Main St. Blues, Pt.3

My Korean ex-girlfriend Kim (I think her last name was Kim too, so it’s uber-Korean) – who acquired an MBA here years ago – once said: living in Seoul was an interesting Hell; living in America is a boring Heaven. She dated me, a flushed-out-townie-white-boy since it was probably a rare source of amusement for her in this desolate purgatory-heaven. Conversely, I initially found her very fascinating. But I don’t know precisely why we split; it’s either because I thought this country was definitely no heaven, a boring hell or I couldn’t stand the smell of Kimchi. At first the scent on her was faint. But it grew stronger and stronger as she closed toward the completion of her degree, and she prepared the dish more frequently when I went to her apartment. Deliberately or perhaps absent-mindedly, she chewed the spicy bok-choy loudly in front of me every meal: crounchcrounchcrounch. By that point nothing she did mattered to me, though that’s different from saying she didn’t matter at all to me. Sometimes she would pause and stare at me, straight; as if her caricatured actions were attempts to catch my attention. But she never admitted anything or allowed room for interpretation, and said other absurd things instead.
“…Want some more rice?” She asked. Knowing I was only halfway through the bowl.
“Later.” I clumsily picked up some Kimchi with my chopsticks and stirred it into my bowl. Stirring lightly, stirring.
“More seaweed soup?” She was persistent.
“I’d like a raw egg.”
I cracked open the egg and let it slip into my bowl, stirring, stirring until red, white and yellow converged. Absent-mindedly, I let my chopsticks stand upright in the mass of food.

She ate on silently. I ordered a double-pepperoni pizza after I drove home. I wasn’t even hungry, and at most could only swallow a piece of pizza or two. It became a routine after I dined at Kim’s every week. To this day, I have no understanding over this bizarre behavior.
During her first years here she was relatively receptive towards American fare, but by the time I saw tiny red dots of pepper powder emerge from her face, she ceased to dine outside, not at Park’s, our local Korean restaurant, nor at the Grouch’s or any other Asian restaurant. During our intimately detached moments, when I touched her face, my fingers burned, blistered. When I kissed her, my tongue and lips swelled. Southampton can do odd things to you, doubtlessly, and transforming one’s physical composition is just one of the many effects. Then it all naturally came to an end. Without expressing a thread of desire to stay or work in this boring heaven, I quietly helped her pack, drove her to the airport and said farewell. At that point I couldn’t even hug her, let alone kiss – she would set me on fire. No regrets, no sadness, no feelings of relief, no lingering longings – it was a parting in its purest form. She had seemed so alien, so inert and unknowable to me by then. So lifeless she was to me as I was to her, perhaps: all the more emphasizing the life burgeoning in the Sodomizers. That very day, I drove back to our rented practice space above a derelict downtown commerce center. No regrets.

This is how we start a session. Sound check, one, two: Crimson, and Clover, Over, and Over…I sang, into my microphone for backup vocals. My Fender Telecaster lay comfortably in my lap, as always. It’s time to give the new Maxon OD808 overdrive effects pedal a field test. Stomp. Pedal on.

Dun-dun-dUN-dUn-DUN! The C chord sounded warm, bright and aggressive. CTSUN! CTSUN CTSUUUUUUN! The power chord E5 was dark yet not too brooding for my liking. Dwan-da-da-da-Dwan-da-da-da-Dwan-da-da-da-do-do-dom wheeee~~~eeee! Cheesy blues picking and pitch harmonics responded finely too. I start to goof around, while
Gavin repeatedly plucks the low E on his Ibanez bass.
Bom-
bom-
bom-
bom.

Bom-
bom-
bom-
bom.

Bom-
bom
Boooooom.

That elegiac riff from a Tool song was his favorite warm-up passage. So quiet, yet violently rhythmic. Bom-bom, bu-bom bo-bum bo-bum bo bo bo bo, Bom-bom, bu-bom bo-bum bo-bum bo bo bo bo. This menacing groove greatly contrasted with Benson’s hyperactive drumming:

Dun-talala-dun-talala,
ta don-dom-dum-dem-demdemdem-bobobobobo ta shing!
Dun tse tat-se, dun dun tat-se, dun-tse tat-dun dun dun tat-se (shing)
dun-tse tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat-talalat-tat tsing!
Sharp as always, Benson’s skin-bashing skills: neither the most artful nor forceful, his drumming was sensitive, like a whetted knife, unpleasantly unhinging, quirky.

The chaos always seizes when Jill opens her mouth, it all gets sucked into that bottomless hole, then regurgitated from a queen’s mandibles – yes, the fleeting moment of transcendence, that made me feel just being, not being-something, Being. On solid ground yet in the skies simultaneously. Nothing circumspect nor reckless, neither rooted nor rootless, just being in this tumultuous, ever-flowing physical solidity that is downtown Southampton. Here was a valley covered by trees and grass thousands of years ago, bursting with wildlife and clear springs, yet I am here. I will be a grain of sand in its history, yet I’ll always be here, even if I’m gone.

She closes her mouth.