Richard Harrison Miami writes….
Richard Harrison Memphis writes…
Richard Harrison Nashville writes…
Richard Harrison thefeeling.website writes…
I love the sinewy muscles and the wild styles. The band dresses like it is Mardi Gras every show. The singer man, Cole, wore a black and white leather striped vest and leather jacket and shirt, a strange stack of cloths on his back. Jared Swilley wore a popped collar leather jacket that made him look like Danny Zuko, from Grease, his hair slick too. Jeff Clarke wore a black shirt that looked like GOT.
The Jared from The Black Lips gave me his autograph, which made me feel great. They were milling about, watching The Country Westerns and Bloodshot Bill. I also saw how twice the bands’ eyes turned towards me and they pointed at me, singing my name: “Here comes Richie with his one-way ticket” and then during “Family Tree,” as well. This medley of musical genres is a pleasant listening experience. Country, garage, and r&b. What a Stupor-inducingly hypnotizingly lovely listening experience!
I even relapsed during the show, because I realized: if I am not happy and free doing sobriety, then it is time to relapse and pick up a white chip.
I told my friend before the show, I’m going to drink tonight and I am not going to drink tonight. I will feel trepidation with or without alcohol. I did not want to chat with strangers and either find they are unable to hear or understand me, they are boring, or they are hostile. There was a girl there who was beautiful, who I thought about talking to, but I felt so nervous that I just forewent speaking to the person I wanted to talk to.
Jeff Clarke sang like a full chorus of high school bad boys, through most of the songs.
This is a troubadour kind of band. It is better than poetry to hear them sing their poems while playing this upbeat music.
After the band left the stage, Cole jumped down into the crowd and hugged some people. There was so much love in the room last night. People came from miles around to see the band. We love the Black Lips. I had my pen and the postcard ready for autographs but I felt intrepid to say “Can I have your autograph?” thinking I would feel like a blank boring type rather than exposing Cole and Jared and everybody to the full benefits of my conversation.
I got entirely too drunk there. I drank my tequila, then my friend was just sitting on the couch like playing internet billiards. He was not talkative. As a solution, I bought him a drink. From there, I drank enough for two people. Lots of Pabsts and more Casamigos later, I smoked my vape to death and chainsmoked cigarettes. I think I started compulsively saying things that others were talking about in my vicinity. I became reactive.
The tequila conjured the memory of a latina with big boobs who wore a tight-fitting T-shirt that said amo Tequila on it, the object of my desire her delicate touch and kiss. My chances with her vanished like respect for an ex-girlfriend., as I became heavier and heavierly drunk. If it was refreshing to get on the sauce after a month of sobriety, I cooked a whole lobster pot of marinara sauce and consumed the whole thing it like it was gazpacho. I was drunk as a funk singer from Miami’s 70’s black music radio station. I might not even need to fill up the tank of my truck because I can probably spit enough gas to make it all the way down to Tierra Del Fuego.
I failed to ask for more of the band members’ autographs, after trying to I swam upstream through the traffic of an exiting man with long blonde hair and black clothing and somebody with glasses, fitting through the narrow hallway into the concert room of The Earl. So it was time for drunk munchies. The waitress who brought me and Kris some steak nachos. Kris was like very drunk and demanding, told me to buy him a hamburger to go with the enormous nachos we shared. He ate most of the nachos. Then he was talking bout let’s go to the strip club. He wanted more drinks. He ordered himself a beer. He pushed me to buy him a fucking cocktail at this ritzy dance club down the street. I was laughing my ass off, as I ran away from that horrible place where Kris thought he had a bankroll.
To my dismay, I must drive 9 hours this morning with the hangover from a horror movie, like I am being pumped full of pills and held captive by the nurse from Stephen King’s Misery.