.

Sometimes it's so tough to choose.

But I have to.

(Chorus)

Look at those mountain scenes.

Like something from a Martian dream.

Supposed to leave it pristine.

It matters.

(Chorus)X2

GCGDD7

Leadville Or Bust 6: Incommunicado

 

The filet mignons were delicious and cooked to perfection, Quincy's was some kinda restaurant, pure 70s and doing it right.  Crispy cold salads, loaded up baked potatoes, bread&butter, and a fine 12oz cut wrapped in thick sliced peppered bacon, dinner hit nice.  We had a boozy Tuesday in Leadville after the late night cancellation deflation.  Brown handled it well despite the long hours of preparation, he brushed off my lame attempts at finding meaning in the decision.  Air quality was the headline reason, stress on the over stressed city resources was a factor.  It was the right call, the Willow Fire smoked and smouldered 4 miles west of town as we drove in earlier in the day.

As usual, the town was calm.  We headed over to where the race would have began, a steep hundred foot climb starts the Silver Rush MTB50.  Riders push or carry their bike up the  wall-like feature, no other race of any kind starts in this maniacal fashion.  We unloaded our bikes and rode the paved 12 mile Mineral Belt Trail up and around the old mining operations of two centuries ago, 2 miles above sea level.  At 10,200 feet, Leadville is the highest town in all of America.

After the ride, we went on an early afternoon bar crawl.  The Manhattan Bar, the Scarlet Tavern, the Silver Dollar Saloon, we bellied up to their mostly empty bars, we drank beers, we bantered with bartenders.  Our gratuities were generous, the financial woe of a measely winter and smokey summer was evident.  At our final bar stop, the Silver Dollar Saloon, we sat in the booth Jimmy Buffet wrote the song Incommunicado on the day his friend John Wayne died in the summer of 1979...

Tell me where do I go from here

Think I'll ride into Leadville and have a few beers

Think of Red River or Liberty Valance

Can't believe the old man's gone.

After Quincy's we drove back to Gold Park #7, the night sky was clear and stars were bright, the Milky Way was showing off, and it was all fine, just fine.

Leadville Or Bust 5: Postcard Colorado

 

Although the Hornsilver campsite was a fine plan B destination, it was close to the road and loud.  Guess Harley's sound the same everywhere, but the echoes off the massive cliffs amplified the famous sound over and over and over.  Despite the scenery of awe and top notch facilities, we had to find another plan.  On a tip from Robert, our campsite host, we found Gold Park campsite spot #7.  It was 7 miles off the main road into the huge mountains, valleys, and streams of premier postcard Colorado.

We found our spot.  The race was 6 days away and Brown needed to lay low, no riding.  Rest and lung acclimation was his priority.  He hadn't had a drop of alcohol in 6 weeks and rode 400+ miles per month to prepare, his body was a mountain biking machine, he was ready.  Also, he felt his nutrition improvements could give him an extra edge--what to eat, when to eat, where to eat, how to eat, and why to eat.

Three years prior, in his first Silver Rush MTB50, Brown barely missed qualifying for the 100 mile Race Across The Sky, otherwise known as The Leadville 100, the big daddy mountain bike race of them all.  After watching Belgium team destroy the USA squad in the men's World Cup round of 16 at the Famous Bar, we headed back to Gold Park #7.  It was dark and quiet as we hit the hay, Homestake Creek rumbled and tumbled nearby.  "The race is cancelled," he said as I was just dozing off.