PADRINO: The Beginning of Chapter 21

I stood outside the door for a few moments.  I could hear a Mexican melodrama playing loudly from inside, then a series of grunts which could only be Tom struggling to get on his cowboy boots. Tom yelled, “son of a bitch,” and stomped the floor signifying that the boot was finally on. “I know you’re out there, Colter. It may be Texas, but you can hear that diesel from down the street.”

“I’ll be out here, Tom.”

“Let’s go get,” the front door flew open and then Tom slowly opened the screen door and stepped out onto the front porch. “Let’s go get a cerveza, right? With Ben and Lilly.”

“Yeah, okay. I have to talk to Ben about something.”

“What? Is it important?”

“It’s just something to talk about it is all.”

“All right.”

We rode into town in near silence; Tom decided to switch it up from Nirvana back to Peter Greene. The way it started, this dumb and long, at times frightening and maddening journey. I surely didn’t miss the rain back home, the clouds and the mountains. I would miss this space, the unending sun and heat. The funny thing is that it would take some real time to be able to separate Texas from Canadian whiskey and I guess now low bar vodka. Every time I would think about Texas I would think about the ridiculous struggle to find consistency, to get real answers, and to see peace. All those things shouldn’t be taken for granted in any space on any planet, or state. Although, Texas and this journey brought them more to the surface than I imagine anywhere else. And that’s all fine and truly good. Even without finding comfort, I can find comfort in the feeling of truly living in a time and place that I probably won’t see again. No matter what the annoyance or stupid nature that took place, there was a time to exist and feel different, because in my existence I feel as if there are a lot of times in life that feel similar. This experience isn’t one of those, for better or worse, and there’s some sort of beauty in that. Some sort of reminder that moments are particular, instances don’t always correlate, and the option to keep some chaos dripping from the well isn’t anything to be taken for granted.

PADRINO: End of Chapter 20

I stopped by a local corner store and picked up a six-pack of Modelos that was near the supposed show. I pulled up to the address of the place and peaked through the windows of the orange brute grumbling on the corner. There were trees covering the view and honestly the brute was so Goddamn loud that I had to turn it off in order to potentially hear any music being played. The flyer said that the show had started half an hour ago, but I remembered that time was more or less infinite down here in the lush sun and heat, it just revolved until someone let it know to start or stop again. I waited another ten minutes for noise to start, or to see people coming and going but nothing happened. For the most part on this trip and life in general I have attempted to keep a whimsical spirit when it came to experiences. Especially if those experiences include music, potentially free music within a city known for its musical streets and dingy alleyways of melodic nirvana. I placed a cigarette in my mouth and opened the door of the orange brute. I put my left boot on the cooling pavement, while my right leg was propped on the external footboard. I waited some more, at this point I just wanted to hear at least a string of notes, I started to feel bad for the guys potentially inside that house that I would never meet. I propped my entire self on the footboard attempting to get a better view through the thick surrounding bush for any form of life. The only real sound was the rustling of the birds going back to their high and arching trees and quivering the leaves with every ridiculous hop. Then I heard the kick drum or a subtle strum of the guitar.

I couldn’t go, this wasn’t the experience needed right then and there; the day was fading, the sun was clocking out, and a road had to be driven. Seguin is where I knew I had to be to end this trip in the right way, the true way, and I have comfort that I’ll walk and exist in Austin’s sweet streets again.

Soon enough the road was rumbling under the spinning, jagged, rubber dragoons of the orange brute pointed somewhat in the direction of Seguin. I thought there for a second how many times I had chose the wrong experience throughout my life and missed out on possibly greener grass. Admittedly, it is juvenile to think that there had been a wrong choice and that I am not a mindless bug roaming named and numbered left and right turns, but that somewhere in some high cloud the strings are being pulled between right and wrong. Because how can any swinging dick make sense between the rudimentary and the scaffolding of what makes a wrong experience between the right. When is someone supposed to know that they are wasting their lives every rise and dawn, or even wrap their eggshell minds around the conception that there isn’t anything to waste or any hill to climb? I guess what it all drums up to be is happiness and finding that between the billows of music, people, love, and whatever else. I just couldn’t get it out of my head that I had potentially chose the right way right then and there outside that random man’s house. Obviously, I think for the most part historically I have chosen the wrong road, which is nothing spectacular because unfortunately I believe the masses are with me in the realm of that opinion. Although, as time goes on and I barely learn, what I have luckily been able to figure out is that waiting for at least the right timing can be better than jumping at the throat of the wrong one.

PINK FLOYD -- ROGER WATERS CONCERT, TACOMA 2017

An Experience Beyond Time

My father called me up some time in May of 2017 and animatedly told me that he purchased tickets for my two younger brothers, my stepmother, my girlfriend, and myself. The tickets at hand had been purchased for the Roger Waters US & THEM tour. Roger Waters was the lead of Pink Floyd, which reigned at the top of the genre of classic rock and overall charts for decades: spanning from the 60s clear to the late 80s and so forth. The most notable members of the band over those years were: Syd Barrett, David Gilmour, Richard Wright, and Roger Waters. Due to creative differences around the year of 1985, Roger left the band and the rest of the zany bunch went on to preform under the name of Pink Floyd. A couple others in the band dropped out as well in the following months and years. Gilmour continued on with the name of Pink Floyd creating new material. While Roger went on to preform as Roger and continue on preforming songs from The Hay Days. Roger has, and assumedly will always be, seen as the real mover and creator behind the music. This is the case, because the albums where he had his most influence are some of the most sold albums of all time, Dark Side of The Moon and The Wall. Pink Floyd is most notable for their weird sonic combinations, metaphorical meanings, ballad like songs, and an impactful, resonating sound.

I grew up listening to the packed lyrics, deep guitar, and odd sounds of Pink Floyd almost every day driving with my father, going to his separate projects and jobs he had. My father grew up in some sort of way listening to Pink Floyd as a young man as well, and I know that they shaped him and inspired him throughout the years how they often times have for me. Between my father, my brothers, and myself there seemed to be a magnificent proliferation and credit to Pink Floyd’s music. Passing time like it has been nothing.

Due to current and ever dazzling political tensions running like wild fire, as well as Roger being a starch political junkie himself, there was a great and colossal display of themes and metaphors in the form of images and video throughout the entirety of the performance. It all ran like a fine tuned machine from massive projections behind the stage as well as a multi-display drop down screen hanging from the dusty rafters. All of the screens were beaming neon images of silly political leaders, expletives, and opinions. About a quarter way through the performance Roger brought local Tacoma and Seattle children on stage wearing “RESIST” t-shirts screaming at the top of their lungs that they didn’t need no education. It was gorgeous, blunt, and hypnotic.

The archaic cedar planked, aggressively steep stair cased Tacoma Dome somehow clashed with the seemingly everlasting age of Roger as well as the supposed time capsule of his music. Just as the clanking, disruptive intro of “Money” started a black, blow-up piggy bank softly fluttered throughout the lower levels of the dome. Eventually, Roger’s images would always gradually morph into different forms of currency, gold and generally green.

I couldn’t help but think about the massive brainpower that must have gone into the show. What planning and collecting and creating of images, photographs, sounds, dreams, conceptions, and most of all: people. Not only the chanting children but also the newly enlisted and I assume promising young artists that backed Roger up and helped him hit the higher notes that he simply was physically incapable of making.

He didn’t close with Shine On You Crazy Diamond, unfortunately, but he did close with another great guitar solo: Comfortably Numb. It made me want to jump up and down the sheer cliff like staircases of the dome. I looked over at my brothers with a clenched fist, which was the only display of emotion and bodily movement I could harness in the desperate time.

Leaving the venue we grabbed our t-shirts and exited with wide eyes and warped minds. It was all a decent Armageddon out into the gentle late night with a soft summer breeze dancing between the droves of zombies exiting the near sensory overload. There were a lot of “wows”, and minor disputes about Roger’s platform on the basis of hypocrisy, which there always tends to be. I give a guy like Roger a pass on just about everything. I do this mostly because he’s an artist and if the cost of projecting worthwhile, resounding messages results in another hypocritical, perhaps delusional old rock star -- then so be it.

The cover of the t-shirt displayed hands reaching towards each other redolent of God and man and the Sistine Chapel. In the backdrop there was the smoke stakes in blazon bright red and blue aligning with the cover of the underrated Pink Floyd album, Animals. North American tour dates were drenched on the back, displaying a rigorous schedule and the reaffirmation that Roger is in a race against the dismal image of age. I couldn’t help but think that this was going to be the farewell tour, but perhaps that’s selfish. I hope not, but the notion cannot be ignored. In some sense I can’t believe Roger doesn’t just throw up his arms and sulk away into some bright, shiny place forgetting about the world he is so inspiringly angered by, although the tours and the music do pay. Thankfully, the classic music of Pink Floyd is as transcendent as it is and for better or worse it is sickeningly ironic that it has to be.