Writing the Review

5.1 What do I write, for fuck’s sake? What do I write? And who do I write it to?

0.1 Skyler. Fans of underground hardcore know him as a genius. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana —

I know him as a friend.

The first time I saw him was at a concert by a groundbreaking, fuck-off attitude hardcore band called Meat Grinder. He seemed possessed — a towering figure wracked in the thralls of some sort of creation fervor, eyes rolled back in his head as he worked over his guitar, facing his amp, feeding back, reworking the feedback into the main arc of the music, his stringy hair waving before his face, stuck with sweat to his forehead. His instrument was screaming out first a melody then, with a digital delay repeating the part, he was adding layers to the song, becoming its lead and second guitarists, its architect, its creator.

I write about music for a magazine that covers all of the underground stuff — live music, hardcore, punk, industrial — you name it. Well, almost; we steer clear of any form of country, even alt-country or that y’all-ternative stuff that’s been coming out of Austin. Hearing Skyler play for the first time could change your religion.

0.x Skyler. Kyrinne. Fans of underground hardcore know him her as a genius’s babe. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana — There’s no secret that she and Skyler are together; but with her high-arching halogen blond hair, buzzed down on the left side, grown long everywhere else, with her stunning, rock-star stature and beauty, the fans also know that she is verboten. At what penalty, they don’t ask — they simply don’t even try to go there. They admire Skyler’s work with sound, and they envy him for having Kyrinne. She plays a smaller role in the band. She plays the steady bassline that anchors Skyler. He tells me, sometimes, how bad he needs that. He quotes Charlie Parker, the jazz musician, to me. “He was playing in Dan Wall’s Chili House, a Harlem jazz club back in 1939, when he had this moment, right? Once Parker figured out that he could do anything — fucking anything, man — as long as he could resolve it back to the main theme of the song in time, his head broke open. Talking about it, Parker said, ‘I came alive. I could fly.’ When I have the guitar in my hands, I know how he felt when he said it.”

0.4 Skyler. Fans of underground hardcore know him as a genius. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana — But I know the real Skyler, the real deal.

Skyler’s first love was heroin. A close second was his guitar. Kyrinne came in a distant third. On the outside, in public she didn’t seem to mind. But I started coming to all their shows, I started hanging with them after hours, and I started to see through the public veneer; I got to know Skyler; I got to know the real deal.

2.1 Kyrinne is glowing, a savage beauty, as Skyler sits soundlessy in their living room, guitar in hands. He is lost in the song, his eyes rheumy, unfocussed. The drummer and vocalist are transient characters who won’t last six months with these two, but for now, they’re part of the most innovative hardcore act in town. The opening band, Deaf Lepers, have come along; a solution of coke cleverly packaged in a sinus-spray bottle is making the rounds, as is a pot pipe.

7.1 I want to take her for a night out. I want to walk with her —

“Read your write-up,” he says. It is past 3 am, the band are beat from playing, but way too pumped up to call it a night.

“My write-up?”

“Pigface, man.” He lowers his voice to sound like a TV news anchor. “Every madman industrialist’s twisted nightmare dream just came true, and it calls itself Pigface,” he says. Your word carries weight. Street weight, anyway — not major-label weight. When you gonna write us up?”

“How about now? That was a hell of a show, Skyler,” I say. I decline the pipe — the stuff only makes me sleep, and fast. I’m waiting for the nasal-spray bottle.

“Right now?” he says. “Here?”

I stretch. “No. In the morning. I need to get some rest and get the ringing out of my head before I can write.”

He sighs, bored but impatient at this loss of immediate gratification.

“First thing, Skyler,” I say, “relax.”

5.2 What do I write, for fuck’s sake? What do I write? And who do I write it to?

2.2 “Kyrinne,” he says, but he can’t be bothered to finish the sentence. He tosses her the keys; I need a lift home.

0.5 Skyler. Fans of underground hardcore know him as a genius. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana — But I know the real Skyler, the real deal. idiot savant.

It didn’t take me long to figure out, once I was tight with the band. When the guitar is in his grip, he explodes with genius, an artist in his own element. Other times, though, he can’t be bothered with the rest of the world. I asked him once why he didn’t spread his wings a little, try writing some with one of those programs or some electronic equipment. He huffed a laugh, dismissive, turned his head, and waved a lazy wave. When my review of their album hits the streets, I find him at a booth in the Deadwood, a refugee seeking asylum from the daylight.

“I read your write-up, man,” he says. He picks up the magazine and intones with just enough of a mockering edge to shit me, “‘Meat Grinder are one way-the-fuck-out-there recording project. Who knows what makes them tick? The single, Father, is nothing more, nothing less than five minutes of Skyler’s industrial-grade guitar feedback sculpting, am radio noise, and the metronome-steady beat of Kyrinne’s bass keeping — and barely keeping — this track in touch with Terra Firma. All throughout, though, the guitarist is airborne.” He slaps the magazine down on the table. “Shit, man,” he says, then dismisses the review with a lazy, backhanded wave.

Uh-huh, I think, You can’t hold down a job, your kinda-wife works a day job to keep you in guitar strings and smack, and you think you get to critique my writing. This is what I think, but it is not what I say. If I say this, things might get chilly between us, and I don’t want to lose access to him, ’cause if I lose access to him, I lose access to her.

0.6 Skyler. Fans of underground hardcore know him as a genius. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana — But I know the real Skyler, the real deal. idiot savant. him as a cuckold.

‘¦

2.3 “Kyrinne,” he says, but he can’t be bothered to finish the sentence. He tosses her the keys; I need a lift home.

In the van, she says, “So. What are you gonna say about the show?”

“My first impressions of Skyler’s genius with that guitar,” I say. “But he seems distracted, y’know? When he’s not playing, it’s like he’s checked out or something — like he leaves his body behind and ventures off somewhere else.”

Kyrinne nods to this, twice.

“What do you think?” I say. “I mean, you anchor him to the song.”

“To more than just that,” she says. I wait for more, but the moments pass without words. She pulls into a parking spot in front of my building. I’m intrigued about that comment she floated, though. Does she have more insight to share, something that might let me shed some insight on the band’s inner workings, Skyler’s psychology, anything?

“Come in for a drink?” I say.

She nods — again, two quick, staccato nods.

I’ve barely got the locks unlatched when I feel her arms enclose me; she’s broiling like a star with sudden passion, and we wind up on the floor, fucking, clothes jettisoned in a furious rush.

3.1 As we lie, panting, I feel the rugburn already on my knees, and I say, “More than I’d expected out of a ride home.”

“He can’t know,” she says. “Skyler. If he understood how alone I am, it’d hurt him; if he knew we did this without knowing that, he probably wouldn’t even care.”

I sit up on an elbow. “It’s that bad?” I ask. “You guys are young — too young to have drifted apart.”

“We were never all that together, except when we play. Sometimes I’m afraid that if I’m not there to anchor him, he’d never make it back.”

“But what do you mean about how alone you are? You’re beautiful. He can’t be tired of you.”

“We’ve never been like that very much,” she says. “It’s complicated. He’d never get by without me. I’m his rock, the one thing that keeps him functioning in the real world.”

Kyrinne and I have been seeing a lot of each other. I don’t know how long they’ve been sexless, but she burns like phosphorous every single time. I wonder how he ever managed to become indifferent to that.

0.41 Skyler. Fans of underground hardcore know him as a genius. The police know him as a repeat offender of certain minor laws, never a felony, always misdemeanor offences — public intox, disturbing the peace, third-party suspicion of domestic violence in their home, possession of small amounts of marijuana — But I know the real Skyler, the real deal.

Skyler’s real name is Wilberfarce, Kyrinne tells me. “Do not ever, ever let him know that you know,” she says. I can see why he upgraded his handle’s hip-factor, I think, but I don’t say it. I don’t want her to think I’m petty.

Skyler’s first love was heroin. A close second was his guitar. Kyrinne came in a distant third. On the outside, in public, she didn’t seem to mind. But I started coming to all their shows, I started hanging with them after hours, and I started to see through the public veneer; I got to know Skyler; I got to know the real deal. Skyler needed smack. He’d let himself get addicted — which, with heroin, really isn’t difficult. So he needs the stuff. And, being his friend, I sometimes buy a dime and bring it by for him.

1.1 Cuckold. If I say this, things will get chilly between us fast, and I don’t want to lose access to him, ’cause if I lose access to him, I lose access to her. I come by about 7:00 with a gift for my friend Skyler. When I knock, I hear someone come to the door, see the peephole go dark for a second, then light again. Kyrinne opens the door. She holds an ice pack to her right eye. Skyler is left-handed.

“Kyr, what — ?” I start, but she cuts me off, points a finger at me.

“You can’t judge him,” she says, her voice harsh and quiet. “He’s hardly ever like this.”

I feel a swell of bravado, though. “Where is he?”

She shrugs. “I was talking with him about maybe getting part-time work. He was playing his guitar, his eyes all fogged over, y’know, and he wasn’t paying any attention to me,” so I asked, “Hey, are you even in there?”

I nod. “So suddenly his eyes focus, it’s like he’s back, he’s out of the music, and outta left field, he realizes he’s not in the zone anymore, and he’s pissed off.”

She stops. I wait, but that’s all the words she has on the story, so I reach out to hold her. But she pulls back and looks around, wide-eyed. “Not out where everyone can see,” she says. At first I think she’s afraid someone will see us in an intimate moment and tell him, but that’s not it; she doesn’t want to hurt him.

“Doesn’t he deserve a little pain?” I say, but she wanders away through their living room and into the kitchen, returning with two cold cans of beer, never answering. “Look, is he gonna be gone for a long time?” I ask. “Long enough for us to be alone together?”

She shrugs. “He’s unpredictable when he’s like this. He could come through the door right now, he might not for a couple of days.”

“What about my place?”

She shakes her head. “I’m not going out with a black eye. Someone might see.”

Why would that be bad? I think, and I think the expression on my face gives away my exasperation. But I know the answer: She’s protecting him, watching over this pseudo-genius so the whole world won’t see the broken, barely functional truth. Skyler suddenly seems childlike to me, and I feel like I’m in a competition with him he doesn’t even know about — the battle for Kyrinne. Only how can I be in battle if my opponent doesn’t know it.

7.2 I want to take her for a night out. I want to walk with her, kiss her, hold her hand —

0.8 I think about telling him, but if I do, do I lose her in the process? Does he shrug it off, but outlaw the two of us ever being alone together anyway? I despise and pity him at the same time.

I hear the keys fumbling at the door. But the unlocking takes longer than it should, the air between us and the door filled with clattering, metal clinking against metal; Skyler can’t get the key in the hole.

Kyrinne stands, gives me a sad smile, and goes to open the door. Again, my expression must betray my exasperation, but what else can I do? I’m stuck.

She opens the door, and there he is, the guitar genius, his face red and wet; she embraces him and I keep hearing her tell him, “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay –”

3.1 When he looks up and sees me, the confusion shows on his face, and I feel like a deer trapped in headlights. Then I remember the heroin in my pocket.

I stand, produce the little baggie, and present it to him. And his tears stop, his face brightens, and he walks to my side to take it, leaving Kyrinne behind at the door.

“A good friend,” he says. “I was running low. You’re just in time.”

I shake his hand, then hers, and make my way out. I can’t even say it. I can’t even acknowledge that I was there after her, not to give him, my friend, the heroin — that was just a prop, and excuse.

Another Saturday night, another Gabe’s gig for The Grinder, and I notice something I’ve never noticed before. The band has a song called “TotalCore,” but on the set lists it’s spelled “ToatlaCroe.” Another, “Piledriver,” is jumbled, as well.

After the set, Kyrinne is radiant, positively thermonuclear. I ask Kyrinne about it.

“Oh,” she says, shrugging. Then she lowers her voice to a whisper. “Don’t tell anyone — Skyler’s dyslexic.”

“He’s that bad?”

She nods. She has no more words for the subject. She has just glossed over the fact that her partner can barely read. I’m shaking my head in wonder, wondering how much else she shields him from. I reach out and grab her arm, startling her. “Listen,” I say. “I think I’m in love with you.”

0.x Three. Two. One.

7.3 I want to take her for a night out. I want to walk with her, kiss her, hold her hand —

0.x Three. Two. One.

7.3 I want to take her for a night out. I want to walk with her, kiss her, hold her hand —

in public.

0.x Three. Two. One.

5.3 What do I write, for fuck’s sake? What do I write? And who do I write it to?

0.0 — idiot savant.

It didn’t take me long to figure out, once I was tight with the band. When the guitar is in his grip, he explodes with genius, an artist in his own element. Other times, though, he can’t be bothered with the rest of the world. I asked him once why he didn’t spread his wings a little, try writing some with one of those programs or some electronic equipment. He huffed a dismissive laugh, turned his head, and waved a lazy wave. Now I knew: He communed with the world through his guitar, and with great expertise and intuition. But only through the guitar. How could he ever work with a song-writing app when he could barely read?

5.4 What do I write, for fuck’s sake? What do I write?

3.3 Now she’s the one who looks caught in the headlights. She gives me that sad smile and shakes her head, twice, slowly.

1.2 Later, Skyler tosses her the keys to take me home from their place, lost in a delirium of strumming, unplugged. When we get to the van, I feel a dangerous urge flood over me; before we pull out, I pull her to me and kiss her full-on. She pushes against me, shoving me away. “What the fuck are you doing?” she asks. “Are you trying to get caught?”

I consider the question. Maybe I am. Maybe I want this out in the open. “I told you,” I said, “I think I’m in love with you.”

Shaking her head twice, in sharp, decisive arcs, she says, “Oh hell.”

This is not what she’d counted on. She takes me to my building and gives me a perfunctory kiss as I climb out. She stares straight ahead as I go. “No more,” she says. “I can’t handle this. You’re getting reckless.”

“No more?” I ask, stunned. I feel like a Clydesdale has just kicked an iron-shoed foot into my sternum. My chest burns like the heart of Chernobyl, all radiation and heat and Eastern-Bloc steel.

“None. You can come to our shows, we all like the press you give us, but no more coming back with us. Okay?” She’s radiant, the light and heat coming off her like Hiroshima’s second sunrise that fateful day.

“But he smacks you around,” I say.

“Not much, and not often,” she says. “Look, it’s complicated. You’ll never understand it, and I have no words to explain it, okay?”

And just like that, it’s over, and she’s driving away. And my chest is exploding, a mushroom cloud broiling away the damp late-night air —

6.1 I can’t sleep, so I start typing in a review of the show. Kyrinne’s hair was like a neon-cabernet explosion tonight. I was hoping to talk her into my apartment, but I think I finally pushed her too far. She’d never consider leaving him, I can see that now. Their orbit is entirely too unique, entirely too tight, entirely too dysfunctional for that to happen. I light a smoke and start searching for new metaphors for the noise sculpture Skyler creates when they play live.

The Grinder aren’t much as a studio band, I write. But catch them live. Seriously, it’s like the studios confine their sound too much, remove some vital inertia from their live performances. The album track for a song like “Breaker” sounds confined, even claustrophobic on the album. On stage, it’s an act of sonic terrorism, an all-out assault on the audience.

I pen a line or two about Skyler’s genius with his chosen instrument — as though he had a choice in the choosing — but they ring hollow, now; the truth is, he seems pathetic, and he has the woman I want to have. The truth is, that facade of musical genius is starting to grate on me. I write a few lines about Kyrinne’s rock-steady performance, but quickly realize that I need to delete references to her beauty and the sexy way she bobs her head to the beat, the way her hair sways with it as she holds the songs together. No point being obviously in love with a taken woman. Certainly no point publishing it for the world to diagnose. I feel more disappointed than wounded; Kyrinne is too beautiful, too unique a creation to waste on a smack-addicted, barely literate child-man. Wilburfarce, I think, for god’s sake. But it’s her decision. I find myself hating her for it, but I get, now, that my part in their bizarre relationship was just that: a part in their bizarre relationship. And that part has just been written out.

5.4 What do I write, for fuck’s sake? What do I write? And who do I write it to?

Writing the Review

Jonathan Lyons

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