Drag queen divine sicking cock5/2/2024 ![]() I think it's a real good one, baby get you turned on." ![]() "Hey man, you got a quarter? I'm gonna watch peepshow No. ![]() "It looks like every fucking piece of trash in town blew in!" "Another Saturday Night out at the bookstore - huh!" starts Floyd, half singing, half talking - waiting for the song to stagger to life on Glen Taylor's woozy guitar and a leaden backbeat. Whatever the set list that night, whatever the musicians' level of expertise on their instruments - however loud, violent, or noxious this maiden performance really was - at least one thing is certain: "Saturday Night at the Bookstore" melted more than a few Birkenstocks out in the beer garden. Floyd's band was opening with the seven, maybe eight, songs they knew and had rehearsed. Scheduled to play that evening were homegroan acts Sharon Tate's Baby, the Next, the Reactors, and reigning local punks the Big Boys. Most were probably regulars at Raul's, Austin's Dragbound home of punk rock, where Patti Smith once jumped onstage for an impromptu version of "You Light Up My Life." They were here to witness the first-ever Punk Prom. When Floyd and company took the stage shortly thereafter - a stage that had hosted punk luminaries the Ramones, the Pretenders, Talking Heads, the Dictators, B-52's, and the Clash, there were maybe a couple hundred people waiting. A sight to behold, but nothing compared to what Floyd and his gang had in mind that night. Walking on the filthy, besotted carpet toward the front, one couldn't help but marvel at Jim Franklin's enormous mural to the left of the stage over by the always-flooded women's bathroom: blues great Freddie King bloodied by an armadillo exiting his chest cavity. Floyd gazed up at the painted scenes covering the building as he and his cohorts made their entrance.Ĭasting a scowl at the ubiquitous naked hippie children crawling over and around the beer garden's plastic folding chairs to their right, Floyd and his comrades instead veered left, entering the back of the vast room, with its sky-high, arched ceiling. Since it was early, there was still plenty of parking (Scales' oft-heard complaints notwithstanding), so cars had not yet begun encroaching on the apartment buildings around Ego's. Turning onto Barton Springs, Lopez hung a left into the badly rutted gravel driveway separating the hall from Doug Scales' Auto Body Shop. One way or another, it would be a night to remember - no matter what memories remained once the beer wore off. Driven by their friend Manolo Lopez, Floyd and his three buddies savored the ride. The nachos were selling well tonight.Ĝruising down Congress Avenue in a long Cadillac convertible covered with rust spots, Gary Floyd felt his purple/pink mohawk bristle in the wind. Bar manager Dale Watkins, towel tucked firmly in his back pocket as usual, put more Lone Star on ice. With 8pm bringing a hint of a breeze, things in the beer garden were looking up. Like the City Coliseum about half a mile down Riverside, this cavernous hall had a tendency to trap heat. The old Quonset hut at 525 1/2 Barton Springs Rd., formerly a National Guard armory, was just beginning to cool off as Friday turned into Friday night. It was the height of spring, mid-May, and already hot.
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