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.

“Yes.”

“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.

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One Response to “My Denton Music Reincarnation, Part 1.”

  1. Patrick O. Strickland January 29, 2012 at 4:00 pm #

    Damn fine showing. Highlights: metafur, the smoking coming out of ol’ guy’s mouth, and humming the favorite Roy Robertson song.

    Proud of you.

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