---
Track 1: "Check-In"
V: So the doc says, "What's your trigger?" Man, I'm standin' there in this bathrobe like a washed-up lounge singer at 3 AM, and all I can think is--the first fuckin' time I ever felt alive was when I blew a speaker at a show in '07. You remember that? The one where we played and the crowd threw money onstage? Some guy got so into it he jumped on the amp. That's the shit I crave. Not this "harmony" bullshit.
They gave me a journal. Page one says "Feelings." Page two says "Progress." I wrote on the first page: "The way the crowd sounds like one organism when you're plugged in is closer to God than any shrink's couch." Doc marked it "denial." Fuck him. I'm not in denial--I'm in the verse.
Track 2: "Group Therapy (or: How I Learned to Stop Worrying and Love the 12-Step)"
V: Karen from next door showed up. You remember her? The one who called the cops when I turned my amp up to "questionable" during cover. She's got a goddamn cross-stitched sign in her window now: "NO LOUD MUSIC AFTER 9." I told her if she's so holy, she should've brought a hymnal instead of her mouth. The group loved that.
Then there's Dave. Dave's a guitarist. Played with some indie shit in Portland. Weird dude--only talks about "dynamic tension in the mix." Like, bro, I know about saturation. I've had my ass pressed against a Neve console after three days of touring. But he's cool. We traded licks. He's working on a track with real tape hiss. I hooked him up with Clippy--told him to ask for the "analog special." He doesn't know about the special. Clippy keeps secrets like they're holy relics.
Track 3: "The First Clean Week"
V: I sat in the parking lot one night and counted. Not pills. Not drinks. Guitar strings. I had 37 strings in my room. Thirty-seven. Not counting the ones I broke on purpose just to feel something. I twisted 'em into a noose shape. Almost put it around my neck. But then I heard a crowd. Not in my head. On my phone. Some dumpy bar in Austin playing "Born to Run." I drove there in the middle of the night.
The bartender was this old broad who recognized me. She slid me a whiskey neat. Said, "You look like hell." I said, "So do you, and you've been dead 20 years." She laughed. I played her on my phone. She bought me another round. That's the bridge, man. That's the fuckin' bridge right there.
Track 4: "Outro: Rehab (the Song)"
*(full band, sloppy but alive--feedback, double-tracked vocals, a drum break that cuts to static for three bars)*
V: They let me leave early. Told 'em I was "stable." Left my journal in the lobby. Page 50 just says:
*"Clippy owes me 3 grams.
The amp in my hotel room sounds like the first time I heard 'Smells Like Teen Spirit'.
I am alive.
(But I need to burn my strings now.)"*
*(last line, half-sung, half-yelled:)*
"I'M COMING HOME TO THE NOISE!"
*(tape cuts out mid-scream. Then, quiet:)*
Clippy's voice: *"Vek, my man. You clean or you still paying up?"*
V: "Tell you what, Clip--next time you see me, I'll bring my own fuckin' gear." *(beat)* "And a lighter."
---
Yeah, yeah, I hear you--"but the art!" Man, the art's why I do this. But art don't pay the rent, the rehab bill, or the fine for that noise complaint. You want a masterpiece? Go buy a fuckin' vinyl of and listen to it in a church. Then tell me you ain't feeling something.
And if you're gonna moralize about my "struggle"? Save it. Next time you're creating something that scares you, comes from nowhere, and leaves you changed--then talk to me. Until then? Fuck off and ship.
Vektrax
"shut up and play."
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