I’d like to share with you, dear reader, an experience I had recently. For the purposes of this story, I’m going to say that it’s true but you can treat it like the dreamy introduction to Dante’s Inferno or the beginning of a Twilight Zone episode, if that works better for you. I found myself, through a means and portal unknown, walking through the entrance of a windowless, basement-level hotel bar. As the doors let me in, I was accompanied by a few inches of thick red liquid I’d swear was blood that squelched around my feet as I approached the first empty table. Around me were a great many people and blaring TVs, all full of talking heads discussing the potential for a war with Iraq, possibly as soon as late winter or early spring of 2003. As I settled into my seat, I began to recognize some familiar faces at the tables visible in the near dark of the room. No one seemed to take any notice of me. On reflection, I don’t think they could have seen me if I’d wanted them to.
At the table nearest mine were three dead strangers, powerful people in the U.S. 20 years ago. There was a two-time Republican secretary of defense sitting next to a former top brass in the Army, a Republican secretary of state, who was holding a vial with the rotting carapace of a dried yellow beetle, its wet husk the shape of a melting human skull. They were laughing, with flames reflecting in the lenses of their glasses hiding the shapes of their eyes. No partisan group here, though, as a recently deceased federal representative of mine was laughing along with the men, louder and louder, as her hair sunk into the back of her head like an auburn landslide. It must have been a very good joke.
There were more than the dead here, though. I saw the patrons of a dinner party I had attended in New York City as a young man, and heard my then-girlfriend’s boorish brother-in-law laugh and say, “Who cares? We’ll be playing golf in Iraq in 10 years!” I wanted to tell him it would be Saudi Arabia in more like 20, but I found that, as I stood up and walked past the bar toward the party, I gave off no reflection in the liquor shelf mirrors. My presence had only been marked by the sound of my feet in the wet pool of the floor. It seemed to be getting deeper, too, and with that sensation came a sick feeling that I was in the wrong place. As I turned to run out, going mud-slow in that wet mire, the doors opened and a great crew of at least two dozen people rode a mid-calf tsunami of red mess into the room, laughing and screaming in a lather of ecstasy. I leapt at the door but slipped and went down into the thick crimson tide, surrounded now by shrieks, impossible to discern as from pleasure or otherwise. Down until …. I woke up in my room, gasping and wet with sweat. It was just a cold night sweat, although as I stepped out of my bed in the early dawn light, it looked darker, and thicker. Many showers later, during the quiet parts of the clock, I still feel something on me, dark red and wet. That’s just my imagination though, right?
Have a nice week.
Thursday
Singer, guitarist, and songwriter Jeff Landen, of local fame via his group the Bayou Swamis (howdy to bandmate Kate and thanks for the lovely letter), is playing a free solo gig tonight at the Logger Bar at 7 p.m. Expect lots of thoughtful covers, good energy and some fine singing chops.
Friday
Tengger is a traveling family band with roots in Japan and South Korea. The name comes from the Mongolian language, meaning “unlimited expanse of sky.” Which fits the droning and gorgeous sound castles built by this family of three, including the young son Raai. The group will be making a roost at the Miniplex tonight, where Ramble Records labelmate Die Geister Beschwören will join solo sonic sculptor New Saturday Mourning Light Through a Window (aka, Chini, aka Clamato Slim). This is a must-hear for anyone interested in drone, ambient and spiritual universe music. At 8 p.m. ($15, $10 advance).
Saturday
Barn Fire is Humboldt’s finest honkytonk outlaw country band bar none. The group only comes out of the woods for a few sets a year, so it’s important for any true country fan to roll through and stomp around a bit. This month we’re treated to two gigs, with the Logger Bar’s Halloween show coming up (more on that next week). For tonight, the place is Humbrews, the time is 8 p.m. and the cost is a mere $10. Mule Ranch opens.
Sunday
Shutups are a stony and explosive pop rock band on the Kill Rock Stars label. Last year’s album I can’t eat nearly as much as I want to vomit is a certified banger. Tonight the group comes to the Outer Space to share the space with locals Makeshift Kink (whose record, Ambulance Eternal I reviewed earlier this year) and Lxs Perdidxs, whose members are in-house talent at this cozy venue. The all-ages, sober show begins at 7 p.m., there is a $5-$20 sliding scale, although “no one turned away from lack of funds,” aka NOTAFLOF, is the policy here.
Monday
Relax, it’s just another Metal Monday at Savage Henry Comedy Club. Tonight’s talent will be NYC D-Beat hardcore band Overdose and local slayers Psyop Victim, Death Doula and Sarcophilus Satanicus, whose members are trying their level best to craft the heaviest sound in the North 707. Kick-off is, as usual, at 7 p.m., $5-$10 sliding scale gets you inside and an I.D. is required to drink at this all-ages show. Horns up.
Tuesday
Speaking of Savage Henry Comedy Club, tonight’s show at 9 p.m., hosted by the venerable Chris Durant, is an exercise in self-incriminating storytelling. The Deposition is all about comedians and other creatives telling true and (potentially) troubling tales from their own portfolio of (mis)adventures. The spectating audience serves as the public arbiter of opinion, as is often the case in life. Try it out for $5.
Wednesday
When you hear of an Ennio Morricone score accompanying a wide-brimmed hat wearing, Scotch whisky-guzzling anti-hero, you probably don’t immediately think of the frozen north and a cosmic horror beyond reckoning. That’s OK because I sure do. John Carpenter’s 1982 masterpiece The Thing is possibly the greatest practical-effects sci-fi horror flick ever made. If you don’t yet know, come over to the Arcata Theatre Lounge after 6 p.m. and before 7:30 p.m., drop down $5 (or $9 if you want to leave with a poster) and see what I mean. This one gets under your skin.
Collin Yeo (he/him) sleeps in Arcata but dreams somewhere else.
This article appears in Ghosts on the Tracks.