in sleep I opened an unnumbered door and found the sea. It was wide and still, veneered in delirious1 silver. Someone I knew was walking along a road that went down a hill toward some houses. The heat was brilliant. Vindictive3 light burned into the stone of all the small houses chalked near the sea. I heard voices and thought I saw people at the door.
Opel toasted frankfurter buns for breakfast or whatever meal it was. She held the buns on a fork over the burner, toasting the insides of the buns intended for me, the outsides of those intended for her. Each of us thought the other strange for his/her preference. She spread strawberry jam on the buns and brought everything to bed with her.
"I wish we had real strawberries," she said. "Big whole strawberries to look at and eventually eat."
"Live strawberries instead of strawberries on tape."
"I remember traveling literally4 about six thousand miles in four consecutive5 flights and then getting to somebody's house I knew and they were eating strawberries and I just sat there and looked at these strawberries sitting in sugar in the middle of the table and it was inconceivable, it was like returning from the land of the dead. They lived, the strawberries lived. I could look right into them. I understood what strawberries really are, not that I could put it in words. They were inconceivably beautiful, so rich and plump and alive, actually glowing from within. Of course I was probably stoned on something."
"Who were you talking to at the door?"
"I thought you were asleep."
"I was asleep but I wasn't fast asleep. Somebody was at the door and the two of you talked about something. It wasn't Fenig because I know Fenig's voice. It wasn't the woman downstairs because it was a man. So I surmise7 one thing. It was the man you've been waiting for. The courier. Is that who it was?"
"It was the man," she said.
"Good news or bad?"
"Dr. Pepper is not where he's supposed to be. But they expect to reach him in forty-eight hours. I don't know why it's forty-eight hours. Why not forty-seven or fifty-three? Anyway I'm to be ready to leave at a moment's notice as of tomorrow night. I told him I've been ready for days. He expressed the hope we'd function well together."
"Glad it's finally under way?"
"Except one thing bothers me. He wasn't what I'd hoped to get. I thought he'd resemble some lower-echelon A-and-R type like from Motown. Bronzed glasses, wispy9 beard, that hunched-over funky10 walk. I expected pure funk, you know? Someone who's spent his whole life dealing11 merchandise of one kind or another."
"What did you get?"
"I got Hanes," she said.
"Goddamn, that voice I heard. Hanes. On one level I knew it was him. You didn't tell me Globke was involved in this."
"He's not, Bucky. Hanes is free-lancing. It's not surprising it's him really. There are so many people we know in common. If you put all the names on paper and draw lines back and forth12, it would probably be very logical that Hanes would be the one to show up at my door. Anyway seeing him gave me an idea. It involves a surprise for you. Your birthday present in fact. Belated maybe but a stroke of true bitch genius."
"Can't wait."
"A gift that's rich with I don't know what."
"Hanes is a human blotter," I said. "I don't like it when people like that get involved in this kind of enterprise. He's very limp. You could pick him up, use him as a blotter and throw him away. Submissiveness and paradox13. He'd just as soon do business with the police."
"I'm nice and settled," she said. "Go toast more bread."
It was getting dark. I left all four burners on. We finished the buns and Opel lay in bed eating jam off the blunt edge of the knife. The power of her immobility was beginning to fade. Departure was implicit14 in everything she did now. Until Hanes appeared at the door, Opel's presence had been immense; she'd reigned15 in that bed like a bloated Creole queen of the swampland, giddy with magic, wallowing in the sensual pre-eminence of her own stink16. Opel had stolen my immobility. I had been motionless as salt. People had swirled17 around me and I had plotted changes in the weather, gradations of light and silence. I had centered myself, learning of the existence of an interior motion, a shift in levels from isolation18 to solitude19 to wordlessness to immobility. When Opel occupied that center I became the thing that swirled.
"Maybe I'll be going back out," I said.
"Out on tour? What with?"
"I'm not sure yet. In fact I've no idea at all. But I'm thinking of getting back out. That's the important thing. Time to stop looking at the wall. You were right. Time to get out."
"Why not work on new material and let it go at that? Why go on tour?"
"That's got to be part of it. I'm not sure why. Maybe I just want the contact. You can't reach extremes by working in. a studio. I want to reach extremes. It's like a passage from suicide to murder. I'd been all worked out and fucked over and grabbed at. Suicide was nearer to me than my own big toe. It was the natural ending. I mean it was right there. No one would have been surprised or shocked. I really think it was expected of me. If I hadn't left the tour, one way or another it would have happened. A soft papery collapse20. Even after I left, the thing was right there looking me in the face. But now I think I'm out of that. I want to return but in a different way. New extremities21. It's like a passage from suicide to murder."
"I'm not sure I get it, Bucky."
"It's too evil for a mere22 dealer23 like yourself."
"You want to return with a whole new thing. But what thing? You can scream ugly lyrics24 and throw rattlesnakes at the audience. Is that the general idea? You can sing love songs to the Pentagon."
"Nothing political," I said.
"There's nothing out there but a dull sort of horror. You can't just churn it up into your own fresh mixture. Hero, rogue26 and symbol that you are."
"Maybe I don't want to churn it up at all. Maybe I want to make it even duller and more horrible. I don't know. One thing's sure. I can't go out there and sing pretty lyrics or striking lyrics and I can't go out there and make new and louder and more controversial sounds. I've done all that. More of that would be just what it says — more of the same. Maybe what I want is less. To become the least of what I was."
"Sure, the beast is loose, least is best. But who's the beast in this case? Be careful you don't twist your own neat lyric25. Of course that may be exactly your intention. In which case I look on with interest. Ready as a matter of fact to offer whatever aid and comfort you feel you need. Hell, man, we're old friends."
"Old and true," I said.
"No doubt about it."
"Absolutely."
"Sure as shit."
I turned off the burners and stood near the window. Steam whistled distantly in the pipes. I wasn't unhappy being where I was. Tilings here were not deprived of their emanations. The distances were correct; noise was undisguised; air was allowed to flow without recirculation. But this completeness seemed less than enough to keep me now. I struck a wooden match and put the flame to one of the candles over the sink. Opel pretended to evade28 this shallow light, sinking deeper into the bed.
"People are getting to be all one thing," she said. "Look at me, for instance. I used to have shadings. Now I'm all one thing. Civilization by reflex. If we'd been alive in Pavlov's day he could have saved a whole lot of money on dog food. Now take you now. If you want to go back out as a Las Vegas version of what you were, fine with me except I hope you know what it is you're doing. You'll lose the perspective and the edge will crumble29 and you'll really become the other thing. Maybe it's a natural evolution. You were getting incoherent anyway, album to album, more so all the time. By the end you were making incredible amounts of noise and communicating absolutely nothing. The whole band was all curled up like a burning piece of paper. You know what you did? You embraced the insanity30 you were telling us about. So maybe it's a natural evolution. You were too much in love with the horror going on because it formed your sound for you and you were fascinated by it as subject matter. It could very well be the natural next step that you crawl out on the stage at the Sands and just sit there in a jockstrap grunting31. Ever since I've known you, you've been surrounded by money-grubbing and talk of money and people dealing and operating but that's the last thing you'll ever be corrupted32 by, money, even if you were literally starving. It's yourself you have to watch out for, that little touch of the antichrist. It happens to be what I like most about you and of course it accounts for your fame and your glory so maybe I'm wrong to even bring it up. But evil is movement toward void and that's where we both agree you're heading. It's your trip. I'd help you get there if I was sure you wanted to go. In my own bitch-genius way I think I've already put a certain teasing idea into circulation, soon to end up on this very doorstep. You have been listening to a panel discussion on a subject yet to be agreed on. Our panelists will now disrobe and paint each other's bodies in colorful native pigments33."
Opel's stillness was losing its essential tenor34. It was infiltrated35 by heavy engines, becoming merely a vigil now, that of a lone36 woman standing37 in the off-hour calm of a fluorescent38 tunnel leading to a boarding gate. In candle-flame she seemed almost an after-image, little left of her ascendancy39. Again she is reduced to a point in the middle of the sky. On paper one can find her with the aid of a compass and protractor. She is whisperingly civil, seated between an investment banker and a chummy transvestite, thinking ahead to baggage area and customs. Super-freaks are everywhere, smugglers and global dopers contaminating the air lanes, nitroglycerin concealed40 in their teeth, unripe41 opium42 pods surgically43 sewn under their eyeballs. Slums and revolution on the 747s. She was in rehearsal44 for departure now. Ever since Hanes. Hanes had stood in the doorway45 of my Mediterranean46 dream.
"Places are always what you expect," she said. "That's both the trouble with places and their redeeming47 feature. I'm certain it wasn't like that in the past. But it sure is that way now. A few places are still different from each other but nowhere do you find something different from your own expectations. Look at post card manufacturers. They take a sleazy tourist-trap lake and try to make it into the canoeing grounds of the gods. But they do such a slick glossy48 job that you glance at the post card and you know at once this is a shit-filled lake and all the tourists here are either war criminals or people who spit when they laugh. Not that there isn't beauty in such places. That's just it. The whole world is turning into Lafayette Street, the most ugly-beautiful street in New York City. In a way it's nice to get what you expect. It's as though places can be passive just like people. They just sprawl49 out with their cathedrals and deserts. Passivity is beautiful too. You take what they give you these days and if everything's getting ugly the only thing you can do is try to teach yourself it's beautiful, it's beautiful. Eventually maybe it is. But look at the passivity of Hanes. There's a sexed-out beauty there. Got to admit it, right? Timeless lands. Look at timeless lands. Why do I spend so much time in timeless lands? Because there's no time there, I guess. Because you stop evolving. Because the warm winds polish you like stone. Here where it's cold I develop and become angular and rapidly age. Great Jones, Bond Street, the Bowery. These places are deserts too, just as beautiful and scary as a matter of fact, except too cold for some people. The places where I get coldest are my eyes and my knees. Isn't that a weird50 number? Eye-muffs and knee-gloves are the obvious answers. Transparanoia might want to get into that. Talk to Globke first thing tomorrow."
I walked around the bed and ended up once more at the window. Opel covered herself to the chin. I had never known exactly what we needed from each other. Maybe it was enough to come and go; we were each other's motion and rest. The telephone sat on four phone books stacked on the floor. One candle burned, the other did not. I exhaled51 on the window. There was a loud sound in the pipes, the hollowing-out of dank iron. Opel's collection of pennies filled two ice trays in the refrigerator. The bathtub was full of used water. Citing these things to myself was probably an attempt to group the components52 of a return to order.
"Things evolve just like people and places," she said. "Or to put it another way, people and places are a lot more static than they'd like to believe. Look at me. What have I become in the scheme of human evolution? Luggage. I'm luggage. By choice, inclination53 and occupation. What am I if I'm not luggage? I open myself up, insert some very costly55 items and then close up again and get transported to a timeless land. Do you want to know who knows I'm a thing? Customs knows. Customs knows a lot more than we give him credit for. Customs understands the methodology. He knows the way things work. I'm luggage. No doubt about it. Girlskin luggage. But I don't like that word very much. Lug-gudge. Heavy brutish word for a delicate thing like me."
The knife stood in the empty jar, blade up. The unwound clock was on its back in the bottom of the closet, helpless as an insect, legs in the air, winding56 key partly dislodged. I watched snow come down now, confined in the precise light of streetlamps. There was no wind. The snow dropped straight down, very slowly, asserting itself with the dignity of a country snow, that language of credence58 and bare trees, milk on the hillsides, old men gigantic in their bootprints. The firehouse doors were closed. A little car went by, yellow, pink, orange and green, no plates visible. When I turned from the window, Opel was dead. The change in the room was unmistakable. I went to her side to touch her once. Her mouth was open slightly. The blanket had slipped to her neck. Very still. Never to be challenged in this particular stillness. There was no expression on her face. Here I am, dead. That was the only thing I could imagine she might be trying to say with her mouth open like that.
This is what I did. I went back to the window and crossed my arms over my chest, wedging my hands in my armpits. This for warmth. I had been brought up to regard death as an irrevocable state. I tried to reconsider this proposition now, to go over the steps one by one, and I wanted to be warm while I did this.
Eventually I unplugged the bathtub, draining it of gray water. I got the broom and swept in a careless manner for about ten minutes. This was panic of such depth it seemed lodged57 in being itself, my own, a dread59 of forgetting what I was called or what language I spoke60. I put Opel's things away, the few items hanging from chairs or looped over this or that doorknob. I put these away in the closet. After this I spent some time in the bathroom scraping out the soap dish.
This is what else I did. I looked everywhere for change and then went out to find a telephone. Aloud I repeated three sounds: wun der lick. Walking south on Broadway (downtown, always down), I repeated these sounds over and over, trying to penetrate61 vapor62, to reach beyond the sounds to whatever it was they designated, the dream guiding the body through the snow, wun-der-lick, object of the inquiry63. The air was coarse, leaving a slight burn high in the nostrils64. I stepped into a phone booth. Ten yards away a man was urinating against a wall, standing happily in his own cataract65 and mist.
I spoke to someone downtown, a bored municipal voice, downtown in the huddled66 buildings, the record sectors67, death and taxes, requisition forms, police recruits taping every emergency, bored, bored, the facsimile of a voice, all walls green halfway68 up, agencies, bureaus, extensions, downtown where the records are kept, massive, passive, ever distending69, the idea of a voice, no one in control.
I thought of calling Bellevue next but decided70 finally in favor of St. Vincent's, gentle, humane71 and dedicated72, St. Vincent's, merciful and compassionate73. I insisted on speaking to a nun74. I wanted someone who believed in St. Vincent himself, in his ideals, in his sacrifices, whatever these may have been. They wanted address, phone number, sex of deceased. I insisted on a nun. I wanted a nun, a short round woman, perhaps of German descent, someone who believed in the sacredness of dying and the veneration75 of the dead. No nun, no deal. This is what I told them.
The man was standing outside the phone booth. He wore the plaid lining76 of someone's topcoat. In his hands was a half-pint bottle of rye, which he offered me. I put down the phone and took it. The snow fell perfectly77. Burn marks were evident under the man's frozen stubble. I drank, thanked him and gave back the bottle. Then I called Globke, who said he'd take care of everything.
****
Superslick
Mind Contracting
Media Kit79
"The Bucky Wunderlick Story"
Told in news items, lyrics
and dysfunctional interviews
Prepared by Esme Taylor Associates
A DIVISION OF TRANSPARANOIA
london, April 17 (UPI) — Bucky Wunderlick, the American rock music star, has been held for questioning by police here after allegedly setting fire to a stewardess80 aboard a TWA 747 just being cleared for takeoff at London Airport.
According to several eyewitnesses81, Wunderlick, 24, had complained of being airsick, although the plane had not yet left the ground, and was purportedly82 acting78 in a loud and disruptive manner. When Patti Stepney, 22, of Falls Church, Va., one of twelve cabin attendants aboard the London to New York flight, attempted to calm the controversial entertainer, he reputedly set fire to her uniform with a cigarette lighter83 said by an associate to be a gift of an unidentified member of the British royal family.
The flight was delayed while passengers used blankets to smother84 the flames, allowing Miss Stepney to be escorted from the 355-ton jetliner by airport personnel. A TWA spokesman later said she was being rushed to a medical facility for observation and possible treatment. Simultaneously85, London police released a statement saying they are holding Mr. Wunderlick, who was removed from the plane following a brief struggle, eyewitnesses said.
"Peace-loving men everywhere deplore86 the English penchant87 for violence," the internationally known figure was quoted by a companion as having remarked, following another brief altercation88 inside a police vehicle moments after he was led from the 22-million-dollar jetliner, reportedly bleeding from a gash89 over his left eye and said to be wearing a team jersey90 bearing the legend Tottenham Hotspur.
Two tracks from
amebikan war sutha
Recorded on Beeswax Records
LP 7178342
Bzzz — exclusive trademark91 of Beeswax Records
VC Sweetheart
Born in a hearse
Left foot first
Nursed on a hand-me-down nipple
Got a murder degree
From I.T.T.
Shot three holes in a cripple
To the highlands I was sent
To the highlands
They're counting up the dead
Flute music playing in the highlands
Who's that out there
Edging toward the banquet of my dumb fear
Slant94 eyes burning in this bible bush
VC honey
With her curls and tap shoes
VC sweetheart twirling her baton95
She had superdog hearing
And eyes that scanned
I loved every way she made love
Twelve years old
Tiger soul
She knew what to do with a man
Across the highlands we did go
Across the highlands
They're counting up the dead
Blues music playing in the highlands
So soft and cool and sweet
Twelve years old
Tiger soul
She knew how to cheat and repeat
I sang to her in my own true voice
A folk song of flowers and peace:
What do we have to live for
But each other
What do we have to die for
But our love
East the vanished mountains
West the barren fields
Soccer-playing bodhisattvas
Flowing through the grass
She sang to me in her own true voice
A folk song of people and land:
You are tall lean stranger
You are word
You are Christmas tree of Easter
Shining bird
You are hunter prophet
You are lion's paw
Come to my door
In her eyes that night
I made love like a fur-bearing beast
Twelve years old
Tiger soul
She knew how to give what was least
In the highlands we did rest
In the highlands
Jazz music playing
They're counting up the dead
Jazz music playing in the highlands
Sleeping long and deep
On a hard straw mat
I dreamed of the love of my life
Twelve years old
Tiger soul
She knew what to do with a knife
Who's that out there
Edging toward the banquet of my dumb fear
Slant eyes burning in this bible bush
VC honey
With her curls and tap shoes
VC sweetheart twirling her baton
Down the highlands I was sent
Down the highlands
Rock music playing
They're counting up the dead
Rock music playing in the highlands
Born in a hearse
Left foot first
Nursed on a hand-me-down nipple
Got back home
Minus some chrome
Women they call me a cripple
Nothing Turns
Our senses cannot hold them
Nothing turns from death so much as flesh
Oh nothing turns
Nothing turns from death so much as flesh
Untouched by aging
To be younger
Than tie children you kill
Sits the ten-star general
There he sits
Ex-vaudevillian
Honing his patter in a cancer ward2
Sits the cheesefeet duchess
There she sits
Wombless lady
Cutting paper dolls of burning babes
Nothing turns from death so much as flesh
Untouched by aging
Nothing turns
To be younger than the ones you kill
Too late their cells run wild
General and his lady
You have lost the war
Oh what a bore
You have lost the war
You have lost the war
"VC Sweetheart"
Words-and-music Wunderlick-Azarian
Copyright ? 1968 Stanwash Music
All rights administered Arkmaker Music
Used by permission
"Nothing Turns"
Words-and-music Bucky Wunderlick
(Copyright ? 1968 Stanwash Music
All rights administered Arkmaker Music
Used by permission
?
Excerpts102 from seminar conducted jointly103 by the senior editorial board of Chance Mainway Publications and the Issues Committee of the Permanent Symposium104 for the Restoration of Democratic Options.
The Committee CM Publications
Robert Fielder Sam L. Bradley
Turner Bakey Ross Holroyd
Grace Hall Aline Olmstead
Lester E. B. Niles George Porter
Walter Jencks Olmstead
Clarence B. Washington
Special Guest
Bucky Wunderlick
Mr. Fielder: Turning now to our guest at this morning's round table, I'd like to begin by taking this opportunity to welcome him, if I may, to our Chula Vista105 complex.
BW: Yes, you may.
Mr. Fielder: We're not accustomed so much to this kind of discussion as we are to a different level or range, for example on the freedoms, or House and Senate priorities, or the emerging issue of pleadings and writs106. But no phenomenon in recent years in perhaps the whole history of what we might call popular American culture has so brought about a massing of opinion one way or the other among the men and women, and I count myself among them, as do, I'm sure, most if not all the individuals at this morning's round table, about whether or not we can profitably undertake a dialogue with the kind of young people who are at the very center of all this noise, and I hope nobody objects to that word. Please feel free to address yourself to this question in your own words because we're not, although it may seem so to you, the kind of not-with-it people, not at all, the stuffed shirts we may seem so to you, and we've heard this kind of subfamily vernacular107, and even the gracious ladies present at this morning's session, I might venture to guess.
BW: Noise, right. It's the sound. Hertz and megahertz. We mash108 their skulls109 with a whole lot of watts110. Electricity, right. It's a natural force. We're processing a natural force. Electricity is nature every bit as much as sex is nature. By sex, I mean fucking and the like. Electric current is everywhere. We run it through a system of wires, cables, mikes, amps and so on. It's just nature. Sometimes we put words to it. Nobody can hear the words because they get drowned out by the noise, which is only natural. Our last album we recorded live to get the people's screams in and submerge the words even more and they were gibberish words anyway. Screaming's essential to our sound now. The whole thing is nature processed through instruments and sound controls. We process nature, which I personally regard as a hideous111 screeching112 bitch of a thing, being a city boy myself.
Miss Hall: Yes, noise. Extraordinary. How, precisely113, one wonders, do you do with it what you do with it? I freely confess to a kind of global migraine every time I go anywhere near one of your records. I mean totally apart from the question of decibels114, there's that intermixture of instruments or something that's so sort of shattering to one's composure, to put it mildly.
BW: That's why we're so great. We make noise. We make it louder than anybody else and also better. Any curly-haired boy can write windswept ballads115. You have to crush people's heads. That's the only way to make those fuckers listen.
Mr. Porter: But what I'm really trying to get at, really, I think, is the more basic question of human values, human concerns.
Mr. Uolroyd: I think what George is really trying to get at is the effect of this type of thing . . .
Mr. Porter: No, no, no, no, no.
Mr. Bakey: Lunch.
Mrs. Olmstead: Do you consider yourself an artist? BW: The true artist makes people move. When people read a book or look at a painting, they just sit there or stand there. A long time ago that was okay, that was hip, that was art. Now it's different. I make people move. My sound lifts them right off their ass8. I make it happen. Understand. I make it happen. What I'd like to do really is I'd like to injure people with my sound. Maybe actually kill some of them. They'd come there knowing full well. Then we'd play and sing and people in the audience would be frozen with pain or writhing116 with pain and some of them would actually die from the effects of our words and music. It isn't an easy thing to create, the right sound at the proper volume. People actually collapsing117 in pain. They'd come there knowing full well. People dying from the effects of all this beauty and power. That's art, sweetheart. I make it happen.
Mr. Niles: At this point I suspect you're only being half-serious.
BW: Which half?
Mr. Bakey: You're not saying, or are you, that the only thing you do is make loud noises and this is what explains the Wunderlick formulation or ethos. BW: My whole life is tinged118 with melancholy119. The more I make people move, the closer I get to personal inertness120. With everybody jumping the way they do and holding their heads in the manner they're inclined to hold their heads, I feel in kind of a mood of melancholy because I myself am kind of tired of all the movement and would like to flatten122 myself against a wall and become inert121. Miss Hall: Quite so.
Mr. Bradley: I wonder if you'd like to discuss the origin and meaning of the phrase pee-pee-maw-maw. I know it's traceable to you and it seems to be sweeping123 the country at the moment. Everywhere I go, and I do extensive traveling, I see people wearing shirts and trousers with those little syllables124 on them, not to mention seeing pee-pee-maw-maw on shopping bags, buttons, decals, bumper125 stickers, and even hearing dolls say it over and over, five-dollar talking dolls that say that phrase over and over. I know it's all traceable to you and I just wonder what it all signifies, if anything. BW: Childhood incantation. Mr. Bakey: Ah.
Mrs. Olmstead: Perhaps you'd care to elaborate. BW: As a little kid in the street I used to hear older kids saying it. It's one of the earliest memories of my life. Older kids playing in the street at night. I'd be on the stoop or watching from a window. Too little to play with the older kids. Summer nights on the street in New York. Very early memory. These kids chanting to each other. Pee-pee-maw-maw. I don't think anybody knew what it meant or where it came from. Probably twelfth century England or the Vikings or the Moors126. These kids chanting it on the street. Pee-pee-maw-maw. Pee-pee-maw-maw. Chants like that can be traced to the dawn of civilization. Like games kids play can be traced a thousand years back to kids in India. Same with incantations. It's an interesting subject. You should schedule it.
Mr. Fielder: For my closing remarks, which I promise you will be kept as brief as humanly possible, given the pronounced oratorical127 bias128 of your speaker and chairman, I'd like simply to say that this has been a most dynamic round table, surely for me a most instructive one as well, as it was I believe for all of us gathered here, although each no doubt has his or her own idea of levels of merit, remembering our own Turner Bakey and his oft-quoted rejoinder to Ed-dings' paraphrase129 of Larue during the Arts-Leadership Committee's brunch130 on genocide. At any rate, thanks one and all. And now for a dip in the pool.
?
Three tracks from
diamond stylus
Recorded on Anspar Records & Tapes
International copyright secured
Cold War Lover
I worked her body with a touch
Learned from the hand of a bund old man
Living in a one-room duplex
In Nashville's Chinatown
It was love truest love
Under gun
One by one
She was the butch of New Orleans
I was her sometime beau
In those murderbeds of pimps and tricks
We took what was and left the rest
And mailed the short hairs east to west
Oh funky city Funky city oh
We loved each other with a heat
Learned from the tongue of a strung-out tout132
Squatting133 in a two-room toilet
In Tulsa's Upper Crust
It was love animal love
Under lock
Rock by rock
She was the butch of New Orleans
I was her sometime beau
In those murderbeds of queens and marks
Sultry afternoons
We said a prayer and took a hit
And went to church to nod a bit
Oh funky city
Funky city oh
She washed my body with a grace
Learned from the rub of a burnt-out case
Locked in a padded tub
In the Memphis Steamless Baths
It was love animal love
Under key
Three by three
She was the butch of New Orleans
I was her sometime beau
In those murderbeds of cons6 and pros134
All those summer days
We reached the end and bent135 the wick
And placed an ad for stamps to lick
Oh funky city
Funky city oh
We broke each other with a skill
Learned from the mind of a kindly136 dike137
In Harlem's Lonely Heart
It was love truest love
Cannibal war
More and more
She was the butch of New Orleans
I was her sometime beau
In those murderbeds of men and wives
Final quickest trip
She took a gun, a thirty-one
Put her tongue to the bluesteel tip
Oh funky cities
Mobile's paper mills
I swim in the bay
And get laid by day
And cry for my love all the night
Protestant Work Ethic139 Blues
Rising up in the morning
Looking down at yourself in bed
Oh rising up in the morning
Seeing your pale old body matter-of-factually dead
Oh blue
Never too white to sing the blues
Getting yourself together
Pulling day and night apart
Oh getting yourself together
Staring hard at your laminated astrological chart
Oh blue
Never too white to sing the blues
Sitting up in your plastic chair
Swallowing down some frozen toast
Oh catching140 that old broken window train
Take you to the place
The place
The place
Take you to the place that you hate the most
Oh yeah
Protestant work ethic blues
You got those white collar blues
Dropping down behind your desk
Crumpled141 in a puddly142 heap
Oh dropping down behind your desk
Waiting for the strength to take that existential leap
Oh blue
Never too white to sing the blues
Falling off to sleep and weep
In your three-poster bed
Oh falling off to deep dark sleep
You find yourself wearing a mask over your original head
Oh blue
Never too white to sing the blues
Protestant work ethic blues
Tough to shake those blues
Diamond Stylus
Sounds I see
Breaking through the hard light
Razor notes
Close to someone's throat
Re-ject
Is the mark along the arm
Long-play
Is the enemy
Songs I touch
Wheeling through the soft night
Tracking force
Is the way I die
It scratched out lines on my face
Test pressing time
It pained me so it pained me so
Drying out the vinyl
Sound is hard to child-bear
Skin inked black
Turning into burning thing
Circling into wordtime
Words I taste
Dripping through the knife's bite
Needle tracks
Marking up the snow
Re-volve
Is the time I have to live
Ma-trix
Is the mother-cut
Notes I play
Twinkling through the bird's flight
Tracking force
Is the way I die
They give me five hundred hours
One thousand sides
Numbering down the broken sounds
Scratching out a life
Sound is hard to child-bear
Skin inked black
Turning into burning thing
Circling into wordtime
Sounds I see
Breaking through the hard light
Razor notes
Close to someone's throat
Re-ject
Is the mark along the arm
Long-play
Is the enemy
"Cold War Lover"
Words-and-music Bucky Wunderlick
Copyright ? 1969 Teepee Music
All rights administered Transparanoia Inc.
"Protestant Work Ethic Blues"
Words-and-music Wunderlick-Azarian
Copyright ? 1970 Teepee Music
All rights administered Transparanoia Inc.
"Diamond Stylus"
Words-and-music Bucky Wunderlick
Copyright ? 1970 Teepee Music
All rights administered Transparanoia Inc.
Complete transcript143 of interview conducted by Steven Grey, editor-in-chief of Ibex, a Journal of Rock Art.
grey: Hey, man, glad you could make it over. Just like to start off the proceedings144 by asking a couple or three questions about the mountain tapes. Are you figuring to just sit on this material or is there a release date for this material or what? It's been a long time between releases and people are starting to wonder about that and in a business like our business you hear all kinds of things and I wanted to start off by asking straight out . . . wunderlick: (garbled)
grey: Could you try to aim your words right at the thing there? Where you going? Hey, man, where you going?
wunderlick: (garbled)
grey: Hey, man. Aw, hey. Aw, come on back, man. Aw, no. Aw, hey. We just got . . . we just . . . aw, man, no.
Feature story, reprinted in its entirety, from Celebrity145 Teen, volume 19, number 8, copyright ? 1971 by Star System Inc., all rights reserved, reprinted by permission.
rock stah reveals sweater fetish!!!
by Carmela Bevilacqua
After I'd interviewed hard-to-interview Bucky Wunderlick in his spectacular mountain retreat overlooking a shimmering146 lake in the rugged147, scenic148 Adirondacks, I came away feeling just a mite149 dazed by his gentleness and quiet charm. After all, the supercharged world of rock 'n' roll isn't my usual beat, in addition to which everybody knows how difficult and temperamental Bucky is supposed to be, so imagine how delightfully150 surprised I was by his feather-soft nature. In fact it was a day full of surprises, including a strange and bizarre visit from an unexpected guest.
But to get back to the beginning, maybe "interview" is the wrong word. Bucky didn't actually answer any of my questions. Formal answers, no. But talk to me he certainly did! Nodding his head slowly at my queries151 about his personal and professional life, Bucky chatted slowly and with a kind of sleepy charm about his dreams and his fears, about music and love and poetry, about people, oceans, streets and trees. Such was the hypnotic quality of his voice that at times it was difficult to catch what he was saying. Sometimes his voice would drop away to a whisper and other times he just seemed to ramble152 on, stringing words together in an aimless pattern. As Bucky talked, his lady of the hour drifted in and out, occasionally joining the conversation. Since you're probably dying to know, I won't waste any time telling you that she's slim and dusty-blond, and she goes by the name of Mazola June. ("They named me after the corn oil," she said in a lil ole drawl of a voice.) After she drifted off thataway, I asked Bucky to fill in the details on this female friend of marriageable age.
"We're running death sprints," he said mysteriously, and although I tried to prod153 him on the subject of marriage in the near future and the possibility of children and a life far removed from the tawdry glitter, he never returned to the subject of his pretty (and private) companion.
It was about this time that one of Bucky's ever-present aides, flunkies or what-have-you came slouching in to report that "some creep" had breached154 security and was hanging around in the hall outside, hoping to be granted an audience with the star himself. Bucky replied with a shrug155 and the intruder was ushered156 in. He was a smallish, pale man and he looked directly into Bucky's eyes, spoke four sentences and then left without waiting for a reply.
"What you have to teach is greater than our capacity to learn. You must stop so we can understand what you've been doing. I've come a thousand miles to see you. Now begins the long wait until you come to me."
Later, Bucky and I watched the sun sink into the lake in a riotous157 blaze of color. I asked him about his obviously undeserved reputation for controversy158 and mayhem, and when he made no reply other than a clown's sad smile, I wondered aloud how difficult it must be for him to occupy the stormy heights of his profession, how hard to endure the constant stress of being number one in a business where the roadside is strewn with casualties.
"Wear sweaters," Bucky said softly in the fading glow of twilight159, sitting just a yard away from me on the spacious160 patio54 behind the house in the gathering161 chill. "Sweaters absorb the major impact. I wear three and sometimes four sweaters everywhere I go, weather permitting. Not on stage. I'm not talking about on stage. On stage you've got to be naked at the moment of impact. That's the moment of ultimate truth and ultimate falsehood, and the only way to go is go naked. Off stage, I wear sweaters. One on top of the other. All kinds. Three and four and sometimes five sweaters."
Mazola June came out then, wrapped in the longest scarf I've ever seen in my life, and before too long they'd both nodded off to dreamy sleep, right there in front of me, a pair of babes in the northern wood.
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delirious
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| adj.不省人事的，神智昏迷的 | |
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ward
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| n.守卫，监护，病房，行政区，由监护人或法院保护的人（尤指儿童）；vt.守护，躲开 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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literally
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| adv.照字面意义，逐字地；确实 | |
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consecutive
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| adj.连续的，联贯的，始终一贯的 | |
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cons
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| n.欺骗，骗局( con的名词复数 )v.诈骗，哄骗( con的第三人称单数 ) | |
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surmise
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| v./n.猜想，推测 | |
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ass
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| n.驴；傻瓜，蠢笨的人 | |
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wispy
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| adj.模糊的；纤细的 | |
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funky
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| adj.畏缩的，怯懦的，霉臭的；adj.新式的，时髦的 | |
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dealing
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| n.经商方法，待人态度 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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paradox
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| n.似乎矛盾却正确的说法；自相矛盾的人(物) | |
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14
implicit
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| a.暗示的，含蓄的，不明晰的，绝对的 | |
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15
reigned
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| vi.当政，统治（reign的过去式形式） | |
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stink
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| vi.发出恶臭；糟透，招人厌恶；n.恶臭 | |
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swirled
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| v.旋转，打旋( swirl的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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18
isolation
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| n.隔离，孤立，分解，分离 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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collapse
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| vi.累倒；昏倒；倒塌；塌陷 | |
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extremities
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| n.端点( extremity的名词复数 )；尽头；手和足；极窘迫的境地 | |
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22
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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23
dealer
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| n.商人，贩子 | |
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24
lyrics
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| n.歌词 | |
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25
lyric
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| n.抒情诗，歌词；adj.抒情的 | |
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26
rogue
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| n.流氓；v.游手好闲 | |
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27
lasting
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| adj.永久的，永恒的；vbl.持续，维持 | |
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28
evade
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| vt.逃避，回避；避开，躲避 | |
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29
crumble
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| vi.碎裂，崩溃；vt.弄碎，摧毁 | |
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30
insanity
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| n.疯狂，精神错乱；极端的愚蠢，荒唐 | |
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31
grunting
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| 咕哝的，呼噜的 | |
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32
corrupted
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| （使）败坏( corrupt的过去式和过去分词 )； （使）腐化； 引起（计算机文件等的）错误； 破坏 | |
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33
pigments
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| n.（粉状）颜料( pigment的名词复数 )；天然色素 | |
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34
tenor
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| n.男高音（歌手），次中音（乐器），要旨，大意 | |
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35
infiltrated
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| adj.[医]浸润的v.（使）渗透，（指思想）渗入人的心中( infiltrate的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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36
lone
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| adj.孤寂的，单独的；唯一的 | |
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37
standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fluorescent
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| adj.荧光的，发出荧光的 | |
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39
ascendancy
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| n.统治权，支配力量 | |
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40
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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41
unripe
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| adj.未成熟的；n.未成熟 | |
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42
opium
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| n.鸦片；adj.鸦片的 | |
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43
surgically
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| adv. 外科手术上, 外科手术一般地 | |
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44
rehearsal
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| n.排练，排演；练习 | |
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45
doorway
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| n.门口，(喻)入门；门路，途径 | |
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46
Mediterranean
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| adj.地中海的；地中海沿岸的 | |
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47
redeeming
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| 补偿的，弥补的 | |
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48
glossy
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| adj.平滑的；有光泽的 | |
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49
sprawl
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| vi.躺卧，扩张，蔓延；vt.使蔓延；n.躺卧，蔓延 | |
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50
weird
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| adj.古怪的，离奇的；怪诞的，神秘而可怕的 | |
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51
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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52
components
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| （机器、设备等的）构成要素，零件，成分； 成分( component的名词复数 )； [物理化学]组分； [数学]分量； （混合物的）组成部分 | |
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53
inclination
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| n.倾斜；点头；弯腰；斜坡；倾度；倾向；爱好 | |
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54
patio
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| n.庭院，平台 | |
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55
costly
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| adj.昂贵的，价值高的，豪华的 | |
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56
winding
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| n.绕，缠，绕组，线圈 | |
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57
lodged
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| v.存放( lodge的过去式和过去分词 )；暂住；埋入；（权利、权威等）归属 | |
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58
credence
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| n.信用，祭器台，供桌，凭证 | |
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59
dread
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| vt.担忧，忧虑；惧怕，不敢；n.担忧，畏惧 | |
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60
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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61
penetrate
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| v.透(渗)入；刺入，刺穿；洞察，了解 | |
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62
vapor
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| n.蒸汽，雾气 | |
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63
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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64
nostrils
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| 鼻孔( nostril的名词复数 ) | |
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65
cataract
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| n.大瀑布，奔流，洪水，白内障 | |
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66
huddled
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| 挤在一起（huddle的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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67
sectors
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| n.部门( sector的名词复数 )；领域；防御地区；扇形 | |
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halfway
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| adj.中途的，不彻底的，部分的；adv.半路地，在中途，在半途 | |
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distending
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| v.（使）膨胀，肿胀( distend的现在分词 ) | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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71
humane
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| adj.人道的，富有同情心的 | |
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72
dedicated
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| adj.一心一意的；献身的；热诚的 | |
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compassionate
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| adj.有同情心的，表示同情的 | |
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74
nun
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| n.修女，尼姑 | |
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veneration
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| n.尊敬，崇拜 | |
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lining
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| n.衬里，衬料 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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78
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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kit
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| n.用具包，成套工具；随身携带物 | |
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80
stewardess
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| n.空中小姐，女乘务员 | |
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81
eyewitnesses
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| 目击者( eyewitness的名词复数 ) | |
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82
purportedly
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| adv.据称 | |
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83
lighter
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| n.打火机，点火器；驳船；v.用驳船运送；light的比较级 | |
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84
smother
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| vt./vi.使窒息；抑制；闷死；n.浓烟；窒息 | |
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85
simultaneously
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| adv.同时发生地，同时进行地 | |
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86
deplore
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| vt.哀叹，对...深感遗憾 | |
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87
penchant
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| n.爱好，嗜好；（强烈的）倾向 | |
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altercation
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| n.争吵，争论 | |
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89
gash
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| v.深切，划开；n.(深长的)切(伤)口；裂缝 | |
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jersey
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| n.运动衫 | |
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trademark
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| n.商标；特征；vt.注册的…商标 | |
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pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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flute
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| n.长笛；v.吹笛 | |
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slant
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| v.倾斜，倾向性地编写或报道；n.斜面，倾向 | |
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baton
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| n.乐队用指挥杖 | |
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96
blues
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| n.抑郁，沮丧；布鲁斯音乐 | |
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pajamas
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| n.睡衣裤 | |
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hip
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| n.臀部，髋；屋脊 | |
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avenger
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| n. 复仇者 | |
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100
tricky
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| adj.狡猾的，奸诈的；(工作等)棘手的，微妙的 | |
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101
velvet
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| n.丝绒，天鹅绒；adj.丝绒制的，柔软的 | |
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102
excerpts
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| n.摘录，摘要( excerpt的名词复数 )；节选（音乐，电影）片段 | |
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jointly
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| ad.联合地，共同地 | |
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104
symposium
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| n.讨论会，专题报告会；专题论文集 | |
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vista
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| n.远景，深景，展望，回想 | |
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106
writs
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| n.书面命令，令状( writ的名词复数 ) | |
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107
vernacular
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| adj.地方的，用地方语写成的；n.白话；行话；本国语；动植物的俗名 | |
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108
mash
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| n.麦芽浆，糊状物，土豆泥；v.把…捣成糊状，挑逗，调情 | |
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109
skulls
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| 颅骨( skull的名词复数 )； 脑袋； 脑子； 脑瓜 | |
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watts
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| （电力计量单位）瓦，瓦特( watt的名词复数 ) | |
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111
hideous
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| adj.丑陋的，可憎的，可怕的，恐怖的 | |
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112
screeching
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| v.发出尖叫声( screech的现在分词 )；发出粗而刺耳的声音；高叫 | |
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113
precisely
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| adv.恰好，正好，精确地，细致地 | |
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114
decibels
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| n.分贝( decibel的名词复数 ) | |
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115
ballads
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| 民歌，民谣，特别指叙述故事的歌( ballad的名词复数 )； 讴 | |
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116
writhing
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| （因极度痛苦而）扭动或翻滚( writhe的现在分词 ) | |
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117
collapsing
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| 压扁[平]，毁坏，断裂 | |
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118
tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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119
melancholy
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| n.忧郁，愁思；adj.令人感伤（沮丧）的，忧郁的 | |
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120
inertness
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| n.不活泼，没有生气；惰性；惯量 | |
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121
inert
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| adj.无活动能力的，惰性的；迟钝的 | |
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122
flatten
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| v.把．．．弄平，使倒伏；使(漆等)失去光泽 | |
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123
sweeping
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| adj.范围广大的，一扫无遗的 | |
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124
syllables
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| n.音节( syllable的名词复数 ) | |
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125
bumper
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| n.(汽车上的)保险杠；adj.特大的，丰盛的 | |
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126
moors
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| v.停泊，系泊（船只）( moor的第三人称单数 ) | |
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127
oratorical
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| adj.演说的，雄辩的 | |
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128
bias
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| n.偏见，偏心，偏袒；vt.使有偏见 | |
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129
paraphrase
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| vt.将…释义，改写；n.释义，意义 | |
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130
brunch
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| n.早午餐 | |
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131
ranting
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| v.夸夸其谈( rant的现在分词 )；大叫大嚷地以…说教；气愤地)大叫大嚷；不停地大声抱怨 | |
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132
tout
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| v.推销，招徕；兜售；吹捧，劝诱 | |
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133
squatting
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| v.像动物一样蹲下( squat的现在分词 )；非法擅自占用（土地或房屋）；为获得其所有权；而占用某片公共用地。 | |
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134
pros
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| abbr.prosecuting 起诉；prosecutor 起诉人；professionals 自由职业者；proscenium （舞台）前部n.赞成的意见( pro的名词复数 )；赞成的理由；抵偿物；交换物 | |
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135
bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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137
dike
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| n.堤，沟；v.开沟排水 | |
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138
shaft
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| n.(工具的)柄，杆状物 | |
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139
ethic
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| n.道德标准，行为准则 | |
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140
catching
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| adj.易传染的，有魅力的，迷人的，接住 | |
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141
crumpled
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| adj. 弯扭的, 变皱的 动词crumple的过去式和过去分词形式 | |
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142
puddly
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| adj.多泥水坑的 | |
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143
transcript
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| n.抄本，誊本，副本，肄业证书 | |
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144
proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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145
celebrity
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| n.名人，名流；著名，名声，名望 | |
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146
shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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147
rugged
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| adj.高低不平的，粗糙的，粗壮的，强健的 | |
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148
scenic
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| adj.自然景色的，景色优美的 | |
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149
mite
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| n.极小的东西；小铜币 | |
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150
delightfully
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| 大喜，欣然 | |
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151
queries
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| n.问题( query的名词复数 )；疑问；询问；问号v.质疑，对…表示疑问( query的第三人称单数 )；询问 | |
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152
ramble
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| v.漫步，漫谈，漫游；n.漫步，闲谈，蔓延 | |
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153
prod
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| vt.戳，刺；刺激，激励 | |
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154
breached
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| 攻破( breach的现在分词 )； 破坏，违反 | |
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155
shrug
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| v.耸肩(表示怀疑、冷漠、不知等) | |
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156
ushered
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| v.引，领，陪同( usher的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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157
riotous
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| adj.骚乱的；狂欢的 | |
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158
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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159
twilight
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| n.暮光，黄昏；暮年，晚期，衰落时期 | |
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160
spacious
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| adj.广阔的，宽敞的 | |
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161
gathering
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| n.集会，聚会，聚集 | |
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