AND BABY TALK DIRTY TO ME

Hi. My name is Jimi Zane D’Angelo. Many of you ‘older’ readers will remember me as one of the guitarists from the wildly successful ‘90’s band Chill Factor. Recently, I was ‘persuaded’ to join an outfit that was about to embark on a North American tour (despite having made the choice a number of years back to NOT tour again and be contented with doodling around in my home studio, when the fancy struck me, tending to my begonias and working as an afternoon crossing guard, so as the lil darlin’s could safely get from one side of the street to the other).
The tour is called: The D/- /- RK W /- TERS tour.
The outfit is called D/- /- R K.
These are my chronicles:

May 21, 2011
Darachois???
My old grandpappy used to say, “Jimi, me boy, I feel like a bird in a not-so-gilded cage, so I do”. At the time, I was unable to grasp his meaning. I was a young lad who was experiencing all that youthful life had to offer…fishing with stick and string in the cold waters of the creek down in the forest, playing exhilarating matches of footie with the other ‘bhoys’ under a long day’s sun, strumming my Kent-o-caster guitar, whilst lazily dreaming of someday becoming a big star and playing before throngs of adoring fans at the sold-out Hammersmith…so…how…how have I got myself into such a mess, such a desperate situation, such a cold, dank place?
To begin, I must first bring this back a couple of days…

May 14, 2011
Washington, District of Columbia
To say that on this tour, up until this point anyways, the relationship between myself and D /- /- R K has been rocky, would be a grave [sic] understatement. I thought the second show in Baltimore had went well but, immediately after my “D minor set” and even before I could get to my dressing room/Port-a-potty, I was summarily demoted from “slug” to “fetch boi”, or “fetch boy”, depending on the vernacular you use. My duties were clearly laid out before me and to top off the humiliation, I had to sign my contract in blood. Have you ever tried signing anything in your own blood? Oh ya, sure, if you happen to have a syringe available, a quill and a used baby food container, it is simple as pimple but, alas! I had none of these. For those of you readers who may remember my old days, my fame and notoriety, you may be asking the question, “Why, for heaven’s sakes, why is he putting up with such degrading working conditions? Why is he suffering through the verbal attacks, confidence bashing and continuous threats ‘upon thine well-being’? To you who have asked this and to you who up until now have not asked this but, since I mentioned it are now thinking about asking this, and to those of you who…well, okay, never mind, anyway…I have persevered for one reason only…one person only…

May 19, 2011
Atlanta, Georgia
It was this show that I finally grasped what my grandpappy had said all those years ago.
One of my duties, as ‘fetch boi’, was to wipe off the spit that D /- /- R K expelled during his vocal performances from the members of the audience in the front few rows. For some reason, he seemed to produce so much more mucus and venom during the song Emily and it was during this song, whilst I was furiously wiping and damp-toweling the ‘frontrowers’… that it happened! Right at the climax, when D /- /- R K raises his fist and bellows the line, “you took your sweet time in sending it!”, Highness trips over the monitor, her tambourine goes flinging in the air and she falls to the arena floor in front of the stage. I am wiping the spit off of a concertgoer’s face when his expression suddenly turns to astonishment and his mouth goes agape! I turn to look and see her on the floor. Things begin to move in slow motion. It is only a couple of yards away but, it seems to take forever to cover that distance. The band, the music, everything starts to grind down like a LP record slowly coming to a screeching halt. The sound of the audience roaring is fading away from my consciousness. I reach her and kneel down…her eyes are closed, she is frail, lifeless. I put my arm around her back and raise her half-way up. The music still eroding into a slow, mournful dirge…slower… In a barely audible voice I speak her name. Her eyes open…sounds are now just a muffled, sonic wavering…but our voices are crystal clear in each others ears…the band’s last dying note reverberating… echoing…time is at a stand still. “Jimi” she says. I lean forward and kiss her.
Next, like a cyclone, a bursting cataclysmic wave, an engulfing tsunami, there comes a huge, sonic growl from the stage behind! “Noooooooo!”
Reality quickly comes back into focus. I am grabbed from behind by many hands, the band is wailing, the audience is roaring…do they think this is part of the show? As I am dragged away, I see D /- /- R K jump from the stage, his cape, shaped like bat wings, outstretched around him, he seems to almost hover for a second, his head quickly jerking aside to look at me, his one open eye piercing my soul, and then he lands

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© HBPhotography, Heidi Sanchez, All Rights Reserved. 2011

My son likes to make funny dinosaur noises hence the name of the photo. He's my little T-Rex. ;p