Black Rebel Motorcycle Club ASK iAN * A SWIRLING DERVISH VISITS L.A.

Ask iAN

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it seems that no matter how much i plan a trip
or play it loose from the hip, not by the book but play it by ear...something always gets in this trip.

Just prior to my flight, i had gone to great lengths, to cut my hair, shave, shower and scrub my fracas into a clean well groomed gent and even that backfired.  I had actually over groomed and cleaned myself so fair that when my own Mother stood next to me, she told me that i stank.  Yes...that i stank.
My natural scent unlike other brutes, is one of denim, leather, tobacco, pilsner and raja roses...and now i reeked of a brand new xerox machine...and when my little dog came to me for a squeeze and a back scratchin'...she growled at me and pee peed on mah boot.  So now i am back to my old way, my old ethic, my authentic self, my BRMC don't shower on tour (just kidding) self and once again the phone is ringing off it's imaginary hook for me to endorse their products.

and other assorted high volume dirt merchant traders...oh and

What some people don't realize is that each state has it's own speed and i'm not speaking in drug tongue...but rather city people M.P.H.
and in the midwest, a sun up can last for Los Angeles, the sun goes up and the people charge out like race horses...and within a few hours, the sun has gone down and somebody has overdosed, somebody has sold a mansion, somebody has fucked the sweet leaf sour, while in the meantime back in the midwest...the sun is almost fully up and a donkey is still trying to remember if he is a donkey or an ass.

I catch a ride with my Pops to the airport...his driving isn't what it use to be and on the way out to the airport we encounter more than just a few near death experiences and i still have two planes to catch that may be commandeered by either drunken pilots on no sleep and diet pills or perhaps a militant group waving greasy black back pocket combs in a threatening manner while making demands that they want more ovalteen or the passengers will all be forced to have their hair combed into a duck's ass style...i yeah,  my Pops is thinking he is getting me to the airport Steve Mcqueen  style when in reality he is driving like a man with a cement block on his right foot glued to the petrol petal and at the same time doing shadow puppets with both hands in the day light with no walls.  I have already shat myself 7 ways to Sunday, had 2 panic attacks, my nerves locked tighter than a rusted chastity belt and i've clenched my teeth so hard that the nicoteen stains have busted off into dust leaving not only my skin as white as a ghost but my teeth as well.  Welcome to my new tweeker look.

I make my to Texas, it's on time and that the layover is only 3 minutes long...that's right...3 minutes.  I am at gate 53 B and my departing flight is at gate 900 F ( i think the F was short for Fucked) so i Make It.  I have lost 9 pounds in the process, 3 pounds from my brain sweating, 3 pounds from my flaccid cock and 3 pounds from my bubble arse...which make no mistake has just now only enhanced my tweeker pallor*  Yay for me!

During the flight to L.A. some bozo to my left is giving a blowjob to a hotdog he brought in a zip lock bag and the fellow to my right is reading a book on the history of disasters...and they won't take my cash for booze because now american currency is considered suspicious i just sit there...calm, cool, eyes bright and white, white knuckled, with a very white smile that might give off the impression that i am in fact the cheshire cat...if he was a fuckun' TWEEKER!

I get off the plane in L.A.  like a bat out of jail and hit the bar.  I meet an old couple from Jazz city, we share some niceties and a few bargain basement drinks at 13 dollars a pop...pabst...the beer of royalty and street goofs.  It's now 3:31 pm and i race for the exit...My man Robert Been is cool as ever and we take off out of there at 3:33.  No Doy!
Robert isn't fond of my pallor.

On the way to rehearsal he plays me some of the new album...I can't hear a thing.  First of all...just being in his company still makes me feel strange...makes me act odd...and say odd things...for instance he may ask me how my flight was...and i will answer in the only way that i can...i simply tell him that...I grew up with kittens and have always loved small cats.

We get to practice just behind Leah.  Have you ever seen her on a motorcycle?
We won't go there. 
We go inside and Mozart...i mean hard at work on yet another new and mad bloody good tune...i get some wolf huggin' and L & P ask me about my flight...Rob's eyes widen and i just say...Kittens?

Some bands say they work really hard and when you hear their new sounds like they simply just pressed the last one up in a different speed...instead of's a 78.  When BRMC work hard...i find it strangely similar to
boot camp on top of more
boot camp with parachute school thrown in for good measure
and some
boot camp with
pilot G-force training...sprinkle on a little gravity grave and some motorcycle ramp jumping...and it's almost close...
So i get this great idea that i should drink 4 monster energy drinks...for i am half  sub-wizard and half-sub-human dork.
The room is dark with strange lights...I am sugared up like grandma Moses on 1970s cocaine.  I swear i was trying to play it cool....yet i only end up as something that looks like one flew over the wonka nest.  When rehearsal comes to a screaming halt...i pretty much feel like a wounded WW II soldier with severe P.T.S.D. 
So Rob, Leah and some sexy fellow named Ben and I head to the Mark Lanegan show and Rob wants now...I don't even know what pizza IS any longer.
I need a beer to counter act this major energy drink hallucination...find one and then we all go inside...Josh Homme head Queen is shaking his ass on the dance floor super bad ass style to the sounds of Lanegan's blues funeral.  All the beautiful BRMC kids are there and so is an x flame that makes my heart sorrowful...and it is one big blur of emotions...the full range....and then Lanegan and Been and i and god knows what jibberish i am frothing forth...and then the show is over and that is when things got super hazy and strange.

I got in an argument with a taxi driver and then i am in a fleabag motel on Sunset Blvd.
It's check out time and i walk for miles...the saddest homeless people i ever saw...crying on the sidewalks, a big black mess and some tourist on the bus flash me the metal devil horns...i flash the devil sign back and cry some more as i walk past multi million dollar religious complex after complex and a huge hospital where the nurses and doctors are all texting as none of them hand out a bottle to the dying man on the ground to my right...

sick fucking race of people we are...

I make it to the Frolic room on Hollywood Blvd.  and inside they are playing music that makes my asshole pucker and makes me want to gag on a spoon...i put in some Lanegan and some BRMC...and have a imaginary blue birds wing out from the walls and circle my skull, a halo of harmony...i talk to some guy about how naked i feel without a pocket knife in my back pocket, so he just gives me one.
My friend Jess comes to my rescue as does Robert and Ben...we leave the frolic (fitting name for me) and meet at the Ryan Gossling Diner.  He isn't there...damn it Janet! 
Robert eats something that looks like one of my x girlfriend's sugar walls and Ben mixes his italian with his mexican and i have a cold one..or 3...Then it's a mad rush to practice...with G-forces, P.T.S.D. , parachute jumping, hand to hand combat, showers of stars, alligators spinning in black waters...and i wake up on the floor.
Really...I wake up on the floor...and there is a cigarette break and it's back into the fucking fray...
Now it gets super hazy.
Robert and I go to a Quik Mart and next to us a 250 pound skin head with a tattooed face pulls in.  Next to him the cops pull up.
BRMC IS a danger magnet.
The skinhead mouths the words (what...the...fuck!)
I go inside to keep my head collateral damage free and go hide behind Robert's shadow...
the cops leave and the skinhead comes in ranting about how he has just spent the last two nights dealing with all those motherfucking cops in this city...and i think i shook his hand and said that i thought he was purty kool...but don't hold me to that...
Robert drops me off at some club where SPINDRIFT is playing...
I ask this stranger if i can take his photo...and then it dawns on me that this is Guy Blakeslee of the beautifique ENTRANCE...i am smitten with him right away and he gives me directions to the nearest fleabag motel...

Inside a very tiny man flips me the bird
I see an old friend
SPINDRIFT do what they do best...swirl you the fuck out...
I go outside and sit in the back of a very nice Jaguar...leather seats...and i get offered crystal meth...
I stick with the beer but offer plenty of thanks...and i make a few new friends...
Sasha says there is an after hours party...
I must've spoken with 60 different people there...and the haze is burning bright purple...
Some black crowes looking hippy overdoses and some goth kook is requesting his body be thrown in a ditch or put in a taxi or taken to spain to be sold to the highest cover band bidder...there are transvestite oompa loompas everywhere sellin' candy powder that makes your dick shrink like a shrunken whatever time in the morning we all head back to Sasha's crib and try to figure out who this C.I.A. fellow is...and the next morning...the flat looks like the end of western civilization part one.  There is a bird squawking somewhere.
I am playing blues funeral non stop on a computer
I am at the post office with a very smart artist
We go to a victorian house that seems decorated by Spock, David Lynch, The Partridge Family Vampires and yeah...I think i forgot that i went with Spindrift to a birthday party...
There are bands playing that are super wonderful

I think i forgot the night we went to the karaoke bar and heard Whitney Houston had died...and i liked that no one joked about it...that we knew she was just a girl who wanted to sing like a bird that was in a shitty industry that was now in a box...and instead of trashing it...Sasha sang and my eyes were tears of happiness...that bar sang her life...a wonderful assortment of characters...all with hearts good as gold....and wild for life...oh yeah...

back at the house of david lynch design...there was an outdoor movie screen...a splendid array of artist that were talented and kind...there was a game show in real life...the only thing missing was my mind....and after it was all sang and done...we wound up at some nasty outdoor place you eat when your tastebuds dont give a fuck any longer...i bought some black cigarettes...there was more talk about how this country needs to grow thumbs and we became closer to the man from the C.I.A.  -  i THINK he's just a door to door cologne salesman that got lost...

I don't know what i am forgetting...I can't believe i remember that much...especially without a journal...

I have withheld many names...due to the fact...that they are highly sexy people that need their privacy to do the great works that they know who you are and i thank you from the bottom of my heart for your selflessness, generosity, hospitality and kindness towards me...i will always be in your debt...

i forgot that i danced with James from Spindrift...and he was literally like t-rex...banging a gong.

At the airport i slammed the rest of a very large can of beer and put it in my bag and forgot to throw it away...i lugged it onto the screening belt and when i used the restroom on the way towards my flight...i went in my bag and found much for the TSA.

Another battle won in my BRMC boots ( Thank You R.L.B.)
The new album will be out when it is finished and only then...more than well worth the wait.

Big Chief Thanx to the City of Lost Angels and all you mad beautiful sorts that make it shine like it does...
the raja rose
the jack legged sufi
the swirling dervish
iAN reporting here @BRMC headquarters...erm...bootcamp/ G force training facility ***333

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