Arkansas

The place we are scheduled to play is pretty much a currogated aluminum shack beside a massive grain elevator. The grain elevator dwarfs everything and casts long shadows across us. There are scraggily weeds all over the place and broken glass and some gravel. Across the road is a machine or welding shop. The doors are open and you can see a guy with a blowtorch inside. Behind the shack is a skateboard park with some cement courts and ramps for doing stunts. There are a couple of really young kids with kneepads and helmets falling down. Inside is a more elaborate set up with ramps built from heavy duty plywood. And next to that is a stage.

"Is that where we play?" william asks the owner. The owner is a super-mellow guy. He's got the baggy pants and dirty T-shirt thing like everybody else, but he's also got that "I'm in Charge" air about him. He runs a skateboard shop next to the rink where he sells skateboards and parts along with T-shirts and posters. It's all pretty low-budget and no-frills and operates inside the tin shack.

"Yeah," he says. "And kids normally skate while the bands play. I hope that doesn't bother you."

"Not a bit," william says.

His name is Kieth and he isn't much into talking. Not in a rude way or anything. He just fails to indicate any interest in small talk. And I guess I can't blame him. The heat around here is so oppressive that you start to get to feeling disoriented and stupid after a couple of hours of it. And you don't want to do anything that requires more effort than is absolutely necessary. So talking is waste of time. And besides, what is there to say other than "sure is hot."

So we spend the afternoon sitting in the van trying to keep absolutely still. The heat is everywhere and the humidity is completely out of control. So everything is moving in slow motion - like people on the moon in a graceful sort of slo-mo dance. And mostly we just stay still and sweat. There are flies going all over the inside of the van and we're too hot to swat them. All we can hear is a barking dog down the street and the hum of insects. I can hear the dog's chain clanging. I can hear Sean's heavy breathing next to my head. Then there is the occassional "rump frump" of a kid pulling off a stunt in the skate park. Other than that it's like living in an oil painting. Our bodies are spread out all over the van like we'd been shot dead. I'm spread eagle as wide as I can be 'cause I don't want any part of my body to touch any other part.

After the sun goes down, the air becomes a little more breathable and kids start showing up at the shack. We carry our equipment into the building and a bunch of kids start helping us - kids we've never met. Carrying heavy equipment and being happy about it. The first band to play is a group of teenagers - three guys. And they are scared shitless. They've got super expensive equipment and have no idea how to play it. (Thanks Mom for letting me use the credit card!) After about three or four songs (songs?), they just crash and burn and decide to give it up. They hang their heads and slink off stage. I guess now they'll have to find some other way to get themselves laid. The second band is a group of middle aged guys from Little Rock. They're all dressed in suits and skinny ties like Johnny Cash and they play the nastiest country western music I've ever heard. Nasty - ugh - SCARY country music. Their guitars look like they were cut out of the back of a cereal box and I think they're using home stereo componants for amplifiers. And oh man, they SUCK. It's all just scratchy, cranky noise and weird feedback. And after every song they keep adjusting their guitars to play more out of tune. And man, I think this is all done for punishment or something. The singer is pale and skinny and bent and looks like Ichabod Crane and he's trying to sound like a swearing frog. All of his songs are about "gettin' killed, gettin' killed gettin' killed." And oh man, when is this gonna stop? And then suddenly, it does stop. It stops because the room is filled with police and the PA is being shut off. The outside door is shoved open and there are flashing lights all around. Are we being arrested? No, the cops are just shutting the show down. But why? This makes no sense. But it doesn't matter because the PA is off for the night and everyone is going home. And I don't get it. I feel like I'm in a foreign country and the internal security forces have swooped in for a raid. Finally the promoter comes over to us and apologizes. It seems the cops have been shutting down shows all over town lately.

"But I don't get it," I say. "Don't you have a legal right to do this? I mean, you have all the proper permits and you don't sell alcohol. So what's the problem?"

"The problem," explains the promoter. "The problem is that the cops don't want kids to have fun in a safe environment."

"You've gotta be kidding me, " I say. "You're just angry."

"No," he replies with amazing calm. "There's been talk in the city council to cut law enforcement funding because the crime rate has been dropping so quickly lately. So the cops are trying to get more kids on the street so they'll have an excuse to demand a pay raise."

"Fuck me," I say. "What fucking country are we in, anyway?"

"We're in Arkansas. And yeah, I'm really sorry about all this," says the promoter. "I'll try to give you guys some gas money. At least then you can make it to your next gig." And sure enough, he pulls forty dollars and change out of his pocket and wishes us luck.