A Night At The Mortuary - By N.L. Belardes
We arrived at the mortuary just after the sun dipped past the coastal range. The mortuary itself looked clean, strangely inviting, and though dark, there was an unusually jovial aire about walking up to its front doors. We were here to talk music; not wish a fond farewell, or arrange bagpipe funeral tunes. There would be no harps playing to last angelic moments of remembrance, but talk of punk rock and brit pop, the Bakersfield music scene, and more.
Kenny Mount gave us a quick tour: “Here’s your standard chapel and over here’s a bathroom. This is an overflow visitor room. This is where Mr. Mish keeps his retro chairs that I want to sell on ebay…do you want something to drink? A Pepsi?” Mount, dressed in a white shirt and tie still showed hints of his punk rocker roots: his disheveled hair, his rebellious and laughing personality that was in full Descartian swing: skeptical of all around him. Don’t’ get me wrong; Kenny is one sharp dressed mortician, with gleeful eyes and a sense of humor like no other. His jokes were right on, and though I won’t repeat them here, his charisma made for a strange business type of meeting, one for the Southern San Joaquin ages; one for the Bakersfield arts.
Gerhard Enns of the Dalloways was on hand too. He had his hip daddy-o Elvis Costello swagger, though more timid, and jumped right into the fun. And he had a lot to offer. We were all there to talk music, how could life get any better? There was even talk of the old band, Brian Jones was Murdered. Gerhard and Kenny realized old connections and talked about them. “You’re the dude who drove from out of town to sing with them…” and so on.
Before we sat, the tour had ended with a glimpse of a viewing. The deceased rested in peaceful slumber in a dim-lit room; eyes forever closed and unthinking. Flowers adorned nearby tables, and the solitude of such a moment was a glum reminder that we should do everything we can to better ourselves with the short amount of time allotted to us. Artists tend to burn out quick. Yet everyone in the room was around 30ish—already beating the odds I’m thinking.
Without spending time on the meeting agenda, I should say that what came out of it was as refreshing as that put in: that everyone at the table wanted to see success for bands from this little town in Hollywood’s Backyard. Hope is never lost for artists like the Filthies and the Dalloways. There’s always a refreshing strategy, a new-found energy in taking on self-promotion and the path to a record contract. And there’s community spirit.
As a writer I can only hope to help keep such a community spirit alive. Tonight’s Thursday Night War will be an attest to that. It isn’t really a war. It’s more like a gentleman’s competition, or even a good old fashion hockey fight. You give it your all. After the game you shake hands outside the rink, or in this case, have a beer and play a gig the following week. Just ask Tempred and American Standard. Though they weren’t really competing against each other last week, they’re soon to pair up. As for the War? A popularity contest; you bet. But only a contest for a brief time. Each and every band has the same goal: to get noticed by the music industry; to somehow break through the firewall set up by talent scouts; to set themselves apart from the rest.
Kenny walked us out of the mortuary into the dark Bakersfield night still telling jokes, still the youthful punker laughing at the human condition: life is out of your control even when you think you have it all solved. With that said I’m sure Kenny was also thinking just like me, that though life is sometimes out of our control, we can still do everything we can to push it in certain directions…
Kenny Mount gave us a quick tour: “Here’s your standard chapel and over here’s a bathroom. This is an overflow visitor room. This is where Mr. Mish keeps his retro chairs that I want to sell on ebay…do you want something to drink? A Pepsi?” Mount, dressed in a white shirt and tie still showed hints of his punk rocker roots: his disheveled hair, his rebellious and laughing personality that was in full Descartian swing: skeptical of all around him. Don’t’ get me wrong; Kenny is one sharp dressed mortician, with gleeful eyes and a sense of humor like no other. His jokes were right on, and though I won’t repeat them here, his charisma made for a strange business type of meeting, one for the Southern San Joaquin ages; one for the Bakersfield arts.
Gerhard Enns of the Dalloways was on hand too. He had his hip daddy-o Elvis Costello swagger, though more timid, and jumped right into the fun. And he had a lot to offer. We were all there to talk music, how could life get any better? There was even talk of the old band, Brian Jones was Murdered. Gerhard and Kenny realized old connections and talked about them. “You’re the dude who drove from out of town to sing with them…” and so on.
Before we sat, the tour had ended with a glimpse of a viewing. The deceased rested in peaceful slumber in a dim-lit room; eyes forever closed and unthinking. Flowers adorned nearby tables, and the solitude of such a moment was a glum reminder that we should do everything we can to better ourselves with the short amount of time allotted to us. Artists tend to burn out quick. Yet everyone in the room was around 30ish—already beating the odds I’m thinking.
Without spending time on the meeting agenda, I should say that what came out of it was as refreshing as that put in: that everyone at the table wanted to see success for bands from this little town in Hollywood’s Backyard. Hope is never lost for artists like the Filthies and the Dalloways. There’s always a refreshing strategy, a new-found energy in taking on self-promotion and the path to a record contract. And there’s community spirit.
As a writer I can only hope to help keep such a community spirit alive. Tonight’s Thursday Night War will be an attest to that. It isn’t really a war. It’s more like a gentleman’s competition, or even a good old fashion hockey fight. You give it your all. After the game you shake hands outside the rink, or in this case, have a beer and play a gig the following week. Just ask Tempred and American Standard. Though they weren’t really competing against each other last week, they’re soon to pair up. As for the War? A popularity contest; you bet. But only a contest for a brief time. Each and every band has the same goal: to get noticed by the music industry; to somehow break through the firewall set up by talent scouts; to set themselves apart from the rest.
Kenny walked us out of the mortuary into the dark Bakersfield night still telling jokes, still the youthful punker laughing at the human condition: life is out of your control even when you think you have it all solved. With that said I’m sure Kenny was also thinking just like me, that though life is sometimes out of our control, we can still do everything we can to push it in certain directions…
This entry was posted by N.L. Belardes, on
Thursday, March 10, 2005.
You can leave your response.
leave a response