Tag Archives: Iron Maiden

Generations of Metal & Thank You’s

04 Sunday Jun 2017

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Taking a moment to acknowledge my yesterday, a long day, but a great one.   I looked out the hotel room window last night, curtains open just a bit for some light.  I was wrung out from headbanging for 2.5 hours and shouting myself hoarse, so I committed my body to the sketchy sheets of a king bed touching memories, hoping I wouldn’t forget them this morning as I drove home.

Thank you to Sanctuary, the Iron Maiden tribute band, who put together a pre-concert meet and greet at the Hard Times Cafe, complete with t-shirts and heaping plates of delicious nachos.  You brought old friends together and we made new ones complete with class picture after the gig was done.  Thank you, Rob, for donning the giant Eddie shroud once again so everyone could get their picture taken with you.  Rob, you make great memories for us, and I’m glad you’ve been a part of what’s become a Sanctuary tradition.

I suppose I should say thank you to Iron Maiden, for they are the reason we all became friends, the reason we come from near and far, congregate and hug and sing.  Yesterday as I stood in the tavern watching Sanctuary play, I looked around and saw people of all ages, shapes, and stripes. Looked at the younger ones who are here with their mom or dad, I felt like the night should be called “generations.” Maiden keeps playing, we keep returning, and the music/vibe will live on through the kids. Well. I hope, anyway.

Shifting gears to the lawn, which is the back end of an ampitheater (shed)  venue.  I guess I should be grateful I even got a lawn ticket because the place was sold out.  This was my first Maiden show on the lawn, and you know?  I rather liked standing barefoot in the cool grass, the moon shining overhead.  Thank you, Kent, for keeping me company during the opening act, a band I had no desire to see but they proved themselves to be tight musicians. Not thrilled by their shtick, but like you said, everybody’s gotta have one.  (Still not gonna buy their music, though.)   It was nice chatting with you, and how you randomly found me out of 30,000 other bodies I have no idea. I didn’t steal your purple sneakers as promised, so you’re lucky.

Thank you, two nameless teenagers who were more interested in dry humping during the opening act. First time for seeing that, I must say, and I have seen a lot of things. Little girl, you gave quite a show on that blanket on your back, three knuckles deep in your pie, and your boyfriend getting into the act.  You made a lot of guys happy watching you. Perhaps the world will become a happier place if more of us came in public? Who knows.

Thank you, nameless young father who brought his 4-year-old to his very first concert.  I noticed that when your son, Bear, had enough during the Maiden show you and he curled up in blankets and went to sleep. Thank you for putting your son first. It gives me hope for our generations.

Thank you, two guys who stood next to me during both bands.  (You shall remain nameless as one of you did something he kinda of knew he shouldn’t have and wouldn’t want his name broadcast.)  It was a pleasure meeting you and watching your banter, the product of a close and long friendship.  Thank you, Mister X, for allowing me to watch you as you experienced your first, and possibly last, mushroom trip while seeing Maiden.  I got to see your journey, and yes, it WAS beautiful. Thank you, Mister X, for being concerned that I was alone at a concert, aghast that Kent “left” me to take his place down in front, no matter how many times I told you, it’s OK, I go to shows by myself all the time!

Thank you, Iron Maiden, for playing a tight show.  Nicko’s drums sounded better tonight than I’ve heard in a long time (though… the guitars are still a little fuzzy here and there.)  Bruce, your energy and enthusiasm unflagging as always. Thank you for acknowledging the fans who came from other countries to see you, as they always do, pressed together down front, and reminding us in banter and song that we are all “Blood Brothers,” a family.

People who I would not like to thank, which probably has no place in a “grateful” post, but oh well! To the trains who trundled past and blew their horns not 300 feet from my hotel room three times as I clung desperately to sleep…to the person who thinks it’s a great idea to charge $5 for a bottle of cold water, to whoever designed that “parking lot” — that gravely bottlenecked rats maze a rat couldn’t find its way out of, and to the merchandising team who wants me to pay $45 for a t-shirt…. SUCK IT!   (And as an aside, I’m betting more than half those people behind the wheel were not able to be designated drivers.)  *yikes*

Back to grateful:   I don’t know how you did it, Kent, being down in the front (pit) area to finding me in 30,000 other people as we’re walking through the concourse, but whatever it was….  thank you for helping me find my car in that ridiculous parking lot.  Next time I will be more diligent in noting where my car is on the grid, but your company was appreciated.

Lastly, and perhaps most importantly, thank you 2001 Lexus for getting me there and back again.  You have been a faithful, reliable prairie schooner, and I couldn’t have done it without you — or the the man who helps keep her steel wheels on the rail.  Thank you.

Truth To Power

05 Monday Dec 2016

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…. and then someone posts a link to a song that “Disturbed” covered, majestically, forcefully, and relevantly “The Sound of Silence,” by Simon and Garfunkel.  I was this close to shutting down my writing for the morning, getting ready to move on into some kind of useful action for the day like taking a shower and writing Christmas cards, but up pops that post.  I don’t know when he saw it, and I don’t know why he chose to post it today, but I only know it affected me this morning as it did the first time I saw it:  I cannot sing the song without tears and clenched throat. I imagine myself some kind of “Americas Got Talent” contestant, sturdy in my creative beliefs, but then the music cues and when I try to sing it, everything turns to waterfall, my throat choked with rocks and my soul wanting to heal the rifts, and I croak tears instead of strength.   I’m not sure how anyone can sing that song and not become puddle.   Simon and Garfunkel recorded the song in 1972. I was four. Did I know what soul was, rifts, waterfalls, pain, passion, or tenement halls were back then?  Surely not.  But I remember that song, that whole album, along with Andy Williams and Cher, Perry Como, Johnny Cash.  You know, my mom and dad never sat us down and said, “Here, boy, listen to this song, it will change your life. This is literature. This is passion, this is what it’s all about!”  Music was a background to things like washing dishes or erecting the Christmas tree with Bing Crosby. Loretta Lynn taught me that unless I stood by my man I am not a real woman, because only real women weep for their absent men, shuffling room to room, tears dragging at their cheeks, searching for their dignity, keeping their children in line and dinner on the table because that’s the way it’s supposed to be.  (Poetry.  Lurking.)  And then I started to grow and understand not everyone has my Freedom, and the power in the cry for it!

I am moved to tears this morning because of a song, not because I am sad, but because of power.  It’s like the emotion the church wishes it could elicit from me, that eyes-closed, hand gripping dress rapture they wish they could incite from us every Sunday.  I read poems, dusty words on a yellowed page by authors nobody cares about, and they push me farther and farther down into disbelief, but so much wanting to believe that I was born with a sword in my hand and the fate of the world lies on my skill, cunning, and resolute in the power that I cannot fail.  I laugh in the face of your certainty.  Songs like this one, sung on street corners for change in a garbage poet’s voice, lowly, unhelpful, occupying a flash in a rebel’s mind teach me where the real people come from, their songs dark and misunderstood, but they never for a moment waver in their faith and belief in the song.    There is hope behind the neon gods we made, and it won’t take much to show it.  We just have to keep on keepin on.

PS:  Just got back from running errands and played the song again, this time with the window open, mindful of the time, one must not Disturb one’s neighbor after all,  and I sang this baby without a catch.  Yeah!  \m/

Losfer Words (big ‘orra)

22 Tuesday Nov 2016

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Not sure why I am writing this today.  Perhaps when we are in the most turmoil, our moment of hair-thin breaking weakness, we need to speak the most?  Or bury it.  Either way…  When I look back on this post I say, oh boo hoo, poor baby, did we have a wittle bad dweam?  Think about how others are suffering, their hearts and homes broken, and all you’ve got is this?  Well, yes. I try to keep the whining in perspective, and as far as I know, this is my page to rant or whine, rage, suppose, imply, and wonder at will, never forgetting those who have gone before us in these days.

So I can’t breathe lately.  I think it’s because of the cat I was sitting for a week and all the things that come along with her like fur, dander, and her dusty litter box.  There was a lot of extra hand-washing this week because not handling her would have been cruel: it’s the reason her mom asked me to watch her in my apartment, because she’s so needy for love and company.  Of COURSE I petted her while I was on the toilet, she wouldn’t have it any other way!   I have limits to how much my feline affection will go, especially if you try to scale my bookcase and knock over some super-precious figurines.  But she’s home now, and all that’s left is cramped lungs and sleepless nights trying to breathe.

I woke on the cusp of dawn in terror.  I did not recognize where I was. I was propped up by many pillows on my pretty twin bed, the room looked sterilized white, I did not recognize the doorways, I thought I was in my father’s room the day he took his last breath.  I was the one in that bed. This is my final resting place.  Then I remembered the dream, the dream that never stopped.  Godzilla was coming for me, and I don’t know why. (I never know why.) I offended him somehow, and there was no chance to repay him but in death.  And I remembered seeing myself get out of this bed, go through that doorway, seeing male twins sitting at my card table, oblivious to the destruction going on outside the window.  I opened the door and watched the crowd in the dark street, their faces and bodies reacting to the horror happening in the window upstairs from me.  I was holding a large knife, like a bowie knife, only made of crystal, and apparently I wasn’t supposed to have it, but I refused to give it up.  I ran and ran and hid, climbed, crouched, did everything I could to keep myself and the knife away from the monster, but it never ever failed to find me.  I awoke in my bedroom disoriented, I didn’t recognize where I was and my heart raced, adrenaline rushed, I was so scared because I lost all my bearings.  I studied the door frames trying to make sense of it all, wondering why I was in the hospice room soon to die.  The room became lit with pale orange and I coughed a lot and realized it was a dream, and it was time to stand up.  I haven’t been that afraid since I don’t know when.  I write here today to try and understand it all.

Old Black Water*

15 Wednesday Jun 2016

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Steps up to microphone… “This is dedicated to the one I love…”

she smiles but does not sing.  She just takes a moment to look around at the half-empty hall dotted with leather n black t-shirts, longhairs, miniskirts denim lace and otherwise, smiling sweet faces who came to drink and have a good time with friends. They were eager for some kick-ass music in a place they felt safe waiting for their band to come and play the songs that were part of their bloodstreams.  A brotherhood, a sisterhood, a conclave where they can’t smoke inside, so the habit chases them outside in un-degree weather holy fuck their fingernails turned blue…

I wore my boots because I learned I will get trounced in the mosh pit. I left my purse at home, only carrying cash and my license so they could identify my body when it was all done I always said, jokingly.  I never ate there because it’s not that kind of place. I liked to stand behind the mixing board, explore the balcony upstairs and see what mischief was made but there never was any, just a bunch of empty seats in a tiny theatre that never forgot its stained-glass roots while down below waited a tiny black stage gouged to hell, walls and curtains bordello red,  radio station banners that could have been made by high-schoolers, that was until the headliner came on and the banners rose up into the heavens, up up and away, exposing three stage lights or maybe a fog machine.  The band came, the one we needed to see, even that night when I was in a fever sweat, nothing could keep me away. It’s heaven, it’s passion, strangers no more, we are one when the first chord leaps out of the amps and doesn’t let go for two hours.

and I was “dancin’ with myself oh oh oh oh..

If I claim to be a wise man, it surely means that I don’t know

I hate myself for loving you… ”

I broke the hand dryer in the lady’s room by accident. Guess I shouldn’t have activated it so hard, you know it sparked and shut down and my girlfriend said I was a beast and that’s not so easy to live down. (Oh, and never, ever, leave home without a few squares of TP in your pocket, there won’t be any in the bathroom by the time you get there no matter how early you arrive.) And don’t look in the men’s room as you walk through the narrow hall, the door is always open (why?) and it’s just not polite. Um… yeah, I did.

The bouncer knows me so he lets me prowl around backstage. I got to wrap some wires and help stow them in the truck when the set was done, sober, because the drinks were bottom shelf, full of ice, but I wasn’t there to get wasted, after all.

In another time and place the American Legion was open across the road from the venue because they knew us folks would want a sip of something cool before the doors opened so we queued up for overpriced water.  That’s all right, it’s a worthy cause.  I wandered their wood paneled establishment, beer in hand, studying black and white photos of the veterans, placards with names and dates, feeling grateful for their service and wondering why there weren’t more Iron Maiden t-shirts at the bar and in my world in general.

But then, it’s all about the music.  The vibe. The reason I show up with my camera stuffed in my pocket. I got your autograph. How about that time you were only five feet away from me, courtesy of a good friend who VIPd me up front. We prayed to the metal gods all those nights, together. I watched the creatures punching the night with their fists in the air, hugging their new friends in the parking lot, waiting for the band to come out and say hello to the stalwart few, sweaty hair freezing on their faces, waking up with that plastic band on their wrist that said they’d been somewhere and had the best night of their lives.

Somewhere. Somewhere that wasn’t the emergency room because somebody brought a gun and his misery and fear and pain and anger into the room.

This is dedicated to the one I love. I got you tucked in my tight jeans, inside my creaky leather jacket, you’re with me on the long drive home beside the river, shimmering with a rainbow of lights in black water, the moon nine days old, none of this a dream. “And no one can take it away.”

*old black water keep on rolling, Mississippi moon won’t you keep on shining on me… Thank you, Doobies.

 

Our Hands, With Love

10 Monday Aug 2015

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Today I experienced privileged conversation. We are not a secret enclave set out to dominate and rule the world. Writers have better things to do, but don’t forget, we are an insular breed. Still, we find a way to open doors and windows so we can inspire and be inspired, impossibly.  Creatives of similar minds gravitate to this place. Privileged because we “get it” and we probably live in a world where our spouses and children, our family tree, our bosses and everyone in between just totally does not get it.

When the internet was new to me, I explored everything I had a passion for–things that swept me away, things that elevated and saved me. I only knew what my soul stood up and responded to, what my writers mind reacted to and appreciated, recognized lines I wish I had written in the books written by Michael Moorcock, for one. He and Stephen King (and Iron Maiden) had the earliest impact on my writers mind.

By fate I came to a place that challenged me to write in the format of six sentences–flash fiction.  I come from a background of cathartic writing, often from the hood of a Ford Bronco beneath a moon and alongside the Hudson river.  Looking back I can see how far I’ve come, which doesn’t mean “I OWN.” It simply means I see the growth and want it to continue. By chance, fate, fortune, by the Universe’s manipulations, call it what you will, I landed on a page where my primordial, cathartic words were seen and I was asked to come, to be, to participate in a House of Writers.  True to form, I gave a thousand and one excuses why I could not come.  I was summoned, and despite myself, I went to meet strangers at a secluded chalet in the shaded woods of North Carolina. It was the best thing I ever did for my writing life and for my spirit. I wish grateful thoughts were dollars so my writing friends could be millionaires because they deserve it.  Later, we came together by the ocean, and I was reacquainted with myself and this Writing Thing that demands my care and attention. My love for words and for those writing friends only grows.

Today I focus on the words “privileged conversation” because sharing the foundations of writing is important to me. I was privileged to listen to authors sharing their origins, their interests, and what our future writings will be.  What I focus on is not so much the authors that inspired them. Instead I focus on what their passions are driving them towards today.  Meeting with these authors and creatives raises the bar. It causes me to examine my work microscopically and challenges me in so many other ways.  So. Your hand holds a lantern which lights my way. In my hand holds all soul and passion and destiny. It is my realistic hope that wonderful things are on the way. By my hand, holding yours.