The Aither chats with our comrade in sound Dylan Nyoukis

As they were driving north from No Spray 205 in San Francisco toward Chico, on a particularly unremarkable section of the freeway — I-505 to be specific, a rural thirty-three-mile stretch running from Vacaville to Dunnigan — Babuna Virus and Gnarlos decided to phone Tom Chimpson, also en route to Chico from Berkeley, and attempt to determine their relative positions. After a couple minutes comparing notes about the most recent signage passed, the three realized they happened to be in the same cluster of vehicles with just a single pick-up truck stacked high with chicken crates between them. Virus insisted Gnarlos speed up and pass the chicken truck so she could moon Chimpson. They were still ninety or more minutes away from their old college town and had already regressed to cliché Hellenistic shenanigans. They honked and waved at Chimpson as they sped by. For the next ten minutes Virus berated Gnarlos for passing too quickly and demanded that he slow down. For ten minutes after that Gnarlos understood she was not kidding. Calmly and rationally he explained why it’d be physically impossible to complete the maneuver in the relatively tight quarters of the passenger seat of a 2017 Toyota Corolla. A teenager on a school bus, sure, but creaky and bloated crutzers inside the best-selling compact sedan in history can’t realistically believe their contortions could exceed nodding along to favorite Buzzcocks tracks. The mechanics of garment divestiture from her south forty seemed impossible, and her head would have to be all the way over into his field of vision during the actual mooning. It was just a bad idea, he told her, about which he was shocked, quite frankly, that she was seriously considering it in the first place. To prove him wrong, Virus shucked her bottom half and pressed her naked derriere against the window; the entire process was smooth, efficient, and, aside from the Pete-Shelley-esque alarm tones insisting she re-fasten her seatbelt, surprisingly undisruptive to maintenance of safety standards inside the vehicle. The only other witnesses, a couple dozen hill cows grazing just beyond the guard rails, were clearly impressed. Gnarlos drove even faster and refused to leave to right lane until they reached their destination. Virus was appalled by his prissy prohibitions. Chimpson was grateful.

Two hours later at the Thunderbird Lodge, a shabby but convenient motel in downtown Chico, Virus and Lenore were accosted by a man in the parking lot. “Would you want to stay in a room that smelled bad and had dirty sheets?” he yelled at them. The query coming pretty much out of the blue, they regarded it as an ill-advised invitation to party and declined. “Well, that’s what I’ve ended up with,” he continued. “I don’t see why I should have to pay for this.” As always, it’s easiest to simply agree with complaining complainers and try to extricate oneself fast. Which is what the ladies did, but he continued his pursuit and bellowing his grievances. Legit as the amenity deficiencies may have been — black spots all over the bathroom mirror, a head of moldy cauliflower in a garbage can under the desk — Virus finally shut him down thus: “We aren’t the housekeeping crew! If you have a problem, go talk to someone who actually works here!” It’s so hard finding people who are willing to pretend to be good help nowadays. 

The ensemble decided to rendezvous at One Mile, the bucolic man-made swimming hole near the entrance to Bidwell Park. There they encountered a snaggletooth hag with a belly bloated from malnutrition, spindly arms and legs peppered with tattoos, her upper calf wrapped with plastic to protect the fresh homemade set of jabbings from the water as she lowered herself in.

Following an immediate about-face, they came upon a magic buffoon, self-described as a “gospel illusionist,” whose act included jokes that were so square and cringe-worthy, even little kids were groaning. A couple examples: What do you called a cow with no legs? Ground beef. Where can you find a dog with no legs? Wherever you left him. He seemed to traffic heavily in animal mutilation humor. His tricks were standard, right out of the box. Rings, cards, arm-chopping, ta-da! He also announced winning raffle ticket numbers and dispensed prizes to the children (five-dollar gift cards from Starbucks). Ladies with metal trays tried to walk between the groups of families sitting on the grass and distribute free hotdogs, but they were swarmed by grabby parents within seconds. All around were damaged shirtless men, teeth missing from methamphetamine, voices permanently hoarse from alcohol abuse, laughing at every lame joke told by the magic buffoon as if it was truly the funniest thing they’d ever heard. Eventually he got around to the “gospel” part of his Abraca-Jesus shtick and compared faith to sticking a pin into a balloon without popping it, which he did. Gasp, a miracle, ooo, aaah. He noticed the group was moving on and switched his tone to disapproval. He could be heard trying to faith-shame the ensemble all the way to the cars.

Once one has had one’s fill of lovely natural vistas, there’s not much bona fide sightseeing to be done in Chico, just visiting places of personal significance and fond memories. And averting one’s eyes from the once charming architecture that has been mercilessly converted to bland cubes proclaiming the timeless superiority of corporate efficiency. Having arrived in a separate vehicle departing from Fluxus Enigma in Fair Oaks, Lucian Tielens refused to look out the windows of the vehicle piloted by The City Councilman. Eventually he put his head down, held his hands over his eyes, and quietly moaned.

Double Happiness Farm in Los Molinos hosted a mini-noisefest which served as a very small coda to the previous day’s memorial service for Don Lewis, member of BuFMS recording artists Dilwhip (aka Educated Mess) and more famously My Three Sons, Uh-Moncst, and Brutilicus Maximus. It was Easter, April Fools day, a full moon, and something else. Even the air itself felt like a weird fucker with an agenda.

The Marques performed a piece called “Offender Bender.” It was so brief it ended before any of the slow-moving BuFMS bluehairs could finish their rambling conversations and snap a pic or two with their phones. Cole Marquis’s guitar-playing couldn’t have been more restrained and understated; his adherence to a particularly idiosyncratic conception of what constitutes rudimentary strips music down to the almost nothing. Anyone familiar with his playing in The Snowmen, The Downsiders and 28th Day would be surprised and impressed. Raw and practically formless electronics remained in the background. Steve Marquis’s fragmented and ambiguous monologue was made no less worrisome by the incorporation of a couple black yoga moves involving slamming books on the ground, chugging carbonated beverages, and trying to eat a sandwich already in Babuna Virus’s mouth (which inflicted a rashy-looking wound on her neck that looked like herpes and a thistle infestation). It was a powerful performance about intimacy and regret that left many witnesses deeply moved, especially the quasi-abduction conclusion.

Termite’s set was likewise an inspired take on absence and hazy authority. Amplified egg timer and keyboards screeched simple, slow pulses, modulated howls, and amorphous, shrill warbles. Bob Howard left the designated performance space (the interior of the garage) repeatedly to sit in the audience, tend to the needs of Labrador Retrievers, and fetch a circular saw blade four feet in diameter, which he mounted on a metal pole and played with a hammer. It brilliantly capsized the seemingly rudderless nature of the set just as he pulled it into port. 

Lucian Tielens and Gnarlos performed the impromptu requiem in memory on Don Lewis, a duet for weather-damaged piano, snare drum, high hat and wood scrap. The piece was external to the performance proper and in all likelihood recognized by no one else.

Bren’t Lewiis Ensemble was a quintet, though it easily could have been at least twice the size had Fuzzy, Limphoma, Joan Of Art, Alison Gude, Lindy Lettuce, Mr. Dolphin, Asskicker Bob, The Fair Lass, or Doug Roberts decided to jump in. 

Tom Chimpson was in charge of randomized texts (lyrics, speaking toys, and poetry / instructionals cut-ups), The City Councilman played guitar and electronics, Tielens switched between electronics, guitar, voice, and Theremin gifted to him by Steve Marquis moments before, Babuna Virus was on synthesizer also acquired the day of the show, and Gnarlos operated prerecorded song fragments and texts about the mechanics of the human jaw, wind-up toys on amplified glass, and electric guitar played with a drumstick and a fishing rod.

With the sounds of neighborhood dogs and nearby lawnmowers merging in and out, it was a heavily layered set, like much of their contemporary recording, but also utilized ramshackle complexity and rural signifiers that have been largely under-represented in the ensemble’s work since the early 1980s. Brian Kehoe reportedly fell asleep during the set, but in a good way. Doug Roberts compared it to getting massaged by a bunch of monks.