Jerk Church.

Death From Above (1979) - "Blood On Our Hands"

As the REx has been in digital hibernation for some time, it's only courteous to play a bit of catch up, yeah?

The scene is the Borough of Kings. Somehow.

God knows how long ago the Saturn's Day in question was.

God knows what transpired the Friday before.

But you see. That's the trip with this set. Days become nights and weekends never really die. This is all far beyond any song lyric or party Polaroid on Last Night's Party. You Talk It, We Live It. Which ironically, is part of a song lyric. So there you go.

A Saturday morning not all that spectacular in and of itself. Oh no. Quite normal really. A head full of fire, megalomaniacal thoughts and more than a bit of dust. Plenty of "You Go Grrrrl!" Overdrawn accounts all around. Like some House Party 3 shit, yeah?

Let's move. Coked-Up Werewolf and the Ultimate Warrior are made of sterner stuff that morning. TimeMachine, however, breaks out the fake blood, a full week before Halloween, methinks. Not putting that shit on my face. Sensitive skin. But once again, emotion overwhelms logic and something beautiful is the end product. Two banshees, braving the cold steel rain, bleeding profusely from the head, awaiting the opening of our favorite boozer, Williamsburg's CYN (Lounge). Just down the block from "home".

Drive around a bit, stretch out those Aquatreads. The GraveDigger hydroplanes about Greenpoint, and by now, I'm on my way to taking an entire can of highly lethal Dust-Off to the face. Gotta be economical, yeah.

Eventually, the potential for vehicular manslaughter becomes too much for even TimeMachine and I, so we park the GraveDigger where we damn well please and take a walk. A long walk. Bloodied, soaking wet, well mashed, sketching out any and all who happen to be in the blast zone. One concerned Brooklynite stops me to ask if I'm alright (on account of the blood), even offering to help fuck up whatever vato done did it. My reassurances of a lack of injury don't seem to calm his murderous rage. Perfect. He's on the team.

A short time afterwards, I've found an umbrella, a child's, made in the P.R.O.C. All purple and My-Little-Pony-cute. Time to make this thing grotesque, cos' that's what the REx does best, yeah.

Within the span of a few blocks, I've destroyed the umbrella to the point that it consists of little more than a mangled revision of its flimsy metal endoskeleton. Occasionally, I hold the eye-poker at arm's length, squatting in the middle of Bedford Avenue for long stretches of time, horns honking left and right of me, all the while making any and all attempts to pick up a transmission from those pesky fucking Scanners. It's a war so futuristic it has but two combatants and one side. Nervous stares all around. No NYPD for miles.

Time's gone. CYN's on, with a dear friend manning the bar. L.A. Guns and blood-soaked Roses will be the vibe. Lots of Death From Above 1979. Tour Support. In spades. And so much blood on our faces and clothes that we'll most likely develop skin cancer 10 years from now as a result of the cosmetics. Everyone is worried about us.

Frequent dashes outside with my former-umbrella cum interstellar listening device. And on one such occasion, who should I see ambling down Bedford Avenue but Kyp Malone, guitarist and vocalist for Brooklyn indie supergroup TV on the Radio. Not unusual in and of itself, as he's often in the neighborhood, along with lead singer Tunde Adebimpe. But this is special. I'm feelin' strong and the world is mine, so to speak. Literally. Shhh. Here he comes...

And it go a little somethin' like this:

kasai REx: "Big fan Kyp, Huge fan. Great live show man!"

Kyp Malone: "Jesus dude, you're bleeding!"

...end scene...

Mission Accomplished Mr. Hawke. Return to base for some Jack-and-Waters.

Mumbled through a mouth full of peach Skoal, TimeMachine proposes a jaunt to Manhattan, seemingly out of nowhere. On the hunt for some trim. Two guns up! Terrible idea. kasai at the wheel?

Across the bridge without mass death. Somehow, someway. Not so lucky from there on out. A mingling of sheetmetal interfaces. on Houston. a yellow cab and a narrow escape, courtesy of a now freshened Ultimate Warrior. if only it had been one of those mobile paternity test centers, like the ones I see in Bed-Stuy. Then maybe I could have cleared up some, uncertainty. Yo well.

Though the night would continue from that point (approx. 5pm Saturday) through 9am the following Sunday, this story does not have a happy ending. This denouement is one of parking tickets, the petty theft of Apple products, empty wallets and empty hearts, "how do I taste", the death of the fake blood gag and epicly savage coke crashes. So for your own sake, you'd best stay behind the yellow line. And please do mind the gap.

No comments: