sordid tales of me and music

Dear Blogsphere,

I've joined a writer's workshop here in the High Desert. We meet every alternate Wednesday at this charming little coffeehouse called The Grind. The affair is supervised by an English teacher from the local community college (and the mother of one of my high school buddies). It's mostly for poets, but we stick some fiction in every now and then. I've already gotten help with one of my short stories, and was glad to find out what worked and what didn't.

The overseer doesn't give us "prompts" at the end of every meeting; she gives us "dares." One of the ones she gave us yesterday entailed the following: write about the first time you ever heard a particular song. Any song. Pick one. Write about the context. Where were you? What were you doing? Who was with you? Describe the scene in excruciating detail. (She didn't the word "excruciating"; that's creative license on my part.)

So, for your consideration, I thought I'd give you my response to that dare. It concerns South Korea, for which I am leaving in three weeks. And it concerns one of my very favorite songs, one which I shall forever associate with Korea, friends, being an expatriate, godawful Korean lager, and...well, a whole bunch of other things. Read for yourself.

     I was halfway through my fourth glass of beer and moving steadily into to a lolling, drunken stupor.  Adam sat across from me, as tipsy as I was, a toothy grin on his whiskery face as he dealt the cards for another round of Tripoley.  Elaine and Jeff were in the kitchen, mixing up some vile concoction of soju, orange juice and various liqueurs.  The scent of cigarette smoke hung heavy in the air, soaking every surface in the apartment—skin, clothes, hair, upholstery, wallpaper.  Gossamer strands of vaporized carcinogens drifted up to the ceiling and hung there like lopsided spider webs.
     It was pitch-black outside, except for the streetlights and neon-lit storefronts.  The apartment was brilliantly lit by overhead fluorescent lighting.  The curtains were closed, providing few hints about the dank, humid night outside.  The linoleum floor was covered in crumbs, dingy tennis shoes, dog-eared paperbacks, smutty magazines.  The glass-topped card table was populated with stacks of shuffled cards, sweating beer glasses and their telltale wet rings.  Squashed beneath the glass were scraps of lined notebook paper with odd missives scribbled upon them in untidy ball-point: pot, kitty, king, queen, king-queen, ace, jack, 10, 8-9-10 all one suit.

     Another day in South Korea had drawn to a close, and four beleaguered expatriates—Jeff (the Canadian), Adam, Elaine (a Geordie couple from Newcastle-upon-Tyne), and their American friend had gathered together for a long night of decompression and relaxation.  A comforting dinner of beef and vegetables had been laid to rest in our bellies, various grievances had been levied against fractious students, copious amounts of booze were being consumed hourly, and the evening had gotten into its stride.  Now we all sat down to the table, drinks in hand and giddiness in our heads, to play cards for unshelled peanuts.

     Behind Adam, balanced on the ottoman, was a battered laptop computer hooked to a pair of squat speakers.  From this was blasting an endless stream of music—house rhythms reminiscent of English nightclubs, highlights of 1960s American rock, and several contemporary selections.  Among this was scattered a pleasing ensemble of R&B.

     And then it happened.  As Adam dealt the cards (a Marlboro hanging from the corner of his mouth), a wave of sound slammed into the alcoholic fog hanging over my brain.  It was a simple sound, but powerful, primal, elemental in its ferocity and intensity.  The power, the melody, and the pounding rhythm seized my soul in their sinewy clutches and refused to let go.

    It was an electric guitar and a drum kit.  That’s all.  Okay, there was some bass in the background, but the guitar and the drums were what got me. Two instruments bare-knuckling their way out of jerry-rigged speakers, filling the smoky air with raw noise.  It was the blues—but the kind of blues which human ears hadn’t heard on this earth since the fabled days of John Lee Hooker and Buddy Guy.  It was dirty, gritty, unfiltered, like a cigarette butt ground into the pavement.  It started low and slow, and then got loud.  It was impossible to keep my feet from tapping and my head from bobbing as thundering drums and jagged guitar riffs blasted ‘round the room like a sonic tsunami.  Even in the midst of a boozy funk I was stricken, overawed.  I leaned ravenously forward, elbows on my knees, straining to absorb as much of the music as possible from my remote position five feet away.

    “Adam,” I asked, “who is this?”

   Adam craned his head around and swiped a finger across the laptop’s touchpad.

   “The Black Keys, mate,” he said. “They’re mint.” 

   So it was.  I leaned farther forward and squinted.  The song was called “Busted.”

   Even the godawful Korean lager tasted good that night.