Four years ago, in 2003, I left one of the few Orange Peel shows I've been to. It was Junior Brown, and I'd left my cel phone at home (I wanted to prove that it was possible). Even in those pre-technological days, when camera phones were the new shit and there was no such iPhone, if it can even be imagined, I had to prove it to myself.
Instead, the opposite was proven. Somewhere on Smoky Park Bridge heading into West Asheville some goon with South Carolina plates in an Asian two door coupe (one of those fast and whiny little Hondas, I believe) the color of dried wasabi started following me. At first it was casual, he was just behind me at all times on a deserted three lane road. After probably two miles of this I got the Fear. It was 1:00 in the morning and I was in no mood to be pistol raped by some lunatic from the Rabies State.
It got weird and Fear was in full swing when I tried to pull into a gas station... somewhere reasonably public where I would at least have the option of an impromptu posse should my pursuer want blood. The station was closed, and the mystery honda of Death and Fear pulled in behind me, hovering with great malevolence as I circled the parking lot and then drove away from town, to the dark hills I knew so well. I'm not tough, but I trusted my ability to lose this bastard somewhere in the strange and twisting roads away from town, if not run him off the road into some creek.
He followed me, I could almost see the grille and lights of his car as red demon eyes and tusked pig mouth, through every turn of the backcountry roads. I flew around curves, my pickup behaving like a Boxster, and ran stop signs. The pursuing minion changed into the left lane several times, trying to match my speed, which I did not let him do. We were locked, he and I, in a bizarre automotive mortal combat. I was not prepared to be rammed into a tree at 50mph by some sadistic yokel.
I ran a few red lights, in full and unabashed animal flight from danger, headed back from the hills to town. I lost him when he turned onto I-40, presumably to find and devour the soul of an easier target, but I didn't stop until I saw my first cop.
I didn't have his tag number, or anything, but I have never been happier to see a cop. I spewed some gibberish all over his shoes, something about ohmygodohmyfuckingod I just got chased by this IDIOT FREAK WEIRDO WHAT THE FUCK fromsouthcarolinaandididntgethistagnumber but it was GREEN FUCKING HONDA FUCK WHAT THE FUCK. Some wide eyed gibberish, but nothing could be done. The cop and his friend cop were very nice to me about it, but we knew the doomed nature of whatever manhunt I had in mind. I wanted helicopters with missiles and machine guns and crazed bastards with sniper rifles combing the highways with a thirst for asshole blood.
I went home and didn't turn on my lights. I locked every door and closed the blinds and found my bed in the darkness, occasionally creeping to the window with dread, anticipating satanic cackles as a possessed car crept up my long drive. After some time I fell asleep, and with further time this panic-ridden night chase faded among all my other bizarre stories of life and near death.
***
Asheville has since been conquered by a stranger thing. Dancepop. The Morrissey fans, in their eternal paleness, have hopped the fence and now shake their malnourished hips to boomchick boomchick from the Northeast. New Wavers parade up and down Broadway like so many Attilas the Hun. It's because Greenville beat them to the dancepop fad. Asheville is stunned that such a shit town (as Greenville is viewed by anyone ignorant to the quality of their underground) would beat them to the next Big Thing. Asheville has always been the state's arrogant talent sniffer, and to have been beaten by Greenville... to even have bands PREFER Greenville? They are not amused.
The Spazzatorium Galleria, more a legend around the country than any stage or restaurant corner in Asheville, has been shaking its collective booty to laptop beatz and pink shirted howlings, yo, for a very long time. The latest recycling is huge. The uniform is almost the same, only more pastels and shorter shorts than before, as gutterpunk bands. Implicitly, these bands are not wanting for money. Generally people who are broke enough to be expected to dress gutter make every effort to not appear to be that gutter. Uniform, uniform, uniform.
***
If I had been carrying my phone that dark and instinct-driven night four years ago, I would have probably felt a lot more secure. However, brushes with death and extreme violence have always been spiritual growth spurts. I know the value of my life. I know the soundtrack I want, and the soundtrack that the underground is pushing right now is not always to my standards.
Imperial Battlesnake is descending upon North Carolina right now, blowing through in two days and two shows like a pack of enraged Mako Sharks being chased by a herd of snowblind Bison. Maybe I'll drop these memory demons off at the sitter for the evening and let them deafen me into a lighter mood.
They are quite good, after all.
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1 comment:
Good words.
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