THE ROMAN SPRING of toomanycats (UPDATE, THE END, APRIL 2024)

[nomadh]

Sorry it didn't last longer. I was living the vicarious life for a bit. Yup, gonna resent the "dadding"
Originals is one of the daggers that killed my last band. Pushed by my drummer. "Whats the problem. He said. "I'll write up the drum parts. All you need to do is the lyrics, melody, chords and riffs"
My rule on originals is if it is as good as the top 1000 songs we keep playing over the last 50 years then no problem. So far 1 guy I've played with may have been in the ballpark.

Kids.

[toomanycats]

A couple days ago the band reached out to me and I was propositioned to play a one off gig on Saturday, October 22nd at a private Halloween themed party (costumes required). Apparently their guitarist is unavailable on that date. Compensation in sufficient cash, plus free bbq and booze.

I've kept busy playing since I left the band, fielding lots of offers for my services, gigging steadily with a duo act close to home, as well as starting up a new partnership with an immensely talented female vocalist/songwriter with whom I've already recorded some amazing original material which we will soon unleash upon the world as VELVET VAMPS.

But as I've elaborated upon previously in this thread, there's nothing that can compare to playing rock and roll music live with a group of young guys. Honestly, I miss the crazy, the energy, even the ringing in my ears the morning after. The lure is irresistible.

So I accepted the offer. I already know their set list like the back of my hand. The stalker won't be there because it's a private party. I'm under no pressure. There is no down side to playing this gig.

[Rollin Hand]

So, bringing out Frankie for the VH numbers, or would that be too weird?

[Partscaster]

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A couple days ago the band reached out to me and I was propositioned to play a one off gig on Saturday, October 22nd at a private Halloween themed party (costumes required). Apparently their guitarist is unavailable on that date. Compensation in sufficient cash, plus free bbq and booze.

I've been busy with music since I left the band, gigging steadily with an established duo act, as well as starting up a new partnership with an immensely talented female vocalist/songwriter with whom I've already recorded some amazing original material which we will soon unleash upon the world.

But as I've elaborated upon previously in this thread, there's nothing that can compare to playing rock and roll music live with a group of young guys. Honestly, I miss the crazy, the energy, even the ringing in my ears the morning after.

So I accepted the offer. I already know their set list like the back of my hand. I'm under no pressure. There is no down side to playing this gig.

Bring some empty Tupperware for that BBQ.
Let em know your evolving talents are now worth a heavier cost of chicken and ribs.

[toomanycats]

So, bringing out Frankie for the VH numbers, or would that be too weird?

Frankie may very well go to the party.

[Rollin Hand]

So, bringing out Frankie for the VH numbers, or would that be too weird?

Frankie may very well go to the party.

I hear he is a party kinda guy.

[tlarson58]

I'm glad that this opportunity arose for you. Have fun with it.

[toomanycats]

I'm attending a band rehearsal this evening in preparation for the Saturday night gig. Since I left they haven't added any new material, so it wouldn't be a problem for me to just show up at the show and play all those songs.

However, shortly after I resigned the bass player also split and there's a new guy holding down the bottom end. In effect, it's an entirely different band. I'm curious to jam with them and see what kind of player the new bassist is and how the three of them interact musically. A band is really like a recipe. If you change even one ingredient the cake is going to come out different.

[toomanycats]

I went to the rehearsal on Thursday night. It was very chill and extremely enjoyable with lots of spontaneous jamming interspersed with selectively running the set lists and drinking beers. Since I left the band they've only added one original song to their show, and even that one is being dropped from the set list for tonight.

I was reminded of what a great voice the singer has. Man, that "kid" can belt it out. He can sing Robert Plant all day long. The new bass player is polar opposite from the previous guy. He's more of Lemmy kind of player, keeping it simple, with a fat and dirty tone.

They ran the idea past me of having two guitar players, asking how I felt about joining again and sharing co-lead guitar duties with the other guy. They want to be able to do material like "Hotel California."

The next day I spoke with them and asked, "Are you serious about the two guitar player thing?" and, "What does the other guy think about the idea?" They were serious, but the other guy doesn't know anything about it. If the other guy was open to the idea of sharing the space, I'd be willing to try it out for a gig, just for the fun of it.

A band with two lead guitarists is different than a band with one lead guitar player and one rhythm guitar player. Examples of the latter would be GnR, The Scorpions, AC/DC, and the classic Def Leppard line up. Having two lead guitar players requires more discipline and cooperation. I'm talking about bands like The Eagles, Skynyrd, RATT. In such a configuration both guitarists have to go into it understanding that the whole is greater than the parts; their egos have to be sufficiently in check that they can back off when required, understanding that they each get their own chance to shine, and that showing restraint makes the entire band shine brighter.

I know some off you may think I'm nuts, as I resigned from this band not too long ago and provided a detailed list of the reasons why. This week I've had offers to join two other established gigging bands, one that's in an outlaw country vein, and one that's predominately 90s oriented. But neither of those genres is where my heart is at. With these kids I get to play Leslie West, Ronnie Montrose, Jimmy Page, Eddie VH, and Hendrix, and I get to play loud as f*ck. None of this silent stage bullsh*t that's become the "mature" thing to do with so many bands and venues, which for me is like sex with a condom or drinking O'douls.

Anyways, the gig at the private party is tonight. From what I've been told the guy putting it on is known for having a no-holds-barred Halloween bash. We play outdoors and apparently their's some kinda "stage" on this guys property. Costumes are absolutely required. With my hair and beard it takes little effort to throw something together, as I'm 3/4 of the way there already. Put a pointy hat on me and I'm a Wizard. With a robe, a cross around my neck, and a tassel around my waist I'm Rasputin. You get the idea.

[Rollin Hand]

The Rasputin costume only works if you open with a cover (rockin' of course) of the Boney M classic.

There was a Newfoundland (all acoustic) band here in Canada called Great Big Sea. They did a Halloween gig by coming out in KISS makeup and playing "Rock and Roll All Nite."

[tonebender]

Did I miss what costume you have chosen for the gig. Sorry if I did but if not what will be that night?

[toomanycats]

Yep, this thread that started a year and a half ago is back.

The young dude band is still going strong and has been gigging regularly on the local circuit. During Summer 2023 the drummer reached out to me, we had a great conversation, and the two of us got together to have a jam over a six pack of Guinness.

Then about a month ago he called once again to touch bass, asking if I was interested in gigging with them if they needed me. I told him it was a definite possibility and to keep me informed.

He had been trying to get ahold me since Tuesday of this week via phone and text. I'd been busy earlier in the week, intensely focused on some other things, and I'd turned my phone off and put it in a drawer for a couple days. If you never do this, I highly recommend it. When I finally got back to him he asked if I could play lead guitar for the band in a week-and-a-halfs time on a Saturday night gig. It's at a great venue, a place I'm familiar with and have played before.

The interesting thing is that the lead guitar player, the guy who I had originally came into the band to replace, who then subsequently returned, is moving over to the bass guitar spot on this gig. Apparently he already plays bass in another band and is highly competent in that role. From what I gather there is some type of scheduling conflict with the regular bass player, he can't play the gig, but the band is determined to play the show. The net result is that all guitar duties have been turned over to me, I've been given, "The keys to the Laborghini." I've been waiting for years to use that cheesy Michael Angel Batio quote from the Speed Kills Metal Method video.

But seriously, no, we won't be playing any NITRO songs, though there will be VH, Zep, Sabbath, SRV, Hendrix, Mountain, Montrose, Aerosmith, and ZZ Top. As I looked at their most current set list I see one they added called "Hey Baby." I hope it's the Ted Nugent song that they're referring to, as I love that tune and have been dying to perform it. Since recently buying two Kramer Baretta Specials I've been playing Van Halen pretty much non stop and it would be nice to add a couple of Eddie's barn burners to the set list. "Show Your Love" and "Hot for Teacher" immediately come to mind. One of my previous struggles with the young guys was that they tended to rush the tempo, but that wouldn't be an issue with those upbeat boogies.

So anyways, that's what's going on. If you guys wanna come along for the ride, then I'll continue to post content about this 50+ year old guy's adventures playing rock & roll with some "kids" in their early 20s.

[Partscaster]

Thats great. Glad to hear it.

Could be Jimi's "Hey Baby" ? Aka, "Land Of The New Rising Sun". Probably not, its a space drifter song. ( ooh, that could be my next groups name "Space Drifter")
Have fun.

[toomanycats]

One of the things I knew about the young guys when I first became associated with them a year and a half ago, which they didn't know about themselves because . . . well, they're young . . . was how rapidly things can change at that age. I'm old enough now to look back at myself at that age, 22, 23, and see how my interest were constantly shifting and evolving. I was figuring out the world, trying things out, learning lessons (some of them the hard way).

And so, things have changed for them. It's a different situation I'm walking into this time.

Since playing with the band in the Summer of 2022 one of the members got married. One guy left the band and last I heard had a baby on the way, if not already arrived. A couple of the guys have got quite religious and also perform in a church band. The band is no longer interested in pursuing a career in music. There's no more talk of becoming rock stars and "making it," and they don't perform any original songs at their shows. They've settled into performing only once or twice a month, and rehearse only when necessary. Overall, they seem more laid back about things and realistic in their expectations.

These are just some observations on my part, as I once again prepare to cross paths with these guys in what may only be a one-off situation . . . or not. File it under topics of sociological interest relating to the subculture of rock musicians.

These guys don't update their Facebook page very often, and have not updated the band photo, so the stalker might not even be aware that I'm playing with them again, which removes a tremendous amount of pressure.

[tonebender]

Good luck with this new stent with the band. It does sound like you enjoy playing with these guys. Back in the 90's I went to a biker bar in Tampa and saw a band play. There were not many people there at all, maybe 5-6 other than the four of us. It was four guys in the band, drummer, vocalist, bassist and guitar player. They were doing Hendrix, ZZ, etc., and at one point the guy on guitar just went off on Eruption like he wrote it and then they banged out some VH. They were extremely tight and in the pocket. The vocalist soon introduced the band and stated the regular guitar player could not be there and the guy that just pulled off all the Hendrix and VH was usually the bassist in the band. The bassist was a fill in. I remember thinking, holy crap is he is not the regular guitar player then the other guy must really be good.

[toomanycats]

Good luck with this new stent with the band. It does sound like you enjoy playing with these guys. Back in the 90's I went to a biker bar in Tampa and saw a band play. There were not many people there at all, maybe 5-6 other than the four of us. It was four guys in the band, drummer, vocalist, bassist and guitar player. They were doing Hendrix, ZZ, etc., and at one point the guy on guitar just went off on Eruption like he wrote it and then they banged out some VH. They were extremely tight and in the pocket. The vocalist soon introduced the band and stated the regular guitar player could not be there and the guy that just pulled off all the Hendrix and VH was usually the bassist in the band. The bassist was a fill in. I remember thinking, holy crap is he is not the regular guitar player then the other guy must really be good.

I have tremendous respect for any skilled lead lead guitar player who is willing to take on the role of bass. I don't mean a guy who approaches bass like Billy Sheehan, as basically a lead bassist. Don't get me wrong, I think Sheehan is great, but I'm talking about really owning the role of the bottom end, locking in with the drummer, establishing the groove, and making people's azzes shake. A guitarist has to have his ego in check to take on that job, which is entirely different than the lead guitar role. Jimmy Page first toured America as the bassist in the Yardbirds. He was already a well know session guitar player in London, but bass was the position available, he wanted the experience of playing in the States, so he adopted that role.

[toomanycats]

REPORT ON GIG OF SATURDAY, DECEMBER 2nd, 2023

A YouTube short of ZZ Tops "Tush."
https://youtube.com/shorts/cqi9dKD45pI? ... 1rh5gW2ViR

The show, considered as a whole, went really well this past Saturday night. Despite it being a new iteration of the band, albeit with members who have all previously been in the organization, though not necessarily in this particular combination, it felt very familiar and "at home" to me. Many people commented both during and after the show that it was the best version of the band they've ever seen. The bar manager's husband, who is a student of mine, said it was exceptionally packed, even for a Saturday night, and the best show they've had there that year.

Despite it being a rainy and foggy night there was a spectacular turn out. Imagine the weather in your typical Hammer Horror film, which is on my brain having just come off my late October Halloween binge of Peter Cushing and Christopher Lee flicks. I didn't get home until nearly 3 AM and had to drive through that soup.

The soundman hired by the band was a super nice guy. Honestly, he was extremely attentive and accommodating to me in so many ways. About 7 minutes before show time he noticed that I was struggling with my Cry-Baby wah, as many of us do. Damn thing is so hard to click on and off. He say's to me, "I can fix that in a couple minutes." I'm thinking, "This guys is going to disassemble and repair one of my pedals only minutes before we start?" Before I can protest he's taken off with the pedal in one hand and a Phillips-Head screwdriver in the other. When he brings it back a few minutes later he briefly describes how her removed a washer. The pedal engages like butter, so smooth and silky, like I just got a new boutique wah pedal. I'm very impressed with this guy.

But there was one particular situation that I had to deal with.

I've mentioned many times in this thread that this band has always allowed me to play loud. In a world of old farts and pussies who wear in ears, go direct, and are into the silent stage thing, it was one of the things that appealed to me immensely about playing with this band. You've seen the video of previous gigs I've posted, and it is a loud, raw, visceral rock and roll experience. It is important to me to be authentic to the 70s and 80s hard rock ethos.

To clarify, I'm not one of those schmucks who shows up to a small bar gig with two full Marshall 100 watt Plexi stacks and then complains when people say he is too loud. What's most important to me is tone, though of necessity the tones I'm going for do involve a degree of reasonable volume, which has never been a problem for me before. I'm taking about pushing the power tubes on what are essentially non master volume amps. To that end, I have carefully assembled my rig to be ideal for producing those tones at manageable bar/club volumes.

The core of my present set up is:

An 18 watt JTM45 type head with a master voltage regulator pushing a 2x12 cab loaded with one Celestion Vintage 30 and one Celestion Alnico Blue. I typically run this amp with the master voltage set at between 1/3 and 1/2.

A Marshall SV20 pushing a Marshall Origin 4x12 loaded with two stock speakers and two Celestion Greenbacks. This head is a 5/20 watt switchable Marshall 1959 Super Lead. I was running it at 5 watts at the show.

So were talking about maybe 15 tube watts pushed hard and driving six 12" speakers. It's woody, organic, deep, wide, three-dimensional, singing, and glorious . . . without being ear bleeding loud. I've got all the touch responsiveness, sag, and push back between guitar and speakers that you'd expect from this set up.

When I initially fired up my rig this same sound man said I was way too loud. I was actually playing at less volume than I'd previously used with these guys. Let me remind you, the kid playing drums hits hard! He's got a Bonham Ludwig kit and he whacks the sh*t out of that thing. My right ear is still ringing on Wednesday morning from his snare. I'm not complaining, as I love loud and thunderous drums.

So I look over my shoulder and the aforementioned sound man is messing with the knobs on my amp. I asked him what he was doing, telling him he's messing with my tone. He asks if I have a direct line out. I'm a little incredulous. I mean, surely he must recognize what my rig is. The hand wired JTM does not have a line out. The Marshall SV20 does, as sorta a grudging concession to modern players. But who in their right mind would want to go line out on a Plexi? That would mean bypassing the sound of those big bottle EL 34 power tubes, the output transformer, not to mention the Greenback speakers, the feeling of pushing air onstage, the musical feedback, and that thump and roar that is the sound of live rock and roll played through Marshalls. But seriously, he does not get it.

Now I'm curious, so I ask the soundman if he plays guitar. He does not. In fact, he's not a musician at all. His favorite genre is metal. He makes some comments about Axe FX and Kempers. I felt it would be pointless to give a long explication how my amps are instruments in and of themselves; that the power tubes, output transformer, cabinets, and speakers are as essential to the "voice" of my guitar as are the braced maple arch top to a cello or violin; that I'm going for the tone of 70s Billy Gibbons, Paul Kossof, Jimmy Page, that type of thing.

It dawns on me with horror that what he really wants is for most of my onstage sound to being come out of my monitor, with my amp as quiet as possible, and preferably silent. I had to submit to a compromise in that moment and settle for a tone that wasn't really mine for the show. I just didn't have time to hash this stuff out in the moment. Bottom line, all I heard of myself during the performance was monitors, no amps.

The net result was that I lost that break up tone I get from power tube distortion and speaker break up. I also lost the guitar volume knob control I required. I felt like I'd been ham-stinged right before going out on the field. Obviously, this wasn't the sound man's intent; as I've said, he was a very nice guy who genuinely wanted me to sound good. I just don't think he ever encountered a situation where he had to mic a a JTM or Plexi, and has mostly dealt with modern amps, modelers, and metal tones.

Regardless, I played my ass off. I kept thinking of one of my favorite Ted Nuggent quotes, "I could plug my guitar into a diseased goat's ass and make it sound good," hoping I could similarly rise to the occasion.

This particular issue will have to be addressed before the next performance. I know and have played with people who use silent stage, with in ears and all that, and I absolutely hate and detest it. I know it's the modern way, but it's not rock and roll.

[tlarson58]

Despite the bad amp situation I'm glad that the gig turned out well. I would have had a big problem (read: hard to concentrate) having a not-to-my-taste tone all evening.

[tonebender]

I would have a real problem with a sound guy or band member turning on my amp knobs. I would not mind them asking me to adjust but cranking on my knobs would result in an unpleasant encounter.

[toomanycats]

I've got to be honest with you guys — I feel like I can no longer use this forum to write honestly, openly, and earnestly about the really interesting philosophical, gritty and raw experience of a gigging guitarist — so you're not going to be privy to all of that. Make no mistake, there is stuff going on that I could regal you with in the literary tradition of Hunter S Thompson, Jim Harrison, and Bukowski . . . but you're not going to hear these rock & roll stories from the trenches because I don't want this thread memory holed.

[Rollin Hand]

I've got to be honest with you guys — I feel like I can no longer use this forum to write honestly, openly, and earnestly about the really interesting philosophical, gritty and raw experience of a gigging guitarist — so you're not going to be privy to all of that. Make no mistake, there is stuff going on that I could regal you with in the literary tradition of Hunter S Thompson, Jim Harrison, and Bukowski . . . but you're not going to hear these rock & roll stories from the trenches because I don't want this thread memory holed.

Why not? Does it involve gatuitous sex and drugs to go with the already demonstrated rock 'n' roll?

[tobijohn]

Why not? Does it involve gatuitous sex and drugs to go with the already demonstrated rock 'n' roll?

Why not, indeed! Especially if it involves gratuitous sex and drugs. Some of us here are living vicariously through you...

[tonebender]

You could try the Reader's Digest condensed versions and leave a little something to the imagination.

[nomadh]

I've got to be honest with you guys — I feel like I can no longer use this forum to write honestly, openly, and earnestly about the really interesting philosophical, gritty and raw experience of a gigging guitarist — so you're not going to be privy to all of that. Make no mistake, there is stuff going on that I could regal you with in the literary tradition of Hunter S Thompson, Jim Harrison, and Bukowski . . . but you're not going to hear these rock & roll stories from the trenches because I don't want this thread memory holed.

Why? What happened? I think we all want to hear what's going on

[toomanycats]

I'll spill a little ink on this subject now. Apologies for leaving you hanging all this time, and for skirting the line of what's allowed on this forum. Yes, my Mother has read this, and she is pissed about my language; not for the words themselves, but because they describe actual events. I mean no disrespect to my fellow members and the mods. I justify the subject matter because there was a strong interest expressed in knowing what was going on, and I also cannot tell this story, with completeness and fidelity, without making extended reference to the stalker.


“The truth is like a lion. You don’t have to defend it. Let it loose. It will defend itself.” - Saint Augustine


HOW DOES A SOUNDMAN NOT KNOW WHAT A JTM or PLEXI IS . . . AND WHEN DO I GET PAID?

My return to the band was weird from the beginning. I noted how the soundman asked if my JTM style head had a direct out. When I said "No," he looked puzzled, asking if it had a preamp. That was a disconcerting conversation to have with a soundman.

After that first gig I had almost no communication with the band for six weeks, from December 3rd, 2023, until mid January 2024. I had n't been paid for the job. When summoned to reconvene in mid January of 2024 I was finally paid. The band’s manager took me aside, as though he felt guilty, disclosing that they'd played around with the lineup in the past six weeks. I was annoyed that during that time I had devoted myself to practicing the band's material, that those efforts hadn't been necessary, and I hadn't even been paid out. I didn't appreciate being treated like this, though I wasn't in a position to complain, as feline emergencies had recently occurred, vet bills were piling up like a tsunami, and I needed any work I could take on.

A different soundman assumed live mixing duties. I endeavored to communicate the tone I required. He didn’t know what a JTM was, was indifferent to my Marshall Studio Vintage 20 watt Plexi, and instead suggested I use his own 100 watt Marshall DSL with the line out. As I attempted to explain the reasons why I couldn't achieve my "voice" in this manner, he told me about his favorite bands, demonstrating cookie monster vocals and throat growls. Oy vey. He constantly approached me onstage while staring down at a tablet, asking me to turn down my stage volume. Meanwhile, strangers in the audience were approaching me and saying, “I see your fingers doing all this stuff but I can’t hear you!” Even a drummer complained that he couldn't hear me!

For every four rehearsals scheduled the band played about one gig. The majority of these evening rehearsals were scheduled and then canceled at the last minute, which greatly interfered with my lesson schedule, inconvenienced my students, and cost me much needed income. I've already got into the semantics of "rehearsal" vs "practice" in this thread, so I won't belabor those points. Suffice it to say that I felt ill used because some of these "rehearsals" were merely hangs where band members were not punctual, sometimes didn't show up at all, were not prepared, friends showed up, people got high, and people checked out early.

I still had no real musical input, being unable to add any of my song choices to the set list. I pushed Van Halen's "I'm The One," "Hot For Teacher," and "Panama," amongst other VH tunes, suggesting I bring out my EVH Frankie Relic for a mini VH set. I played Dokken's "Kiss Of Death," saying, "How about this." After jamming on Cream's "Crossroads" I asserted, "We should add that!" We didn't add any of those tunes. Meanwhile, our singer floated the idea of adding a power pop song, Fall Out Boy or something like that. WTF?


JESUS TAKE THE WHEEL!

Let me preface this next part by saying that I'm not hostile to religion. To be sure, I've got my own religious beliefs, and having formally studied academic philosophy and theology I can be hyper-articulate about these subjects, in the proper context. However, the milieu of playing bump-and-grind, bluesy rock and roll music is not that context. I’m able to partition those things in my mind. That being said, these guys had gotten vociferously religious, praying all the time, constantly invoking scripture, talking about the band being rooted in Christian fellowship, and encouraging me to actively participate in worship. They prayed and proselytized at rehearsals, before a show, onstage, during breaks, pretty much constantly. Supplications were made in Jesus’ name over playing the show, driving home, the health issues of everyone they knew — you name it, there was a prayer for it. It was exhausting. I felt like they were trying to brainwash me while treating the second part of the trinity like a transcendent switchboard operator.

At the same time I was being invited to smoke the devils lettuce while they boasted about how cool their preacher was because he was covered in tattoos and got high. I wasn't down with this stuff. For one, I don't do drugs of any kind. I also had to stick my neck out and reveal that I was a jew, saying that what they referred to as the old testament was to me the Torah, and that I didn't accept Jesus as my savior. I've learned the hard way to hide what I am around these parts, and I didn't want to have to go there when I was just trying to play music — but then nobody should be pushing their religion on me in the first place.

I wondered how long it would be before they realized what Led Zeppelin was really about, and Robert Johnson, and Muddy Waters and his Johnny Concheroo, and rock & roll itself. I once had a good friend named Larry Hardin who was a professor emeritus of philosophy at Syracuse University. He was esteemed in the field of epistemology, but was also interested in the occult. Professor Hardin and I spent a lot of time in his home talking about voodoo, Magick, Thelema, Crowley, the Qabalah, and the relation of music to the mystical. Such was the depth of my background on these subjects.

One night at rehearsal the lead singer of the band declared that he wouldn’t perform Van Halen's "Runnin' With The Devil," Led Zeppelin’s “Houses of The Holy,” or any other such music. This was like a stake driven through my heart. I knew that people who went down that road eventually want to burn Shakespeare, Willian Blake, Norman Mailer, and forbid the flat 5th note; you know, the whole Footloose thing. Robert Frost had said something to the effect that people who don't understand metaphor aren't safe to be set free in the world. Maybe this guy would grow out of his biblical literalism and fanaticism . . . but sadly, probably not on my timeline.


FELICIA LOVES FRISCO

Long story short — I let a stalker be my manager. Never do that. The rest is all in the details.

It is well known on this forum that the raison d'etre of this thread is that my previous manager, who began booking me around the city of Hickory, NC, in early 2021, was a female Harvey Weinstein who sexually harassed me, assaulted me, and after I broke away from her communicated terroristic threats that I would be "handled" if spoke about what she had done. If I wanted to work as a musician, it had to be outside of Hickory, off the 127 circuit, beyond the influence of the stalker and the "Hickory Music Mafia" she boasted of controlling. Despite repeated urgent pleas, the Sheriffs department refused to investigate the ongoing threats being communicated to me. When I contacted the North Carolina Coalition Against Sex Assault they denied me legal assistance, overtly discriminating against me based on my gender. Let me say that again: Ericka at the NCCASA told me directly, in these exact words, that they would not help me because I was a man, further elaborating that the State of North Carolina does not acknowledge female upon male sexual harassment or sexual assault, I.E. I had no civil right to equal protection. It was under these circumstances that I began playing with Lucid Outbreak around Mooresville, NC.

It's okay that the real time capturing of my stalker's crimes, as they happened, has been expunged from this forum. I perceive that erasing of history as a challenge. In medias res is, after all, the most interesting of literary forms, and I willingly accept that handicap. Honestly, it's more interesting this way, like coming in on STAR WARS Episode IV – A New Hope.

Hereafter I will refer to my stalker as "Felicia." I didn't come up with that persona, she did, as either an expression of her mental illness, or as cover for the actions of a psychopath. This "Felicia" referred to me as "Frisco," her lover, husband from a past life, object of intense obsession and lust, whom she had an irresistible compulsion to grope. If one is really curious, and resides local to where my story unfolds, the words "Felicia Loves Frisco" can be seen carved into the wood at a bar called Two Trees, in Denver, NC. It is another "love letter," amongst hundreds of others from Felicia.

When I first met the young guys I let them know I had a stalker. I tried to make a joke out of it, like it was a perverse merit badge a performing musician earns. "You've got a stalker? Ha ha! I've got one too!" After all, the police too had laughed about it. Yet the more responsible part of myself knew I owed these guys full disclosure, as Felicia had warned that if I crossed her she would, in addition to crushing me, also harm anyone who supported me.

Felicia pursued me outside of Hickory to my new position with Lucid Outbreak. This thread documents how she traveled to a gig on July 17th, 2022, at Clutches in Statesville, NC, where she terrorized me as I performed onstage. Preceding this show she had sent an email alluding to self harm. I was seriously in fear of a Dimebag murder/suicide event, my terror being so pronounced that I pissed myself onstage while she leered at me.

When I first resigned from Lucid Outbreak in August of 2022 I didn't disclose that Felicia's ongoing stalking was a significant reason why I had to leave. The fact was, I needed to cease performing altogether. Felicia had continued sending me messages throughout that period and my nerves just couldn't take it anymore, not knowing when she'd show up at another job. Mrs tmc was also very frightened to be left home alone during my gigs.

After this multiple bands contacted me, asking me to play with them. One offer came from a female vocalist who fronted her own band. I declined her invitation, explaining that I had an aggressive stalker who had made it impossible to appear in public. She said she had a stalker too, dismissing it as no big deal. But there was something about this woman which connected with me — her intelligence, her poetic soul, her thwarted artist calling, and her own history of abuse. We agreed to start a studio project called VELVET VAMPS (hereafter referred to as "VV"), and this collaboration lasted from November of 2022 until June of 2023. I warned her that my stalker would make contact, would be jealous that I was working with an attractive woman, and was hell bent on preventing me from being employed as a musician.

Like clockwork, in mid December of 2022 Felicia contacted my partner in VV, making snide remarks about my aspergers. She was blocked. Felicia then directed a conspirator to contact my partner in VV. This attack dog already had a restraining order against her by another musician, and had previously spoke to me about burning jews in an oven. Charming young lady. She warned my partner in VV that her career would suffer if she worked with me. She said I was a liar, unreliable, and had been Felicia's lover, and that either she would "handle" me personally, or somebody else would to do the job. She threatened that if I talked they had info on me that could get me in big trouble.

I contacted the Sheriffs department, reminding them this was the second time I'd called them about NaziGirl, that Mrs TMC and I were now in imminent danger, as that direct terroristic threats were being communicated to us. The Sheriffs department refused to meet with us. We barricaded our doors, strung barbed wire around the property, bought more ammo, and hunkered down in anticipation of a home invasion by criminals who had no fear of the law. I left home only to get food and other essentials. Okay, I confess, I did also stop at a pawn shop or two when I went out, scoring a Gibson Les Paul and a Colt Python. I flipped the LP and kept the Colt, as Mrs TMC became attached to that magnum revolver laying next to our bed.

At this same time my thread on AGF documenting these harrowing events, as they happened, was deleted. Mrs TMC and I were isolated and alone, stripped of the invaluable public documentation of what was happening to us, which we saw as a way of insuring our safety. Mrs Tmc had been personal friends with Jaap Polak, author of Steal a Pencil For Me. Recollecting her experiences talking with Jaap, Mrs tmc encouraged me to keep writing about what was happening to us, no matter what. Someday people would read our account.

Under these circumstances of enormous dread I spent the next six months recording an album for VV, composing all the music and playing all of the instruments. I buried myself in this project, attempting to escape the ever present terror through immersion in my work. I had horrific, violent nightmares nearly every night. As the songwriting partnership of VV had a bit of magic to it and was quite prolific, my musical collaborator continued to ask me to start gigging with her band so we could showcase our original material, but my fear would not allow me to appear in public.

In June of 2023 my collaborator in VV performed with her own band for the very first time in Hickory, NC, at a venue called Fyreside. Felicia was there, demanding a private audience. Immediately after that VV was dissolved.






One can surely understand my acute anxiety upon performing live once again with Lucid Outbreak in December of 2023. I was coming out of hiding. I knew Felicia's old maid insanity hadn't subsided when she posted comments on videos in which I was performing. Psychopaths fuck with you like this. As Deniro's character Max Cady says in the film Cape Fear, "I'm not doing' nothin' . . . I'm not on your property."

The aberrant fixation of stalkers can go on for years. I once spent a week at a private estate on Martha’s Vineyard and had an experience tangentially related to stalking. I had drove a small boat across Triangle Lake to a sand bar bordering the ocean. After strolling some way down the shore of the Atlantic, I spied, in the distance, a four wheeler rapidly approaching. It aggressively headed me off, and a man politely though very firmly addressed me, saying that I was trespassing on private property and must turn back immediately. I profusely apologized and hastily made my way back the way from which I came. After returning to the estate where I was staying and relaying my story, I was informed that I had strayed onto David Letterman’s private beach. It seems that Dave had never gotten over his much publicized ordeal with his stalker, a mentally disturbed woman named Margaret Mary Ray. It was only now, that I had experienced a stalker myself, that I understood Dave’s need for hyper vigilance. Dave's stalker claimed to be in an intimate relationship with him, just like mine. Dave's stalker kept showing up at his job, just like mine. Dave's stalker eventually killed herself.


Oops! Sorry about that Mr. Letterman.

Beginning in July of 2023, after the catastrophic implosion of Velvet Vamps caused by Felicia's interjection, I began seeing a therapist. All my trauma poured out on that sofa. I was devastated that I was unable to perform live, as well as being unable to collaborate in the studio due of Felicia's continuing harassment, slander, and threats. What was worse, I was being re-victimized by being denied my civil right to equal protection. My therapist was made privy to the entirety of my documentation regarding this ordeal. I had kept meticulous journals, though I also had, more importantly, many thousands of confessional emails sent to me by Felicia. My therapist warned me to back up everything in a safe location.

As I did with my therapist, I'm now going to take you back to February of 2021, when this person who had already been stalking me first revealed herself as Felicia. This story could almost completely be told in Felicia's own messages.


This is what aggressive sexual harassment looks like. It was continuous and unrelenting. I endured this debasing abuse for one year, allowing both myself and Mrs TMC to be humiliated so I could continue to be employed as a working musician around Hickory, NC.

"He said, she said," expresses the truism that there are two sides to every story. The two sides of the story about Felicia and I exactly correspond, as her messages corroborate my accusations about her in a manner which no amount of multiplied, strenuous allegations on my part ever could, as they are the perfectly matched testimony of a perpetrator and a victim. My allegations and her messages have the relation between the input and output of an electronic amplifier, with her own words magnifying the truth of my assertions.

Psychopaths have a strong desire to be the center of attention, the "star." My documentation, of which only a small fraction is revealed here, is Felicia's opportunity to be almost entirely in the spotlight, as she says most everything that needs proving in soliloquy. Mine are the minor supporting roles, on the one hand being the compiler of the great morass of her messages, and additionally being the victim, the necessary second voice who was a foil for Felicia's madness. Through my first person testimony, as subject who was the object of Felicia's obsession, desire, infatuation, and abuse, I relay how it felt to be the victim against whom she directed the intense psychotic assault she so carefully crafted, implemented, and, unbelievably, thoroughly documented in her own words.

Why would Felicia document her own crimes?
Was it a lingering Catholic compulsion for confession?
Was she a psychopath playing a game?
Did she know she was untouchable by the law?

I don't know whether Felicia is mentally ill, or if she is a calculating psychopath who lies and deceives for motives of power, control, sexual gratification, elevation of social status through association with someone she sees as "famous," and making her estranged husband jealous.

The argument for mental illness can be supported by the message below. Felicia watched me perform hundreds of times, beginning before I was even aware of her existence, saying she dreamt me before seeing me, and that I might be a husband from a past life. I understand falling in love with an artist. My romantic heart wanted to believe that Prince, Joni Mitchell, Thomas Mann, and Matisse all "spoke" to me directly, though the rational, sane core of myself which was adjusted to reality knew this wasn't true. I once had a conversation with Steve Vai, looking him in the eye and expressing how deeply his music had impacted me — though afterwards I didn't try to follow him home. Yet Felicia did actually seem to believe that my artistic output, my music, words — even my body and my thoughts — were personally hers. She had an abnormal idée fixe upon my person.

The argument that she is a self-aware psychopath can also be supported by this same message. Bear in mind that the person who wrote this message is not named "Felicia." Perhaps "Felicia" was a mask worn by a psychopath to afford herself a future cover of plausible deniability. She is lucid as she meditates upon her own handicaps, what ground she has already gained by pushing physical contact, while premeditating having her mouth on me in the future. She seems unaware that what she is doing is inappropriate and wrong, rationalizing her harmful actions because they are fulfilling her deeply felt needs. That is psychopathic behavior.

From the beginning Mrs tmc was reading the emails Felicia sent to me and was fully aware of the outrageous sexual harassment I had to endure to obtain gigs. I considered Felicia my friend, though her insane infatuation, love bombing, and increasingly bizarre messages were a joke in our house. Willful ignorance doesn't even begin to describe the denial she exhibited in ignoring my repeated assertions that I wasn't interested in sex or romance with her, and that she must respect my boundaries. I brought Mrs TMC to gigs to give Felicia a stiff jolt of reality — yet she still persisted in her advancements, even escalating and multiplying her strategies. We realized this was not a normal person we were dealing with, and things rapidly devolved into something not funny, but disturbing, degrading, insulting, and eventually terrifying.

Felicia said she'd been stalking me before we met and that I was her "Crush." She only likes younger men, naming many she "made out" with. She says I'm her new #1. When I talk to #2, who I had displaced and began regularly gigging with, he warns that Felicia is a stalker who wrote disturbing messages to him. He had to be extremely mean to back her off, expressesing his relief that she is now fixated on me. He advises that my only hope is for her to attach herself to the next guy. Felicia's version of this story is that #2 and herself had a romantic relationship, initiated by him, and that she had broke it off.

Felicia informs me I will owe her a favor in exchange for being made the busiest hired gun guitarist in town, a "star," and "famous," as she refers to me. She uses "nickels" as a euphemism for the physical contact I owe her. She is extremely possessive, and particularly fixated on my jewishness. She informs me she's figured out I have aspergers, like it's a compromising secret she's discovered, a chink in my armor. She asserts that we're "twin flames," and that her psychic says we're destined to be together. She constantly brings me presents. She asserts that she's my therapist, and under the guise of "evil therapist" fishes for personal information, even sending questionnaires. She was doing this with other people, keeping dossiers, bombarding me with emails revealing the intimate details of their personal lives. I was continuously asked about my dreams, about numbers, about my family.

The favor I owe in exchange for bookings is revealed when Felicia insists that intimate contact is part of our work arrangement. Looking sexy onstage and being groped by an old lady is part of my job. I protest, but she suggests that I, "grin and bear it." She offers to pay me for intimate contact outright. I'm baited with opportunities for gigs, with the caveat that we must meet for a "date" to discuss it further. She says she's is in love with me, it isn't fair she can't have me, and that if we didn't advance beyond our friendship then she'd have to MoveOn, find another musician to promote, and I could work at Walmart. One of her guy friends needs to, "help her out," and if I don't then someone else will. She writes about her horniness, her oral fixation, having a void that needed to be filled and being willing to pay good money for it, my giving her a lap dance while playing guitar, and having an orgasm while watching me perform onstage.

After I began refusing her creepy Andrew Cuomo style "friendly hugs," she began sending messages expressing her great frustration that I was avoiding her, resisting her, physically fighting her off, and being "emotionally unavailable." She bitterly complained that I was "pushing her away, "treating her like a, "Snake in the gutter." She reiterates that I owe her physical contact in exchange for bookings, says I haven't met my end of the bargain, and we need to discuss this.

When I tell Felicia how stressful it is dealing with alcoholic musicians who smash their equipment onstage, expose themselves in public, snort lines in my vehicle, skim the band's pay for drug money, and drag ass about paying me, Felicia says I'm a "butthead" for complaining about her friends, that this is normal band stuff, that even her babysitter does cocaine, and as for my anxiety — she knows ways to relieve that in a man.

On the morning of my birthday mrs tmc opened an email revealing a pic of Felicia's hand fondling the balls of a dildo as she watches a guitarist performing. As revolting as this pic is, it has a touch of genius. Felicia had captured, in a single symbolic image, her own epithet. It is a hallmark of psychopaths that they frequently tell on themselves. This image was representative of everything Felicia was: A lascivious sexual pervert, a stalker, a dirty old lady incapable of restraining herself from touching the object of her desire and infactuation. It was also a depiction of the relationship between Felicia and myself. She most certainly did have me "by the balls," not only being my manager, but also the administrator of a Facebook page HickoryURock, which was the hub of the local music scene, and by way of which she controlled my access to gigs. In the background a guitarist performs for their living as the predator watches. To their right is the ATM machine, filthy lucre, the cash nexus that relentlessly drives all working musicians; and poor as they usually are, often handicapped by alcoholism, drug addiction, and other vulnerabilities, like aspergers, or past abuse, renders them easy prey for opportunistic predators like Felicia — especially if a protective woman is not constantly present to cock block. The scene is the darkened environment of a bar, Felicia's hunting ground, with alcohol and food representing intoxication, hedonism, and the carnal appetites.

Like many women, Mrs TMC too had experienced sexual harassment, knowing what it is like to put up with abuse when you really needed your job. But what Felicia was doing was crossing the line and causing trouble in our home. We suspected this was intentional, part of her strategy. I reminded Felicia that Mrs TMC read everything and to cease sending disrespectful messages, to which she responded that we should communicate without Mrs tmc knowing about it, that she could write some "really juicy" letters in longhand, though I'd have to eat them after I read them.

Some level of "crazy" always goes along with the rock thing, and one must learn to have a degree of tolerance. Every true rock & roll show invokes the spirit of Bacchus. Mrs TMC and I had known crazy people like Felicia. In Eric Clapton's autobiography he tells the story about a Witch who he had sex with, who afterwards stalked him, putting a pillow under her blouse and telling the tabloids she was pregnant with his love child. When I met Mrs tmc on the Upper East Side of Manhattan Clapton's Witch and her Savanah cat named Leon were sleeping on the sofa. The Witch had an incredible voice and had at one time been the squeeze and protege of Dr John. She was now aging and down on her luck, working as a saleswoman at Gracious Homes. The Witch and I had a stillborn musical collaboration that died on the vine because of her "crazy."

I'm embarrassed to admit that Mrs TMC was sometimes entertained by the "crazy" of Felicia, which is understandable given the popularity of Lifetime movies about stalkers and related programs. There is something about the aberrant mind which fascinates people. When Mrs TMC ceased being amused was when Felicia wrote, "I know Mrs TMC is cheating on you," and, "You can move into my house and bring all your cats,"" "My son is excited about you being his new Dad,", and when she spoke about the child molestation going on in her family. Felicia referred to Mrs TMC as being "in the way," further elaborating that we'd have to see "Where the chips fall" with this imaginary love triangle. She spoke as though I was going to be her future "houseboy."

Things got more insane after that and Felicia's lunacy dramatically escalated as 2021 progressed. She alluded to having a mental breakdown, said that she desired to be evil, proclaiming, "This fat bitch is being released to the world." If demons are real, she may have been one.

Felicia wrote that her good friend, the previous mayor of Hickory, murdered a woman he was having an affair with at the Newton newspaper offices and then killed himself. This story of a murder suicide felt like a telegraphed warning. Did this Moriarty want to "take me over the falls" with her?

She told me about starting a gigolo business and that she wished I was gay.

Felicia said she wanted to write a story about the year since we had met, embellishing it with a romance. I knew she was already promulgating her embellishments in public and on social media, planting a seedbed of lies, because people started referring to her as my girlfriend, and in one alarming instance even my wife! She referred to the gig where she conspired to first be introduced to me as our "anniversary." She began framing her messages as though we actually were in a relationship, contemplating whether we should break up. I told her that this was "bizarre and disturbing," that she was writing, "far fetched fiction."

She wrote that if anyone became her enemy they would be crushed, along with all who supported them. She would accomplish this by working behind the scenes to hurt them with all her venue contacts, while being two faced in public. She named local musicians she was crushing in this manner (QC and TH), gloating about how they now wished they had "kissed her ass."

Having found something called the "grey rock method" researching psychopaths, I tried to stop reacting whatsoever to Felicia's outlandish provocations — but this didn't work.


She taunted me about the sexual contact I owed her, warning what she was going to do to me "next time."

She documented her sexual assaults. Here she describes premeditating the attack, the assault, my rejection, her anger, and her assertion that she deserved to put her mouth on me as payment. That is textbook quid pro quo sexual harassment. There can be no such thing as a "friendly kiss" from a somebody who has offered to pay you for sex and whom you have refused.

She knew her repeated assaults were traumatizing me and I didn't want to be touched. What she called "breaking through my barriers" was sexual assault. As she told me I made her horny, her talk of "friendly hugs" was merely a cover for sexual groping. She found my acute distress funny, hence the following message:

Felicia sent what could be characterized as "sexual assault poetry," rhapsodizing about her arousal, and her compulsion to touch me, while at the same time perversely apologizing for her inability to stop this groping. She knew what she was doing, confessed it, justified it, and kept on doing it. In another poem she talks about dreaming me before she met me and the possibility that I was her husband in a past life.

Felicia's most aggressive sexual assault occurred on December 31, 2021, while I performed onstage at Waterside, in Catawba, NC. She jumped onstage, advancing towards me with arms outstretched, a wide eyed, deranged, lunatic look on her face. I felt like a cornered animal. It seemed as though she leapt the distance between us in a second, tightly seizing ahold of me by my shirt. I felt her stubby, pincer-like, liver spotted rat claws rake my chest, rending me like a wild animal. She writhed and dry humped, pressing her stumpy torso against mine while poking me with those hideous tits and bulbous belly. She then bared down with that revolting peach fuzzed mouth. In that moment all the feelings of being violated as a child so many decades ago flooded over me. I wondered if her granddaugher felt this way when she was being undressed by her mommy's boyfriend. All of this flashed through my mind in that moment. My legs became weak, and I was overcome with nausea. I sufficiently gathered my strength to pull away, and stood there shocked, repulsed, humiliated, utterly stunned at what this crazy woman had just done to me in public, onstage, in front of countless witnesses! I expressed my indignation through my body language and verbally. A wrathful look came over her. Psychopaths become enraged when their goals are thwarted. She flung her arms in the air, twirling and pumping her squatty little legs like Rumplestiltskin having a tantrum. She began screaming, berating me in front of the band and the audience, saying, “You scumbag!” She drew in close once again to laugh maniacally in my face. My subsequent research has revealed that “paradoxical laughter” is a sign of mental illness.

The next night, at my gig at Fyreside, Felicia stormed into the bar with her eight year old granddaughter in tow, marched up to the stage, got in my face, and demanded I apologize for having fought her off the previous evening. I told her she had sexually assaulted me, refusing to speak with her further. She planted herself in front of the stage and had a histrionic crying tantrum while her granddaughter cartwheeled around the bar like a Honey Boo Boo impersonator.

I explicitly told everyone around me that Felicia had sexually assaulted me, including Mrs tmc, friends, coworkers, and employees of the venues where I was performing. Realizing that she'd finally overplayed her hand, she broadcast a plethora of contradictory lies, attempting to muddy the water, saying our contact had been consensual, that it was a "friendly kiss," that she had always respected my boundaries, that I wanted it, that I had led her on, seduced her, teased her, and that we were having a lovers quarrel. She tried to turn the entire thing around, crying profusely in public, saying I was making horrible accusations against her, and playing as though she was the victim of an Lothario and cunt tease. Her coterie of friends repeated these lies verbatim, shouted me down, threatened me, and told me I was ungrateful for all the selfless things Felicia had done for me. The following is the last message I sent to Felicia, on January 17th, 2022.

After my final message to Felicia her stalking resumed; and I say "resumed" because she'd been stalking me before we'd even met. Technically, this nutter claimed to have dreamt me before she had even seen me. Her stalking was insane beyond measure. I had told her that she had sexually assaulted me and to keep away, but she kept coming to my jobs and getting within inches of my face, like she owned me, demanding acknowledgement. On 1/24/22 Felicia brought a gang of friends to Mountain View Pub to heckle, harass, threaten, and victim shame me while I worked. These woman literally drove me off my job, with Felicia screaming after me as I exited, "This is all because of me!" She lurked outside venues in the parking lot and left notes on my car. She sent an email suggesting self-harm. She threatened to reveal "nasty" things about me if I didn't shut up. She stalked me online, on this forum, using multiple fake accounts, and was reported to her internet service provider as a cyberstalker. I was warned to stay out of her area and told that I would be confronted if I came into her territory. Every musician in Hickory abandoned me, treating me like a pariah. Felicia was The Master who controlled Bartertown and she'd shut the valve off. Felicia was the “weird uncle” of the Hickory music scene: A creepy, short, embarrassing inappropriate weirdo disturbingly attracted to young people and over eager to touch — yet they refused to disown her, even defending her like family. She had told me what she would do if I crossed her, and she did exactly that, and more.




On April 21, 2022, Felicia made the following post on Facebook. This was gaslighting on an epic level. She had reestablished #2 back into his former #1 position. Maybe they had resumed the romantic relationship she had written about. She is mocking the idea that she is a stalker who targets young musicians, trying to obfuscate and deflate that notion. I also believe her intent was to gloat, to personally humiliate me, to communicate that she had total control of the narrative, that nobody would believe me, and that she would arrogantly continue on just as before. At the exact same time she made this post she was in fact stalking me, threatening me, the police had been called, and she had been reported as a cyberstalker.

To help connect the dots and bring the whole story full circle, after this I fled Hickory, beginning my first stint playing with Lucid Outbreak in June of 2022, which is where this thread begins. I left that gig in part because Felicia followed me, continuing to stalk me both online and terrestrially. I then began my partnership in Velvet Vamps in Fall of 2022, which ended in June of 2023 after Felicia once again intervened. I basically hid until rejoining Lucid Outbreak in December of 2023, at which time I discovered, to my horror, that this diabolical monster with a taste for young musicians, who in the previous year had threatened to send someone to "handle" me, was posting on the bands Facebook profile.

After viewing my documentation my therapist confessed that Felicia was the most extreme case of sexual harassment and psychopathic behavior she had ever seen. She said that Felicia was experienced at this behavior, exceptionally cunning and manipulative, and there was no doubt she had done this before. She was in disbelief that the Sheriffs department refused to investigate terroristic threats I had received, and even more astounded that the NCCASA had discriminated against me based on my gender. Felicia was a predator, sex assailant, and demonstrable fabulist getting away with her behavior because she was hiding behind the cover of being an old lady. My therapist was distraught that such a grave injustice was being done to me, though she was powerless to do anything but listen.

I'm apologize if I'm getting very personal here, but what therapy has helped me to understand is that the depth of my trauma has to do with the close association of several things in my mind:
First, I was sexually assaulted as a vulnerable child, by a person I trusted, and had been frightened into remaining silent.
Second, Felicia was doing the same thing to me, having pretended to be my friend while trying to force sexual contact on me, and now threatening me to remain silent about it.
Third, at the same time Felicia was doing this to me, a child in her care was being sexually molested.
Lastly, #2 had allegedly been sexually molested as a child, and I suspected that Felicia specifically targeted individuals with this vulnerability.
These things were yoked together in my mind in a vicious circularity, forcing all my deeply buried pain to the surface. It was mentally excruciating. Part of my soul had been murdered as a child, and Felicia's groping, lies, and threats were forcing me to experience that murder all over again.

Before every performance I told my therapist about my terror that this would be the gig where I was "handled." I told the band about my fears. They gave me the same uncomprehending look I'd seen many times before. In fairness, I can't blame someone for not understanding why I'm so afraid of a little old lady. My claims were perplexing because Felicia had never been investigated by the law, and it just didn't seem possible that somebody could do the outrageous things I had claimed and gotten away with it. My concerns probably did seem absurd, like overblown drama. Nobody wants drama in a band, and my issues, very real and legitimate though they were, inevitably came off like that. I was in a hopeless, unwinnable situation. I couldn't go through this cycle all over again, with Felicia's acting the innocent in public while telling outrageous lies about me, her renewed stalking, the gaslighting, threats, the police refusing to help me, and the NCCASA discriminating against me.




SHOW ME YOUR RESUME

The manager of Lucid Outbreak wanted to book us at a venue called Boatyard Eats, in Cornelius, NC. It was further away than our usual gigs and we'd be playing in the opening slot, consequently earning even less pay than our typical jobs. Needless to say, I was not enthusiastic about this. In order to secure the gig, our manager requested that each band member write a short resume about themselves, including a photo, which would be submitted to the venue to demonstrate that we were sufficiently professional to perform in the opening spot. In response I sent our manager a pro shot pic of me performing at Boatyard Eats as the headliner. I mean, what else is there to say? I clearly meet the venues qualifications. Maybe our manager thought I was being too cute by way of making a none to subtle point about myself vis a vis the rest of the band, as after this he ceased all communication with me. There could be no assistance from him going forwards regarding questions of scheduling or getting paid. It is notable that the gig pictured below was shortly after Felicia had sexually assaulted me on 1/31/21, that my bandmates in this photo knew about it, that I had told them I was afraid that she would assault me again, and they had consequently forbid her from attending this January 28, 2022 show at Boatyard Eats.

EVERYONE IS ON THE TAB

Parallel to my anxiety about Felicia, upon my return to the young guy band there was funny stuff going on with the money. A bar gig somehow ended up being eight hours of work, the duration of a factory shift, encompassing several hours before the show and extending until long past midnight after breakdown and load up. The more time I spent lingering in a bar, the easier target I made of myself for Felicia and NaziGirl.

I've played countless gigs with pro musicians who showed up 30 minutes before a bar gig, set up their gear, killed the room for three hours (without a set list and occasionally calling out Nashville Numbers), then tore down, payed their personal tabs, split the cash on the spot, and arrived home in time to watch M*A*S*H reruns while lying safe in bed. As unglamorous as this sounds, this is how one really makes a living as a musician.

I'd protested about there being a collective tab during the eight hour marathon of a gig, and I suspected that lots of people were drinking and eating on the band during this time. This included the soundman, and possibly spouses and girlfriends. My portion of this collective tab was only ever the cost of a couple beers, if even that. The large offsetting debit of the band's tab came off the top of whatever we had grossed for the evening. I felt like a substantial amount of what I was earning was being embezzled before it made it's way into my hands. I gave everything of myself onstage, playing my fingers to the bone trying to earn enough to keep my family's head above water, not so people could drink beer and eat chicken wings all night long. That the band paid a soundman an equal cut was absurd. We were playing the kind of local bar gigs where no band brings a soundman, as it's neither necessary nor economically feasible. This guy was eating and drinking on my dime while simultaneously killing my tone.


THERE'S A CRAZY GIRLFRIEND!

To add to these issues, a girlfriend of one of the other guys in the band was a certified whack job. Hopefully you can now understand my desire to stay as far away from such people as possible. She was one of these skinny, sorta witchy, Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Boo type of chicks who wear all black and which are ubiquitous around bands. Maybe a junior Felicia in the making? She appeared aloof towards me, though one night, after she appeared intoxicated, she became confrontational and insulting. You see, I had bumped her boyfriend from the position of lead guitar to bass. I didn't see it this way at all, having tremendous respect for his musical talent and ability to change rolls within the band, but it must have pushed her buttons. Maybe she perceived it as a reduction in his status, and consequently saw it as her duty to fuck with me. There was Lady Macbeth stuff going on here. After a gig one night she deridingly said to me, in front of some of the other band members, “I’m surprised you actually pulled it off. Don't worry, you'll get better.” I’d been performing professionally and melting faces since before this skinny little bitch was even a period stain in her adolescent mother’s maxi pad; I had guitars with strings older than her; and yet here she was, having the chutzpah to try to gaslight me. I addressed this issue to one of the guys in the band, saying that I did not want to deal with her.


"Since before you were even born."

At a subsequent gig I looked down from the stage, observing as though through a vignette made between my leg and the monitor upon which it was propped, this whack job girlfriend dancing and writhing like Morgan le Fay in a trance, directly in front of me, starring up at me hypnotically. Over the years I've watched countless girls do this dance in front of me while I played guitar onstage. There are images of Orpheus all over my bathroom walls, which are representative of this power that music has over nature.

During the drum solo, while making my mad dash to the men’s room, the crazy girlfriend suddenly appeared in front of me, barring my path, as though by teleportation.
“I like you,” she said. “I like everything,” she seductively reiterated, raising her hands dramatically and then slowly tracing a line from my head down to my loins with her pointed fingers. She was actually a pretty little thing, in a feral animal kind of way; but God did she have a horrible, acrid body odor!
“How old are you?” she playfully asked as she panted and a bead of sweat rolled down her wet brow.
“Old enough to be your daddy,” I curtly replied.
"My boyfriend said you're jewish." she retorted, as if revealing a secret she knew about me.
"Yeah," I said, "Just like him. His family is from Russia, mine is from Poland," adding, "I suppose he's got Aspergers too."
"Yes!" She responded, adding, "And I'm bi-polar!"
"Aren't we a pair," I said, as I watched her boyfriend, the bass player, approaching from behind her. I abruptly turned and made a bee line to the men’s room, being further waylaid and forestalled in my urgent need to relieve my bladder by a series of boomer aged dudes wanting to compliment my guitar playing that evening.




CAN I PLEASE BE PAID FOR MY WORK!?!?

My end with Lucid Outbreak came abruptly. I was in dire financial straights, suffering from a serious liquidity crisis, ready to take my guitars to the pawn shops I trolled to be bent over myself. It would be a humiliating role reversal, the ultimate comeuppance for the infamous AGF pawn shop scrounge. Recently several cats had died in my arms; I'd dug their graves, solemnly burying their stiff bodies under this accursed, ultisol North Carolina red clay. Yet the vet bills kept coming. I cursed Felicia every time I lost a cat, knowing that my refusal to give her hugs, kisses, romance, and the "special favor" she desired was the reason why I couldn't work as a musician, and subsequently why my cats hadn't gotten every comfort they might have otherwise enjoyed.

Besides the vet bills, the most pressing issue was that failing brakes on my car. I’d already gone off the road once, having a white knuckle, everything-in-slow-motion, literal "Jesus Take the Wheel" moment. I had informed the band about my car situation and arranged for somebody to transport me to the gig that weekend. I had never let my personal issues interfere with my responsibilities to the band — not even terroristic threats had done that. It was partly out of a sense of professionalism and obligation that I drove my compromised vehicle to the last band rehearsal I attended, though there were also practical and selfish reasons for attending.

The practical reason was that I urgently needed the cash from my last job. Mrs toomanycats had harangued me all day about our cat's needing money for food. Everyone else had been paid weeks ago, from the performers, to the venue, to the bartenders, and yet I still didn't have my money!

The personal reason was that the band had agreed to learn "Mr Crowley," and I was ecstatic at the thought of being able to perform this song for an audience on Saturday night. As a guitarist I lived for playing things like that. It had puzzled me that the lead singer, given his refusal to perform "occult" music, had been the one who suggested playing the song. When I asked him about this, he laughed dismissively and said, "Crowley's philosophy is bullshit."

Upon punctually arriving at rehearsal my heart sank when I was informed that my cash from the gig three weeks previous was not on hand. One of these guys was a salesman at a local marina and had supposedly just got a 20K commission on a half-million dollar pleasure craft. Another one of them had recently spoke about the real estate empire he was going to inherit. How could they not have the paltry sum they owed me from three weeks ago on hand, which Mrs Tmc and I needed to keep us afloat?

I was also informed that the gig for that weekend had been canceled at the last minute due to a scheduling error. My risky drive to rehearsal was turning out to be a complete wash, with my cash not being in hand, my weekend job being cancelled, and the dozens of hours I'd spent that week learning "Mr Crowley" for naught.

I reiterated how desperately I needed my pay. They said that they could drive to an ATM, but I knew that would delay the start of rehearsal and retain me there until after dark. I'd promised mrs tmc that I'd return before sunset and deer came out on the hilly, winding back roads I had to traverse to get home. The cash should have been waiting there for me, as I'd told them about my dire financial situation. I told them not to bother driving to the ATM, and that I just wanted to get out of there as soon a possible. They said some stuff about Jesus loving me, that they loved me, hugged me, and offered to taxi me around in their vehicle until my brakes were fixed. I declined their offer, as I do not get into anyone's vehicle who I know uses drugs, and some of these guys also drive after they’ve drank too much. I've dealt with this issue many times while playing in bands, which is the reason I only drive solo. That's my policy, period.

They said they had a friend who could fix my car. Again, I declined. The band's manager had told me that there was a rich-kid poor-kid economic divide within the band, like the relation between the other kids in South Park and Kenny. I would not be treated like another "Kenny," or be used as a pretext for their Christian charity. I didn't want charity — I wanted what I had earned through my own labor three weeks ago!

I'd brought a made in Japan Jackson King V to rehearsal. When I took it out of the case they freaked out, offering to buy it. I'd recently given them a sweetheart deal on an SG bass because I urgently needed the money. I imagined that they thought they could score a similar deal on the Jackson, as I was now in an even worse financial predicament. I declined to sell.

All of my alarms were going off, with my cash unavailable, offers being made to buy my gear after I'd revealed my financial crisis, and transportation being made available so the band's own interests could continue. It's taken me years to understand that I'm often taken advantage of because I'm passive, soft spoken, go-along-to-get-along, and in some ways naive and innocent — some of which part of my aspergers. I'm really like an Idiot in Dostoyevky's sense. I've learned not to trust people when they love bomb me, want to constantly hug, and assert that I'm family when I hardly even know them. These have become warning signs to me.

I waited for 45 minutes for the chronically tardy member of the band to arrive — the guy with the hot/cold, stinky, witchy, crazy girlfriend. After arriving late he had the nerve to “shoosh” me, telling me to stop playing my instrument because he couldn’t hear some Facebook drama our lead singer was reading over the microphone. At that moment I had a revelation, about everything in this post, saying to myself “What the fuck am I doing here?”

Rehearsal ended long after dark. I abruptly left without saying a word. Mrs tmc was pissed when I arrived home, as I had wasted money we didn't even have on gas, had risked my life driving our vehicle, and I hadn't even come home with the money I was owed.

Before you ask, I don't Venmo.

As the young guys were absolutely aware of my dire situation, I was sure they would personally deliver my pay within the next day or two. I mean, that's what I would do. It would drive me crazy knowing I owed somebody money and they were suffering privation because of that fact; I'd crawl across broken glass on my hands and knees to pay that debt. Maybe I was testing them. They knew I had a problem with my car, that I was defaulting on my bills, in danger of losing my home, and didn't really have money for food. Not only had they expressed great concern for my body, but had also made my eternal soul their business. Surely people who had such an all encompassing concern for my welfare would not abandon me in my time of urgent need.

The days went by, one by one, and there was still no contact about the money owed to me.

A week later I still hadn’t been paid. It was Sunday morning, cats were crying, there was almost no food left. I was overcome with rage. All spirit of goodwill and empathy left me. Felicia too was deeply intertwined with my anger, as I had looked these guys in the eye, telling them about my stalker experience, yet they still allowed my assailant to hover near to me. I no longer cared that they were young and ignorant; that was no excuse. As for the money, a mentsch pays his debts. I texted the band’s group chat, telling them that they were religious hypocrites, to go to hell, to keep their money, and that Yahweh would judge them. I felt like Jesus turning over the money changers tables. That is exactly how I quit the band.

Word got back that I was the bad guy for having said "hell" at the moment they were getting ready to lead their church in worship, and that they were traumatized. Yeah, right, the kids who talked about snorting lines in the dressing room of Apps and Taps with a Kid Rock impersonator were all shook up because I 'd said the word "hell." Give me a fucking break! For these guys, who live with their families, boast about their own affluence, and make someone like me almost have to grovel, beg, and demean themselves to be paid . . . yeah, go to hell!

I finally got my pay a couple weeks later through the intervention of a third party, a young female musician who was upset because a sex harassment scandal involving the pastor of her former church had become a cause célèbre.



MR CROWLEY, WHAT WENT ON IN YOUR HEAD?

After all of this I have been thinking much about Crowley; I mean mainly the man, not the song . . . though the song itself has become my theme music for quitting the band, being psychologically wedded to that experience, with the many hours I spent practicing it in anticipation of a performance that shall now never come. Incidentally, Crowley was the real world inspiration for the villain in Ian Flemings first James Bond book, Casino Royale.

You see, I have studied Crowley's works academically. Full disclosure — I once made a pilgrimage, while residing across the channel on the continent, to Boleskine House along the shore of Loch Ness. This was around the time that Jimmy Page was transferring the property to the MacGillivray family. How far I have fallen in my person, from that man who was preoccupied with the sublime, cosmic mystery of Loch Ness, with all that it implies geologically, metaphysically, and cryptozoologically, to a middle aged dandy undergoing a crisis of confidence, cosplaying at being a half-baked rock star around the shores of man-made Lake Norman, a cooling pond for a nuclear reactor owned by a Gas Holding Company, and secondarily a community for neuvo riche Americans and their spoiled brat millennial offspring. What have I become?

Were I a Christian, I'd hope to be able to provide a more articulate apologetics than simply declaring that Crowley's philosophy was, "bullshit." Crowley can't be so as easily dismissed as that.

"Do What Thou Wilt" is the ruling ethos of our age, underpining the values of the boomer generation. The 60s counter-culture has won the culture war, and it's values of "sex, drugs, and rock & roll" are now the default moral code. Rock music was the soundtrack of the boomer's lives, espousing the values of self-seeking, transcendence through drugs, radical freedom, hedonism, pleasure seeking, sensuousness, and materialism. Nobody today who enjoys affluence and seeks their own advantage in any situation really believes, in their heart, that, "Crowley is bullshit." "Do What Thou Wilt" is the moral equivalent to Newton's first law, the first postulate of action.

I do in fact believe that Crowley is "bullshit." There is something higher than the individual's will, something underpinning our ideas of cosmic justice and order, to which I owe my allegiance. Yes, I've got a problem with Crowley — and probably even with rock & roll itself — which is an incredibly difficult thing for me to have to admit and come to terms with.