Playing in the dirty lil’ trollops

I may have been twelve or thirteen when my grandmother came to our house and yelled for me. (It gets better, I promise) “Randrew” she would call me. “Yeah, Nanna?” “Come up here and get what’s in the back of my car and bring it in, please.” “Ok, Nanna!” I ran outside to my Nanna’s station wagon. I opened the back latch and swung that behemoth of a back door open. There was a big black box with a smaller black box and a guitar case. I hauled it all into the kitchen. 

just words by ran kime of dirty lil trollops

Mom and Nanna were now sitting at the table talking as they always did on Thursdays. “What’s this Nanna?” I asked. “I found your father’s belongings in my attic and had your grandfather put them in my car.” “What is it?” “Your dad’s old guitar or something. I’m not too sure what it all is, something to do with his old band.” BANG, a smack in the face. My dad, playing guitar? No way, that couldn’t be. I have never seen or heard him talk about playing the guitar. My Mom jumped in, “Your dad used to play bass in a band in Pennsylvania.” News to me, I thought. “Can I bring it downstairs to my room?” I asked. “I don’t see why not.” Mom said. Looking back now, the only visual feeling I can give you is that of the excitement of Ralphie on the movie Christmas Story, when Ralphie gets the Red Ryder BB gun. That same carefulness excitement was in me as I brought each piece down into my room in the basement. That shit was heavy!

I put it all together, the best I knew how, and plugged it in and turned it on. Now, there are a few things in life that you will always remember. Especially smells. One being Nanna’s perfume that I smell from time to time even though she has been gone for over 20 something years. The other is the smell of my dad’s skin burning in the sun by the pool when I would stub my toe. He would pick me up and comfort me with my head on his bare shoulder. That smell of suntan lotion and the sun working at frying his skin. This smell coming off this amp head was that of twenty-year-old dust burning off the tubes in the back of the amp. I didn’t know what it was, but now that I have hindsight as a musician; I want for that smell. Every time, on rare occasions when I do smell that smell, it teleports me back to that day. To this day, my dad’s bass sits on my wall in my studio, only used on a few songs. This is how I became a bass player. I love both Nanna and dad for putting this gift in my lap. This event changed my life in an instant for the good and gave me a new passion.

Fuck them! I hope they all get cancer in their dicks.

Terry and I formed a band with a circle of friends in the early 90s. We originally called it Galbanum. We would play after school shows for the friends at my buddy Fitz’s’ house. Friends and no knowns would line up the stairs as there was no standing room on the floor. The Galbanum name quickly lost support, and the band’s name became Denial. I do not know how any of those names came to be. I was not involved, not that I recall. We played a lot of the new grunge songs that took the airwaves and MTV by storm. We covered bands like Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam, as well as Black Sabbath, Deep Purple, the Who, etc. I was just learning the bass and didn’t have the chops or confidence that the others did, always feeling behind on my skills, and I had an insecurity about it. I practiced more and more and got better. 

We played our first show in Nashua NH, at a sketchy dive bar called Blind Willies. I was always the youngest and may have been fifteen. We walked into Blind Willies together as a band, solidarity. Our first brave attempt to shop our music around for a gig. We walked into Blind Willies, looking as tough as we knew how. Never having been in an actual bar, we had to look the type….right? 

The place smelled of stale cigarettes and beer, with a hint of vomit and sex. It was perfect. If we could get a gig there, we have made it in the music industry. Ha, or so I thought. Hey, I was young, and every milestone was big.

We asked for the manager. “Your looking at him.” A scruffy, greasy, leathered skin man sitting at the bar said. He looked more like a customer than a manager. He had a beer in front of him. I don’t think the cigarette in his mouth came out the entire time we talked.

He asked for our demo and we flipped him a four song demo on a cassette of course. We had just recorded the songs live with my old Sony boom box that had a pin dot for a microphone. Damn, that lil’ thing could record. Even to this day, that boombox rivals a six hundred dollar mic into pro tools. Not really, but it was still good. Anyhow, just coming off a fresh and proud recording, we had all the confidence in the world.

The owner called the bartender over and mumbled in his scratchy smoker’s voice to play the cassette through the main bar system. I remember the sound quality being a hell of a lot better than I would have even dreamed. It sounded good to hear our music blaring super loud in a proper bar. Even the local bar flies commented on the sound, bobbing their heads, asking who was playing on the radio. We made it to the big time. Right?

“Wow, not bad,” the manager said. For all I knew, he was the real Blind Willy. “I have a slot open on Thursday night next week. It’s yours if you want it.” We didn’t even look at each other. We all nodded and replied yes. “Wait!” He blurted out. He seemed to sway a bit on the bar stool. “How old are you guys?” He asked. “I mean, this guy looks of age.” He put his finger on the drummer’s chest. “The rest of youse don’t. How old are yas?” Everyone said their age and as I told you earlier, I was the youngest and insecure about my younger age. I lied and said seventeen. Our drummer had many years on us and he already looked old for his age. He had long hair and facial hair, which worked perfectly to buy beers uncarded. Plus, he was our ride there, as he had his license and a car. A Cadillac at that.

We were “in” and now had our first gig. We did a two-night show. I am not sure why, but we used the first show for parents (ha ha) and the second show was for our friends and “fans”. 

The second show, we opened up for a band called Incest Repellent. They were a bunch of drunken yuckies. The bass player was as old as my dad, wearing big hairy arctic boots. Two songs into their set, he blew his bass cab and asked to use mine. What the fuck was I to do? I’m a fifteen-year-old in a bar playing a show with nice gear I paid for with my money, looking to make our mark on the local scene. “No problem dude,” I replied. That was a mistake. This fucking yuck-mouth blew both my bass amp head and my speaker cab, as if he was pumping plutonium through that shit. He didn’t even say sorry. He just left it on the stage when he was done. I cannot remember how I remedied the situation of not having an amp. I think I borrowed the bass rig from a previous band. That blown shit sat in my mom’s basement for a while before I finally brought it to the dump.

One afternoon, Terry and I were hanging out before our allotted jam time with the boys. We would jump around from parents’ houses (to not out do our welcome with the noise). We were practicing at the guitar player Chatley’s parents’ basement. When Terry and I arrived on this day for practice, they completely cleared the place out except for my bass shit and Terry’s guitar rig. We felt dumbfounded, and a bit hurt.

Come to find out, they were playing with another bass player, and Chatley was the only guitar player. That was the last time I spoke to any of them. Fuck them. I hope they all get cancer in their dicks.

That was all we needed for motivation to start something new to fuck them in the ass with our own new styley. Who wanted to play 30-year-old music anyhow? We wanted to write our own shit, and we did.

Terry and I went back to my mom’s house, where I had a room in the basement. I had an old keyboard that was my moms that I quietly hijacked. We laid a programmed beat from the keyboard. It was dope, but looking back; The beat was cheesy as fuck. It was the song Summertime. We worked on Summertime on Thanksgiving afternoon. We both had to split for the formal family dinner. Once dinner was over, Terry came back and we finished the song. 

I saw in a music magazine that a record label was looking for new talent to sign and wanted demo songs for a competition. We submitted Summertime on a cassette through snail mail. We were sure we were going to win. I could feel it. We heard nothing back. This added to the recent fuel of rejection.

The next day, dirty lil’ trollops was formed. We played shows around the New England area. Opening up for national acts when the other guys that ditched us were still playing backroom bars in the same old city. Fuckity Offity, to them, is what Mary Poppins would say if she swore.

Some quick housekeeping before you become a one-eyed Willy:

I had a psycho ex girlfriend (we now call MONSTER) that when I tried to kick her out of my house; The cops showed up at my door to arrest me for retaliation accusations by MONSTER. (Nothing stuck. The judge quickly learned she was full of shit and fumbling all over her stories.) MONSTER went through all my boxes of writings, set lists and artwork. She stole what she wanted, unbeknownst to me, and left what she apparently didn’t want or was simply tired of going through it all. She used the courts as a weapon. She poured water all over the boxes and soaked everything that Wes and I had written. It looks like she tried burning some of it in my basement. This girl was absolutely twisted. She had small pupils, which only means one thing. PSYCHO! I had to throw out three quarters of it. This is what I have left. You will see the color bleed, tears, mold, water stains, fades, burn marks among God knows what else she tried to do to destroy my past. Not to belabor the story, MONSTER spray painted on my walls, gas tanks outside, kicked holes in my walls, took all my pots and pans and Tupperware. She called my family and told them egregious lies, as if she could convince my family that I was not who they knew I was.

She failed. But ya know what? Fuck it, let’s make the best of it and not let that cunt win. I think the dried out papers will add character to the book and stories you are about to read. I most likely have lung cancer now from the black mold as I sift through a box of moldy papers and scan this shit into the computer. 

She sent me a text many months later to ask if I wanted to get dinner. I never replied, and she then sent another text stating that she has my writings and I will never get them back. She also threw in, “It is actually pretty good!” Yup, that was my life for sometime. Until I had her eradicated from my property by the courts. They removed her, holding on to the railings, kicking and screaming as the cops dragged her out.

We did not include any instrumental songs in this book. Even though there were stories, emotions, twisted reasons, and imagery behind the instrumentals. We felt it would be best to focus on the lyrical songs. 

Now that I look at what I have, we don’t have any flyer’s for outside of New Hampshire. I would venture to guess that we didn’t make flyers for shows outside of NH or MONSTER got to them. We mostly either opened up for a bigger band or played a compilation shows/festivals. I cannot find any of that shit. I knew I had some announcements for a few of these shows.

Just Words dirty lil trillops - ran kime

You can find this story in the collection Just Words: Volume 1 – The Lyrics & Shenanigans of the dirty lil’ trollops.

Read more about the shenanigans of the dirty lil’ trollops from Ran and the other members, Yum-Yum and Terry.

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Ran Kime Writer
Ran Kime, a writer, poet, musician and recluse from New Hampshire, crafts abstract stories, flash fiction & poetry that probe the psyche. His collections include “Spectre of the Brocken: Halo for the observer” and “Way Past Tipsy & Other Silent Cries for Help”.