Rick’s backyard like all the others in the area had been paved over with concrete and extended rectangularly from the rear of the house to where it abutted a highway underpass. The underpass was a long and dark corridor which provided ample space for parking, and judging by the amount of used condoms and syringes that littered the ground, granted an acceptable level of privacy for the conduction of deviant acts. Above that the interstate traffic flowed by in continuity, blanketing the neighborhood with a steady rumbling which droned away into the periphery over time. Due to the state of our surroundings no one could see the harm in me playing my set from the backyard, how adding a little bit of music into an already disharmonious atmosphere would have any ill effects — it was a crisp early Spring evening in North Philadelphia and everyone was ready to spend a bit of time outdoors.
Kicking off the night under my noise alias of God Willing, I sat with my gear on a folding table in one corner of the yard with my back to the house and my Roland keyboard amp on a chair next to me. A respectable twenty-five or so people had come and were spread out before me swilling cans of Schmidt, also known as ‘animal beer’, as I began. A minute or two into the set I entered what is commonly referred to as ‘the zone’ and became absorbed in the music and less aware of my surroundings. I remained in this state of focus for several minutes before a hairy pair of hands that I immediately recognized as that of Rick’s roommate Arthur broke into my line of vision and occupied the previously vacant space between my face and my gear. They oscillated in tandem, crisscrossing each other to repeatedly form the shape of an X — the universal gesticulation for the command of ‘stop’. I suspected that either a neighbor had complained or a cop had shown up or that Arthur just really wasn’t into what I was doing.
Earlier in the day when rehearsing I had recorded a cassette of rich and vibrant bubble sounds which although I was very excited to incorporate into the set, I hadn’t yet gotten around to — the set had yet to progress to the bubble stage, but not about to let them go to waste, I slipped the tape into my 4-track and slid up the faders before stopping to look and find out what the problem was. The bubbles frothed out from the speaker popping jubilantly in the night air, and as my head craned upwards towards the crowd I nearly expected to see everyone erupting in joyous rapture, smitten by the sound.
It came as a surprise when I found the entire audience compacted against the opposite corner of the house from where I sat, squished into each other tightly as if compressed by some invisible force. Lower lips were extended and trembling gelatinously as bodies writhed together in a desperate grasp for safety. Those who hadn’t managed to cover their heads and face the house were staring across the yard towards the highway in a mix of terror and suspense. Following their gaze I found a man standing at the gate, his face distorted in a clash of shadows and streetlight glare, who was in a state of severe agitation. His body jerked in unpredictable spasms and his mouth morphed through a selection of exaggerated shapes as he rambled to himself incoherently, holding a handgun above his head.
In a rapid, nearly imperceptible motion, he had lowered the gun and pointed it directly at the mass of people that had accumulated in the corner. A chorus of fearful objection emanated from the crowd in the form of moans and shrieks before he redirected the trajectory of his weapon, aiming it at me. Previous to this I had never really taken the time out to sit down and imagine what goes through your head when someone who is visibly in the throes of a psychotic episode threatens your life with a presumably loaded gun, but things slowed down and took on an eerie calm. Watching the way the gun quivered in his hand and how his finger slipped unsteadily around the trigger in his jittery grip, I decided it was probably a good time to end the bubble solo which had been percolating away, serving as a wildly inappropriate soundtrack to the occasion. I reached out slowly and lowered the faders.
Silent aside from the endless hum of the highway his voice was now audible. Each word collided into the next forming a long strand of incomprehensible babble which occasionally spiked in volume to arbitrarily emphasize certain fragments. It was the closest I’ve seen anyone come to actualizing the expletive speech bubbles that cartoon characters make when overcome with frustration, as what he was saying could only be written out in a complex series of asterisks and dollar signs and exclamation points. His maniacal oration came to an abrupt halt when he fired the gun once into the air in a form of punctuation and then carried on his way down the road.
Although all attendees were physically unscathed, his bullet had struck the vibe of the show, murdering it in cold blood. The vast majority of people made a mad dash for the front door and a few kooks stuck around seeming relatively unfazed, wondering what time the touring acts were on. Abandoned in the heat of the moment, personal stashes of animal beer were free for the taking and the few of us who remained hung out for a couple more hours drinking those to reduce tension.
Kicking off the night under my noise alias of God Willing, I sat with my gear on a folding table in one corner of the yard with my back to the house and my Roland keyboard amp on a chair next to me. A respectable twenty-five or so people had come and were spread out before me swilling cans of Schmidt, also known as ‘animal beer’, as I began. A minute or two into the set I entered what is commonly referred to as ‘the zone’ and became absorbed in the music and less aware of my surroundings. I remained in this state of focus for several minutes before a hairy pair of hands that I immediately recognized as that of Rick’s roommate Arthur broke into my line of vision and occupied the previously vacant space between my face and my gear. They oscillated in tandem, crisscrossing each other to repeatedly form the shape of an X — the universal gesticulation for the command of ‘stop’. I suspected that either a neighbor had complained or a cop had shown up or that Arthur just really wasn’t into what I was doing.
Earlier in the day when rehearsing I had recorded a cassette of rich and vibrant bubble sounds which although I was very excited to incorporate into the set, I hadn’t yet gotten around to — the set had yet to progress to the bubble stage, but not about to let them go to waste, I slipped the tape into my 4-track and slid up the faders before stopping to look and find out what the problem was. The bubbles frothed out from the speaker popping jubilantly in the night air, and as my head craned upwards towards the crowd I nearly expected to see everyone erupting in joyous rapture, smitten by the sound.
It came as a surprise when I found the entire audience compacted against the opposite corner of the house from where I sat, squished into each other tightly as if compressed by some invisible force. Lower lips were extended and trembling gelatinously as bodies writhed together in a desperate grasp for safety. Those who hadn’t managed to cover their heads and face the house were staring across the yard towards the highway in a mix of terror and suspense. Following their gaze I found a man standing at the gate, his face distorted in a clash of shadows and streetlight glare, who was in a state of severe agitation. His body jerked in unpredictable spasms and his mouth morphed through a selection of exaggerated shapes as he rambled to himself incoherently, holding a handgun above his head.
In a rapid, nearly imperceptible motion, he had lowered the gun and pointed it directly at the mass of people that had accumulated in the corner. A chorus of fearful objection emanated from the crowd in the form of moans and shrieks before he redirected the trajectory of his weapon, aiming it at me. Previous to this I had never really taken the time out to sit down and imagine what goes through your head when someone who is visibly in the throes of a psychotic episode threatens your life with a presumably loaded gun, but things slowed down and took on an eerie calm. Watching the way the gun quivered in his hand and how his finger slipped unsteadily around the trigger in his jittery grip, I decided it was probably a good time to end the bubble solo which had been percolating away, serving as a wildly inappropriate soundtrack to the occasion. I reached out slowly and lowered the faders.
Silent aside from the endless hum of the highway his voice was now audible. Each word collided into the next forming a long strand of incomprehensible babble which occasionally spiked in volume to arbitrarily emphasize certain fragments. It was the closest I’ve seen anyone come to actualizing the expletive speech bubbles that cartoon characters make when overcome with frustration, as what he was saying could only be written out in a complex series of asterisks and dollar signs and exclamation points. His maniacal oration came to an abrupt halt when he fired the gun once into the air in a form of punctuation and then carried on his way down the road.
Although all attendees were physically unscathed, his bullet had struck the vibe of the show, murdering it in cold blood. The vast majority of people made a mad dash for the front door and a few kooks stuck around seeming relatively unfazed, wondering what time the touring acts were on. Abandoned in the heat of the moment, personal stashes of animal beer were free for the taking and the few of us who remained hung out for a couple more hours drinking those to reduce tension.
It was somewhere around Noon the following day when my phone vibrated with an incoming call from Rick Weaver. “You better get over here.”, he said. I only lived about a ten minute walk away and started in his direction immediately. We sat across from each other on separate couches in his living room eyeing an aluminum foil covered baking tray which sat between us on the coffee table. Rick explained that just before he called there had been a knock at the front door. He opened it to find a fifteen or sixteen year old girl wielding the aforementioned baking tray.
“I think my dad was here last night.” She said to Rick.
“Oh yeah?”, he questioned her uncertainly.
“Yeah, I think maybe he fired his gun?” She went on to explain that her father was a shell shocked war veteran suffering from PTSD. Awakening in fright to the sounds of searing feedback, loops of plastic bottles being crunched up, and pulsing bass tones descending upon his neighborhood had sent him into a horrific flashback, and in an ingrained militaristic reaction he grabbed his gun and hit the street.
“We made you this lasagna as a peace offering.” She said, extending the tray towards Rick.
We took it into the kitchen and served ourselves heaping portions, cracked open some more animal beers, and sat down to an unexpected and delightful lunch. Ricotta doesn’t exactly sit near the front of my list of top cheeses, but after inadvertently inducing a nearly catastrophic meltdown that teetered precariously on the precipice of tragedy, I felt that consuming this food was really the least I could do.
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A few months prior to this in January of 2010, running late for a show, I hastily tossed my gear into a duffel bag and set off for West Philly. Traffic snarled up a bit as I entered University City before gridlocking entirely on Walnut Street where I sat impatiently in my van accelerating forwards at the rate of one parked car length per five minutes. Feeling that my composure was soon to expire I decided it best to walk the rest of the way and snuck the van into an open space along the side of the road. I hadn’t packed with walking in mind however and the weight of the vintage test oscillator, bulky cassette players, and case of beer I’d brought made for no graceful way to carry the duffel bag as I wrestled with it in a bizarre dance past the immobilized motorists.
Where Walnut intersected 40th Street had been closed off completely to automobiles and pedestrians alike, and a foul mouthed officer of the law brusquely directed me to return to where I’d come from with a choice of words that I’d describe as ‘rude’. The issue was that the venue I was trying to get to — The Rotunda, although visible from where I stood, just past the cop on the other side of the movie theatre, was now inaccessible. Going behind the library I was able to navigate through a portion of the University of Pennsylvania campus to an area further down 40th where I managed to cross to the other side undetected. Thinking I could probably access The Rotunda though a rear entrance I took the alley behind Qdoba where I encountered a pair of detectives illuminating sections of the ground with oversized flashlights. They weren’t pleased to see me and one began rifling though my bag while the other steadied me against the wall with an outstretched arm. Their faces expressed uncertainty as to whether the contents of my bag were anything to be concerned about before turning me loose and barking “Get. The. Fuck. Outta. Here.” into my face, accentuating each word with a slap of the flashlight into the palm.
The gig that I was having so much trouble getting to was for Outer Space, who had driven a cool 6 hours from Cleveland just for the one show and I was to be providing ‘local support’ in a collaborative duo with Bee Mask. It was being put on by a local promoter who tended to specialize in events of a ‘high brow’ and ‘avant-garde’ nature and therefore had secured arts funding for his organization which I had been guaranteed $75 dollars of in check form for my participation in the evening. It was absolutely essential to the continuation of my existence that I acquired this money and therefore felt deterred in no way by the obstacles that had blocked me thus far and continued forth, persevering in my quest.
Entering into a classic game of Cat and Mouse with the detectives, I covertly maneuvered through the driveways, yards, and neighboring alleys, clutching the duffel bag in a way that would prevent the bottles from clinking together, only to fall into their spotlight at the turn of each corner, scampering away back into the shadows as they cursed and hollered. After much exploration and many close calls I eventually was able to pass the bag over a chain-link fence to Brian Morseberger before scaling over it myself, entering the grounds of the venue after having thoroughly contaminated a crime scene.
Everyone was there and awaiting my arrival so the night could begin, but before that had a chance to occur, two uniformed officers entered the building. They quickly studied the appearance of everyone in attendance and did a cursory search of the room before making an announcement. During an attempted robbery of the movie theater next door, an off-duty police officer who had attempted to intervene was shot dead in the lobby by a perpetrator who had then fled the scene and was still believed to be hiding out somewhere in the immediate vicinity. The show was allowed to go on, but the doors would need to remain locked, no one could leave until the area had been cleared or the suspect had been captured, and no one could say when that would be. If anyone needed to go, they needed to go at that moment, via police escort. The idea of spending a moment longer than necessary at the gig seemed more than most people could bare, as about 75% of the audience eagerly lined up to be taken away in a voluntary mass evacuation.
Although the promoter and I had never actually engaged in conversation, I was under the impression that we had differing opinions in regards to the way one should enjoy experimental music in a live setting. Of the handful of his events that I’d attended in the past I’d made a habit of bringing along (both for economical reasons, and to share with friends) a case containing 24 bottles of Lionshead beer, something which always got me a raised eyebrow and disapproving leer at the door, and which I’d heard him verbally object to to one of his colleagues. My frat-noise buffoonery was at odds with the chin scratching gallery approach he was taking, and where as I saw no reason the two couldn’t co-exist, something about it seemed to go against his vision. So where as some found the jingling sound of glass bottles which echoed around the nearly empty room as I shimmied the case free from my bag to be merry, the promoter did not, and took a seat in a far corner of the room, distancing himself from the events.
The next blow to the evening’s class level came when it was realized that the DVD which Outer Space had planned to project and have serve as their visual accompaniment had been misplaced. Desperate for a replacement, John Elliott (of Outer Space) bravely chose to break free from our lockdown and sneak over to the Redbox which sat temptingly across the street in front of The Fresh Grocer. Not having any time to leisurely browse, and limited of course by the somewhat conventional selection, John returned moments later with a copy of the 1990 romantic fantasy box office decimating blockbuster ‘Ghost’, which they then provided a live score to while it was projected at 3 times the normal speed.
His presence made known only by the glow of the Apple logo which shone faintly from his laptop in the outer reaches of the room, the promoter busied himself with distractions as the evening degraded into a sparsely attended, beer fueled, Hollywood movie screening — financed by grant money and from which there was no escape. Phantasmic sex scenes flickered past in hyper-speed while arpeggiated synth lines and filter sweeps orbited the cavernous room without mass to absorb them.
Sometime in the early AM hours, taking a peek into the outdoors, we determined that some resolution had been achieved and with other things on their minds the authorities had simply forgotten to notify us. If it hadn’t been crucial to my well-being that I received payment I almost would’ve felt bad taking it, as it was with great reluctance that the checks were forked over. And with that, everyone filed out of the building and went their separate ways. It was not, I imagined, the way anyone had intended things to go, although — murder aside — I don’t think I could have planned a better evening myself.
