Our focus is on music and our craft, our minds and our hearts circle around the ideas like a hawk and its prey. We quietly circle on the up drafts of wind, circle, circle, and patience to execute the dive and judge the distances and then plunge into the performance of the idea. All while this is going on the stage we watch you, watch you groping the woman next to you. Your hands feel her ass and we watch the irritation of your sexual advancement as she moves to another part of the establishment. We watch as you make out. We watch as you scratch you ass trying to adjust those sexy panties that just keep puckering at your anus giving you a rash. Tonight is not the night of sexual encounters, tonight is a night of anti-itch creams and after-the-bar showers. All of the directions of the eyes in the crowd are known to use, the energy of your gaze is apparent, we know when you stare at us. You are so beautiful to us: your breath on our face, the colour of your eyes, your hair as it moves as you dance.
CP played this show at this little place that was filled with all these frightened bartenders. They were frightened of the patrons that sold cocaine to the local roughnecks and farmers (nothing like a Hutterite high on coke). These ‘coke heads’/ dealers should have been kicked out for being such assholes but because the bartenders were so scared to kick them out that the jerks were allowed to stay and ejaculate their misaimed rage at every one in the bar. There was this particular woman that just pissed all of us off. She was coked out and kept yelling and trying to fight us while we played, we had the mic, she had her anger. Her anger became our frustration, or at least my frustration and I put that right into my playing; I was laying big slabs of distortion in everyone’s face so they could feed from what this woman was feeding us. I kept imagining my guitar was a shotgun and my notes were the shells and I was blowing her body apart piece by piece with the music, my solos were strange that night.
What I am getting at is that you may think that we’re feeding you all this music but you are giving us your energy to feed from. Without out a crowd there is just a bunch of guys with their hearts in their hands with no one to give them to. Even the lady that was annoying is beautiful, in her own very broken and destroyed way – she is the fragility of humanity, the toughness of our spirit, the daughter of some woman’s womb, and the girl that probably broke some poor pubescent boys little junior high heart. What you look like to us is beautiful.
I love you,