I, Remedy
Posted by reallyrelyay | Labels: I Remedy, The Bones of Davey Jones, The knitting factory | Posted On Tuesday, June 9, 2009 at 4:16 PM
In New York City on a sweaty July evening, a young man ascended the basement stage of the knitting factory. The room was abuzz, no one noticed him setting up his drums or fastening his kazoo. People’s voices echoed stories of Empty Orchestra’s van being broken into, all of their equipment lifted. Josh was busily asking us questions for his article in front of the stage. Justin and I sat at an wobbly table on equally unstable chairs, using our free drink tickets in an attempt to become just as wobbly as our surroundings. Unsatisfied with our performance, and disapointed by our no-show talent scout from Island Records, drinking seemed like more of a solution than ever. It was the biggest show on our tour, and it was a complete waste.
The man on stage payed the crowd no mind, he set upon his guitar in a fury and was off to another place. The audience grew quiet, suddenly transfixed by his furious stomping and aggressive strumming. (What a wonder that his guitar didn’t crack into pieces under such pressure!). He was a one-man-band from Brooklyn called the Bones of Davey Jones, and he looked like he crept out of a Louisiana bayou bearing dark secrets. His music was swiftly taking everyone back with him.
After three or four songs his pace slowed. The voodoo faded, the skeletons slipped back into their closets, and melancholy took over the room. A simple melody stumbled out from between his fingers and his voice trembled through the microphone:
“It seems like I’ve been waitin’ for this moment my whole life. You gave me something to dream about at night, I could die happy tonight. So don’t, no don’t give me your pity…don’t pretend to care about me, I know I’m just a remedy. And if you ever need a friend to get you through the night again, oh you know I am yours, all you have to do is say the words. And you , you move on to find the little boy who’ll sing you songs, but in the end will make you cry, and I’ll be standing there by your side…because we’re, we’re best friends, and I hope we are until the end. I don’t need to be your man I’m happy just holding your hand. Please don’t be upset when I stop by late at night, I’m weaker than you, I need to be sure that you’re alright. Because it’s raining outside, I brought you this umbrella to keep you dry. I can be your house, lock me up…I’ll keep the riff-raff out…”
Justin and I looked at each other in melancholy, numbed with alcohol. We had been through so much together, close friends for three years. We had talked each other through break-ups, shared our favorite books, and introduced each other to our families. It was hard to explain the nature of our friendship, it was intuitive. The only way I can articulate it is this: from the first time we ever got on that bus, to that night in New York, we always shared a bench. But that night in all of its disappointment, with everything behind us and everything uncertain ahead, the distance between us and all of our circumstance began to grow.
After three or four songs his pace slowed. The voodoo faded, the skeletons slipped back into their closets, and melancholy took over the room. A simple melody stumbled out from between his fingers and his voice trembled through the microphone:
“It seems like I’ve been waitin’ for this moment my whole life. You gave me something to dream about at night, I could die happy tonight. So don’t, no don’t give me your pity…don’t pretend to care about me, I know I’m just a remedy. And if you ever need a friend to get you through the night again, oh you know I am yours, all you have to do is say the words. And you , you move on to find the little boy who’ll sing you songs, but in the end will make you cry, and I’ll be standing there by your side…because we’re, we’re best friends, and I hope we are until the end. I don’t need to be your man I’m happy just holding your hand. Please don’t be upset when I stop by late at night, I’m weaker than you, I need to be sure that you’re alright. Because it’s raining outside, I brought you this umbrella to keep you dry. I can be your house, lock me up…I’ll keep the riff-raff out…”
Justin and I looked at each other in melancholy, numbed with alcohol. We had been through so much together, close friends for three years. We had talked each other through break-ups, shared our favorite books, and introduced each other to our families. It was hard to explain the nature of our friendship, it was intuitive. The only way I can articulate it is this: from the first time we ever got on that bus, to that night in New York, we always shared a bench. But that night in all of its disappointment, with everything behind us and everything uncertain ahead, the distance between us and all of our circumstance began to grow.
