on the record #8

the Dirtbombs - if you don't already have a look [the originals]


i was screaming at the Doktor the other day about rawk music. “there just isn’t any,” i was saying, “and except for like two or three bands, there hasn’t been anything for the past, like, twenty years or something.”

“twenty years,” he said, “that’s a bold statement.”

and then i stabbed him in the neck. so i don’t remember how that conversation wrapped up, but that thing about the rawk was really stickin’ in my craw. i pulled out some old mixtapes a friend had made a while back and one of them opened up with a tune called “theme from the dirtbombs.”

egads, i thought, where has my head been? why haven’t i found more from this band? why is the teenage suicide rate going up? why have so many people gone insane since that horrible bush family was restored to power?

for fuck’s sake, where was i? right. the Dirtbombs. what a fuckin’ name. on that alone, they should be bigger than Oasis or the devil or something. two bass guitars - one fuzzed out, two drummers, a singer / guitar player. anyway, i copped a few of their records and put the newest one in my boombox and headed down to Market Square.

lunch time.

kind of a strange mix you get down there in Market Square. you’ve got a lot of people who are just hanging out for a little while, and some people who are hanging out for a long while. and then you’ve got these people who work around there, and are passing through or shopping or getting a bagel or something. plus the cops. i sat on a bench under a tree in the quarter by the old 5 + 10. started feeding the pigeons alka-seltzers...i turned on the Dirtbombs, tuned in, and dropped out.

these black guys – in their 50’s maybe – sitting across the way yelled over to me…wanted to know what the fuck i had on my radio. “sounds like Detroit…’member when we was in Detroit on all that acid?”

they stood up and started tapping their feet, nodding their heads. this white lady happened by, and the one dude grabbed a hold of her and dipped her down real low – fifties style – and brought her back up over his head. her skirt was flying all over the place, spinning her around, doing the twist. when she caught her breath, i heard her yell “hey daddy-o! i’m diggin’ those crazy tunes.”

and then from the other side of the street were these very smartly-dressed females. five or six of them, traveling together, probably on lunch or some such nonsense. “the fuck is that shit?” the one in the front sneered. from the back of this pack, i swear i saw a blade flash in the january sun. there was little question these bitches were looking for trouble and were not stoppin’ until they found it.

“it’s the Dirtbombs,’ i whimpered and turned the box up louder.

“you’re goddamm right it is!” the dark-haired one said, and pushed the one next to her. elbows started flying and in no time flat, these ladies had a circle pit going right there in the middle of the Square.

a crowd was gathering. i could hear bottles breaking. car alarms. midgets wrestling. people were fucking in the bushes.

this huge Escalade, all black and chrome, pulled up next to me in the street. the black window went down and the bass rattling the insides ceased. “you mind if we dance wif yo dates?”

i pointed to myself and shook my head. four or five guys piled out of the truck and joined the pit. i thought i saw a gun or two, shoulder holsters, bullet-proof vests. it was no matter, though, not for them. i saw one of the guys get stomped by a lady in a business suit, and he crawled from the pit on hands and knees, bleeding from the mouth and smiling through shattered teeth. he said, "sometimes the sweetest kittens have the sharpest claws."

indeed.

a car careened down the throughway and cut right, smashing three or four parking meters to pieces. little kids were scrambling for the loose change. a guy in a suit came running with a big piece of cardboard and all his buddies cheered and started breakdancing on it in the street, ties and all. a PAT bus jumped the curb and knocked a fire hydrant from it’s moorings and sent a spray sideways into the great unwashed mass. someone had brought a giraffe to the party on a leash. a couch was burning in the grass. the smell of gasoline was all around. i heard a bullhorn somewhere off in the distance.

something tapped me on the shoulder.

“oh officer,” i said, “sorry about all this…i’ll turn it down.”

hat sitting low. hair pulled back. mirror sunglasses. a severe jaw. she smiled.

“you got a joint?”

i was at a loss. i shook my head.

“be a lot cooler if you did.”