--- TOUR OF DUTY Just prior to his tour of the Western U.S. last month with his band Thee Headcoats, epulse asked British garage-rock legend Billy Childish to write a diary documenting his stateside experiences. Two weeks ago, this arrived in the office fax machine. Part 1 of 4.
WED. 12TH FEB., '97
Approx. 11:30 a.m. on the train from Chatham to London. Billy Childish has a mild chest infection and has bought a fresh supply of moustache wax. Bruce, who plays drums, has been saving up his dirty washing for the past 3 weeks, perverse creature! Johnny, who plays bass, has had a haircut and plans to have a new tattoo. Although both Jimi Hendrix and Muddy Waters had fine moustaches, I think I can say without a hint of arrogance that theirs were never as stiffly waxed as mine! I have just remembered that I have left all of the U.S. dollars on the bedside cabinet at home.
Approx. 12.45 p.m.: The Mandeer restaurant, Hanway Place, London. Keera has just arrived after returning to fetch the U.S. dollars. Holly has her car on a 15 minute parking meter and after eating with me and Bruce has now just left. She requires jeans from the USA, waist 30, leg 34.
Flight from London to L.A. a man tried to board the plane at Heathrow with a false passport and was asked to leave. The man in charge chucked his baggage onto the runway and we took off. "There's gales in Kent" the pilot told us, and we wobbled a bit as we went over Iceland. The vegetarian meal had meat in it. Some people say Billy Childish don't eat fish but I think it should be known that he might do anything.
'The lady who ate vomit'
an old lady lifts her window and vomits
the vomit splatters down onto the street below
the people look up and shake their fists with anger
a vegetarian steps into the vomit and vomits
a meat eater steps into the vomit and vomits
a drunk steps into the vomit and vomits
a man in a suit steps into the vomit and vomits
his three illegitimate children step into the vomit and vomit
his wife (fearing the worst) steps into the vomit and vomits
finally the old lady closes the window
wipes her disgusting mouth with a dirty dish-rag
and collapses in front of her television set
her vile pink-bellied lap dog rolls its
glassy eyes in its ridiculously small skull and also vomits
Long Gone John meets us at the airport and we drive to Long Beach. We eat and watch 'Star Wars' in a vast, cavernous cinema. We are the only customers, Billy has to hold open his eyes, Johnny and Bruce sleep through the so-called important bits.
THURSDAY 13TH FEB.
Awaken in Long Beach after five hours' sleep. Long Gone John shows me a copy of 'In 5 minutes you'll know me', my selected poems from 1985-95 which he has just published on Sympathetic Press.
Billy writes a diary, a diary fitting to the sum of 250 dollars which he has been promised he will be paid. A man with an unutterable name declares that he too must write a diary, and it must also be a diary fitting to the sum of 250 dollars that he hopes to be paid for writing such a thing. Billy must write a diary fitting to a man of his position, a grand diary, a diary the likes of which the world had never before seen. It must be a serious diary, a sincere diary, a diary that a man can be proud of. Right he agreed, but he immediately argued with himself.
Travel from Long Beach to Silver Lake, L.A. Johnny and Bruce stay on with Long Gone John. I ask Bruce to look out for a suitcase at the thrift store so that we can carry the book (selected poems) to San Francisco on the plane.
Billy bought a guitar to use if and when he comes to America.
billy childish awoke one morning
and forgot to be billy childish
he went to the bathroom
and forgot to glare into the mirror at billy childish
forgetting that he was a world famous underground poet
billy childish typed a rather dull love sonnet
feeling all of a sudden tired billy childish lay down on the
sofa and took a quick nap
jumping up with a start
and suddenly remembering that he was billy childish
he ran to the typewriter and tore the love sonnet from its inky teeth
no one must come to know this billy childish, he said.
Part Two
FRIDAY 14th FEB.
Play Spaceland [Los Angeles], support Los Cincos. Dave 'Scaredy' Katznelson appears in a suit. Larry from Birdbrain Records brings the tour T-shirts. 4 o'clock bed.
A man with a fierce black beard walks up to the drunk and pushes him into
the gutter.
"You're not drunk!" shouts the man with the fierce black beard.
"But my stomach hurts," whimpers the drunk.
"Well don't come bleeding on me!" shouts the man with the fierce black beard.
"Have you any hot milk?" asks the drunk.
"Hot milk?" yells the man with fierce black beard. "What's wrong with good
brandy? Or for that matter black rum?"
"I have decided to become sober." explains the drunk.
"Out of my way fool!" shouts the man with the fierce black beard.
"A drunk cannot decide to become sober, he must decide to become drunk, or
how else will we know where we stand?"
SAT. 15th FEB.
Visited a book shop run by a very old man named Red. Bought a hardback copy
of 'Wait Until Spring Bandini' by John Fante for Elinor, whose house I'm staying at in Silver Lake. I was a few dollars short which Red let me off, so I gave him a copy of my selected poetry. Red then gave me a photo of Charles Bukowski's grave and a copy of 'Pulp,' Bukowski's last novel, which is just as well, as I'd never have bought a copy. "It has his death in it," says Red, "right in the last chapter, he writes about his own death!" Red
recently had a stroke and as an old man is quite keen on the subject of the grave. "I might not be here next time you come and visit," he looks at me meaningfully. You have to shout when you talk to Red on account of his being deaf. "I'm the only guy called Red, You see that photo of me and Henry Miller? I had red hair back then." We talk about John Fante, who is a writer as good as they get. I read 'Ask the Dust' when I was 21, and it was the first time that I really knew that I could write a novel. I was lying there in the bath reading those magical lines, and a great surge of humanity rose up from within me filling my chest with joy, my wet fingers caressing those damp pages. I believe the thing that makes great writers great is their bravery, and in the end, the lack of bitterness they express to the world. John Fante dictated 'Dreams From Bunker Hill' to his wife whilst he lay dying in a hospital bed, blind, a double amputee. The power of such love and integrity fills John Fante's books and will lift the heart of any poor kid strolling this world and believing himself alone. Said good-bye to Red.
Made a couple of paintings of John Fante for Elinor by Billy aged 14 years. There is a wild wolf that Elinor's next door neighbor keeps in the back yard; its face is black and wonderful. Exhibition of funny paintings by Billy Childish at Low Life record shop. At St. Martin's School of Art, we students were encouraged to think laterally in an environment which inspired and festered the avant garde.
Reading + Blues at LACE.
Bruce has bought a suitcase and filled it with dirty washing and a vast quantity of brand new jeans. He offers me a nylon zip-up hold-all to transport the books in. I explain to him that we need the suitcase so as to prevent the books being damaged in the hold of the plane. Bruce says that he thought I wanted it for the t-shirts. "No", I tell him, "I want it for the books, so they don't get damaged, the t-shirts are soft." "I know", he says "that's why I gave you the hold-all."
SUNDAY 16th FEB.
Played Jabberjaw.
Met a man from Paramount Studios who read 'My Fault' [Billy's first novel]. He was very complimentary and said it was just the sort of book that Paramount would never touch. Support group Los Cincos.
A man marches into a room wearing an unwieldly moustache. The spikes simultaneously embed themselves into the door frames like daggers. Alternatively the man bangs his teeth on an iron bar and, shouting incoherently, his mouth spurting blood, he turns to leave. From out of the darkness a sexual young lady steps forward bearing a pair of rusty scissors in her immature hand, she smiles and cuts him free. She then places the dead moustache in a matchbox next to a sinister black spider. Any hopes that the moustache and spider might at some time mate are ill-founded. Apparently the moustache was not quite as large as he had once boasted.
On a sunny day a naked Samuel Samuelson stepped out from behind his bush and shouted "Hell" at an innocent passer-by. The innocent passer-by took fright and bought dog food. He spent all of his money on dog food, he filled his arms with the tins and stepped back out onto the street. Later, breathlessly closing the door behind him, he carefully lined up the tins of dog food on his mantlepiece and sat down on his horsehair sofa to admire their gleaming nature. Twelve-and-a-half seconds later he was holding his belly and howling like dog, he shouted "Why have I wasted all of my money on dog food, when I, Samuel Samuelson, don't even own a small pooch, let alone the wild wolf as some of my more devilish neighbors claim?! ... " He looked about himself hopelessly. "Evidently I am Samuel Samuelson and have only myself to blame for scaring myself into this predicament."
I ask Bruce for the suitcase so that can pack the books. "But I thought you wanted to put t-shirts in it?" "No," I explain to him, "I want to put the books in it so that they don't get damaged on the plane." Bruce looks confused. "But what about the t-shirts?" He asks.
Part Three
MON. 17th FEB.
Flew to San Francisco.
Got poisoned by an Italian pizza house at the recommendation of Maz of the Maybelines.
Staying with Johnny Brewton from X-Ray Books who has arranged a meeting with a publisher called Vale from Re/Search who may be interested in publishing my second novel 'Note Books of a Naked Youth.' Johnny Brewton showed me a video of Charles Bukowski rambling away on T.V. If his poems were as off target as this I'd have never bothered reading him. It seems that he'd have been wiser not doing this stuff.
TUES 18th FEB.
Met up with Vale, his wife Marion and their 14-month-old daughter Valentine, easy people to talk with, but not sure if Vale's interested in publishing my shit. Me and the kid got on instantly, her birthday is 1st Dec. 1995, and mine is 1st Dec. 1959. Vic Mostly flew into town and slept under the kitchen table. Johnny Brewton showed me a sad book called 'Spinning off Bukowski' by Steve Richmond, who was/is desperately in love with Bukowski, to the extent of even buying similar pieces of furniture, growing a lip moustache and
drawing sad little diagrams of their meetings that took place some 20-30 years ago in bars that have burned. But I'd say the title 'Spinning off Bukowski' is totally accurate.
WED 19th FEB.
Reading at the Make Out Room. A girl cried and a man told me I'd saved his life. Met Jack Micheline and signed a book for him. He said it was good to see so many young people at a reading. The reading was wall-to-wall packed and everybody listened, a beautiful evening. I realised I was drunk for the first time in 4 years from drinking half a
bottle of throat medicine. Got to bed about 4. Met a Russian girl named Inga. "You should dance," I told her.
THURS. 20th FEB.
Played Bimbo's, support Maybelines and Neptunas.
'Scaredy' Katznelson fails to appear.
The people came to see us and we played for them. It was good, but for me the reading last night was more powerful communication.
FRI. 21st FEB.
Plan to make a powerful letterpress book with Johnny Brewton. The aim is to make something of undeniable integrity and beauty, a book to make you cry.
'at the airport'
Leaning over his 3-year-old son
the man
with a heavy mauve
face beats his
child
the child cries
-Shush! the man shouts
-or do you want
me to whip you with
my belt?
it's tough to see the
bastard father
as the
victim he really is.
Vic flew with us, then picked up by Michael, Vic's brother, and Jay of The Makers. Reading in a cafe + played at EJ's, Portland, Oregon. I have to kiss a sweet girl good-bye. Another climbs into my bed in the middle of the night dragging the covers from my body. "Jesus Christ," I say. I pull the covers to my throat and sleep the rest of the night unmolested.
A certain man once found a word in his mouth, he bit down on it like it was a soft sponge, or rather a large disgusting marshmallow. According to those at the time present his pink face then took on a curious and thoughtful expression before he smiled and fell to the ground. In all fairness it should be said that some people standing somewhat nearer to the unfortunate man did in fact see him hold onto his throat, bug out his eyes and fall choking to his knees, where upon he started kicking like mule. Some said that it wasn't a word but rather a small current that the greedy man choked on but almost without exception the gathered crowd agreed that the man definitely kicked out his stout legs, turned up his toes, and in a very real sense, popped his clogs.
Part Four
SAT. 22nd FEB.
Drive into Seattle. Play Mo's -- crap food.
Support the Statics and the Mono Men. Full house. Managed to only play 1 hour 15 minutes. We are learning. Stay over with our friends Steve and Karen at Super Electro.
'The man who pretended he couldn't draw' One Spring day, and for no apparent reason, a tall bearded husband started making rude and disgusting drawings of his fat sexual girlfriend. Only in his mind it wasn't his girlfriend he was drawing at all, but rather his overweight and tyrannical dead mother, which only made the drawings doubly stinking and loathsome. He would spend hours sharpening his pencils, but what angered his neighbours most was his complete and obvious lack of talent, or rather this bearded nincompoop's apish attempts at pretending he couldn't draw. "He must be broken!" voiced some. "He must be made to listen politely and attentively," muttered others. His fat sexual girlfriend looked over his shoulder and socked him straight in the eye. "I'll teach you, you pip-squeak!" she spat, then laughed at him as he bled over his pathetic doodles.
SUN 23rd FEB.
Reading at Velvet Elvis. Good-bye to Vic, Michael, Jay of the Makers. Endings are sad. Bruce goes to stay the night with his sister who lives on one of the islands.
MONDAY 24th FEB.
Me 'n Johnny play two songs for a blues radio station. Eric Clapton is made to suffer.
Bruce returns, he has eaten fish'n chips for two days running. Me 'n Johnny ate three puddings at dinner. Billy buys a suitcase from the thrift shop to transport the books home.
Meet Hanna Parker + Alice Wheeler from Zero Hour about publishing new short story 'The Messerschmitt Pilots severed hand.'
A big fight went off. People's ears ripped clean off. People loved it. People were outraged, one old man even got bitten on the foot, and I don't mean by a dog. It got so bad that the police were called, They came armed with big sticks and beat the people to a bloody pulp. The whole thing, as they say, turned somehow 'nasty.' Several innocent bystanders were savaged and in the end the whole street was drawn into a massacre. But the old woman, who apparently had been caught gnawing on people's disgusting feet, and had in fact started the bloodshed, slipped between officers' legs and got clean away, even pausing to take a crafty 'nip' out of the chief constable's exposed heel.
TUES. 25th FEB.
Steve and Karen drop us at the airport. Flight out from Sea-Tac to London 5.45 p.m. 12 hour flight, we arrive at Heathrow, London at 11.00 a.m. The pilot tells us there are gales over Kent. Billy has a slight chest infection. Johnny leaves to have his tattoo done and Bruce has three large cases full of dirty laundry.
BILLY CHILDISH [!]