Timeline:
Desert Fish. Albuquerque, NM. 8/23/12.
Waylaid Performance.
http://alibi.com/events/7611/Waylaid-jazz-hip-hop-blues.html
*8:02 pm
Someone has a birthday today. Hakim reluctantly sings along into the microphone. "Ha-..py B-irthday to y- Kath-ryn."
*8:04 pm
Hakim (The Verb) vibes solo in the corner window while another stranger sings happy birthday to her morbidly obese counterpart.
*8:08 pm
An emotive sambic clap session starts without warning. The Beat breaks out a tambourine. He makes more noise than anyone else in the room.
*8:13 pm
The only decipherable line of The Verb's contribution thus far has been:
"I got a God that's triangle."
No one indicates they understand the metaphor and the Beat is up and moving in the Green Zone of the heavy amplifiers. There is entirely too much effort in maintaining a punctual, cohesive performance—exerted on behalf of the Beat & the Feet and their attempts to validate Hakim's side project. I'm failing to see the legitimate draw for attendance. I'm watching a band made of 2 musicians and one slack-hearted slam poet's ego. The music could be described as having both Flamenco undertones with a tinge of Middle Eastern influence reminiscent of Lole y Manuel's more experimental albums. There is no introduction for song titles, which lends to my impression that there had been little to no rehearsal prior to 8:11pm, when the one light came on and The Verb was finally ready...
*8:18 pm
The Feet does her best to cajole a disinterested Verb from his seat tapping in tune to the 2nd unknown, unrehearsed (song?) of the evening. At this point, because the Beat is relatively hidden away by the amps, the Feet becomes the visually saving grace of the show. The Verb stands behind her, still not budging from his spot at the window, and points at her busy toes.
"Look at the way they communicate."
But it's apparent he's watching the twerk she's putting in on stage.
*8:25 pm
We reach the peak. Twenty- five more people show. The voices get louder. The Verb finally gets excited. I'm famished and completely fed up and ready to leave.
***
The real highlight of the night had been the fact they served Orange and Raspberry Coca-Cola at the Frontier. This restaurant is typically the most crowded spot on any given night. And walking along the rows of booths and side tables, you see that very few people look down as they eat. They simply stare forward at the John Wayne paintings and longhorn skulls, or absently out the window. This isn't a phenomenon that is restricted to those who sit alone, but even in the course of conversation with two or three other people, there you have it, someone around you is scrutinizing the Marionette Lines around the Duke's aging grimace.
I was going over my impressions of Hakim's stage presence when I noticed Lindsey looking near the soda fountain with a slightly perturbed and overly aware expression on her face. Being mid-sentence, I didn't so much as stop speaking, but turned my head in the direction of her stare, butchering the English language with the corners of my mouth and became immediately fixated.
The man had on... a white button-up beneath his tattered Veterans jacket, tucked into a pair of stone-washed Arizona's, a tight auburn belt with longhorn buckle in front, and a Ruger Super Blackhawk Single Action Revolver in a matching holster on his waist. Needless to say, the other patrons of the restaurant were somewhat on edge of the man as well. But New Mexico is an Open Carry State and The Frontier remains true to its namesake posting no notices:
"in accordance with NMSA 1978 Section 30-14-6 or by verbally notifying persons entering upon the property"
Although he was not notified by management, The Frontier security officer on duty did take a moment to have a small chat with the man, and everything seemed to be in order with no sense of impending urgency as the rent-a-cop left and the gun-owner sat down to his breakfast burrito.
"I bet he's from Arizona." Lindsey said.
"What makes you think that?" I asked.
"I'm just being racist. He's Anglo, has a buzzcut, and carries a pistol on his waist. Arizona. All over it."
"I'm pretty sure he's a local." I replied. "I just hope he's stable."
The table behind us must have noticed someone's tattoos, perhaps mine, and said:
"If I ever tattoo something on my body, it's going to be scripture."
Being somewhat deaf and sometimes unaware of the volume of her voice, Lindsey glared over my shoulder and snickered.
"You know the night is over when the Fiesta Burger is hardly digestible and the Christian behind you was just washing her snatch in the bathroom sink with hand-soap."
This is about the time I began staring out the window.
***
The sight of the gun-toter, and Lindsey's summation of the woman behind us, made me think back to the article I had read earlier in the evening. I wondered what exactly Limkin meant by "tolerant and accepting lot". After all, it was easy to take away the idea that Limkin himself, while stationed at Fort Bragg, was not only tolerant of the death metal hate sessions he supposedly now spurned, but took part and reveled in them alongside his fellow platoon members.
How much of a factor does your environment play in moments of moral inclarity? In the military, I guess it's safe to assume majorly. But outside of that, outside of organization, orders, detail and comradery, where, or when do you come to a point that your former actions no longer fit who you are and how do you make the separation, if at all?
After finishing our meal, we dipped into a side alley behind Harvard Ave. and found a couch outside a tattoo parlor next to the dumpster. We sat for a moment and lit a bowl just to make the walk home somewhat more exciting. I had seen Lindsey taking notes during the show and was pleasantly surprised to find that she had kept her own timeline of the events, taking into account much more detail.
***
Desert Fish. Albuquerque, NM. 8/23/12.
Waylaid Performance.
"Instead of Desert Fish, I first went to Crazy Fish near Girard and sat for 30 minutes until I figured out the difference."
"At Desert Fish, my attention was consumed by a woman eating crab legs in the corner. She looked almost identical to my mother, only 60 lbs. heavier. They had the same moussed- highlighted bangs cut straight over the eyebrows. The woman's breasts kept getting in the way of her fork and crab legs; which she attacked at three times the speed of her husband . She barely looked up from her plate... She made a lot of facial grimaces as she chewed."
"For a moment, I thought that entitled White America was all that was left of Hakim Bellamy's fan base."
"At 8:17 pm, there was this prehistoric feedback, like a wounded pterodactyl or Boeing 757 being ripped from the sky by an EMP bomb. Hakim Bellamy took off his hat finally. The only thing I could understand him saying was:
'We're all like Paris Hilton. We don't know how to act.'
"Around 8:19pm, mom's semi-identical twin and husband began bobbing their heads energetically to the beat and tapping their hands on the table."
"8:30pm comes, and we couldn't help but wonder to each other (Frankie and I):
'Does it really take 30 minutes to tune your pink guitar?'"
"8:31pm—The 2nd song finally began 31 minutes into the show and no one gets out of their seats, except the wait staff. The Feet laid down her guitar after it'd been sampled enough and began tap-dancing. Hakim stood up again."
"I noticed around 8:35pm that out of the 27 people in attendance, only 8 were actually paying attention. Now, Hakim (The Verb) Bellamy, seemed more excited than anyone else in the room. This place made me feel so manic within a short span of time. Hakim said something to the effect of: "Tryin' to front like my tongue isn't sharp as a tack." and Frankie almost spit on the bartender laughing so hard.
"At 8:33pm, my mother's ringer and her husband finished their dessert and wine and left. Frankie whispered to me that it felt like we were stranded in a desolate and plastic-lame version of Tunisia. The audience clapped out of exacerbation. I found the third song heavier on the percussion and somewhat hypnotic. But the generic lyrics of The Verb was distracting, when intelligible:
- 'We ain't from L.A. but we O.G.'
- 'We New Mexico. We Frito Pie.'
- 'You don't like the weather. Wait about 30 seconds.'
"It felt like the Feet was constantly trying to coax Hakim to stand up from the corner of the stage. At like, 8:54pm, after the restaurant was finally full, he mentioned how they were 'Way- late...'
It became painfully obvious through the course of the night that the Beat does most of the work in this trio. With so many people in the house (32) Hakim became more and more self-conscious. I could make out thought bubbles over his head, worrying about his mother making disparaging remarks about his Sisqo blonde hairdo. He finally put his gray cap back on and Frankie was long since ready to leave. With the ending of the third song, everyone claps. The lady with a dirty vodka martini signed her tab and clapped. Hakim's 20 friends clapped. Randy the bartender—clapped. Frankie did not."
