NEWSLETTERS

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Hendrix October 05 GoatNotes
 
In celebration of Halloween, I pulled a few of the spookier excerpts out of my dusty, spider-web-covered journal for your ghastly pleasure. 

Scary:
On Saturday evenings in the early ‘90s, I played a regular gig in the back of the Crazy Horse Saloon (RIP) on St. Mary’s Street in San Antonio, Texas. One evening, for a reason unbeknownst to me, this gal who’d been glaring at me throughout my entire first set approached me during intermission, grabbed hold of me, looped her fingers through the waist of my underpants and hoisted me above her head towards a rotating ceiling fan. Somehow, I managed to escape (head intact), and found refuge far from the scary warrior princess by crawling underneath a pool table. A few minutes later, a fight broke out between rival gangs in which one person was clocked in the head with a pool cue. The police showed up. The blood was wiped up. And although frightened, I still finished my show. 

Ghosts:
Many a Halloween was spent driving to and from gigs in my old rusty green Toyota pickup. One year, it was pouring down rain. My truck was fully loaded with my instruments and gear. Between the interstate and me was a low-water crossing. The flood gauge was down (or submerged), and I couldn’t tell how deep the rushing water was. I decided to pretend my truck was a barge and cross. I revvvvvved the engine, peeled out, landed in the middle, sank, and was quickly swept into a chain link fence (put up as a partition to collect the insane low-water-crossers who’d failed attempting this before). When the water filled up the floorboards of my truck and reached my shins, I decided to bail. Just then I heard a loud HONK! Again, HONK! I scrambled out the window and onto the hood of my truck and saw a huge semi that had suddenly appeared out of nowhere. The driver (or apparition) floated out of the vehicle and threw me a tow chain. I hooked it onto my front bumper. Then the driver drifted back up and into the semi, slammed the rig into reverse, and towed my truck, gear, instruments, and me to safety. Before my feet touched solid ground, both semi and driver had disappeared into the dark. 

Good Spirits:
One foggy night a few years back, I decided to house some stray pups that kept crossing the busy street to visit their new neighbor (me). When the owner of the pups returned home, I explained the four-legged situation, and asked her to help me move the troublemakers from my home back to hers. After a few trips, we finally got the pups safely fenced back in her yard along with the worried mama dog. Seeing me holding one of her precious litter, the mama dog’s little tail (on a HUGE body) started waggin’. That's the last thing I remember (don't pet the dog), other than her large yellow fangs rushing at my jugular. She missed and dangled from my lip instead. I shrieked in terror, shook her off and sprinted home, bleeding profusely the whole way. Because he lived only 20 minutes away, I gave Lloyd a call. I got his daughter on the phone. "Lo. Augh av ugh og ite." "What?" she asks. "Augh av ugh og ite awn i ip nnnn isss nnn errency!” "Terri?" she asks? "Essss!!!" I gasp. Finally figuring out my distress, she hollers to Lloyd, "Terri needs you, and it's an EMERGENCY!” I hear in the background "Tell her I'll call her back AFTER ‘The Simpsons.’” Luckily, being the good spirit he is, he finally rose out of his recliner. Soon after, Lloyd and his wife picked my lip and me up and dashed us off to the local emergency room. Stitches fastened my lip back onto my face. Perfect alignment! I can’t help but thank my lucky stars that my surgeon had 20/20 vision! 

Freaky:
After much thought on this subject, it’s my belief that towns located near large bodies of water harbor some of life’s more eclectic characters. My thoughts on this subject were almost challenged in Portland, Oregon. While walking with Lloyd en-route to the venue where we were to perform, I said, “This town’s the exception. The sea is a few blocks away and everyone we’ve run across seems pretty grounded.” Just then, we rounded a corner and literally bumped into … a "person" with balloon-like breasts shoved precariously into a latex cat suit with a feathered lion’s tail dangling from its garbage bag-padded buttocks, clutching a stuffed Garfield the Cat in one arm and a sticker-covered, multi-colored Telecaster in the other, standing statue-like in pink bunny feet and large, pointed rabbit ears. My eyes widened as the freaky character sprang to life and chased us across the street, shaking Garfield at us and screaming through a shoulder-length, spittle-covered beard, “All this guy will play is the blues and it MAKES people wannnnnNNAAA CRY!!!” 

Screams:
I fondly recall one outdoor extravaganza I played with my band as “Bug Fest 2001.” The large arena lights attracted every insect within a two-hour radius, and they were not affected in the least by repellant. It (or rather, I) was like a cocktail for them. Green, purple, fuzzy fuchsia (many were lipstick colors), sage (many were Martha Stewart interior paint colors), orange, and black beetles — along with gnats and mosquitoes — buzzed around my head while groupie grasshoppers jumped joyously into the air and dove off the stage as I attempted to perform my show. Now and then an insect would land on my slightly scarred (don’t pet the dog) upper lip and take a nibble. Having finally had enough of it, I darted my tongue out and ate an unlucky gnat just before it bit me. I then felt the crunch of a grasshopper beneath my shoe. Having put Darwin’s theory into effect, I chuckled, happy that the crowd perched in the bleachers (about 200 yards across the dung-filled cowboy arena) could not see me stompin’ and eatin’ bugs as well as vacuuming up those I missed with my harmonica reeds. Heck, they were straining just to see the show through their binoculars. After the show, I signed a few autographs while screaming and swatting along with mosquito-bitten members of the audience. Thoroughly bugged, as I was returning home I pulled my car over to figure out what the horrible, sickly sweet, slightly acidic smell was in my car. In the light of the gas station, I discovered I had bug juice all over me. In my hair. On my face. On my instruments. Up my pant legs. All over (and in) my shoes. And in places that only the spirits will ever know! 

Happy Autumn! Now, I must leaf you!
Oh, and Happy Dias de los Muertos!
Warm regards,
Terri Hendrix

(C)(P) THM Music October 2005

www.terrihendrix.com
Terri Hendrix
Wilory Records
PO BOX 2340
San Marcos, TX 78667
phone 512-353-2536
fax 512-353-0994
 
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