issue #02 pdf - Razorcake

Gradually, over the course of the
night, I did shots with all five of the
neighbor or neighbor-affiliated
girls. All drank in celebration of the
death of the Fat Man. One of them
wasn't a deadhead, though, so she
doesn't really count.
I had to sleep off my buzz on
Bill's couch, and the next morning,
as I peddled up the mountain to my
house, hungover and broke again, I
couldn't help smiling. I felt like
karma had given me a big, wet kiss.
Almost a year passed. I learned
that I wasn't alone in my revelry.
Rev. Norb wrote a hilarious column
about the passing of the Fat Man
for Maximum. NOFX came out
with "August 8th," a song about the
day the Fat Man died ("I see a
bunch of hippies crying, August 8th
was a beautiful day"). I even started
seeing punkers with t-shirts that
said, "Jerry's dead. Give it up." I
can't say for sure, but I felt like
Norb, NOFX, and tasteless punks
were like me in that we didn't really
feel happy that a man was dead.
We just saw a stagnant scene that
harkened back to a time and sound
that was never that cool to begin
with. We saw the shallowness of,
say, people who brag about
bootlegs from the Detroit show,
1989, then sell out the death of their
idol for a dollar shot of
Jaegermeister.
Anyway, by the next summer, I'd
secured another useless diploma
and was back in Atlanta. I worked
in the same bar that I'd worked in
before moving to Flagstaff. I lived
in a house with three old friends.
My favorite deadhead - Laura - and
I shared the upstairs attic space.
The whole city was gearing up for
the Olympics. I worked night shifts
in the bar with Laura, and it was
crazy. Hundreds of people every
night would flood into our bar, get
drunk, yell and scream, have fun,
start fights, eat, run out on tabs, tip
obscenely well, and basically
bounce from one end of the insanity
spectrum to the other. Some
nights, we'd walk out of the bar
with enough cash and enough time
to join the insanity. Most nights,
though, we'd head back to the attic
space, drink a beer or two, and try
to decompress. We'd both want to
listen to music, but being a hippie
and a punk with one stereo between
us (Laura's stereo, at that), some
serious compromising had to go
down. We agreed to alternate
albums. Since we were friends,
we'd try to pick albums that wouldn’t
drive the other one of us too
crazy. I'd play a lot of Man or
Astroman? or Ramones (figuring
everyone loves those bands). She'd
pay me back with War's "The
World Is a Ghetto."
Gradually, I got to the point
where I actually sat through an
entire Dead album without whining
or throwing the stereo out the window.
Not that I enjoyed it. I didn't
enjoy a single note, chord, or drumbeat.
But I watched Laura, who still
had a killer record player (and this
was the late nineties), spin Dead
vinyl that was as old as she was. I
heard her tell stories of growing
into adulthood following the Dead.
I met some of her old hippie friends
and actually became friends with a
couple of them. I listened to her
new albums and realized that she
listened to a lot of current bands
who took the Dead's influence in
new directions. And, of course, we
debated. I won't say argued. We
debated. She asked why Man or
Astroman? was any better than
Dick Dale (because Man or
Astroman? is a whole band who
rock. Dick Dale's just a guitarist).
She asked how I could criticize
Jamiroquai for living in the past
and stealing everything from the
Dead, but not notice that Man or
Astroman? was doing the same
thing with Dick Dale (doh!). We'd
listen to the Dead and I'd ask how
she could be so hung up on a band
that hadn't written a good song in
over a decade. Then I'd play
"Rocket to Russia" and she'd ask,
"When was the last time the
Ramones wrote a good song?" (doh
again). I'd point out lyrics. She'd
point out the ways drum beats filled
spaces. Sometimes one of our other
roommates would come up and
play her Rick Springfield albums.
Laura and I would roll our eyes
together. Finally, I understood that
not only were Laura's battered
Dead albums far beyond the bootleg
cassettes in some Flagstaff kid's
BMW, but that she was just like me
- a music fanatic entrenched in an
underground scene that's rife with
poseurs and crippled by waves of
trendiness, a scene that was triggered
by bands who are long gone
(or should be), but who started a lot
of mixed up folks down really original
paths.
And so, I still giggled when I
heard the NOFX song. I still
laughed when I saw the "Jerry's
Dead…" t-shirts. I still got together
with my punker buddies and
laughed about the night all the
trendy deadheads sold the Fat
Man's memory for a shot. Most of
all, I still hated the music of the
Dead. Thanks to Laura, though, at
least I felt guilty about mocking a
man's death.
Then, April 15, Joey Ramone
died, and I had nothing to crack
wise about. Ain't karma a bitch.
-Sean Carswell