Emporio Punk Rock``x1059791158,38098,``xThis is Superman Is Dead Rock 'N Roll party propaganda!
Date: February 2003
``x``x ``xDear Beautiful People,

If you think living a Rock 'N Roll lifestyle is a blisfully gorgeous way of life, well, think again. Indeed, in many ways it's true. One perfect day you get up on stage, crank up gigantic noise, and people think you're ultra cool. One magic moment you are interviewed by national TV, being seen across the nation, and entire citizens think you're semi-God. Oh, if you're lucky enough, on one amazing nite you can finally meet and talk deep with your all time heroes, Motley Crue, in--let's say--MTV Music Award (and you say to yourself, "Hey, I'm an essential part of this the untouchable Rock celebs! Look, mom, I'm one of the so-called sophisticated socialites!"). Even better, for whatever you do,--acting like a badass bandman or a nice gentleman; well known for being 24-7 on speed or a total Charlie Watts-esque gossip-cleaned character; tagged as colossal party cassanova or a full-on family-man father-figure--still, legions of femme-fatale, gasp-they-are-omigod-so-aggresive groupies intensely dig you like crazy. Whoa. And surely in the end, from all those glory of Rock 'N Roll tales we've seen, read and watched, batallions of Rock 'N Roll utopists like us end up considering Rock 'N Roll lifestyle is way wonderful. Far out.

Listen, hold on, let me suggest you, quit fantasizing that being a Rock 'N Roll activist is a phenomenal destiny. It's not always like that, you American Dream-ers. In some ways it suprisingly sucks. Here today I'd like to share my own true psychosonic experience being stranded in Rock 'N Roll exotica when I was in Jakarta accompanying "Blitzkrieg 3-chordsabilly Punk Rock" troubadour, Superman Is Dead.

(Malcom McLaren once invented phrase of "The Great Rock 'N Roll Swindle". You have to believe that is real)

OK, there you go, right after signed up the contract with the label, we straight started to do the recording. And from that very day--as a C.E.O.-ish in the band--I was, like it or not, forced to take whole responsibility of non-musical elements such as:

1. Had to be the one who woke up the very first (7 goddamn AM--still in the state of huge-as-hell hangover, relatively sober, way lack of sleep, or full-frontal combination of all those 3, aargh!!)
2. With a big headache, reached the stupid phone and ordering the boys' breakfast at neighborhood restaurant (FYI before bed time, a night before, taking the food order from all the boys--either the band players or their assistants--even the driver)
3. Waking up the boys, one by one, real persuasive, oh-so very careful. Otherwise I'd be sworn up by each one of them with un-John-Robert-Powers-esque courtesy (e.g. "F--k you you f--king f--k! (pardon their French) Can't you just wake up someone else other than me first, Sir Satanic Manager??!@#$%!")
4. Preparing the whole financial aspects while waiting for them finish taking a shower (and every once in a while nicely told them to a bit speed up: "F--k you Barbara Cartland wannabes! What you doin' in the bathroom, b-tch? What took you so f--king long? You ain't no Duchess of York, for God's sake!"--pardon my French, dear all)
5. (Heading to the studio (45 minutes drive, more or less). Meanwhile in the back of the van, those so-called Glam-Punk Sandinistas (5 of them: 3 members of SID, 2 technicians), fell asleep again like a contingent of exhausted post-breakfast-cooking-phat-momma... Me? For sure I wanted to join that snoring festival. Mind you, 45 minutes are good enough to get rid of this wicked hybrid of lack of sleep + hangover halleluja. But then again, I did'nt. Didn't wanna take the risk if the driver fell asleep en route. Didn't wanna have an unexpected car accident. Or say he tried hard to be fully awaked, I kinda knew, he every once in a while all of a sudden would crank up the stereo's volume to shock-therapy us all...!. So I gotta be loyal to my dear Punk Rock chaffeur. (Oh help me God I need one helluva nice sleep, too)
6. As soon as we arrived at the studio (sometime around 10 forchristsaken AM), went straight asking the office boy to prepare warm tea and hot coffee. Chilled out for morning-adrenalin ritual for 15 minutes or so, and then told the Punk Rock heroes to get ready for the recording process. (Hey, never think it's a piece-of-cake job to get 'em off the beautifully structured made-in-Jepara sofa, would you please?)
7. (The boyz got busy in the studio. I accompanied 'em for a little while, went out to the living room and, er, sleep? Sh-t, I just had my strong anarchist amphetamine-fueled coffee!)
8. Some time before lunch time, I had to go inside, again, took the boys' food order. And if the office boy wasn't around, I sometimes, ugh, had to get myself ready and go together with my lovely man-behind-the-wheel to find Padang food or Chinese cuisine. I am the respectable C.E.O. Am I?
7. After massive lunch extravaganza, usually friends from the media or local band mates showed up just to say hi or asking for interviews. In a crucial state of dying-to-get-some-nap, for showing mutual respect, I would constantly try to stay warm (with a complete package of superficial symphatetic smile and ultimate fake happy face) yet chatted with them about this and that. On the contrary, the boyz most of the time incognitoly sneaked out to get some sleep (again). So--oh Lord Sid Vicious, bless me with wisdom--I was, like, forced to give sweet-talking explanation to the people who waited for the boyz that we needed to reschedule the interview session to tonight, around dinner time, or moved it to tomorrow since the boyz were oh-so tired. (Note: look, this thing NOT always happened. Only at some certain moments, Dear Suicide Glam Nationalists)
8. (Late afternoon, in fact I should've finally got my chance to rest in the living room on that nice sofa since I didn't really have that much to do. Unfortunately, the studio's environment could'nt help me with mutual support. Right next to the studio was a furniture company. Extremely noisy. F--k yeah. Oh The Almighty Dee Dee Ramone please show me your mercy...
9. (Since I couldn't sleep yet got nothing awesome to do, I would usually rush-rush grabbed my cell phone and hit "write messages" option. Here I'm taking this opportunity to say thank you to all cell phone manufacturers for inventing SMS technology. Thank you Nokia. Thank you Ericsson. Thank you Siemens. No thank you you cruel furniture people)
10. Before dinner time, took food order again, blah blah blah yadda yadda yadda so and so
10. Dinner session. And one of the Punk Rock partisans would ask me questions like: "Hey, dude, you look f--ked! How come?" or, "Do you know where the office boy is, dude? Er, hey, you think you can get me some beers, dude? We feel a bit stressed out, dude. Agus (our dear lovely driver, an ultra nice guy, especially every time after we give him a chance not to do anything), oi Agus, can you go with Dethu to find us some beers...?"
11. After dinner. The boyz continued doing the recording. Me? Thank you Spin. Thank you Keraang!. Thank you Alternative Press. Thank you Kompas. Thank you Lampu Merah. Thank you Hustler. Thank you Gadis. Thank you Kawanku. Thank you Poster. Thank you Hai.
12. 11-12 PM, heading home... "Dethu, you still look f--ked???!"
13. Arrived home. Drinking beers. Chit chating. Watching MTV, constantly swearing at P. Diddy, giving hyper negative credits to Jay Z, and say "Ahhh..." to J-Lo.
14. ZZZ-zzzzz ....ZZZZZ-zzz-ZZ ...Z-z-Z-z-Z-z...
15. Back to number 1.
16. See number 2.
17. Same sh-t different day.
18. Same stupidass sh-t different demonic day.
19. Same old stupidass sh-t different damn demonic day.
20. SID = friends
21. SID = foe.
22. SID = friends and/or foe.
23. SID = foe.
24. SID = hell yeah, foe.
25. SID = foe, foe, foe!

Do I make myself clear?


Cheers, Beers, Malcolm McLaren, & The Great Rock 'N Roll Swindle,
RUDOLF DETHU


PS: Dear SID, we are still soul mates ya? He he...

``xRudolf Dethu``xsupermanisdead@dps.centrin.net.id``xJakarta, Malcolm McLaren, & The Great Rock 'N Roll Swindle``x1059792326,18411,``xThis is a true story, a diary type thing, which taken place in Jakarta back in February 2003, when I accompanied SID doing their "Kuta Rock City" album recording.
This writing is happened to be published on The Beat mag, too, in March (?) 2003