Space Kitty Blues _____

Home , Cockiness (Love It), Come Back Around, If Only I Could, In a Foreign Town

_____

SPACE KITTY BLUES _____

pat mAcdonald

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review. Printed in the United States of America

Fifth Printing, 2013 ISBN 978-X-XX-XXXXXX-X

Cover art, book design & inside photos by pat mAcdonald Front cover image: video still from “Of Light” by Hector Morgan

Purgatory Hill Holiday Music Motel 30 N. 1st Ave. Sturgeon Bay, WI 54235

For more information go to: www.spacekittyblues.com

Contents

vii…..……….Preface

1……………..Intro

12……………A Tall Tale (Chapters 1-33)

198………….Epilogue (Chapter 33 1/3)

202………….Lyrics

Calle Pelayo, facing Plaza Cataluña (left) and Las Ramblas (right)

Preface

n early 1999 I was living in Barcelona, writing and recording songs for the album Begging Her Graces, Ischeduled for releas e later that year on the German indie label, Ulftone. “Space Kitty Blues” was track ten. I hadn’t envisioned it as material for a book or as a retro 80s “hit” by a band called FutureX. It was just a quirky little ditty about the elusiveness of inspiration. The track didn’t scream “eighties”—I had to add sampled eighties- sounding drum hits later to retro-ize the production and make this book’s premise plausible. Back then, I was signed to Miles Copeland’s publishing company, Illegal Songs. The deal not only paid monthly advances but also granted me the right to refuse the use of my songs in commercials. This was an unusual contract provision for a relatively minor songwriter. Aside from “The Future’s So Bright…” my song catalog was not a big mover, so I didn’t have much clout. The right-of-refusal was hard won, requiring certain royalty concessions on my end. It was also painful to enforce. I refused offers routinely—a hundred thousand here, a half million there—and the reaction was never pretty. In turning down this “easy” money, it seemed my little aversion to advertisements was taking food from the mouths of all the children of the entire music industry. It was as if music itself, like all media, had grown wholly dependent on ad dollars for sustenance and the only way to keep it alive was to sell my soul—or at least a chunk of it. Two meetings that took place in 1998 played key roles in the motivation behind this book. One of them was with

a publisher who was interested in signing me as soon as my contract with Illegal ran out. Ulf Zick, the head of Ulftone set it up. The publisher flew to Barcelona and paid for lunch, ostensibly to court me as a prospective signee but all he ended up talking about was how great commercials could be for an artist’s career. I tried to keep it lighthearted. Needless to say, after the guy left I never heard from him again. The other meeting was with a writer from U.S. News & World Report. He was researching for a piece called “Shake, Rattle, and Please Buy My Product!” about songs in advertising. (It’s searchable online.) He’d heard of this “vagabond” who refused large sums of money and wanted to find out why. Actually, in 1972, I had written a couple of one-minute radio jingles for a local (Madison, WI) clothing store in exchange for clothes, but after hearing them played over and over again on the local station I regretted doing it. Later, when I saw Lou Reed and his “Walk On The Wild Side” in a TV spot for Honda, I swore if I ever had a hit song it would never be used in a commercial. But I knew I couldn’t answer the journalist’s questions without sounding judgmental toward those who do allow their songs to be used in commercials, so I just complained, "I'm constantly feeling like somehow I have to justify my choice to people." Space Kitty Blues is, among other things, an attempt to find that justification, to articulate a plausible answer to “why”—at least for myself—and perhaps to provide some thought provoking amusement for others.

Intro

utobiographical fiction can be a slippery slope. Down near the bottom one might find a comfy Aplace to wallow. If I’ve found it, I hope I haven’t lingered there too long. My real goal was not to paint a disguised or glamorized version of my life but rather to imagine what might have happened if certain things had been different. Space Kitty Blues is, at its heart, a big “What if…?” Without indulging or denying the ego, I can honestly say this story sprang more from morbid curio- sity than from self-infatuation. I tried to make it easy to follow but it might be kind of confusing at first without some supplemental info. In the earlier stages of the writing I assumed readers would already know certain things about me. This arrogance can be attributed to occupational narcissism, egged on by a brief brush with notoriety. My five minutes in the pop spotlight were more recent at the time. Barely five years had passed since Timbuk3 appeared on Late Night with Conan O’Brian (1995) so I saw no need for an intro. Haha. Twelve years later, having achieved a far greater degree of anonymity, I see the need. In Sturgeon Bay, Wisconsin where I live, people in bars still ask me, “Aren’t you the guy who did that song, I Wear My Sunglasses at Night?” “Uh… no, that’s Corey Hart...” Even some close acquaintances know little of my past. They—and closer friends too—might assume by surface resemblance that this book is a thinly veiled memoir. It’s more the opposite: a thickly memoired veil.

To eliminate confusion—or at least to illuminate places where mystery serves no purpose—I should point out that it’s the similarities between me and my protagonist that gave him life, but it’s the differences that make him interesting. Without ruining the story, a few of these similarities and differences can be spelled out here. We’re both children of the space age who grew up in Green Bay, Wisconsin, went to Catholic grade school and caught the “mad scientist” bug early on (we were nerds). Religious skeptics, fascinated with cause & effect yet lacking the discipline for hard science, we found our true calling in the mad science of music and art. Our baby brother suffered spinal meningitis. We became song- writers who fronted bands that had one radio hit in the eighties. We moved to Spain after our respective bands broke up and American solo projects proved problematic. During a trip back home to Wisconsin, we met a girl named Katherine… A few noteworthy differences: I’ve always used my given name; Matt apparently changed his at some point. My experience in Spain centered around music; Matt’s, not so much. My preferred writing tools are pen, paper, and computer; Matt’s is a portable typewriter. Matt’s hit song became a TV commercial; mine did not. Matt’s brother died in infancy; mine at age 36 (the year before I began writing this book). Other differences are seen as the story unfolds. Some are matters of degree—he’s a little lazier, definitely more of an asshole (or so I like to believe). Another difference probably worth mentioning is that Matt’s band, FutureX, seems to have had a shorter run of recording than Timbuk3. There’s no clear mention of a follow-up album. Apparently they never made one. Timbuk3 made a bunch of albums and I’ve done nine since the breakup (seven solo and two as Purgatory

Hill). Matt’s story is more the classic “chew ‘em up, spit ‘em out” record biz cliché—with a little twist. Matt lives in an alternate universe, an offshoot of mine, shot from a life-or-death moment in our shared distant past. That moment is touched upon in the book but not delved into. Equally sloughed over is the issue of anorexia, a disorder Matt seems to believe is akin to spiritual enlightenment. Although the story is mostly fiction, most of the characters are based on people I’ve known. Some scenes and conversations are taken near- ly verbatim from life—I made them fit the story—but most are complete fabrications. Please assume that anything one might see as libelous or self incriminating is totally made up. I can’t recall exactly when the idea for this story hit me but I remember how the air smelled in Barcelona at the time—like super-concentrated life with a hint of de- cay. Near the turn of the millennium, everything felt like history in the making. Even the most trivial details of my largely inconsequential existence seemed important. I was continually amazed at the toxic beauty of my sur- roundings and wanted to document everything. A good hangover in a foreign town does wonders for ones work ethic. Previously I’d written nothing longer than a song lyric. Suddenly I was hell-bent on writing a novel. Following the end of a mostly successful 18-year mar- riage and a subsequent series of brief flings, I think I was trying to prove I could still handle commitment. My post- Timbuk3 solo career was floundering—in Europe there was some interest but the U.S. seemed to have disowned me—so I was seeking new validation. Writing a novel was the most ambitious, monstrous undertaking I could think of (besides getting my life in order, which was out of the question).

So every day I’d wake up in my 7th floor rented room, grab the spiral notebook, scribble a few pages, get up, get dressed, ride the elevator down to the street, walk to Cybermundo (the corner internet café), grab some coffee, rent a computer, and then transcribe the latest rough chapters into email drafts for safekeeping. “Days of Needles and Plastic” was the working title. Intended as a playfully moralistic study of the concept of “selling out” (with a hint of there but for the grace of God…), the story revolved around Matt’s friendship with Diamond Stylus, an attractive young vinyl-obsessed DJ. Matt sees himself as a sellout but tries to keep it from Diamond at first. His problem is less ideological than psychological—more like demon torment than moral quandary—but Diamond provides a good devil’s advo- cate and the perfect foil for Matt’s inner turmoil. She’s based on a musician/singer/ex-dancer friend who did one-woman shows with a cassette 4-track for backup. She wasn’t a DJ when the Diamond character came into being—I’d once suggested spinning records as a way she could make some needed cash, but she balked. After this story was already written, she did in fact (by total happenstance) become a DJ. Real life events often invaded or mirrored the storyline—the appearance of Katherine was a big one—but my protagonist and I, though we walked identical streets and alleyways, followed very different paths.

Katherine and I were in the States preparing for our wedding when 9/11 happened. Its aftermath was felt in Barcelona but this story is all pre-9/11, so Matt was spared having to deal with it. While I struggled to finish the first “final” draft, Katherine tried her best to convince me that the story wasn’t trivial or irrelevant in the post- 9/11 world.

By late 2002, Katherine and I had been married a year. A film director friend, Hector Morgan, thought we were an interesting couple and asked us to act in a short clip he was creating to promote the 10th Barcelona Indepen- dent Film Festival, l'Alternativa 2003. The location for the shoot was an abandoned nineteenth century spa on Montserrat Mountain. Raging rapids ran by the place where we were shooting, and Katherine, in the early stages of recovery from cranial surgery that affected her equilibrium—okay, she was starving herself too—stumbled down an embankment and almost fell in. Luckily she was able to grab some shrubbery and hold on until two of us pulled her to safety. That whole day of shooting I was really freaked out, realizing how close she’d come to falling into the rapids and being swept away—how close I’d come to losing her. Imagining the horror of that loss fueled my acting that day (along with Hector’s directive, “More weird!”) Later, watching the clip, I realized how perfectly the onscreen action matched Matt’s mental state at a certain point in Space Kitty Blues, so I obtained permission from Hector to write it into the book as a dream sequence.

Around that time, obsessed with finishing the second “final” draft, I wrote only one song in a whole year but it might be the best song I’ve ever written. Obviously inspired by the book, “The Wise Guy and Lucky” (In The Red Room, 2004) dealt with similar issues, yet more succinctly. Other lyrics that relate to the story’s themes or characters, notably “Severine” (about the real person who inspired Diamond), can be found throughout the album Begging Her Graces (1999) and also Degrees Of Gone (2001), which was recorded in Berlin, Germany, November of 2000.

If 9/11 proved that the world can change in an instant, then a person can change a lot in nine years. Nine years ago I completed what I thought was possibly the final “final” draft of Space Kitty Blues. I was ready and willing to let it go but had no idea how to get a book published, and real life was demanding attention, so there it sat. Life lunged forth in unexpected turns—money troubles, a painful breakup with Katherine (we’ve remained close friends)—and I began seeing the book as a misguided, disposable vanity. So there it sat again. But whenever things calmed down for a minute I’d revisit the vanity and tweak the weakest wording. The story would reso- nate differently at different times, hitting too close to home one year, seeming superfluous the next, but I never changed it. The story is the same as it was in the first draft.

Now the year is 2012, the Chinese zodiac’s Year of the Dragon—my year, supposedly—and Purgatory Hill (the band consisting of me and my dearest partner-in-crime, melaniejane) has recorded a new version of the song that inspired this book. Chosen almost at random for its easy adaptability to the Lowebow (or “Purgatory Hill Harp,” my instrument of choice these days), it ended up being one of the nicer-sounding tracks on Invisible Pistols, our new release. This “coming full circle” for my life and the book’s title song at a time when self-publishing is easier than ever has finally motivated me to get this thing out there. It’s now or never. I considered trying to find a real publisher but I’ve never been eager to approach one, partly because I don’t want to have to deal with a real editor. My own critiques are bad enough. I can still open to any random page and find something to make me cringe—the horny

6 guy stuff is more embarrassing now that I’m a little older and if it wasn’t essential to the storyline I’d take it out. And it’s hard to jettison the songwriter in me. A song lyric needs to stand up to repeated listening, so I might tweak and rewrite a 200-word song for days and then something—maybe just a word—still doesn’t feel right. Having to deal with over forty thousand words (like 200 songs) basically means that the songwriter in me will never be satisfied. I remind myself that, unlike a song, most people read a book only once and then they’re done with it. I can’t seem to get that through my head. Whether it’s really finished or not, I’ve come to the point where I just need to turn this thing in like an overdue school assignment at the end of a semester. So now that I’ve deemed it done, what have I learned from this assignment? One thing is that my first novel is actually a novella by some standards. How can this be? 49,000 words is a fuck of a lot of words to me! And 12+ years is long time! To write a novella? That’s why I’m calling it “a tall tale.” I suppose if I truly felt the need to add “novelist” to my list of earned titles (right below “musician” and “lazy bastard”) I could take a few more months—or another 12 years—to extend the storyline, develop the characters more, further flesh out my protagonist’s fleshy exploits to increase prurient interest along with the word count… There are many ways to add length (this lengthy introduction being one) but the story is long enough. I’m not giving too much away when I say the ending arrives mercifully soon enough without being too horribly abrupt. The beautiful thing is: if, in the end, you think it sucks, at least you won’t have invested too much time in it. Unlike me. Seriously though, this journey of “what if” has taken me places I didn’t expect. It spurred some badly needed

7 soul searching, even brought some positive changes in how I view things—though I’m not sure I’ve gotten any wiser on the subject of sellout. Neither has the world apparently. Now we have product placement in prayers on national TV. Bands compete online to get their song in the next Dodge commercial. Critically acclaimed artists sell unlimited use of their songs with no apparent loss of credibility. And my per- sonal qualms are seen by many as “old school” or even obsolete. Like… vinyl records? While antiquated ideologies and technologies do sometimes come back around—or at least come up for reconsideration—there’s still no telling whether the idea of sellout will have any pertinence in the future. If the abstraction formerly known as “artistic integrity” hasn’t already gone the way of the Victrola, how does it figure in today’s world? Maybe it all comes down to: who am I trying to impress? I used to say, “I play music for a subculture that does not exist.” This may be truer now than ever. But isn’t it also true that when people’s attention is focused away from the music—to the lights, the liquor, the girl dan- cing, the friend who’s asking, “What do you think of this band?”—isn’t every musician playing to a subculture of one? The ultimate elite clique of oneself? I play in bars. Isn’t that a sellout? Nope. Not for me. Bars promote social life and that’s something I believe in. And even if I think I have something to say—which isn’t always the case—it’s the feel of the music that matters most. Of course it feels better when others are feeling it too. But how many others do I need? A hundred? A thousand? A hundred-thousand? A million? This single numerical coefficient is perhaps the most accurate measure of an artist’s insecurity.

My poor protagonist’s insecurities seem to fall some- where outside this yardstick, so maybe they’re deserving of some sympathy. Demonic forces are very real in Matt’s world—or so he believes—so perhaps he’s possessed. Or is he just crazy? Being a fictional fabrication of half- man, half-imagination, he naturally maintains a more tenuous link with reality—which explains much of his behavior—but every bad choice, even the most for- givable, carries consequences. So please do not pity this man. Just feel that little warm tinge of compassion and take some comfort in his suffering. Like I do. One thing that’s strange about this story is that Matt talks to the narrator and the narrator talks back. This will elicit skepticism but it’s something I hope the reader will simply accept. I use different fonts to designate the different voices and perspectives in the text. The narrator’s voice looks the same as mine. Matt’s thoughts are in italics—past tense with serifs, present tense sans serifs, like this: What the…? Matt’s words when addressing the narrator are also sans serif, but enclosed in quotation marks: “Enclosed? Like a prisoner of apostrophes…” Matt, taking the role of narrator, looks like this:

The room is dark and I’m spinning. That annoying voice…

Matt’s typewritten ramblings look like this:

Tonight I’ve had the strangest conversation – perhaps with the devil himself...

As our tall tale begins we find Matt’s spirit reeling in a whirlpool of torment, spinning, spinning, yet failing to unwind. How did he get here? Partially by elevator, mostly on foot. When Matt isn’t lying on his B-side and spinning, he walks around a lot. Navigating his swirling universe of endless alleyways weaving a distorted fun- house mirror reflection of “a life well spent,” he vainly believes that everything he sees, thinks, and does is endlessly fascinating. I, too, vainly believe that this little Walkmanifesto is at least worth sharing. In the cosmic scheme of things it’s all trivial, but in a microscopic life like Matt’s (or mine) it’s… something.

—October 2012 (slightly updated since)

The Wise Guy and Lucky On a blind double date Were set up with two sisters Named Destiny and Fate The first to move was Lucky The Wise Guy was too late He lusted after Destiny But he ended up with Fate

KAY, I WOULDN’T SAY HE’S CRAZIER than I— more disillusioned perhaps, but only because O he harbored more illusions to begin with. He was always a bit more open to hallucination. In fact he still hears voices on occasion, the static intonations of a TV anchor reporting to some invisible audience his whereabouts, delivering a running commentary on his life. I wouldn't say he's more arrogant than I, only that he seems to have acquired a more bloated sense of his own significance—as if anyone really cares about the comings and goings of an obscure aging rocker. His neighbors in the next apartment—and you, if you care to—can hear his wretched cries as he lies alone, confronting his unseen tormenter. “What the... You’re still here? Please get out of my head!” And so on… “Sure, interrupt me, edit, paraphrase, take a few sound bites, string em together and you have the cartoon version of me! Add the little dot dot dot thingies and...” The ellipsis. Yes. And start a new paragraph. Apologies to the reader. But please try to empathize with the character. He's been through a lot. And of course he’s irritable because we've roused him from a fitful slumber—and a bad dream, I might add. “A bad dream… I might add: fuck off!" Again, deepest apologies to the reader. Matt, are you ready for another round? 12

“Another round? Of what?” Don’t worry about it—what you don’t know can’t hurt you, I guess. “What… yeah you’re right. You can leave now.” No problem. Go ahead, get some rest. “Okay, well... good... I mean... thank you!”

Thank you? Thank WHO? Who the hell am I talking to? This troublesome narrator who admittedly flatters me with his presence even as he slanders me constantly has to be some fucked up manifestation of my inner voice gone haywire. In my head, out of my hands, this fallen anchorman oversteps the boundaries of pure reportage far too often and yet I can‘t just cast him off completely. He’ll be back. He always comes back. Why? Because he thinks I need him. Well I admit I have this twisted need to tell my story and I’d really rather have someone else do it for me. It’s more flattering that way—which would explain this narrator as a product of wishful thinking— but why this anchor has drifted so far astray is hard to say. The question is: What can I do now? Cut him loose completely? I have a book to finish and not enough good material, having painted myself into a corner with this sex theme. It would be nice if I could use him somehow. Maybe if this spinning would stop I could think straight and come up with something suitably twisted. Or should I just give up on this Mack Patterson character altogether and write plainly and truthfully about Matt Packard, on whom I happen to be the supreme authority? I could fill pages with basic information:

Matt—or first person “I”—was part of the big tail end of the post WW2 baby boom. My dad didn't fight in the war. He did his two-year stint as part of the occupational 13 forces in Japan, practicing skydiving and being treated like a king. He returned home to Hank Williams wailing “Hey, Good Lookin” from a thousand jukeboxes, then swept my mom off her feet and onto his big red Harley. And the rest is…

Ideally I’d stop at five minutes to midnight on the seventh anniversary of the bombing of Hiroshima (the moment of my birth) and let the narrator take over from there. He’d paint the picture of a gifted child, “creative, sensitive…” but no— my legend is limited to sketchy recollections, mostly humilia- ting. And, rather than marching forward in brisk chronological order, they flit about in time like a drunken butterfly. If I could move my head without the room spinning out of control, I’d roll over, grab my Skyriter, and try to type my life back together. But words will not bring restoration, only at best a retracing of steps, a disjointed chronicling of reminiscences with emphasis on key events leading to my present sorry state. Like that pocket watch when I was a kid—sure, I could take it apart, but that didn’t mean it would work when I put it back together. So the sexual memoirs of Mack Patterson are employed to fill the void. I used to fancy myself a thinker. Now, perhaps for fear of de-cloaking life’s mysteries and rendering them mundane—or maybe it’s just laziness—I’m reluctant to tackle the big questions: Does God exist? Is there life after death? Is this spinning sensation an indication of a major turning point in my life or just the unpleasant result of an alcohol induced bioelectrical feedback loop in my inner ear? I don’t know. And I don’t know that I want to know. At this point, I’d be happy just to find an easy way out. If only I could remember how I eased my way in… If I were to trace this torment back to its origins, I’d have to go at least as far back as that cat food fiasco. But my 14 mind is drawn to more recent events, to one meeting, one person. She was the catalyst, a quirky blonde beauty of advanced design, young, hip, not flashy—except for those EYES… She was the type of female I would not have had the nerve to approach, assuming she vastly outclassed me. And, of course, she did. But that didn't seem to bother her at all… “So what's your name?” “Matt.” “Di.” She held out her hand. “Die? Why?” “Huh?” “Well it’s very nice to meet you, but… I don’t think I’m ready to die.” “Die?” Her face flashed a few cute comic expressions. “Oh! Haha. No! My name is Di, short for Diamond.” “Ah… I thought you were telling me to die.” “And why on Earth would I do that?” “Well…” Her smile meant mischief. “You seem like a nice enough young... well… maybe not so young man.” Her accent was almost British. “I’ve already decided to let you live.” “Thank you, Di.” “You know… like Princess Di, only she was Diana. Spaniards call me Dee, short for Dee-ah-mohnd” “Well I’m quite pleased to make your acquaintance, Dee-ah-mohnd.” I was wondering, where’s she from? but didn’t want to ask the cliché question. “So do you have a last name?” “Stylus. Get it? I'm a Deejay.” “Style-less?” “That too,“ she smirked. “But no. Diamond Stylus—like the needle on a record. Get it?” “Oh yeah. Clever. So you're heavily into vinyl, are ya?” 15

“One could say that. But one could also say: what else is there? CDs are crap if you ask me. They’re so overpriced and the sound is horrible! Vinyl is warm. Vinyl is sexy. Vinyl is...” This divine creature of the funkiest fashion standing before me in that smoky bar had more than made her point. I was already prepared to join her church, her army, her band… but an amber glow cast her angelic as she searched the ceiling for the final word… “Vinyl,” at last she proclaimed, “is my life!”

We started bumping into each other at Marx, her favorite little bar escondido deep in the Gothic quarter near Plaza George Orwell. And I went to one of her DJ gigs at Sidecar (SEE-day-car) the night of a film screening. She was only spinning, not mixing (there was only one turntable) so she had plenty of time to just hang out with me. Her musical likes and dislikes formed the core of our conversation. Most of the music she loved was from long before her time. She had a thing for the early Stereo Hi-fi Percussion series, LPs with titles like: Giant Percussion, Percussion Party, Percussion Safari, Supersonic Percus- sion… She informed me that these instrumental LPs, lush with rhythm, were big in the late fifties and early sixties with a newly affluent leisure set that was “a bit too settled for rock and roll, not quite hip enough for jazz, and a little too on-the-go for classical.” This was music designed to show off the sonic capabilities of your new state-of-the-art stereo hi-fi system, to enjoy from the comfort of a strategically placed easy chair, to “bring a little jungle into your living room—the closest our grandparents' generation ever came to tripping I would imagine.” She said “our” grandparents… This particular evening, using Percussion Galore as her 16 base, throwing in some vintage “eurotrash” (what she called it), some very obscure and nasty ‘70s psychedelic funk, a couple of selections from Shadows Of Knight (one of her passions) and a track from a self-hypnosis instruc- tional disk passed down from her grandmother, she crafted an ambiance appealing yet not pandering to the circle of scenesters present. Her superb selections and even more brilliant juxtapositions cast a deep spell over the room. The sonic sirens sang…

“EVERYTHIN’S GONNA BE ALRIGHT THIS MOANIN…”

Diamond could have gotten away with playing anything. She radiated retro-futuristic cool. Every item of adornment on her amphetamine-lean dancer's frame was thrift shop holy grail. Just standing in her proximity, I too, by reflected glory drew lots of attention. Women checked us both out. And we took full advantage of the fact that the barten- ders tended to wave away the charges on our drinks. Diamond often spoke in tongues, cutting loose with a cast of characters she carried around in her head. She was a great mimic. This night at Sidecar, she was surprisingly just herself. “I'm going to have my mix demo finished hopefully next week. I think I’m calling it Diamond Cuts. Like that title? The other one I'm thinking about is Out Of Stylus, In The Groove. Get it? Out of style is in the groove. Maybe that one's a little corny.” “Maybe out of style is in style is more what you want to say...” “IN STYLE?” That was not what she wanted to say. “Or not.” “Fuck style! Style is so overrated. Style is...” “Do you mean style, or fashion?” “Whatever. Style, fashion… they’re fair weather friends!” 17

“Well, yeah, but…” “You know the cliché, here today, gone tomorrow?” “Yes I do.” I felt a tirade comin on. “Well, all the old clichés are fucking true! And why have they stood the test of time? Not because they were stylish things to say. No, it's because they were fucking true! And the fucking truth is the only thing that'll stand the test of time. Truth… and good vinyl if it's well cared for.” “Haha…” “I’m not joking!” She was on a roll. “Style can kiss my ARSE! Style is so... over! Anti-style is more the point! That’s more what I want to support.” She took a large swig off her Cuba Libre. "Or maybe I should just call it something lighthearted and meaningless like Out For A Walk On A Sunny Day With Diamond Stylus." “I like that one. Call it that.”

Born and raised in Belgium, schooled in London, Diamond spoke three languages growing up: English, French and Flemish. Spanish became her fourth. At one point in the night, she started laughing and talking in French with a well-dressed, seemingly charming and intelligent guy who looked like he might fit her specs. That’s it, she’s gone, I thought. Then, after a few minutes, he disappeared and her attention returned to me. “He seemed… interesting,” “Interesting,” she mocked, “He’s a total sleaze, a horribly disgusting man. Let’s have another drink!” “Okay then… Looks like Xavi’s cueing up the projector to show the film.” The film was in black and white—trains rolling through tunnels, amateur sex vignettes, dark S&M, masturbation… “Matt, check it out. He's got a really small dick, no?” On screen was an extreme close-up of a man jerking off. 18

“I guess... or a very large hand… I could do that.” “What? Wank?” “No. Make dirty movies.”

We started hanging out a lot, became drinking buddies. My various lame attempts to seduce her yielded no fruit, yet she suffered them nobly. She sympathized. Diamond the collector-slash-connoisseur had a unique appreciation for Matt Packard—as a rare specimen, a museum piece, one of her old vinyl records still in pretty good shape, not too overplayed… In the affairs of her life as in her work, Diamond was like Dr. Frankenstein, digging up this and that, piecing it all together and adding the spark. You could always find her cruising the shops along Tallers or Riera Baixa, flipping through the racks, appraising the fruit of love’s lost labors. She’d pick up some dusty jewel, give it a spin, and what was old was new again. Now, in a record library full of throwbacks, has-beens, woulda-beens, coulda-beens, refugees from the bargain bins, I was her latest prize. I felt honored by her acceptance. Before I met her, I'd been hanging out in touristy discos, drinking by myself, watching the girls who danced by themselves. Suddenly, in the heat of my relentless search for the deep end, I stumbled onto a different side of Barcelona: Diamond’s world. She shared all her favorite haunts and introduced me to her circle of friends, which was rather “select” due to frequent falling outs—“Everybody just wants to fuck me!” she'd drunkenly complain—but more importantly, she welcomed me into her private universe, her world of needles and plastic. Of course we had our little ups and downs—everyone does, but... Man, I sure do miss her! That crazy vinyl freak… What the fuck happened? And why am I still spinning? I’ve got to try and get back to 19 sleep… `°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸ ,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º °`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º °`°º¤ø¤º°`°ºø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸, ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º °`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º °`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º ¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º ¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸ ,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º °`°º¤ø,¸¸ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º° `°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ øø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤ º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤ º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`° º¤ø,¸¸ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º ¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°` °º¤°`°º¤ø,¸¸ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø ¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°` °º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°` °º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸ø ¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°` °º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø ¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°` °º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°` °º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤º °`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤°`°º¤ø,¸¸ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸, ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º °`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º °`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤º°`°º¤ø, ¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤ º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø,¸¸,ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°º¤ø¤º°`°`

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Tougher than a Bakelite platter, Cooler than a minus degree, Stubborn and sleek like a feline cyborg up in a tree, Man I wanna get it - how am I gonna get it down, down, down, get it down, get it down?…

N THE DAYS OF TURNTABLES AND VINYL, when records were the medium of the masses, not just I the preference of deejays and collectors, when rock and pop were the twin towers of youth culture (when youth culture was alternative culture), a little band from Wisconsin called FutureX burst upon the scene. They were a low budget project on a major label and, though the new “Compact Discs” were fast becoming an important format, the label heads decided in the interest of saving money that the band’s first release would be “records and cassettes” only. The executives could hardly have predicted that FutureX’s first single would be a fluke hit, or that CDs and CD players would be among the most popular gift items that Christmas. No one can know how many album sales were lost due to that little lapse in faith and foresight. Nonetheless, the single charted at number thirteen. After the holidays, the label hastily released a CD but by the time it came out, the album’s sales and chart 21 position had plummeted. FutureX’s fifteen minutes had passed. They would be remembered—if remembered at all—as a band that waxed in the waning days of vinyl. Tens of thousands of copies of FutureX’s self-titled LP would languish in dusty closets next to neglected turntables, never to be played again. . .

Or that’s how Matt Packard saw the situation. He never quite recovered his faith in the music industry after that first Christmas of lost opportunity. Of course there was the euphoria of having the hit, minor as it was. But down underneath, seeds of a growing bitterness were taking root.

“FutureX… I think that rings a bell. Were you one of those haircut bands?” “Not really. We were a one-hit wonder.” “Oh… so… do you still get checks in the mail? Are you still doing music, or…?”

One might well have wondered exactly how does one manage a relatively carefree existence without any apparent means of support? It is no secret that even a minor hit can instantly generate thousands in royalties for the writer. Matt wrote the hit, so he got paid. But the money went out as fast as it came in. Even with help from the label, a band on the road can be very ex- pensive. And Matt had no talent for managing money. He thought if he could just keep making records, he’d get lucky again. Failing to produce an obvious “radio friendly” follow- up, the band still managed to tour extensively on the strength of the initial success. Their noble efforts to climb out of the shadow of that one song produced some great shows—and a few critics took notice and

22 gave praise—but the pressures and disappointments of unwieldy expectations took their toll and the band soon buckled under. I won’t bore you with the long, drawn out details of their sad decline. The cliché Where Are They Now? scenario has been recounted countless times—only the names have changed. Suffice to say, the members of FutureX, due to “creative differences” went their separate ways. FutureX’s moment had passed and “Ex-FutureX” was permanently attached to Matt’s name. But the color- ful career of that one song had not yet run its course. After the breakup, Matt received an offer he could not refuse. Not that he would have, even if he could have…

Best known as the mastermind behind one-hit wonder FutureX, Matt Packard is hardly a household name, but the enigma- tic ditty that became his band’s claim to fame will long be remembered as an ‘80s anthem. “Space Kitty Blues” peaked at #13 on the Billboard charts—hardly a major coup—but, due to its infectious beat, and despite social significance no one but the band apparently got (something about Star Wars and the Trickle Down theory), its “Get it down” refrain became a rallying cry at frat parties nationwide. Its subsequent use in a well-known cat food commercial furthered the song’s notoriety. (From A Decade Through Dark Glasses: ‘80s Music, Politics, and Fashion)

DIGITALLY ENHANCED CAT on a black & white checkerboard tile floor, having finished a bowl Aof Kitty Love cat food, licks its lips lavishly. Menacing eyes dart upward toward a cupboard. Voiceover: “Warning! Should you decide to join the millions of cat lovers across America who've made the switch to Kitty Love, you may notice a change coming over your cat…” Space Kitty Blues plays, "Tougher than a Bakelite platter / Cooler than a minus degree..." as Kitty leaps to the counter top, prowls sleekly, eyeing the cabinet, reaches heavenward, deftly paws open the door... Voiceover: “It is recommended that you keep the product stored in a high place, out of reach…” Competing brands of cat food sit undisturbed on the cabinet's lower shelf as Kitty climbs past them with alien android agility toward the upper shelf. 24

Voiceover: “…Uh, better keep it under lock and key!” Kitty with furry furrowed brow studies a sturdy safe on the top shelf. "Man I wanna get it, how am I gonna get it down, down, down, get it down, get it down..." Cut to: Kitty’s paws deftly manipulating the safe’s numbered dial, turning clockwise, counter-clockwise, head nestled against the metal, listening to the clicks… Voiceover: “This can't be happening…” Kitty leaps aside as safe door swings open. Blinding rays of light shoot out as camera zooms in revealing silvery cans stacked high, shimmering like fat platinum hockey pucks bathed in unearthly glow—a feline fan- tasy mother lode! Voiceover: “Now you see why it comes in a can!” Closing shot: close-up of Kitty, undaunted, paws transforming, titanium razor claws extending, flashing light... Voiceover: “Oh, my! Kitty Love cat food. Be careful how you use it!”

***

Feebly hinting that the song was licensed for commercial use against his will by the evil publishing company, Matt squirmed in interviews. Soon he stopped doing them. In reality, Matt had marveled at the thought of such easy cash. He knew he’d signed away his rights and had no contractual clout with which to contest it anyway. Allowing the usage to “just happen” by default required no thought or action whatsoever. He took some comfort in the belief that a passive sellout was better than an active one. True, the dizzying prospect of half a million dollars

25 and its promise of unlimited creative opportunities had its charms—until his accountant gave him the rundown: Half would go to Monty (his publisher) and almost half of the remainder would go to for taxes. Then twenty percent of the quarter that remained would be paid to his ex-wife as per their divorce settlement. (Did I tell you she was in the band?) This left about a hundred grand, hardly enough to support a lavish lifestyle for more than a year or so. Fortunately, Matt would continue to receive radio royalties too. Though the size of the checks would diminish as airplay on oldies stations dwindled, they (along with his new nest egg) could be expected to facilitate a comfortably humble existence for a few more years. Having all that money made him feel kind of guilty at first. He felt like he had to hide all those “dirty pictures of dead presidents“ like they were a porn stash. He made small donations to a few charities to ease his liberal guilt but mostly he welcomed the windfall. With his post- FutureX career floundering, the money would buy him time to establish a new musical identity, time to record the songs he’d been stockpiling throughout the days of slow demise. As critics would later point out, these songs differed from the ones he’d written during FutureX’s heyday:

“…darker and more desolate in their arrangements, sometimes evoking the image of a solitary man, stranded in the vastness of a post-nuclear landscape, struggling to be heard by someone—anyone—over the din of the only sound present after the echoes of the blasts have subsided: the ringing in his ears…”

The commercial usage at first seemed harmless enough, amusing even, just an option, one of countless small 26 choices made in a lifetime—a passive decision really, a moment of… openness—but its eventual effect on Matt’s spirit was devastating. Had he the slightest inkling of the kind of attention that cute little one-minute TV spot would garner, or the extent to which it would impact his life, he would have done everything in his power to stop it. Everyone in the U.S. who owned a TV saw the ad over and over again. A perfect target for playful mockery, it became fodder for cruel parody on prime time comedy shows. “Paws,” the cat who starred in it became an instant celebrity. As “Space Kitty,” she made appearances on Jay Leno, David Letterman and Conan O’Brien. Space Kitty Blues enjoyed a brief radio revival. It had the kind of catchy melody people would find themselves humming whether they loved or hated it. At Matt’s favorite hangouts, he’d hear drunken voices across the bar doing impromptu a cappella versions. Some would approach him saying things like, “You’re the guy who wrote that cat food song, right?” His response in the beginning was usually just a shrug and a “yea, I guess so” or a “yes, that would be me,“ showing the proper amount of embarrassment without betraying the depth of it. Then he’d try to change the subject, turning the attention onto the questioner with a question of his own: “So, are you a musician, or…?” Often this tactic would work. More often, it would not. If some yokel sensed that this was a sensitive topic, he felt duty-bound to pursue it. If the probing nose detected the slightest whiff of shame, Matt would soon be made to wallow in it. “How does it feel to see your song bastardized like that?” Or the subtler, “Did you allow them to use your song, or can they just do that without your permission?“

Sometimes, seeing Matt squirm, a more compassionate individual would try to lighten the mood with something like, “I guess you can’t complain about the money though, hey?“ But in the end, there was no consoling Matt. In his mind there was a name for what he’d become, seven little letters that summed up his existence: SELLOUT. He tried to rationalize it away or just shrug it off but there was no escaping it. He knew there were people out there who actually felt sorry for him. And others were envious. There were even some lovely, misguided souls who expressed pride in knowing a “famous person.” The extent of Matt’s embarrassment was surpassed only by the depth of his disgust. There was no getting away from it—that little kitty cat had transformed Matt Packard, lean, hungry man, into Matt Packard, well fed mouse. His typewriter told the tale:

MONEY HAS A WAY OF TURNING EVERYTHING IT TOUCHES INTO CHEESE.

Beyond its obvious impact on Matt’s social life, the ordeal affected him creatively. His songwriting process became, let’s say, distracted. Whenever he came up with some compelling riff or melody snippet with the start of a roughed-out lyric, he would see a little movie in his head and hear his new song as the soundtrack. If, for example, the lyric contained imagery about motion, he’d see the overhead view of a swift, sporty sedan maneuvering a treacherous mountain pass, hear a narrator’s voice extolling the virtues of freedom and mobility… If the lyric veered toward love or sex, he’d see a smiling young couple going in for a kiss, teeth gleaming white, their breath “fresh as cool mountain air…”

Whatever the subject matter, these mini-movies always ended about the same, with a product logo appearing onscreen as the hook came around in the chorus. At that point, seeing the ad it was destined to become, Matt would invariably decide he hated the idea and scrap the song.

Eventually, he stopped having song ideas altogether.

After the undoing of Matt the songwriter, the undoing of Matt the musician didn’t take long. On those rare oc- casions when he mustered the courage to play a solo gig, audiences saw Matt, previously self-confident to the point of cockiness, now looking painfully insecure. Groping for a fresh approach, he struggled desperately and vainly to breathe new life into tired songs. But the playing wasn’t the hardest part. In those deep and terrifying chasms between song endings and beginnings, Matt’s pain became more palpable. He hated those awkward silences. Someone would inevitably try to break the tension with a request for “that one song,” which only further thickened the tension. Matt always assumed it was just some smartass taking a piss. And of course it often was. There was also the occasional “meow” from the back of the room… Matt tried hard to stay above it all, withdrawing into the music, but his escalating angst could be felt by any sensitive soul in the house. With FutureX, Matt had grown accustomed to eager whistles and shouted requests from fans in the crowd. Their enthusiasm was the only drug he needed. Now, every noise in the room seemed to mock him. Live shows became such a gut-wrenching ordeal he needed to drink a lot, which only made things worse. Bouts of belligerence became his new claim to shame—caustic

29 remarks and long, abusive tirades drove largely sym- pathetic audiences out the door, leaving an empty room on more than one occasion.

Whether the end of his performing career was chosen by him or for him is a matter of opinion. The point is, he eventually stopped playing gigs. All the notorious, inglorious pain of humiliation simply and unceremo- niously vanished from the scene. No longer the public spectacle, Matt’s musical struggle continued in private. Without divulging too much gory detail (imagining that Matt might burst in here at any moment to protest) let’s just say he finally lost the battle with his bruised and jaded muse and stopped playing music altogether. In better days, he’d always drawn strength from a sense of being the outsider. Now, he had no such excuse for failure. Shame rose from his gut and crept up inside his skull. Alcohol helped ease the pain but didn’t last very long. Desperate for lasting relief and guided by basic animal instinct, he opened up his head and started rewiring his philosophical circuitry into a more comfortable configuration. Amazingly, the mental makeover was a success. Matt emerged cockier than ever, unapologetic, and resolutely amoral. A low-key depravity took hold and he started having lots of casual sex. Sex was real, “what we were put on this Earth to do,” one of the more natu- ral endeavors one could pursue. And a little notoriety, even the cheesiest kind, could get a guy laid. When someone would inquire about his forsaken musical career, he’d routinely say, “It’s a fucked up business; I had to get out of it,” and explain no further. If people wanted to assume that the sole reason for his premature retirement was contempt for the music industry, it was fine with him.

But Matt knew better: it was his own shame that cast him out of the public eye. There was just no getting around it. Or was there? Maybe the time had finally come to take a couple people up on their invitations…

ATT LOVED THE IDEA OF BARCELONA more than the reality of it at first: M

I land alone on the third of January in what turns out to be Barcelona’s coldest winter on record. Elena - who persuaded me to come here for a little love holiday - picks me up at the airport. She waits until I’m in her car - ashtray overflowing with Marlboro butts - to tell me about the new love in her life. I feel tricked into coming. There’s no romance in competing for someone’s affections in a land where you don’t speak the language. I tell her this, which only pisses her off and before I can say ‘Let me out of the car’ she’s driving like a madwoman through Plaza Espana. The speedometer reads 75 KPH and I’m asking her to slow down or drop me off and she’s throwing cassette tapes at me and screaming in Spanish: “Si Morimos, ES IGUAL!” (“I don’t CARE if we DIE!!!”)

Brokenhearted and scared shitless, Matt arrived in the neighborhood of Gracia with his old Smith-Corona, a suitcase full of light summer clothes and an unrelenting New Year’s Eve hangover that rapidly turned into a nasty flu. He spent the first two weeks of his planned roman- 32 tic getaway in bed, coughing up phlegm and contem- plating death. Sweating and shivering under a musty blanket, he’d stare up at the dusty chandelier dangling above him in the master bedroom of the apartment loaned to him by a famous singer-songwriter friend. “Is this where it all ends? This is the perfect place for it— exotic, romantic, imperceptibly infected…” Truly, without the kindness of a certain Ricardo Almendro, Matt might have indeed faced the fulfillment of that grim little daydream.

All the necessary arrangements for these lovely, lonely accommodations had been made with the absentee owner well in advance. Upon Matt’s arrival in Barcelo- na, he was to go to a certain bar across the street from the aforementioned flat, where Señor Almendro would meet him and hand over the keys... Somehow, even in the throes of her delirium, Elena had managed (bless her heart) to find the place and deliver Matt safely. And somehow, Matt was able to muster the courage to walk through the door. A cigarette waved by a man seated at the farthest corner table greeted him. The man was Spanish, but looked more mid-eastern. He had darkish skin that became darker around the eyes. He wore a rainbow of black—charcoal coat over light wool sweater in gunmetal gray, jet-black beret… “You are Matt Packard,” said the man between sips from a chupito of whiskey. Matt tried to bury his broken spirit in friendly enthusiasm. “You’re Ricardo Almendro! Thank you for meeting me.” “I am honored to meet you. I am a great lover of rock poetry…” “I’m honored too! Uh… are you a musician?”

“No, I am not a musician,” said Almendro with a little smirk, as embarrassed as he was flattered by the question. “For a living, and it is my passion as well, I translate lyrics from English to Spanish— Leonard Cohen, Jackson Browne, Patti Smith, Kurt Cobain… the poets of rock, special artists.” Almost inaudibly he added, “I am also a poet.” “That’s cool…” “I have been listening to your songs and reading your lyrics. I like them—a lot.” “I don’t know if I could call myself a rock poet.” Ricardo looked confused. “But your lyrics are poetry, no?” “Well…” Matt tried to shrink into himself. “Why not?” Ricardo pressed. “Well, in any case, I haven’t been writing a lot lately— lyrics anyway.” “No?” “I‘m on strike I guess, a self-imposed hiatus from the music biz.” “Yes… the business… It is a dirty business…” Suddenly, inexplicably, Matt began to weep. Almendro, touched by the sudden, startling display of emotion from this peculiar American, sat quietly, his dark eyes exuding compassion. Matt took the opportunity to bawl openly and freely in that moment, in that bar so far from home, feeling safe in his anonymity. Crying felt good, so the tears kept falling—but not for the reasons Señor Almendro or anyone might have suspected. Matt was thinking, “What the fuck am I going to do in this town alone for six weeks? That bitch! She tricked me! I don’t even know the fucking language!”