First of all, go back if you have somehow missed:

PART ONE
PART TWO

Okay?

The rest of the afternoon and early evening are a blur. It started out like this: following the frenzied hand-pumping and well-wishing, we wandered around upstairs for awhile, finding the dressing rooms and such......and talking to the Stage Manager, a very affable British Bloke in an amazing red-checkered sport jacket, with the kind of bearing and demeanor (sorry, demeanour) that one would expect of a stage manager at a BBC Variety Show in 1962. He was a pisser. I wish I could remember his name, but "Nigel" will do fine for our purposes. "Nigel Carruthers."

"Alright, then, it's going to be SUPER. We'll have four minutes here, and two there, then on with it." He did NOT say "Cheerio" but he might as well have. He was a lot of fun, and really efficient. And NO attitude. Imagine that.

And now, the first of what I assume will be MANY "Editor's Notes", or rather revisions. This one comes courtesy of Chris Gast from Gravedigger 5, who reminds me that "Nigel"'s name is actually "Austin." That's almost as good. But, to keep my narrative holy, we'll leave it as "Nigel." However, YOU, Dear Reader, will know the TRUTH. Thanks, Chris....

Then I came back downstairs. I wanted to be in the lobby when Wendy got there. This ended up causing me (and Will) to become Indentured Monk Merchants. Apparently Alex or somebody was supposed to man the Official Monks High-Profile Merchandise Table, right in the middle of the lobby, and whomever it was wasn't going to be there for awhile. So Sherrie pressed Will into service, and I stuck around to help. Note that I am wearing all black with a Monk Rope tied around my li'l neck (by Sherrie.)

A word about the redoubtable Sherrie Riley, at this point. Eddie had introduced her to the crowd at his reading, the night before. He mentioned how they had met, etc., but that part of the story had sailed about halfway out of my head. Something to do with writing. Now, in watching her totally command the entire proceedings--from the proper distribution of Monk Rope Ties to the doling out of responsibility for the Merchandise Table--I managed to Mentally Mutate what Eddie had said; and somehow in my mind she became a Literary Agent. When words to this effect slipped out of my big stupid (but soulful) lips later on, I thought the woman was going to have a heart attack. "NO!!! I'm a POET!" Poor lady........given her profession, I probably would have insulted her less had I asked if she was a child molester. Oh, well.

The concept of Passage Of Time has, of course, gotten scrambled. I have no idea if it's 5:00 or 8:00. So, thinking Will might be wearing a watch, I ask him what time it is.

He must have had the same song running through his head that I had running through mine....because I instantly understood when he said, "How can you even ASK that????"

So I spent the rest of the pre-show period in the lobby, at the Monks table with Will. Sherrie had provided some "seed money" to use for change. This vanished. When Wendy got there she provided some additional small bills.

Quite a bit of Monk Merch was moved--eventually. But it did NOT start out well.

They had the T-shirts that Dave made, rope-ties, the new CD, caps, Eddie's book, and postcards. People kept coming over and trying to grab a free postcard. Will had to "Goalie" them. They were, for the most part, annoyed when told the postcards were two dollars. One girl in particular (who did not look NEARLY as good as she obviously thought she did) was giving Will an unusual amount of attitude for a second-tier beauty. He explained patiently, "Well, if you come back later, all the Monks will SIGN that for you." She smirked and answered, "I guess you must think this is the first concert I've ever been to," and walked away "haughtily."

"I guess she told YOU," I said, and made a mental note that I was glad to be married.......

The punch line is this: I later saw her BEHIND one of the other merchandise booths.

So, anyway, Wendy shows up, and after a few more minutes in the lobby--still no Relief Team in sight--I elect to strand Will at the table and go inside. I want to stake out a good spot to stand. A few of the Official People that attended the afternoon festivity wander through, and are puzzled to see me in with the Common People instead of upstairs in the Sanctum, eating Roast Pheasant and spitting down the stairs at the Great Unwashed Throng in the theatre. Well, screw that. My original reason for being here was to SEE THE SHOW and, b'cracky, that's what I'm gonna do.

We stake out a spot in front of a pillar, right in front of the stage at stage left. (That's the right-hand side of the stage, for you non-theatre-people. Are there any of you left??) I theorize that this will be a good place to be when the inevitable crush starts....because, you see, you can only have assholes on three sides of you. This would turn out to have been a large mistake.

I am strangely calm, all things considered. There are four bands to go through before Monk Time. We are backed up against the pillar, and one of the Official Video Cameras is to our right.

The MC, for all three nights, is Peter Zaremba of The Fleshtones......and could you have chosen anyone better? I think not. If not for Peter and his Band Of Merry Men, it's entirely likely that none of us would be standing in this place right now......or, at the very least, Things Would Be Very Different. Before the Fleshtones, this music was just stuff name-checked by the punk and new-wave bands of the late 70s. Nobody was actually PLAYING it. Because only a few of us wanted to LISTEN to it--and, while I'm on the subject, it is NOT true, Jack, that Garage-Band music is simple fluff that can be played by anybody. There's a FEELING you need. An ATTITUDE. If Rick Wakeman and Peter Hammill decided to play Let's Talk About Girls as a goof, let me tell you something......THEY COULDN'T DO IT.

Anyway, Peter comes out and whips the crowd up a little bit, the first band straggles out on stage behind him....and I'm thinking to myself, I have never HEARD of ANY of the first three bands and I hope to GOD they don't suck.

Well, we're off to a lucky start. The HATEBOMBS. I think I heard Peter say they're from Orlando or somewhere. They have all the right moves, they sound great, and the music itself is "correct" for these here proceedings. I do note that they appear to be dressed a little too warmly for such an event. The lead guitarist, who was right in front of us (introduced by the singer as "Fred--the NEWEST Hatebomb") is wearing the de rigeur turtleneck and sport jacket. My only problem with the little guy is that he bears a striking resemblance to Chris Kattan--but that is, obviously, not his fault. They were great. "Thank you God" runs through my head.

Of course, it very quickly comes home to me Why I'm Not In A Professional Rock And Roll Band, And Why I Never Pursued The One Thing I Really Wanted To Do--(or, for the Acronym-Minded among you, "WINIAPRARBAWINPTOTIRWTT")--the smoke. The hydrocarbon-and-tar molecules in the room have already come dangerously close to outnumbering the O2 molecules, and both Wendy and I are feeling the effects. And only five or six hours to go!!

(Sidebar: note the clickable HATEBOMBS link above. I take pains, at this point, to indicate that I have included such a link whenever I could find one. A lot of these bands don't have sites yet. If you don't see a link, it doesn't mean I didn't think they were WORTHY or something!)

They played for about an hour, and they were off. The crowd loved 'em. Said crowd is starting to get a little weird, though. Very pushy. In particular, there's a very large sweaty guy on my left who will not stay off me. This does not bode well for later.

Next up, the GRAVEDIGGER 5. This was a step backwards, sort of. They weren't BAD--not at all. They were just kinda unremarkable. They were in the same sort of territory that the Hatebombs were in, but they didn't really HOOK you the way the Hatebombs did. Know what I mean?

I had been intending to get at least one picture of each band, and I seem to have neglected the Gravedigger 5. So that's as good an indicator as any. Apparently this was a reunion gig and it was much heralded. The crowd liked 'em quite a bit. I do remember the bass player had very long hair [WRONG--that was Christ Gast, the guitar player, who E-mailed me to tell me so. The bass player, says Chris, was "Phillip--the one in the wacky suit." He's right, of course, and I guess he oughtta know, yes? Chris must be very cool people to send me a friendly E-mail following such a lukewarm review as this. But this just goes to show ya--garage band people save their Atti-TUDE for the stage. They tend to be real nice folks the rest of the time. Thanks again to Chris.]--and the singer looked kinda like a young Lee Trevino, if that helps. He had on a robin's-egg-blue golf shirt and white pants. See, I'm just checking my memory now. The smoke was getting really oppressive, and it's become obvious that I made a major mistake in not obeying my FIRST impulse to plant ourselves smack up against the stage. The crowd is really getting annoying. Not just the usual "surging toward the front" nonsense. An unusual percentage of these people seem literally unable to enjoy this experience without knocking other people around like bowling pins. And, please--I'm not some crusty old fuddy-duddy who's Getting Too Old For This Kind Of Thing. I understand the concept of a mosh pit, if the "kids" still even use that word......but that's not what was happening here. There was no such area. These were random acts of hostility and stupidity by a lot of random, hostile, stupid humans. Wendy was starting to boil over, and I was starting to wish I had gone upstairs with the Pheasant and Caviar.

Proofreader's note: (me) You DO understand that this is a joke, right? There are no pheasants.

Well, mid-Gravedigger 5, The Frankel/Wooley Family arrive. We briefly discuss my camera and how it works. Hopefully Mike will get some decent shots when the Monks are on.

Up next, the DEMOLITION DOLLRODS. You would have to assume that this will be interesting. It was. I had heard, previously, that this was an all-girl band. I forget who told me that--but I need to chase him down and make sure he gets glasses.

See, the bands at this show tote their own guitars and such onstage while the lights are extremely dim. And now this PERSON strolls onstage wearing what appears to be a bikini made out of shredded towels. It's real dark, remember. This is a tall and very wiry person in a vintage shag haircut. Followed by a shorter, stockier person in a similar outfit. And then what appears to be a Regulation-Size Woman, with blond hair. The shorter one is setting up a very small drum kit, IN FRONT of the Community Drum Kit that everyone else is using. That's odd, I think. Well, that was the least of the oddness, as it turns out.

The tall, lanky person is a guy. And, as the lights come up, what he is ACTUALLY wearing is a bikini made out of torn hefty bags. Well, why not?

The Regulation-Size Woman is just that. She's the second guitarist. There is no bass player.

The shorter person is also a woman--she is playing the drums (two of them) STANDING UP. She bears more than a passing resemblance to Charlotte Church. Pedophilic impulses are triggered throughout the room. Shame. SHAME!

How do they sound? Pretty much like they look. They're really rather interesting. They need a bass player though. The crowd was not so friendly. Only the people standing in front of the Regulation-Size Blond Woman seem to be really enjoying themselves. She is doing half of the singing, which is mainly yelling. I imagine her name is probably "Biker Chick From Hell," or something. (Make a note of that for later, okay?) The guy with the shag haircut is doing the rest of the singing. "Charlotte Church" is banging on the drums. And there's this OTHER person.........a stocky, furry guy wearing a similar getup to Mr. Shag Man, and "dancing", or something, all around the stage. The effect is truly bizarre. Frankel says, "My God! It's Shemp Howard's son!" And he may have been right.

Verdict: well, they were FUN. I think you should see 'em for yourselves and make up your own mind.

I'm delivering that opinion with the benefit of hindsight, mind you. While their set was in progress, I couldn't wait for it to be over. But that had nothing to do with THEM. I had a couple of ugly confrontations with a couple of ugly people--one of whom insisted on continually draping himself over me like a cat in a sunny window, and one who was continually blowing smoke in my face. As the local mood got uglier, it was very much in my mind that many of these same people would be looking up on stage shortly and seeing a guy in a place where they didn't want him to be.............ME. Hooray. Like I didn't have enough to worry about yet!

Frankel was also having problems with Audience Members. I had lost sight of Sue altogether, and she could very well have been kidnapped by Coastal Brigands and sold into slavery, for all I knew.

Well, now, HERE we go. The band I really wanted to see--THE THIRD BARDO. This was really an event, having them play......not quite on the order of a Monks reunion, but certainly in that neighborhood. A criminally underrecorded band, and one of the few true (and good) psychedelic bands from New York in the '67-'68 period. A lot more people know about them nowadays, thanks to Sundazed putting out a four-song EP and also their appearance on the new Nuggets box. Their big song was Five Years Ahead Of My Time, and I really wanted to see 'em play it.

Not to be. They were playing an abbreviated set--four songs--and I stayed just long enough to get a taste before I had to scurry upstairs. I'll say this: the half-a-song I heard was truly fabulous. I was really sorry to have to miss the rest of it. But there was no way I was gonna get where I had to get in the time that I had to get there, if I didn't move. So I handed the camera to Frankel and slipped through the crowd to the foyer, and headed up the stairs, and into that little box office area I had so ho-hummedly lounged in while waiting for my tickets that September afternoon.

There's a small mob milling about, and apparently everyone is looking for ME. "Nigel" is most relieved. "Ah, there you are. SUPER!" As I part the curtain leading into the Monks' cubicle, Will laughs and says, "Have you been down in the audience THIS WHOLE TIME??" "Sure," I chuckle, "Where else would I be?"

So much for pheasant. There is, however, plenty of bottled water, which I have never in my LIFE touched but which seems like an excellent idea NOW. I grab one--which I will, thriftily, REFILL several times before the evening's over. IN THE SINK.

It is now that I find out, for the first time, that a short film about the Monks is going to be shown before they play. This sounds like a great idea, and once again I am chagrined that I will not get to SEE it. As it turns out, neither will anyone ELSE who wants to. What I don't yet realize is that my bride and friends are having a terrible time with a very large, drunken idiot who keeps leaping in the air and landing on Wendy's foot. He was also lighting cigarettes, forgetting he was holding them, and burning people's hair. What in hell is WRONG with these people? How can you enjoy an event you can't REMEMBER?

Wendy made an effort to interest several official types in the problem but they didn't seem particularly moved. Rock and roll.

Meanwhile, we have to carry the instruments down and set the stage before the film. This will, I imagine, not go down well with the crowd when the Monks stride on stage and then leave. But this is not my show and I shut up.

Just before we go down, each Monk gives me words of encouragement. It is decided that Gary will rasp his way through Monk Time and then bring me out. Thank goodness! Although "Alright, HIS name's Gary" went over really well at soundcheck, I don't wanna have to pull it out in front of this increasingly hostile bunch of Altamont People. I am wondering how I'm ever going to survive this happenstance, and then I realize I have at least three friendly faces right in front of me--and the five most important faces are gonna be on the stage WITH me and THEY'RE all real happy I'm there. That's the Monks for ya. Not one of them was pissed off or annoyed that this Rat's-Nest-With-Glasses was gonna be yelping on THEIR STAGE. They are truly the most wonderful people you could ever meet.

F*** it. I am READY.

I am carrying one of Gary's two guitars as we lumber down the stairs--the Monks, me, and "Nigel." And there, coming UP the stairs, are two people I have been dying to meet--Mike Stax, of Ugly Things magazine, and his bride-to-be Anja. There's no mistaking either of them. Mike was Born A Rock Star. I fancy he sprung out of the womb, long blond hair flying, and did a split while playing Air Maracas. Anja is rather distinctive looking as well, as you'll see later. We-all had corresponded a few times in the past, but there was no time to explain who I was--I just gave 'em a quick hello and bounded down the stairs.

Me and Eddie promptly got separated from the rest of the crew as the door closed--and now we had a problem. There was a huge crushing crowd in the foyer and us little guys have to get these here dang git-tars to the stage. I see Jon Weiss in the corner and I wave him over.

Jon has a very sweet, unimposing disposition but he casts a rather Commanding Presence. This you will also see later. He parts the crowd like Moses and we sail through to the stage right behind the rest of the gang. Jon is pumping me with kudos all the way up the line. I don't remember what he said, but the gist was that he, too, was real happy I was there.

And suddenly I'm on the stage. With the Monks. It's dark and vaguely red. I set down Gary's guitar in its place, help him arrange his other stuff, check for Wendy, Mike, and Sue--THERE they are--and I'm off, out the back.

There--THAT was easy!

Then I realize, peering out from the back, that I do see Wendy and Mike but I do NOT see Sue. I wonder if perhaps the Coastal Brigands HAVE in fact taken her. I later find out that she, at one point, moved to the back of the room for some air and actually collapsed--and was pulled back up to her feet by a couple of guys with considerably more Chivalry Genes than most of the audience was exhibiting. The people in the vicinity of Wendy and Mike would've stood on her head for a better view. Anyway--she never made it all the way back up front but got pretty close, and did manage to see the rest of the show.

There are still people milling about on the stage; so I walk back out, lean down and holler into Frankel's ear, giving him directions to the Hidden Door that takes you upstairs to the "backstage," hoping they'll be able to make it up there afterwards. Then I'm off again.

There's no point in the Monks standing in the wings, (a short makeshift hallway with three stairs to the stage and virtually no lights) while the movie plays.......so, we all go back upstairs. And of course, suddenly it's Spinal Tap. We're locked in the f***ing stairwell. The only light is from the Exit sign. And there's no Friendly Janitor to lead us out.

MY hands are the least important hands in the stairwell just now, so I elect myself The Guy Who Will Pound This Door Into Tinfoil If Someone Does Not Open It Right Quick. Someone does. But not before I discover, and dispense, some Pent-Up Agression. Wonder where that might've come from?

At least a few members of each band that played tonight are wandering around. I'm sitting on a bench, probably looking kind of dazed (although I've managed to sell myself a Fairly Tranquil Calm by this time) and everyone who passes by stops to help load my Psychic Energy Pump. I suddenly realize this is the scene between rounds at a heavyweight boxing match. My forehead is split open, my lips are torn off, and I don't feel it. And all these people are telling me to "just have fun out there."

Eddie gives me a grin and a bear hug. Gary does the same.

I can no longer philosophize about My Role...about How Weird This Is.....about anything.

What's the worst that could happen? Well, never mind that.

Let's go kick some ass.

We march slowly back down the stairs and into the stage-left wing again, with Dietmar video-ing the entire escapade. He and his lovely Microphone-Toting Lady, Lucia, have been Ubiquitous--no, make that Omnipresent--since Wednesday. If you choose to pick your nose, choose carefully. Dietmar probably has a record of it.

I hear The Monks, on video. Can't SEE the video. It's I Can't Get Over You. The crowd is making a ton of noise. I was later to find out that it was ANGRY noise. In fact, they had no interest in the film, which strikes me as being Beyond Stupid--most of them could never possibly have seen this footage, and for God's sake it must have been interesting as hell. What was WRONG with these people????? Apparently they had voiced loud disapproval when Peter Z announced it, and in exasperation he had said something like "Hey, you waited 30 years, you could wait another 12 minutes." I dunno, I wasn't there. But if he DID say that, it was brilliant. F*** 'em.

Okay. Peter's back onstage. "Nigel" is behind us. "Alright then, chaps, let's have at it" or something. Gimme a break. I was having an out-of-body experience. He may well have said "Tally ho" for all I know.

Peter starts his intro, and the band marches out--looking suddenly military, like the US Regular Army veterans that we've all forgotten they are. First Larry, then Eddie, then Roger, Dave, Gary. I wait in the wings. I find out something I didn't know about bottled water--the bottles are REALLY SOFT PLASTIC. You can use your imagination, but suffice to say I do NOT break the bottle and spill water all over my crotch just before going on stage. This ain't I Love Lucy, pal, okay?

The audience is going absolutely out of their minds. They look very happy. This is gonna be okay.

The music starts. It doesn't even seem as though they're PLAYING it. It is playing THEM. They opened Pandora's Guitar Case in 1965 and there's no closing it now. There's that ultra-familiar three-note bass line, and that one squealing note on the organ--and those DRUMS. It's amazing how CALM the Monks look while doling out this stage-melting thrash. Eddie might very well be playing Misty, if visuals were all you had to go by. Larry is holding down that one note as though he were pinning it to the organ to prevent its escaping into the sky. But it is escaping, you bet. And Roger--Roger is the Apocalypse in a tin cup. Hearing the record, you imagine a barely-contained wildman. And that's what you hear now as well. But that's not what you SEE. He is intense, intent, entranced. He's WORKING.

Dave, as aforementioned, is just Dave. He's happy as a clam. After those first four bars, which take an eternity, he starts clacking that banjo like it was the most important job in the world. And know what? It IS.

Gary starts to play that evil guitar lick. He's on fire. I realize that no one in the audience has the slightest idea there's any problem with Gary's voice.

"Alright, my name's GARY!"

YEAH!!!!!!!! This was the moment in which I had imagined I'd be out in the crowd, with Kelley and Will, involved in a Community Brain-Melt. Instead, I'm waiting to be hailed or crucified. Hold on a minute--as I recall, you sometimes get BOTH. Don't you? Wait. Losing my mind. Just relax.......

And, honestly, I am pretty relaxed. I think my current delirium is more a result of seeing the Monks play this ungodly music than of my own Impending Kismet.

Gary does not, of course, stick to the record. He talks about the Monks, about losing his voice. He sounds nothing like Gary The Wolf Dog. He sounds like Gary the Just-Post-Hibernation Black Bear. The audience is now a patchwork quilt. Some of them look real happy, some of them look disappointed, some of them look downright annoyed. But NO ONE is standing still. They can't.

The declamatory part of the song is over......time for the howling part. Gary turns around and winks at me. He introduces a "Son Of A Monk," and beckons me onstage. I think I "trotted" out, I can't be sure. I was certainly surprised to hear a fairly good splash of applause. Wow--and they haven't HEARD anything yet.

Well, I'm certainly not going to be "eased in"--this one comes roaring right out of the box, and I now so do. I quickly realize that I have never been on stage without a guitar to hide behind, and this means TWO very important things: 1) I have to figure out something to do with my HANDS, and 2) I have to try and remember, in the midst of everything else, to SUCK IT IN. Hey. I'm 45 years old, and I'm surrounded by guys who are 60 or almost-60 and are in better shape than I am. Why am I even THINKING like this????? How about LYRICS? How about thinking about the LYRICS, idiot?

Without even meaning to, I lean into it like I'm Harold Lloyd and the mic stand is the minute hand on the Big Clock.

And, thank you God, the audience loses their minds. They clap. They squeal.

I, too, squeal. I have a quick eye-lock with Dave. He's having the time of his life. Me too. There will be no further analysis. In its place there will be quite a bit of howling.

The song ends. The audience is going nuts. And many of them are grinning and looking at ME.

And then it's Oh How To Do Now. And I'm screaming my fool head off. "Well, I've been waitin' a long long long long long long long TIIIIIIIIIIIIIIME......" And again I can almost FEEL the audience exhale. As if they were ready to be pissed off....but liked what they heard.

And now we're near the end of the song....the part where Gary adds a third part to Dave and Eddie's singing....a truly insane falsetto yawp with a huge shaky vibrato you could start a religion on......and answers each line with a truly demented guitar skronk. 'Cept tonight he's answering ME, and once again I can't believe what's happening. I can't take my eyes off his hands as he chokes those impossible noises out of his guitar--and I do my best to replicate the singing on the record, which sounds like a very small dog having his tail stepped on. I hear my voice bouncing back off the rear wall and it doesn't seem real. It does, however, sound quite a bit like the record, I fancy.

The crowd is, against all odds, on my side. And loving it. During the give-and-take between Gary's guitar splashes and the vocal line, their heads keep whipping back and forth from him to me as though they were at some sort of hellish ping-pong championship.

This can't be real.

It's real. And now I have to beat a quick exit off the stage, as it's time for We Do Wie Du and I'm not needed. It's kind of weird to stand back in the wings alone. If this were a movie, there'd be a throng of well-wishers clapping me on the back. Instead I kick the open water bottle all over my right shoe. So that's how I know this is NOT a movie and it is, in fact, actually happening.

How strange, to watch the Monks from behind....singing this huge slab of bilingual weirdness. And I have always marvelled at the truly twisted sound of Larry's organ on this song. When I hear it I imagine a burning merry-go-round at Berchtesgaden.

This is the first of five songs in a row for which I'm offstage. I suddenly need a whole lot of water. I note with a start that Food-Inhaling-Boy, The Human Cuisinart, has not eaten a thing in twelve hours.......but here's all this WATER, you see. I tip the bottle back throughout Drunken Maria, which Roger sings earnestly--and then through Boys Are Boys, which is mainly Eddie and Dave. Gary does the "Whee-hoo's" himself. I'm worried about him doing some permanent damage. But they are, in fact, suitably SUBDUED "Whee-hoo's."

Then, Pretty Suzanne. This is an anomaly--most of the audience will in fact never heave heard it before. It's on the new CD--and, make no mistake, a goodly portion of the audience will leave here tonight with a copy, which they will snatch up in the lobby on the way out. The song is slow and quiet. The audience is riveted. Gary sings it......and The Old Gary pokes through the fog in a few places. The audience can tell. He gets extra applause for the extra effort.

The song is, on paper, a ballad. But Eddie, bless him, plays those two long notes as though he were holding not a bass but an atomic jackhammer. BOOOOOOOOOOM. BOOOOOOOOOOM. Nothing like the record. I cannot wait to hear these tapes.

Next, another "new" song, one that's not on Black Monk Time but also appears on the new CD: Hushie Pushie........or, if you subscribe to the spelling in Eddie's book, Uschi Puschi. If that has any significance, I don't know what it is. I don't care. This song needs to be experienced. It's as twisted, demented, BIZARRE as The Monks or anyone else ever got. It's Tiger Rag disemboweled. With a guitar riff from Gary that is as incongruously sunshiney as it is impossible to play. And at the end of the first verse, everything stops as Dave steps up to the mic and yells cheerfully, "We Monks MEAN what WE say.......yow!"

You couldn't make this up. You couldn't.

The audience is dazed and bewildered, and Gary shouts, "Mike!" And I wander back out on stage, to considerably more applause this time....for Cuckoo. It's Roger's song, of course. But it's mine to steal--with that certifiably insane high part. And, frankly, I'm starting to FEEL IT now. It's hard to hear myself and I have to jam one finger way down inside my right ear-hole. But these nice folks paid to get in here and dammit, they're getting that note.

"Cuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuu--coo--ooo--oooooooooooooooooooo........

Hang on a second--I PAID TO GET IN HERE TOO.

I swear I don't remember doing this, but there's a picture of me FLAPPING MY ARMS. It has to have been during this song. Please kill me. But first let me finish this Tuuuuuuuuuu--oo-oo--ooooooooone.

Now, the highlight of the set--Monk Chant--and I scurry out of the way. At the sound check, Roger had suggested that I stay onstage and smack a tambourine along with Dave. But I don't want to push my luck and overstay my welcome--besides I really want to witness this Gelignite Bonfire in all its glory without getting my big stupid ass underfoot. So I'm off. And from where I'm standing I have a great view of the Dave And Gary Show that takes place near the end of the song. They scrape and slide the necks of their instruments together, making a godawful racket....then they do this little ballet--Dave touches Gary's guitar and feigns an electric shock....hey, maybe he's NOT faking it. Maybe there's so much ungodly BURGERFORCE pulsing through the sucker that it's raising crackles in Dave like it is in the rest of us.

Naw. There's only one human alive who's Bigger Than This Music, and it's mild-mannered David Havlicek of Renton WA, USA--who sprints furtively into a phone booth and emerges as--no, stop me. Too silly.

Sorry--can't help it. Banjoman! MONK MAN! YEAH!!!!!!

The song ends, and I come back out. Gary tears into the introduction to Complication.

This song takes no prisoners, especially singers. I wonder what on earth it must have sounded like when Gary sang it in rehearsals. With each "COMPLICATION" I reach a little bit higher. For the first time ever, while singing, I can feel the veins in my neck trying to break through my skin. On the "Baaaaaaaaaaa, ba ba baaaaaaaaa" part Gary unexpectedly leans in with me and we share the mic, shaking our heads like Beatles. What???

I muff the entrance into the third verse, singing "People cry nowwwwwwww," when I'm still supposed to be yelling "COMPLICATION!!!!." Nobody cares. I backtrack, find the right spot, and drop back in. At the end of the song, Gary puts his arm around me , leans his head in, and squeezes as hard as he can. I reciprocate and drop my very red face toward the floor. This is like stepping up to the rostrum to collect your Nobel Peace Prize. It's immediately real and unreal. M'God......I'm just some guy from Jersey who shuts the car windows in August so he can scream "Complication" along with the cassette.........what am I DOING here?????

Next is That's My Girl.....and, although it was the most fun of all the songs to sing at sound check, I'm kind of glad Gary's doing it instead. Because I would have been sorely tempted to find some Sweet Young Thing in the audience at point stupidly at her throughout the recitation. So, just as well. Then, Shut Up......probably the most serious, most chilling song on Black Monk Time. My singing during sound check had made the three-part harmony sound a little too "sweet" for my taste. Nobody said anything, but I think they all agreed, because Gary stepped in for this one as well. That brings me back out for I Can't Get Over You and Larry Clarke's big moment. He, like Dave, sounds exactly like he did in 1966. I'm swinging the mic stand back and forth because I still don't know what to do with my hands.

Now, my Shining Moment as a Mini-Monk: Higgledy Piggledy. I wonder again how he ever came up with such a bizarre sub-yodel of a melody. But, again, tonight it's mine to shine-up-and-spit-out or mess-up-and-hang-head. I'm worried about reproducing that quick shower of notes but I get away with it. And, suddenly, I'm done. Mike Monk c'est Mort. I am chased off the stage--not by The Monks, but by Blast Off. There is no describing the insane power of this song. So I won't try. Eddie is out of control. His voice, so clinical and measured on the record--is, tonight, an unleashed bellow. He's not counting down a rocket launch anymore. It's a nuclear warhead. The LAST nuclear warhead. Show's over.

And the show is, in fact, over. The Monks clamber off the stage....some to stage right, and some to stage left, where I am.

The planned encore is I Hate You, and it's been decided earlier that Gary will attempt to sing it. But he shouts into my ear that he wants ME to do it. He has a mischievous glint in his eye. I realize that he's having way more fun listening to me than he's having singing.

So, I Hate You. But you knew that. "With a passion bay-bayyyyyyyy." I'm a little disappointed that they lowered the key. I would have liked to go off with that last yowl up in the stratosphere where it belongs. But who's complaining? I think I got to scrape JUST A LITTLE MORE FUN out of this particular Friday than I would have done. Regardless of the lower key, I squeeze as much pain out of the song as I can......."DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU KNOW DO YOU KNOW WHY I HATE YOU NOW BABY HUH? DO YOU NOW HUH???" I realize that I am no longer wondering what to do with my hands. I am pounding the mic stand on the floor with each "DO YOU DO YOU DO YOU...." and actually PUNCHING it on each "MAKE ME MAKE ME MAKE ME...." What's wrong with me? Easy. Nothing. I am in Monk Heaven. My right hand still hurts but dammit it's a WAR WOUND. I have been entered and raped by these songs and I refuse to press charges.

As pre-arranged, we all take off our little rope-ties and toss 'em into the audience--who, predictably, go insane trying to catch them. Pretty cool souvenir. I'm the last to manage to untie mine--maybe my hands are still shaking--and as I'm about to toss it out, a girl right in front of me, at the lip of the stage, catches my eye for a second. She's jumping up and down and reaching out for the rope. But they told me to throw it, so I throw it--I fancy that it went way back there but it probably only sailed out about ten feet. I saw a lot of people leap for it but I didn't see who got it. As I pumped my fist in the air and turned on my heel to follow Roger off the stage, the girl in front of me got the last word as she PUNCHED ME in the back of the leg--hard. (For you trivia buffs, the last word was, in fact, "asshole.")

Back to Earth! Back to reality! The Mothership has taken off without me!

Well, what does SHE know anyway.

Eddie's behind me, pounding on my back. Life is good. The Monks and Mike bust out of the stairwell like a bunch of giddy teenagers. Somehow, most of the entourage has already made it up the other stairs and is waiting. Cheers. Huzzahs. I'm afraid to blink my eyes...I don't want to miss an instant.

Kelley Stoltz is speechless. Nearly catatonic. I don't know how he even got himself UP here. He's sitting on a bench and it looks like he can't move. The singer from Third Bardo tells me I was great. Boinnnng. The singer from Hatebombs tells me I was great. "Nigel" is beside himself. "Super! Super! Super job, lads! Alright then!" Peter Zaremba sails by, smiles, and gives me a quick thumbs-up. What is happening to me????

Wendy, Mike and Sue burst out of the stairwell--they made it past the goons. They too are beside themselves. I introduce Mike and Sue to as many Monks as I can. I introduce Wendy to Kelley. I don't see Will anywhere. I expect he's downstairs chatting up the girl who punched me in the leg. I don't know why I imagine this--but the image works well and I decide to keep it.

Mike Stax and Anja come in. They, too, are bubbling over. I'm wondering when I'm gonna wake up and realize that none of this really happened. I can't come up with a good riposte, so I just hit 'em with the TRUTH--"Hey, I can't wait to see YOU GUYS play tomorrow." Stax is unprepared for this answer. He's truly unassuming. "Oh, well....", he replies, grinning sheepishly--"We do a few tunes, yeah......" and I know JUST FROM THAT that the Loons' set is going to be transcendent.

I have to go downstairs for something, I forget what....and as I come back up I pass a familiar-looking guy in jeans and a sweater, with a shag haircut---Jesus, it's the guy from the Demolition Dollrods, looking frighteningly normal without his makeup on. He also tells me I was great. I babble back with what COULD HAVE BEEN a faux pas but wasn't--"Hey, YOU GUYS are pretty interesting!" INTERESTING?? Good lord. But he just laughed and said, "Yeah, sometimes it's more interesting than it is GOOD." Now Frankel has joined the conversation as well, followed by Wendy and Sue. Mike asks "Rod" (I have no idea what his name was) about the costumery and such, and asks about "Shemp Howard's Son." "Rod" doesn't get it right away, but when he does he laughs. Hard. He's completely normal offstage. Well, you gotta expect stuff like that.

The girl singer--remember, "Biker Chick From Hell?"--is further down the hall talking to Eddie and getting her picture taken (also in streetclothes) with as many Monks as she can. She is also thoroughly normal. So normal, in fact, that when Dave Day asks her name for autograph purposes, she replies "Margaret."

MARGARET??? Biker-Chick-From-Hell is named MARGARET?????? That is SO WRONG. What a pisser.

I don't see Shemp or Charlotte Church anywhere. I wanted to get a closer look at both of them. But that's okay.

[Okay, ready? Here's what I found out later: not much. I now own both of their CDs. And whoever it was that said they were an "all-girl band" must've been looking at the cover of the first CD, called "Tasty"--whereupon "Rod" is doing his damnedest to look like an actual female. "Rod", of course, is not his name. It's "Danny". I prefer "Rod". "Shemp" is nowhere to be seen, on either disc. To be expected. I heard right: Biker Chick's name is, in fact, Margaret. And "Charlotte"--who, God help me, looks REALLY GOOD sitting on a fire hydrant--is, apparently, named "Thumper." Indeed. I think I prefer "Charlotte." Or maybe I DON'T.]

Frankel is talking to the guys from the Third Bardo and he misses his window of opportunity for me to introduce him to Mike Stax. I make sure Sue gets the intro so Mike can have it vicariously.

Jerod comes in. He's babbling. The look that is always on his face--the look that says "I-Just-Ate-Something-I-Probably-Shouldn't-Have"--is gone. He's dazed. He and Kelley--old friends--just look at each other and shake their heads. They don't even TRY to talk.

Frankel says he thinks he got some great shots.............I can't wait to see them.

Eddie comes over and whispers that Larry wants to see me in the dressing room. He has that twinkle in his eye. What? Am I going to undergo some sort of Ritual Hazing? A lobotomy? What?

As I pull the curtain back and walk in, I remember something from Eddie's book: Larry is and always was the Money Man. Naw, I think. Impossible.

But that's exactly what it is. Larry and Roger are in the dressing room, and they tell me that The Monks want me to have some cash. "It's only fair," says Roger. "You worked as hard as anybody." Never mind that I would have paid THEM, right? But Larry insists. He hands me the money and says, "I just need you to sign this receipt. I need to account to the rest of the band." This is so cute I can't stand it. When I tell this story to Eddie later in the car, unconsciously imitating Larry's voice, I thought Eddie was going to choke to death laughing. "He hasn't changed a bit!!"

NONE of you have, you sweet old bastard. I am The Happiest Boy On Earth.

Finally, the last few of us straggle out the door, being benignly but firmly pushed out by the Westbeth staff (who probably have BEDS they would like to get reacquainted with) and spill out onto the street. Wendy, of course, brought her own car in. Jerod's car is so full of Monks and Monk People that it resembles a rolling pencil case--so Eddie, Sherrie, and their friend, who has the very unusual appellation of Carole Goddess, are going with me. (Listen. She's in the group photo at the end of Part Five. You can make up your OWN mind.) I laugh silently as we get in my car--had Gary's throat stayed intact, THIS would have been the most amazing part of my day. Chauffeuring a Monk, his Monkette, and a "Goddess".

I drop Eddie and Sherrie off at 57th and Lex, and head westward with Carole, past Carnegie Hall. Ha--Carnegie Hall. "NEXT year," I muse.