In my Hotel room. It’s not yet midnight…
There was no show today, as we traversed hockey country, from Chicago to Detroit… mega hockey country. And on the bus too. A couple hours ago, we pulled up, and while awaiting our per diems ($) and room keys:
The dreaded (be-dreaded?) founder of Ministry, in a bizarre schizophrenic pantomime, high-sticks himself, then fist-fights himself to the floor of the bus. This hilarious seizure ends with Al somehow having swapped his Black Hawks jersey for a Red Wings one. I think the boys would have laughed harder, if they weren’t so burned out. Or perhaps they’re just already used to this sort of maniacal acting-out.
I got to know the musicians some today. Not Al. He’s cordial enough, but clearly sizing me up. And I believe he’s confident that either his partner Paul, or one of the other 4 hired guns, or maybe someone from the crew, will give him their own first impressions of the former “hair band” video director.
I have a few CD’s I’ve brought along – Coltrane with Milt Jackson (“Bags n’ Train”). This got played en route, just after a greasy-without-an-option lunch stop.
You would think Coltrane would be the last thing playing on this bus (especially if it was not being played by the one most fond of opiates). But Metal is almost never heard here, and so, we slice along through the cold Michigan spring, northward, sweet vibes and slippery tenor sax, grooving.
After hotel check-in time, Jeffrey and I waited a couple hours (as requested) and then, batteries charged, film and tape loaded, we called around to band rooms. No interest, and so, nothing more tonight, shoot-wise.
I’m thinking of all the shit that got me here. It’s easy to forget, what with this nice hotel room… the bad-ass Prevost bus at rest down there in the lot… And all the “partying” seemed so light, almost innocent, just a couple hours ago… and now everybody’s safe, tucked in for the night. Or are they? Living life in this lane, you’re never certain you won’t get that horribly heartless call in the morning, telling you that somebody didn’t make it…
The first time I received one of those wake up calls, was way back in art-school. We’d been playing guitars, only just a little loaded, and then, next morning, his roommate’s on the phone telling me: “He’s blue, and dead in the bathtub. Could you call his mom? Oh, and maybe, Hollywood Memorial Park?”
He’s yet there, of course, with a line from a Vladimir Mayakovsky poem over his head: “Not a man, but a cloud in trousers.”
There’s some of that same suicidal romance and a real devil along for this ride. I’m sayin’ my prayers.
Spinctour dialogue of the day: Jolly Roger (the tour’s office manager) is on hold on the phone, when a (very English) lighting rigger roadie shows up to complain.
Rigger: Those fuckers…fucking, fucked up all the fucking brand new fucking downstage fuckers, didn’t they…?!
Jolly: Fuck ‘em!
Rigger: Fuckin’ had it fuckin’ all fuckin’ straight, and fuck, now if they’re not fucked!
Jolly: Fuck ‘em!
Rigger: That fucking all Jolly? What the fuck am I meant to fucking do now?
Jolly: I’m thinking; tongue stand on my ass-hole.
Rigger: For fuck’s sakes. Fuck this fucking circus. (exits, whence he came)