Diez Anos con Jim Thomson (Chapter 9)
Chapter (9) The Sweaty Springs
Like thousands of bands around America, Jim and his band never made it big. (I haven’t even told you what they called themselves yet, but I will). And like thousands of other bands, they were good, and had niche and an audience. But that’s not enough. Toward the end of their run, the band agreed on a concert across the mountains in Colorado Springs, because it seemed better than anything they were doing.
Jim did his usual party hard routine during setup and before the show. As he took the stage, he had been steadily urinating every twenty minutes for an hour.
It was like most of the bars they played, dark, smoky, a stage that’s too small, and a dance floor too big, the same kinds of peoples with the same kinds of moods. It was August and the building’s air conditioner was out of order. The place filled with people and the band played loud. When the music slowed, and the flies were at your face, the bar turned sticky and funky like the Big Easy. A large crowd swayed together to the rhythms, front and center.
In only jean shorts, Jim played well. He was full of energy—the music invigorated him. They played for fifty minutes. Sweat drenched Jim, head to toe. He felt wet all over, and that fueled him and pushed him more. As soon as the band finished playing, they had to tear down all of their equipment, to make way for someone else. It was hot vicious work. Mike saw an odd wet mark on Jim’s behind as they were working. Mike noticed the mark included all of his crotch area too.
After the work, Jim was ready for more of life’s pleasures. He walked through the middle of the crowd toward the back, where the bar was. Two female fans stopped him.
“Wow. Is that sweat? Or did you piss yourself?” One of the girls said.
“Yeah.”
Jim later revealed that he forgot how to talk. With the music and the energy and concentration, he hadn’t spoken in over an hour. He forgot how to talk. So what he said may not have been all that he meant. Know what I mean?
Like thousands of bands around America, Jim and his band never made it big. (I haven’t even told you what they called themselves yet, but I will). And like thousands of other bands, they were good, and had niche and an audience. But that’s not enough. Toward the end of their run, the band agreed on a concert across the mountains in Colorado Springs, because it seemed better than anything they were doing.
Jim did his usual party hard routine during setup and before the show. As he took the stage, he had been steadily urinating every twenty minutes for an hour.
It was like most of the bars they played, dark, smoky, a stage that’s too small, and a dance floor too big, the same kinds of peoples with the same kinds of moods. It was August and the building’s air conditioner was out of order. The place filled with people and the band played loud. When the music slowed, and the flies were at your face, the bar turned sticky and funky like the Big Easy. A large crowd swayed together to the rhythms, front and center.
In only jean shorts, Jim played well. He was full of energy—the music invigorated him. They played for fifty minutes. Sweat drenched Jim, head to toe. He felt wet all over, and that fueled him and pushed him more. As soon as the band finished playing, they had to tear down all of their equipment, to make way for someone else. It was hot vicious work. Mike saw an odd wet mark on Jim’s behind as they were working. Mike noticed the mark included all of his crotch area too.
After the work, Jim was ready for more of life’s pleasures. He walked through the middle of the crowd toward the back, where the bar was. Two female fans stopped him.
“Wow. Is that sweat? Or did you piss yourself?” One of the girls said.
“Yeah.”
Jim later revealed that he forgot how to talk. With the music and the energy and concentration, he hadn’t spoken in over an hour. He forgot how to talk. So what he said may not have been all that he meant. Know what I mean?
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