Nay, Palm Death: What Is the Perfect Brutal Soundtrack for Peepshow Piss Lesbians at 3:30AM on a Thursday in 1990?
Part Two in a Series of Three (or So)
5.5. NAY, PALM DEATH!
Aside repeatedly catching Blind Fury with Rutger Hauer at various 42nd Street grindhouses, Summer 1990 sucked and blew and sucked-blew.
During one particularly grievous nadir, a failed effort to rekindle a shattered romance prompted me to seek solace where any free, white, and healthy 21-year-old might: in the peep shows alongside all those grindhouses where I’d been watching Rutger Hauer.
It was ridiculously late, like 3:30 in the morning on a Thursday.
That meant almost all the LIVE! NUDE! GIRLS! had vamoosed until the next day’s first commuter rush, and I only had limited funds left anyway after squiring my ex out for drinks and rejection, in that exact order.
So my plan was to cozy up in a Peepland video booth for visual succor by way of German piss lesbians.
During busy day-parts, Peepland’s sound system normally blared techno or salsa or whatever the present New York disco radio outlet was.
At this juncture, though, the mop jockey set it on one of the shitbag Classic Rock stations and then, suddenly, louder than life and/or a million little deaths, the air quaked with Crosby, Stills, and Nash singing “Our House/ Is a very, very, very fine house!”
I couldn’t whack off with that song playing.
I’d love to meet the man who could, because THERE, ladies and gentlemen, would be a true pervert.
But even beyond “Our House”’s lilting harpsichord and airy harmonies and Graham Nash’s lovely invocation of the hippie cottage he set up with Joni Mitchell (BLECCCH!!!), I was in a vile public masturbatorium at a godless hour to get relief from the assurance overwhelming me that NO woman, anywhere, would ever set up house with me.
Not even Joni Mitchell.
It made for a solid soundtrack to a groovy hate self-fuck.
But, still, I needed more.
With my one free hand, I tossed Big Black and put in Napalm Death’s Mentally Murdered tape.
Even more obliterating.
While the happy frauleins on-screen simultaneously relieved themselves and quenched their thirsts, Napalm Death pummeled my ear-drums to the very direst pits of my anti-soul and, before my last 40-seconds-for-a-dollar ran out, I was done.
Zipping up, I realized I hit upon a bold new formula for giddy self-annihilation, however (unfortunately) temporary.
Death metal plus illegal foreign pornography consumed outside the home equals cosmic numbness equals peace. Or some dead version of peace, anyway, which is what I was after.
The porn peeps would always be there (I thought).
Napalm Death had proven effective in creating an atmosphere of thunderous homi/suicidal rapture unto orgasm.
Still, I wondered if I could go further.
And that’s how I got into Deicide.
HAIL GLEN BENTON’S SCARIFICATION!
The shindig went down at Salon Tress. In addition to stupefyingly great readings by the other participants Rachel McPadden, Katie Rife, Nithin Kalvakota,Dan Gleason, Gregory Jacobsen, Bob Goblin—as well as high metal air guitar virtuosity by Nordic Thunder and Cannonball Mavin—I read the preceding composition.
Still to come: SOME HEAD’S NOT GONNA ROLL!
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