“you suck!” chant that a few optimistic psycho normals kept trying to start. I think the crowd had realized that the most disheartening thing they could do in this situation was to gape in silent, stunned bemusement. They weren’t wrong about that, either. I don’t know how real bands manage to have three or more people all play the same thing at the same time—it was clearly beyond our capabilities. I kept getting shocked by the mic, so around half of the lyrics were lost, 255
though without the PA I doubt anyone could tell one way or another. Meanwhile, we had these long, uncomfortable pauses between songs because of Todd Panchowski’s misguided attempts at reverse showmanship. It was a disaster.
“Yeah, I hear somebody say keep on rockin’?” said Sam Hellerman after we had finished the first tune. Now, this world is vast and complex, full of ambiguity and uncertainty.
But if there was one thing in this muddled, crazy universe that was absolutely clear and beyond debate at that particular moment, it was this: Sam Hellerman had not heard anybody say keep on rockin’.
The best thing we had going for us was the song titles, many of which got a laugh when Sam Hellerman announced them. We did “Mr. Teone Likes ’em Young” and “Are There Hippies in Heaven (and If So, Can We at Least Confiscate Their Patchouli, ’Cause Otherwise I’m Definitely Going to Hell)?” We also did “I Wanna Ramone You,” which only I knew was in honor of Deanna Schumacher, and “Glad All Over,” which Sam Hellerman introduced by saying, “This song is about the face of God.”
Fortunately, our songs were very short. But we still had to cut quite a few because of Todd Panchowski’s delays, which were driving Sam Hellerman off the deep end. He kept looking back at the drum set, begging him with his eyes to start the song already. Plus, while Sam Hellerman was trying to introduce the songs with his clever little shrieked speeches, Todd Panchowski would just hit drums randomly, or practice his paradiddles on the snare. It was distracting, and I didn’t blame Sam Hellerman for being annoyed.
Our big finale was supposed to be “The Guy I Accidentally Beat Up,” the lyrics of which were just Paul Krebs’s name repeated over and over, ending in a wall of instrumental psychedelia during which we were supposed to 256
chant “Freak out, freak out. . . . ” Sam Hellerman announced the song as best he could, trying to shout over the paradiddles, and waited for Todd Panchowski’s irregular count-in.
He looked back after a while and saw TP standing on the drum seat with his arms raised for some reason. He’d had enough. He gave Todd Panchowski the most intense, most devastating eye-ray treatment the world had yet seen. Todd Panchowski flipped Sam Hellerman off, threw his sticks at him and stormed off the stage. Oh, well, it really wasn’t working out between us anyway.
So we did “The Guy I Accidentally Beat Up” without drums, but we skipped the actual song and started from the outro because we were running out of time and the audience was leaving. Sam Hellerman started bleeding from his nose, making sure that he thoroughly soaked the rented microphone. I put my guitar against the amp and turned it up all the way to cause as much feedback as possible, and then we knocked the drums over and tore the Magnavox apart by hitting it with the drum hardware. Sam Hellerman was on the speakers, jumping up and down, blood flying, hitting the Magnavox with a cymbal stand till it stopped making noise and was in several pieces. I was kicking the drum set, which soon was little more than a pile of rubbish. We were definitely going to have to find a new drummer after this. Todd Panchowski’s main qualification had been that he’d had a drum set. And he certainly didn’t have one of those anymore.
The set, and the Festival of Lights, finally ended when
“Chet” and a few others pulled us away from the wreckage and switched off the Polytone. Sam Hellerman, who had been rolling in his own blood screaming what sounded like
“yay-uss” over and over, had to be physically restrained by no fewer than three thoroughly confused goons. The students, who had been hurrying toward the exits when the destruc-257
tion began, had all stopped dead in their tracks to stare and remained frozen for some time. They didn’t know what to say—even “you suck!” must have seemed inadequate. There was total silence, and for probably the first time in my Hillmont High School career I could hear myself think. It was nice, though the thoughts weren’t.
TOTALLY CALLAB LE
We didn’t win the battle of—I mean, the Festival of Lights. The
“yo mama” guy did. Everyone had hated the Chi-Mos. But we had made an impression, albeit a negative one, and it was the kind of thing people talked about, which is what everyone did for the rest of the day and well into the following week.
Sam Hellerman had printed up a zine with the lyrics to all the songs on the set list plus several others. It had said
“Balls Deep,” of course, but as he stood at the main exit hand-ing them out, he wrote “The Chi-Mos” at the top of each one in Sharpie, so it looked like “Balls Deep” was just the title. It proved to be a pretty popular item because of its populist anti-Teone message, and he ran out quickly, promising to go over to the Copymat to make more as soon as possible.
I was kind of in a daze standing by the stage when Deanna Schumacher came up and whispered, “Thanks for hanging up on me, ass.” (It didn’t matter what I said before I put the phone back on the hook: she always claimed she thought I had hung up on her.) But then she said, “Nice show, sexy,” in a voice that didn’t sound all the way sarcastic and handed me a note, sneakily rubbing my palm with her finger as she did it, before running off to join her friends, who were on the way out. The note said: “Thanks for rawking my world. I’m totally callable Mon/Thur from 6 to 10 if you’re 258
into it,” and it was signed with a heart and a big “D.” And next to the heart it said “slurp.” I kid you not.
Cleaning up after our set had taken longer than anticipated, so I was late for sixth period. I stopped in to the otherwise deserted boys’ bathroom, and Mr. Teone ambled in.
Now, Mr. Teone’s office is located just across the corner from the boys’ bathroom at the southwest corner of center court, so he can see its door from his desk through the mirrored plate glass, though you can’t see him looking. When he has some important matter to discuss with a student in an un-official capacity, he’ll wait for his moment and try to meet him in the bathroom for an informal chat. I don’t know who takes care of the girls’ bathroom in that corner of center court. Not Mr. Teone, surely, but, hey, you never know.
I had never been a participant in one of these secret meetings, but I had walked in on them. When someone walks in, Mr. Teone abruptly ends the meeting and growls something like “keep your nose clean!” Then he’ll zoom out, but as he leaves he’ll say to the interloper: “that goes double for you, Henderson!” Well, he only says Henderson if the interloper happens to be me or someone else with my last name.
Obviously.
But for the first time, I wasn’t the interloper. I was the main guy.
“Well, well, Henderson,” he said, standing a couple of urinals over from me, “you and your stunt you boys pulled has a great deal of folks around here pretty steamed.”
I gave him a look that said: “well, if I interpret your tortured, semiliterate syntax correctly, my only comment is that all great artists are misunderstood in their own time.”
He stepped away from his urinal, which was kind of scary, but it turned out he was fully dressed and buttoned up. Thank 259
God. I gave up trying to pee and buttoned up as well. I can’t do that with anyone else in the room, especially Mr. Teone.
He was holding his reading glasses to one eye and squinting at a copy of Sam Hellerman’s song zine.
“Chi-Mos,” he said slowly, but he pronounced it, Schtuppe fashion, “chee moss.” “Mind telling me what that’s supposed to mean?”