Courthouse Blues

Earlier this week, John (the one who still has a beard, but does not look as much like an Aryan Jesus anymore) and I found ourselves in court. We arrived at 8:00 in the morning, edging our way towards the front of the line outside of the Manhattan courthouse. Once inside, we showed the notaries our yellow slips at the front desk and were directed into the courtroom.

A few months ago, a neighbor wrote us a letter. He said, “Among the litany of strangeness—including gunshots, drug busts, and fistfights on the front lawn—perhaps no tenants have shown as much disrespect as The Low End.” He continues with brilliant insights into our music, which he could hear clearly through the foot-thick stone walls. “Your music possesses a sort of derivative boredom and lack of inspiration that indicate a lack of creativity. I don't mean to be a bitter old man, I am just trying to be helpful.” Very helpful. He continues, “I know this won't change anything; I just thought I'd let you know.” He signs it with a name that can't be found in the phone book or on Google (not that we tried...). He unwittingly wrote us our first piece of U.S.-postal-service-delivered hate mail. Gratzi.

In the past few months we have received a ridiculous number of complaints from an anonymous caller (The hate mailer? An agoraphobic fan of Engelbert Humperdinck? Sean Connery/Forester?). This caller happened to get phone-happy during a practice for last week's show (see the previous entry). The cops, who realized after the second-dozenth noise complaint that this was not a one-time offense, wrote us up. "Great music, though. We couldn't tell if it was the stereo or a band." Most stereos don't stop to debate the inclusion of maraca in their mixes, but we took the half-assed complement and the court slips. "Now, you'll have to talk to a judge, and he'll figure out a fine or something. Might even let you off." He made it sound like a friendly conversation, maybe over a couple glasses of Arnold Palmer and Nilla wafers.

So, ten days later John and I waited in the courtroom. The man two rows in front of us wore enormous jeans with dragons sewn into them. A tattoo on the back of his neck read "Nora" in exquisite cursive. I must proudly add that his mustache was a few weeks behind mine. Seeing Nora-neck and looking down at the slacks I nervously picked out the night before, I realized that I might have overdressed. John had it right, wearing a flannel shirt and tennis shoes. Together, we eyed the court procedure form. "So, I guess we have to admit guilt, right?" John asked. "Ok, then I guess we tell the judge the 'mitigating circumstances.' Cool." No Arnold Palmers. We were hoping we could pull a Leadbelly and sing a song that would wipe our records clean of iniquity. The form had no such clause.

We sat through the earlier charges. A morbidly obese, red-haired woman was charged with trespassing and driving without a license. A frat boy had a lawyer and negotiated his way out of an underage drinking offense. Nora-neck was facing a jail sentence for driving with a suspended license for the third time. The judge, an elderly man with a combover, was actually pretty friendly. He convinced the trespasser to get a court-appointed lawyer to help her case, rather than plead nolo contendere. He humored some of the less-offensive offenders.

Then, the judge called my name. Now, The Low End knows we are noisy, and we've taken some effort to reduce this. If you've been to any Dead Birdhouse shows in the past few months, you might have notice the bunker-esque window coverings we have installed. You might also have noticed the mattress we shove against the soundhole above the wurlitzer. I summarized our efforts and included our most recent move to the basement (where the original dead bird lived). "I'm glad to hear you've been making adjustments. I'm giving you the $25 standard fine." Thanks, judgie. He wisely assumed that John's charges were under similar circumstances since they were given on the same night; he issued him an equal fine.

We signed some forms and paid our fees at the notary desk. The fine was fine by us. But the court fees made for another $80 each, more than three times the expense of the offense. As we walked out, John waived his yellow court-order form. "Rock 'n' Roll souvenir," he stated triumphantly. We had become midwestern Keith Richards. Outlaws. Rebels. Neighborhood toughs.

Hooray!?