You ever
noticed how if you say a word over and over (repeat
'Cougar' -my brand of dipping tobacco- at least
a hundred times) that it begins to sound odd and
even seems to lose its meaning? Well, try listening
to a song repeatedly. Usually, you notice either
the melody or lyrics first. With repeated exposure
you might notice what the drums and bass are up
to. You become aware of the different levels and
textures in the music. Well, listening to the Monks
over and over is definitely not for the faint of
heart. First, there's the complete lack of melody.
Everything is rhythmically oriented, hardwiring
itself into your psyche on the first listening.
Six listenings later my heart was beating in time
to the music! I could feel my jugular throbbing
in sympathy with that god-awful beat! I wigged out,
picturing Wermacht troops pouring into Poland, imagining
orgies in German-occupied Paris, Vikings sweeping
down on England during the Middle Ages - hearts
aflame with the thought of rape and pillage, dancing
girls as I ate hashish in the fortresses of the
Assassins in the Middle East readying myself for
a one way ticket to Paradise by accomplishing Allah's
will by killing some minor sultan, Indians riding
around the 7th Cavalry at Little Big Horn, jeering
Christ as he struggled up Golgotha under the weight
of the cross, shooting Anastasia and her father
the Czar in some Russian cellar, Thugees lurking
in the bushes waiting on British colonists, releasing
the lever in the Enola Gay as we flew over Hiroshima,
the heat from the firestorms as incendiary bombs
fell on Dresden, using Zippo lighters to torch hootches
in some Vietnamese village, squinting through a
telescopic sight at the back of J.F.K.'s head as
the motorcade rolls through downtown Dallas.
The Sambuca ate through my stomach lining and I
went into the bathroom to throw up. I hadn't eaten
in three days, so there wasn't too much in the damn
toilet. I went back into the kitchen and finished
the Sambuca and the last of the metha-amphetamine.
The F.B.I. came disguised as the U.P.S. man, but
I was too clever for them. I didn't let him in.
I wouldn't open the door until night fell. They
wouldn't be able to take pictures of me then. They
could get me on infrared scanners, but no pictures
could they take.
Suddenly, the severity of the Monks music and lifestyle
inspired me. Yes, they were appropriately named.
They led dedicated lives, following their muse through
Germany. I, too, had a mission. I would proclaim
their vision, which was even more appropriate now
then when they had originally issued it.
The tonsure took a while. I've never colored my
hair or shaved my head, never gone in for any of
that punk crap, even as a teenager. I always thought
the R & B and mod stylings of the Small Faces
much cooler than the Sex Pistols ever were. So,
I had no idea how to shave a bald spot on the crown
of
my head. I wrestled with the concept. I'm 28 after
all, much too old to be doing something like that.
No, you're not the other half of me argued. You
are a missionary, proclaiming a great message as
told to you by the greatest rock n roll group ever
(all apologies to Phil May & Company). I got
it started, wielding the scissors first and then
the razor. I couldn't see what I was doing. I floated
next door, in a haze.
My neighbor opened the door and her eyes grew wide
(not as wide as my pupils; they were big enough
to drive a trailer truck through) when she saw the
mess my hair was in. I didn't make matters better
when my explanations turned into babblings of mission
and dedication and whatnot. She finally agreed to
shave the spot, probably just to get rid of me or
because she was afraid what would happen if she
refused to. Doesn't matter. She did it. Unfortunately,
her hands shook the entire time she was doing it
and she nicked my scalp a couple of times. I left,
blood trickling down my head and onto my face and
neck!
I returned to the prison of my apartment, the Monks
shrieking about "girls are joys" and I
couldn't help but agree. Thank you, Marcey (my next
door neighbor) for the haircut, but your titties
are too saggy, I need to go to the bar and look
at some cute young things and convert them to a
Holy Cause! My girlfriend had left me a couple of
months earlier, but she'd left her dresser behind.
It was full of some clothes that she didn't want
or at least hadn't returned for (I'll tell you,
they were awfully tempting during CUCKOO) and I
knew there was probably some marijuana in it somewhere.
Sure enough, a quick search brought out a baggie
that still had a joint or two worth in the corner.
I made a beer can pipe and smoked the whole mess
in one sitting. Meanwhile, the Monks continued to
indoctrinate me. I was way past the words at this
point. The bass lines were busy rewiring my nervous
system. Eddie Shaw, I'll name my second child after
you (my first kid is in Missouri somewhere) because
you've probably rearranged my chromosomes and he/she/it
will come out of the womb performing the St. Vitus
dance or be epileptic or brain damaged.
I was ravenous. I pulled a big steak out of the
freezer and set it in the microwave to defrost.
I wasn't able to wait for more than ten minutes.
I got it out and ate it, red and still frozen in
places. I had a book by Dostoyevsky on the table
that had been irritating me for hours. I'd pick
it up and try and read a little. DEMONS it was.
I've read it before, but for some reason I couldn't
understand who the characters were or what they
were doing. Gary's vocals disconcerted me, drawing
my attention away from the pages.
Higgle-dy-piggle-dy! Huh? The lyrics didn't make
any sense. I looked the words up in the dictionary
and read it. A mixed up confusion. And something
about pigs. I remembered some old kid's rhyme about
going straight to hell or something. Then, it all
clicked.
JFK was assassinated in November of 1963. And yes,
the CIA was behind it. The CIA spirited Lee Harvey
Oswald out of the United States. The Monks, briefly
known as the Torquays, formed shortly thereafter.
Now, this is going to take what Kierkegaard referred
to as a "leap of faith," but being the
good little conspiracy theorists we are, we can
do it. Right, children?
This is all speculation, mind you. In early '64,
Oswald underwent cosmetic surgery. The best intellects
debated where to hide him. The answer? In the monastery
of the public eye, of course. Viola, a beat group
in Germany. It doesn't get any more obscure than
that. So, this intrepid rock n roll historian has
solved the most intriguing mystery of the last forty
years. Oswald was and is Dave Day! The second gunman
on the grassy knoll was obviously Elvis. Dave Day
was his biggest fan. He would do anything for the
King of Rock n Roll, up to and including, killing
the politician from Massachusetts. The Monks left
clues to this world shaking event in the fourth
song on their debut album. Where were you, Charlie
Manson? You should have figured it out.
A listener should drink half a bottle of bourbon
and take some valium before listening to the song.
Then, it's easy to translate under the influence,
as the Monks were when they recorded the album.
Burger was probably speeded up when they laid down
this track, so one's audio comprehension must slur
and slow down his lyrical delivery. Hence, the liquid
depressant and tranquilizers. "Higgle-dy,"
sounds uncannily like "Hitler'll die!"
Consequently, "Piggle-dy" translates to
"the pig'll die!" Southerner's were notoriously
opposed to Kennedy, thus it is no surprise that
they fitted him with such an epithet as "pig."
As a matter of fact, when students in Texas heard
he'd been shot, did they grieve? Hell, no! They
cheered. Band publicists claim Day was born in Washington
state, but somehow that doesn't sound quite true.
Now, why Elvis Presley and the CIA would want to
knock off JFK is beyond my comprehension. Anyway,
there's plenty of other clues to decipher for the
discerning and paranoiac listener who's got too
much time on their hands.
There were some bonus tracks on the CD, singles
that hadn't been issued on the original BLACK MONK
TIME. Gary Burger has expressed remorse for them.
I guess he considered them a softening of the Monks
sound; an attempt to go commercial. HE WENT DOWN
TO THE SEA was really confusing me, what with some
lyrics about "the girl he used to be."
Don't worry, Gary. That song is about as pop as
my Aunt Hilda who milks the goats in her curlers
and housecoat. Even going commercial, those guys
were weird.
I only had to listen to the CD two more times and
I'd make 13! I didn't know if I could do it. I was
hypnotized part of the time, slumped in a chair
in the middle of my filthy kitchen. Otherwise, I
paced like a caged animal. A lean tiger, just waiting
for his trainer to step in . . . and then WHAM!
Leap on top, tearing limb from torso.
The phone rang. This time I was glad. I was starved
for contact with the outside world, even if it was
the F.B.I. I'd give up! What's the worst they could
do to me? I harbored seditious thoughts and was
all for Southern Secession, but that was it. I mean
the Federal Government had even let Lee ride away
from Appomattox. And I'd never openly proclaimed
my rebellion. But it was only my ex-girlfriend on
the phone, all teary-eyed and wanting to come home
from her parents. F#$k you, bitch. You're the one
that left. What's the matter, Mommy and Daddy getting
on your nerves? Here's a quarter (35 cents now),
call somebody that cares.
Finally, lucky 13! I'd made it. Eat yer heart out,
Will Shade. I ran down to the bar. BEER! BEER! Everywhere.
Every flavor. Bottle or draft. Oh, the choices.
I blessed America then, I'll tell you! The bartender
eyed me nervously, I suppose. He got me a big schooner
of Rolling Rock. The rest of the guys in the bar
tended to avoid my stare. I couldn't help it. There
was so much stimuli, so much to wrap my corneas
around. There was an older guy in a leather jacket.
I'd seen him around town a bunch. Drove a Harley.
Probably grew up having wet dreams about Peter Fonda
and Dennis Hopper, you know, dropping it all and
discovering America on his iron steed. The only
thing is he's been in town as long as I have, working
as a short order cook at some diner. But my senses
were so sharp, my vision so keen, I could see every
crack in his leather jacket. And I could see every
single strand of hair in his beard and what he'd
had for breakfast was lodged in there, too. He caught
me staring at him. He looked at my tonsure.
"What the hell is that?" he asked.
"It's a tonsure," I said, knowing I could
turn him onto the Monks.
I guess I figured he'd grown up listening to the
old Rolling Stones and their contemporaries and
another group from that era wouldn't seem as foreign
as if I'd tried making him appreciate some bozos
like Pearl Jam.
"What are you, some kinda fag?" he queried.
I was taken aback for just a moment. But I had the
proper response.
"I'm a Monk, you're a Monk, we're all Monks,
Dave, Larry, Eddie, Roger! Let's go, it's beat time,
it's hop time, it's Monk time!"
"You're a god damn fruit," he muttered.
I hit him then. And kept hitting him until three
guys pulled me off. I blackened two of their eyes
for their troubles, too. It took two cops to push
me in the car ten minutes later. I'd done quite
a bit of damage to the bar. Luckily, I always leave
some money with my buddy Tom to bail me out of jail
when these things happen. I'm due in court soon
and hopefully I'll be able to cop a plea bargain
and pay for the damage at the bar. Because I can't
be sitting in the pokey when I've got an important
message to spread.
