4-tracks and a microphone
I arrived here in 1973. Named Sven after a great grandfather on my mother’s Norse side, Gossard as a middle finger to my father’s family, and finally Oliver as his rebuttal to all of it. My accomplishments in life thus far include gaining and losing employment as a Physics teacher in Mud Creek, CO, learning several chords on guitar, and summoning interdimensional beings through the use of a Ouija board combined with high doses of various entheogenic materials. Due to that last one, and a deep love for authentic rock and roll, I am now the official biographer and High Apostle of the Bandini collective. If you’re looking for me and I ain’t back home, then I’m probably somewhere on East Colfax, makin’ contact with the people.
These here tales are the factual retelling of my and Uncle Dave’s inculcation of the gospel of Bandini. Though some say these stories are far fetched, threads of deep and sustaining wisdom are woven throughout. My name is Sven Gossard Oliver, and this is the story of how I came to know Bandini.
The Wife weren’t too pleased with how her Thanksgiving turned out thanks to Agnes’ froward mouth, and I needed to set things in order before I could mention my upcoming sojourn to the Big City. I had a five pound bag of Hawaiin Baby Woodrose seeds that I’d had in storage for about a year, …
For once Thanksgiving turned out to be an historically accurate representation of its roots as opposed to abiding by the typical colonial-normative bullshit. Instead of everyone putting on pilgrim hats and Indian headdresses and circle jerking around a horn ‘o plenty, the wife and I started a war with the neighbors. Or they started one …
Shootin’ Lloyd McNiel’s boy was a blessing in disguise, for me anyway. I truly did not want to tell the Wife about bein’ absent for Thanksgiving dinner. She don’t deserve such torment, and that would have caused real upset seeing how Thanksgiving was, by far, the most important Thursday on her calendar. She’d break out …
I wasn’t sure if Thanksgiving break would provide adequate time for me to get up to Denver and sort my shit out or not, but that was the original plan. Turns out plans make themselves, as I ended up leavin’ a lot sooner than intended, and stayin’ far longer than I wanted. Shit; You shoot …
I watched Elijah until he’d crow-plowed his way outta sight, then turned to Uncle Dave just in time to see him come shakin’ his way out from underneath six inches of obsidian feathers and black pearl eyeballs. I was teeterin’ a bit and managed a sloppy elliptical two-step, crunchin’ beaks and skulls like they was …
I still had my crow problem and it didn’t seem likely that Hagerty was going to help me fix it any time soon. At least not directly. Uncle Dave and I agreed it was time to try and call them boys back up for some guidance, or at least some new music. It was our …
So at least we had that board back in our possession. Uncle Dave was especially pleased, as there was a decent amount of sentimental value associated with that damn thing. He’d come home with it after spending a few weeks out in Chilchinbeto, building relations with the locals he said. That was about two years …
I was in the shop when Uncle Dave walked in and saw that photo his mom had given me earlier. “Hey! Now how’d you get a hold of that thing anyway?” “Pearl gave it to me earlier when I stopped by. Not really sure why but I kinda like it. Jesus don’t look all that …
“Some damn good pie, Mrs. Bauer. Don’t know how you do it.” “That’s mighty kind of you Sven. My granny’s recipe, from back in the oil patch. Speakin’ of which, there was somethin’ I wanted to give you.” She disappeared for about half a minute and came back with a four by twelve picture frame …
We cross referenced my photos with others online until I was satisfied with Uncle Dave’s assessment. There weren’t no doubt that was Neil Michael Hagerty walkin’ up through the bean field just between my place and Dave’s. No idea what this meant, but it sure as hell meant somethin’. Dave and I were both fans …