rock 'n' roll is god

Hallelujah! I said, Amen, brothers and sisters! Yes, Lord! Let me tell you about Boonefest. First of all, I suck for not being there the first two days. I'm sure all the bands rocked and I can't believe I missed sets by Fair Verona and Midiron Blast Shaft — two bands who played WE Fest this year and had me kneeling before them and screaming, respectively. (Which means I knelt in front of the first and screamed in front of the second; it has nothing to do with respect.)

Sundown Friday, Aug. 18, 2000: The beginning of the Sabbath. Following an agonizing hour watching a team of firefighters pull a young girl trapped in a car outside the PMX house, the soldiers of night loaded into the van (a Herkimer Battle Jitney, for those of you who want tech details) and set out for Boone, North Carolina. First stop: an offering at the kosher Dunkin' Donuts here in Highland Park. A temple of sorts, and worth the few minutes it takes to cross the bridge for all those who make the pilgrimage to New Brunswick. Juiced up and with the drugs rushing into our bloodstreams, the four PMX caffiends entered the great equalizer of all roads, The New Jersey Turnpike. The jitney cruises best at 75, but with the traffic it was hard to keep it much over the 65 mph speed limit.

We made it through Balti Mo sending mental shoutouts to all our great friends there and without having to shoot anyone. Down onto the beltway — the garden path of hell — and onto Interstate 66(6).

Round about Harrisonburg we realized if we didn't stop there, there would be no point in stopping at all. Despite the cranky coffee buzz, we hit the sack at the Motel 6(66). The Sabbath dawned cool and bright. Amy and I arose about 9 a.m. and went to Lowes and thought about redesigning our kitchen. We opted for eight D batteries instead. Never can stockpile enough batteries, Y2K non-event or not, you never know.

We roused the other mechanics. Took showers. Got back into the jitney. Everything was running smooth. Thrust transducers were kicking in great and we got into hyperspace with little difficulty. Did notice the nav response is a bit weaker in hyperspace. Have to get Dominick (a real prosolar mechanic) to see what he can do.

Re-entered conventional space right before Burton/Barton, Virginia (the spelling is different depending on which universe you come out in) and headed off on some state controlled/patrolled highway into the mountains.

Truly God's country. No wonder half the population spends its time in church around there, it's like Heaven's backyard. The ride up to Boone was one of the nicest stretches of country road I've encountered in these United States.

We got to Boone about 16:30 hours. We all bailed out of the jitney and wandered around town, checking record and bookstores, the army/navy and finally settling in next to Rafters to get some iced coffee. Y'all can have yr beer. Give me coffee. Beans or brewed, drunk or mainlined, it don't make no difference to me.

Sure enough. Here comes Kevin as I go get the jitney and pull it around to the Rafter's door. I'll take a brief moment here to witness for this brother. He, along with his fellow Karloffs and Gordon, is a true mensch. Organizizing Boonefest is no mean feat, and the festival is one of the greatest rock moments I've ever been a part of. If you haven't seen the Karloffs, I'm not happy to speak to you until you do. And I don't care if you're from L.A., that should mean you have more money and can travel easier. Go see them.

Then, we load into Rafters. What a great club. I mean great. Who'd have thunk you'd find a 500 person room in Boone? A 4½ foot stage? A sound man who can get all the instruments in the monitor mix? The town is smaller than New Brunswick and the club is bigger than all of the stages here combined.

As we finish, our brothers in arms, our comrades against the oppressors, our hope in times of woe, the mighty LANDSPEEDRECORD! arrive. This, though expected, is a sign from the almighty and we take the appropriate action: we all go out for dinner.

Upon our return, the crowd begins forming. Unfortunately, our NJ brethren Gap Scatter Recovery have cancelled. Their van broke down. Clearly, it's not a Herkimer. Adding to the cancellation is the fact that The Others are MIA. Though we're thousands of miles from Salt Lake City, I suspect it's a plot by The Elect.

Despite this, people start pouring in. A line forms. Holy shit (and I mean it), this is going to be a big fucking show, I think to myself. I turn to Mike and make the eyes-widening expression that means HOLY SHIT IT'S GOING TO BE A BIG FUCKING SHOW.

Why Mama Cries take the stage, complete with hats. I find myself regretting I left my bronco buster at home. Cowpunk it is and the crowd eats it up, egging them on. As the band plays the place continues to fill. They finish and the crowd disperses a little. I think, OK, it's a local thing. The Karloffs come on and the crowd returns bigger and edgier. Karl's new song rocks rocks rocks. The Misfits (God Bless New Jersey) inspired set turns the energy way, way, way up and drags me away from the back until I'm 3 people back from the stage. Goddam Kevin can sing. I'm shouting along and I don't even know the words.

The Others never showed, so it was time for us to go on. By this point I'm nervous as all get out. Luckily, we have plenty of time to set up. The place is packed. The mechanics load on and power up like we were designed by Germans. There's a sea of faces all waiting. I can feel my hands like lumps of clay at the end of my arms. Forget that running in place nightmare. Try getting up on stage in a packed house and convincing your fingers to do what they did so easily in the basement.

The show was great. And it was the crowd that did it. So much energy coming off of them. We fed off it like vampires from mars, sucking it out of them, tuning it through the black hole electronics of our amplifiers and feeding it back to them like sonic manna which they consumed with a hunger so big it gave the raven his name. People of Boone I salute you. You gave so much and what you gave I vow to give back a hundred times over.

In a great orgasm of sound, we finish. It's over in minutes like seconds like an eternity. I collapse into a shell of my sonic familiar and feel the sweat under my clothes like an oily sheen of cosmic semen.

The beautiful thing is that after all the excitement, I now get to see one of my favorite bands in the galaxy test drive their new drummer. He fits so seamlessly I don't even notice it at first. Then he does some roll or fill or some flashy punk rock move that jumps out at me and I'm standing on my chair looking over the crowd. Powered By Jeff, I think. All their new CDs will have to come with a little sticker indicating that. People will want to know. Then the band kicks into The Last Parade and I'm hurling myself through the crowd, clawing my way to the front, afeart of choking on my own good name and pogoing into the air singing along with some of the best damn lyrics written of late.

Speaking of late. We all went back to Kevin's place and stayed up. This is the real party, I think. Good friends. Pizza that nearly kills me with heartburn. All these people I know and don't know. We all connect. Karl introduces me to his wife Lia/Lea (depends on the universe, again) and tells me about living on top of the mountain and his snowplow. That image sticks with me for days. Mountaintops and snowplows. Jacob, Isaac, Esau, John, Jesus, Matthew Mary Magdalene Buddha Mohammed — we're all climbing the same mountain. I know I'm going back to Boone.