| The Killing Kompany Diaries |  |
| The Killing Kompany Diaries | |
DANCE, SWINE! DANCE!
VALENTINE'S DAY NIGHTMARE
Not everything that happens
while on the road and performing
can be controlled.
This is where Good Theatre Training can serve you well...
but what happens when
you are sharing the evening's festivities with with:
THE D.J. FROM HELL?
In times like THESE,
conditions have a tendency to get beyond one's
strongest efforts
to combat that incarnate evil
that lurks in the soul of many of us...
much less do ANYTHING about it.
Indeed, this was the strange case encountered by
the members of The Killing Kompany on Valentine's Day 1998.
Attired in Frye cowboy boots and a hospital dressing gown
and not much else
I peered into the darkness
with the disco globe spinning colored lights about the room...
mesmerized by the horror I was
witnessing!
For upon his slightly elevated platform
surrounded by his
amplifiers, wires, plugs, turntable and gizmos
stood in all his Evil Glory:
The D.J. From Hell!
And upon the dance floor
in a scene that can only be compared
to the horrors of the Inferno
I witnessed human silhouettes
twisting and turning in the throes of perpetual agony
as the amplitude of the sounds coming from the speakers
unrelentingly tortured their collective souls.
And
above all the cacophony came the booming
enraged voice
of
The D.J. From Hell
- demanding, cajoling, and finally prodding them
on to even greater dance depths of misery and despair...
Dance, Swine! Dance!
Jon was not in charge of music that night.
This was the problem.
Normal operating procedure is for US
to have control of the "music and dance"
which is included with any KK show.
On THIS particular evening - a cop -
moonlighting as a D.J.
was on the premises to take over these responsibilities...
I would not attempt to argue over a moving violation
with this man.
{KEEP your day job, officer...}
In fairness - I must add it was not a bad thing to have
a real cop on the scene
even if he was way over the top, musically speaking.
This is because in the kitchen area
which was also
doubling as our dressing room
a can opener could not be found.
Wait -
I will explain further:
Some patron had volunteered to open
an industrial sized coffee can
with a Swiss Army knife
and
succeeded in slicing himself open in the process
while in the kitchen/ designated dressing room.
As the music blared away, a member of the
NYC Emergency Services Unit came along
from out of no where
to patch him up.
I would like to think the cop called him in on his radio...
The "repair activity" went on in the Men's Toilet
as the crowd
danced away under the disco globe and blaring music
etc.
Real Blood even found it's way{?}
onto the theatrical "evidence table"
which is set up especially each performance
for the benefit of our audience who are
"tasked"
with the assignment of using this material
to unmask the real {?} perpetrator's in the show.
The REAL BLOOD that evening
made things messy and also more
authentic looking than originally intended...
Looking particularly grotesque and ridiculous myself
I was privy to this unfolding nightmare from my
particular vantage point -
halfway between the kitchen and the Men's Room.
Perhaps the patron was bandaged butterfly-like
in the Men's Room
perhaps he was not.
I will never know.
For he was still in the Men's Toilet
as I was dragged off the dance floor by my Frye boots
with three butter knives protruding
from beneath my hospital gown-
as the show went on...
LATER
When the show was finally over
{and I was no longer attired in a hospital dressing gown}
I had to
squeeze by the patrons packed on the dance floor...
in order to exit the building...
for they were now unwillingly engaged in something
foisted upon them called: "The Dollar Dance"
by you-know-who.
We ended our evening in the darkness of Crossbay Boulevard
driving home in blessed silence...
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