"I'm not concerned with your liking or disliking me... All I ask is that you respect me as a human being." -- Jackie Robinson
As the distance between my birth into rock poetry and my present status as rogue and provocateur grows and grows, the frequency of agitators and morons invading my sacred universe seems to have diminished greatly. However, every now and again, a member of this buffoon tribe sneaks by the radar and slithers wetly into the scene and tries to spoil it for everyone.
Such was the case a few nights ago when some cretan vomited his sexist claptrap into the heart of our ritual. It was in the interlude for "Blood Pigs," and I was lost in the words and rhythm of the moment. The lights were glowing and shifting through a kaleidoscope of colors and brightness, teasing the shallow darkness swallowing the swaying sea of bodies in the audience. My face and head were wrapped in their normal artistic armor -- a scissored fishnet nylon stretched to it's capacity, intimating all sorts of nightmares and seduction born from unspoken violence. The musicians were erecting an improvised soundscape -- each enjoying their own strengths, vulnerability, fears and secret desires.
The story begins .... "And I was like 13" .... the music swells and plummets telegraphing tufts of memory. My words continue, "And it was a Sunday morning, I think .... and ..... both my parents were still asleep ......" I can sense the audience tremble with anticipation and hesitation, as if they know what's coming, but aren't sure if they want to see it come to life. Their eyes swallow me, their minds mingle with mine, their thoughts cry out, "Dear God! Where is she taking us?? Is this seduction?? Am I falling in love?? Is it a trap? Are we in danger? What will we discover?? How far is she going to take us?" The band stand together, four members, preaching a secret gospel. The energy is escalating in the room to levels that some might consider treacherous. I can feel it, I can sense the lust and trepidation massaging my shivering soul. The words crawl from my mind, slithering down to my trembling lips, and just as I am about to continue with the trip, the spell is viciously broken. Some varmint lump has screamed out, "I want to f--k you so hard, you sexy f--king whore!!"
Here, our theatre of the mind is shattered. Here, my spirit is set to flame. Now, my blood boils. And things must be made right. I can't reenter the world of spirit with war plaguing my soul. I must be pure. I must obliterate the impulse to kick his f--king teeth in before the sentinels will allow me to pass. The audience is now groaning with displeasure. Most are screaming at this chump to show some basic level of respect. Everyone is staring at me to see if I am going to do something. So I do.
I break from my cerebral ascension, and soar down like a bird of prey on a frightened rodent. I tell him, with venom on my lips, that I am not some cheap, ignorant tart that he can disrespect just because he suddenly feels aroused. I am a woman, formed from the ashes of the goddess herself, heiress to an ancestry of strong, intelligent, and talented women who overcame all sorts of obstacles so that I may have the life I choose to conquer. How dare he insult the blood of my mother. How dare he insult the other fans in the audience who came to experience our unique crafting of music and words. How dare he puke all over a piece of work that the band and I have worked so hard, so diligently, and prepared so much (copiously) to give you (our beloved listeners) the best and most intense show we can possibly create.
I learned later that this vermin was caught groping girls in the crowd and some of the more valiant men in the audience took it upon themselves to teach him a lesson (or two) about respect. So be it. Look hotshot, being a loudmouthed, disruptive, jackass doesn't make you unique, or a tough-guy, or a bad-ass, or shocking or edgy, and it doesn't transform you into f--king Cassanova! You are just an embarrassment, an irritant, ordinary, and a waste of oxygen.
"Let them hate us so long as they fear us." -- Caligula, Roman Emperor
I mean, seriously, what do these halfwits think is going to happen when they scream out this excrement: "Show your tits" "I want to eat your p---y!" "Sit on my face" "Suck me off, whore! I love you." Am I gonna stop the show and service your punk ass right there? Do you think I am just gonna throw my self-esteem aside and rip my blouse open and let the girls loose on the world? Are you stupid or crazy? Or both? Honestly, these cockroaches have seen one too many late-night commercials for "Girls Gone Wild." Well, I work too f--king hard and take this opportunity too seriously to let someone s--t on it just for kicks. I cherish every moment I get to be on stage and play music. I see it as a holy endeavor and I am honored to do it.
Now, to be clear, my goal is to incite insight, to provoke people to seek the edge, to lose their inhibitions, to unleash their insecurities, to experience total emancipation (even briefly) when they attend one (or many) of our shows. But that doesn't mean they should lose their self-respect or infringe on the respect of others (perfect strangers who know nothing, but understand everything) that are there to share the experience with them. I mean, if we (the counter culture, the dregs, the rogues, the outsiders, poets, artists, outlaws and free-thinkers) don't take care of each other --- who will? The squares? Hardy-har-har. No. It's up to us. And if we fail, then we have no one else to blame.
So, in closing, let me state for the record, F--K THESE SWINE. We deserve better. And if we must take it, so be it. Just know, if you dare ........"that's what you get at an OT3P showwww!"
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