WSB, so long!

[Dan Whitworth <dan>]

A free concert in San Diego's Balboa Park on Saturday, August 9 included a
tribute to William S. Burroughs. A friend of mine was DJ'ing between bands
so we put something together. We kicked it off with Burroughs reading
'Uranian Willy' (aka 'Towers Open Fire') from "Call Me Burroughs." Then I
said a few words about WSB, quoted from JG Ballard's Burroughs obituary, and
introduced local poet Marc Kockinos. After Marc read some of his own
material, not WSB-specific but very appropriate, I read portions of "The
Western Lands." This started with the book's opening paragraphs about The
Old Writer, segued into the last chapter's section about the cat Smoker
whose return coincided with The Old Writer's death by coronary, and ended
with the book's final paragraph: "Hurry up, please. It's time."

At the time, I had no idea that WSB's cat Fletch had died two weeks before
WSB himself. I chose this text because the image of the mysterious black cat
as an emissary or embodiment of loving death seemed appropriate. (My own cat
Gandy had died the night before, just a few months short of 15 years, but I
had already chosen the text before that.) To top it all off, a beloved aunt
of mine had died a few weeks earlier, so I felt as if I was reading not just
for Burroughs but for all who have gone, all who are mourning. Through some
oversight, I was never introduced to the audience, but that was fine by me:
I felt more comfortable just being some anonymous guy, reading for the dead.

After I read, we played 'The Western Lands (a dangerous road mix)' from
Material's recently reissued "Seven Souls" and other Burroughs recordings,
some with music, some without. Some people in the sparse (and somewhat
random) crowd obviously didn't know who WSB was, but quite a few of them
really enjoyed hearing him read. 'The Lexington Narcotic Hospital' got quite
a few laughs ("Doctor, when you die I wanna be buried in the same coffin
with you!" ---   "Ask me what the American flag means to me, doc, and I'll
tell ya-- soak it in heroin and I'll suck it!"). A watched some women in the
front row at the Organ Pavilion who kept asking each other 'What is this?'
but they were obviously getting into it, particularly Dr. Benway's attempted
apendectomy in "Twilight's Last Gleaming." 

When the next band, Wormhole Effect, came on, my friend continued to DJ,
having become their official provider of additional sound textures some time
back; he included some more Burroughs reading throughout their set.

As this was going on, a teenager approached me and asked "Where did you get
the phonographs of the great poet?" I wrote down the titles of some
Burroughs recordings that are still in print and he walked away happy.
Another fellow, closer to my age (but probably on the farther side of forty)
spotted my t-shirt, which features a repeating pattern of Burroughs' face
and a foreground image of a smiling WSB with pistol and fedora. "Great
shirt," he said, in almost awe-struck tones. Then he surprised me by putting
his hands on my shoulders and sadly contemplating Burroughs' face! "I used
to live in St. Louis," he told me ruefully as he raised his face to mine. "I
know his house." As he walked away, he murmeured, "I can't believe he's gone."

Well, who can?

--Dan Whitworth