10,519. TREMBLING AROMATICS

TREMBLING AROMATICS

If I went into to surgery unprepared,

they'd still knock me out and I could

then only hope they knew what they

were doing. I'd always wished to be

awake for the big cuts : the slice down

the lobe, the rip in the gut. Something

to remember them by.

-

Like they remember me, maybe, in

1973  -  punching and pawing my way

for them on stage after stage of drudgery

and blood. Places like Max's and CBGB's,

just getting going, more glitter than crud.

They called me the three-chord psycho.

-

I came and went, mostly I hoped to come.

Yeah, it was like that a lot  - nobody knew

what they pawed and everything was green.

Money flowed in anarchic forms  -  fake

managers and screaming equipment guys;

little girls with cream and soda. Two new

fags, pounding heads.

-

I opened for Flowless Foxy Raye. Whatever

all that was, I never did stay  -  jokes and

violence, two guitars that made no sense,

and a guy twirling knives while something

danced. Might have been Foxy, but it sure

couldn't sing. You could get away with

stuff like that back then.

-

Surefire virgins, doctors with scalpels,

vestcoats with pockets for fish, a tall man

in a taller hat, always hanging around like

some Abe Lincoln in dazzle, and that, that

again was something to see. Some kids

from Long Island, bent as bad spokes,

called themselves Glum-Ox and played

for the rafters  -  loud as could be. The

kids loved, and more. Drugs on the

scenery; pushcart babies in blue gauze.

-

We finally got it together enough to be called

Punk. 'Razor-Punk' we said we wanted. We

called ourselves  -  well, eventually  - the

Trembling Aromatics and it worked. We

hoped for a record deal and even a show,

for real. Then (God-damn him) Arnie

sold us out  -  took our name and had

us do a perfume commercial for a new

fragrance they named after us. Fucking

jerks  -  went and ruined everything.

We got 1600 bucks, and that was that.
Nobody wanted to even hear our name.