The scene: a house party in southern Illinois, summer 1988. With my debut CD’s release date fast approaching, I had driven down from Chicago to shoot a video for the first single, Á¢€Å“Fire From A StoneÁ¢€. Along for the ride were my ex-girlfriend (who had agreed to dance provocatively in the video for free) and label head John Kiefner (and his wallet). After shooting the video in what now seems like a breif blur of color and light, we went out to dinner, had some drinks to celebrate. Then things started getting a little fuzzy. The next thing I know, weÁ¢€â„¢re among a crowded throng watching Billy Bragg performing in Jay BennettÁ¢€â„¢s kitchen.
This, of course, was years before Jay would join Wilco, let alone record two albums with Bragg.
Billy, of course, had already put on a concert earlier in the evening at MabelÁ¢€â„¢s in Champaign, IL, but here he was still singing his heart, taking requests, with no end in sight. I, of course, was buzzed to the hilt so the whole night seems like a complete hazy dream. There is word of another party elsewhere in town, so off we go. How much did I have to drink that night? Having reached my limit, and before we pile into the car, I lean over the porch railing to, ahem, get some fresh air. The railing gives way and I topple head over heels into the bushes. How I didnÁ¢€â„¢t break my neck, I do not know. Unfazed, I got up, wedged the railing back into place, and squeezed into the car taking us to the next party.
We arrive to the sounds of Soul AsylumÁ¢€â„¢s album Á¢€Å“Hang TimeÁ¢€ being played at top volume, tons of people everywhere and, surprise, kegs aplenty. By now, IÁ¢€â„¢m feeling no pain and, since I could no longer recall why I had broken up with my ex, I drop the platonic act. Without saying a word, I bring her near, kis her ever so softly, and take her hand in mine. She knowingly obliges and we go in search of a bedroom. In true teen movie fashion, we soon discover every bedroom in the place is at capacity. In a brazen move the result of complete hormonal desperation, we hole up in an upstairs bathroom and begin ripping at each otherÁ¢€â„¢s clothing.
As drunk as IÁ¢€â„¢ve ever been, I am filled with a carefree, devil-may-care confidence that, in turn, leads my ex to throw all caution to the wind as well. Without going into detail, let me just say that it was one of the more experimental sexual experiences in my young life. Heck, even now, IÁ¢€â„¢m hard-pressed to top that night, having added many notches to the proverbial belt. Upon reaching a drunken plateau of sexual euphoria, I promptly pass out.
How I got from the bathroom to the couch in the living room, I will never know. Why nobody thought to put some clothes on me in the process is a question I still want answered, though.
As I awaken and take stock of my new (to me) surroundings (mostly co-eds and rocker dudes having quite the laugh at my expense), Jeff Tweedy walks up to me with a restrained chuckle (and a beer in his hand and says, Á¢€Å“Talk about a revolting cock!Á¢€
What could I say? I was, after all, completely naked except for the Revolting Cocks t-shirt I had managed to somehow keep on during my prior sexual escapades.
To this day, Jeff has never failed to take the opportunity to remind me (and whoever I’m with) of that night.
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