Article: 261221 of talk.bizarre
Newsgroups: talk.bizarre
From: (Matthew Marchese)
Subject: The Poseur Chronicles (Conclusion)
Message-ID: <>
Keywords: FTSD Comes One Day Early for Yours Truly
Lines: 210
Nntp-Posting-Host: bonsai02
Organization: Crayze Search, Inc.
Date: 30 Nov 95 15:44:28 CST

Conclusion: Eine Kleine Punkmusik

"Do you want me to play faster...Faster...FASTER!?"


Oblivious to our plea, he clenched the strings with all his might
forming feeble barre chords. Tiny hands moved up and down the
oversize fretboard of his black Les Paul.  Awesome in brown Wallabys,
purple bell-bottom corduroys, and felt cape, the diminutive lead
guitarist of Black Magic resembled nothing so much as his mother's
preconception of bad-ass rock 'n roll.

As the would-be Yngwie tossed his musical cookies before the stunned
and slightly bemused crowd, the bass player dropped the beat and
scrambled over to his Marshall stack to light the single Roman candle
that constituted Black Magic's fabulous pyrotechnic display.  The
Screaming Rainbow of 10,000 Butterfly Panda Excrements managed to throw
off a few pathetic sparks before it sizzled into oblivion, snuffed out
by security guards wielding extinguishers. The miniscule members of the
band collapsed into screeching, cursing spasms as they watched the
fluffy mounds of foam soak into their expensive speaker cabinets.

Three sets of eyes watched implacably as the prepube perps were dragged
unceremoniously off the stage. Our hair combed back to reveal the word
"Boredom" inscribed with magic marker on our smooth foreheads, our
faces revealed nothing but cool, studied ennui.

"Boy, they sucked," offered Sam.
"Let's go backstage," suggested Torrie.

Outside, we were fashionably blank; a study in apathy. Inside, we
seethed with excitement.

We were 18.
We were in a punk band. 
We had seen our name in lights along Sunset.   
We had backstage passes.

Flashing our plastic badges like mystic talismans, we warded off the
evil security demons and clambered up the dark stairway to emerge in
the inner sanctum of the Whiskey. The sight that confronted us at the
top of the stairs was frightening enough to wilt our gelled
faux-mohawks. He stood tall and rail-thin, ominous in the backlight
that shadowed his face. The sleeves of his tattered jacket hung midway
between his wrists and elbows. As we slunk by, his face emerged into
clearer view. A visage out of "Frankenstein" studied us with cool
detachment, eyes black under heavy lids, skin yellowish like jaundice
and old floor wax. Thin lips parted and formed words.

"Hey babe, what's your hustle?"

Kim Fowley had spoken.

His spidery legs folded under as he settled to the stained carpet in
the middle of the Whiskey's green room. The bustle of backstage
employees, groupies, and celebrities flowed around him as if he were a
giant rock in the middle of a human stream. We introduced ourselves:

"X-8, Torrie, Pooch, Matt. We're Low Budget."


(slutty barmaid reeking of feminine hygiene spray slinks by)

"Hey babe, what's your hustle?"


(naked man in clear plastic raincoat strolls through)

"Hey babe, what's your hustle?"


(Joan Jett holding large hairbrush in one hand drags female groupie into
bathroom stall and shuts door)

"Hey babe, what's your hustle?"

X-8, Torrie, and Pooch nodded in glazed assent to each profundity that dripped
from the bloodless pie-hole of their garage-rock hero. Svengali of the
Runaways, the Quick, Venus and the Razorblades; Fowley exuded the confidence
of Barnum encased in the carcass of Karloff.

I darted hither and yon, trusty SLR in hand. I studied the voluminous
amounts of  graffiti on the walls carefully, scanning for any evidence
of the Doors, Bowie, or the New York Dolls. I was rewarded with several
hundred self-promoting messages from "Black Magic". The little bastards
had evidently been working their magic markers overtime before the
show. Passionate moans emanated from the vicinity of the toilet. Joan
was giving her biggest fan a vigorous brushing.


Bits of souls are captured on Tri-X pushed far beyond the ASA rating of
mortal film. My bandmates sat enthralled at the feet of the Guru of
Glitter. I needed a drink.

A bearded, balding, middle-aged hustler bent his elbow at the 2nd floor
bar. I sidled up next to him and fixed him with the soft, wet-eyed
puppy gaze of the hopeful underage drinker. On the brightly-lit square
of stage below, the Weirdos were in the middle of their set. They
seemed undamaged by their recent trip over the side of Laurel Canyon.

"They call this shit rock 'n roll?", he yelled into my ear, "Judas
Priest, now there's a kick-ass band! I should know, i'm their manager!
Have you heard their new single, 'Green Maharishi with the Ten-pound

I shook my head in the negative.

"Buy you a drink?" 

"Jack, on the rocks"

"Fucking American bourbon. The Edradour, now there's a great Scotch. I should
know, I own 50% of the distillery!" he slurred and belched wetly.

I snatched the shot off the bar, downed it in a gulp, and headed back
up the stairs at a run. I felt unclean for having feigned interest in a
metal band as pathetically bad as Priest for the sake of a shot. The
rest of Low Budget were waiting for me. It was almost showtime.

Eyes shiny with new-found Fowleyism, they ran down the new set. It now
contained three Pistol's songs. The three of them looked at me sheepishly,
shuffling their feet.

"Hey, he said he'd be our manager!" whined Pooch.

"Oh Jesus," I moaned.

We hit the stage as the Weirdos exited. They flashed us quick looks of
recognition. Nikki whacked me in the back of the head with the neck of
his Mosrite. He bent over to whisper in my ear:

"Asshole, I've got a new grappling hook with your name on it!"

"Midnight, Mulholland," I replied through gritted teeth.

As my eyes grew accustomed to the bright glare of the stage lights, the
faces of the crowd seemed to float bodiless above the dark dance floor.
On the second floor balcony, Priest's manager lay face down on the bar in
a pool of his own vomit.

We started playing.  

White Riot				(mild booing)
Anarchy in the UK			(extremely loud booing)
Kamikaze				(mild applause)

Five minutes had swirled down our toilet of fame.

For Your Love				(mild applause)
I Wanna Take a Trip to the Islands	(wild applause)
God Save the Queen			(lightweight projectiles, spit)

Ten minutes sucked into the black singularity of our celebrity

All Day and All of the Night		(mild applause)
Blitzkrieg Bop				(angry yelling, heavy ordnance)
(I'm not Your) Stepping Stone		(lackluster booing, yawns)

A voice cried out in the wilderness, "You SUCK!"

Our fifteen minutes were up.

We glanced backwards at the Whiskey marquee one last time then drove off
into the choreographed chaos of the Sunset Strip. Our name grinned
back at us from the very bottom of the pile of bands printed out in 
black plastic letters under "Kim Fowley presents: New Wave Night."

Out of letters, they had used an upside-down "7" to substitute
for the "L" in "Low Budget". "Fitting," I thought to myself, savoring the
irony as we sped past the human flotsam of Hollywood.

Slowly, I removed the trick safety pins from my lip and nose and combed
the gel out of my carefully coiffed spikes. Tomorrow I'd rinse the
dye out of my hair and put my Army surplus ensemble away in the closet.
Within a month, our high school pep band would be playing "Blitzkrieg
Bop" during basketball games. 

The four of us would sleep snugly tonight in our middle-class beds with
our nuclear families and dream of being disenfranchised, unemployed,
bored, and vacant with no future. We had met the poseurs, and they
were us.

As X-8 slid screeching onto Laurel Canyon Drive, I hefted the grappling
hook and line. Glancing quickly at my watch, I noted the time: it was
11:59. As the crumpled rear bumper of the Weirdo's band van pulled into
view ahead of us, Torrie slammed a Blondie tape into the 8-track. "Kung
Fu Girl" blasted from the cheap speakers as we followed in hot pursuit.

Punk was dead, but the game was still afoot.

Matt Marchese                       <URL>			
"This is our be the Daleks of God"               -Shriekback