It was a rare love, one that found in the balance of two extremes . In John was rage where he found rhythm. In Robbie there was this passive faith that allowed the otherworld to careen through his guitar. There were moments between the four young men that were numinous, lit in some strange light that allowed them to fuse sounds from a collective memory which Jim conjured up with words weaving a spell only a shaman could.
Ray's woman , a soft Asian girl who was well read and wise, understood the band better than he did. She gave him plenty of room. She had faith in him. And Ray didn't stray.
This impressed Jim. He didn't know how to say no. He was an insufferable drunk, a prankster, a contrarian, a one man demolition derby , a fool who staggered safely wherever home was that night, unscathed by the wreckage.
Jim did not indulge himself in petty emotions. This was the only thing he denied himself besides adequate food and rest.
Maybe at the end when he began to bloat with booze because he was trying to set a better example for Pam and Danny, the dumb kid who had doom stamped across his forehead . Jim blamed himself, but Ray knew Danny was going to crash the party with or without Jim to influence him. It was1969.
Ray was pushing 30. He had all but settled down
Dor never spoke ill of Pam but her expressions were subtle glimpses into her gentle soul. She disapproved of the red head who was sloppy stoned, sometimes on a nod. She was offended by her language and lack of courtesy. But in time Dor understood Pam who felt feeble in the grandiose throws of a metaphysical discussion fueled by mescaline and Ginger root tea.
She curbed her own enthusiasm to spare Pam of more doubts. She was quietly fascinated by the placid complexion and laminated eyes, green like a cats but not quite so sharp. A cat would have noticed Dor watching her sooner.
Pam assumed all eyes were on her because they usually were . This was so long before Jim who she competed with for attention. He didn't try he was prouder of his ability to blend in to the tapestry . He was amazed by Dor, who was the beautiful detail only a few did not miss.
He treated Pam like a colorful bird with a broken wing.
She cheated on him.
He was not upset and his infidelity was so thoughtless,
He always was stunned when she got upset.
He would laugh like a goof, not sure how to console her. Jim didn't promise not to do it again.
Jim didn't make promises. He knew he could not keep them.
He was committed to here and now.
He lived on a ledge called reality.
Ray knew Jim was a deep thinker who wandered out to barrios of LA, where he drank coronas and ate goat head tacos . He could have easily scooped up some Aztec Goddess and spend his life as a fisherman or a dime bag man.
He pulled sound from those muggy nights in East LA, smoking cheap weed and talking spanglish. A strange new language.
When they were older they would talk about those days with reverence and awe, but rarely with others present. They thought back and understood .
Robbie would not know what to believe but John blamed Jim because everything was so extreme, so beyond our control. He believed Jim could stop this crazy thing. To Ray it became funny. Here was Jim flying blind on like 50 tabs of acid, a half bottle of Jack, and handful of ludes he countered with a snootful of coke. His cowboy boots were on backwards. This made Dor titter into the beautiful sound of laughter. They could see the look on Jim's face, comical as he struggled to stay conscious. It is cool , Ray would say . You take cat nap . Dorothy would wake him when he had to get dressed.
These were things you take for granted. The scrabble they played at the same kitchen table. The sound checks. The courtroom drama. The darkness that descended as the second half of this unruly century fully unfurled itself . This vivid cascade they lingered on was history. An earthly aimless narrative with a dark independent spirit. He was Icarus. Dionysus Prometheus" Mr. Mojo Risin unbound . He was the paradox that made 1969 a miraculous momentum that hurled us forward with the velocity of a velvet underground love song to drag queens who shoot up speedballs, melt glamorously into nods that spin into rants or rabid quests for .... Something. A bead. A pill. A scarf. A roach. A photo... They get stuck.
Ray remembered Andy. The factory. Jim was so drunk he was impervious to the fear Ray felt in his neck. An alarm went off I'm currents that made the-hairs stand up . He was queasy. Something about the spun chaos the albino unleashed was terrifying. He was sure a scabby pink mole licked his chops whenJim nearly passed out on pillows near Andy's vans covered feet. Someone had stenciled Marilyn Monroe skull in the top of the left shoe.
The right bore the likeness of Elvis. Ray flattered Andy by praising Marlilyn . Whose that? He asked, implying the other shoe's image.
Elvis , of course, a cold hard hipster quipped.
The rhinestones, Ray muttered,then he protested. Elvis isn't dead.
The distinction was lost on Andy and his sycophants.
Ondine with the cold edge made a small gesture that silenced the tittering and made Andy flinch. It was the most human thing Andy did in the lost hour. Or so they shared . It as funny how that party still haunted Ray.
It lingered in his thoughts .
Ray heard himself repeat, Elvis is not dead.
Andy looked frightened and Ondine glistened with malice that made Ray feel naked, pink and mortal enough to feel meek.
He started when Jim roared his deep south bible thumper baritone, which was reverberating off the foil walls. The women looked up to see him rise, the dark ringlets framing his fierce beauty. " you fucking butt l..mumchsersz... "
Warlocks! He bellowed standing up on two stoic legs.
He broke himself up. Ray giggled, though he was not sure why.
You, queens of the scene think we are a couple of runaway punks from podunk pittsburg , a pair of pretty boys to poon and pimp out till we are living in the shitter and covered with bed bug bites and scars!
TBC
TBC
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