from “Suicide Mission” by Kamikaze Kowalski

Depression Overdrive

Of course we split. Supernatural went to Hawaii to tattoo tourists (just like New York, only in paradise. Why not?), while Kranky got a respectable telecom job in New Jersey, presumably for the company insurance to pay for his phenomenally needed dental work. Warfinger became tour damager to marginal, over-the-hill rock acts who had slipped to the level of living and touring to which he was accustomed (“the Dickies, featuring Olga from the Toy Dolls”, for instance). Actually, his “day job” was not surprisingly that of dope dealer – and as a result is probably the most financially successful of the lot of us. I stuck with Kitty for a couple more years. Why, i do not know. We probably spoke two words to each other the whole time.
She brought in misfit after cretin to the fold, with no hope of ever matching the musicianship and character of my former bandmates. First, she hired the old band, the one on the CD, of which we had been touring in support the past 4 years: an alcoholic drummer who looked like Jackie Gleason (he even cracked one-liners between songs to cover Kitty’s tuning issues, and more likely so he could catch his breath before clicking us into the next number); a guitarist who had the tone and personal charm to match of a rip saw grinding through metal. He dressed like he just got off a cross country Greyhound bus, including a little wool cap – even in summer (I don’t even know if he had hair). He looked like he had Downs Syndrome, which was all the worse when he was drunk (which was always) and onstage would roll his eyes wildly, and stagger around pigeon toed. This was all very studied and I still wonder why he bothered. I guess when you’re that repulsive, you might as well take it all the way. At least it was unique, never copied.
Then poor “Mighty Joe” joined on drums. I think he regretted it instantly. He was interesting and entertaining on my last voyage with them: Toronto. We were on our way to play at our friend Doreen’s new club, OPM Den. Her parents let her open the joint above their Chinese restaurant in Chinatown. Mighty Joe was a remnant from the otherwise all-girl band (himself excluded, although he did wear a pink polka-dot dress shirt our first gig together), the Pristeens. He knew alot of the same NYC rock dinosaurs as Kitty (“Handsome” Dick Manitoba from the MC5, for example. Joe used to bartend at his joint, aptly named “Manitoba’s” on Avenue B), and thus was considered hip in her book. In all fairness, he actually was. Everyone referred to him as “Mighty Joe”, including himself. In the van, between his stories of rock and the road, drinking and recovery, he would lean over to me and whisper, “is this how it always is?” (meaning: driving 1,000 miles and back to play one lousy gig) and “do you think we’ll be paid?” (meaning: obvious). Since he was new to the fold, Kitty had previously instructed me to primarily concern myself this gig with cueing Mighty Joe for starts, stops and other musical nuances – at the expense of showing off my vocal harmonies.
Several miles before the Canadian border, we took a delightful two hour diversion in some suburban frontier area so Warfinger could smoke as much weed as his fried lungs and soul could handle (which was alot), while scoping out the perfect stash spot for the remaining ganja it would have taken him a week to finish. He held the bowl to his mouth with one hand, lit up with the other, and drove with his knees, this fucking van that felt like it would at any moment careen off the highway, even with two hands white-knuckled to the wheel. Of course we were stopped at the border (no surprises there), and the ‘finger was called into a private room, leaving us wondering about our fate for the next hour as the polite, yet thorough Canadian Customs Police searched the van. It was again no surprise that the ‘finger had a police record in the States for dealing and they didn’t want to let us in. Another hour, however, and he, smug and self-satisfied as ever, had his Ministry papers, and we were en route.
The van barely fit down the dark alleyways of Toronto’s Chinatown. Tires crunching gravel, we slowly rolled forward through the thick, steamy air, fragrant with wok cooking, rotting vegetables and fish, moth balls, urine . . . The endless rows of restaurants were outlined starkly against a colorful mist from the neon lights on the street side. The van quietly chugged and sputtered along through a soundscape of cat fights and metal garbage can lids. All we needed now was Charlie Chan to step out of the shadow, drawing deep on an opium pipe, muttering words of mysterious wisdom, parting the velvet curtain, motioning for us to enter, revealing to us the stage.
The joint was packed, the crowd hungry for the rock, the mood anticipatory. The DJ cut the music, the lights dimmed, we hit the stage, kicking into “Depression Overdrive.” The guitarist drooled and staggered in his corner (is there a fucking doctor in the house already?). Mighty Joe’s pink shirt rippled gracefully despite his hard-hitting style. Kitty, rehearsed as an old magician, smiled and pulled her usual shtick out of her usual bag of tricks. The audience was none the wiser. They loved it. I chose to enjoy the moment, singing the sweetest harmonies I could muster, strutting about the stage in my leather pants, drinking from the endless beer that kept arriving near my monitor, delivered by some delectable geisha.
We were paid. In Chinese food. And lots of it, god bless Doreen’s mom. I devoured as much of this as possible on the way back to New York, a veritable last supper, for my fortune cookie read “Get out.” I knew this was it for me in this company. It’s hard to pay the rent in leftovers.
Soon thereafter I heard that Mighty Joe freaked out on Kitty and basically told her and the band to fuck off. I never bothered with the details. He lasted about 2 weeks.
Supernatural returned from the South Pacific, pale as ever in his leather, but about 20 pounds more of him stuffed into it. That’s alot of cocoanuts, kid. His smile was still disarmingly genuine and knowing, still unspoiled. He again offered the free tattoo. It was hard to turn down a master, but I still don’t know what kind of demons I want so visibly and permanently adhering to my flesh.
In a surprise move Kranky rejoined the band and, I suppose in an attempt to dekrankify, took to the Warfinger weed. He went back to two unhealthy things he had sworn off. Kranky off the wagon, but maybe he was on the wrong damn wagon in the first place. Who knows . . . In any case, some genius was apparently able to save most of his teeth.
I, Kamikaze Nickels Sidecar Kabuki Culture-Boy Kowalski, found that a band you can escape; rock n roll you cannot. Music is my mistress, as well as my first love; a fortunate thing. From where I stand now, I follow no one but my muse.


© christopher peifer