The Smell of Death
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listen. It’s nothing to me. I came along for the ride and made no pretense about it. I’ve never listened to Jeff Dahl records and really don’t anticipate an upswing in that activity upon my return home. But, you seem to be saying, in a situation such as this, the music isn’t as important as the time spent goofing off, chasing girls, getting drunk, looking for heroin, cruising red light districts, discovering local culinary delights...” “Drinking and whoring!” I clarify for us both. “Say it.
the Renault. Someone will have to ride in the back, up on the rigged second level over the equipment where we’ve been hoisting our luggage and our beverage stash. Back at the gig, we play a tight set and have a blast utilizing the large stage for rock show buffoonery. The crowd loves us, and we even get a couple of encores, rare for an opening act. Following our set, Rat, Z, and I make the rounds and check out the women. There are more girls at this gig than at any show we’ve played, maybe
don’t. I continue milling about, and I’ve just about exhausted every possible social encounter available. The club is thinning, and we’re still waiting. Finally, at a few minutes before 2:00 a.m., Richard announces we’re ready to go. His partner, a glad-handing English bore, is putting up Dahl, Ratboy, and Geordie, while the rest of us are to go with Richard. We grab some guitars and follow Richard on foot to his apartment a few blocks away. Outside Richard’s place, we stand in the street. No
the longest tour of our lives. I am sure we’ll make money on the road and at the gigs. Everything’s gonna be just fine. The night of our last rehearsal, a Sunday, Jeff and I go back to my apartment. My live-in girlfriend, Gina, whom I’m ridiculously in love with, is cooking up a Cajun feast, and has invited a few of our friends over for a bon voyage. Gina will miss me, but she has all of the added responsibilities of managing our empire during my absence. Involved in the music business
rock ‘n’ roll audience. As if to compensate, one extremely drunk moron keeps running up to the front of the stage and heckling us. He finally starts jumping on the stage and grabbing the mic, yelling incoherent bullshit over our semi-coherent music. He’s bumping into us and being a real asshole, so I grab him and toss him off the stage. He turns and grabs at my face, yelling, “Get a haircut,” at me. Now, I’m mad. I toss down my bass and get ready to meet my adversary head-on, when some bouncers