Raymond Carver Festival Suite

 

                                        Raymond Carver Festival Suite

Ray—

hello from Clatskenie Oregon w/sunshine + cool breeze coming up the Columbia River where I/m tired + my back aches still but here to celebrate you this weekend w/a writing festival in yr name organized by the Clatskenie Arts Foundation—who wouldve thunk you/d be driving the economy here in yr home town for a few days among all the closed-up restaurants + bars—only Colvins still going tho not sure if it was around when you lived here decades ago its been decades since I read you—just about two ago when I went thru a second go-thru of What We Talk About When We Talk About Love in Jackson Hole Wyoming one summer on the helitack crew there helirappel actually sliding down a rope out of a helicopter to get to fires tho I think we only really did it once but was something I/d wanted to try + liked b/c every rappel was terrifying tho you learn to trust the equipment if not he people but re-finding you in a used bookstore there—I think the first time was back in college Michigan State on my own when I was already reading lots all the time but following you down from the Hemingway line of minimalism tho was always interesting to think about how some people claimed yr style was actually yr editors style—that he stripped you down took away yr adverbs adjectives which sounds like a good editor to me tho also read somewhere way back that you resented it + yr later stuff has more something that I like the earlier stuff so I dont know but I think Susan Sontag is right that (in prose at least?) style is content vs the poetry ‘form is content/content form’ exchange in which case was yr content taken from you b/c I recently had a minor similar happenstance of a lit mag taking a story of mine enthusiastically then an ‘assigned’ editor The New Yorker-ized it but what was I gonna do? say no? even tho neither of us was getting paid?

II

following the Clatskenie River curving thru town making its way north to flow into the Columbia tho doesnt feel like the coast here yet—more like a nestled farm valley among forest hills sitting on a picnic table hoping I dont get attacked by the weird-colored ducks snoozing around—those hills state forest so third or fourth growth stands single-species + too thick to walk thru tho I think theres a path nearby trying to absorb as much sun as I can to get rid of this minor cough I got at my sisters b/c children are vectors of disease while I keep waiting for the the working class to rise up w/guillotines but everyones on screens—I/d like to hang out in a bar w/o tvs w/you talk about Hemingway + Pushcarts + women + the rain

“Yes, work. The going
to what lasts.”

III

noted: Clatskenie actually ends w/an ai sound

the festival in yr honor started this morning at the Birkenfeld theater just the hill w/a scrum of people looking at books for sale eating cake which I immediately had to leave for my sanity— two readings by two poets the first of whom was great—Marj Hogan—keeping to the theme‚yr theme—or work—the second of whom didnt seem to understand how microphones work but ok—out of the theater into the sunshine down to the farmers market which has nothing I want—no fruit or banana bread or nada—pull up another picnic table at the river away from people—I may have only read you after I saw the movie Shortcuts directed by Robert Altman based some of yr short stories (and which I have learned you helped with the screenplay!) which I liked—the disjointedness of doing that as a film—same thing w/Larry Browns Big Bad Love later on directed by Arliss Howard + I was always interested in how you never wrote a novel which someone —maybe you but I cant remember—said came from having a job and a family and only time to write short texts which makes sense but also could just be that you liked short texts + that was only ever what was going to come out tho novels are where the money is or they were + getting a creative writing teaching gig was easier back then tho I bet you taught composition at some point too + I/m at the point where if I were to go back to teaching comp I/d just treat them as creative writing classes—just like the writer Janet Kauffman told me long ago + I kind of did anyway—at least using creative narrative essays (like Abbey and Bukowski whom I/m sure you also liked) while throwing poems in as ways to make writing fun or at least engaging or at least not painful to my students but now AI looms over every class so that teachers are going back to in-class essays in blue books which defeats the idea of writing as a process so I just watch for fires instead

IV

what took me a while to appreciate was your wife Tess Gallagher—fine writer in her own right who didnt really peak until you were gone but the festival reinforced + esp added to my idea of how special a couple you both were—two poets in synch living a life of maybe voluntary poverty not to mention she got you off the juice giving you ten more years of sober creativity—she was here—topped off a reading up at ‘The Castle’ in the afternoon which we all huffed up to in the sun tho I/d/ve rather they just did it back at the theater—writers shouldnt be mucking around in rich peoples houses but she was great enthusiastic energetic funny—we would have all just loved to listen to her between-poem stories + I love especially the story about you two in the program notes about driving through town here stopping in the Safeway parking lot deciding to give an impromptu poetry reading standing up through the car moonroof reading poems to whomever would listen—a similar ritual happens a the festival at the endish of the day where we all gathered in the alley where theres a huge mural of you so that Tess could stand up thru someones moonroof and which were all great. I thought you/d want to know that the last one was yr Late Fragment about wanting to be beloved + Tess + many in the audience recited it by heart

V

the mural including this quote from you:

I’ll take all the time I please this afternoon

before leaving my place alongside this river

also a small sculpture in the park across from the library w/yr picture + the great quote (from a woman character)—Will you please be quiet, please!—which should be my motto + which was also on the back of festival t-shirts: you have merch! or youre on merch! I cant imagine my hometown of Jackson Michigan ever having a sculpture or statue or picture or mural of me but if they do it should be me flipping them off—that would be satisfying but at 57 now looking like I/ll be ending my days in blessed obscurity tho still publish individual pieces in lit mags here + there—still no Pushcart alas b/c I remember the anecdote of when you got in the Pushcart Prize anthology you slept w/the book under yr pillow tho I dont think the current editors would like yr stuff anymore—its all ‘language’ poetry and The New Yorker stories (which are no longer Raymond Carver The New Yorker stories) but oh well we write for the process yes? but I/m not inclined to write novels anymore—wrote seven over the decades which were challenging + interesting but not inclined to spend that much time + effort anymore unless of course I get the inspiration for something different to try for the curiosity of it—I dont know the last one I wrote because the ghost of singer Dawn Crosby came in my dreams three nights in a row asking me to do it—you cant deny ghosts but the Big Four or Three wouldnt want it + lit agents dont want it + the indie presses publish their friends

VI

all the poetry I heard at the festival was good if not great + the type which exists outside of academia + The New Yorker or even Harper’s which traces a line down from Whitman Williams Bishop the Beats + maybe Bukowski + definitely Mary Oliver in a melange of lyric-for-the-individual singing for + sharing wisdom rather than being clever tho clever can include humor + you were the only one w/a sense of humor + a sense of wisdom + I suppose this is what regional poetry is—anything outside of New York or San Francisco + you are from the Pacific Northwest—not sure you spent much time away from it tho also rooted in the working class tho the working class when they tolerate poetry at all only tolerate what they can understand while academic poetry since the 90s has always been about breaking apart sense ostensibly to break about the language of the oppressor but all they leave behind is Babel but yes nothing more cringy than a poet trying to wise tho when it works it works—WS Merwin—I dont know if I consider myself a PNW poet—I/ve lived off + on in Oregon for fifteen years now but still feel like a Michigander somehow to my embarrassment tho when the poetry transcends like yrs you becomes a national treasure (international even) even as not even yr stories get discussed in MFA programs much less undergrad + if Sontag is right + style is content what does this say that yr style is rejected even as all New Yorkers would still claim to like Chekhov who was yr main influence but for example at the festival there was a young man—20—from Clatskenie who was introducing the afternoon poets who told all us adults how much yr writing (style?) had shaped him as a writer + person + again all those people some of them youngsters—who recited yr beloved Fragment from heart about wanting to be beloved—we live in a lonely country but all this writing just to tell you that you are

 

 

Catching Pinecones—film review

My review of the film Catching Pinecones, about the rockclimbing legends Jan and Herb Conn, which I saw at the Fresh Coast Film Festival recently, now up a SPLICE TODAY!

 

Dear Abby: Letters to Ed

My epistolary essay "Dear Abbey: Letters to Ed" now out in the new Louisiana Literature, Vol. 33. No. 1. Thanks to them for taking a longer text. Print. Order here.

 

"poor world" by Idea Vilariño

My translation from the spanish of Idea Vilariño's "pobre mundo/poor world" which she wrote back in 1962 but sounds like it was written yesterday. Out now in the new Denver Quarterly!

 

David Lee Roth in concert—review

My review of, and musings on, the recent David Lee Roth concert here in Oregon. Up now at SPLICE TODAY! He's on tour all summer here in the US. Rockers take note! 

 

How To Think Like A Woman by Regan Penaluna

My review of Regan Penaluna's book How To Think Like A Woman now up at SPLICE TODAY!

 

The Autonomous Mutant Collective

  

You’ve heard of Burning Man and the Rainbow Gathering but—the Autonomous Mutant Collective? I hadn’t either until they set up for a week at the base of my fire lookout tower mountain. Nobody at the district office ever tells me anything so the first glimmering—or foreboding—happened on a Wednesday when someone cranked some loud electronic music nearby. All I could hear—and feel—was the THUMP THUMP THUMP of a computerized bass drum. I thought it was some locals from the small California-hillbilly town of Westwood who decided to drive up my road and drink beer. My only worry being that they would try to come up to the tower driving around the locked gate on their dirtbikes to give me attitude as had happened only the week before.

But the THUMP continued the next day starting around 11am and didn’t stop. Campers? But no real good places to camp on the road up here. Music that loud must be close.

And at two in the afternoon I heard steps on the metal stairs up to the tower catwalk. I opened the door: Yep a guy was walking up. Pet peeve of mine at lookouts—people who just come up without yelling hello and/or asking permission. But I contained my annoyance—mostly—since I also respect people who hike the last mile up. So I said hello and smiled. Somehow he seemed surprised to see me though my truck was parked right below.

He said he was camping down in the forest valley with some friends and came up to take some pictures of their spot.

Still a little annoyed I said, —You the ones blasting that music down there?

Which seemed to make him nervous. And/or he was just an odd duck. —Yes.

—How many friends do you have?

He avoided eye-contact.. —Oh as many as decide to show up. We never really know. We call ourselves the Autonomous Mutant Collective.

Which I thought was amusing and in my mind I was picturing about then guys.

He asked how long I would be here and said he didn’t think lookouts were staffed anymore. Which I get a lot of. Still not making eye-contact—I guess because I was a Forest Service employee— he asked about campfires which at that point in the summer—mid-June—were still ok.

He apologized for taking up my time and asked if he could take some pictures and did.

—How long are you going to be down there?

—Oh things will really kick in over the weekend. We should start packing up on Monday.

That went over my head at the time. He took another look around and said wistfully, —Great place for some solitude. Then he left. Only later did I wonder-suspect that that dude was on a scouting mission to see if he could bring all his ‘friends’ up during the fest and that me being there discouraged that plan since I was a grumpy fed.

The THUMP continued on Friday so I texted one of the FS fire folks who patrol the area. He replied back that the Autonomous Mutant Collective had in fact applied for a permit and that it was a festival going until that next Wednesday. Seems all my bosses knew this was coming but no one told me. Like I said.

The only way to drown out the THUMP was either playing my double-bass—Bach and Beethoven for hours—or cranking up all my Slayer and Tool albums on my computer. Though by Friday evening—when all the FS fire folks were off the clock—the THUMP got louder. This is when the hate started—who the fuck plays techno in a forest? An abomination. Plus it was affecting me physically. Fortunately a cold spell and high winds rain and scattered hail and near freezing temps all seemed to stop the music.

The Autonomous Mutant Collective—according to a report-essay “The Great Mutant-Fest Techno Bust” by a David Bernbaum published on their website—has had some run-ins with the law on other National Forests. The ‘Autonomous’ part should be read as ‘anarchist’ though the change of word is smart since most people these days tend to think of anarchists as bomb-throwing terrorists or at least as the Black Bloc folks who fuck shit up at protests and demonstrations (though actually haven’t heard about them in a while) whereas anarchists like me (on a good day when I have faith in humanity)(which is rare) tend to think of ourselves as David Graebers—at the very least not needing leaders like for example his example of a bunch of people waiting to get on a bus—it happens in an orderly fashion with care given to those in need et cetera. Nobody has to order them to get on the bus in a certain way. There are many strands of anarchism if readers are curious to explore. Graeber is a great start. Bakunin a classic. Or my favorite: Edward Abbey.

In good anarchist fashion the Autonomous Mutant Collective claims no leaders with just an agreed upon date in June when they meet, anywhere in CA OR or WA. Even signing a permit for a gathering is problematic since no one claims to speak for anyone else who shows up. Nevertheless like all anarchist groups there is a core group of organizers (if not leaders)(but yeah leaders)—the someones who decide on the location and and pay for the port-o-potties or own the website. The guy who came up to the tower was probably one of them. Maybe he runs the whole thing! But something like this takes the will and patience of at least a core group. And that’s fine. Unlike Burning Man, the whole thing is free (I’m unclear if the Rainbow Gathering is still free or not). Anyone can show up and leave at any time and camp anywhere. It seems a good experience in anarchist living (or vacationing) despite the headache it creates (which I can attest it true) for the National Forest district they choose (mine). (Though there were no real problems—more anon.)

I didn’t learn all that until later in increments. By saturday the music was even louder and all day—I was woken at 6am by the THUMP despite the cold and hail we’d gotten. I realized that the Visitor-dude had said they had a website so I checked it out—primitive but has directions and helpful suggestions for arrival. And it has Bernbaum’s play-by-play of the big run-in with the cops on another forest from some years ago. So it wasn’t just ten friends. A festival. Of sorts. From the volume of the bass drum I pictured 300 bodies dancing together in the trees under the influence of various narcotics. Kind of like that rave scene in the second Matrix movie except not underground. Horrifying in any case.

And frustrating. I’m sure no one else around could hear them. In fact I’m sure there was no one else around—the mutants had picked an area well-nestled in a valley surrounded by hills. Near two highways and a half-hour to Westwood or the larger Susanville (where I go for groceries and a dose of civilization—such as it is—once a week). The frustration came from being up at my tower (on the clock and I live up there all the time all all summer) and having to hear—to feel—the THUMP especially at night. Saturday got LOUD. I had all the windows shut, earplugs in and a pillow over my head and still could feel it.

On Sunday morning I was woken again at 6am by the beat—not sure if it had gone all night or was just re-starting up but I reacted in frustration—calling first my Dispatch to ask if a LEO could head over. Then texting a couple of my supervisors doing to them what had been done to me: annoy them at an early hour. Then I called the cops. The Sheriff's deputy was the nicest person I talked to that whole week. Seemed to sincerely care when I told him where I was. He said he and his partner would go over and talk to them and I think maybe they did because the beat volume went down soon after for the rest of the morning. Bumped back up in the afternoon though. So more Slayer and Tool (by way of contrast I usually listen to Vivaldi et cetera up in my tower).

My FMO actually made the suggestion—perhaps just kidding— that I should head down and check it out. As he put it “get your groove on.” And I thought about that. And thought about it. And decided he was right—it was right there and free and maybe I could learn about something new and interesting happening in my neck of the woods. So after work I drove down. Took a half-hour to get there. When I reached tents and cars I parked on the main Forest Service dirt road. Got out and walked into the mutant camp.

The booming bass was to my north somewhere off in the trees. Though I discovered that there was more than one booming bass. I walked east to the far side of the camp on the main road maybe no more than a half mile with the bridge over the Susan River kind of the crossroads (the river being more of a creek there but lovely.) Lots of parked cars and seemingly empty tents. Coming across across people walking here and there I asked a couple guys directions on how to get to the music. They were friendly and explained though their directions were basically ‘walk through the trees until you hit a trail and follow it. They also gave me funny looks—this was Sunday and anybody who had been there for even just the weekend should have known their way around by then. I was obviously new and obviously did not fit in fashion-wise. I had on my green Carhartts and black boots and a black Patagonia coat and probably looked like the federal employee I was. Or maybe a FBI asset. Despite my long hair and days-old scruffy face and that I hadn’t showered in a week, more than any of them.

I asked if there was any acoustic music going on. Which flummoxed them. They mumbled something about there might be another ‘stage.’

My first impression after walking around a bit was, where is everybody? I saw way more tents and vehicles for the amount of people walking around. They must have been at the 300-person rave I’d envisioned.

I returned back to the bridge determined to find the LOUD THUMP. A side road led northwestish with lots of tire and foot traffic so I figured that was it. For maybe another half-mile, probably less, the road was lined with more tents and vehicles. People seemed to want to camp near the THUMP. I came across an area with a PA and a WALL of speakers and an inflatable unicorn. This was a dance area but no one was there. Not even a DJ though music was blasting. But this wasn’t even The THUMPing bass I’d been hearing. How many PAs were there? I’d thought there would just be on central dance area but apparently not.

At the end of that side road was what I would learn was a ‘stage’—a dance floor or dance area since a floor in the forest doesn’t sound right. Again, there was a WALL of speakers, a DJ booth and lights strung up along the trees currently unlit. Also what seemed like a bar which might have explained the small group of people mostly clustered around it. I checked the directions of the WALL of speakers—yep facing southwest right at my tower. This was the area called No Limits. Two people were actually sort of dancing—slow-dancing independently for the fast-paced OONTZ OONTZ of whatever electronic music it was. They didn’t care—either blissed out with each other and/or drugs. There were a few others sitting on plastic tarps on the ground chatting somehow right in front of the speakers. Everyone there seemed to have dreadlocks or at least all the guys did. The clothing was Goodwill meets post-apocalyptic and looked like it had been worn all week.

This was what all the LOUD music was about? Fifteen people? Someone said things started happening after dark—even not until midnight. I don’t know I didn’t stay that long. Maybe everyone was gathering strength for later.

I felt super-self-conscious just standing there getting stared at. And/or ignored. Both. I walked back out to the main road. On my way I walked up on a young woman going in the same direction. She looked back at me so I waved and said, —Passing on the left.

She smiled and said hello. Her name was Rebecca. I asked her how she liked the Autonomous Mutant Collective.

—This is my second one. I like it. Everyone here is so generous.

No reason to doubt her though I felt like I got the cold shoulder at No Limits. I would have asked her more but we arrived at her tent.

Back out on the main road I took a left after the bridge and headed north along another side road. At the end of that was another ‘stage’ called SPAZ with the speakers again lined up in a WALL—DJ booth and dance area with a tarp strung overhead and more small lights. No bar but here yes people dancing—about 20 women. The music was latin-themed—still techno-ish but with a least a latin bass line. This would be the most dancers I would see the whole time. There were also others seated in chairs of on a plastic tarp on the ground or standing and smiling talking to each other. One sad young man swung slightly from a big swing hung between two big pondos. I again stood awkwardly watching wishing I was able to dance. Just never have felt comfortable doing it—too self-conscious even though I’m a musician and have rhythm.

These two ‘stages’ seemed to be where any activity was happening that evening. I saw three other ‘stages’ around with DJ booths and WALLS of speaker but empty. Each stage was powered by a diesel generator which is maybe why the music had to be so loud. All the generators running 24/7. I wondered what made one stage more popular than any other. Surely the music though the No Limits had the bar and was farther away from the road. And louder. Maybe just the name itself. As a dare.

I was glad to have gone to put a face to the music. Or faces. I still kinda hated the No Limits DJs though—knowing I would have to hear them when I got back up to my tower. I hung out from like 630 to 8 then drove back up so as not to have to take the tower road in the dark. Also because nothing seemed to be going on. I was struck by the lameness. My estimate was there were maybe 200 people total based on the vehicles and tents I saw. Maybe. Though the essay by Bernbaum said they had had 350 for that gathering. Where was everybody?

My normal days off are Monday/Tuesday and I had contemplated just taking them both and leaving the area for three nights. Usually I just drive back up every night since it’s the best view around but my boss offered to let me work one of my days off due to fire danger (wind really, it was still kind of cold and no lightning)(maybe to keep an eye on the mutant campfires). Hard to turn down ten hours of overtime. Plus I have a thing of when I’m at a tower for the summer I’m at the tower—I like to be there at night. It’s my mountain home and comfy. So I went through another day of Slayer and Tool to drown out the mutants. But after my first visit the night before I had the idea—why not go all-in and camp down there? Get more of the feel? Stay past dark, see what what it looks like in the early morning before I left to go to Susanville for the day. The camp was right on one of the roads I would take to get into town anyway. Possibly even return for a third night on my way back and zip up to the tower in Wednesday morning.

Why not? Get out of my fire lookout safety zone and try something new. Also: I like camping—my tent and sleeping bag were all set to go in my truck. Off at six again I closed up the tower and headed down. Even washed my pits and put on a new shirt. Not that that would make any difference to anyone. Still it felt like a special occasion. I was a little nervous. Felt like a spy. Kinda was.

First thing I saw when I reached camp was a woman dropping trou right by the side of the road pissing on a pondo. I had to do a double-take to verify what mine eyes saw before I could avert them and give her privacy. Drove though to the east side as far away from No Limits as possible and at the last tent and vehicle hunted for a good spot. There were plenty. I’m surprised people didn’t spread out more. I was right on the outer limits, though still maybe only 50 yards from the bridge. I just couldn’t believe more people didn’t camp farther out—the tents were jammed almost wall to wall some places and those places are close to all the PAs. Is that not exhausting just being close to the noise for a whole week? My instinct to avoid the crowd just was not the instinct of anyone else. These were extroverts camping. People probably felt energized the whole week whereas two hours there the night before had exhausted me. I was basically walking the whole time pretending to have purpose rather than standing awkwardly gawking. I’m a flaneur, a people-watcher, curious from a distance.

I set up my tent which was one of the few normal-like tents, though just an REI special. Not proud really just noting that most of the people camped out there didn’t look like regular campers or people who come into the woods. Maybe the experience will make some converts and at the least these folks will come away with an appreciation for forests—National or otherwise—and want to protect them. That said, the camp still gave me the vibe of conquering nature rather than being part of it. Bringing a PA system powered by diesel generators with lots o’ psychedelic lights seems like a separation from nature.

I did bring my guitar down with thoughts of maybe busking by the bridge but when I took a preparatory walk down there, there was THUMP from at least three different stages. So I retired to my truck and did what I usually do up at the tower in the evening—played my guitar and sang—Beatles Dylan Gillian Welch. A half hour of singing felt good, put me in a good mood. Had to kinda wander around my truck to keep the mosquitoes off—which seemed to have survived the near-freezing temps we’d had. Some cars passed and people waved and some walkers farther along the road kind of checked me out from a distance. Not that I cared. Or maybe I cared a little. It was the one activity I felt I could do that would bring acceptance from the mutants. But it also was just for me, to pass some time until dark when the camp might become more lively.

A car stopped on its way into camp and a window rolled down. A black guy with dreads leaned out. —Hey man can you tell me how to get out of here?

—Sure. Where you going?

—Just out of here. I got to get out of the woods before it gets dark.

—Well if you want Susanville turn around follow this road until it Ts and turn left. Go out to Highway 44 and turn right.

We went over it a couple more times. He’d already tried to get out that way. I know what he did—turned right at the T because there’s a sign saying Susanville 18 miles but that’s all dirt road. He headed out. My good deed for the day. Only black person I’d see there. Perhaps following a black man’s natural instinct to not be in the woods at night with a bunch of white people.

As the sun set I took one last look at the Susan River in the half-light then first headed to my enemies the No Limits folks. And it was the same. LOUD music and a few people standing around and talking somehow. Less than the night before. I forced myself to go over to the bar. No crowd just a couple bartenders. One of them smiled as he was opening a bottle of wine. But he didn’t offer. And I didn’t ask. Didn’t bring my wallet. Unclear if drinks were free? Maybe not? Maybe I should have asked? That seemed a little desperate on my part. Inhospitable on their part. If they’d offered I would have graciously taken one. Maybe even talked to someone. So I stood there awkwardly for a bit feeling utterly out of place. Really though—was that it? All that loud music for small groups not even dancing?

I walked back to SPAZ and it too was dead: no latin-infused music, just the same stuff No Limits was playing—oontz oontz with weird unmelodious high-pitched noises. Lesson learned—if you want folks to dance, go latin.

Speaking of that, there was a notable amount of spanish speakers. From Spain, based on the accent I was hearing. I wonder if they all knew each other? Or what the connection was with the autonomous mutants? Too shy to ask though I ventured a few holas to passing groups hoping they’d be impressed and stop to charlar. Pero no. A couple newcomer vehicles were finding spots along the No Limits road and they too were spanish. Huh.

There were other things going on, or attempting to go on. Community-minded stations centered around the bridge. A tree-climbing workshop going on all day where people could learn how to use a harness and rope to climb a tall ponderosa tree right next to the river. That did get a lot of activity—people were climbing all the time.

A lending library area had books and also a large collection of zines which I never perused—no time even though that was probably the area that most appealed. Couple of librarian-types seemed to have set it up but I only saw them my first day. Also an old typewriter on a small table with brown strips of paper to type on with pinned poems or letters to a cork board nearby. Again this was my jam but I did not partake. If I’d been there all week yes.

One new thing was an orange inflatable square ‘structure’ with what looked like a chimney coming out of the top. A 6x6x6 cube with walls like a soft thermos. I couldn’t figure it out until a guy walking by said, —It’s a sauna! A portable sauna! Crazy huh?

Indeed. Made me wonder about getting one for up at the tower.

A ‘crafts’ area also had a ‘free food’ table neither of which got used though I may have just missed the crafts time. A medical tent always posted someone responsible-looking. A sign for some kind of ‘mermaid’ activity hung on the bridge. Unclear when except it was qualified with the words ‘BAD FISH ONLY.’ But women did bathe right at the bridge occasionally. In bathing suits that I saw. My boss said he had seen nudity but I never did. Just kind of too cold and too many mosquitoes.

There was also the ‘Hoe Zone’ which had the biggest sign of all advertising a fashion show for Saturday though the hoes were all dudes in women's clothing. Trans-women I guess. Unclear. The implication of the sign though was that to be a woman is to be a hoe. The place didn't seem very popular though for example my boss who had been driving through every day thought that was one of the main events. Or points. Or identities. Anybody who drove through saw that sign and associated it with the Autonomous Mutant Collective. A central decorating committee might have re-thought that messaging.

The biggest non-dancing gathering I found was in a tent right next to—and in the THUMP of—SPAZ where a ‘Truth or Dare’ session was going on. Which was really an informal Moth—randomly people took turns telling a story from their life based on a theme. Time limit ten minutes, with a host and someone to ding a bell at the limit. There were about twenty people crowded in there sitting down and respectfully listening. I think this event happened more than one day. Felt like the one place where people could learn about each other, and thus if felt like those who were there were really into it. Sharing our stories with each other. And listening.

Camp etiquette seemed almost non-existent—open empty food containers lay on tables or even the ground. I didn’t see much alcohol except some PBR empties at some camps, on the ground or in the original cases. Garbage bags—if there were any and I didn’t see a lot—were on the ground or taken to the main road where I assume the Forest Service rec guy took them away every day. I’d bet any bears were too scared of the music. Not sure on raccoons. Or mice. At one point two women in a truck with a big tank of potable water drove around and filled up any jugs people had. That was nice of them. That cost someone money. Not sure what people would have done otherwise—the AMC website did advise to bring enough water for the whole stay.

I saw at least three Priuses parked around in various stages of disrepair—missing panels and scratched to hell. Three #VanLife vans. Slumming I guess. No tents. Sleeping inside. Any pickups seemed to parked out on the east end where I ended up with my pickup. Campsites in the center were mostly four-door cars and old-school vans. At least one modified schoolbus with speakers on the outside playing weird noises.

I got a few whiffs of cannabis in my walks about (which is legal here in California) but not clouds of it. A whiff of diesel fumes—or something—some smell—sends me back to when I was a wildland firefighter in fire camp—that smell plus a medical tent plus random people wandering around as if with purpose. And the general loudness.

All the guys there were either super-skinny or overweight like they lived in their parents basements and played video games all day. No one seemed to get any exercise. I mean, I felt like I had way better posture than everyone there and that’s not something I’ve ever felt anywhere else. Plus again my Carhartt pants stood out which is wild since they’re about standard for the local guys (and some gals) in Susanville and Westwood. Rural vs urban style? Or it’s because my hair is grey? But there were some older dudes around. I’m dirtbag but not the right kind of dirtbag.

At dark walking up the outskirts on the main road there were some small groups at their campsites gathered round fires chatting. Those seem more my people unless who knows maybe they were just resting up for an all-night dance session later. Of course an event like this is more fun if you came with friends. Even if I had friends I’d still suggest we go camping somewhere else. Maybe that’s why I don’t have friends.

But I was not the only night visitor. There were the spanish people who showed up but also on my way back to my tent in full-on darkness a nice car parked up near the bridge and a man in a suit got out and headed in the direction of SPAZ. Some other cars rolled in after I was in my tent. So maybe some locals got their groove on.

I guess what struck me about my second night was how lame everything was: the loud PA systems—multiple ones—but no one there. Had people left? Could have been my timing—not total dark yet. I was tired—bed time and my feet were sore from walking up and down those gravel roads. I’m sure I could have gotten more of a ‘groove’ on if I was fumado or maybe drunk. Maybe. This is how extroverts camp I guess—same feeling (minus the loud PAs) I get in official campgrounds—some people love being around other people. Me, I come to the woods to get away from them. Maybe if one were here from the beginning there would be more of a sense of camaraderie. But also the willingness to camp right next to others—and to a PA. I just can’t understand.

Despite everything I could stop at the bridge and watch the light fade over the river and listen to the moving water. A bat flapped overhead. Hello friend.

Back at my tent scribbling notes to the still continuous throbbing bass. Faster pace? Were things picking up? But I couldn’t be a good reporter and get out and go back. At best I’d see a small group of people dancing or I kinda doubted I’d see even that. If there were large groups of dancers to justify these PA systems I’d never know—I was content to lay in my tent horizontal and off my feet. I had been thinking of coming back the next night but did I really want to? Wander around by myself and to feel the bass in my chest all night? Again?

With earplugs in and sleeping bag mummied up around my head lying sideway with the airhole away from my face, I could just drown out the bass thump enough to relax. Again, felt like fire camp back in the day—my body remembered how to fall asleep in noise. That plus I was somehow exhausted from walking around on the flat ground. That and I like sleeping in a tent—I feel snug. I slept.

The night got COLD—glad I put on sweat pants and a longsleeve shirt to supplement my sleeping bag. And in the morning—yup—woken by intermittent bass thump. Had people been going all night? Had the music gone all night?

After I packed up I took a stroll through camp following the slower oontz of a new noise on a side road to the south that I hadn’t taken before. On my way down an older guy—maybe my age but could have been younger with the wear of substance abuse—walked by probably to the port-o-potties. I said good morning. —You been up all night?

He grumbled. —Yeaaaaahh....

I found another ‘stage.’ That word implies a performative aspect to the DJs and their walls of speaker in the trees. Is this all really about them? In their minds? Anyways another small group of folks sat in chairs around a fire talking despite being in the full blare of the speaker. The music not dancy, not too upbeat and even had melody and chord changes though still a drum machine. They all looked like they’d been up all night and were coming down. I guess my ‘where is everybody’ feeling comes from the fact that half the camp had been sleeping all day catatonic in their tents or vehicles waiting for dark so they could vampire up.

I walked on down north to the No Limits stage for one last peek. Dance music still blared—maybe a tad quieter—with three people in the DJ booth. Another small group of people gathered sitting around a fire on couches. Even a couple/few people on the dance floor sort of still moving their bodies to the beat slightly. One young woman seemed to not be able to help herself—which I respect—women must dance, move their bodies—but she looked wired and on the verge of physical collapse.

More people seemed dressed up in costume, wild Mad Max-ish outfits, especially the women (with a good number of dudes in dresses or skirts). Nobody dressed sexy per se though some women couldn’t help it. But all dressed in ‘rags of light’ as Leonard Cohen put it. In a sense this event was a masquerade like the europeans use to have back in the day though I don’t think there’s much sex happening (I assume that most women anyways don’t want to have sex after not showering for a while, but I could be wrong—it’s happened before). And no face masks—dress-up or the medical kind for virtue signaling. But was this their true expression of themselves? Away from society and and -archy’? Or was this all persona? Or are we all just wearing costumes all the time like Frank Zappa said and this is just one from their Road Warrior closets.

Mostly though camp was quiet. Cars and tents quiet. I could even hear birds—they hadn’t been scared away. The river sounded and looked lovely. I had a headache. The sun coming through the trees and especially along the main road heated up the air quick.

I was done with the Autonomous Mutant Collective. I’d have to listen to them up at my tower that night but supposedly the next day would be their last day so maybe the PAs would mostly start to mellow out. As Newt said in Aliens, —Mostly...

Mostly I wouldn’t have a problem with this fest if it weren’t for the No Limits aiming their THUMP WALL at my tower, the helpless feeling of ‘shit I have to listen to this 24/7 for a week and I wasn’t given a choice.’ But mostly the folks weren’t bothering anyone besides a poor fire lookout. I sensed a sense of comfort—dropped out of society though maybe these people were living a mostly dropped-out life period. Which I had to respect and even envy—I only saw one phone the whole time. No service out here of course but it was just a young woman at the lending library taking pictures of the typed poems. I didn’t bring mine, didn’t take any pics, out of respect and also didn’t want another reason for folks to think I was a cop. Should’ve gotten some pics of the WALLS of PA speaker in the woods though, just so people would believe me.

Sad too a little that there was almost no music played by real people. I saw a few guitars carried around in cases and one woman at a campfire strumming one. My sense is if all the people were gathered around a real stage with musicians playing, that it would have been joyful. Maybe I’d like the Rainbow Gathering better. I think I even would have preferred the Grateful Dead or Phish playing though I never cared for either of those scenes either. Or to see Slayer or Tool down in Reno. Electronic music the woods is just jarring.

The appeal of identifying as an anarchist is of course the ‘fuck you to the man’ but the anarchists I’ve known have always been less-inclined towards the ‘organizing with others’ part. What I mean is that with ‘no masters’ should come responsibility and respect. These folks may respect each other but not maybe outsiders which would explain the one bad run-in with law enforcement chronicled on the AMC website where it seems they chose a place a little too close to a residential area. You can’t just blast throbbing bass through your WALL of speakers when there are other people around who didn’t choose (were not even consulted) about the music levels. They did ok this year—I was the only poor bastard around and who cares about one individual compared to the collective.

Anarchy—no masters—has to have respect and responsibility. That means maybe not blasting music 24/7, especially if no one is even dancing. It means calling out hello before you go up into someone’s lookout tower. It means acknowledging that others in the community you’ve come to—the locals who actually live here—maybe not agree with you or understand what you’re doing. I get the appeal of retreating to the woods away from the masters. I do. It’s why I’m a fire lookout. Just don’t act surprised or shocked or passively-aggressively play innocent. The ‘fuck you’ attitude is not good anarchism. It’s just nihilism, Dude.

I would urge the people of the Autonomous Mutant Collective to come back. Not en masse but come back alone or with a small group of friends. If you must feel like conquering nature, there’s fishin’ and huntin’. But set up a tent maybe by the river. The Bizz Johnson Trail is a good one for mountain biking, if you have thousands of dollars to spend on a bike. Parts of it go along the Susan River. Nice for walking. Or go for a hike over in the Caribou Wilderness or Lassen National Park. Canoe or kayak in any of the lakes around here. Even drive up to a fire lookout tower. Or just sit and listen to the river and birds and wind in trees. You know how to get here now. The forest is waiting for your return.

Post Scriptum—I go back a week later. Park. Get out. Walk around. The whole area has been rehabbed—branches logs and even big rocks covering up most of the spaces where people camped. I text my boss: who did that? —They did! he replied. I walk down road to No Limits but I almost can’t be sure where that spot was—the clearing at the end of the road seems too small. Where did the speakers go again? Where was the bar? The dance space? Did I hallucinate all of this?

The Autonomous Mutant Collective website: https://mutantfest.info/

The Audition—short story

My story "The Audition" appeared, in print, in NORTH DAKOTA QUARTERLY Vol. 91 Nos. 3/4. Fall 2024. 

 

My chances were not good, even if I hadn’t been a girl—The Very Famous Metal Band had their choice of bass players to replace Cole, who had died when their tour bus crashed and rolled on an icy road in Germany only two months before. To replace him so soon seemed crazy and caught everyone in the music scene—at least where I was, in LA—by shock. But word got out that their management company was accepting demos, so I thought, why not? What have I got to lose? And why not me: huge fan of The Very Famous Metal Band, and Cole in particular—the oldest and maybe least conventionally good-looking of the four, with his skeletal jaw bones and greasy brown hair, but maybe the best musician overall. Each of their three albums featured a bass solo by him, and the one on the first album really made people notice. I think most non-musician metalheads actually know what a bass guitar or a bass player is because of Cole. I’d memorized all three of their albums, played along to them in my room back in Brighton, Michigan, over and over. I cried when Mike, my boyfriend, told me about Cole dying.

I sent the management company a copy of my band Witchhunt’s CD, Coven of Sisters, which I’m still proud of, even if we recorded it in a week in a cheap basement studio. And, I guess, they couldn’t tell I was female: my name, Kris, being gender-ambiguous and in our band photo I’m not the shortest one, my hair looks as matted as all the guys, with my face half-covered anyways, and I’ve never worn make-up. I’m wearing jeans and a jean jacket just like everyone else in the 80s LA thrash metal scene. And, amazingly, I got the call to fly up to San Francisco and try out.

I don’t know about anybody else who came that day, but I had to pay my way—Southwest airlines ticket and two nights at a pricey hotel near the band’s rehearsal studio, and the taxi fare both ways—a whole month’s wages at Cafe Sole where I worked, basically. But I paid it. Opportunity of a lifetime.

The taxi dropped me off at the main gate of a complex of grey metal warehouses in an industrial part of town. Sky of course overcast—I didn’t even know which way the ocean was, though I could smell it, and there was still fog that morning, the air almost cold, which sucked because that made my hands cold, which meant I couldn’t really play fast with my right-hand fingers until I warmed up, and I wasn’t sure how much warm-up time I’d get. But I presented myself to the security guard at the main gate, who checked his list and let me in. Outside the building a few dudes were smoking—not the band, and not anyone I recognized, though they all had long hair—either my rivals or roadies? But who should be coming out the main door but Travis Gibbs, from Musicians Institute back down in LA. He graduated 1986, the year before me, but had still worked at the library, second shift, so I saw him all the time. He even asked me out once, which I politely deflected. It had been almost two years. He saw me and his face lit up.

“Kris! Holy shit! What are you doing here?! Are you still in LA?”

We didn’t hug. We weren’t like, actual friends.

“Yeah, I’m still in LA, man. My band headlined the Troubadour last month.”

“No shit!”

“What are you up to? Who you playing with?”

“Nobody right now.”

“Did you try out already?”

He rolled his eyes.

“Yeah. I don’t know. I don’t think Josh was into me. I mean, I played good.”

Josh was the lead singer/rhythm guitarist for The Very Famous Metal Band.

“Were you first?”

“No! That’s the crazy thing. They’re auditioning guys all day! I’m just going to go get drunk now and try not to throw up.”

“OK, well, come see my band sometime!”

He gave me a thumbs up.

“All right. I’ll see you around.”

Carrying an electric bass in a hardshell case while trying to get through a metal door is awkward. I should have brought my gig bag, but I didn’t have room on the plane, really—so I don’t think I looked too professional forcing my way in and banging my knee. Inside the small carpeted room ran a row of black plastic chairs along one wall, with one dude, obviously a fellow bass player, sitting with his case leaning against his legs. He stared at me. Three women in their thirties sat behind a long table, with big metal double-doors behind them. They had been talking and laughing, but my klutzy entrance pulled their attention for a second. Loud heavy music muffle-pounded through the wall: someone else’s big audition.

I walked to the table and had to talk a little loud.

“Hi! I’m here for the audition!”

The middle woman, who was dressed more professionally, with an actual white blouse and skirt, smiled politely.

“Your boyfriend’s making you carry his bass? Are you going to play for him too?”

“No! I mean, I’m auditioning! I’m Kris Wells!”

All of their eyes bugged. The middle one said, “Oh. OK. Wow. Cool. I mean, very cool!

The one on the left added, “Hella cool!”

The middle one continued, “I didn’t know they were auditioning any girls. But yeah, I have you down here.”

She pointed to some kind of list or chart on a clipboard.

“We’re running late, of course, so you might have to wait a bit. When they’re ready, I’ll call you and send you in.” She pointed behind her at the double doors. “Someone from the crew will help you set up. There’s an amp and chord. You’re the last one before lunch.”

“Is that good?”

“Who knows? But, might be forty-five minutes.”

I thanked her and dragged my case over to the seats. The dude was wearing a black beat-up cowboy hat. Black beard. Super skinny. I did hate that about the metal scene: most of the guys were skinnier than me.

I nodded to him. “Hey.”

He nodded back. “Hey.

At least he didn’t seem hostile toward me for being his competition.

I didn’t know what else to say, so I sat down. I guess he had to keep going though. He bent forward a little.

“You really play bass?”

I got that a lot, believe me, but given the context, the question seemed even more stupid than usual. Men don’t have to look or sound hostile to be hostile. I nodded though, trying to be polite, but couldn’t help saying, “Yes, I really do play bass.”

“You in a band?”

“Yep. Witchhunt. From LA.”

“Oh, OK. I’ve heard of them.”

“How about you?”

“I’m in Godshell. We’re from here. We’ve played down in LA a few times though.”

I couldn’t help it. Hostility recognizes hostility.

“Oh, yeah. I always wondered if it was pronounced like Gods Hell or like shell.”

He rolled his eyes.

“Is your boyfriend in your band?”

I mean, Mike was, but I didn’t like the question, so I said, “Why?”

“I don’t know. Does he know you’re up here?”

“Actually, yeah, he does.”

In fact, Mike didn’t like me coming up to audition for The Very Famous Metal Band. He said it was stupid, useless, a waste of money. Things had been rocky between us for maybe the whole previous six months—as if the better Witchhunt did, the worse we did. Mike was maybe suffering from LSD—Lead Singer’s Disease—though he was a good singer. Not like operatic, but good and growly. He wrote most of the music and all of the lyrics. I’d been his girlfriend before his bass player—the last one left, I was right there. I wanted to play and I liked Witchhunt, so he let me in. I didn’t have a problem with the other two guys—Roberto and Pete—always thought we got along great, but as Mike and I were butting heads, they were siding with him. The night before I left for San Francisco, he even gave me an ultimatum. “If you go up there, that means you don’t want to be in this band.” Or it might have been an accusation.

“Mike, I have to do this. You’d do the same thing if some band was looking for a singer.”

“No, Kris, I would not. This is my band, and right now you’re fucking it up.”

“So you think I’ll get it?”

“No. Of course not.”

I teared up. “Then why do you care?”

“Because it’s disrespectful.”

“To who?”

“To us. To the band.”

“You mean your band?”

“To the band.”

“You’re just scared I might actually get it!”

That drove him out of the apartment. He was supposed to drive me to the airport the next day too. I took a Super Shuttle. So I wasn’t sure I would even be in Witchhunt when I got back. Or if I wanted to be.

The music—or, the rumbling in the walls—stopped, then started again. Or maybe it was a pause. To the immediate right was a long hallway leading off into, or maybe around, the warehouse. I spotted a bathroom sign and asked the women to watch my bass for me. I had to go. I’d had to go on the taxi ride over, but now that I was actually here, in the building, with The Very Famous Metal Band playing on the other side of the wall, my guts were churning.

I sat there trying to breathe, to calm myself. Which helped. I splashed water on my face at the sink and looked at myself in the mirror—pale and scared. I made a mental note to keep that detail for a song about a witch being burned at the stake. Normally I’d have my notebook and would have scribbled something down. Not that anyone ever used my lyrics, not then anyways.

Feeling better though, I dried my face with a paper tower and walked out into the hallway, staring out the large window at the parking lot I’d just walked across. Travis was gone. The Smoking Guys seemed like different guys smoking, but I wasn’t sure. Metalhead dudes all looked alike. A door opened far down the hallway and another longhaired guy walked toward me. Tall, brown curly hair, super lean face—holy shit! It was Jordan Roberts from Torre Oscuro! I knew him. Or, knew who he was. They were from Phoenix. I’d seen them play in LA, and their first album, Mákina, was great. They were the next new thing. And Jordan was the main songwriter. One song, “Tiburón,” had a hellacool bass break in the middle. He played with a pick, which all the bass players at Musicians Institute would have mocked, but he was still good. Fast.

I blurted out, “Jordan!”

He looked at me as he walked closer. “Hey.”

When he got close, I said, “Are you auditioning?”

He nodded.

“When do you go?”

I was thinking he might be before me, in which case I was truly fucked, but no.

“I don’t go until later. I’m last.”

“What are you doing here so early?”

He shrugged. “The guys asked me to. I’m just kinda checking out the competition, watching what they do wrong. It’s interesting. Is your boyfriend trying out? Or do you work here?”

My body physically slumped a little. “No. I’m auditioning too.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Oh. Really?”

I looked down at the floor. “Yes. Really.”

“Oh. Well, OK. I didn’t know they were trying out any girls. But, I mean, good luck!”

I still smiled, and looked up again. “Thanks. Hey, I really like your playing. ‘Tiburón’ is hellagood.”

He smiled. “Thanks. Maybe I’ll see you in there.”

He lifted his left hand in a halfwave and turned and went into the men’s room. I stood there a second, almost maybe to wait and talk more when he came out, but that felt really stalky. He didn’t want to talk to me anyways.

It wasn’t until I started moving that I realized what Jordan said meant. He was it, he was their choice. They invited him, for fuck’s sake. So what was this all for? For show? Or were they still open to being blown away by someone? I doubted it, since everyone knew Jordan was a great bass player. Actually kind of shitty of them—for him, and for the rest of us—to even have other people and have him watch all day, in my opinion, though he didn’t seem to mind.

So shit. That was my answer. I mean, I knew I didn’t have a chance, but here it was, confirmed. The tears came, but I fought them off. I would not cry like a girl and give everyone the satisfaction. I would not. Fortunately, I was angry too. I thought about just leaving, I almost really did just go. But I took a breath, looking out at the parking lot. Of course it had started to rain. I really could have used some sunshine now. But I let my breath out, slowly, and rose into the magical realm of not giving a fuck. I didn’t want to prove myself. OK, I did. But I thought, I’m here. I’m going to play with The Very Famous Metal Band. I will play one song with them, with my idols whom I was starting to think of as assholes. I somehow thought about Cole, doing it for him too, for my real idol. Maybe he would be laughing at me—a girl—too. I’d like to think not. But anyways, fuck it.

There was a cooler of water bottles next to the table. I took one and pounded it, and sat down. The Bearded Dude was gone. The walls vibrated again.

I got out Red Sonja to warm up. She’s a red Fender Precision that I bought used off a punk dude in Ann Arbor for like a hundred and fifty bucks. Total score. She had served me well for years, in my band back in Michigan, and at Musicians Institute and all the minor bands in LA. I sometimes talked out loud to her, though not now. OK, amiga, this is it. We won’t get the gig, but we’re here, we made it to the auditions. All we can do is play our best and show The Very Important Metal Band what we got. Make them remember us.

I really wanted to exercise my right-hand fingers, loosen them up, which really meant just holding one note and picking a steady sixteenth-note rhythm. But that felt stupid. Or, I felt stupid doing that in front of the women, who weren’t really paying attention, though glancing over now and then. I felt like I should be running scales, showing off my chops. Which was stupid. So I did a combo, running scales then holding a rhythm for a while.

The music stopped and the woman in the middle got up and went through the doors. I put Sonja away in her case and stood. The woman came back in and smiled.

“OK, Kris, you’re up! Good luck!”

The woman on the left was smiling, but the one on the right had a scowl to scowl all scowls. Well, fuck that bitch.

I walked through into a huge hanger-like room. High ceiling, with amps and PA speakers and guitar cases all around the edges. I guess I’d expected some kind of stage, but the band was set up right in the middle. Everyone in the whole room, the band and the various roadies and onlookers, all did a double-take when I came in. I mean, they stared. I felt very very small and alone. The guys in the band were all at least five years older than me. This was a bad idea. Who the hell was I?

The two guitarists had their guitars off, standing in front of the drums. The drummer, Lucas, was standing, drinking a beer. I’d heard that this was in fact The Very Famous Alcoholic Metal Band. A really tall oily dude in cut-off Mötorhead t-shirt with reeking armpits came up to me and held out his hand.

“Kris? How’s it going? I didn’t know you were a girl! Come on over and I’ll get you set up.”

He led me over to the bass amp, an Ampeg, with the refrigerator-like speakers, to the right of the drums. The guys in the band stared at me. I forced a smile. “Hi. I’m Kris.”

Josh, the singer, had cut his hair since the last promo pic I’d seen of him, rocking a full-on blonde mullet. See, if I was in the band, I would have advised him not to do that. They needed me. But he was tall and skinny, they all were. Rugged. Angry-looking. But hell, his best friend had died two months ago. I would be too. He wore a black Primus t-shirt with the arms cut off, veins bulging in his wiry arms. He actually spoke to me: “What’s up?”

Lucas, with his round baby-fat face, raised his beer with a monster-thick arm and smirked and spoke in a slight Quebecois accent. “Hey, how ya doing?”

Alejandro, the lead guitarist, smiled, and at least said, “Hey, welcome!”

I wanted to talk to them, but Oily Roadie held out a chord. “Here, you can plug in with this. Adjust the amp how you want. Just don’t crank it at first, Josh doesn’t like that. Do you need any pedals or effects or anything?”

“I brought my own.”

He paused, surprised. “OK, cool. Nobody else has so far.”

I put the case down and got out my RAT distortion pedal. The song I was auditioning with, “I Die on This Hill,” was from the second album, and had Cole playing a distorted intro melody over the guitars, so I made sure the volume was boosted. I liked my RAT for doing bass breaks too—it added some grunge and sustain without losing any bottom. I plugged Oily Roadie’s chord into the pedal and he grabbed me another one to run to Sonja. The Ampeg EQ knobs were dialed to boost the real lows. Cole’s sound had always been to boost the mids, which I’d gotten from him. I asked Oily if that was the sound they wanted.

He shook his head fast. “No, ma’am, not necessarily. This was what the last guy set it for.”

I adjusted it, turning my volume up a little, just to get some sense of it, even if it would sound different when I cranked it.

I looked around. The band guys were all still talking, joking. There were more people, men, around the edges. More roadies, I guess, which made me realize how huge of an organization the band was. A business. Two men in suits sat over in one corner. Management? Movement over in one dark corner: Jordan, sitting and leaning back on some PA speakers. Staring at me. I nodded, but either he didn’t see it, or didn’t acknowledge it. OK, fine.

I walked over and stepped on the RAT. The low thumps from my strings became low buzzes, like hornets. The band guys all turned their heads. I wasn’t sure if Josh was annoyed or not—he seemed to have a perpetual frown.

I fiddled a bit, taking off the RAT and running my right-hand finger through some triplets. “I Die on This Hill” is actually one of their slower, doomier songs—nothing fast, but I wanted to be ready.

And there was Alejandro in front of me. “Hey!”

He fist-bumped me. “You about ready? Just let us know. Thanks for coming out! You from LA? What band are you in? You know what song we’re playing, right? You know the song? What was your name again?”

“Thank you, Alejandro. I’m Kris. I’m in Witchhunt.”

“Yeah! Thats right! I don’t remember any of the demo tapes! We must have liked you though! I gotta say, I didn’t know you were a girl! That’s cool though!”

“Um, thanks. I guess I’m ready. I don’t want to keep you guys.”

“Oh, no worries. Hey, Josh! She’s ready!”

Alejandro walked over and the both of them slipped on their guitars. Lucas sat down, twirling his sticks and looking at me. The guitarists turned up their volumes, and they were LOUD. OK. I turned up Sonja to about three-quarters, then the Ampeg master volume. If I was going out, I’d go out loud too. Oily Dude stood right by the amp, which I didn’t like, but fuck it, roll with it, Kris.

Josh walked over. “You know the song?”

I nodded. “Yeah. Hi, Josh. I mean, I know it. I know all your songs.”

His eyebrows went up. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“All right. Well, here we go.”

He walked over to his mic stand. I stepped on the RAT, which caused my amp to squeal. Then I remembered: “I Die on This Hill” actually comes in on the three, so was it going to be a four-count? Or a two-count? I raised my hand like a little schoolgirl. “Excuse me. Josh? Or, Lucas?”

They looked at me, annoyed. Josh said, “Yeah?”

“You guys do a two-count and come in on three? Or do a regular four count? Just, because—you know—the intro starts on three?

Josh stared at me blankly. Lucas chuckled. Alejandro spoke. “It’s a four-count! That actually happened earlier, someone came in early! So it’s actually a good question!”

Lucas raised his right hand, drumstick high. “Ready? One! Two! Three! Four!”

I watched him and thudded the G in lock with his floor toms for those first two beats, along with the guitars. Then on the one I hit the low E string and let it ring while the guitars did ringing power chords, and I slid up to play the chromatic melody starting on the twenty-second fret of the G string, the high D, while Lucas continued the war drums on the low toms.

The bass melody repeated while Lucas changed into a standard quarter-note beat. After a repeat, I punched off the RAT and began the low chromatic riff under the still ringing distorted E chords, trying to lock in with Lucas, who wouldn’t look at me. But I concentrated on his bass drum and hi-hat, getting into the groove.

Then—the best part of the song—the guitars joined in with me on the chromatic riff and that was it—I was jamming with The Very Famous Metal Band on one of their most famous riffs. I didn’t need to force myself to bang my head—it happened naturally. And I swear, Josh and Alejandro even banged—or at least nodded—their heads a little.

That intro was the hardest part of the song. As Josh came in with his vocals, I mostly just had to make sure I didn’t fuck up the chord changes, though there were a couple times when I got to go high again for some quick squirrely fills. Just like Cole.

On the album the song fades out, so I watched and waited for whatever they wanted, which ended up being a long chaos on the low E while Lucas did a long megafill on the high toms down to the low. I allowed myself a quick little pentatonic run up to the high E and back down before catching the last big slam on the low E.

I watched them. Josh gave an actual small nod and briefly smiled. Lucas still didn’t look at me, but he smiled at the other two. Alejandro gave me a thumbs up. They gathered by the drums. Oily was looking at them to see if he should signal to me. I went for it. “Hey, Josh?”

He looked over, surprised. Or annoyed.

Fuck it. I kept going. “Hey. I know you guys have been playing the same song all day. I know all your songs. I was wondering if it would be possible if we could do ‘Steppes of Tor’? It’s my favorite.”

He kind of processed that for a few seconds, then turned and tilted his head at the other guys. Alejandro was enthusiastic. “Yeah. man, let’s do it! Break things up!”

Lucas gave a shrug. Josh walked over to his mic and spoke into it. “OK. One more song.”

I didn’t have the nerve to ask how they started it, since the intro riff is in a very loose 3/4. But I just watched Lucas and he did a quick four-count and we were in. They played it faster than on the album, but I kept up, barely. The only thing I regret is not having a mic, so I couldn’t join in on the “Die! Die! Die!” chant in the halftime middle section. But you can believe I was yelling it anyway. Two of the roadies ran over and football-chorused into Alejandro’s mic, which was cool. And fun. I was having fun with The Very Famous Metal Band.

The song ended and Josh and Alejandro took off their guitars, handing them to roadies. Josh looked at me and said, “Good job, kid.” Then he yelled, “Lunch!”

He and Lucas walked off, laughing.

Alejandro came over and fist-bumped me again. “Thanks! Kris, right? Good job! I’m glad we could do another song! I think Josh liked you! Good jamming with you though! Maybe I’ll see you around!”

He walked off. Oily turned off the amp. All the men made their way to the back entrance. I stood a second, my head ringing, thinking, I nailed that. They should pick me.

They never even called. They took Jordan on a short tour of Japan, then offered him the job for reals. In a twist, Torre Oscuro ended up offering Travis the gig with them. No audition. I came back to my stuff all packed by the door, with a note from Mike saying we were over and I was out of the band. The fucker even had to keep the apartment. But I didn’t care. I was going to leave anyways. I’d done it. I’d done more than most. I’d earned respect, as much as I could get. And, lost respect for my heroes. I never bought another album by The Very Famous Metal Band, they got shittier and shitter, though I did listen to the first one with Jordan, Lock & Load. And you couldn’t even hear him—they buried the bass in the mix—everyone talked about that, and how badly the guys ended up treating him. Like, for years.

Me? I started my own damn band.