This one time back in the mid-nineties, I was coming home from seeing Robert Plant in the Meadowlands when I got a serious case of the munchies. Luckily, the Blimpie in Kearny, NJ, was just around the corner. Around that time, Blimpie had launched their “Quick Bite” menu, which included a 6-inch BLT sandwich for $1.59, which I must say was a fantastic deal. Using the crumbled up bills and change that I had lingering in my pockets, I ordered half a dozen of the BLT’s and began to chow down.As I devoured my sandwiches, I overheard a conversation between a group of three guys wearing torn jeans and band t-shirts. They were discussing how shitty Van Halen had become since Sammy Hagar took over and that they had, in their opinion, “sold out.” I should have kept my mouth shut, but still being somewhat inebriated from the Robert Plant show, I decided to add my two cents. From what I remember, I attempted to point out that while Roth-era Van Halen was undoubtedly classic (with hits like “Hot for Teacher” and “Jump”); it was only after the addition of Hagar that the band became a true American hard rock staple.
I don’t exactly remember how the conversation went after that because I suddenly found myself waking up in the dumpster behind the Blimpie with a massive headache, covered in the remains of my BLT sandwiches. After carefully extracting myself from the dumpster, I noticed a rather large, long-haired man sitting on a discarded box next to me, watching.
“Excuse me sir, but would you like some help,” he said to me. At that moment, I recognized the man as musical novelty act Tiny Tim. I paused for a moment, pointing at him. “Yes, I do have a familiar face, if that’s what you’re about to say,” he said. With his help, I got up and managed to brush of most of the sandwich remains.
“You’re Tiny Tim,” I managed to say, still reeling from the headache.
“You’ve caught me,” he said, smiling. “Yes, I am the artist best known as Tiny Tim.”
I just went on staring at him for a moment. He looked exactly like he did on TV and in photos: an overweight, 6-foot tall man with long wavy hair and a large nose. He was even wearing a tuxedo and bowtie. The only thing that surprised me was that he wore dark eyeliner and white face-paint.
“What are you doing here?” was the best I could come up with.
“I’m here for a musical event, sir.”
“Oh… why are you wearing makeup?”
“The musical event to which I referred to is a performance by the thrash metal band known as Gwar.”
“Oh,” I said.
“Is there anything else?” he asked politely.
“Yeah, do you want to blaze?”
“Why of course I do, sir.”
In the alley behind Blimpie, we sat down and smoked a couple of joints that I had been saving. Several of the joints had been crushed when I’d been assaulted by the David Lee Roth jihad. As I smoked with Tiny Tim, he told me all about the iconic metal band Gwar, which up to that time I’d only heard mentioned in passing (at the time being deeply devoted to classic rock… and joints).
“So I don’t get it,” I said to him as the pain in my skull began to subside, “why are you seeing Gwar?”
“Oh, well that is because it is their RagNaRok N Roll tour to promote their new album.”
“No, I mean why are you into Gwar? Aren’t you all about playing old music and promoting old artists?”
“You see, sir, I’m a connoisseur of all different styles of music. Why would one limit themselves to musicians like Mister Irving Berlin or the great Mister Billy Murray, when music is a constantly evolving organism survives on variety,” he said.
I was taken back for a minute (although it may have been a concussion). “I never really thought of it that way,” I told him.
“Why yes. A single person may not like a particular style of music, but I can guarantee you that there is at least one song out there in the entire discography of all music ever, that they will enjoy. It is for that reason that I like to expand the range of my music taste every chance I get.
“I must say sir,” he told me as he passed a joint back to me, “this is truly excellent weed that you have obtained.”
“Thanks,” I said, “it’s the shit. So tell me about Gwar.”
“Oh, well… Gwar truly started when Mister Dave Brockie, at the time in the band Death Piggy, met Mister Chuck Varga and Mister Hunter Jackson. They provided Death Piggy with the props and costumes that would eventually carry over into Mister Varga and Mister Jackson’s side project, known as “GWAARGGGH!!!” but eventually just shortened to Gwar. Now the lineup of the band went through several abrupt changes early on—”
“—no, I mean, what’s Gwar all about? Why are they so great?” I said.
“Ah, very simple, sir. Gwar started as a punk rock band focusing around absurd stage shows, but eventually grew into thrash metal as the 1980’s progressed. To be perfectly honest, sir, it is mostly about the stage performances.”
“Yeah?” I prompted, taking another hit.
“Oh of course. You see, each band member has an over-the-top alter ego, you see, and they came up with epic back stories involving the alter-egos as characters. Additionally, their stage antics would involve comedy segments where they would ridicule effigies of current celebrities or figures in the news.”
“That sounds fucking crazy man,” I said.
“Oh it is, I assure you sir,” he replied. “You see, people can be very critical of music, especially any music derived from the punk scene. Aging hipsters attach themselves to one aspect of music and feel that that is the ultimate expression, but in truth, you must constantly evolve into something new for music to truly retain its greatness,” he said, taking the joint. “That’s why I’m always moving on to something new. I’ve been seeing Gwar for almost a decade now. I’m always entertained, but I’ve been moving on recently.
"There’s an alternative band called the Butthole Surfers that I’ve recently been getting back into. They are similar to Gwar in that they have their roots in the 80s hardcore-punk scene, but they’ve taken their music in all kinds of different directions. Only now are they really being recognized for all that they’ve done for music.”
“Wow man,” I said. “You’re fucking right. I never really thought of it that way. It’s like my mind’s been opened up to a whole new understanding of music.”
“It may just be the concussion,” Tiny Tim said to me, handing me the joint.
“You think I may have a concussion?”
“Hold on,” he said, standing up. He placed his massive palm on my forehead, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and then drew his hand back. “Better?”
I rubbed my eyes and blinked a few times. “Yeah, it’s a lot better… how’d you do that?” I asked him.
“Well sir, when you learn enough about music, you start to understand how to apply its power for the benefit of all mankind.” He said, looking around.
“What?!”
“Hmmm?” he said. “Oh, don’t mind me. I say silly things sometimes.”
I put my lighter away, as we’d finished the remaining joints. I stood up and checked to make sure I had my wallet on me, which I did. Then I looked over to Tiny Tim to thank him for his help, and he was gone.
In the Blimpie, I asked some of the staff if they’d seen him and where he went.
“Oh, Tiny Tim?” they asked. “Yeah, he shows up every once and a while to root through our garbage for discarded food. Usually we have to send one of the new guys out with a broom to scare him away. Is he out there now?”
I shook my head and decided to order more 6-inch BLTs.
As much as I didn’t quite understand the meaning of the encounter at the time, meeting Tiny Tim had a profound impact on my life. While I didn’t immediately go out and buy any Gwar albums, I started listening to more progressive music. Years later I would start to get into the music of the Butthole Surfers and listen to the occasional Gwar song for fun. I view it as either a result of my encounter with Tiny Tim or as an inevitable progression of taste; it’s difficult to attribute to change to just one factor. Maybe, in the end, that’s what Tiny Tim was all about.
And that was the time that I smoked a bowl with, was healed by, and heard the message of the great musical messiah: Tiny Tim.
No comments:
Post a Comment