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ZWAN'S BIO BY
JT LEROY
For our purposes there two (2) Zwan issues;
One is more of a muthafucker
then the other. We’ll start with be the becoming of Zwan
-- how does this happen? The act. The art. The monolithic myth
of ZWAN’ ness… & - for the rest of my dissertation,
I will recant the torture & tribulations of my INVESTIGATION
AND POSTULATIONS ON the ambulatory implications and meanings
of “Zwan”
‘Twas at a Christmas party for orphaned
youngins , in the portentious year of the millennial pre-nuclear
ice age, that Billy Corgan gazed out voluntarily at the merrymaking.
Corgan had stationed himself in a doorway, a comfortable place
to park, but unbeknownst to him, however, a fortuitous sprig
of mistletoe hung inches above his skull. He stood there, glistening
with an alluring sheen, the lost notes – little (musical
notes inserted here) swirled about him, seen only by those who
gifted with musical vision. For it had not yet been a month
since our Billy’s vacating from his former housing in
The Smashing Pumpkins much like the repo’ing of a double
wide trailer – the mass still stands, but the price of
living in it just cannot be surmounted even by the selling of
25 million records. Even by Corgan’s little known (Until
the recent Barbara Walters shocking and revealing 20/20 exposé)
side business running moonshine. Every Jake Legged holler dweller
north of West Virginia can attest to the true meaning of THE
SMASHING PUMPKINS 169 PROOF! Hence you can imagine how easy
it might’ve been, Corgan, his liquid crystal eyes crackling
with the possibilities of repossession – to mistake him
for one of those enchanting orphans- an error young Matt Sweeney
(musician, PR provocateur) was about to embark on. Imagine,
the visible swarm of musical notation carried by the sparkle
of Precious Moments peepers: Whocould resist? Just as rakish
Mr. Sweeney was stretching upwards on tippy-toes to plant a
wet one on this enthralling orphan in disguise, a particularly
maudlin slurring of Christmas carols jolted Mr. Sweeney’s
attentions – for under the holly-festooned tables were
the bona fide orphans guzzling bootleg Smashing
Pumpkins bootleg. Mr. Sweeney spun just as Corgan coincidentally
became abruptly conscious as wellof the savoring beneath the
table. A shock of tense recognition surged through both gentlemen.
“Billy Corgan!” Mr. Sweeney shouted in dismay, “You
are not an Orphan for me to kiss!” “Tis true…
alas…” replied a forlorn Corgan, used to not fulfilling
the expectations and desires of humanity. He then reached into
the air, his ballerina like arms and with a heartrending appeal,
gathered his floating music back into his overcoat. “Please…”
Mr. Sweeney entreated, adjusting his trucker cap in deference
“Allow me to share in some of them melancholy and infinite
sadness ya got there…” He nodded toward the overcoats
bulging pockets, dribbling symphonic notations. Corgan instinctively
stuffed his fists into the pockets in a protective maneuver,
which the somewhat loaded Mr. Sweeney misread as a coy invitation
(as he had bought off of an orphan and had imbibed in some of
that Pumpkins’ 169 hisself) and lunged for some of them
oeuvres in the overcoat – that did not necessarily belong
to Corgan. After all Mr. Sweeney captured quite a few runaway
notes in his venerated bands, Skunk & Chavez. Now, Corgan
& Mr. Sweeney have known each other. Not in the biblical
sense, but heck, Matt (let’s get comfortable here…)
used to drop by the still, climb in the vat to mash the tougher
pumpkins. But past relations can be no excuse for note chasing
– and the two were soon rolling on the floor involved
in fisticuffs. The hammered orphans were at first highly entertained
by these rock star shenanigans, and clustered round the battle.
But soon as the shine was polished, they commenced a most mournful
weepage. “Please, give us more…” was their
austere refrain that finally penetrated Billy’s audible
range & he released Matt from a belly-to-belly suplex. They
stood breathless before the orphans, and knew what must be done…
It was an irony not lost on Billy, Matt and the always present
in orphans prayers anchor of Jimmy Chamberlin, that they should
be somehow brought together in the warming spring of 2001, a
harmonic collusion in the dang driest county in our great nation,
Salt Lake City. What strange direction would the lack of formation
be forged? But something was clicking, much like that hammer
in your Winchester sawed-off model 97 when them that got no
biz’ness writing crap they got no entitlement to…
whoops but we digress and somewhat perilously, for which there
is never an excuse. So, to continue, the Mormons knew something
majestic was afoot and camped outside of the newly acquired
doublewide practice space that floated in the lake much like
the car in “Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.”Mormons threw
coke cans at the double wide,which they perceived in their righteousness
as a marker of rebellious redemption. Chamberlin flung open
the doors of the mobile practice space and queried, “Hark
anon, what shall them orphans in New York cogitate?” “Fuck
‘em!” Billy would wince with the agility of one
practiced at dodging carelessly thrown fists, “We got
the Mormons.” And thus the trio moseyed on… to orphan
territory. Chicago, 2001, The piercing heat of August bearing
down. The enthralling orchestrations were further concretized
by crafting the soundtrack for the film, “Spun”
(not yet released, a Mormon issue).
September 11th found Billy, Matt & Jimmy in NYC. How do
you make sense of assembling experience as an artist when your
core has been so brutally astounded? But much like the post
-11th baby boom – the desire to spawn a
hope filled new life is what arose all the stronger in them
in response. The overcoat of Billy was fully flung open, pockets
turned inside out like the Artful Dodger returning from a long
day’s pocket-picking, and all released. A group, a posse,
a gang was formed. It became apparent that the notes were flying
fast and furious, so David Pajo (Slint, Papa M, Tortoise, Stereolab)
was added on butterfly net – which he proved adept at
mounting on guitar.
There was still a perforation, a hemorrhage, a missing link
- if you will, which was quenched with the arrival of Paz (formally
of the seminal Perfect Circle). She embodied the childlike unadulterated
sensuality, vivification and beguilement only the forces of
consummate musicianship can engender. It was deep winter 2002
else where in the world, but here in Key West Florida, as far
South as one can launch and still claim US soil, it ‘twas
all warmth and sunshine.
It was here that I was brought in… into this paradise,
in the harbor. A creaky wooden schooner, circumcised, H.M.S.
ZWAN. ”ZWAN…” Billy chuckled as my crates
of supplies for my journey were hoisted onto the ship. “Go
forth and discover…” He slapped my back in goodwill
causing me to plunge into the warm waters. Once I was revived,
I gazed into the great moonbeam face above me and sputtered,
“Couldn’t you just tell me what the fuck it means?”
“What? And not waste promotional dollars?!” He stomped
with his massive boots, narrowly missing my flapping hands.
“Unheard of!”
And thusly I was loaded on to the ship in search of Zwan, the
unexplained
moniker for this new super group.
TIERRA DEL FUEGO - Climbing Mount Tarn, we employ donkeys to
make the arduous trek. We are able to load them with everything
we need for our journey. When we reach the top, I think I overhear
referral to the donkeys as Zwans, but as I am oxygen starved,
I just might be trippin.
CHILE COAST AND ARCHIPELAGO
Massive glaciers breaking apart send our boat rollicking as
if a wall of
guitars is tuning up… chucks of ice are harvested and
shipped to Japan for frozen slushy sweet seaweed drinks called,
most tellingly, Zwankiko…
CONCEPCION
On a nearby island, Captain FitzRoy unearthed packages of “ridged
for its pleasure” condoms. They are the color blue. The
letters Z.W.A. and N. are embossed on the packaging. “Its”
pleasure… what or who is IT? A chill of adrenalin surges
through me, like Captain Kirk when he lands on a new planet
and that extra crew member disappears behind a rock, never to
be heard from again…
SANTIAGO TO MENDOZA
I crossed the Andes from Santiago, Chile, to Mendoza, Argentina,
by way of Portillo Pass. We then returned by Uspallata. Ten
mules transport us across this continent and back in 24 days.
In the Andes, I discovered fossil seashells at 14,000 foot elevation
along with petrified coastal trees high on the Argentine side
of the ragged mountains. Both are indicative of tremendous mountain
uplift; but, alas there is no evidence of Zwan’ness here,
FUCK! But we did burn through some record company dollars.
LIMA
I have sunk past humiliation on my thirst for Zwan. Seduced
elderly indigenous cook for entry into the restricted ritual
preparations of the mighty Lima bean soufflé. It is considered
an exceptional epicurean delight, rare in that the resulting
expelling of gasses after such feasts is so abhorrent, it is
indulged in only in ambient amphitheaters, where the unique
reverberations can conjure the time-space continuum of life
and the great beyond. The consequential cacophony is whispered
in hushed tones as “Zwan’ing…” I am
Zwaned from reboarding the ship for a fortnight, but the cook
is pretty snuggly, so all is not so bad.
GALAPAGOS
I find what appears to be a flock of swans with what seem be
broken necks.
I uncover they are a subspecies of swans - they are born always
looking over their backs, giving them an appearance of continual
paranoia. Some even have the ability -- much like Linda Blair
in the Exorcist, I note in my journal --to do a full 360 head
swivel. The locals call this “The broken beauty rotation
of Zwan” and replicate this some manner in their love-making.
I study this tonight. Must remember to wash well.
KORORAREKA
Something Billy said has troubled me as he hoisted me leisurely
out of the
shark infested Key West waters. “Lost tribe…,”
he whispered into my ear with his moist, mint-scented breath.
But now I think I have perhaps found what he was referring to,
the Zwan key… I have trudged the hostile terrain to find
a tribe of Maoris who have regaled me with such tales, (it is
good Billy taught me Maori before I left. He learned this ancient
language from Kiri Te Kanewa.). It is a kink in the genitals
that ties in to both the immorality and immortality of the soul.
And from what I can ascertain it correlates directly to that
90% of the brain we don’t use, that apparently a kink
in the genitals of this lost tribe represents, being that most
folks with this kink would use 90% of their genitals in their
reproductive and pleasure seeking activities. But this tribe,
alternatively viewed as either cursed or, as the medicine women
know, blessed with this deformation, cultivates use of that
90% of the brain; it fosters an experience quite akin to Peyote…
few outsiders survive the trek to study this tribe, to ascertain
how they use the Zwan… and I am told by a heavily tattooed
Maori, “Just because you think you are ready to revive
Zwan does not mean you will be able to take it. Itwill come,
but not on your terms. It will never look like what you expect,
but if you undertake this journey, you will be changed…”
Paz is really cute, maybe getting the Zwan will help me score.
Will settle for Sweeney tho.
TASMANIA
Made contact with lost tribe… I took part in the ritual
of bestowing ZWAN. It fuckin hurt. There are no words to describe,
but I am sure there are some hacks out there who will try. I
can now play a mean riff with my penis, however. Returning home,
record company is freaked… wish I could sit comfortably.
There is a violent hurricane imminent behind us as we approach
the port of Key West. We’ve made this whole journey without
many storms (it helped that we had some Pumpkin Kegs stowed
on board) but this, this is terrifying.
I am standing on the ship’s mast; the
wind is whipping furiously at me. Through the spyglass I glimpse
the figure, bowed like a tree limb thrust through concrete.
A guitar in hand, it all flows as if sculpted from the same
slab of marble. It is Billy. He stands at the Grotto of Saint
Mary at the Saint Mary Star of the Sea. The last hurricane that
killed anybody was in 1919. 300 people in Key West died. Since
the building of this Grotto (modeled on its twin in Lourdes,
France) only a category 2 has ever passed over Key West and
not nobody has died. “SAVE ME!” I wail out…
“SAVE ME!” and the fingers move faster till they
are a blur of waves and tears and terror… “So you
think you got the Zwan,’’comes the rusty chuckle
above me. I spit out a chunk of green water on the blackened
boots. Billy’s hand on my arm pulls me up, guiding me
to rest on him till I find my land legs. I can only shrug and
lean into him.
“What happened to the storm?” I sputter. “She
took care of it,” he says pointing to the Mary Star of
The Sea over his shoulder. “I don’t know…”
I drop down to a crouch. “I don’t know if I…”
Billy kneels beside me, his hand resting on my back soothing
the words out of me, “ if I can say what Zwan is…”
“Ya had a good time on this journey,
didn’t you?” His eyebrows rise, pulling
his whole face into a welcoming rhetorical question. I nod.
He throws back his head and his laugh comes, resonant as his
guitar. And soon I join him. Just laughing. And I know…
I got the Zwan… I got it… and all I can do is laugh.
JT LeRoy
Mary Star of The Sea
Lyrics by william patrick corgan....
Jr. to you...
Rooms full of salt
Fault my pluck
And a poets chime so far/ever far
Little stars that burn the holes in my soul
And everything just feels like rain
The road we're on/the things we crave
And everything just feels like rain
If I should sleep/whats left to dream?
Drift as I dive
Find the deep
Out of reach of all light
Far/ever far
Resless tides along the changing shore
And everything just feels like rain
The road we're on/the things we crave
And everything just feels like rain
If I should sleep/whats left to dream?
When everything feels like rain
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