Face melted by the fire spray from Mikey Fitz’s mouth during the
first bars of a Kiss cover, before I really gave a fuck about resurrection,
handfuls of Soma down the chute and then wandering past the weird cat piss room
where Drew Barrymore was making out with Eric from Hole, out into the Pico
Boulevard night, familiar voices left behind, far away from the watchful eyes
of a thousand Keanes, stumbling into a circle of giddy transients on the street
bathed in the dark pink streetlight from the Lancers bar across the way, the
silhouettes of piñatas hung in caged store windows like strange sleeping
creatures. I’d come back inside
sometimes to find myself less lost, if anything, that stage could make me feel
like I was in the right place at the right time. Hazed by Hazelmyer for almost a year, from underneath his
famous Halo of Booze, spewing venom at me at every lowercase show until the day
came when the ritual was complete and he offered us our first record deal. 18 or 19 I can't recall, disillusioned
but alive and well, playing shows with my younger self's favorite bands,
Unwound, Karp, godhead Silo, Slug, et al and then sometimes just a witness,
wondering why the guitar player from Laughing Hyenas just staggered off stage
mid-set and into the bathroom and where could I get some? Not there, of course,
but in mindset yes of course I was there.
Imaad Wasif
Los Angeles, 2011
