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The World’s Greatest Party Band Accidentally Gets Philosophical Again
by The Bookhouse Boys
We are on this tour to return America to its spirited splendor of a few short decades passed. I’ve had a hard time bellying up to it, but fuck if I haven’t finally come to terms. It’s a sad and sappy statement (and it comes years too late), but we’ve lost our innocence. America is too controlled lately. I’m not talking the Donald Rumsfeld-style governmental control of media outlets and vocal freedoms. Sure, that shit’s scary, too–even more so–but I’m talking “control” in the sense of the templated organization of social ends and individual goals. Until we can see outside our supposed preordination and intended future social placement, we will never be able to escape the exceedingly quickly spiraling loss off individual thought in our country.
I think it’s Katie Couric’s fault or Maxim Magazine. Maybe Michael Bay and James Cameron. The cast of Full House (minus Stephanie)? Our futures have become plotted like some hackneyed film script. We’re already certain of what’s to come and can only muster a bit of sardonic commentary on our poor acting and boring travails.
I had my head in books as a child, dreaming of the undying and immeasurable freedom of American adult life. A life full of uncalculated movement, a lust for the new–quick cash schemes and moundic expanses of breast, begging to be sweated out of that thin, woven barrier (meant only to hold their coyness temporarily), until they could be properly licked and nuzzled.
As I came into adulthood, I expected to find John Steinbeck’s world of piss and struggle and wild, drunken triumph, but awoke to find myself in the Tom Clancy/John Grisham world of…what?…lawyers and airplanes? C’mon guys, I’m not nine. You’re going to have to do a bit more to impress me.
I don’t know who decided that these boring K holes were important, but I’m guessing it’s the same motherfuckers that put the “Contemporary” in R&B. The Bookhouse Boys would like to suggest that you put on some Loretta Lynn and Sammi Smith records, tell your bastard boyfriend to fuck off and catch a ride up to Portland or Denver or wherever (or down from wherever and into the country wilds). Look around a bit. Make some decisions.
We’re sad that the popular culture sucks. Aside from the mid-Seventies, it probably always has. There’s definite dissent out there now, but it’s mostly politically driven. And these goddam present-day politics are hardly discussed vocally (at least not person to person–on the street, as it were), so it’s not a cultural change at all, at least not until the reigning government actually changes.
Fuck you, hipsters. You’re cute, but goddammit, I think you’re holding us back, making us afraid to commit to anything that can’t be shrugged off when the new asymmetrical dress cut forces us to reconsider our general stance on human interaction. Fickle. We’re fickle. We change our opinions as quickly as that flying smiley face changes the Wal-Mart sale placards. Then we remember, “Ah jeez, we’re not even supposed to be shopping at Wal-Mart.”
Well, you’ll be happy to know that The Bookhouse Boys have our minds steadied. We’re gunning for cohesion. That’s why we’ve started our tour in Wisconsin (the Cactus Club in Milwaukee), the Midwest–where America first began this wild, sprawling adventure and before it got fucked up. We’re loading up the tail gun and firing heaps of dick and pussy your way. Remember when all you wanted to do was makeout in a rainstorm?
Whoops…Partying
We got all carried away and forgot that this column of ours was supposed to be about partying and pulling pranks. Here’s a wrap up (mostly from our drive out to Milwaukee. We played a party in Bozeman, MT and a couple in Boulder, CO on the way).
Carl: He brought along some snow pants and was really excited to use them, but the only time we saw snow (and he remembered that he’d brought them) was on the highway in Nebraska, and Neila wouldn’t stop the van for him to get out and roll around.
France: At a party we played in Boulder, France tried to drink a bottle of beer while he played the guitar (Alex Van Halen-style, but not on drums). He picked it up off his amp with his teeth and leaned back to drink it, but it was some kind of homebrew in a really thin bottle, so he bit the top off and the rest shattered on his chest. He spit the broken top into the audience and bled only slightly. When he recalls this story, he likes to explain the look on the dude’s face that was standing in front if him. “It was pure shock,” he says.
Joe: A friend of ours teaches creative writing at Montana State in Bozeman. We sat in on one of his classes, and Joe wore his “Who Farted?” t-shirt. He was giggling through the entire class because he thought it was the ultimate dis on our friend.
Neila: She went out to a VFW in some town outside Milwaukee after the rest of us had gone to sleep at the Super 8. She came back at like 6 a.m. with a new biker buddy that made us all get up and drink his whisky. Turns out he had been a roadie for Sly and the Family Stone in the early 70’s. He had a tattoo on his arm: “Stand” written around the outside of the Liberty Bell with a white man (himself) and a black man (presumably Sly) standing on top embracing. He played an acoustic version of “Dance to the Music”, which doesn’t seem like it would work. But we all love that song and know it super well, so we were able to sing the parts that required extra instrumentation.
We sound boring, but our shows in Wisconsin kicked ass. We’ll talk about partying only next time and hopefully have some photos.
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Volume 2, Issue 2 contents |
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