March 13, 2008
Tour Blog: Springfield — Meth Amp City
The van broke down about halfway between Kansas City and Springfield, so we got stuck in a little backwater Missouri town waiting for it to get repaired. I was a little disappointed that nobody recognized us—after all, Lacey says directionless small-towners are our prime demographic—but you can’t have everything. I did notice something odd, though, as Margo and I waited in the lobby of the auto shop. A doughy, red-haired guy with a straggly beard and a tie-dye Grateful Dead t-shirt stormed into the shop, flopped a pizza down on the counter, and demanded money from the the counter clerk.
The clerk, eyes glazed and moving slowly, pulled open the pizza box. It looked like your standard cheese pizza, albeit cold, but the pizza had something else—something odd—surrounding its crust. Jagged, whitish rocks formed a ring around the pizza.
“Why does it smell like Sequoia Hermann in here?” Margo asked, wrinkling her nose. So she had noticed it, too.
The counter clerk gazed at the pizza in wonderment, then punched some buttons to open the register and pay for the “pizza.” When the pizza dude left, the clerk took the box into the back.
Growing up in Iowa, we never had a meth problem. It was only when I left and came back over a decade later that I discovered the ravages it had brought to Cedar Rapids—and, for that matter, many rural towns. It’s cheap and effective, the ingredients are legal, and any dumbass can make it without blowing himself up.
It occurred to me that, although I am no longer preaching the message of tolerance, peace, and familial love I once did, we’re in the heartland preaching a different kind of love to America’s youth. We could also make other differences. Of course, Abysmal Crucifix has often written politically conscious songs—”Rolling in It” and “Gangster Lovestick,” for instance—but we’ve preferred not to mention our recreational drug abuse in our lyrics because we don’t want to become subject to FBI wiretaps like Cypress Hill. Our phone sex is a cherished private act.
Immediately, a song formed in my head. I grabbed a notepad and scrawled down lyrics to “MethAmp City,” a song that chronicles the rise in rural crystal meth usage and warns of its effects. Clearly this would save the children.
When we arrived in Springfield, I felt good about the song. I taught it to the band the day before the show, and by sound check it sounded fantastic—as drab and sloppy as classic Abysmal. This is the first song I’ve written since Jupiter Starshine Collective, but I’m really feeling the groove. Even the band agreed.
We were playing at a venue called the Rare Breed Youth Drop-In Center, which sounded to me like it’d be really laid-back and hippie-ish. It wasn’t. An ex-Marine colonel ran the place, and he took one look at us and told me there had been a mistake.
“You’re Jupiter Sunshine Collective, the group of family singers who came highly recommended from Hank Wooster?”
“That’s right,” I said.
“Why are you all dressed in tight leather?”
“To…show our support of the heartland’s cattle industry,” Margo explained.
The colonel’s sneer turned into a bright grin. He extended a hand to me. I shook it, and then he went down the line, shaking everyone’s hand.
“Glad to have you,” the colonel said. “I just felt some alarm when I overheard your sound check. Playing songs about…unmentionable things.”
“You have to mention the unmentionable to get at the truth,” I said calmly.
“Yes, well—”
“Dylan Thomas, 1978,” I added.
“Very profound, indeed. Just…try not to use the word ‘clit’ when the boys get here.”
I nodded sagely. The colonel dismissed himself, and I turned to Margo. “Was he serious?”
She shrugged.
“Come on,” Carl said, “it won’t be so bad. We’ll just play a shorter set—start with ‘Meth Amp City,’ move on to some of the less overtly disgusting material, maybe pad it with the extra-long, extra-tedious guitar solos you love so much.”
“Capital idea!” I exclaimed, pointing one finger in the air. “We can’t miss.”
The youth audience begged to differ. We opened with “MethAmp City,” which I dedicated to “the lost sons of Missouri.” A few polite kids clapped, but most of them just rubbed their ears and yawned. Next we tried “Rolling in It,” taking a cue from the radio edit and replacing the line “like a pig in shit” to “like a capitalist.” Crickets.
“We’re gonna have to jack this up,” I said to Carl, at which point we launched into a searing rendition of “Howling on a Friday Night.”
It’s very rare that you can hear an audience—I guess it was just the acoustics of the gymnasium, but I clearly heard one kid lean to another and say, “I wish my dad would’ve drove me to see Justin Timberlake in K.C.”
That hurt my soul.
“Fine,” I hissed into the microphone. “This shit’s on now.”
We blazed through classics—“Phone Sex,” “Put It Where It Doesn’t Belong,” “Two Berries…” Nothing.
“You little rodent-faced motherfuckers!” I growled. “You don’t deserve my genius.”
“You suck!” one kid called.
“Play ‘Little Darlin’’ or some other fag shit!” a girl squealed.
“No!” I snapped. “You kids blew it!”
I barely paid attention to the booing as I set down my guitar and stormed backstage. The others followed, reluctantly.
The colonel sat in the dressing room, waiting for us. “I do apologize,” he said. “Kids can be the toughest audience of all. You tried your best, but the only people interested were the parents.”
“I know,” I said, “it’s just the luck of—”
“And they aren’t happy.”
“Who?”
“The parents.”
“What?”
“You sang songs about anal sex—”
“It’s about immigration!”
“—which may not be illegal here anymore, but it ain’t because of anything we did. And you cursed and belittled the children, and after all that you didn’t even play ‘Li’l Darlin’.’”
“We don’t play shit like that anymore,” Margo said. “We’re trying to reach them in a different way. Do you understand the meth problem in this part of the country?”
“Understand it?” the colonel asked. “Half our city’s kids is victims of it.”
“So why not try to prevent it?” Margo wondered.
“Can’t prevent something like this,” the colonel said. “Either they do because they’re weak, or they don’t ‘cause they’re strong. A song won’t have an effect. A song is entertainment.”
“It doesn’t have to be!” Riffs barked.
“Comin’ from you fellas…it does. I’m sorry. Incidentally, we aren’t paying you.”
“What?!” Margo roared.
“We were promised a 45-minute show at least—you was barely on 20 minutes. Besides which, this is a nonprofit organization and folks don’t like to donate if they know their money is going to something…well, like you.” He nodded at me.
“Fuck off,” I said.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” The colonel leaped from the chair, shoved me against the wall, and crooked his forearm over my windpipe.
“Nothing,” I gasped.
Instead of waiting until morning, we decided to leave Springfield last night on account of our motel room—not the full motel, just our room—mysteriously burned down. I must say, I’m finding the youth demographic a tough nut to crack. Why can “Little Darlin’” succeed in a place like this, but “Put It Where It Doesn’t Belong” has no reaction?
More importantly, why can’t a song make someone think and change his or her life? Maybe I’m alone, but music always had more impact on my life decisions than anything else. Now that we’re playing gigs, I just hope the rest of the tour goes a little better.
Written by Girth McDürchstein on March 13, 2008 12:20 PM
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