Flyer by King Lemon of Small Town Cops
We spend many hours out on our widows walks watching for the Pile van to return. We inhale the exhaust, becoming dizzy and faint; we grasp our rickety rails for balance, and find little support. Car after car passes, and no sign of the boys. We take dust-cloths to our vinyl, then to the wrinkling creases of our eyelids. We miss Pile. Each sundown we light candles, read lyrics sheets, and pray: “Pile is gone to spread the word. Pile will return.” And return they shall. In the hallowed chambers of the Boylston Street Church (in JP, you twerps) worshipers will crowd around to catch a glimpse of the holy quartet. Sleaze-rockers, Pucker Up, are the door greeters for the evening. Local krautrock freaks, Lair, will be passing around the donations bowl (and remember, it’s not a receptacle for your fucking chewing gum). Guerrilla Toss (ever heard of em?) will be running around the whole building swinging those dumb incense baskets. Then Pile will hit the podium and give the good word. You will drop to your knees and bow your head, reaching your hands to the vaulted ceiling. High priests will come to you, take a sharp dagger to the palm of your hand, and will let your blood in the name of Pile. It will be a good show. And then Pile will go back on tour.