I turn the corner at Waller Street for the final block before I reach my scribbled destination at 734 Schrader Street, the rehearsal room for the Brian Jonestown Massacre.
It's the side door. Guitarist Ricky had instructed me over a joint in a bathroom stall at the I-Beam right before the English shoegaze band the Pale Saints went on.
I eye the number over the door and verify that this is the building, then walk to the adjacent anonymous-looking narrow door between it and its neighboring Victorian, both case-study models of the type that sound-staged the original San Francisco sound of the 60s.
Before I enter, I adjust my caseless Sunburst 360 Rickenbacker electric guitar that I've got strapped on my back.
Holding the upside-down neck clasp, I turn the corner at the end of the hall.
I'm getting close to my leg as to not bump the headstock against the wall as I navigate the small, dark corridor.
I'm heading towards what looks to be the backyard, but then here's the side door into the building. This must be it.
Knock, knock, knock. The door flies open as I hear,
Hey, man, before I have time to visually register that it's Ricky.
Come on, we're just about to start. I've got an amp all set up for you, right here.
I duck my head through the doorway and the lighting is even lower than...
...in the outside corridor.
They are setting up and tuning guitars, plugging in effects, and tat-a-tat-tatting drums, so the introductions are the simple acknowledgements of smiles and fast hellos.
I go over to the amp and set my naked guitar against it, then scan around the room to get my bearings amid the individual activity.
The walls are partially covered with seemingly random homemade egg carton and foam pad soundproofing, and the decor beyond that is sparse.
The walls are partially covered with seemingly random homemade egg carton and foam pad soundproofing, and the decor beyond that is sparse.
From the handful of shows the Brian Jonestown maskers have played so far,
including the one I was at after spotting a street flyer,
a Telescopes album poster,
and a few random local band stickers,
despite this originally being a subterranean-like living space,
there is no furniture and the carpet is thin,
the guitar amps are topped with full-up cigarette ash trays
and repurposed drinking receptacles overfilled with more buds,
I've never been inside a DIY-style rehearsal space before,


for, and the dishevelment theme continues throughout. Seemingly random strips of peeling
duct tape sparsely zag and zig in random spots on the carpet. Guitar and mic cords messily cover
the floor like black licorice ropes, all taking the most complicated way possible to the plug-in
jacks of the big heavy amps and small effects pedals with flashing power lights. I eye the
Fender Twin Reverb guitar amplifier that has been provided for me close up. Its red on light
looks back at me and the plug-in jack is ready to be connected with my guitar, but I hesitate for a
moment. Not because I've only been playing the guitar for about six months, but because I can't
afford to own an amp of my own and in fact have never even played through one. I plug my guitar
into the amp and turn the volume on. Everyone is starting to look and sound ready, so I
stretch my fingers and take a deep breath. I take a deep breath and take a deep breath.

I strum an E minor chord out slowly, really slowly actually, so as to prolong the sound,
like maybe that adds something more to it by doing so. Normally someone would take the setting
up opportunity to squibbly do some random tasty licks as a preview to the imminent sonic goods
about to be rendered, but I can only play bassed chords and so I don't have any of those.
I then strum an open G chord while dragging the strings even slower than before.
Just to remind everyone that I came here to do business or something and I feel the falseness of
my bluff that is about to be exposed at maximum volume. It had taken me months to spring from my
360 Rickenbacker guitar, one exactly like Ride played at their own I-Beam show almost a year
ago now, but I didn't have enough for the case, which I hadn't bothered to get because I'd never
pictured myself in a situation like this so soon. Ricky had spotted me while smoking a joint in the
bathroom stall and I had the right look, I suppose, in what was a typical day for me attire,
armored under a tousled and sprayed Beatles-type haircut with round-toed Chelsea boots,
faded jeans, and plain black jumper top under cafe racer-style leather jacket.
My clothes signified which music subculture I held allegiance to and so here I was.
I'd seen and liked his band and was very attentive and seemingly the perfect mate to
be with. I was a fan of his music and I was a fan of his music and I was a fan of his music and
pontificated to as I didn't have anything musically going myself except for untapped
high-grade enthusiasm. It had been an unspoken celebratory all-day event when the Ride and
Lush tour came to town in April of 1991. It was the first big shoegaze show in SF,
an event that would help ignite the local scene. Everyone who was about to become the local
shoegaze scene was at Rough Trade Records that afternoon for the in-store record signings.
The band was the first to make a signing appearance on both bands. Fittingly on Hate Street,
everyone all together now and in daylight for the first time, a new society of reverb and weed,
shoegazer baggy babylings that would grow into Brit poppers in just a few short years.
The local SF chapter of our new worldwide music subculture was born, manifested out of our private
record collections and into the streets of San Francisco, and this was the new scene I wanted to
be in.
All of us bedroom nomads now for the first time had places to be, with our own bands to see,
and the more we gathered together, the more we built in numbers, turning it all into a music
clique of familiar faces repeatedly showing up to listen and see and be seen on the scene.
With its 480 record label aesthetic, shoegaze was a new musical style with a sound that had
never existed before, and BJM were already the most interesting of our local past.
Greg sits at the kit, in the corner of the room wearing John Lennon glasses.
His shortish brown hair and plain white t-shirt give him a more straight ahead look than the
other three, as is often the way with drummers. Travis has longer bright cherry red hair that
frames his all-American boy goes geisha face all natural. His green parka purposely comes off both
shoulders and he's riding a disjointed line between Kurt Cobain and a frayed teddy bear.
And that way girls really like. Ricky laughs a lot, and when he does, he somehow reminds me of
Bugs Bunny in drag, but having just taken the makeup off, except for the fake eyelashes,
if that makes any sense. His hair's back to its dark blonde now in its natural curly frizz.
Anton has long brown hair tucked behind his ears, which is probably for shoegaze guitar
functional purposes, but doubles as providing a smart look rather than long hair for long hair's
sake.
He's shown up in San Francisco two years ago already armed with a sound, one that evoked the
Chameleons, Spaceman 3, and what was going on at Creation Records in England. He took his
influences and turned them into something else, his own new thing. There's no audition vibe in
the room, more like they were just rehearsing anyway. Travis helps me make sure I'm still in
tune since my five block walk over here and we begin.
What chords do you play?
You know, Travis asks.
I can play all the major chords and most of the minors.
Okay, cool.
Let's strum E and A, Anton decides while absentmindedly biting on the tip of a guitar pick.
We play the chords together for a while, and once the drone has been spun long enough for
trance inducement, Anton begins to play a slinky chime guitar lead over it, which inspires the
others, and soon enough they've switched to weird chords that I don't know.
I fall off the boat, and after a little while, the jam ends.
Without me.
Feeling the hit, I play my one weird bar chord variation which sparks some promise and we jam
on that for a few minutes, but then I can only take it so far because I've never jammed with
anyone before in my life. Still, there is a glimmer of hope and they pick another song to show me.
Let's do Swallowtail, Ricky enthusiastically suggests. Anton takes over. Okay, it gets weird,
but basically you play E minor, G, D, C,
and A. He instructs as he simultaneously begins strumming the chord pattern.
I watch his hands and start playing along. I'm comfortable with these chords, and as we play,
I feel like I'm keeping up fine, but then Anton stops us and suggests a three-finger C configuration
to me. It will be easier, he assures, but I already know that finger positioning and I don't really
like it. More to the point, it's a sign that he thinks I'm struggling. We run through the song again until the end.
Then Travis is the first to speak. Do you mind if we just run through our whole set first?
We've got a show in a few days. He asks in a sort of we'll get back to playing with you way,
but everyone inwardly knows we won't be and I'm in fact relieved to have made it through this part
of the day. My probably all not that well hidden embarrassment comes mixed with undeniable bravery
for even trying to do this, and they not only recognize this, but it will be further revealed.
Respect me for not being afraid to try.
Despite my meager accomplishments. Regardless of how far out of reach something is, even too far out
can still pay off in some way, and the one part of today's mission that I knew I could pull off
before even going in had been accomplished. We were all friends now. The band continues
with their rehearsal while I sit against a wall and watch. The next song is called Shortwave,
sung by Travis. He looks less comfortable singing than Anton, but more than I would, and as they
play, Anton's looking at me, or more like through me as he strums. It's a glassy-eyed look and
hypnotizing in its steadiness, almost as if I'm being scanned while he is in the zone of the music.
Being in the room with the sheer immensity of the sound being made by these young boys with
freshly inked passports into manhood who are creating the most ethereal otherworldly sounds,
it was all so chill-inducing. The delay, tremolo, distortion, and the almighty
guitar effects used for this kind of music was just so huge. The room felt like it was expanding,
having to try harder to contain all that sound. I sat in wonderous awe that this could all even be,
watching Anton mostly in his large hollow-body guitar. When practice is over, the others are
immediately ready to hit the streets to find what they could run into for excitement along the hate,
but more likely it was what was going to run into them. There was a whole new thing going
on out there, and they had a buzz to be the ones that could go next level from the get-go.
Anton offers to show me a few guitar tricks, and I hang back while he demonstrates the simple
fingering that can move up and down the fretboard in a mostly open string, sitar-like drone.
I follow along, but I'm also tracking his sedate state and manner.
There is an indiscernible natural aura about him, a drugless zen of the kind that is up to the
observer to find, because he has a strong sense of humor and a strong sense of humor. He is a


man of his word. He himself seems to be unconscious of it. Like a cool vibe that comes with a house,
it just is. It doesn't have to impress you with furniture choices.
He would make a good teacher, I recognize. Not yet being able to recognize a guru and
student relationship of sorts has just been sown, despite it not being ready to flower
overground for another year, after my impending detour into the heydays of the illegal all-night
party scene as one of the twenty-four-hour party people. He gives me the secret heads-up,
that their upcoming show is actually to play on the roof of the Spaghetti Western restaurant on
Lower Haith Street. A friend of theirs had access to it from her bedroom window next door, and so
they were going to just set up the gear and play without permits or permission. I watched it that
night from a nearby window, as they let it be from the rooftop after the restaurant had closed.
At night, this section of Haith Street is alive with young excitement-seekers,
and it was prime time with four popular bars on the block,
churning out plenty of curious crowd material. Within the first song, the street was filled with
people and cars would have to detour around the block, meaning that the cops would soon be coming
to shut it all down and hence providing one of the best time-tested and true rock and roll rebel
performance narratives. It was not lost on me that under different circumstances this could have been
my first gig with the band, and in a rooftop style of performance like the Beatles, the band who were
the first to be released, and the original spark during childhood that had since consumed me
totally. This truly would have been a magical way to begin my adventure with the band,
but my magic day was still some way in the future.
As the months passed, I fell into a whole new circle of friends and was now meeting all kinds
of new music people, and although it felt like forever, I'd finally fully gotten over the breakup.
That's when one night as if on cue, the doorbell rang, and there was Christine, out of nowhere,
standing in my doorway and beaming, I just got back into town.
New Orleans had started out well enough, but quickly went further south.
With no friends or even contacts, she was lucky enough to find a job working as a cigarette girl
on her first day in town, but from there she was connected with a well-paying high-end bachelor's
club as an escort girl. Not realizing she was to be a full-service type of escort girl, in her words,
the only woman she'd ever known. On the first day, we had the honor of being in a bar with we just
had to go with it for a couple of weeks before having to quit because it got weird. As my
thoughts mingled in the possibilities of what weird could entail, we suddenly heard Christine
from the street below. It was a sort of shout whisper blend that made me uncertain I'd even
heard it, but then there it was again.
in. She froze up at attention with eyes wide, mouth slightly agape. Her reaction to this was
so curious that I just sat there in the silent moment, and then again it was shout-whispered,
but louder this time and in an abbreviated grunt manner, almost skipping over some of the letters.
Christine! She didn't budge. I went to the window and slightly pulled the curtain back.
Down below on the low-lit street, I saw a 20-foot moving truck with the logo all along the side that
read, One Big Man and One Big Truck, with an animated flexing muscle man arm. A big guy stood
in front of the open driver's door. He looked like a dirty blonde young Elvis, but his upper mouth
did this raised scuba diving mask thing and his nose was flat, while his eyes were a little extra
spread apart, like he had a pickle jar stuck over his head.
From the neck down, this Elvis head in a pickle jar was all big and nasty. In the ghetto, for real.
I turned my head back around while letting the curtain go. She didn't answer my questioning look.
Her eyes were wide, with mind wheels turning, but couldn't seem to get any traction.
Then we heard the big truck engine rumbling up to life. Is he leaving? She asked. I looked back
out again and he was still there, now sitting in the driver's seat and gazing up straight into my
arms. I looked back out again and he was still there, now sitting in the driver's seat and gazing up straight into my arms.
He kept them there, then very slowly pulled away while not averting his gaze until his face
entered the shadows. It was then she spilled the rest of her beans. She hadn't just arrived. She'd
been back for a couple of weeks and was living with this mover ex-com guy. That was until earlier
today when they'd had a big blow up and he'd scared the * out of her. The problem now was
he'd followed her over here, or maybe that was the intention. I had no way of knowing, but I
had no way of knowing which way was up in this story now. Then she broke down crying. I went to her,
but she suddenly darted up and ran down the stairs and out the door. She wasn't trying to run very
fast, so I caught up to her before she made it down to the reckless records corner. Hey, I called.
She stopped, then leaned up against the brick wall. I'm sorry, she said sobbing, then wiped the tears
with her palm while trying unsuccessfully to not smear her eye makeup. She looked up at me with the
mask off for the first time tonight, and a smile broke through the sadness. I moved in to hug her
when suddenly her eyes flashed wide, fixated on something over my shoulder. Out of nowhere,
she just started punching me in the chest. I unconsciously grabbed her flying wrists in an
effort to stop the punching, and that's when two very large hands slapped onto my shoulders and
flung me around hard. I only saw a flash of his face as he laid me out flat on the sidewalk.
From the ground, I looked up, and I saw her face. I looked up, and I saw her face. I looked up, and I
saw him with his arm wrapped around her shoulders as she cried into his chest.
She gave no resistance as they walked away. I'd heard around the scene that the guy who played
bass in the My Phony Valentine band sold, among other things, speed. I walked back to my apartment
and tracked down his number. In my mind at the time, it was to be a symbolic gesture to myself
that I would now switch my fortunes from being one of the worlds played to one who plays in life.
The Nazi coming was that from that night forward, I'd begun the bonkers,
out-of-my-head journey that would eventually lead me to the mental state where playing
the tambourine as a life identity role made perfect sense.