tentacle of contents

Studio 71 South Show    (new)  Tentacle plays at Susan Stanek's art exhibition in early spring at Studio 71 South.

The Art Show  by Blackie Dammet   Writer, actor, publicist Blackie Dammett's take on Tentacle and the art exhibit.

Dirty Punk Rocker    (new)  Late fall performance, Tentacle rocks the house at Fusion Salon

T-FIX   Get your Tentacle fix here.  The last show at our fav, Ten Bells before it closed.

T-Funk  Tentacle evolution:  the addition of the stellar Seth, and the rock.

Tentacle Overload  Tentacle plays Detroit, an eerie expose. 

home   

Studio 71 South Show  by Susan Stanek

There is a cow licking my brain, pulling out memories one by one.  Her broad rough tongue grabs strands of thoughts.  Electric spider webs cover her face.  She shakes her head in annoyance, and keeps on licking.  I savor the moment, at last my mind is empty.  Little black birds land on her face and grab the silken strands one by one, pulling apart singular ideas that exist in lengthy molecular strands of verbiage, dots turn into pictures, words evolve into sentences.  A long velvet dress, chocolate brown, a gown with heals, the ones I wore at a wedding.  White gloves with peal buttons in a gumdrop line ascend from my wrist. 

 It’s the end of winter, early spring, and my skin is like paper, the thin white damsel enters.  “It’s Marilyn Monroe, everybody!” Blackie shouts.  Oh, come on, it’s just the hair.  Soft blonde curls cascade around my shoulders.  This isn’t your ordinary Tentacle show, but then again, what is ordinary?  We’ve had go-go dancers bathing in blood, ladies seducing fire, “The Devil Dolls” with whips.  Even every costume of mine has ranged from torn skull laden jeans, to a 50’s prom dress with combat boots, and now I look like a 40’s dame with pearls and curls.  This one was going to be very swanky.  We had a lot of cool cats coming in from out of town to see the art exhibit and Tentacle.  Hours devours in back, the famous Tentacle rig shined like Christmas in the front picture window of Studio 71 South.  The space was decorated with a variety of Susan Stanek art, cloudy landscapes, mysterious women, lurking figures, vibrant gusts of emotion, quiet sophistication. There’s something about the sculpture that people appreciated.  It shows delicate expression, and peace.  Blackie Dammet adorned a whole wall with expressive abstracts and non-objectives.  In some he used paint as a sculptural tool.  Jenny Wood, creator-editor of Fluid Magazine displayed celestial pointillism, and suspended, lonely, craggily trees.  Brandy Krause’s fashion mannequins mimicked street attitude and hung like art.  I now see fashion as a form of sculpture, and presentation.  I keep begging her to do my hair!  Someday we’ll do something way-rad.  We’ve already come up with a couple stellar ideas.

 So anyways, who cares.  It’s Tentacle time.  The place is packed, it’s dark out, and it’s time to roll.  A strange sound vibrates the block.  Tentacle sprawls through the streets.  People passing by can’t help but to linger.  The sidewalk is the best seat in the house, if you don’t mind the smokers.  You can see Sticky manipulating multiple movements, synchronizing syncopation, a symphony, cacophony, harmony and melody. 

 We rock out the first couple songs, then smooth out with the next.  I took a break between songs to grab a refreshment, saying ‘hi’ to Herm from Vertigo on the way.  With a red Cheshire smile, I tip-toe bare foot across the wood floor back to the staging area.  The music was already playing. 

 The audience received the beat.  Suddenly everything meshed.  There was a cool, casual vibe as I sang ‘Let Your Angels Go’.  Tentacle just started jamming.  Seth wailed his ambiance.  Frolicking in sound like Pan, he poised his guitar in specific positions for optimal feedback, roll with it.  Fold into it.  Ambient.  Indulge in it.  Indulge in the Tentacle.  Indulge in the naughty bitty things, the knotted torturous spectacle of the great, the entertaining Knotty Bitts Sideshow! 

 The Tentacle show departed like post tornado winds.  The unusual Gwydion bedazzled us.  Sylver captivated us.  Their act was humorously stunning.  I am honored to have them part of the show.  From seeing behind the scenes I realize that the fabulous tricks they do take years of study and practice.  It takes grace and accuracy.  It’s a sophisticated choreography of humor and awe.  It’s stunning how harsh gravity can be, how volatile fire can be, and how lethal shards can cut. 

 After the Knotty Bitts Sideshow was done I noticed a photographer kneeling before the gracious Sylver, documenting her bleeding foot as she’d just done a demonstration where she walked on shards of glass.  Look, kids.  This is why you don’t do this at home.

Susan Stanek sings while Seth Beute plays is Fender Strat.  SS art in background.

end of file.

be cool, be tentacle.

vixen siouzen

Dirty Punk Rocker  by Susan Stanek

I felt like a dirty punk rocker. Abrasive stare, cheaply stained blue hair, too much eye make-up, suede black mini skirt and black tights. I should be in the eighties somewhere in an alley waiting, to get into some seedy punk club, in the bad side of town. But I wasn't. I was at the sophisticated Fusion Salon, in a good part of town.

We chilled at Seth's place before the show, then moseyed down the mason streets, through the drizzle, the miserable gray to the place where everyone is going to be tonight. The salon windows were bright and warm, a contrast to the aching gray sky and concrete. The glaze façade of the building beamed with the glamour of light, and fashion maniacs buzzing with pre-show chaos and glee. Pan across large square windows, in sequence, like a story board, see that Blackie is already there, at home among the whirlwind of scrambling entertainers. Once he saw we were there hanging outside in the cold, too shy to come in, he and his feminine sidekick Alicia came outside to greet us.

We hung out tough, standing firm against the natural elements. My cotton candy blue fluff gradually lulled into a plastic dirge, but I didn't care. "Are you cold? Would you like to go inside?" I said no as I shivered. My make-up grayed into a darker hue.

Standing, swaying back and forth in Michigan crisp, I couldn't stop yawning. I realized we were being watched as the people inside yawned with me. I'm cold. Let's go in. Blackie opened the door and announces with resonance, "And now, TENTACLE!" I'm just about to step in, and then pulled back! Stage freight! I can't believe he did that. Impromptu, "Oh, okay, we'll go in first then," he said so save my ass. So we strut in, absorbing the gleaming spectacle. Tentacle lines up against the wall with attitude as photographers shocked us with glory. The photographer notices we're unreceptive so he tries to walk away snapping photos with out looking.

The fashion show begins. Up the stairs, one by one the models cruise out to the floor. The disk jockey sprang music in their step as they pranced attitude and glee into everyone's mind. Torn magazine images of rock stars, legendary, seedy attitudes, and their cutting edge fashion littered the floor. Funked out models trip like sunshine.

One by one the audience grows. Tentacle fans flanked the entire back wall. I mingled among them, huddling, glaring, thanking them for coming. Insect-vision, visiting every head like a moth.

Fusion Salon hosted an excellent reception, and made sure that all people were satisfied in beverage and sweets. The Apartment Kids took the stage after the fashion exhibit. They really rocked. They have a good, full Indie sound, booming with personality. Jodi owns the salon and also plays drums in the band and paints as well. Next, Coin jammed out a few.

Tentacle. You're on. We're on. Military action, hump the gear in. I'm schmoozing as I watch men carry the equipment in. I fix my eyes on …Ryan? He says, "Look at this! I'm helping more now than what I did when I was actually singing in the band!" Ryan is our lyricist. I enjoyed his banter.

Showtime. Just what you've been waiting for. Sound check. No sound check? People are buzzing, throw on a beat, jam out a sound, people writhe and dance. We just started jamming. Couldn't help it … again.

After the first song we got our balance. Sound panned to and fro, making a dizzying spectacle that people were starving for. Eric sets off the beats, and eerie ambiance. He tells epic stories through sound and music. Seth lurks in his trance. I'm not saying words. I'm in the music.

"Now this next song is a little creepy." The beat thumps all the hearts in the room at the same time, unified. People danced and writhed about as others were walking in, some with crisp brown bags filled with refreshments. Most new comers headed straight for the desert table in the back, thwarting any obstacle in their way. We gave over an hour of Tentacle love. People were thrashing in high fashion, and falling like dolls, dancing and laughing, like a carnival spectacle. I just kept singing, screaming. The entertainer is being entertained by the audience.

Our crew was one of the last to leave. With the equipment packed we hung out in a circle telling jokes, and reciting segments of famous movies with marvelous accuracy and annoying passion. I enjoyed meeting Jodi and her clients and fans. Thanks to the Tentacle fans who made my night by coming out, and thanks to Fusion Salon for hosting such a trendy, high-fashion event.

Your Tentacle
Vixen Siouzen

T-fix by Susan Stanek

Cloudscape dreams flicker in my mind, swirling ambiance, panning from one ear to the other in sequence, dramatic sequence.  Curly cues slither, licking the ceiling like tongues of death.   The Devil Dolls haunting seduction bedazzled the audience between sets.  Then Miss Pussykatt licked the ceilings with fire, a dramatic sequence of risk, amber attraction, and the mystery of shadow and feminine prowess. 

Haunting mystery, secret misery, Susan Stanek dressed in white, stands in the spotlight.  It's just a sound check, don't mind the painful squeal from the mic.  First, cue the keys, sing the guitar, sure, I can sing.  The beat was on, we just kept playing, getting our groove on, we couldn't help it.  Someone whispers loudly to me, "Are you on??"  The song concludes, "Thats just a sound check folks."

I got off stage, and mingled a little more while Miss Pussykatt introduced the nights theme, "Bitches Brew" and the band, Tentacle.  Showtime.  Lets go.  Hop on stage and the music just begins.  Its the song for real this time.  People are still rolling in, Tentacle fans come just on time.  A heavy B flat floods the room; I talk with the beat, "Are you having a good time?  Here, at my behest?"  I loved opening with Are You Happy, to say to the audience, "It's not my job to keep you entertained!  Its not up to me to be your light, tonight," as I stand like a beacon.  I don't introduce us until after the first song while people are cheering.  Rhythm a ray of light, the next song begins.  I sang harder, more eerie.  Creepy, I just cant help.  It comes so easy, to be haunting.  And with Seth's complicated ambiance, and Eric's permeating melodies, Tentacle cant help but to be memorable.

I remember Seth hauling the chair in from the Tentacle Van.  He nodded at the dog hairs on the fabric and said to Eric, "See, your dogs will be with you."  We joked about how we should bring the wolf looking dogs as stage props, to growl like gargoyles, and wrestle like punk rock boys, the way they do during practice.

Back to the show, it went well.  The set went smoothly.  I, for a moment closed my eyes as I sang, and melted into Erics beats.  I opened them gradually, and there on the speaker was a little vampire laughing with buck toothed fangs, and flower in hand.  I hissed a laugh, my character tensed with giddiness.  Who put that little stuffed icon there?  Look who is in the audience, scan the faces, you?  You?  Ah, it must be Kate, chuckle.  What a hoot.  I couldnt take it for granted that it belonged to me at the time, but I wanted to kidnap the gift, and fly with it under my cape! 

 (albino alligators)

Back to the show, it went real well.  I sang my little heart out.  A few people seemed mesmerized.  Eric jumped around a bit, Seth wailed his ambiance artfully.  Cult of You was the last song.  It is crisp, and my voice sounds hypnotic.  Seth and Eric let the sound linger and resonate.  There is a key moment that you can barely find, a fleeing silence somewhere between the music and the crowds roar.  I found it.  I let the silence state itself for about four seconds, then in my creepy child like voice said, "You're all eager minions" in a nursery rhyme way.  Then the bar was silent.  One of the fans who knew me chimed, "Sue!  You freak me out!"  Then we walked off stage.  That was it.

Tentacle Funk by Susan Stanek

Tentacle sounds better than ever. They have excellent new material where Sue screams off the roof! With the addition of Seth who wails ambiance like "Medicine" and "The Cure" behind Eric's (Sticky) beats and haunted piano melodies, you'll be memorized. Holistically speaking Tentacle is thicker, more plush and meaty, with the same unique sound they've always had. After Ryan's departure they've had many people wanting to fill his role. Everyone wants to be Tentacle. But seriously kids, Tentacle is better than ever as is. Sue takes center stage as being beautiful and scary at the same time. If you ask her, she'll say she just wants to jam.

Sticky has worked his mo-jo into some radical new songs. He pulls off a memorable Depech Mode type song where Sue sings softly the lyrics that the husband and wife team came up with together that are astounding, and thought provoking. It's something about ash succumbing to fire, a life lost only to rise again. Judge it for yourself. Yet another new song utilizes Vixen Susan's ability to scream like Trent. Put that along with Stickys eerie trance jive and you have memorable material that you can't get out of your head for a week. It is something you'll thrash to, that is if you can pick your jaw up off the floor.

During some songs you might be more like Seth, who prefers to sit with eyes closed, and absorb the vibrations and emotion of the world, no, the universe through Tentacle. Each song is epic, and tells a story that speaks of a pain with a wince of erotic intrigue, simply through sound. There is no band that sounds quite like Tentacle. When Seth plays guitar it sounds like a forlorn wolf lost in a world of dreams, sometimes quiet, sometimes howling the power of spirit.

The next time they'll perform is actually for a friend. Jodie Rietberg is the owner of a hot salon in Grand Rapids. It will be a year that they've been open, and to celebrate and promote the happenings she's hosting a reception. She is also in a hot indie band called "The Apartment Kids" where she plays drums. It's a free show, and a good time is sure to be had as one can come and enjoy live music of COIN, TENTACLE, and THE APARTMENT KIDS. You'd be a fool not to come, because after all, a free Tentacle show doesn't happen unless you're near kin.

So come get your Tentacle fix on October 21 at Fusion. They'll be performing a stellar line up of old classics like "Let Your Angels Go", and "I'm Just Not" (yes Marc, Sue SCREAMS and you will too!) Plus they'll feature, to this selected audience, their new material. Tentacle has over an hour of songs to play for y'all. Tentacle hour is Tentacle fun. All hail the Tentacle machine.

Tentacle will be recording again some time this year, so hopefully there will be an EP release of their hot-to-touch sound.  Come out to see Tentacle in Tentacle style, absorb their ambient creepy funk at Fusion Salon, 926 Wealthy Street South East in Grand Rapids, Michigan, on Saturday October 21. I wonder what Sue will wear this time.

Tentacle Overload   by Susan Stanek

The lounge area       Sullen Bee waits for Tentacle to play  (photos by SS)

So I’m sitting here, swirling my delicious viscous in my merlot glass, contemplating what the heck just happened.  I remember practicing the night before. I had just got out of the shower, and was still dewy, and wore a thick black robe draping heavily behind me, and a towel on my head.  Ryan was supposed to come over to run through the set that night, but as he puts it, “work fucked him again.”  The sun was setting, and casting golden flashes of light through the trees.  Out of consequence of Eric’s jamming, I found myself singing, staring out the window, thinking about how nobody is going out to the gig with us.  We’ve always had people around to help square situations, deals, and move equipment, but this time we’re lone wolfing it.  So I stared out the window blankly, anticipating a future.  Two birds, the most beautiful, sat side by side eating seeds from the feeder.  A male cardinal and male rose breasted grosbeak, with the bleeding heart I think looks like a burst of red streaming down his white breast.  Surely this meant something.  I didn’t know what, but the sight of the beauties made my heart warm.  I closed my eyes and sang like a cardinal, and thought, “they’re gone, I can go this alone.”  I opened my eyes ready to see what I knew, an empty bird feeder.  Not a soul around, and I smirked a bit, leaning on the mic, and let the towel fall off my head.  

We the good four wandered our way, zipping through the freeways up to the down town Detroit.  We passed by the famous 8 Mile road sign, and into the sky where the night was rising.  I could hear the music churning, beginning.  “One person lost in that city once, made that sign famous”, I thought.  Along my journey I saw a black vulture whose head was buried in the carcass of a coyote.  It was difficult to see, that the colors of the coyote and the vulture blended, unharmed and unnoticed along the freeway’s edge.  A feast, right there in front of everyone, and no one sees, but I with the eyes.  What I was thinking, before I saw that, was how I’d seen a crow eat a fresh kill on the road, and the similarities of that occurrence with the vulture’s role, and the Egyptian mythology which calls the vulture “mother” in that it gives life, bringing the soul of the devoured to the sun-god.  The aura of the incident relaxed me, and enlightened me, and brought me to think again about what I could learn from seeing the event.  Something about eating death to become life, I thought.  This idea brings me to remember where a thought came to me, a phrase that had randomly been dumped into my brain, and electrified as a flashing thought, complete with image and story book manner:  “I will bleed, I will show my teeth.”  I was in a daze, realizing that I was staring at Eric’s eyes, with another twisting smile, kind of hidden. 

I saw many beautiful things along the way, life beside the high way.  White mute swans on black water with young, horses turned out to be wild, to roam on great grassy pastures, and as we got into the city, the surroundings became concrete and glass, dust of traffic swirled in the late sun, masonry geometry, poverty, six cops surrounding one elderly black man, patting him down, metal cuffs and lights flashing with adrenalin, and in a moment, everyone is gone.  Not even a tumble weed.  We kept driving.  Found the street, a back alley, worn down houses, it’s right up here…where, here?  A side street from a side street, in some forgotten suburb of Detroit lay a three story house converted to a night club. We turned down the allay along side it, “Nice, no back door, this is going to be great!”  Next door was an abandoned house with no glass in the windows, whose concrete back yard issued trash, and cast out furniture.  The saplings were working on breaking up the ground.  “That’s where drug users go, not the dealers.”  Now I’m thinking “Will I ever leave here?  Am I ready for death?”

We keep on our way to get the lay of the land.  A Mc Donald’s, a polish restaurant, “that’d be good” I thought, and an Arab dentist.  The streets were dusty.  The old 1950’s feel still echoed, the jazz reverberating in someone’s memory.  That was the hay-day.  40’s through 60’s, this town.  All the houses were new, everyone knew each other, the feeling that time’s a changing, women in tight belts and dresses.  It’s still there, if you look at it in the right angle of sun, and look past the wretched years.  I tried to see through the scar of poverty, and saw some places where the old architecture was refurbished into newly designed night clubs, now closed.  Lot for sale.  But this seedy little ditty of a place held on in this economy, this specific nature, this, the place we will perform the Tentacle.

The sun was setting, angel nostalgia onto the place with its yellow gleam, and I was still unsure about this place.  We stop at a T-intersection, facing gray brick buildings with bars on the windows.  The sun is setting behind me, casting indirect hues onto the city, and there before me rises a completely white dove, a pigeon ascending brilliantly in the yellow sun like heaven.  Pure and placid the little lone thing lands on signage, and sat right up top a large, red S.  Okay, this has to mean something!  “Which way should we go?  Left, neh.  Right?  Neh, right?”  Surveying the strip Ryan calls, says he’s at the club.  We park and see him and his chick that looks like a china doll emerge into the glare of the sun.  Approaching him we say, “What the fuck, dude?  What the fuck is this?”  It’s better when you get inside, he assures.  Through the front door, and up the stairs…what?  We have to haul our equipment up stairs?  Open the door, walk in the door, turn right, bar.  Long bar, dark, comfortable, fresh new employees getting ready to serve the majority by stocking supplies, and wiping glasses.  The gentleman in black with piercings, shows us up the narrow staircase, and to the second floor bar.  A small cozy bar in back, lounge in front, complete with a black grand piano by the window, with a clean glass ash tray.  Black and purple interior, with two bay windows face the sunset. “Who plays the piano?”  The owner.  Three small tables row along the center partition wall, each with a small lamp, and fine fabric draping toward the floor.  There’s a couch that you know must be a stage for something.  The dance floor is the adjacent room, and the carpet in front of the second window is the stage.  We milled around, getting a feel of the lay out, the space, and gazed out the windows to the city below us.  Sullen, Ryan’s date, sat on the couch, the boys had hauled everything in.  French Art Nuevo hung on the wall, and one drawing of a lady vampire with long hair biting some guy's neck.

We had two hours before show time.  Ryan’s moods swing, and had gone from excited to, “looks like this is just going to be another open practice.”  He kept throwing out random song phrases like, “Like a rainbow in the dark!” that kept people on their toes.  One guy passing through stopped and shook his head and laughed, but you know he must have liked that song in the day.  We were joking with the solo guitarist known as “Katie” who had a down to earth, witty sarcasm that accented Ryan’s cynical humor.  She was cool.  She sat at one of the tables writing out the last of her lyrics and chorus.  She had brown baggy pants on, and had some kind of chain on the pocket, I’m thinking.  While we were chilling Ryan came back into the room, he kept coming and going, but now he had taken off his baggy sweater, and wore a sleek nylon black shirt, and had on fingerless gloves, and asks, “Does this look dumb?”  Naturally, we took the opportunity to mock him a bit though he looked sexy, and he ended up not wearing the gloves on account of our bad humor.  The equipment was all set up, Eric’s rig was laid out geometrically, alive with electricity.  As we sit on the couch watching Katie write, a face leans in and shouts enthusiastic praise, complimenting Eric’s equipment.  “Korg!  Nice!  Wow!”  After a while of sitting and smiling, (I'm the only 'goth' person smiling) to kill time Eric and I went to the bar to see what they had for drinks.  I ordered a cold bottle of Lebatt after oogeling over the Guinness.  They had no beers on tap at the intimate bar, the kegs were downstairs.  The bar tender was a heavy woman wearing black and sporting cleavage.  “That’s what I drink” she says when she sets the bottle down, “being from Canada.” 

“Lebatt is my water” I say with a smile.  “Guinness is my cream soda, but Lebatt is my water.”  She laughed heartedly, and we exchanged some wise cracks upon where I find myself saying, “Oh, careful, I think I’m going to blush!”  She went on with comical satire about her family, and laid down some real friendly conversation.  Eric ordered the same, a Lebatt, his first and last beer out of the bar. 

Standing on the dance floor I look up where the ceiling is cut out.  I am able to see the rooms upstairs, and windows clad with drapes overlooking the arena.  A balcony wraps around the east side where the doors to the rooms were.  On the North side was one door, and no balcony, but windows.  I heard there was an art gallery up there.  The devil guy who showed us in was about to take me up there to see the art when some random voice shouted, “It’s locked.”

 “It’s locked?” 

“It’s locked.”

 “Oh, it’s locked, we can’t go up there.”  He says.

“I have some art that would go well here, who do I talk to about getting art in here?”  I ask him.

“Me,” he said, and introduced himself as “’The Devil’.  I’m usually red with pointy horns, you may have seen pictures of me.  That’s why I have these.”  He points to the three studs in his bottom lip.

“I’d give you my card if I had one,” I continue.

“There are enough papers around here, we’ll exchange information somehow.”

Later I slipped him a business card I got from Eric, and after the show he handed me a sharpie written note with his email address and said, "It's not as nice as yours, but this is my information."

Girls in vinyl mini skirts and tall boots kept going up the stairs, and down, and other guys would sneak up there.  I figured something was going on up there, in one of the rooms. 

Darkness fell, the music rose.  Downstairs is where people were hanging, where the go-go dancers were writhing behind bars, and anything was bumping the house, be it Eminem, or System of a Down.  “I thought this was supposed to be a goth club, they're playing Zeppelin” Eric asks. 

“Well, I figure it’s goth people who like rock and metal.  I do.”  We liked the music.  All the people I would say were our age or older.  Not many youngsters here, no one under twenty-one that I could see.  They also served a portion of Depeche Mode, some of their older classics.  This was pleasing, the mix of music they played.

I’m timing myself, not getting another beer until sufficient time had passed …time’s up.  As I mosey toward the back quarters, I pass through two men sitting across from each other and one says, “I saw the Chili Peppers play Saturday Night Live, and they sucked!” 

The other guy responds, “Awe, no way!  They rocked!  It was live man!  They did great!  I loved it!”

“Naw dude!  They sucked.”  I wanted to say something.  A stream of various sentences pulled through my brain like thread led by a needle, but I just smiled, and kept walking, not even glancing at them.  I was amazed that no matter who you are, even in some random seedy dungeon of a bar, anybody who is interested in the music business watches the Chili Peppers.  Whether or not a fan, most recognize them as a standard nonetheless.

As I approach the little black room I can feel eyes on me.  I felt like a spot light was on me, every move of my shoulders, the way I strut, my facial expression, my face, someone is sizing me up I can tell.  I act like the camera is rolling, and remain seemingly neutral, and take a comfortably distant seat next to the regulars staring at me.  I think to myself that it seems like there should be absinthe, and I remember the framed French poster of a green devil hanging nearby.  The bartender takes notice of me promptly and I say with a robust voice, “I’ll have the usual” and she and I laugh aloud at once.  The regulars finally turn their head. 

On a separate occasion at this location I saw the Devil guy who stood next to me trying to get the bartender’s attention.  I take notice with a nod.  I noted to him that "I'll email him some photos...of art, to clarify."  I felt real swimmy, I can’t remember why.  I don’t believe I was drinking much, I can’t remember, but I do remember counting my change over and over, 5…6,7,8….5…6,7,8.  Thoroughly confused, I thought to myself, “How much tip should I leave?  A dollar standard, but can I afford that.  But she is expecting me to lay down a one, watching me at the corner of her eye.  What should I do?  50 cents is fine, a buck for two beers, pocket the change, tip a dollar next time, lord knows I’ll be here again,” I thought.  So I placed the flat paper bills in my drawing notebook, grabbed my beer, and as I walked away, I said to the observant “devil”, “Ah, I’ll get her next time.  I got her last time real good.”  And I walked away.  Ever since I felt guilty about not tipping her. 

Eleven o’clock.  I hear a voice say softly in the other room, “Are you guys ready to go on?”  I look at my watch, right on time.  The mic check went well, I wailed into it and my banshee voice permeated properly.  We take the floor, as the announcer introduces Tentacle, and we open with our standard song, Let Your Angels Go.  Through the glare of the stage lights I could see a few black silhouettes mingling against the walls in the back of the dance “arena”.  Behind them another shrinky-dink bar for the sound mixers, and a very small screen pulled down.  I sang and watched My Dying Bride.  I needed something to zone out to, and I found the imagery pleasing. 

I had one beer during the performance to wet my mouth with.  It was my second or third.  But I remember I had to lean on the speaker once in a while, saying to myself, "Wow, why am I so clumsy?"  I felt fine though.  Not dizzy or anything.  I thought I sang well, as long as I didn’t move around much.  I thought nothing of it, actually until now.

After the set the sound guy came up to me, and he bent his knees to the floor to meet my eyes.  As I’m unplugging the mic and wrapping the cables he said, “I’m sorry, I had you a little hot, your mic, compared to him, but I think it sounded ok.  I don’t know,” he frets, “this isn’t usually my job.”

“You did great” I assured him. 

He sighed with relief, and asks, “Why are you holding your chest?  Do you have heart burn or something?”

I laughed and said, “No, I’m holding my shirt because when I bend down the neck falls open.  Ladies have to hold their shirts when they bend over.”  That's my second prissy lady comment I said that night.

He scoffs and says, “Ah, ya seen one ya seen them all.”

As I was frantically packing Katie said, “I’m sorry I wasn’t out on the floor listening to you, but I had to talk to some people.”  I assured her that I wasn’t offended and said that sometime that’s how you enjoy music.  That was the last time I spoke to her.

Eric and I hustled the equipment into the van military style.  After all, Eric wanted a beer, and didn’t like what they served at the bar.  I was proud of myself for packing a cooler of chips, tuna salad, Cajun style hot sauce, cola, and Eric’s favorite beer, Hefeweizen.  So we chilled out in the van, with the equipment, talking casually, sipping very cold brews, observing some stocky black dude standing in the parking lot, staring at the same thing we were compelled to stare at.  There was a tricked out Volkswagen bus, with a green interior light, purple light illuminating the ground beneath it, and the back trunk hood removed to reveal the workings of the machinery amidst an eerie red light.  Meanwhile Ryan and Sullen are schmoozing it up inside, getting all the praise and attention.  Ryan knocks on the window and asks, “Is everything alright?  Are you guys ok?  Are you coming in?”

“Yeah, sure, we’re just putting down a cold one, we’ll be inside in a few minutes.  It’s quite nice, we can hear Katie strumming and singing out here.”  He was relieved, and told us of all the praise he’s gotten.  One man from Poland loved the music he said, and bought him and Sullen each a beer.  Sullen seemed quite thrilled by this attention.  She was astonished that someone got her a beer just because they loved Tentacle.  Katie wailed on the mic, strumming her guitar...electric?  Eric said they had her amp her guitar, that acoustic wouldn't sound good.  I was disappointed, saying how all those changes she made probably had to be thrown out, and that amping might change the art of it.  But she did good, she sounded good.  We watched her back through the window and contemplated what we might have looked like from out here.

We each had two in the car, and after going inside I saw myself for a smoke treat.  I never made it to the bar to make up for the lost tip.  I contemplated giving her the dollar, but didn’t.  I was hoping it wasn’t an issue.  No more beers for me, no way.

The next band takes the platform.  A lead guitar, base, and an electronic set up like Eric’s, but a fraction of the size.  One electronic instrument was in front of the guy, and along side him was a big, tall table, with one little box on it.  I called it art.  Ryan thought it was funny, and ridiculous to have a huge table for such a little thing.  It must have been an important little box.  I watched the electronic dude play his shit as they performed.  He was tall, and looked like a jock version of Eric.  I liked seeing him bop around, turning knobs and flipping switches.  Ryan says, “That’s it, you’re standing!”  Eric scoffed in humor.  We were trying to decipher if he was the one who praised Eric’s rig earlier.  This would explain his interest.  He had different cloths on, but the face, it’s got to be the same person.  The bassist reminded us of Jack Black, so that’s what we called him.  He had a good sense of humor, and a little black mohawk.  He was talking with Ryan later in the night.  The band had a great energy, a decent sound, and their music blended well with ours.  It was refreshing to play with another industrial band.  I thought that they were exactly what Tentacle would be if we actually had guitars.  When we performed, I was disappointed that the people hugged the black walls inanimately, but I saw that they were doing the same for this familiar band.  At that point I was giddy with beer, so I let myself get into the music a bit, dancing a bit, laughing and hanging with my band.  We the Tentacle offered them banter, flash photography, and some blond squirming and laughing.  Everyone else remained morbidly still.

By the time the other band had packed up it was nearly closing time.  There was a rowdy buzz in the place.  The bassist was chumming it up with Ryan, and gave us a CD and asked if we’ve heard from Unfinished Thought.  He said that they’re waiting for a gig to come up, and I chimed in, that we should set something up, where us three bands can play.  Then we began to leave.  Ryan and Sullen kept chanting, “City Club”.  They had their minds set on going to that club, and were trying to persuade Eric and I to go, but we declined.  We walked down the stairs, passed the go-go dancer, passed the bar, I wave and nod to “the devil” and he nods back. There was a tall guy in a suit was handing out fliers for the next night’s theme, “Sexsational”.  I was the only one who didn’t take a flier.  I gave no reaction to his presence.  He approached me, and put his big chest in my face, and I still give no response, staring at him with a poker face.  “How are you doing” he says like he’s hitting on me and tries to hand me a flier, Eric takes it.  He poofs out like a bird and places it with the other two in his hand and says articulately, “Yeah, um, we heard of that!” and then he hands them all back to the guy.  Exit.  Night.  Sidewalk, outside the club.  Us four stand facing each other, scoffing our feet.  Ryan is enthusiastic about going to City Club.  Even the Polish fan he says expressed interest.  Still we declined.  Sullen says, “I’ll go anytime, I always want to go to City.”  Ryan says that they’ll just go alone, and pretends to be frustrated with us.  I smile and say, “I knew you were going to go.”  Then he explains that they’ll probably get a hotel room, since Novi was near and they were meeting people there the fallowing day for the film festival.  “We figured you were going to do that,”  I said.  We said our good byes, and each went to our car. 

Just about to start the engine, another knock on the window, but it’s not Ryan.  It’s the singer from the other band.  “C’m on, we have something for you.  We got your money.  You might want to come inside.  You should probably say something to the owner.”  So we say okay, and fallow him back to the bar.  Black door, locked, no handle.  “What are you doing?”  Ryan yells from afar, standing with one foot in his car.

“Nothing, go on ahead!”  Eric says.  The other guy laughs.  He knocks on the door, and we wait for a moment.  Street lamp light made it seem like day.  “Just sit there, and don’t come and see,” he shouts to Ryan.  Finally Ryan sprints over, and we tell him we’re getting money. 

He throws his hands with a “Pfff, I thought you guys were going to go party.”  Then he skips away to his girl waiting in his car.  Door opens, can’t see who opened it.  We pass through the same crowd hanging out by the door, again I nod that the Devil dude.  I don’t see it, but the guy slips Eric the money with pick-pocket precision. 

“There, just go up the stairs.  You might want to say something to the owner, the big guy.  He’s up there, go ahead.”  Then he whispers in someone’s ear, and urges us again to go upstairs.  I felt like bait.  I felt like the lady in GoodFellas who was told, “Go down the ally there, pick out a fur coat.  There are fur coats, just walk down there, go on….”  Walking up the raggedy dark stairs, I hold my skirt up to my knee expecting a blow to the head any moment.  Atop the stairs, “Where?  Which guy is him?” 

“The big guy at the end.  The big guy right there.”  At the end of the small “absinthe bar” sits a heavy fellow, with a light colored shirt, and blondish hair, and a scruffy, short cut beard.  The electronic master from the other band was talking to him.  He greeted us, shook our hands, and asked if we were taken care of, “Yeah, I gave him the money to give to you”.  He offered us to sit down, to have a drink, “Do you need any coffee, Redbull?” he asks.  No, no thank you, we have it fixed up in the car.  He kept asking, “Where’s Ryan?”  Ryan said he had set up the show through him, so he had spoken with Ryan several times, but he’d never spoken with us.  Eric explains that we let Ryan do all the talking, he has to play all the music.  I’m perky in mood though I’m suspicious of everyone, standing behind Eric like he was my shield.  My eyes were just staring forward, watching everything around me, not looking at any one thing.  I never spoke except the proper greeting of handshake.  The electronic mastermind eventually chimed in the conversation with more praises over Eric’s equipment.  Eric replies, “It took me a long time to get.”  The bassist sat at the far end, away from us four, but listening.  As soon as his guy was talking to us I found he was sitting right next to him, right in front of me.  The conversation continued and I hear the “thanks for coming out” deal so I said, “It was an honor to play with you guys.”  I felt the place go silent, I felt someone’s heart drop.  The bassist in front of me looked at me as if stunned, and I just stared forward since I was addressing both of them at once.  With that we left, down the stairs, passed the Devil guy, another nod, out the door, across the street, no one fallowing us yet, to the van, looks clear, in, lock doors, count the cash.  He was right the owner guy, what ever his name was, gas money.

Okay, how the hell do we get out of here.  Mapquest, down this street, turn, highway, we’re off.  We’re clear.  Still in the city, orange glow of city lamps illuminate the freeway.  Gray is the cement, gray the night, gray the light, gray the thing walking in the road, gray the coyote, moved like a phantom and disappeared in the ditch, grays on grays, and he is gone.  After a while, Eric and I finally break down, “What the fuck!  What just happened!  I thought we were going to get killed!  Why was everyone smirking?  Why were they whispering?”  I said, “I have to think about that for a while before I go back there!”  So I did, I was thinking, and remembering every detail, the vulture, before the show, the people, replay the stairs, replay the night over and over.  Why did that seem so weird?  Were they high?  Were they playing with us?  Do they think we’re amateurs?  I wasn’t going to say anything but finally I burst, “Okay, I have to ask you!  Did you see the coyote cross the road?” 

Eric said “I thought I saw something.”  Then I told him that I saw the vulture eating a coyote on the way in.  We kept driving.  My eyes burned shut, they hurt, but I feel I must keep them open.  Must watch, and be alert, I thought, but it took all my strength.  We ate some chips, had a Coke.  Finally after a while I just couldn’t hold my head up I laid it to rest. 

Moments later I pop up and say, “What was that?”  I saw at the corner of my eye in the highway greenish luminescent figures we passed. 

“Deer” Eric said.  I laid my head back down, but got myself to spend rest of the ride upright, staring out the window.  After we got home, I laid on the couch in the living room, took off my stockings and boots, and fell fast asleep.  I normally wouldn’t sleep there.  I woke in the morning, still dark, and crawled into bed.  My hand had dried blood on it. I thought it was sealed, that healed blister did break.  I hope no one saw.

home    music   lyrics   reviews   discography   links   show-photos    other-pics   tentacle-stories