And Then They Ruined Everything

1 Unbidden

1

UnbiddenRadio is a metaphor for my life. A narrative with a sound track, an empty discourse that may or may not be shared. Ripples radiating from the station perhaps affecting someone along the way. Do my interventions really mean anything to anyone? At least the music is good.

I’m going to start the next set with some monster rock. The Forbidden Dimension, all the way from some two-bit Canadian town. Here’s “Unbidden.”May it send shivers down your spine.

FCC transcript KQOO 90.9 FM 07.04.1996 0149

Operator’s Comments: “Station ID fail”

Unbidden? I walked home shocked. Stunned. Never before had I seen Kenn like this. For years, Kenn and I had been of like mind and singular in purpose. Sure, we had arguments and heated discussions, but these, more often than not, were simply part of the repartee that had always been a pillar of our relationship. Ways of challenging each other and enlivening the discourse around the discovery of rock ’n’ roll—it was more than what we did to pass the time; it was the connection between us. But now . . . now things were different.

My body felt like it had been thrown on a pile of rocks. Abandoned and aching with that sort of jarring pain that seems to resonate from the marrow of your bones, and Kenn’s voice echoing in me like the sound of breaking glass in an abandoned church. The conclusion was clear: Kenn had changed.

No question; anyone would expect that having mastered time travel would change a guy. How could it not? Time travel itself was a concept at the pinnacle of fantasy. Not only could Kenn and I time travel, we possessed the Holy Grail of science fiction. Ours was an unparalleled accomplishment, used unselfishly to make the world better. But it was also strange because Kenn and I couldn’t share it with anyone else. It wasn’t like there was a focus group for time travelers or anyone that we could tell.

I mean, really, the only people that Kenn and I could confide in about time travel were each other. It had been years now since Kenn had spoken with his parents, and mine wouldn’t listen to anything that I had to say anyway. And what? You’re going to tell a friend or parent, really? What would you say? “Hey, guess what! Kenn and I—yeah, you know my buddy Kenn, the one you think is an i***t, yeah, right, him. Well, as it turns out, we’re not wasting our time together; we’re time traveling. That’s right, he’s blurred the line between genius and i***t, and as a result, he and I have been traveling through time to see rock bands. Look, we’re going to go see T. Rex sometime this week. You want us to get you a T-shirt?” You’d be loaded into a padded room before you finished your explanation.

Originally, Kenn discovered that playing the Guitar Hero MC5 module hurtled him through time into the gig. Unfortunately, that discovery was limited to only the gigs that MC5 were a part of. Later, after a series of trials, we discovered that by processing the Guitar Hero video game through a mixing table we could move through time into any past gigs. All we needed was a recording of the band we wanted to see. Kenn called the mixing table Louie Louie, because of his view that DJs are devils, but tolerated its imposition since it facilitated combining MC5, Guitar Hero, and any other music we wanted. The history of rock ’n’ roll was unlocked and laid before us.

I suppose it was to be expected that becoming heroes was going to be lonely, but I didn’t expect this isolation to extend to Kenn.

It was more than the vacant and discarded feeling of being unceremoniously thrown out of Kenn’s house. He was now distracted and distant. Kenn was changing; now, suddenly, he was smitten with a girl, and ironically a girl who had also smote him. Sure, she was some girl, but still, a girl? Kenn’s theory of rock ’n’ roll and girls was well developed and fiercely held; now I started feeling like Peter Hook must have, watching Ian Curtis being led astray from his wife—and even worse his band, Joy Division¬—by Annik Honoré.

Maybe Kenn was right. Girls were merely set on the destruction of rock ’n’ roll. Refusing to explain the exceptions, like Poison Ivy, Cat Power, Feist, L7, Kirsty MacColl, or Ann Magnuson of Bongwater, as anything other than merely outliers. I thought something else was at play. Maybe it was better to judge on the merits of the person, rather than her gender, religion, race, or belief. But with girls, Kenn was having none of it. This wasn’t even a discussion that we would have had on prior occasions—another challenge that Kenn presented.

Kenn would always challenge me, but now, after these crossings, it was more than that. Like he had to be Batman and I had to be Robin. But I didn’t know what it was that he needed to prove. Why now? Maybe I wasn’t even Robin; maybe I was just Alfred, Batman’s butler.

Without immediate plans for crossing and now suddenly exiled from Kenn, I felt my mind start to drift. My thoughts were a dried leaf on an autumn breeze, something that once had purpose but was now on the cusp of ruin, floating between freedom and abandonment. But this was a good thing. I would have time for myself, my radio show, for lectures from my parents, for . . . for Pyrah. s**t! How had I forgotten about Pyrah? As I kept my world with her apart from Kenn’s and mine, the details were falling through the gaps. Although my heart now raced with thoughts of seeing her again, I couldn’t remember how long it had been since we had been together. Days? Weeks? Hours? Time travel had left my world disjointed and confused. History was present and the future malleable.

As I reached into my pocket, my phone, as if confirming my decision to call Pyrah, began to vibrate and ring, the ringtone from the Stone Roses’ “She Bangs the Drums.” I thought, I wonder if I should change that to “Love Me” by the Cramps. All the same, Pyrah had reached out to me first.

“Hi. Do you know who this is?” she asked demurely. “Got some time for me?”

What could I say to such a clear sign from the cosmos that we were destined to be together? My heart leaped as my isolation was being dispatched. “Hey, I was just thinking about you. Funny, I had just reached for my phone to call. Of course I’ve got time. Should I come by? I could pick up pizza.”

“Well, I guess we’re thinking the same thing. I’d love if you’d come by. Sure, bring pizza. I’ve got a box of white zin’ in the fridge.”

Within moments, my apprehension and anxiety had been shed like a heavy jacket with the first warmth of spring. Pyrah was happy just talking to me; it was as though virtually no time had passed since we had last spoken; suddenly the details didn’t matter.

The conversation continued without much substance or depth but had a palpable effect upon me. Pyrah’s manner, at once both reserved and enticing, electrified me. It was like every ounce of her being was focused on me. I loved it. Within a few moments, the abrupt dismissal from Kenn was forgotten and we made plans for dinner, or a movie or something. Whatever it was, it involved Pyrah and me being together.

That night became the morning after, which then became breakfast, coffee, late lunch and another dinner, drinks, and then magically it all repeated. Soon we had drained the week of its days like the wine boxes cluttered around her recycling bin. I was coming and going from Pyrah’s apartment as though it were my own. I would go to work, or call in sick, as the case might be, all from the sanctuary of Pyrah’s home. I would plan my radio show and search for new music using Pyrah’s laptop. Everything that I did, I did in close proximity to Pyrah. Our relationship blossomed, awakening unanticipated feelings in me. Sure, I had been close to Kenn and shared a bond, maybe even a kinship, but this was different, a different kind of intimacy that lacked the challenge that things with Kenn always held. I was happy. Content. All because I had Pyrah with me, and strangely I thought very little about Kenn and my unceremonious dismissal.

While at first I was concerned about what Kenn might think, I actually convinced myself that it would be OK. In fact, I resolved to tell Kenn about Pyrah—soon—just not now. First I had to work my way back to talking to Kenn, but I was sure that was going to happen, not only because we had been friends for so long, but also because of how electrified he had been about the bartender/bass player. It would be all right. Everything made sense, because this, too, was rock ’n’ roll. Kenn would not only understand but also welcome the broadening of our horizons.

I didn’t know when I would talk to Kenn about Pyrah but suspected that soon enough we would be sharing pizza and Frank’s RedHot and a few beers and talking about rock ’n’ roll. Maybe even planning our next crossing. Soon enough, if I only knew, but for now things just continued around and around like a record being played, and as always when a record was spinning I was content.

My contentedness was reinforced with the ringtone of my cell phone announcing, “Do You Remember Rock ’n’ Roll Radio?”

“Kenn, how you doing, buddy?” I was trying to sound like nothing had happened.

“I’m good. Where have you been, d**k? I’ve got a couple of pies being delivered—a Hawaiian and a Kitchen Sink. Why don’t you grab some beer and we’ll go see the Stooges tonight.”

I cast a furtive look toward Pyrah, and without needing more explanation she motioned, “Go, go.”

“I’ll be over in ten. Still got some Mountain Dew in the fridge? So I just need to grab beer?”

“Yeah, that’s what I said. You’ll be here in five? I’m not waiting on the pizza for you.”

Of course he wouldn’t wait; it was never about anyone other than Kenn.

“That was Kenn, he wants me to come by.”

“You should go. Have fun. I’ve been spoiled by your affections, if you’re not careful, I might grow accustomed to it.”

“Thanks, Pyrah. I might be late; you wanna do something tomorrow?” I asked, pulling her close for a long embrace.

Walking toward the door with me, she said, “Of course. You haven’t seen Kenn for weeks, and I’m not really the same to talk about music with.” Handing me a key, she continued, “I’ve got to go out for a while anyway. Let yourself back in when you’re done with Kenn. Don’t worry if you’re late; I’ll be in bed. Wake me up and you’ll be glad you did. In fact, now you’ve got a key you can wake me anytime you want! Maybe you can call in sick to work again tomorrow.”

Pizza, live music, and seemingly assured s****l congress; I was holding a winning trifecta ticket. My life wasn’t hell; I was in a state of grace.

Letting myself into Kenn’s, I called out, “Hey, man, gonna grab a Dew. Want one? You’ve got mail.” I grabbed the handful of mail that had been blowing around Kenn’s front door and headed toward the music.

“Didn’t hear you,” Kenn said. “What’s going on?”

“Highlights: I’m here; afternoon of music, pizza, and beer; here’s your mail; your copy of Rolling Stone looks like the mailman tried to eat it.” I was referring to the most significant piece of mail that I had picked up for Kenn: the January 2014 issue of Rolling Stone. “You had s**t blowing all over your yard. You gonna put cars up on blocks next?”

“I don’t read Rolling Stone. It’s a rag.”

“What?”

“Rolling Stone is a waste of time; it’s a rag. I don’t read it. Do you need a picture? Get it out of my house.”

“Kenn, what are you talking about? When did this happen? I’ve got your copy right here. You’ve subscribed for years.”

“Canceled. It’s s**t. I’m not reading it. Not after the Rollins interview.”

“You mean his rant about not following the music featured in Rolling Stone?”

“Maybe.”

“Kenn, I get that he’s a hero of yours from way back to the Black Flag days—”

“The guy’s an icon. A rock ’n’ roll legend.”

“Sure, but do you really think that he needs you to take a stand for him against major publications?”

“It’s a fact. People are vulnerable to the media. If the common man doesn’t stand up for what’s right by rejecting publications that prey on the vulnerable, there is nothing to check their actions. Look at the Duck Dynasty guys who were threatened with the ax from A&E for expressing their views. As far as I know, we still enjoy free speech in America. The swing taken at Rollins was just as bad as the paparazzi preying on Suri Cruise. It has to stop, and the only way it will is if the little guy stands up.”

“Listen, I’m not sure you’re ever going to convince anyone that Henry Rollins is vulnerable, or at least as vulnerable as Suri Cruise.”

“It doesn’t matter. It’s the same as Snowden: if people don’t take a stand against the Man, society is going to go to hell in a handbasket. I do what I do because it’s right. Rollins deserves respect. If he said ‘hi’ to us when we were walking down the street, we’d both lose a big load in our adult incontinence shorts.”

“Kenn . . . imagery I don’t really need. But sure, Rollins is a big deal—bigger for you than me, but still it would be pretty cool to talk to him.”

“Big deal? Rollins is a rock god. He shouldn’t have to justify himself to Rolling Stone or anyone else for that matter. Rollins has done more for music than the entire boreal forests of America have for carbon dioxide exchange.”

“Agreed, but he could have reached a little further in that article. I mean, stating that David Bowie’s album The Next Day is brilliant? Come on, what’s the next big reveal? That fish live in water? Of course, a Bowie album that people have been waiting ten years for is going to be brilliant. Reznor said the same thing days earlier.”

“I don’t watch TMZ and I won’t read Rolling Stone. Rollins is a legend,” Kenn stated. “Leave it alone.”

I agreed, but still eager to antagonize Kenn, I said, “So I suppose we’re not listening to Daft Punk tonight.”

“What are you doing about the pizza? You just lookin’ at, it or are you havin’ a piece? Throw out that f*****g rag before I become ill.”

Falling back into our normal banter—eating pizza, listening to music, drinking beer, and otherwise forgetting about San Francisco—rock ’n’ roll regained the day.

That night we saw the Stooges in Germany, and everything, at least for a while, seemed to make sense. Life was going our way, but we didn’t dwell on it. After all, it was too much fun soaking in the gigs; that’s just who we are.