At Home With The Cigarettes
Emily, Michael, Gordon, and Melanie Wellner (and various crashers) live now at the corner of 16th and Lincoln, in a place only to be described as a pad. Gonzo shit is everywhere. On the porch is a mutilated concrete statue of an eagle with wingtips and head knocked off. Inside the front door are heaps of electronics for the band, and instruments and cases lying pell-mell all about. Bizarre posters line the walls, and there are so many records that they are arranged according to alphabetical precedence.
The household was readying for a practice session. Melanie was watching some vehement British avant-garde play on television with a breast half hanging out of her loose dress. She brandished a penknife at me playfully and I said, “I confess!” She replied, pleased, “So you’ve played this game before!” Emily Bonus showed us around the house while musicians and four or five friends and crashers wandered around. It was all too groovy for words—vibes were all around, even underfoot. It was a marvelous house, even though I sure as hell wouldn’t want to live in the same house with the members of a band. We could not stay, much as we would have liked to, but we contented ourselves with souvenir posters for the Dancing Cigarettes (Curtis’s was for “Rock Against Reason,” mine was “Destination Damnation”) and took the bike and set off.