February wind. a visitation story.

[mudshark]

I just found this short novel, wich was posted here last year.
kinda liked it. so heres the re run


I sat down in the oversized leather chair. It smelled remarkably of the seventies.
You gotta close the door, man! Shit ain’t isolated, you know! he said. Lars came in after me like he was the month of febuary and closed the living room door with his hand and knee.
I don’t usually visit him, I must admit, him being the bass player of the band and all. We hung out more often in the ninetees. But then... you know. he took it to long. I wouldn’t follow. I couldn’t. Hell, nobody could!
Its not fun watching one of your blood mates and bardes fall apart a little every week. We practice once a week. Its been going on since 91. On and off. Last 13 years with Jugglers Ink.
It’s a wonder the man is a live.
I wouldn’t think he’d be sitting there in front of me 2 months ago. Especially sitting there fixing up a pipe with his scissors and shit.
Wanna drink? I don’t have any beer.
I looked up. Became aware of the coffe cup next to the stained magazine. Lars was having a cup of coffe. I held my self from commenting on it. Grabbed a guitar.
Your drinking coffe tonight, man? You sick or sumtn’?
Had the flew. Started working again.
Well, hurrah! I strummed a jolly C.
We gonna listn to the shit, or what?
I found the CD from my jacket, and took it off.
I hope it’s a bit better than last time or ill fuckin’ go down there and tell’em where the hell to stick that fucking recorder.
I crossed my fingers. It was about 2000 kroner, and the rest of the money from the record sale.
I pushed blue for play.
He passed the newspaper, roulette type. Yesterdays news.
I sucked it in. And he did the laughing routine at me when the smoke came out, not as much from my mouth as from the bong. Same old stories.
Its not my game. Im a joint-once-a-week kinda guy, and I remembered why it had been so long since last time I was here.
What the hell, at least he was sober now. First time in… Last time I saw him like this was at the hospital around Christmas.
With two blood cloths, thrombus, one for each lunge. Breathing like a little pudel. The giant lumber tree of an alcoholic flat out on the bed. A wore down wintertime pine. My head did some internal leaps. Eyes down. Music.
Sunday songs rehearsal. He pushed the red button.
Wanna have some tea, or…? Ill make ya some tea.
This some green tea. Good for ya. You do honey?
Ill put some honey inside it. Drop of lemon.
I wiped off my smile, and said yes, thanks. That ll be just fine, man.

The listening session mostly cracked down to me listening to the brutally scarred sound frame surrounding the music. The recording in it self. And of course my terrible guitar solos, witch was accompanied by Lars’ horrified eyes staring at me in disbelief. Cracking out in laughter every now and then when it really got to helpless to even be funny. And when I did get it right on that long Sunday, I said:
Man… sometimes I’m just in the zone, huh?
And he’ll reply: hm? Ah… I was listening to the bass line.
And when it all was over, he had made critical comments upon the arrangement and the choir sections. All in an harmonical and settled down kind of way. I was so damn fine with that. And so damned baffled.

Round 8 o clock I was in ma jacket and tightening the scarf. All black and yellow. But he told me to hang on. Hang on, he said. I got sumthn’ here.

The cassette was from 93. It had recordings of our first band. Never before heard.
It blew me a long way out, man. It dragged me back to the ant plagued cellar in that condemned appartement from the past.
We didn’t know then about our drummer and our lead guitar player. They would soon take on a horse each and ride so far out in the wilderness, it was a wonder they made it back. The damage was done. But the music, the songs I made, now came busting through those Tandberg speakers! No bullshitting guitars. A strat and a PRS. A total monster behind the drums. But steady as Ginger. Lars with the oooaaa harmonies, like fucking Dolly Parton.
And we didn’t say a word until the hole 60 minutes had passed.
It was a lot of Lynyrd Skynyrd and a little bit of Allmann brothers references. Fucking solos went on forever. Like over 3 verses, witch by todays norm is quite obscene. It was even a cover song by thin lizzy in there. ‘Don’t belive a word’.
Floting down memory gutters. Heads in the sky.
Was a good laugh.

You could really blow in the old days, man…
He said.
The television showed a pilot school on Discovery where some poor sucker was put in some kind of a carousel to check out the G-force.
Lars laughed about that.
We agreed on doing this shit again.

When I came out of there all in one fine piece, it had started to snow. It was very quiet. There where no one else around.

[Barry]

Very much enjoyed the trip. Thanks.

Peace,
Barry

[mudshark]

Thank you for your time, man. sir.