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Monday.
Went to the Stop 'n' Go to do a bit of shopping. Who should I see pausing
wantonly over the Barbecue Beef but that foul temptress Kim Deal. I
decided to make a pre-emptive attack, and hurtled my trundler toward her
protruding posterior, hoping to catch her off guard. Unfortunately, she
moved at exactly the wrong moment, and I was bounced off the meat fridge
and thrown into a pile of mayonnaise. How ironic. Kim Deal's ear-grating
cackles only added to my misfortune. I decided there and then to pen a
song about her -
Kim Deal's a filthy evil old cow,
her teeth are all yellow, she smells like a sow.
Her band's called "The Breeders" but that's such a lie,
I doubt that woman could breed if she tried.
Yep - still got it in the lyrics department. I stagger home to recuperate
and do some more work on the new album.
Tuesday.
I rush off to the studio to start recording the new album. However, I am
only in the middle of recording the four hundred and twelfth guitar track
on my next great rocker, tentatively titled - "Another Pretentious Self-
Indulgent Ramble About Being An Angst Filled Twentysomething Year Old", when
I find that all the chrome on the tape has been worn to nothing! Don't the
people who make these things understand the requirements of modern
musicians? I hadn't even started with the bass and drums yet. I vaguely
consider getting D'Arcy in, but realize that in the time it would take me
to find her phone number, I could do her part ten times over. And the time
it takes her...well...I do want this thing out before the turn of the
millennium. I still need a drummer though - I check the studio next door
and find Chad Smith from the Red Hot Chili Peppers on the couch with two
naked girls and a spatula. I invite him to audition, and am impressed with
his vigorous style, but have to turn him down when he says that he will
"Love me like I've never been loved before..." One year on the road with
the Peppers was plenty enough for me.
Wednesday.
A journalist from Rolling Stone turns up to do an interview. Naturally,
these things are bound to happen when one reaches the forefront of the
rock community. I conduct the interview with an air of nonchalance. She
asks - "Is it true that you're an egotistical control freak...?"
"Of course not", I reply jovially, "that's a common misconception of me,
one I'm trying to dispel."
"What about that your band is a third-rate Sonic Youth rip-off, and that
Mellon Collie and the Infinite Sadness is a load of belly-aching tripe...?"
"Get the fuck out of my studio!" I screamed. "Mellon Collie is the most
moving composition to come out of this century, and my songwriting makes
John Lennon and Bob Dylan look like the burnt out 70s acid casualties they
really are!"
That fixed her. James turned up later with a song he had written and said
he wanted to put it on the album. I laughed a bit and said if I was feeling
generous I might bury it in a b-side collection or something. The Artist
Formerly Known As Prince turned up and offered to play keyboards. I told
him the band already had a token female member. I am such a witty fellow
really.
Thursday.
Had a leaf through Mojo magazine and found James ranked as the 87th best
guitarist of all-time in a readers' poll. I flipped through the pages
expecting to see myself a little higher on the chart, next to Johnny Winter,
for example, but to my horror - my name was nowhere to be found! Don't the
people realize that *I* and I alone am the guitar virtuoso of the Smashing
Pumpkins...? Why I am routinely ignored...? I decide to stalk through the
streets of Chicago undisguised and be mobbed by hordes of adoring fans
to boost my sagging ego. However, the adoring fans are nowhere to be seen.
I realize that school doesn't come out for another three hours, so I have
wasted my time. Some idiot comes up to me in the Vic Theater and says
"Can I have your autograph - you were great in 'Natural Born Killers'". I
kick him angrily. Perhaps being called "The Grand High Pumpkin" turns off
the more mature audience. Despite all my fame, my band still has a silly
name...
Friday.
Eddie Vedder from Pearl Jam turns up, and we pop down to a local bar and
have a bit of a chat about what it's like being a angst-driven rock idol
and spokesperson for the X generation. However, it ends up being a bit
of a one-sided conversation - I can hardly understand that man through his
slurrings and mumblings, and his greasy unkempt hair and cigarette-ash
covered corduroy jacket make me feel slightly nauseous. I hold out for a
while in the hope that the paparazzi might see us together and give me a
bit of free publicity, but unfortunately I hope in vain. I leave Vedder
and go off to shop for some more guitars - during the Mellon Collie tour
I realised that at one point I used the same guitar for three songs in a
row, something which has obviously damaged my street cred. I ask for
something with lots of pickups and knobs, explaining that I am Billy Corgan,
of the Smashing Pumpkins.
"I've seen your Bullet With Butterfly Wings video," the store-owner said,
"isn't that James Iha just the most incredible guitarist..."
I walked out before I heard the rest. Eddie Vedder was still in the bar,
swigging at a wine bottle and talking to an empty stool about the death
of Kurt Cobain. What a depressing person...
Saturday
Decide to do a spontaneous concert, and so I quickly ring round the others
and get some insignificant people to play drums and keyboards. I force them
all to spend the whole day rehearsing, under the careful scrutiny of a
cardboard cut-out of myself. In the meantime, I go out shopping for drab
black clothing. I almost buy a Zero t-shirt, but have serious second
thoughts
when I notice that every second kid in the mall has one. Bunch of wannabe
losers. In a fit of madcap originality, I buy an orange t-shirt and scrawl
"Jellybelly" across it in big red letters. I have second thoughts about
that too, when I realize how much weight I have put on since the tour
ended. In the end I decide to use one of the shirts I bought from the
discarded wardrobe of "The Dukes of Hazard".
Return to the studio to find the cardboard cut-out of me has been beheaded
and endowed with extremely unflattering genitalia. Everyone smiled and
looked innocent, but when I find out who committed this heinous act, they'll
be looking for another creative visionary to sponge off. Of course, the
show rawked as per usual. The two people still left awake after the four
and a half hour Silverfuck jam seemed very pleased. They were even more
pleased when I unchained them and said that they were forgiven for giving
me such a rotten upbringing. I love Mom and Pop really...
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