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For our purposes there two
(2) Zwan issues; One is more of a muthafucker then the other.
We’ll start with the becoming of Zwan -- how does this happen? The act.
The art. The monolithic myth of “ZWANness.” For the rest of my
dissertation, I will recant the torture & tribulations of my
INVESTIGATION AND POSTULATIONS on the ambulatory implications and meanings
of Zwan.
It was at a Christmas party for orphaned youngins, in the portentous year
of the millennial pre-nuclear ice age, that Billy Corgan gazed out
voluntarily at the merrymaking. Corgan had stationed himself in a doorway,
a comfortable place to park, but unbeknownst to him, however, a fortuitous
sprig of mistletoe hung inches above his skull. He stood there, glistening
with an alluring sheen, the lost notes ¯¯swirled about him, seen only by
those who gifted with musical vision. For it had not yet been a month
since our Billy’s vacating from his former housing in The Smashing
Pumpkins, much like the repoing of a double wide trailer, the mass still
stands, but the price of living in it just cannot be surmounted even by
the selling of 25 million records, even by Corgan’s little known (until
the recent Barbara Walters shocking and revealing 20/20 exposé) side
business running moonshine. Every jake-legged holler dweller north of West
Virginia can attest to the true meaning of THE SMASHING PUMPKINS 169
PROOF! Hence you can imagine how easy it might’ve been, Corgan, his
liquid crystal eyes crackling with the possibilities of repossession to
mistake him for one of those enchanting orphans, an error young Matt
Sweeney (musician, PR provocateur) was about to embark on. Imagine, the
visible swarm of musical notation carried by the sparkle of Precious
Moments peepers: Who could resist?
Just as rakish Mr. Sweeney was stretching upwards on tippy-toes to plant a
wet one on this enthralling orphan in disguise, a particularly maudlin
slurring of Christmas carols jolted Mr. Sweeney’s attentions for under
the holly-festooned tables were the bona fide orphans guzzling bootleg
Smashing Pumpkins bootleg. Mr. Sweeney spun just as Corgan coincidentally
became abruptly conscious as well of the savoring beneath the table. A
shock of tense recognition surged through both gentlemen. “Billy
Corgan!” Mr. Sweeney shouted in dismay, “You are not an Orphan for me
to kiss!”
“’Tis true, alas” replied a forlorn Corgan, used to not fulfilling
the expectations and desires of humanity. He then reached into the air,
his ballerina like arms and with a heartrending appeal, gathered his
floating music back into his overcoat.
“Please,” Mr. Sweeney entreated, adjusting his trucker cap in
deference, “allow me to share in some of them melancholy and infinite
sadness ya got there.” He nodded toward the overcoats bulging pockets,
dribbling symphonic notations. Corgan instinctively stuffed his fists into
the pockets in a protective maneuver, which the somewhat loaded Mr.
Sweeney misread as a coy invitation (as he had bought off of an orphan and
had imbibed in some of that Pumpkins’ 169 hisself) and lunged for some
of them oeuvres in the overcoat that did not necessarily belong to Corgan.
After all Mr. Sweeney captured quite a few runaway notes in his venerated
band, Skunk & Chavez.
Now, Corgan & Mr. Sweeney have known each other before. Not in the
biblical sense, but heck, Matt (let’s get comfortable here) used to drop
by the still, climb in the vat to mash the tougher pumpkins. But past
relations can be no excuse for note chasing and the two were soon rolling
on the floor involved in fisticuffs. The hammered orphans were at first
highly entertained by these rock star shenanigans, and clustered round the
battle. But soon as the shine was polished, they commenced a most mournful
weepage.
“Please, give us more,” was their austere refrain that finally
penetrated Billy’s audible range & he released Matt from a
belly-to-belly suplex. They stood breathless before the orphans, and knew
what must be done.”
It was an irony not lost on Billy, Matt and the always present in
orphans’ prayers anchor of Jimmy Chamberlin, that they should be somehow
brought together in the warming spring of 2001, a harmonic collusion in
the dang, driest county in our great nation, Salt Lake City. What strange
direction would the lack of formation be forged? But something was
clicking, much like that hammer in your Winchester sawed-off model 97 when
them that got no bizness writing crap they got no entitlement to whoops,
but we digress and somewhat perilously, for which there is never an
excuse.
So, to continue, the Mormons knew something majestic was afoot and camped
outside of the newly acquired doublewide practice space that floated in
the lake much like the car in Chitty Chitty Bang Bang. Mormons threw coke
cans at the double wide, which they perceived in their righteousness as a
marker of rebellious redemption. Chamberlin flung open the doors of the
mobile practice space and queried, “Hark anon, what shall them orphans
in New York cogitate?”
“Fuck ‘em!” Billy would wince with the agility of one practiced at
dodging carelessly thrown fists, “We got the Mormons.” And thus the
trio moseyed on to orphan territory.
Chicago, 2001, the piercing heat of August was bearing down. The
enthralling orchestrations were further concretized by crafting the
soundtrack for the film, “Spun”(not yet released, a Mormon issue).
September 11th found Billy, Matt & Jimmy in NYC. How do you make sense
of assembling experience as an artist when your core has been so brutally
astounded? But much like the post -11th baby boom the desire to spawn a
hope filled new life is what arose all the stronger in them in response.
The overcoat of Billy was fully flung open, pockets turned inside out like
the Artful Dodger returning from a long day¹s pocket-picking, and all
released. A group, a posse, a gang was formed. It became apparent that the
notes were flying fast and furious, so David Pajo (Slint, Papa M,
Tortoise, Stereolab) was added on butterfly net which he proved adept at
mounting on guitar.
There was still a perforation, a hemorrhage, a missing link - if you will,
which was quenched with the arrival of Paz (formally of the seminal A
Perfect Circle). She embodied the childlike unadulterated sensuality,
vivification and beguilement only the forces of consummate musicianship
can engender.
It was deep winter 2002 else where in the world, but here in Key West
Florida, as far South as one can launch and still claim US soil, it was
all warmth and sunshine.
It was here that I was brought into this paradise, in the harbor. A creaky
wooden schooner, circumcised, the H.M.S. ZWAN. “ZWAN,” Billy chuckled
as my crates of supplies for my journey were hoisted onto the ship. “Go
forth and discover.” He slapped my back in goodwill causing me to plunge
into the warm waters. Once I was revived, I gazed into the great moonbeam
face above me and sputtered, “Couldn¹t you just tell me what the fuck
it means?”
“What? And not waste promotional dollars?!” He stomped with his
massive boots, narrowly missing my flapping hands. “Unheard of!”
And thusly I was loaded on to the ship in search of Zwan, the unexplained
moniker for this new super group.
TIERRA DEL FUEGO - Climbing Mount Tarn, we employ donkeys to make the
arduous trek. We are able to load them with everything we need for our
journey. When we reach the top, I think I overhear referral to the donkeys
as Zwans, but as I am oxygen starved, I just might be trippin’.
CHILE COAST AND ARCHIPELAGO - Massive glaciers breaking apart send our
boat rollicking as if a wall of guitars is turning up chucks of ice are
harvested and shipped to Japan for frozen slushy sweet seaweed drinks
called, most tellingly, Zwankiko.
CONCEPCION - On a nearby island, Captain FitzRoy unearthed packages of
“ridged for its pleasure” condoms. They are the color blue. The
letters Z.W.A. and N. are embossed on the packaging. “Its’ pleasure!
What or who is IT?” A chill of adrenalin surges through me, like Captain
Kirk when he lands on a new planet and that extra crewmember disappears
behind a rock, never to be heard from again.
SANTIAGO TO MENDOZA - I crossed the Andes from Santiago, Chile, to
Mendoza, Argentina, by way of Portillo Pass. We then returned by
Uspallata. Ten mules transport us across this continent and back in 24
days. In the Andes, I discovered fossil seashells at 14,000 foot elevation
along with petrified coastal trees high on the Argentine side of the
ragged mountains. Both are indicative of tremendous mountain uplift; but,
alas there is no evidence of Zwan-ness here, FUCK! But we did burn through
some record company dollars.
LIMA - I have sunk past humiliation on my thirst for Zwan. Seduced elderly
indigenous cook for entry into the restricted ritual preparations of the
mighty Lima bean soufflé. It is considered an exceptional epicurean
delight, rare in that the resulting expelling of gasses after such feasts
is so abhorrent, it is indulged in only in ambient amphitheaters, where
the unique reverberations can conjure the time-space continuum of life and
the great beyond. The consequential cacophony is whispered in hushed tones
as “Zwaning.” I am Zwaned from reboarding the ship for a fortnight,
but the cook is pretty snuggly, so all is not so bad.
GALAPAGOS - I find what appears to be a flock of swans with what seem be
broken necks. I uncover they are a subspecies of swans - they are born
always looking over their backs, giving them an appearance of continual
paranoia. Some even have the ability -- much like Linda Blair in the
Exorcist, I note in my journal --to do a full 360 head swivel. The locals
call this “The broken beauty rotation of Zwan,” and replicate this
some manner in their
love-making. I study this tonight. Must remember to wash well.
KORORAREKA - Something Billy said has troubled me as he hoisted me
leisurely out of the shark infested Key West waters. “Lost tribe,” he
whispered into my ear with his moist, mint-scented breath. But now I think
I have perhaps found what he was referring to, the Zwan key. I have
trudged the hostile terrain to find a tribe of Maoris who have regaled me
with such tales, (it is good Billy taught me Maori before I left. He
learned this ancient language from Kiri Te Kanewa.). It is a kink in the
genitals that ties in to both the immorality and immortality of the soul.
And from what I can ascertain it correlates directly to that 90% of the
brain we don¹t use, that apparently a kink in the genitals of this lost
tribe represents, being that most folks with this kink would use 90% of
their genitals in their reproductive and pleasure seeking activities. But
this tribe, alternatively viewed as either accursed or, as the medicine
women know, blessed with this deformation, cultivates use of that 90% of
the brain; it fosters an experience quite akin to Peyote, few outsiders
survive the trek to study this tribe, to ascertain how they use the Zwan
and I am told by a heavily tattooed Maori, “Just because you think you
are ready to revive Zwan does not mean you will be able to take it. It
will come, but not on your terms. It will never look like what you expect,
but if you undertake this journey, you will be changed.” Paz is really
cute, maybe getting the Zwan will help me score. Will settle for Sweeney
tho.
TASMANIA - Made contact with lost tribe. I took part in the ritual of
bestowing ZWAN. It fuckin hurt. There are no words to describe, but I am
sure there are some hacks out there who will try. I can now play a mean
riff with my penis, however. Returning home, record company is freaked.
Wish I could sit comfortably.
There is a violent hurricane imminent behind us as we approach the port of
Key West. We’ve made this whole journey without many storms (it helped
that we had some Pumpkin Kegs stowed on board) but this, this is
terrifying.
I am standing on the ship¹s mast; the wind is whipping furiously at me.
Through the spyglass I glimpse the figure, bowed like a tree limb thrust
through concrete. A guitar in hand, it all flows as if sculpted from the
same slab of marble. It is Billy. He stands at the Grotto of Saint Mary at
the Saint Mary Star of the Sea. The last hurricane that killed anybody was
in 1919. 300 people in Key West died. Since the building of this Grotto
(modeled on its twin in Lourdes, France) only a category 2 has ever passed
over Key West and not nobody has died. “SAVE ME!” I wail! “SAVE
ME!” and the fingers move faster till they are a blur of waves and tears
and terror. “So you think you got the Zwan,” comes the rusty chuckle
above me. I spit out a chunk of green water on the blackened boots.
Billy’s hand on my arm pulls me up, guiding me to rest on him till I
find my land legs. I can only shrug and lean into him. “What happened to
the storm?” I sputter.
“She took care of it,” he says pointing to the Mary Star of The Sea
over his shoulder.
“I don’t know.” I drop down to a crouch. “I don’t know if…”
as Billy kneels beside me, his hand resting on my back soothing the words
out of me, “ if I can say what Zwan is.”
“Ya had a good time on this journey, didn’t you?” His eyebrows rise,
pulling his whole face into a welcoming rhetorical question. I nod.
He throws back his head and his laugh comes, resonant as his guitar. And
soon I join him. Just laughing. And I know, I got the Zwan. I got it, and
all I can do is laugh.
--JT LeRoy
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