True Stories of the Scene Patrol
by Kerry Joyce
Illustration by Jef Taylor
Starring Sgt. Joe Ryeday
Boston is a cultural mecca to the country and the world. Some of the most renowned rock bands in history had their start here. Thousands of college students flock the thriving nightclubs every weekend.
But behind the pierced pubic areas, the needle point, bill- boarded buttocks, the Count Chocula face paint, and the vague stench of vomit, all is not sweetnss and light. Barely audible under the google-watt Marshall Amps can be heard a thousand hearts crying out in disillusionment and despair. You have to be a drug-sniffing dog or a ‘zine publisher with a heart of gold, like me, to hear it. My name’s Ryeday, I carry a pen.
May 22, 7:00 p. m. Another sleepless day of caring and concern. A junkie calls out: “Joe, man, you gotta help, I’m this close to getting signed. But I’m sick, man, I keep jammin’ this horseshit heroin into my arm, man, and I can’t stop. I’m down to 125 pounds and two chords. Joe, Joe, Joe I agggggggggggggggggh.”
It’s only a dream, but it haunts me still. But no more than the bills piling up at my bedside: gas, electric, cover artist, printer. All unwitting draftees in a cause bigger than they can possibly understand. I hope someday they will. But for now…
May 22, 9:00 p.m. Arrive at the Middle Yeast, and take in a couple of hardcore acts. A local band, Iron Maidenhead, tops the bill. At the break, I go over and we have a little chat.
“What’s going on, are you guys on heroin or something?” I look piercingly into the clear, self-satisfied eyes of the lead singer.
“Whaddya mean what’s going on? We’re doing great.”
“Great, huh? Ever since you hooked up with Mike Spilleen, your whole sound has changed.”
“Not really. Besides, we got three labels who want the CD he produced. And the chicks love us.”
“Yeah, and we’re getting good press, too,” the mumble-mouthed bass player throws in.
“JAMA says we’re like Weezer in an oxygen tent, and Alternative Testicles said that if Nirvana could have come up with some of the stuff we have, Cobain would have only put a BB gun to his head instead of a 12 gauge.”
“Well, what about artistic integrity, what about being true to yourself, to your fans, to the scene?”
“It’s all in the lyrics. We got pain, alienation, despair, ennui…”
“Ennui? What the hell is that?”
“You’d have to ask Griff’s girlfriend about it. She helps out with the lyrics. Not right now, though, she’s really pissed off. But she says we have it by the metric buttload, and, like, none of the other bands even know what it is.”
“That’s it,” I tell them. “I’m writing you up. You and your whole Starbuck’s Coffee klatch-rock are finished. Bend over.”
“But why, man?”
“Because I care.”
“Agggggggggggggggggggggggh.”
Waiting for the next band, I notice a shiftless fellow who looks suspiciously familiar, heading for the mens’ room. I follow him in. Upon closer examination, I recognize him immediately. It’s Paul B., a reviewer for another local ‘zine.
“How’d you like the show, Paul?”
“It was all right.”
“ALL RIGHT? Are you on heroin?”
“No, that’s a smallpox vaccination scar.”
I dig in.
“Well, whaddya mean ‘all right’? Back in issue #17 you said this band was so good, they made you want to rip your grandmother’s entrails out. Now they’re only all right?”
“That was the CD,” he replies, his eyes staring up at the mildewed ceiling tile to avoid my piercing glare.
“Oh, c’mon Paul,” I say, zeroing in. “My sources tell me that your original review said only that the CD made you want to bang your head gently against the headboard. But you changed it, didn’t you, Paul? You changed it when your publisher told you that Iron Maidenhead was taking out a quarter page ad. And that there wouldn’t be anymore free CDs if you didn’t play ball. Isn’t that right?”
“Where’d you hear that?” I could see the bitch coming out of him fast.
“I can’t tell you my sources, Paul, you know that. The last reviewer who ratted out your ‘zine had her nipple rings not-so-ceremoniously ripped out by one of your distribution guys. Do you think I’m that stupid?”
“That’s a lot of shit, man. And you can’t prove any of it. Besides, I got a real job now and can buy my own CDs. I don’t need that kind of action.”
“We’ll see, Paul. I’m writing you up.”
“Go ahead. You’ll find yourself chained to a radiator. The boss’ll take that pet gerbil you call a heart that’s pinned to your sleeve, and shove it back into your chest where it belongs.”
“Not if he puts me out of business first, he won’t.”
“Huh?”
“Bend over, Paul.”
“Why?”
“Because I care so much.”
“C’mon, man, I can help you witht proff reeding and… Aggggggggggggggggh.”
May 23, 1:15 a. m. Stagger out of club. Wiping the foam from my mouth, which had collected there when I neglected to swallow while lecturing an autistic BU drama major about the evils of heroin abuse, I bump into lower-level types from a gang of angry white youths called MSU. Not real members, actually, just some of the many copy cats who wear the MSU insignia.
“Hey, you guys think you’re in MSU, don’t you?”
“Yeah, man, what of it?”
“Well, are you on heroin?”
“No, man, but Carl here did some amyl nitrate with his soccer coach, and Pete takes B-12 injections for his herpes.”
“Well, do you even know what MSU stands for?
“Yeah, it stands for, uh, Mess Shit Up. Heh heh.”
“But don’t you see that if you guys mess shit up any more than it already is, that things will just get more messed up than they already are, and pretty soon there won’t be anymore shit to mess up, which would really be some messed-up shit?”
“Well, we never thought of it like that. Maybe you’re right.”
“Of course I’m right. You can read all about yourselves in my next issue. I’m writing you guys up. Now bend over.”
“Why, man? We agree with you.”
“Because I care.”
“Aggggggggggggggggggh.”
Coming next month in True Stories of the Scene Patrol: Ripped-off riffs at The Rack, Beef tallow in the hummus at The Middle Yeast, Bestiality at Llama Kin, and Coke-snortin’ Euro-trash: The Last Great Hope For Mankind. Stay Tuned….
