BEDROOM PUNK: CHAPTER I (PART 2)
April 1st 2007 05:45
Here is the second part to the opening chapter of Bedroom Punk: A D.I.Y. Novel. Part one can be found here.
Critiquing went well on Thursday, which was kind of embarrassing. Maybe I feel more comfortable with criticism than praise. There was one student who was nice to my face, perhaps overwhelmed by everyone else’s positive reaction, while her written comments where nasty and hurtful. I’ve been laughing and thinking about them for days. I might post them up here in the near future.
Enjoy!
Izzy.
Breathless music, strangely strangled and backwards—Musty swamp gas—A whisper—Something pushes its way into my anus: a finger, a tiny fist—Celestial piano line ascends at intervals—Small, lean body writhes, working something inside—Surging—Buried bass throb—A bit like taking a shit in reverse—Music hisses: tiiiiiihs, tiiiiiihs —I recognise ‘Penetration’ by Iggy and the Stooges.
So fine.
Pulsate.
Iggy Pop’s remix of Raw Power sounds so much better than the original David Bowie production. Even backwards it rips, tears, searches, destroys.
Izzy’s really getting into it—Cats howl backmasking—Strangled. Strange—Towards the rear—Naked bodies smeared with blood and peanut butter—Slimy blues—Doo doo, doo doo—I’m alive, I’m alive—Moaning and touching herself, a single word slides along her glistening tongue and out between her lips.
Billy.
***
I walk out to the narrow kitchen and the plates stacked high. The midday sun streams in through the windows, dirty from Ipswich Road exhaust. My head and joints ache, my tongue an ashtray. I can’t remember how I got home. Despite the scummy dishes and the broken furniture and the blocked sink in the bathroom, this is it: my island in the concrete sea.
I rinse a mug, fumble some instant coffee into it, and watch the granules dissolve in the remaining water. The kettle groans. I think about Billy.
The Billy I met last night, the real Billy, isn’t the guy printed on my t-shirt in cracking white ink. That guy is surly and aloof, a tightly wound ball of nervous energy, too reticent to be the centre of attention until he gets onstage, whipping himself and everyone present into an ungodly dervish. A Flu gig, like any good punk rock show, made you feel more alive than anything. It made you fear for your life.
The Billy I met last night was everything I hate about rockstars: cocksure, conceited, trying to look as elegantly wasted as possible—and succeeding. He was like what David Bowie is to Iggy Pop. That isn’t the real Billy Bangs. As far as I’m concerned, the Billy Bangs on my t-shirt and on their albums and in my memory—that is the real Billy Bangs.
And the cunt didn’t even recognise me.
At about three in the afternoon, a soapy, fruit-like fragrance fills the unit. This means my housemate Max has emerged from his lair, like a Pantene-commercial Grendel. He looks like he’s been playing some online video game all night. I’m watching a Disney movie with Ben Stiller and a bunch of kids at a fat camp. I’ve seen it five times now.
“What’s this faggot shit?” is Max’s groggy hello. He flicks back his long black hair and sits next to me on the mouldy couch. He is wearing his old Metallica Master of Puppets tee shirt and some black track pants posing as pyjamas.
“Dunno,” I say.
Max turns off the Disney movie and puts on a tape of Commando. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen it.
“You were pretty gone when you got home last night.”
“How’d I get home?”
“Dunno.”
“Is Dave home?”
“Dunno.”
Max and I spend the afternoon on the brick balcony of our Annerley unit. We have a prime view: the towering grey of the PA hospital and the rippling black of Ipswich Road. We drink beers and eat microwave nachos. The thick plastic cheese goes down well with the cool amber fluid as we devise ways and means to injure Billy Bangs, like the move we invented that time we met Ed Keupper.
We ran into the ex-Saint and Teutonic guitar god at RG’s in the Valley one night, and through a cloud of beer I asked him about the Saints and what it was like growing up in Oxley and going to Corinda High in the ‘70s. This is where I’d grown up a decade later. Ed was pleasant enough, but reserved. Afterwards, while walking across the Story Bridge because we’d spent all our money on beer and couldn’t afford cab fair, Max came up with the Ed-Keup-nuts.
The Ed-Kuep-nuts (which by now is referred to as the ol’ Ed-Keup-nuts) is a swift, sideways mule-kick to be delivered to Ed Keupper’s wrinkly genitals while standing beside him, but only Ed Keupper’s. Other moves had to be devised for anyone who wasn’t Ed-Kuepper. There was also the Lindy-Morris-snatch, essentially the same move as the Ed-Keup-nuts, but intended solely for Lindy Morrison of the Go-Betweens, who we’d seen rollerskating through West End.
I protested that Ed wasn’t a bad guy. He was probably sick of talking about the Saints, when he’d done so much more since then. As for Lindy, we had no reason to dislike her. She seemed cool. But Max was ruthless, and I enjoyed the absurdity.
It is in this grand tradition that the Billy-Bang-Cock is invented. It makes me feel a whole lot better.
That night I lie on my bed and masturbate to the Stooges’ second album Funhouse. This to me is the essence of punk sex: honest, free, and definitely Do It Yourself.
But like any DIY effort, this should be a cooperative, and the Stooges album makes me think of Izzy for a number of reasons. I first ran into Izzy at a Flu gig upstairs at Woolongabba’s Railway Hotel. I was wearing my Funhouse t-shirt when “TV Eye” crackled over the shitty PA, a small girl with a bright green Beatle-mop gyrated over to me, mouthing the lyrics and asking me for a cigarette. Also, Isobel is five foot one, just like Iggy Pop, and so Izzy Pop became my cute nickname for her.
The greasy, sluggish drone of “Dirt” starts up and my hand slows to a languid stroke. Iggy moans. The slow throb of the music, and thoughts of Izzy make me cum in a long, agonising burst. I wipe off on my crusty sheets, feeling spent and low. I know how Iggy feels because I am dirt too and somehow it doesn’t matter. It is liberating.
I decide to call Izzy, and remember she doesn’t have a mobile phone.
***
Critiquing went well on Thursday, which was kind of embarrassing. Maybe I feel more comfortable with criticism than praise. There was one student who was nice to my face, perhaps overwhelmed by everyone else’s positive reaction, while her written comments where nasty and hurtful. I’ve been laughing and thinking about them for days. I might post them up here in the near future.
Enjoy!
Izzy.
Breathless music, strangely strangled and backwards—Musty swamp gas—A whisper—Something pushes its way into my anus: a finger, a tiny fist—Celestial piano line ascends at intervals—Small, lean body writhes, working something inside—Surging—Buried bass throb—A bit like taking a shit in reverse—Music hisses: tiiiiiihs, tiiiiiihs —I recognise ‘Penetration’ by Iggy and the Stooges.
So fine.
Pulsate.
Iggy Pop’s remix of Raw Power sounds so much better than the original David Bowie production. Even backwards it rips, tears, searches, destroys.
Izzy’s really getting into it—Cats howl backmasking—Strangled. Strange—Towards the rear—Naked bodies smeared with blood and peanut butter—Slimy blues—Doo doo, doo doo—I’m alive, I’m alive—Moaning and touching herself, a single word slides along her glistening tongue and out between her lips.
Billy.
***
I walk out to the narrow kitchen and the plates stacked high. The midday sun streams in through the windows, dirty from Ipswich Road exhaust. My head and joints ache, my tongue an ashtray. I can’t remember how I got home. Despite the scummy dishes and the broken furniture and the blocked sink in the bathroom, this is it: my island in the concrete sea.
I rinse a mug, fumble some instant coffee into it, and watch the granules dissolve in the remaining water. The kettle groans. I think about Billy.
The Billy I met last night, the real Billy, isn’t the guy printed on my t-shirt in cracking white ink. That guy is surly and aloof, a tightly wound ball of nervous energy, too reticent to be the centre of attention until he gets onstage, whipping himself and everyone present into an ungodly dervish. A Flu gig, like any good punk rock show, made you feel more alive than anything. It made you fear for your life.
The Billy I met last night was everything I hate about rockstars: cocksure, conceited, trying to look as elegantly wasted as possible—and succeeding. He was like what David Bowie is to Iggy Pop. That isn’t the real Billy Bangs. As far as I’m concerned, the Billy Bangs on my t-shirt and on their albums and in my memory—that is the real Billy Bangs.
And the cunt didn’t even recognise me.
At about three in the afternoon, a soapy, fruit-like fragrance fills the unit. This means my housemate Max has emerged from his lair, like a Pantene-commercial Grendel. He looks like he’s been playing some online video game all night. I’m watching a Disney movie with Ben Stiller and a bunch of kids at a fat camp. I’ve seen it five times now.
“What’s this faggot shit?” is Max’s groggy hello. He flicks back his long black hair and sits next to me on the mouldy couch. He is wearing his old Metallica Master of Puppets tee shirt and some black track pants posing as pyjamas.
“Dunno,” I say.
Max turns off the Disney movie and puts on a tape of Commando. I’ve lost count of how many times I’ve seen it.
“You were pretty gone when you got home last night.”
“How’d I get home?”
“Dunno.”
“Is Dave home?”
“Dunno.”
Max and I spend the afternoon on the brick balcony of our Annerley unit. We have a prime view: the towering grey of the PA hospital and the rippling black of Ipswich Road. We drink beers and eat microwave nachos. The thick plastic cheese goes down well with the cool amber fluid as we devise ways and means to injure Billy Bangs, like the move we invented that time we met Ed Keupper.
We ran into the ex-Saint and Teutonic guitar god at RG’s in the Valley one night, and through a cloud of beer I asked him about the Saints and what it was like growing up in Oxley and going to Corinda High in the ‘70s. This is where I’d grown up a decade later. Ed was pleasant enough, but reserved. Afterwards, while walking across the Story Bridge because we’d spent all our money on beer and couldn’t afford cab fair, Max came up with the Ed-Keup-nuts.
The Ed-Kuep-nuts (which by now is referred to as the ol’ Ed-Keup-nuts) is a swift, sideways mule-kick to be delivered to Ed Keupper’s wrinkly genitals while standing beside him, but only Ed Keupper’s. Other moves had to be devised for anyone who wasn’t Ed-Kuepper. There was also the Lindy-Morris-snatch, essentially the same move as the Ed-Keup-nuts, but intended solely for Lindy Morrison of the Go-Betweens, who we’d seen rollerskating through West End.
I protested that Ed wasn’t a bad guy. He was probably sick of talking about the Saints, when he’d done so much more since then. As for Lindy, we had no reason to dislike her. She seemed cool. But Max was ruthless, and I enjoyed the absurdity.
It is in this grand tradition that the Billy-Bang-Cock is invented. It makes me feel a whole lot better.
That night I lie on my bed and masturbate to the Stooges’ second album Funhouse. This to me is the essence of punk sex: honest, free, and definitely Do It Yourself.
But like any DIY effort, this should be a cooperative, and the Stooges album makes me think of Izzy for a number of reasons. I first ran into Izzy at a Flu gig upstairs at Woolongabba’s Railway Hotel. I was wearing my Funhouse t-shirt when “TV Eye” crackled over the shitty PA, a small girl with a bright green Beatle-mop gyrated over to me, mouthing the lyrics and asking me for a cigarette. Also, Isobel is five foot one, just like Iggy Pop, and so Izzy Pop became my cute nickname for her.
The greasy, sluggish drone of “Dirt” starts up and my hand slows to a languid stroke. Iggy moans. The slow throb of the music, and thoughts of Izzy make me cum in a long, agonising burst. I wipe off on my crusty sheets, feeling spent and low. I know how Iggy feels because I am dirt too and somehow it doesn’t matter. It is liberating.
I decide to call Izzy, and remember she doesn’t have a mobile phone.
***
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