Archive | January, 2012

My Denton Music Reincarnation: Part 2

30 Jan

Max and I head upstairs. The man at the counter, Jesse Clay Mudbutt Stinkfoot CallmeUncle Perry gives us our free beers. He has hair like an orange tidal wave and a full, thick, neatly-trimmed beard that would make Richard Karn blush. I tell him how happy I am to see him and that maybe we should throw the football around sometime or maybe get a coffee. He tells me that he has a dirty rag in the back that he uses to wipe up bathroom messes and that he’d rather eat that whole than do anything with me. I smile, laugh, then swallow really hard so I won’t start crying.

Moments later, Ryan, the drummer and resident Apple Specialist in Savage and the Big Beat shows up and we drink some more free beers and pretty soon it’s time to play the show.

We set up our gear and start our soundcheck song. Everything sounds good. After a brief introduction from Max, we start our set.

I’m grooving. I’m moving. My music balls are tingling. I look up to the crowd. From the back of the room, people are parting violently. Someone is attempting to storm the stage. A few seconds later, Roy Robertson, the singer for my old band, is standing directly in front of me. Like “Gimme kiss” close. We stop playing.

“What, Roy?” I ask. He’s wearing large sunglasses and his head is jerking around wildly. It’s clear he’s doing a Stevie Wonder, Ray Charles bit.

“Who said that?” Roy asks, his voice soft, but clearly angry.

“Roy. I said that. You know who I am.”

“That Kyle? That Kyle on stage?

“We’re all on stage,” Ryan says from behind his drums. “We’re trying to play a show, man. Can you–”

“Can I WHAT?” Roy barks, “SEE?!” He stumbles over toward the drum set, gingerly stepping over my pedals and a few cables. “Shit all over the ground,” Roy can be heard mumbling. “SEE?!” he repeats, now groping Ryan’s drums.

“Get off the stage!” Someone from the crowd yells.

“Stage?!” Roy asks. “I’m on a stage?” He spins around, acting confused.

I sigh. “Yes, Roy. You’re on a stage and we’re trying to play a show and I’d really like to play this show without you on stage right in my face.”

“Who said dat?!” Roy asks, pointing in every direction.

“Roy, you are not blind!” Max says, the microphone catching his voice, making his frustration that much more apparent.

“Oh I must be blind!” Roy says. “And you know why?” he says, softer now, inching toward me.


“‘Cause my future is so bright–”

“–You need shades. I get it,” I say.

“AND I TRIED TO LOOK AT IT WITHOUT MY SHADES!” He rips off his sunglasses and rolls his eyes over and over again. This is what Roy thinks blind people’s eyes are like when they aren’t hidden by sunglasses.

“Roy. Please, leave.”

“Fine,” Roy says, sauntering around the stage, running his hand down Max’s keyboard, causing a dissonant string of notes that cut into the silent room like shattering glass. “But know that there is no one more Savage then Roy Robertson,” he glares at Max, “And nobody, and I mean nobody has Beats as Big as mine,” he glares at Ryan then reaches into his pocket and throws down three small orbs before turning to me and hissing like a cat. There’s a small explosion and plumes of smoke erupt from the ground.

We all step away from the smoke. There are scattered cries of concern, then one shrill, high-pitched yelp like the death-throes of a cat. I look to the source of the sound. It is Roy, laying on the concrete floor. He tripped over my pedals while trying to escape.

“My face! My beautiful face!” he screams. He rolls onto his back and begins bicycle kicking in my direction. “You did this!” he wails. In no real danger, I step back slightly. Roy quickly gets to his feet. He straightens his jacket, points at each of us, then leaves.

“Okay, well,” Max says into the microphone. He pauses, searching for the next word. “Well,” he says, then starts the first song.

The set goes well. It’s good to be back.

My Denton Music Reincarnation, Part 1.

28 Jan

Somewhere in late May of 2011, I died. The Denton music scene came to a hush, and a great disturbance was felt as the last notes of my tenure with Roy Robertson faded in decrescendo. Standing on stage in my pink tank top, showing my farmer’s tan so that everyone on the floor beneath me knew that I was just a regular guy and not someone to be revered (although they could still revere me if they wanted to), I smiled, knowing that my time was finished and that I had lived a good Denton music life and that my loved ones were taken care of as I went on into my next life, hoping against hope that the good Lord would put me at his side and not in the boiling blood rivers of Hell.

[Editor’s Note: I feel like you lost a handle on your metaphors at the end there.]

[Kyle’s Note: Metafur.]

[Editor’s Note: What’s “metafur” mean?]

[Kyle’s Note: “Metafur” is fur that is aware that it is fur and is also representing fur.]

I looked down at everyone and they looked back at me and a tall, skinny, deaf gentleman tapped his wrist three times then swirled his pointer finger around at me–telling me in sign language that he loved me and would miss my playing.

Then the deaf man came on stage and, miraculously, spoke.

“It’s time to go,” he said. “We need the stage clear.”

And so I cleared the stage–Forever.

Or so I thought.

On January 25th, I played a show with Savage and the Big Beat as their newest member. Below is my account. Beginning present-tense narration.

My girlfriend and I pull up to the venue. We go around back to the loading area, because of all the areas at J&J’s pizza, that’s the best place to load things.

“Can I help you?” She asks, in mock-equal voice. Sometimes we role-play that we’re equals. It’s sexy and turns me on and gets me amped up to play the show.

“Sure,” I say, without the least hint of condescension. I’m imagining that this must make her as wet as a jug of milk that got sprayed with an old garden hose on the Fourth of July.

We get out of my car and I open my trunk. In the trunk is my guitar amplifier.

“Carry this,” I say, breathing heavily. “Can you carry this?” I ask, now leaning on the car for support, because all the blood is pooling in my genitals.

“Um, I guess,” she says. I ejaculate and then immediately lose all desire to be standing by J&J’s talking to this woman who to me suddenly seems like a stranger.

“Okay, just drop that off and I’ll see you later,” I say, grabbing both guitars and heading inside. I throw my keys back in the direction of the loading bay door and continue into the restaurant/venue. I hear my tires squealing and then a scream telling me to go to Hell and I know she’s left.

The performance area inside J&J’s is in its downstairs basement. The loading area leads directly into it. I set my guitars down and walk into the performance area, which is empty except for three or four young men crowded by the stair well that leads to the restaurant upstairs. They are all wearing dark clothes and form-fitting jeans. One sits behind a table, another at the foot of the stairs, and a third leans against a nearby pool table.

“Hello, boys,” I say. They nod. I’m waiting for them to recognize me and welcome me back to the Scene. I smile and put my hands in my pocket. I can hear the muffled sounds of footsteps in the ceiling and a song that I think might be Foxy Lady, but I can’t tell.

“What’s up?” one of them says. It’s the one sitting behind the table set up at the foot of the stairs so they can take people’s money.

“Oh, nothing,” I say coyly, shifting my weight from one hip to another. I smile and look at each one of them, almost bursting with excitement over how great this moment is going to be for them once they realize who I am. One of the men, the one leaning against the nearby pool table, blows a jet of smoke through pursed lips. I imagine this is like in cartoons when they get so angry steam comes out of their ears, but instead it’s that he’s so excited to see Kyle Irion that there’s smoke coming out of his mouth. He then takes a drag off his cigarette and I feel ridiculous.

I take my hands out of my pockets and put them in the position like I’m holding a guitar, hoping to jog their memory. Now their vacant expressions transform into expressions of confusion. I start to strum the invisible guitar.

“What are you doing?” the one with the cigarette asks.

I start to hum my favorite Roy Robertson song, and bounce around a little bit.

“Are you all right, man?” the one behind the table with the stupid ass jar with stupid ass table says. I drop my hands to my side.

“You don’t remember me?” I ask.

They all shake their heads.

“I’m Kyle Irion.”

“Kyle Irion?” one of them asks. The tone of his voice makes me kind of wish he didn’t know who I was.

“I’m not–Yes. I’m Kyle Irion.”

“Who are you?” the one sitting at the foot of the stairs asks, getting to his feet. The question shakes me a bit.

“I’m uh, I’m Kyle Irion.”

“Yeah. But who are you?”

A lump forms in my throat and I look at cigarette man. “You… you know who I am, right? I just told you.”

“Why would I know who you are?”

Because I just told you who I am!” I grab  him by the lapels of his leather jacket. He stinks. He smells like cheap beer and cheap cigarettes and even cheaper ideas. He puts his hands on mine and pushes them down.

“Don’t touch me, man.”

The young man at the table gets to his feet.

“We need your money, guy,” he says, and I immediately see what this is.

“I’m being mugged!” I scream, clutching my hands tightly and bringing them to my cheek.

“No, dude, we need your money. There’s a cover.”

“Even for people in the band?” I ask, a little annoyed.

“You’re in one of the bands?” he asks.


“Which one?”

“Savage and the Big Beat.”

“Which one are you?” he asks. My stomach sinks.

“Which one am I?” I ask, confused again.

“Yeah. Which one? Are you Savage or the Big Beat?” All three of them laugh exactly eight laughs in perfect unison.

“I’m neither. I’m the third-dimension of Savage and the Big Beat.”

“Oh, rad,” the guy on the pool table says. I can’t tell if he’s being sarcastic with me or not and my this makes me scared and I want to vomit.

“Yeah. Cool name,  man. The Third Dimension.”

“No. No, that’s not my name, my name is–”

“You’re like The Edge of Denton,” the man on the stairs says. He receives sharp, hot, castigating glares from his friends for knowing who The Edge is.

I force a chuckle, uncomfortable.

“Very cool, Third Dimension,” the man behind the table says. “We just need to stamp your hand so you can come and go.”

“I appreciate that,” I say, putting my hand out for its stamp, “But I’d rather be called by my real name.”

“What’s your real name?” the one at the foot of the stairs says. My heart begins to pound.

“But I just told y–”

Just at this moment, Max Brown–the Savage of Savage and the Big Beat–walks up. He is extremely tall and when I stand next to him all I want is for him to pat me on the head and tell me how proud he is and that he’ll never leave mother.

“Hey guys,” he says.

“Hey Max,” they say. “We just met the Third Dimension, here.” I can feel this moniker solidifying, and syrupy thick misery seeps through my chest.

“No, they met Kyle. They were joking about that being m–”

“Third Dimension!” Max says, patting me on the shoulder, literally inches away from the top of my head. It’s so close. My heart melts and all I want to do is go outside and play catch with him.

I sigh and follow Max as we head upstairs.


14 Jan

I wake up, roll over and turn on my coffee maker. My coffee maker rests on my night stand; I don’t sleep in the kitchen.

I lay in my bed for awhile staring at the ceiling, listening to the coffee maker bubble and growl. My stomach hurts, and I can’t tell if it’s from nerves or if I’m feeling a little hung over from drinking the night before. My brain starts to make  a sort of cause and effect relationship between my anxiety and the hangover, that maybe the anxiety is what caused me to drink in the first place, but something about the thought makes my stomach hurt worse, so I stop.

When the coffee maker wheezes in completion, I roll onto my left side, kick off my blankets, and swing my feet to the floor. It makes me happy to do this for some reason. It makes me feel like I’m athletic.

Although I am not.

I put on some gym shorts and a white t-shirt and go to the bathroom. I urinate, shake the remaining drops from my penis and walk to the mirror while pulling my shorts up. In the mirror, I look fine. Maybe even good. My hair has taken well to my pillow and is shaped in an attractive way that reminds me of a number of famous, young, white actors with bags under their eyes and big, glistening smiles that show off their imperfect teeth. I smile at myself. I don’t like the way I look when I do this, so I straighten my mouth and look some more. My posture is bad and is making me look fatter than I am, so I straighten that out, too. I examine myself and see that everything is good enough.

I turn on the faucet and splash water on my face. Before drying, I look up directly into one of the four light bulbs above the mirror. I feel the tiny muscles in my eyes flex as they adjust to the light. It’s a strange, delicious feeling, like biting the inside of your cheek or sneezing. I dry my face and return to the mirror. I look much older all of a sudden and I don’t remember the transition. I realize that things are much further along than I want them to be. I realize that I have so much longer to go.

I go into my room and drink some coffee, my stomach growling for food. The nausea has been replaced by hunger and I want to take my time and relish in it.

I open up the internet and read a news story about a girl who has died. She had been on a roller coaster ride that malfunctioned, the electro-magnetic brakes not getting enough charge or something like that. I imagine myself in the car with the girl, looking over at her the whole time, the wind making tearing sounds in my ears. I am yelling at her in this image–I’m yelling goodbye and that I hope there’s something after this, don’t you? and I try to reach out for her hand, but the security harness is keeping me pinned. I imagine myself turning my head, looking at the horrified faces of everyone in line as the car blows past them as if there were no stop at all.

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