The new novel from Joyless House: coming in 2016!
"I awoke the day after the Akron show to an adult Rottweiler licking my balls." - Chapter 7 of Journey to the Center of the Dream.
And what more do you need to read?! If you had a "buy it now" button you'd probably put your finger right through your computer screen! Coming in 2016 (probably summerish) is the book you all have been waiting for. And by "you all" I mean punks, rockers, stoners, hipsters, scenesters, and freaks of every stripe who have, or in the past decade have had any interest or involvment at all in the underground punk/rock & roll scene.
Do you like reading about yourself?
Of course you do. Don't be a fatuous twit. Well if you were privy to any of Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones' far-flung escapades over the past decade, you just might be in luck. All the stories laid out in the book are fictional, of course, or rather fictionalized. (Wink, wink, nudge, nudge, say no more.) Journey is a tale of excess, paranoia, tedium, desperation, and joy. It's about music, to some extent, but it's more about America - THE REAL America, not the one you see doing the tourist bureau special. It's about the poeple who book shows, who put up bands, who put up WITH bands, etc. It takes place in their crummy (usually) neighborhoods and on the endless asphalt highway. It's about dive bars and record stores and restaurants of every ethnic persuasion. Let's have a look!
The band: ". . . we were Black Darkness. We were all set to kick ass in every corner of the country and take shit from no one." - Chapter 3
The itinerary: Milwaukee, Chicago, Cleveland, Akron, Columbus, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, New York, Middleton, CT, Baltimore, Washington D.C., Atlanta, Orlando, Gulf Port, MS, New Orleans, Austin, Memphis, Lincoln, NE, Fargo, ND, Missoula, MT, Seattle, Olympia, Portland, Oakland, San Francisco, Sacramento, Salt Lake City, Denver, Omaha and Normal, IL.
Do you LIVE in one of these cities,pal? Are you gnawing the bit and drooling with anticipation to find out what sort of hideous slanders I've invented to use against your proud hometown?
"I had been to Orlando before and from what I could tell, it was nothing more than Disneyworld, dog tracks, strip malls and trailer parks; home to the morally corrupt and bereft of soul; playground for the vacuous and banal. What the fuck Black Darkness was doing driving all night to play a show in Orlando, Florida, I had no idea." - Chapter 18
But it's not all like that. Look ahead a couple pages, Sport: "I had to somewhat reevaluate my low opinion of Orlando, Florida." You see, America is given every chance to prove our cynical narrator wrong, and she often does.
But don't worry, you'll find all the macho rock & roll decadence you crave: "I began to feel like we were some sort of living natural history exhibit, crowded in the little room drinking. It was rather empowering, really. We swilled PBR with extra gusto. We casually smoked a bowl, eyeing the spectators coolly over the pipe while taking big hits. We snorted cocaine off the top of Leo’s bass cabinet. We were like barbarians inside the gates." - Chapter 13
Hey! Put it away, freak! Here are the celebrity cameos your panting for: "Onto the stage then, walked the messiest pile of human being I had ever laid eyes on. Here was the great Robespierre; the Cajun Boogieman in the flesh; the greatest songwriter of our generation." - Chapter 20
"What’s more, we’d be playing with Austin’s own Willy Raymond Williams . . . He was not, as his name might suggest, a saucy old negro blues man, but a skinny white boy with a scraggly beard and an ironical take on God’s world." - Chapter 21
And also, the rock-bottom lows you voyeuristic drama queens need: "In my moment of supreme weakness, I let my eyes flood with tears. My self-pity flowed down my cheeks and I choked off a sob inside my throat. Dante was silent beside me. No one else stirred either. I shut my eyes and forced myself to sleep." - Chapter 20
"I had been crushed mentally, physically and spiritually, reduced to nothing more functional than a cooperative piece of cargo, able only to dutifully climb into the van when it was time to move and roll myself out again when we came to a stop." - Chapter 23
And for you true-blue sex pervs . . . don't worry, old Ted wouldn't let you down: "Hung there on the wall was a realistic charcoal of a muscular male nude making love to . . . or, more accurately, having love made to him by a very large traffic cone." - Chapter 33
But that's enough for now . . . no need to give away the cow . . . The point is: stay tuned. You have been warned! 2016 - summerish. Probably. The fucker's written; there's only the details to get in line.
The journey forward continues.