Chords Fade. Scars Fade Too. But They Never Disappear Completely

Someone sent me this image in 2022. I can’t remember who, where, or how. My memories of 2022 are really spotty: security guards with M5 assault rifles in Mandela Square, Sandton; walking up Rivonia Road to a long-stay AirBnB; getting jumped outside the Cape Town train station on a Thursday afternoon; being stuck overnight, in an overturned long-distance bus, at the bottom of a flooded ravine in Kwa-Zulu Natal. There’s an ER report for Traumatic Brain Injury (TBI), and prescriptions for diuretics, anticonvulsants and analgesics in my bag, next to payslips from companies in Johannesburg and Cape Town.The what – of who, what, where and how – is obviously this image and sometime after I’d received it, I put it up on my Facebook page.

So, what is it?It’s a photo of me, playing with my baby – a Kramer bass guitar. Judging from the length of my hair and the lack of noticeable scars on my arms, it was taken sometime before 24-Sep-1989. That would suggest that it was taken at the Irish Club in Hillbrow. Unlicensed, this squash centre moonlit over the weekends, as the notorious centre of Joburg’s heavy metal universe from 1986 – 1989. Hardcore bikers and metalheads, from all over the reef would pay a token 60cent membership fee, to circumvent liquor licence laws, to consume insane amounts of alcohol, vomit in the hallways and headbang to local bands. Proudly, we, Scarion played there during the winter and spring of ’89. Proudly? Oh yeah. Not everyone can put that on their resume. It goes alongside the Matric, or Grade 12 qualification that I was studying for at the time. I was very skilled at time management.But the scars, or lack thereof, are the reason that I posted this image to Facebook, and the reason that I’m reposting here. Sure, the four-fingered bass chord is impressive. It really is. But.Chords come and go. Scars stay.If the body keeps score, then scars are instant replays. Indelibly etched into your body, they can be rescreened for your pleasure, or terror, in high definition, anytime. Want to know what blood smells like? It’s copper, lots of it. Here, breathe deeply. Sucking veins? Yes. Listen, it sounds like a dry mouth desperately trying to suck up water. And that cold? Yeah, you’ve never been that cold, have you? Sorry, no visuals, you couldn’t open your eyes.Replays are free. You can live them at your leisure. When you can’t sleep at night, instead of sheep, why not count your ragged breaths? The really awesome thing about organic replays is that every time you relive them, you recode them for future. No analog decay over time. Recoded with crystalline accuracy they actually embellish with every screening.When I got out of the state hospital, my private doctor asked me if I wanted a referral to a plastic surgeon. I was genuinely confused by his offer. To cover the scars he said, compassionately. I declined. I intended to wear the scars for the rest of my life. I wasn’t sure how long that was going to be, but I certainly wasn’t going to pretend that nothing had happened to me. I wasn’t ashamed.But sometimes I was. Sometimes, someone would ask me about my scars, and I wouldn’t be completely honest when I replied.Chords fade. Scars fade too. But, they never disappear, not completely. When the stitches are out, the scars are an angry purple. Livid, they scream at you when you look at them, and burn when you don’t. After years, they take on the colour of unblemished snow, but like snow in the bright sun, they’re not always easy to look at. You can’t help looking, though. They’re the first thing you see when you wake up in the morning, and the last thing you see when you go to bed at night. If you go to bed. And like snow, they harden into ice, into glaciers, and icebergs, sliding under your skin. Even when you’re not looking at them, you can feel them.I think that if I couldn’t see the scars now, if I could only feel them, I would lose my mind completely. It’s easier.Writing this, looking at the photo, and remembering our band’s name at the time, Scarion, how fucking insane is that?

Davina: On Being a Shitty Date

I was 22 when I first met Davina. I was also very wasted.

The coke was from Jame’s and mine’s personal stash. Every self respecting musician uses coke. Alcohol is water, it’s what you hydrate with, weed will make you so mellow that you won’t even make it into the studio, LSD will make you channel Hendrix or Morrison, only you’ll never remember what you played, Pinks are just scummy, and H is a fast-track to the morgue. Coke makes you creative though, gets your fingers around those difficult chords and fuels you to inspiration at two in the morning. So when Russell gave it to us during recording at the studio one evening, or morning, we graciously accepted. It was quite badly cut, but you don’t get a refund policy with coke, and definitely not with free coke. That’s also probably why we still had some with us; we reserved it for times when we really needed it.

I’d really needed it a lot over the past two days. I was the sound engineer for Sepultura, a Brazilian death metal band’s first tour of South Africa. Max was still their vocalist and the Thunderdome in Johannesburg had sold out 48 hours earlier. We probably had about five thousand headbangers at that gig. We were in Cape Town now and for the last 48 hours, I had been responsible for getting fifteen tons of sound gear down from Johannesburg, to Cape Town and setup for tonight’s, Saturday’s gig. Sepultura was too heavy for the clubs in central Cape Town so we were playing in a bar out in Durbanville, Raffles. Periodic pinches of coke up my nose had kept me awake.

After two and a half hours of solid wall-to-wall guitar, grinding bass, double-kick drums and gutteral vocals, we were finally finished for the night. I powered down the equipment and went upstairs for the private after-party. I never drank while I was working but I always hammered it afterwards. James brought a beer over to me and asked if I wanted any LSD? I had no idea where he’d found some acid but I never refused a trip.

I was coming up very hard when Davina started to dance. Too much acid and just getting to the bathroom can be a problem, but early in a trip, and combined with 48 hours of speed, I was amped. Think Duke before he tries to check into a hotel in Vegas, not Gonzo in a trashed room.

One minute everyone was standing around, drinking, talking and the next minute, a large area had cleared and we were all watching Davina take her clothes off.

I didn’t have any experience with strippers. Usually, on Saturdays I gigged with my local band at the Summit Club in Hillbrow. After sound check in the early afternoon, we would have time for a few beers and something to eat before the club doors opened. James always went downstairs to the revue bar for his drinks and to watch the ladies dance. I never joined him. I didn’t find watching ladies dance too sexy. Was it sexually liberated women taking advantage of morally corrupt men, or was it disrespectful men objectifying at-risk women? Or something else? I didn’t have the emotional maturity at the time to get into that. I preferred to keep it simple. I preferred to get a Nando’s burger around the corner. And I preferred my sex at home, tied to the bed, with my girlfriend cutting me up with a knife. But, I wasn’t telling James that.

So, when Davina started to dance I watched, only mildly entertained. And when she danced up to me and threw her arms around me, I was amused. But when she pulled me in close and whispered in my ear, “Take me,” I was stunned.

And I was confused.

“Where,” I replied?

Ok, read that again. I kid you not, that is what I said. “Where?”

Honestly, where the fuck did I think she wanted me to take her? On a date? To the beach? For ice cream? At 01:30AM? I blame my naivety. I blame the coke. I blame 48 hours of no sleep. I blame the acid. It was all of it.

James, standing next to me, overheard and burst out laughing.

Davina squinted out the side of her face, like WTF but just nodded in the direction behind her, and said, “To the stage.”

I hesitated. I was tempted to laugh her off entirely but I looked around and saw that everyone in the bar was staring at me, at us, waiting to see what was going to happen. They were all silently asking: has he got the balls? I didn’t have the balls not to. I picked Davina up, she wrapped her legs around me and I carried her onto the stage.

I can’t recall what we did on stage. James told me later that I put on a good show. I do know that I managed to keep my shorts on. Small mercy.

An hour later, the tour bus was getting ready to leave. I saw Davina as I walked out of the bar. She was sitting on the floor, crying, and a friend was comforting her. I was completely off my head by then but I still felt like a dick seeing her crying. I approached them. “Did I hurt her? Did I do something,” I stammered? Five I’s in a row. Now I was Gonzo trashing the hotel room.

Her friend looked at me. “It’s not you. She’s going through something at the moment,” she said, and turned back to comforting Davina, dismissing me entirely.

I only knew Davina for a few dances. I may have been an entertaining dance partner but I was a pretty shitty date.