honest thing. Yet when I was in another mind, the pride I felt was erased by my shame over our songs, the mad sadness I knew no other way of expressing—it made me protective of our records, one hundred of which were pressed on limited-edition orange vinyl.
“If we sit on them,” I said, holding a deformed twelve-inch to the sunlight. “Maybe then.”
The parking lot was crabgrass and cracked asphalt, on the outskirts of something.
“Warden used the cheap stuff,” Repa said. “Horseshit vinyl.”
“What did you expect?” said Ethan.
Mike Warden was an irascible character with a knack for flying his ambitions to the edge of triumph, only to giggle when they went ablaze shortly thereafter. Weeks earlier, he’d released our album on his label, Conquer the World Records,established 1992. Though he’d barely turned twenty-five, Warden’s punk fanaticism and jackass business practices were already scene legend, made notorious by bands and fanzines who’d accused him of death threats, of fudging numbers and ordering unauthorized reprints. A Florida hardcore act had recorded a twelve-inch bearing the title
Warden Can Suck It
. He was dimpled and curly haired, a media mogul, Detroit-style. His infamy trailed us everywhere. Promoters refused to book us due to our CTW affiliation, but Warden’s earnest insanity endeared him to me from the start. He was genuinely deranged and made no attempt to hide it—a blunt honesty I longed to be near. Ethan called him Conquer the Colgate because he’d once caught Warden masturbating with toothpaste inside an RV full of touring musicians.
“Total piss.” Repa grunted.
He had no respect for Warden, any of this.
One by one he smacked the warped LPs against the Houston blacktop. Even in the Southern heat Repa wore black denim and motorcycle boots. Ethan sat on the Orgasmatron’s fender, using a Sharpie to black out the CTW logo on the salvaged albums. I set one aside for myself, the most warped I could find.
“Think anyone shows up tonight?” I said.
“Hell no,” Repa said, driving home a point: Warden had booked this gig.
I’d had a private desire to see the CTW logo on a record I’d made, knowing Warden would distribute them to lands we’d never reach on our own. He talked about Europe, saying, “We’ve gotta get you overseas. The Germans will love it.” So what if the vinyl melted? There was still Germany, and a thousand more promises Warden had made—one being that Houston would be a big gig, a scene awaiting our arrival.
“Anything Warden,” Ethan said. “I told you it’s a mistake.”
“Get Colgate on the horn,” Repa said. “Tell him we want a hotel tonight.”
The deal we’d struck with Warden was that we’d be paid in albums, ten percent of each pressing. CDs, too, but who cared? Before leaving town, I’d gone to fetch our copies from his lair, where he’d answered the door cloaked in a blanket and holding a flashlight. He lived in Detroit’s bowels, in a house that had once been a hub for subcultural activity. A family of ferrets had also resided there for a time, along with several vegan anarchists, one of whom gave free tattoos in the attic. All but Warden had since deserted, but not without first smashing the front windows and looting the joint.
“You better sell a lot of records,” Warden said, by way of inviting me inside.
Having maxed his credit paying for our albums, he hadn’t been able to cover the bills. His electricity had been disconnected. I’d followed him to the kitchen, led by the beam of his flashlight. There were empty pizza boxes and a mangled cage where the ferrets had slept. A warm stench radiated from decomposing fruit on the countertop. Warden moved at the stove to light a burner with a match, pressing his face near the flame. “At least there’s still gas,” he said.
“Christ, man.” I’d yanked up my T-shirt to mask my nostrils. “That smell.”
He turned toward his refrigerator. “Look at this,”
“If we sit on them,” I said, holding a deformed twelve-inch to the sunlight. “Maybe then.”
The parking lot was crabgrass and cracked asphalt, on the outskirts of something.
“Warden used the cheap stuff,” Repa said. “Horseshit vinyl.”
“What did you expect?” said Ethan.
Mike Warden was an irascible character with a knack for flying his ambitions to the edge of triumph, only to giggle when they went ablaze shortly thereafter. Weeks earlier, he’d released our album on his label, Conquer the World Records,established 1992. Though he’d barely turned twenty-five, Warden’s punk fanaticism and jackass business practices were already scene legend, made notorious by bands and fanzines who’d accused him of death threats, of fudging numbers and ordering unauthorized reprints. A Florida hardcore act had recorded a twelve-inch bearing the title
Warden Can Suck It
. He was dimpled and curly haired, a media mogul, Detroit-style. His infamy trailed us everywhere. Promoters refused to book us due to our CTW affiliation, but Warden’s earnest insanity endeared him to me from the start. He was genuinely deranged and made no attempt to hide it—a blunt honesty I longed to be near. Ethan called him Conquer the Colgate because he’d once caught Warden masturbating with toothpaste inside an RV full of touring musicians.
“Total piss.” Repa grunted.
He had no respect for Warden, any of this.
One by one he smacked the warped LPs against the Houston blacktop. Even in the Southern heat Repa wore black denim and motorcycle boots. Ethan sat on the Orgasmatron’s fender, using a Sharpie to black out the CTW logo on the salvaged albums. I set one aside for myself, the most warped I could find.
“Think anyone shows up tonight?” I said.
“Hell no,” Repa said, driving home a point: Warden had booked this gig.
I’d had a private desire to see the CTW logo on a record I’d made, knowing Warden would distribute them to lands we’d never reach on our own. He talked about Europe, saying, “We’ve gotta get you overseas. The Germans will love it.” So what if the vinyl melted? There was still Germany, and a thousand more promises Warden had made—one being that Houston would be a big gig, a scene awaiting our arrival.
“Anything Warden,” Ethan said. “I told you it’s a mistake.”
“Get Colgate on the horn,” Repa said. “Tell him we want a hotel tonight.”
The deal we’d struck with Warden was that we’d be paid in albums, ten percent of each pressing. CDs, too, but who cared? Before leaving town, I’d gone to fetch our copies from his lair, where he’d answered the door cloaked in a blanket and holding a flashlight. He lived in Detroit’s bowels, in a house that had once been a hub for subcultural activity. A family of ferrets had also resided there for a time, along with several vegan anarchists, one of whom gave free tattoos in the attic. All but Warden had since deserted, but not without first smashing the front windows and looting the joint.
“You better sell a lot of records,” Warden said, by way of inviting me inside.
Having maxed his credit paying for our albums, he hadn’t been able to cover the bills. His electricity had been disconnected. I’d followed him to the kitchen, led by the beam of his flashlight. There were empty pizza boxes and a mangled cage where the ferrets had slept. A warm stench radiated from decomposing fruit on the countertop. Warden moved at the stove to light a burner with a match, pressing his face near the flame. “At least there’s still gas,” he said.
“Christ, man.” I’d yanked up my T-shirt to mask my nostrils. “That smell.”
He turned toward his refrigerator. “Look at this,”
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