Interlude.

                                            spring

                                                                        (1)

            Two years ago, the local Albany hardcore music scene was stuck in a rut. The few established, consistent bands that there were had simply been around too long. They were playing out too often and not bringing enough fresh material to their audience. The kids were always looking for something fresh, and this current crop of bands had been wearing out their welcome for about half a year now.

            Ted “Turk” and Marshall Casey, brothers fifteen months apart (Ted “Turk” actually had the honor of being the first baby born in the Eastern Standard Time zone: January 1st, 1979, 12 AM and seven seconds. Marshall was born the following March), had been warriors for the hardcore cause in Albany proper for as long as they could remember. Averaging two to three shows a month for the last three years, they had managed to build for themselves quite a little clique for themselves with the other regulars at Bogie’s, the QE2, and Valentine’s, the three main clubs in Albany with regular hardcore shows. Their crew (which by then had grown to about fifteen people and had gotten quite well known and respected in the scene) would convene outside of the venues, drinking beer and smoking the occasional joint when the scene was clear, and the heat was off. Albany cops knew that these shows were quite the Shangri-La for all of the thirteen to sixteen year old alcoholics and potheads and did frequent drive-bys of the venues on show nights, busting whomever they could.

            When the crew for the night’s show had been more or less established (i.e. when those who were there had become sufficiently buzzed and riled up), they would proceed to enter the place as a collective and march their way up to the front of the crowd, right up to the stage. Ted “Turk” and Marshall Casey were not dumb. They knew exactly what the reaction would be when anywhere from 10-15 hardcore kids made their way up front would be. Everyone up there would immediately get pumped up and all territorial, mentally and physically puffing out their chests and getting ready to throw down.

            Throw down was hardcore slang for the specific type of dancing that would occur at shows. An evolution of hard-music body movement one step removed from moshing (or slam-dancing, where participants would intentionally run into each other), throwing down was also focused on acting violently, thrashing around, but the goal was, according to Ted “Turk” Casey, trying to create your own space. One would start pounding one’s feet and flailing one’s arms. If someone got in your way, they got slammed because they just happened to be in the space where your fist just happened to be swinging. It was not intentional (usually) and nor was it taken as such (usually). Ted “Turk” Casey used to say that it was pure “dancing” as opposed to disco or swing to whatever because all you were focused on was synchronizing your body movements to the music. There was never any concern about dancing with someone or trying to impress with moves and steps. It was pure, and totally individual.

            Ted “Turk” Casey also considered himself as the ringleader of his little group, and rightfully so. They all knew how sharp he was and when he spoke eloquently of the hardcore scene and hardcore music and ideals (such as the dancing bit, which was one of his favorite ones) all the kids got pumped. He was a general in the pit. If anyone of his crew got knocked to the floor, he’d secure them. If he knocked someone down, he would extend a hand and encouraged others to do the same. If he got stomped, he would get up and pat the guy on the back. Plus, as a musician himself, he was always writing songs and lyrics, trying to form bands and get others involved. Although the other kids really respected him and looked to him for leadership, and he knew this, the rut was just too deep for him to stand by idly.

            Ted “Turk” was also looked upon with a wary eye by the scene. He listened to all types of music, from hardcore to the Beatles to Jazz to Mozart, which made him a rarity. He was into composition and texture in the music he wrote. He had chosen hardcore as his primary vehicle because of his fascination with the almost unfathomable energy level sustained by the groups and the awe he felt as part of a transfixed crowd. Plus, he loved to downstroke bar chords, sometimes a little too much for his friends; he’d start enjoying himself so much he’d rip out a giddy punk tune. This was a problem because although hardcore purists respected punk, they criticized it for lack of power and lack of insight, with lyrics that were by and large just a lot of whining. When he would play DIY shows with his thrown-together bands to exhibit some new songs, the crew would go and they would bring people and although they would all agree that the show pounded and rocked and kicked ass, there was something about it that was not right. It was hardcore, all right, but it somehow was, as one kid expressed to Marshall, “moving away”. When asked where it was going, the kid had no answer.

            The purists did not need to whisper about Turk’s Beatles fascination, because he wore it on his sleeve. He owned an acoustic guitar and played it well (remarkably well, according to Caitlyn). He was ambitious and fearless. And he complained at length about the rut. One day, after what turned out to be the last of his DIY shows with a thrown-together band, he spoke at length about it with one of the crew at Bogie’s, a fellow named Jim he knew but was not particularly close with. While Jim acknowledged the existence of a rut, he had no idea as to what had caused it. He expressed his enjoyment of Turk’s songs and suggested that if he ever got a real band together and went back to the hardcore roots, he could be a force to be reckoned with, not just as the leader of a sick band, but with his personality, perhaps as the mouthpiece for the Albany hardcore scene.

              Turk agreed, but was lost on one certain point, going back to his hardcore roots. He said that his hardcore roots were firmly in place, now it was up to him to see where they would take him. One did not plant a seed to tend only to the roots.  The Albany hardcore scene was faltering, he said to Jim, because the nature and the setup of hardcore music made it really easy to fall into repetitiveness with the performances. That was what was needed.

            “So what are you going to do?” asked Jim.

            Turk thought about it, lugging his gear home on the CDTA later that night. He slept on it. The next day (a Sunday) he woke his brother up early and dragged him to the used music shop down on Lark Street. He told his brother to point to a bass, any bass. Marshall pointed to a black Fender.

            “Point to a different one,” Turk said.

            Marshall pointed to a cherry red bass with no brand name on it. It looked so worn that he was unsure if it still played. But when he plugged it in, it came out with the fuzziest, fattest tone he had ever heard. Certainly not beautiful. But somehow perfect.

            “How much, papito?” asked Turk.

            “One fifty, Turk.”

            “I got eighty on me. Is my word still good around here?”

            “Always, man,” said the robust, cigar chewing man behind the counter. Papito, one of the two owners. Marshall was fairly sure Papito and Joyous were not their real names. “You’re one of the originals.”

            “You gonna play bass?” Papito asked Marshall.

            “Apparently,” Marshall replied, a glowing Turk shaking his shoulders from behind. Only Papito, facing them, saw the delirious smile on Turk’s face.

                                                                        (2)

            Auditions for Cast Iron were over quick. Hank, the drummer, practically fell into their lap.

Marshall had run into him later on that same day and told him about Turk’s project. Hank was a good but getting better drummer who could keep a solid beat but couldn’t quite get the fills to sound the way he would like. Marshall knew that Hank had played with Turk before at a DIY show and told him he’d inquire about the slot if he was interested. He was.

            DIY stood for Do It Yourself, which was a whole thing unto itself in the Albany hardcore scene. A group of bands would get together and get a bar to play at. The bar would give them the stage but they’d have to supply a PA do all the setting up and sound themselves, hence the name. Turk had no idea if other cities had things like it, although he imagined they did somewhere (he had never really traveled much and was rarely able to see an out of town show). He knew that wherever they were, whoever was doing them, they did not have the same aura as the Albany DIYs. The DIYs, usually on a Saturday or Sunday afternoon, were an incredible thing to witness. The vibe was always positive and lots of people always showed up.

            Hank called Turk the next day and they set a studio time. Hank, incredibly enthused by the chance to be in a real band, had started practicing a lot and had gotten quite solid. Turk was teaching Marshall the bass fundamentals. It was going all right. Marshall had played a little guitar once upon a time and had given it up but it gave him the musical foundation he needed. Another reason that Turk was not concerned about Marshall was because Marshall was dedicated to the project and was already familiar with all of Turk’s material.

            The main thing, Turk repeated over and over again during the first weeks of Cast Iron’s existence, was that they continue to just play together. They would get tight, they would get fluid, but all in time. In the meanwhile they just had to continue to play and work on the songs. They began practicing about three times a week on average, and Turk was constantly jamming with Marshall in their garage, working on chord progressions and basic rhythms.

            All Turk needed for the full sound was that second guitar. He just needed someone to play the chords so he could be free to play his instrument and not have to worry about the flow of the song being interrupted by the sudden disappearance of a chord loop. He wasn’t worried though, because playing with Marshall and Hank was fine as it was. He was constantly learning the songs himself, trying things out, trying to get the song down, so when the time finally came and the second guitar presented itself, he would be able to say, “Here, play this,” and everything would be fine.

            It strangely enough happened just like that. One day they saw a guy at the studio playing guitar in one of the long hallways. They stopped to smoke a bone with him and chat and as it turned out he had actually just stopped by the studio to check the billboard and see if anyone needed a guitar player. His last band had just broken up and he was eager to keep playing music. His name was Keith and he was a longhair and he was into hardcore and three hours later, he accepted Turk’s offer and was in the band. Cast Iron was complete.

            They almost immediately put out a seven-song EP called Come Together. It was completed, start to finish, in one grueling six and a half hour studio session. They ordered two hundred copies of the tape from the studio and got them the next week. The album, featuring Caitlyn’s surreal drawing of two stick figures holding hands under a tree, had turned out better than Turk had expected and he eagerly played it for his friends. It was more or less traditional hardcore but the last two songs,  Come Together (the Beatles tune done up hardcore style) and The Great Divide, an instrumental, raised a few eyebrows. Because of the old school quality of the first five tunes, people could not dismiss the band outright, but the whole scenario cause whispers in the dark bathrooms of the QE2. What was Turk trying to do? Why didn’t he just leave the last two songs off? Why, when the rest of the album was so good?

            Nevertheless, they got a few gigs and everybody they knew and even some people they didn’t know knew them went. Their first show, Turk trying to simply make a statement, they played nothing but hardcore, the first five songs off of the album plus two songs that had been born in practice. They went on third out of four bands. It was a blistering, half hour long set and was received extraordinarily well. Looking back on it, Turk still referred to it as a defining point in his life, artistically or otherwise.

            They played out a few more times and then, after a short break, began work on their next album. Turk already had a concept and a name: Protect This Shell. It was to be a mammoth undertaking, probably twelve songs, following the descent of a person into madness. He was already writing the lyrics as a story: This guy, a pretty depressed guy, sinks further and further into himself and his depression, tries to connect to other people, fails, and ultimately becomes something of a mental hermit. The last song, Protect This Shell, which Turk had almost finished, was an eight minute opus of hardcore power, looping around minor chords and spreading itself out into the room, summing up the guy’s life and his prospects for the future (all that passed before I fell/now collapsed, my mental hell/fragile soul but all is well/all that matters: protect this shell). It was not a positive album, and nor was it intended to be. Turk began talking about Michaelangelo’s “life-theme” of man’s struggle in practice and told them he wanted them to try and play like they were five minutes from dying.

            While the band members knew that Turk’s music was genius and they all were glad that they helped bring it to life and were part of it in some way, the mental anguish took its toll on the band. They broke up about a week after the final tape was mastered. Two weeks later, on February first, Turk received a box of CDs that he had just spent over five hundred dollars on and he had no band to promote it.    

            The only one that he was sure was completely in tune with his vision was his brother, Marshall. He had grown into quite a bassist over the past year and anxiously waited on Turk to bring the music to the next level. He knew, he had said, that Turk had it in him to go all the way with this and he was willing to go there with him. One night, while Turk was sitting in the garage with the box of CDs, meditating on them, drinking way too much, Marshall came in and with Turk’s acoustic and his small bass amp on volume one and sat down next to him.

            “All in time,” Marshall said, opening the small one compartment fridge behind their mom’s green Camry and pulling out two beers.

            “Quiet,” Turk said dreamily.

            “Right,” Marshall said, plugging in his amp. “Quiet.”

            Turk picked up the acoustic, which he realized he had not played in months, and stared at it. “Quiet,” he repeated. He fingered a chord. He strummed it.

            “Thank god for G major,” Turk said, smiling.

            “I couldn’t agree more,” replied Marshall. He plucked the top string of his bass and let it ring, off of the chassis of the Camry, off of the walls, off all the empty beer cans they used as ashtrays, off of the wall of tools, out into the air and back to his ears. It seemed to sail, and Turk seemed to notice it. And just like that, it was gone.

            So Turk strummed the chord again.

                                                                        (3)

            The bar was almost empty, and with the lounge-y piano music playing and the softly lit mirrors and his present intoxicated state, Turk didn’t feel that he needed to remind himself that it was also now officially Valentine’s Day to make him sway on his stool and dangle his toes in melancholy. He knew he was doing fine, twirling his fingers on the lip of a bottle of Rolling Rock and forcing himself to smile at it all as he swayed. There was a soft cushion and a rest for his feet. The bar was made of a good old oak. Marshall was with him, agreeing with almost everything he said.

            “I have earned the right to be a demagogue,” he said, apparently to himself in the mirror. Marshall worked over the sentence for a moment and was about to say something when Turk turned to him, as if to finish the thought. He said nothing, though, simply looking at him very determined, about what, Marshall could not tell.

            “It’s true, you know, all the things they’re saying about me,” Turk said after a brief pause over his pint of Guinness. He raised his finger in the air. “I’m not one of them, I am,” he said, his last thought trailing off unspoken.

            “If I am to go down I am to go down with this whole city. If they reject me it will only be symptomatic of the current disease. The city’s disease.”

            It was two weeks after Turk had received the Cast Iron CDs. He had managed to move only about half of them, leaving him with a potentially huge deficit in any proposed band’s budget. Keith had split outright. He told Marshall that Turk was without a doubt one of the most talented people he knew but was absolutely impossible to associate with in any kind of intense project. He basically just stopped showing up to the studio; they never really had seen him much outside anyway so didn’t really miss him. Hank’s departure was more gradual. He would miss a practice here or there (they had all agreed to take it easy after the album was done but Turk wanted to try and get in at least one a week). But he still hung around with Turk and Marshall and would bang on garbage cans in their garage or whatever.

            He and Marshall had gone to an RPI bar in downtown Troy for no other reason than they were in the area and did not have any desire to go anywhere else. Marshall was keenly aware of Turk’s depression and was trying to strategize, again, to keep it from overwhelming him. He would take him out and get him drunk and talking, and letting him do mostly that, just talk, and Marshall would be kind of a finely-tuned ear, looking for cracks and/or contradictions. He loved Turk’s confidence and let him ride that wave; it was the negatives he was always looking for.

            “If they reject me, they will fall as well.” He repeated it with a flair, scratching at his face in advance. “This city will collapse under the weight of its own expectations when faced with the reality of what they have made for themselves. They elect a crook. They cover up child molesting by the police. They sell their college to Pepsi, then their arena, and now they want Pepsi Street by the Pepsi Arena. And there will come an honest troupe of people as a musical band to shake them awake and they will not listen, and they will sell their souls to be able to laugh it away.”

            “Then let them,” Marshall said, beckoning.

            “But they have nothing to sell.”

            “Sure, they have plenty to sell.”

            “But it’s all worthless. It’s nothing. It’s backed up by nothing.”

            “It’s worth something to somebody.”

            “What is?” Turk asked. “Your Name Here is worth millions of dollars all of a sudden?”

            “Sure,” Marshall said. “Just look around you.”

            “I see nothing but a facade for ignorance.”

            Marshall have him a stern look but noticed Turk shaking his head. As if to say, I simply can’t agree with you on one.

            Turk put his hand on Marshall’s shoulder gestured around the bar. “This, here, is perfect. Check this out. What do you know about Albany, when you think of what a tourist, or an outside, sees?”

            “Um.”

            “What would you tell someone to see here?”

            “Shit, Ted, I don’t know.”

            “That’s because you’re ashamed of everything in this city as you should be. Unlike a place like New York City, where if you’re not doing anything it’s your fault, there really is nothing of any worth to do in this city. People aren’t throwing any money at the arts, they’re throwing it at names of areas. At contracts to end the free market on a college campus. And for good reason. There’s nothing good going on in the arts here. And that’s the people’s fault for not making good art. What people do do well here is put up fronts. Look, the whole architecture of the city is a front, lame attempt to imitate New York City. You’re living in it. Albany is good at fronts. So that’s what people buy here.”

            “Only if you’re selling.”

            Turk and Marshall turned around to see a bright eyed, fresh faced Irish kid, maybe twenty years old, smiling at them with his glass raised. He tipped it towards them and inadvertently flashed a toothy grin. He was slender and was wearing a black tee shirt and jeans under a gray overcoat. His lip curled as he smiled, giving a hint of shadow to the smooth plains under his eyes, fierce and violently, almost poignantly, gray. He had a murky smoker’s laugh.

            “I like your style,” he said. “I couldn’t help but overhear.”

            Turk nodded to Marshall and with the slow head turn of a classically trained actor, placed his raised eyebrow at the perfect moment, making it seem absurdly natural. Marshall turned is head to laugh. The kid noticed it and smiled.

            “Hey man,” he said. “So you say you want a revolution.”

            “Well, you know,” said Turk.

            “We all want to change the world,” Marshall said. He extended his hand. “Marshall Casey. Bass.”

            “John Alkman. Guitar and keys.”

            “Turk,” said Turk. “Keys, hm.”

            John nodded and they all followed in synch.

                                                                        (4)  

            The knock at the door turned out not to be the cops after all. It was Hank, who walked in to see Turk and Marshall over John’s shoulder with their arms returning from being curled around the backs of their respective chairs.

            “S’okay guys,” he said. “It’s just me.”

            “We guessed,” Marshall said. “We thought we smelled menthol.”

            “Aw, fuck yous,” Hank drawled.

            “Did you find the place all right?” John asked, motioning him to come in and sit down.

            “Good enough. God bless Caitlyn for having a sense of direction,” Hank said, pacing around, trying to find an ashtray for the cigarette hanging out of his mouth.

            Turk held out an ashtray for Hank as he made his way over to the couch. John’s place was fairly large for a studio in Albany, and he claimed to pay only three twenty-five, gas and electric included. It was a huge square with little sections of it cornered off. It was painted white, but it was  hard to tell from all the shit on the walls. Art prints, canvases, newspaper front pages and clippings, photos and posters adorned almost eighty percent of the wall space. John said he liked a visually busy environment for random input. Hank made a move for the couch, a monstrous, dirt-gray burlap piece of furniture that almost completely gave out if plopped on. Turk, already sitting there, was trying to both pass him an ashtray and somehow communicate with hand gestures for him to sit down slowly.

            “Thanks,” said Hank, sinking into the plush of the couch. John and Marshall were working on some last minute shit on acoustic over by what passed for the kitchen, drinking beers.

            “No problem,” Turk said. “Did Caitlyn drive?”

            “Yeah,” said Hank. “She’s parking.”

            “Just her?”

            “Yeah, she said Gina would meet us there,” he replied. “You know, Turk, Gina is actually bringing about six people.”

            “No shit?”

            “No shit.”

            Turk let out a loud laugh. “God bless ‘er.”

            They both turned their heads when they heard the bassline.

            “Yo!” shouted John.

            Turk’s mouth dropped.

            “Turk, this is sick.”

            “That’s fucking good shit, Marshall,” Hank said.

            Marshall was smiling and nodding as he walked across the apartment to the couch, knowing he had just created a great line. He was going with it, moving up and down octaves, sliding and looping around root notes. John picked up the acoustic and followed him.

            “What’s that change? Let me see,” John said. “Wait, turn around. Let me see.”

            Marshall turned around. “C...D... G flat... E minor...”

            John picked it up quick and was strumming along, a huge grin across his face. Hank slapped his knees.

            “Wait wait wait,” John said. “What’s that change?”

            “B...A...A sharp... quick G...”

            “Got it, got it...”

            “Then back to C.”

            “Turk, let’s play this!”

            “No way, man,” Turk said.

            “Yeah, man,” said John, sounding slightly annoyed. “Let’s play this tonight. As a little instrumental jam-out thing. A bridge to the second song.”

            Turk shook his head.   

            “Why not?”

            “We’ve got the setlist.”

            “We’ll change the setlist, man,” John said. He stopped playing and walked over to the couch and stood in front of Turk.

            Turk frowned. “It’s not going to happen.”

            “Why, because it’s a Cast Iron song?”

            “Exactly.”

            “That’s fucking ridiculous. With that new bassline it sounds completely new,” John said. He took off the acoustic and leaned it against the wall next to the couch. “You know I don’t agree with you on not playing Cast Iron songs. Some of them are fucking incredible. And with the new... well, you heard that bassline. Jammed the fuck out!”

            “And some of your organ.”

            “Right!”

            “Not tonight though,” Turk said. “Not our first gig. We’ve got the six new songs to try out. Let’s see how they go over. If we can get those six to be the building blocks of our first album, and our set, we can expand.”

            John sat down on the floor, bottoms of his feet flat against each other, legs spread in a diamond. Turk could tell he was in the process of being fine about it.

            “Let’s get our shit together as The Gateway Drug before we start dredging up all of my baggage,” Turk said. He held his hand out to John, who shook it firmly.

            “Just remember that we’re all with you on this one,” John said.

            Before Turk could answer, the door swung open. “Don’t you guys lock the door? John, tsk, tsk. I could have been a cop.”

            Caitlyn strutted into the room. She was wearing jeans and a tee-shirt, both black, both tight, and shitkickers that Turk just knew had to be steel toed. Her breasts longed to jump out into the room. Her skin, especially her arms, with the contrast of the dimly lit room and her dark clothing looked like milk and porcelain at the same time.

            “Ready?”

            Turk looked at her and saw her a queen, and wished he could be in love with her, so beautiful and fluid, so strong. He felt his chest rise.

            “Ready or not, man,” She said, and Turk, not aware he had closed his eyes for a second, opened them and saw everyone staring at him.