Autumn Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

“Experiences are just time passing in different ways. Time passes and continues on. It has nowhere to go”—Ottessa Moshfegh, Homesick for Another World.

Fall. The sun starts heading south. It’s a pretty nice time of year, especially with the summer being so hot. It’s pleasant with the leaves and all the other things changing. I have been going for early morning walks, as required by my dog Siobhan. Mornings are the best, as it is dark at this latitude and the stars and the moon are in full effect. This is the time of year for reminiscing, well, for me anyway. 

A vignette: I am swimming in a saltwater pool. Air is still and the water is calm. I lightly tread water with my head just above the water line. I drop under the water and hear the muffled sounds of the radio. It is strange how quiet and insular the experience of being under water is. Time seems to stop. I feel small and isolated, all alone. I feel the need for a breath; I rise to the surface smoothly.  

What song is on the radio? “Good Vibrations” by the Beach Boys.

What song should they be playing: “Pet Sounds” by the Beach Boys.

While I really like the Beach Boys, the whiney voice can grate on me after a bit. The title track on Pet Sounds is really cool, as it is all instrumental. It has all the great layers that Brian Wilson added to songs. Allegedly, he liked to have eight layers in his songs. Was he inspired by a visit to a petting zoo or did he go after penning the song?

Cactus Jack’s Bar & Grill, Palm Desert, California.

Sitting at the bar with all the other old codgers, I receive a stiff pour. I guess that’s a good thing? Some of the guys are with their long-time loves, others seem to be trying some things with a younger set. The menu looks good with old-style favorites done right. Some of the guys have their meds laid out beside their drinks. Is this what the last stage of life looks like? I guess what’s important is we are still out talking to each other. I sip on a rum and coke. Someone stumbles to the front door, “see you again tomorrow!”

What song is in my head? “Jack-Ass” by Beck.

Beck has so many great tunes and albums. I really like the track “Hollywood Freaks” and the album Mutations, which won a Grammy. Safe to say he’s my favorite Scientologist.

I go to Home Depot to hunt for some home improvement stuff. What songs are they playing? “How Much I Feel” by Ambrosia. This is a pretty good selection—nice and melodramatic. Ambrosia had a couple of great hits and were fairly prolific in the 1970s. I really enjoy their songs “Biggest Part of Me” and “Holdin’ On to Yesterday,” produced by Alan Parsons. “How Much I Feel” is a great song. I am left thinking about my baby while trying to find some goddam pipe insulation.

“Lonesome Loser” by the Little River Band.

This is another great song. The Little River Band is one of those bands that is akin to the Steve Miller Band. It seems like they wrote about twelve songs—all of them outstanding and played endlessly. I caught Steve Miller at Red Rocks in the early 1990s, and it was an enjoyable show.  The Little River Band had some fine songs, such as “Cool Change,” “Help Is On Its Way,” and “Reminiscing.” “Lonesome Loser” really hit me when I heard it on some retro-rock station back in the 1990s. This is me! I really didn’t have anything going on and was just sort of aimlessly drifting between jobs and bars. This song gave me some inspiration, “Hey, these Aussies wrote a song about me, how’s about that?” Now, if I could just find some eight-foot pressure treated 2x8s. 

“Garden Party” by Rick Nelson.

I’m not certain, but I think they were playing the Johnny Lee rendition in the store. What a perfect track! This “party” sounded like quite the scene for sure. But what about those lyrics? “You can’t please everyone, so you have to please yourself.” That’s for sure! Home Depot, between the crazy prices, the endless inventory, and the random sales pitches, appears to be doing fine. Even in my frustration and the knowing that I will have to come back a few more times today, it’s nice to have a couple of solid tracks rolling through my head.

A vignette: I am in my backyard in Loveland. The apple tree is full of green honey crisps. I grab the ten-foot apple picker and start going to work. The wasps and the squirrels have done some damage. It feels like I am making some progress, but every time I move slightly around the tree, I spy another bunch of apples waiting for me. It’s a perfect fall day, warm with a cool breeze. The best apples are hidden, all by themselves, sure to be perfect as they are untouched by the pests. I strain to try and grab one. Unfortunately, I dislodge another unseen apple and it smacks me in the face.

What song is in my head? “Smooth Sailing” by Queens of the Stone Age. 

My wife and I caught them play in the early 2000s at the House of Blues in Dallas. I wasn’t very familiar with their catalog but was blown away. They absolutely crushed every song.

I’m heading back to Denver to hit some open mics. I tune into my top station, the Jazz stalwart in the greater Denver area, 89.3, the oasis in the city. Great mixes and great DJs. The set list includes Pete Fountain, Bobby Hutcherson (shout out to the vibraphone), and Eric Alexander. This music is perfect for driving. I just ease in and enjoy the greatness. During a break, I flip around the dial and stumble on the perfect song for this venture.  

“Drivin’ My Life Away” by Eddie Rabbitt.

This song went to number one on the Billboard 100—not bad for a country crossover artist. Eddie Rabbitt also had the massive hit “I Love a Rainy Night,” a solid jam as well. I think “Drivin’ My Life Away” is about being a “trucker.” I sure can relate. In the car culture of our generation, it seems that we’re always in a car heading somewhere almost every day. Thanks to oil and automotive industries! Really, to some extent, everyone is “driving their life away.” Here’s hoping you are going somewhere nice or at the minimum listening to good music.

A vignette: We’re standing outside a derelict building on South Broadway. There’s a for lease sign in a window. My buddy and I are talking about our sets and the comedy scene in general.  We trade notes and talk about the shows we were on last week. I did a guest spot at a show in Greeley and did 8 minutes. The crowd consisted of five people. He did 12 minutes to 12 people in Golden. You can’t blame the audience. You come correct each time—and feel lucky. A lady hops out of her car and asks us, “Are you guys laughing at my parking job?” My buddy says “No Ma’am we’re comics, just cracking each other up.”

Heading out of Denver, I inadvertently stumble onto 95.3 FM Denver/Brighton—Legends Radio.  They have a pretty solid playlist:

Ray Parker Jr. and Raydio, “Jack and Jill.”

Shocking Blue, “Venus.”

The Hues Corporation, “Rock the Boat.”

Leif Garrett, “I Was Made for Dancing.”

Patsy Cline, “Back in Baby’s Arms.”

The Box Tops, “The Letter.”

The 5th Dimension, “Puppet Man.”

The Four Tops, “I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie Honey Bunch).”

What a fun ride! About 20 minutes up I-25, I hear the DJ say, “Now for a legendary hit throwback….” Truth! The station then faded out. It is sad to hear the DJ playing the soundtrack, from back in the day, disappear.

I switch over to the standby, #1 on my FM1 radio presets, 89.3. 

What is on their airwaves? “In a Silent Way” by Miles Davis.

I cannot get enough of Miles. I’m mystified as to what in the world is going on in this guy’s head. Granted there’s a lot of drugs sloshing around, but the music he put out is incredible. This song flies just below the radar, being overshadowed by so many others. Nevertheless, it is a real gem. It is about 20 minutes long—what a journey. He has Joe Zawninul (of Weather Report) on keyboards and Tony Williams on drums. Miles, per usual, surrounded himself with and inspired the best musicians in the business. This is the perfect song as I drive through the northern Denver suburbs on my way home.

Traveling west on Larimer County Road 402, heading back into Loveland, there’s a DJ switch, and the new guy starts his show with “Fantastic Man” by William Onyeabor.

This Nigerian musician is known as a pioneer in the psychedelic funk genre. I don’t know what the hell that means, but it sure sounds cool. A buddy of mine had this on vinyl. When I first saw the cover, I thought it was Gary Coleman (of Different Strokes) in a white cowboy hat. This song sounds like something you might hear if Tom Robbins needed a title track to one of his novels, such as Another Roadside Attraction. A fun lyric on this one is: “You look so good, fantastic man.” Thank goodness, it’s good to be lucky.

Monkeys on Mars EP (2025)

By Beert

An exciting message arrived not too long ago. It told tales of a great convergence of two forces that seemed destined to meet. Admittedly, I was immediately intrigued, as Mars Red Sky (Bordeaux, France) was one of the two behemoths enlisted in this project. I’ve had the pleasure of spending time with the members of Mars Red Sky. They are wonderful people, and their music takes you to another place. Anything they do, I immediately want to hear it. I was not familiar with the other force, Monkey3, from Lusanne, Switzerland. While they formed in 2001, they were completely off my radar. So, I took a little time to check them out. Given what I heard, I could only imagine what this joint project would bring to light (or send to the other reaches within our solar system). The name of this combination of musical brilliance, between two heady, spacey, psychedelic bands, is Monkeys on Mars. They are releasing a two song, twelve-inch EP on October 17, 2025, as a collaboration between Mars Red Sound and Napalm Records.

I have been itching to get ahold of this slab of vinyl, and finally the pre-order became available (https://marsredsky.bigcartel.com/product/monkeys-on-mars-vinyl-ep-monkeys-on-mars). I jumped online and briefly debated ordering, only because the shipping is almost as much as the album and t-shirt bundle. I couldn’t resist and placed my order. 

I’ve been a patient fella, knowing that the records weren’t even pressed yet. So, I planned to bide my time until a package arrived. Imagine my surprise when I received an email containing the files to the two songs on the EP for an early listen. It was not the 3-plus minute “teaser” version of “Seasonal Pyre” (which you can hear here: https://monkeysonmars.bandcamp.com/track/seasonal-pyres-tiny-flames-edit), but the full blown 24 minute, 25 second sweeping epic. With that said, let’s dive into it.

The bands play together on this EP. It is not a Mars Red Sky on one side, Monkey3 on the other side release. This is a full-on experience, much like when Big Business was integrated into the Melvins. Two monsters of music becoming one, complementing each other.

Side 1 features the song “Seasonal Pyres”—11:09 in length. This song has vocals, featuring Julien Pras from Mars Red Sky, giving a haunting, ethereal performance, as only he can do. It begins with a slow build of keyboards, creating the feeling of an opening scene from a Star Wars film, where you see a star destroyer slowly coming on the screen, with a view from below. It’s anticipatory and exciting. It bristles the hairs on the arms and grabs your attention. It is nearly 2 minutes before the guitars come in, with an energetic, but ominous 4 notes. At 2:30, you get the drums providing a slow and steady rhythm. There is a heaviness, a dragging, giving the listener a reason to fully exhale. Julien brings his vocal delivery with lyrics mystic and laden with a dark undertone:

Oh when the sparks ignite

The tinder aflame

Live in the dead of night

We track echoes of its name

These seasonal pyres

Our only claim to fame.

Throughout the song, you’re given textures and moods, in musical notation. It creates a feeling of loss and being lost; of being in a “civilization” of fear and mistrust; of witnessing a savagery while trying to maintain a compassion for humanity. All of this is brought forward through lyrics and the composition. When described as heavy, the intent is given in a multitude of ways. But with the heaviness comes a beauty and a sense of personal uplift. While the song surpasses 11 minutes, you don’t want it to be over when it comes to an end.

Side 2 of the EP is an instrumental: “Hear the Call.” The initial impression is one of a soundtrack to a space western if Sergio Leone would have put one on film. I can see a lone space cowboy, staring into whatever would be the nearest star, with a weary look of someone who’s been wandering for a long time. The song builds as the soundscape progresses, creating a transcendence of your mind. The music creates many pictures in your almost subconscious vision, taking you away on this journey. You’re writing your own story as the music gives you the clues. It’s hard to define, but I think each listener will have their own tale to tell. For me, as mentioned, I’m getting a space western feel. Gritty, dirty, and full-on adventure. A space opera, perhaps…for your mind to figure out.

This EP takes you on a journey for sure. And I want to go again. My fingers twitch as I anxiously await the album to come in the mail. I want to spin this record on the stereo, shut the lights off, and just be taken away for 24 minutes.

Monkeys on Mars are touring around Europe. I must get a passport.

Brent Hinds (1974-2025)

 

By SoDak

Admittedly, I was among the folks who were not pleased with the more melodic turn of Mastodon on Crack the Skye (2009), which included Brent Hinds’s vocals. I really liked Remission (2002) and Leviathan (2004). I thought Blood Mountain (2006) was a masterpiece. I continued to buy the records following Crack, but I did not devote much attention to them. My interest returned with the Emperor of Sand (2017), when I saw them play again. I was blown away by the quality of the songs, from throughout their catalog, and I thought the singing by all of them was excellent. Perhaps, I needed some time to reassess the records. Ongoing discussions with Jack Rafferty were also enjoyable, given his deep appreciation of Mastodon. I also enjoyed watching the film on the making of Emperor. Over the last eight years, I have thoroughly enjoyed returning to Mastodon’s music and getting excited them. I can appreciate the various changes and developments in their sound, and I hear a continuity across the records. Part of this joy has involved appreciating Hinds’s contributions to the band. He was an extraordinary guitar player, and he often drew upon banjo fingerings, creating a distinct style. He wrote both catchy riffs and beautiful compositions. I really love the emotion in his clean vocals. Over the last few years, my wife and I often listen to the song “Toe to Toes,” from Cold Dark Place (2017) while watching the video. Hinds’s brilliance on the guitar and singing is evident. I will miss hearing what new he would have created. 

Denver Soundtrack

By Jack Stephen

I am headed to Denver to hit some open mics. What do I listen to?

As I drive down I-25 south from Loveland, I flip around the dial, and the radio sounds tired. It is the same old nonsense. The news on NPR is too depressing. I connect to my Spotify. I know what you are probably thinking, Spotify and its algorithm are the antichrist to music. I will not argue; you definitely have a point. My Spotify always recycles the same old music, kind of reminding me of a tired ass radio station. Nevertheless, I really like exploring music I am unfamiliar with and being able to pick music on demand. But, yeah, Spotify is not really doing the listener any favors. This is part of the perversion of the Arts and Entertainment industries under a capitalistic system. Where did the wheels really go off the track in the industry? Was it back when Black artists had album covers with white people? Was it when the whole payola thing got going and gave a few rich people a bunch of control? Was it when Barry Gordy had his label and screwed over artist after artist? Was it when producers gave starving artists sweetheart deals, forcing them to sell their souls to some rich producer and record company that really hadn’t done anything? I guess it comes down to the basic problem with capitalism in and of itself; there’s just never been a limit to the money. How much can you make? While the free market economy probably gave rise to many phenomenal musicians, groups, and genres, a lot of assholes leveraged the work and genius of the artists to enrich themselves. Thus, to blame Spotify, Youtube, or the Internet can be a bit misplaced. Today, these tech companies are merely capitalizing on the fallout of the Napster ruling. What really should happen is the Internet needs to just be turned off or minimized a bit. Then maybe we can all get back to the music hall and hear our neighbor play some tunes, instead of seeing the video taken on our iPhone.

What are my top two hits on my Spotify “On Repeat” channel?

“Headless Heros” by Eugene McDaniels is the first. I recently finished reading Questlove’s book Music Is History, which is great even though it peters out in the later chapters. I went through and listened to all the artists mentioned in the book—McDaniels really caught my interest. I had never heard of this guy, and he sure was a funky musician. I like to think I’ve always been immersed in funk tunes, so never hearing of this guy sure was peculiar. This track is off the album Headless Heroes of the Apocalypse (1971), which is an incredible album. Looking at the Interweb, I discover that this album pushed the envelope to the point where Vice President Spiro Agnew called the record company and tried to get the album buried. My guess is that this action was mostly due to this track. McDaniels sings about how we are all pawns in the “master game” known as capitalism. McDaniels, like many others, was irked that the super-rich had taken over, while the rest of us poor schlubs just play the pawns in their games. This situation really hasn’t changed, definitely since the 1960s. Much like Gil Scott-Heron, these artists, with their politically motivated songs, sought to strike a nerve and comment about what was going on. Scott-Heron wrote about how “whitey’s on the moon, I can’t pay no doctor bills…. Ten years from now I’ll be payin’ still.” Fucking Jeff Bezos and other billionaires have their own space programs! Not only have things not changed, but they’ve also gotten worse. Revolutionaries, such as McDaniels and Scott-Heron, saw it coming! Spiro knew how dangerous it was for people to have this knowledge, especially when it’s told in such a funky-ass way. Funny he had to resign because of tax evasion related to some kickbacks he was getting when he was Governor of Maryland and (as it turned out) the Vice President, but what does it matter. I guess McDaniel later lived an isolated life holed up in Kittery, Maine. For the tunes and the efforts, much appreciation.

“Jailhouse” by Sublime is the second. Not sure why but I’ve had this track in heavy rotation recently. It is just a fucking awesome song on a great album. Sublime recorded this album in Austin at Willie Nelson’s Pedernales Studio, and it was produced by Paul Leary of the Austin rock band the Butthole Surfers. While “What I Got” became a massive hit, the self-titled album is filled with ska-rock tracks that crush, one after the other. I guess Brad Nowell, the lead singer and guitarist, was on a pretty big heroin bender. This production is rumored to be a nonstop party (see the Interweb), and that’s saying something in the 1980s, as bands just fucking partied. Nowell was sent back to Los Angeles before the production was finished because he was so strung out and could barely function. “Jailhouse” is tucked in the middle of the album, as track 8.  Nowell is in such a groove with this tune. This song was originally written by The Wailers, but they didn’t do it this good for sure. Nowell sings about being a kid in 1983—I was a kind in 1983! “They were the best days of my life,” he muses, and he might be right. He continues “on my guitar, you had to be there.” I’m not sure that’s the case, because you can still feel the groove, it’s real. They used a ratchet as a part of the percussion! Sad to lose this guy, as he died of an overdose right before this album was released. 

A vignette: I wander down into a basement of a bookstore on south Broadway in Denver. There’s a makeshift stage and mic set up. I see the tattered spiral notebook and write my name at number 8. I see the professional comics in the back. They will be going up first, keeping their skills sharp as they have good shows the rest of the week. I sit by myself and run through my jokes. I’ve got a new chunk of material about a “Dog Whisperer.” I think I’ve got the punches and tags in the right places and I’m going to try it out in the middle of my 6-minute set. There’s about twelve comics strewn about the room. One of my friends walks in, I give him a point and a nod, and he sets up in the back. He’s wearing a mic and has a speaker on his belt. He probably just came from a street corner where he was telling jokes to whoever happened to be walking by.  He didn’t have a hat out for money or anything of the sort. For comics, our currency is the laugh.

After my first set, I drive down the street and pop into a Chick-fil-A for a lite dinner in between open mics. I grab a seat and go over my set.

What song is in my head?

“Ego Trippin” by De La Soul. I always loved this band. They were the first hip-hop band I really got into. I remember seeing the video for their track “Potholes in My Yard.” They had me, fucking Hip Hop already! They got a little press as I think they got sued by The Turtles for sampling one of their tracks on the album 3 Feet High and Rising. Not sure what happened to the lawsuit, but it didn’t really matter. De La Soul has regularly been on my playlist. I caught their show in the late 1990s at the Stark Club in Dallas. I have never been to a concert with that much energy. The whole crowd bumped and danced and rapped to every single song. “Ego Trippin” is on their album Buhloone Mindstate, which I believe is the last song on side one—I had the cassette. I played it so much that all the labeling wore off. As I review my set, eating a chicken sandwich, this song is rolling through my mind.

A vignette: I mosey into the front door of a comedy theater in lower downtown Denver. My buddy is walking up at the same time. “Great minds think alike,” I say. We sneak in, greet the host, and put our names on another list. This crowd is sparse. This mic has been going for about an hour and a half or so. The “crowd” of remaining comics is getting a bit dusty. The host lets me know that I am going up second to last. I review my set list again. I get introduced and take the mic. The laughs are meek, and my new “Dog Whispering” bit catches dead air. “What the fuck!” I think. I close okay, so I guess it is a success, even though it is not really what it feels like. I mosey back out, hanging the head a bit. 

What song is in my head?

“Rock Hard Times” by The Eels. Mark Everett put together a pretty great band, but for some reason they seem to fly under the radar. They have a lot of great songs, but no one seems to ever play them? “Rock Hard Times” is on the Shootenany! album, which hits home especially in today’s world. It aligns with the Zeitgeist, so to speak. I also really like the songs “Numbered Days” and “Saturday Morning.” I have a friend who lived in Sliver Lake in Los Angeles, where Everett lived. It was pretty cool to see him standing in line at the coffee shop back in the day.  I’m not sure anyone else knew who he was. Anyhow, Shootenany! is an awesome album and “Rock Hard Times” is a great song. The lyrics resonate with me: “Said I was doing things that never should be done, but I don’t care about their rules” and “hope you like the rotten stench of doom.” Great lines. Everett is a fantastic songwriter. I hope he keeps writing songs and gets a little more airplay because his catalog is pretty deep—the Eels have released fifteen albums since they started in 1996!

I could hit one more open mic, but I am kinda maxxed out. I decide to head home. I left my house at 4:30, and it is now 10:30. In six hours, I got 10 minutes of stage time. This is about as good as it gets, as the headliners say. Each time you perform, you shed a piece of armor. Eventually, you get down to the essence of your being where you’re able to be really authentic—then you connect with an audience in a special way. I think, “Well, maybe one day.”

What song is in my head as I head up I-25?

“Rainy Days and Mondays” by The Carpenters. This fucking song; it get’s the water works going every time. I almost can’t take it: Karen Carpenter’s voice is unbelievable. There’s really no comparison. Maybe Amy Winehouse, or Ella Fitzgerald, or Whitney Houston? Tough to say, but I think Karen Carpenter’s got them. Recently, some of Carpenter’s isolated vocal tracks from old studio sessions were released, and they are “off the rails.” What might she have done? Sad to know she’s remembered for dying of anorexia. I remember the amazing voice and change to a different track. She’s just too emotionally powerful, and I need a song that is not really motivating or a downer, just one to remind me, it’s just a “funny old world” (saying is attributed to the playwright David Mamet).

What song do I switch to?

“Uncle Albert/Admiral Halsey” by Paul McCartney. Don’t forget about this song, it’s a legend. McCartney was involved in some pretty nasty legal battles in the United Kingdom as the Beatles were breaking up. He de-camped to New York with new wife Linda. He found a bunch of local session guys to put together the Ram album. While most the songs weren’t his best, you could still hear that he was a great songwriter. This track is buried on side two. It went to number one on the Billboard Top 100 charts in 1970. It’s so unique in its construction, using a rainstorm as a sound effect, and then you got the trumpet coming in at a point. It’s genius. As I drive out of town, maybe a bit frustrated and maybe a bit beaten down, I hear this song and remember, what does anything matter anyway? At the end of the day, as the song says,” we’re so sorry Uncle Albert, but we haven’t done a bloody thing all day.”

Schlong, Three Finger Spread, and Mike

By SoDak

In May 1992, several dozen friends crowded into the basement at the House of Edge to see Schlong play. It was their second time performing in Rapid City. We loved hanging out with Dave Mello (who previously played in Operation Ivy), Pat Mello, and Gavin MacArthur. They were as quirky and funny as their songs, which were filled with odd time signatures. As the local band Junk was wrapping up their set, an eviction notice was served, so the event turned into a final hoorah for shows in this basement. Schlong quickly set up, not sure if the concert would be shut down by the police. We had been listening to their new record Waxy Yellow Buildup (1992), memorizing the lyrics. As soon as the frantic, seemingly chaotic songs started, we locked arms around each other and danced around the room. When Schlong played “It Sucks to Be Fucked By Jesus,” it turned into a big sing along.

I got a letter from Jesus Christ.

It said get down on your knees and close your mind.

Don’t mind all the blood and pain.

It’s just part of the game.

I am a punk, a fucking punk, fuck you Jesus.

Joining the band, we erupted into a choir of sheep noises, just before the chorus.

Ba ba blaaaaaaaa.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

There were more animal noises. We continued to sing:

So I got down on my knees.

But little did he know I had my long fucking knife.

Stuck right into his dick, but he didn’t have one.

This was followed by yet more animal noises, including some oinks, before the rememberable chorus.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

Quickly, the lyrics set up a fight with Jesus. The room exploded as Schlong incorporated riffs from the Rocky fight song just before the ending. Smiles abounded as sweat was shared. 

Along with the Waxy Yellow Buildup record, there was a bonus seven inch, a split between Three Finger Spread and Nuisance. Both bands on this record were brilliant. Three Finger Spread was an acoustic side project of Schlong. In 1994, they released an additional split seven inch with the country punk band Elmer. Many of us were obsessed with these recordings, given the sarcasm, dark humor, and catchy songs. Three Finger Spread incorporated mandolin, banjo, violin, and guitar, with sing along choruses in high-pitched voices. “Phone Me, Bone Me” was about shoving a phone up the butt. During the song, they made funny noises, as they mimicked dialing a phone number. “Kitty Kat” was about a situation where the narrator was jealous that a loved one liked the cat more than him. He pondered if he run over the cat, would they still be together. “Gone, yes, she’s gone. There goes your pussy cat. Gone, yes, she’s gone. I saw its little head go splat.” The short song “Shit Shit” included the catchy lines, “fire here, fire there, burning all your pubic hair, burning everything in sight.” An additional gem was the song “Pisstoy” about the vampire Christ, which culminated in a sing along: 

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Get down on your knees to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

Get down on your hands to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

We made cassette tapes of these songs to circulate. As we drove through the Black Hills, heading out to hike, we would sing along, imitating the twisted Three Finger Spread voices. It was quite joyous, uplifting our spirits. 

In June 1993, Three Finger Spread was added to a show at the VFW Hall. Accompanying them on this tour was Geoff Templeton, the bass player from Motherload. We were quite giddy, excited to see them play. While talking with the band, they encouraged my friend Mike to drive home to get his violin to join them on stage. They told Mike the key and showed him the chord progression, then set off into each song. On that day, we had a punk rock jubilee, clapping our hands, stomping our feet, and singing with the band. In addition to the aforementioned songs, they played “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” with the line “don’t bend over, I know you know better”; “Will You Go Out with My Mom,” with the lines “maybe I should buy some Preparation H, maybe I should buy some Advil, oh no, I better make myself a cup of coffee, maybe I should masturbate”; and two cover songs, including Slayer’s “Epidemic” and Journey’s “Just the Same.” From the soundboard, we recorded this performance, allowing us to circulate another tape of Three Finger Spread. 

For weeks, following this performance, we were elated, constantly talking about how much we loved Three Finger Spread. In late July, as evening was approaching, we headed into the Black Hills to watch the sunset from the top of a limestone outcrop off of D Road, hoping to see the Perseids meteor shower that night. We hiked up the hill, climbed the rocks, and spread blankets. From there, we could see the meadow to the north and the winding road through the Ponderosa Pines to the south. In the distance, a motorcycle was churning gravel through the curves. Above the whine of the engine, we heard someone singing. We recognized the voice; it was Mike. As he was riding his rusted Honda, he was singing the versus and choruses, first “Phone Me, Bone Me,” then “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” and finally “Pisstoy.” We stood up to watch him make his way to our location. Smiling, we joined him, yelling out, “Come to my church, come to my church. Fuck you and your fucking church.”

After Schlong’s fourth show in Rapid City, in April 1994, they obliged our request to also play a Three Finger Spread set. We provided them with acoustic instruments, gathered in a small side-room in JJ’s Rose Arcade, for a punk rock hootenanny, until the club closed. Thirty-one years later, I can still hear Mike’s gleeful voice in my ear and see his huge smile.

Conferring with the Moon

By SoDak

In the 1990s, I worked at a group home for youth who experienced sexual and physical abuse. The job was important, but it was heartbreaking and stressful. My shifts varied between eight to fourteen hours, always ending at 10 PM. At this time, I completed my notes regarding each child and an assessment of the day. The trauma that the kids had experienced filled my mind. I was exhausted by the time I got into my car to make the half-hour drive home. Down the winding road, I had to be alert, given the open grazing in this part of the Black Hills. I feared hitting a cow on the pitch-dark nights. William Ackerman was a constant companion, as I often listened to his record Conferring with the Moon (1986). His acoustic guitar playing captured my mind, calming me as I followed the notes and chords. The title track opened with his gentle playing, before Chuck Greenberg on the lyricon joined him. This wind synthesizer lifted the emotion, creating a feeling as if soaring through the trees. Michael Manring played the fretless bass, grounding the experience, with underlying notes. As the song progressed, a violin became intertwined in the journey. I would stare out the windshield, mind swirling with the song, as I searched for the moon. This instrumental guitar music carried me home. On many nights, Mike, Jerry, and Rich would swing by to pick me up around the time I arrived at my house. We would head back into the hills to hike, and, in the summer, we would plunge into Sheridan Lake under the night sky, washing away the fatigue and some of the sorrow. William Ackerman remains my favorite “new age” guitar players, always reminding me of the times shared with dear friends, following long days working.