Freedom Passes and Holes in Time

Where's Spartacus? The Unaltered Conscious.

Even though I live in the UK, it didn’t escape me that yesterday was an unpleasant deluge of ugly decrees and executive orders from the new US president. Over dinner with a friend, we tried to make sense of where things were headed. The discussion quickly decayed into a short scatter of uttered bafflements. This new intersection of billionaire fealty with a slew of “uns” — unchecked AI and social media, unabated corporate greed, unregulated environmental assaults, unbeholden to norms, laws and protections—and this is just the beginning. Equally disconcerting and astounding is witnessing the collective stunned deer-in-headlights gaze of millions of Democrats, progressives and liberals. Understandable. We have no Spartacus—not that things ended well for him, but he had a good run. I don’t foresee any possible uprisings, but I still need to believe that anything can happen. That includes good things.

After dinner, we went to see the Fabulous Thunderbirds, an Austin band that I first saw (different lineup, same original singer Kim Wilson) and saw very often, starting when I was 16 years old at the very first Antone’s on 6th. After I moved to LA, the band signed to Takoma Records and toured a lot—I saw them at the Whisky, I saw them in London I don’t remember where, I saw them in NYC. But I hadn’t seen them since the early 80’s.

Last night, at a great club, the 229 in Great Portland Street, I watched with an audience of mostly older men. They stood rapt, I danced in one spot—that is, I was moving, but not wildly—not the way some people fling themselves around with zero inhibitions. That’s what would have been happening in Austin—except not me, I have far more than zero inhibitions.

This version of the TBirds played a lot of the songs they used to; from Smiley Lewis to Slim Harpo’s Scratch My Back, their own Tuff Enough, Why Get Up, the Crawl. The music punctured a hole in time and whatever came out of that hole spilled onto me; it left me soft and smiling and covered in familarity and basking in Texas proud. A slow blues (my least favorite form of a I - IV - V chord progression) and a jump boogie that used to signal a band break instead morphed into a 20 minute harmonica solo: the tear in time patched itself, but it was glorious for a while.

I stayed to say hi to the guitar player who I know and OG Tbird singer Kim. In the old days, he might wear polyester leisure suits ala Muddy Waters, 50’s baggy pants and no-iron panel shirts, often topped off with a turban. The TBirds were some stylish badasses and I worshipped them. Now he has a shaven head and wears a black suit.

I knew Kim Wilson the least of the original band, but last night, in the 60 seconds we greeted each other, an unspoken current of acknowledgement and recognition zapped between us. It didn’t rip any holes in time. It was more like space tried to expand, and contain all at once, the 50 years worth of time we’d both lived since 1975.

I left the club fighting tears. I’d had a good time and didn’t want to be weepy on the tube. I write about this because when these collisions of time awareness happen, they are kind of a heartfuck. You hear about mind fucks, which we are all too familiar with. But when you’re staring down a long past, and hanging on, squeezing every drop out of an acutely temporary present, and always, always, stepping around the elephant in the room of your uncertain and comparatively shortshrift of a future, it’s a heartfuck and it will make you weep. It’s sadness and tenderness and wistfulness, but it’s also kind of beautiful. IYKYK

I’ve rented a room in London from a new friend, kind of a toe hold into my city jump, somewhere to base, a pied-a-terre, while I scope where to land. As most of you city dwellers know, there are a lot of choices when it comes to choosing a neighborhood. It’s a crucial decision, one I’ll be stuck with for a while. From what I hear, the rental market here is difficult. I have the credit history of a newly minted teenager in the UK and belong to 2 very large cats, so I might not be the most appealing applicant and will probably have to pay a year’s rent up front. Sizable amounts like that start looking like a down payment on buying a property—except now I’m back at the top of the no credit loop. I’m kicking myself a bit for not working harder over the year to establish myself as a legit adult with some means. I did get a card with a £200 limit but wasn’t ever able to activate it.

All this leads to more change; starting out the new year making a little second home base. I’m looking forward to having roomie/friend proximity. I’m very excited to have a London address making me eligible for a FREEDOM PASS. Ah. This isn’t quite as all encompassing as it sounds, but it’s pretty freakin’ great: As a 66 year old, I get to travel on the tube, train and bus for free. The UK is a good place for olds. For now, it’s also a good place to not be supremely depressed as years of hard fought, hard won progressive policies are annihilated.

Today marks 36 years of sobriety. I forgot about it until a friend texted me to wish me a happy 36. I have been sober, if you include my toddler and childhood years, which why not, I existed—I have been sober 48 of my 66 years. Sober to me doesn’t mean teetotaling or not drinking, or abstaining. It means an unaltered concsiousness. It means for 48 of my 66 years that my brain and my spirit just exist as they are. Like plugging straight into the amp, no effects, no reverb, no delay, no distortion. Like a photograph with no filter, except it’s life without filters, a face with no blemishes concealed, no lips or lashes enhanced. I am always just as I am and so used to it I’d probably have a panic if I sensed any difference in my neurons and receptors and signal functions. It probably sounds boring to social imbibers or thrill seekers who like to explore the unknown reaches of their consciousness with organic or chemical aids. Lucky for me I’m too interested to be bored: in the world, culture, learning, my weird human stuff interacting with other people’s weird human stuff. One thing that bores me is drunk people, so maybe I’m a bit of a sober snob.

Anyway, this is a time passage awareness that has no hearfuckery at all, it’s my freedom pass and I will ride free for the rest of my whole trip and that also is glorious.

Music galore: Recording bass for 2 songs for the Coolies this week. Below is a pic of an earlier one we did. Rehearsing, writing, recording with Psycher at the top of Feb. A new single coming out that I wrote and sang with Neal X, it’s called “I Love You More” and it rocks like mad. More solo shows opening for Glen Matlock end of Feb. Finishing “Hurry”—finally, the slowest Hurry ever—top of March. Gotta floor it on my bass parts also in March and head off for Go-Go’s rehearsals and concerts. Super happy about ALL of this music. It keeps ogres, monsters, trolls and fascists away.

The thing is all this damn music keeps me from writing my book. Only this substack and YOU reading it is keeping me writing at all. So thank you. Please consider an upgrade if you enjoy the time I put into keeping the Direction of Motion moving into your orbit. From a follow to a free subscribe, from a free to a paid—only if it doesn’t impact your flow too much.

For many, many years, my send off to people I love is “be careful.” Because all it takes is one second of carelessness or unattentive moving and BOOM. bad things. So all of you, please, be careful. xxKV