Chairwoman Now (dreams she is not a band)

alfreeda is standing in the short line sign song sanging from the ceiling it whispers “everythings fine girl liked ta blow my mind…” this gives her that carsick feeling donna equals man on pre-disney 42nd street who smells of mothballs and weed “black? White? chinese girls with dirty feet? Ah, for once I got something you need”

alfreeda is a rainbow and a mango and she watches the anita hill hearings hanging in limbo doubting thomas and wondering who brought all this upon us and whether the onus was a bonus she is a republican and an african and I have paid her a visit so that I might laugh again.

“ain’t no valet parking in hell” sang fred “mandrake” bell then he danced across the street and bade us all a fond farewell at the funeral home on crenshaw what the men and women then saw was an act of selfless duty there stood a stunning beauty in the doorway on the metaphysical porchway saying close the screen door so the flies won’t get in close the screen door so the guys won’t get in I said close that motherfucking screen door so the lies wont get in what kind of place would put an advertisement on a dead man’s face donna wakes stunning beautiful like a timid ocean fluorescent pillow high yellow motion orange red a dead man’s head inside he dreams of sex unknown to all who come to pay their
respects.

old

Uncomfortably surreal it is watching 20 year old hipsters dressing like 20 year old hipsters did back when we were 20 year old hipsters who did not dress like other 20 year old hipsters because we’d sensed somehow that true 20 year old hipsters shouldn’t look like anyone else – including other 20 year old hipsters.

Late 70s/80s revivalism disturbs wee old farts, primarily cuz, unlike the best pop moments in time, that period has not proved to be rich enough for mining, or rather RE-mining or just plain reminding as fun and exciting as it was, (we’ll never forget where we were the first time we heard the Pistols) it serves only a tad more depth than the pre-Beatles Fabian era I’m being mean but you dig punk’s biceps were its artiness – the way it pulverized our assumptions of what pop was – and as an art movement it deserves major props but only on rare occasions did the music ever rise to the level of the urgent point it was making.

Didn’t feel this way back then genuinely felt the clash to be as great as the stones and would have destroyed anyone who thought otherwise with fever pitched arguments delivered with a gusto unseen outside of black holy roller churches we possessed the arrogance and contempt of the contemporary the clash were pollack and we were greenberg spitting “fuck you – you don’t get it but you will and you’ll have to wait in line for it one day and buy the program too” and of course they did oh comfy winter coat of nostalgia –

Hippy (1965 – 75) served overall better hotcakes by hippy we mean our cousins mit big afros who listened to early 70’s isleys and hated dick nix along with their white equals who listened to stones and hated dick nix the noises were rich and had a comically compelling grip on society we remember earnest, endless conversations between our fathers and various afros that floated in and out of our houses and there existed this borderline mystical connection between the organized noise these afros listened to and the utopian lives they wanted to lead it was about more than freaking square people out with weird haircut and aggressive stance not that hippies weren’t into freaking people out – of course they were – but the end result of the freak out was sposed to be positive mind-blower hippy wanted to turn you on punk wanted to turn you off and the reason punk wanted to turn you off was because that was in many ways the most it could ever hope to achieve.

especially the children laughing

A critic once said that while listening to Coltrane he heard his mother’s voice. When i listen to Monk I hear my mother washing dishes while talking to the next door neighbor thru the kitchen window, i hear rain pop-locking on a yellow 2nd grade raincoat at the corner of Venice & La Brea, i hear my father rustling thru his change pocket to give me a handful of quarters, i hear my sister snapping her fingers to stevie wonder, Monk’s music sounds like somebody’s old uncle dancing on beat up linoleum in a waiting room filled with kids laughing…like a picnic accompanied by a ride cymbal…his music sounds like you running for the telephone and tripping and then cursing and then laughing… sometimes life is a long beautiful melodic line and sometimes you drop a fork at a quiet restaurant…its all there (especially the children laughing)… in that music.

Alfreeda dreams that she is a band

The wary travelers haul ass howling cross this grating country of yours from LA to NYC hooded strangers sing to me in the parking lot of the Walmart in the Ozarks the peak of American civilization clearly while
Agent Eat My Dust enters “I’ll cover you” I say once inside she spies spontaneously crying female cashiers and customers who have just sent their men off to war the reality and horror of it just hitting them finally right now as they stand in line paying for the diapers one t-shirt reads “If you mess with the USA you better be prepared for a good ass kickin” this would be a great place to do a show I think we’d all learn something couple of kids drive up in a white beat up 70’s type automobile he looks about 12 and she looks about 14 and is pregnant bumper sticker says, “If I lived here I wouldn’t be home now” (potential fan)
so we head up north a piece meet with St Louis contact Agent Upping at mid-west party headquarters which uses bbq joint as front he gives us top secret files to peruse but our hands are too greasy to hold important stuff we get an inside peek at the latest techniques in instant cloning he shows us a picture of himself protesting the war in SF while simultaneously giving a tour of Billy Gadfly’s home in St Louis, Gadfly being a baseball player who wrote poetry exclusively about moths with lisps. Upping also gives tours of places in St. Louis where TS Eliot did not sleep.

Once in NYC we meet all clandestine-like in an east village cellar with the other agents. Em Ewe, from the peepholes republic of KY, Peckering McGreckering aus Ferndale and our mole on the lowereastside known only as The Bell.
Mission: to steal the guitar that Abraham Lincoln wrote “send in the clowns” on. We know its in a vault somewhere in Graham Central Station so we head there Security Guard checks for bombs under our vehicle but he doesn’t know that we all have certificates and degrees we received thru the mail via matchbooks covers and that we are ALL CERTIFIED ROCK CRITICS and when he says “What can I do for y’all” we reply in unison “I HAD A VINYL COPY OF “OAR” BEFORE MOJO EVER SAID SHIT ABOUT IT DAMMIT – LEMME IN THIS MOTHERFUCKER BEFORE I HAVE TO TELL YOU ALL ABOUT MY COLLECTION OF TROJAN 45’s!!!”
Blown thoroughly away by our studly collectorgeekungfu he immediately waves us on. The guitar turns out to be in great shape and has a little note inside of it from Frederick Douglas, which reads “Hey cabin boy, GET REAL! Sincerely, La Frederick ps: you can run but you can’t hide from your true self.”