Ganesh grew up in Deptford, too, but, as he spent his entire childhood taking care of his old man, never knew a "Patricia Lee Smith." So it wasn't until years later that he fell in love with her, about the same time as everybody else. The year was 1975, the same year Horses debuted, and Ganesh was high on Romilar, in his bedroom, blanketed windows, the streets below dimmed and filled with bent spoons. Jimmy The Fag had just loaned him a handful of 45's, which he stacked onto his little RCA automatic changer, and soon his pachyderm brain's squirming with dex, a fire-mad mudcat on fry, scorched thoughts being ejaculated at a rate of a thousand or more per second and these insane zounds threading out and throttling him against the wall, but when the final record dropped it was something called "Piss Factory," a female vocalist, sounding starved, deliberate - this on continuous loop and something gives way. Maybe it's a mental implosion, and maybe G. knows there is no going back. But this thing unfurling from his Anahata, rotating love wheel all gory in his chest - what is it? What the fuck does it require of him except to keep listening to this erupting crystalline and truer-than-you daikini dipped in the pentecost of Right On and proceed with a new vision, his head blown back down Paterson Ave. and his id Rorshached into a kind of submission that don't need rescuing no more, nah, for the first time ever.
[photo a re-photograph of a still life by The Last American Year(s)]
No comments:
Post a Comment