(Over) Throw Your Hip
by Albie, Elrod and Hotter
TheHiddenCity asks: "What happens when three of Albany's finest singer-songwriter musician artiste types live together in a secret location on Delaware Avenue affectionately known as the Knothaus? What would happen if they were to start writing music together? Writing prose about writing music together? Seamlessly so, where the rest of the world (and the authors themselves) could not be sure where one writer's words ended and the words of another began? Paragraphs passed back and forth like solos, lines like traded guitar licks, seemingly at random until it all comes back to the head? Well wonder no more. This is what happens."
(Over) Throw Your Hip
How my mind paralyze in the throw of sound in The Knothaus.
In the throes of sound. Throwing sound. It's all the same in the Outer Space, this cyclone of bats and frozen windows; the whorl of spent guitar strings and lyric sheets and albums and attics.
The attic is what brought the three of us together. It's a perverse songwriter daycamp through the filter of a recently blinded Godard. Marky-Marquis de Sade. Welcome to the Knothaus.
It's a ready-made Treeshack. (Redi-RubberMaid - her italic smile made me.)
Gorch and HotStain surveyed different shacks, fell in love with the space above this Mona Terrace terror-shield. A secure home secure enough to let in the wild, and let it sit alongside. A controlled habitat for music making and lyric writing that's doted on by Nature outside itself, let out through song.
Others hear the call, time comes down, EdNigma splits down State Street way, knothaus moves closer to the heart Albanian, Albeethrian things.
Albeethro Tull, steelfanger fool o mighty...bodacious on the do bro...energy big blue voice baleful lightning brown-eyed steamroller enlarged heartcenter..
"And then the 'what's what factor' comes into play."
Really just a polite way of saying that none of our friends (whom we all adore and are lucky to have) knows what the hell any of us are talking about.
Bathtub meditational invocations and hubcapspitoons. aha relaxation farm.
three frozen slickfish slip on their reflection movies
how my reflection movie spent the summer
how my reflection movie sweated and burned in thin sleep and troubled dreams, with strange thangs flying overhead. Morpheus has the fits.
Elrod Hubbard, birdmain deluxe, hawknose, bottle-bespectacled song factory, apostrophe posture, cannonade laughter.
Subplot vignettes: Sudden IMP-act. Hotpants, Gorch. They're bad, they're diminutive. They're IRISH. They're rocknrollevil leprechauns... fighting the scum of the earth with shellales shaped like SG Juniors replete with complicated rock and roll shoes. Will spin off into sequels, starting with 'Gorch Song Trilogy' and 'The Hotter The Better'.
Subterfugeplot vignette: The Special Occasion. HotStuff in his favorite chair, interviewing sundry and all about sundry and all from the humble confines of the knothaus living room. TV Show, to be produced by Jason R Martin, with your bandleader Bryan Thomas. Charles Bukowski will be the Boom Operator. HR the cameraman.
Childlike, sad-eyed fire-fretted Hotter, wild like summertime, the ultimate rock'n roll name, like Jimmy Page trapped in the body of Dondi, from the comics.
And the months roll fairish sweet-sour in the Knothaus, with its old drains leaking out into this noisy, painted corner of our beloved old Albany, all that shit fertilizing the grass that we stare out at from the loving sunporch in the warm months, that now frozen windowbox framing 10 billion skeletal treebranches against cotton candy sunsets over the grey rooftops and frozen driveways, trees in their deep winter death-poses. Our beloved old albany, with her mean old heart and her canyon effect wind and her grime; the beautiful eyes and ways of the walkers on her many streets.
the unheated, dark attic bedroom, with its black walls and no 'lectrizity and haunted way, where we all sleep like Anne Frank when we can't make the rent, when our things get stoled, when our loves break apart and we live in a pile of thick orange leader cords strung up splintery steps, cold to the feet at night, bats squeaking in the crawlspace overhead (no shit!) blinking at the strange light, dust particles whirling slow like on the air, spiral-waltzing with the early sun.
Now, with these weird days ramping up starry-eyed, we all know the cruel lovembrace of that room. When you wake up in the morning, teeth hurting from the cold, crispy nosehairs pluming the breath out into the bedroom and wondering if your naked skin will be able to stand that frigid air long enough to get dressed. It always does..When you may as well be 50 miles from the bathroom. It's like living inside a Tom Waits album cover. The Hundred Bucks a Month Plan. The One Step from Homelessness Plan. The Musicians Cum Patron Cum Dumbass Planless Fucks Plan.
When we just trolls up in the crow's nest, writing songs about how, one day, our tired feet will know the ground again.
Waving bye on the Fourth of July, spent nights on rooftops, dodging the trouble on the street, home with caresses of soft women, swerving 'mongst wheel grabbers, living your above average sci-fi rock'n'roll scheme dream in all its ordinary, daily grind, slow to all peaks, king of the mount-top glories.
And we write and we play and we eat and we get older and we work, trying to find our way through the field of stone, weaving our way to our loves and homes and selves. We read books about jazz and mexican indian mysticism and incredible hulk comics in the commode, live on pasta and broccoli, seldom mop the floors and don't shave or sleep often enough.
And then, the weekend.
The singing/playing/deliverance of ye olde wroth, the getting paid, the drinking, the smoking, the laying down with warm skin and soft voices and dear hearts in quiet bare rooms lit night-blue by candles and muted televisions. Dancing with her under the hanging lights of the Palais Royale Bar and Grill.
Primordial monkeyshines and powerful strangeness at work in the living room, between the snatches of wild talk and poverty and guitar frippery, half secret alliances and darkened deals, anonymous stardom fantasies, and, once, local celebrity vomit when bad crazy comes to town. The sweet, quiet light of eighteen tuned strings weaving themselves into three voices then out into purpled nights, traffic softly hissing when we're soul-tired and it all seems to burst with meaning, somehow...
Knothaus Nuthouse- The Dream-shack Prose hole single guy hell. the homeplace where the homeboys live, keeping the home fries burnin.
"I was a failure, and I get very sad and depressed about it."
MyownpersonalDavid Lynch Movie
The nightly news comes to us all in our dreams.
the sleepmovies reveal the lives we live, rather than the ones we act out, from time to time. the love and fellowship and ire, the dark and the light. the delicate and brutal. Three Jackasses and Their Guitars. Watch amazed and see the trouble they cause!