a film by Ellis Jones

(scroll to the bottom for hours of behind the scenes footage)

***

“Symphony of the Grotesque…decades in the orbit of King Khan”

By 

Ellis Jones

This narrative tracks a multi-year trajectory through the volatile underground of garage rock. The journey begins in 2003 in  a dank Florida alleyway where Ellis Jones sells Jay Reatard a bag of Florida’s most sought after import. The devils dandruff. To 2010, marked by two pivotal events: the suicide of professional wrestler Kris Kanyon and the author’s entry into the vinyl DJ circuit. Over the following decade, the author became a recurring, if reluctant, witness to the career of Arish Ahmad Khan (King Khan).

The epic spans from the chaotic, injury-plagued performances of The Almighty Defenders in the Tenderloin to the psychedelic-punk heights of the Burger Boogaloo festival. It culminates in a bizarre 2025 intervention following Khan’s public mental health crisis—an event that led to a surreal and violent encounter in an Austin, Texas, hotel room. What follows is an exploration of the thin line between the sublime and the repulsive, recorded in a style that mirrors the chaos of the events themselves.

Arish Ahmad “King” Khan is not just a musician, but is a mythological figure, a chaotic deity moving through a world of garage rock, gospel, and grease.

The legend of King Khan didn’t begin with a crown, but with the frost-bitten grit of Montreal and the screeching tires of a band called The Spaceshits. Before he was a king, he was Blacksnake, a bass-playing dervish alongside Mark Sultan (the man they called BBQ). They weren’t just playing garage punk; they were inciting riots. Their live sets were high-voltage seizures that usually ended in property damage, venue bans, and a trail of smoke, sets that burned show goers beyond blood and bone. In 1999, while touring Europe, the Blacksnake decided to shed his skin. He stayed in Germany, the band dissolved, and the “Blacksnake” era died so that a King could be born in Berlin.

By the turn of the millennium, The Sensational Shrines had risen. They were a sprawling, multi-national “psychedelic soul” revue, a collision of 1960s R&B, garage filth, and Sun Ra-inspired free jazz. This was Khan’s big-band neon fever dream, a German-French version of the Freak Brothers backed by a full horn section. Draped in capes and elaborate headdresses, Khan led a “hypersexual gospel” that turned into albums like Three Hairs and You’re Mine and the breakout What Is?! Into death cult scriptures. By 2013, with the release of Idle No More, he had successfully bridged the gap between Indigenous rights activism and the sweaty, beer-soaked floor of the garage rock underbelly.

But the ghost of the old days never stayed quiet. In 2002, Khan reunited with Mark Sultan to form The King Khan & BBQ Show, a two-man wrecking crew that stripped the music back to its skeletal remains: raw doo-wop and explosive rythm and blues. They were a global sensation, though their volatility was legendary. In 2010, the world watched as they famously imploded on stage at the Sydney Opera House—a set so erratic it was curated by Lou Reed himself. They would disappear for years, only for their track “Love You So” to rise from the dead a decade later, racking up at least a trillion views on TikTok and haunting a generation that wasn’t even born when the song was recorded.

The most divine chapter of the chaos, however, was born from a narrow escape. In 2009, after the Black Lips fled India under the threat of arrest for public indecency, they found sanctuary in Khan’s Berlin “Moon Studios.” Over a few drug and booze-fueled days, Black Lips, Khan, and Sultan birthed The Almighty Defenders. They fused the grime of the garage with the salvation of Southern gospel, creating a self-titled cult classic that sounded like a church service held in the middle of a bar fight.

As the years progressed, the King moved from the stage to the spiritual. He collaborated with filmmaker Alejandro Jodorowsky to create the Black Power Tarot, replacing traditional archetypes with Black icons like James Brown and Nina Simone. He launched Khannibalism, a label to house his sprawling collaborations, including work with his daughter, Saba Lou. Eventually, he stepped behind the lens for his directorial debut, Not Indian Enough, a gonzo documentary where he embedded with the Wolf Clan of the Mohawk nation. It was the final evolution: from a punk-rock snake in Montreal to a global mystic, still wearing the cape, still fueling the fire.

***

The saga begins in the humid gutters of Florida in the late 2000s, running “Bolivian marching powder” to Jay Reatard, i met Jay behind a venue in saint petersburg. I was skateboarding and smoking dope. He approached and asked if he could have a toke. Jay asked if I was going to the show. 

I said nah that shit is for rich kids, I’m poor. I’m gonna hang outside till the girls come out to smoke in between bands. 

He asked me if I knew where to get some cocaine. 

I said I did. 

ever the poet, Jay said if you can get me some blow ill get you into the show. 

I skated off and hopped a bus to Childs Park and came back with two grams of the most potent cocaine north of Bogota. Jay’s band the Reatards played so loud my skull shook for days, I imagine his sinus cleared around the same time my head stopped spinning. Throughout the 2000s Jay and I would stay in touch. I lived in every other city every other year or so, Tampa, Dallas, Nashville, Oakland, Brooklyn. And I would somehow always link back up with Jay and like always I would run off and find him cocaine and he would give me tshirts, mix tapes, 7 inches and of course hundred dollar bills. Jay was a man vibrating at a frequency destined to shatter. He’d trade money and mixtapes of 2000s garage-rock filth, a digital-to-analog-to-chemical, soul-swap for the chemical fuel that kept his motor screaming until it finally seized in January 2010. That same year, the heavens cracked open in a San Francisco thrift store; I found The Almighty Defenders on vinyl, a gospel-punk omen that coincided with my own descent into the night-world of barroom DJing. For years, I was a reluctant pilgrim following the pheromones of dangerous women who worshipped at the altar of the Black Lips and King Khan. I didn’t want the music—I’m an oldies purist—but the women I loved were fanatics, and so I became a ghost in the front row.

The memories are a blur of visceral repulsion and holy terror. At the Great American Music Hall, the Almighty Defenders transformed the stage into a Roman bath of urine and exposed genitalia. Khan attempted a stage dive into a void of indifference, hitting the floor with a “moderate to severe” concussion. Instead of the ER, he retreated to a sagging mattress in a Tenderloin SRO, marinating in a three-day fog of booze and narcotics while the brain swelling sang its own psychedelic raga. The police in their predictable inefficiencies were unable to apprehend the king for his indecencies. 

I personally thought it was one of the best shows i had ever seen. A sac religious gospel band and debauchery, I have seen Jay Reatard Black Lips and various King Khan acts more than any other groups. Not because I am a fan. But because the dirty girls I discuss music with often buy me tickets or a performer or venue worker will sneak me in.  

The days, weeks and months after the Almighty Defenders played The GAMH, the soft beanie-wearing hipsters of San Francisco were outraged by the event. The show was all ages. Some people just want to be outraged, I suppose. This is a band that formed when Black Lips got kicked out of India (kicked out of a whole country i might add) for pulling out their dicks and gaying off on stage in one of the most homophobic geographical locations on earth. Outrage, all the outraged whispered at the bars and cafes for an eternity after. But did anyone ask one simple question? Why was a band that emerged from the sleaziest catacombs of erotica, a band that was signed to the record label of a dirty magazine (Vice) why was this band slated to play a show for ALL ages?

 Fan is short for fanatic. I’m not a fan of the almighty defenders. But i like their record and the “zero fucks” given when preforming. But these nerds talking shit should be mad at the venue for selling tickets to kids, not the almighty defenders. King Khan farted in Lindsay Lohan’s face at the Cannes film festival. Yet no one at the great American music hall asked themselves, are these boys built for public consumption? 

By 2015, the scene shifted to the Mosswood Arena. There I stood, paralyzed by the “butterflies” of a soul-crushing love for the prettiest woman on God’s green earth, only to have the vision interrupted by the jarring sight of two portly men in BDSM gear howling on stage. It was a hallucinogenic collision of the sublime and the fecal.

***

The ghosts have a way of lining up in the rearview mirror. It started with Kris Kanyon, the pro-wrestler who vibrated with a doomed, leather-bound energy. I’d reached into the abyss to pull him back in ’05, from a plot to commit suicide. But by April 2010, the void finally claimed its prize. Kris had swallowed a bottle of his anti depressants and ceased to exist in this earthly realm.

 Two years later, the subconscious transmission arrived, a dream of Kanyon marching down Cesar Chavez Street in leather. He didn’t see me, I called his name and he didn’t even look. I asked my girlfriend, does this mean im gay and somehow don’t know it? (Kanyon was the first openly gay pro wrestler) The next day, reality fractured: my boss at Yellow Cab requested I assemble “wheel monitors” for a vintage taxi in the Pride Parade. The synchronicities were screaming—a high-pitched feedback loop of Kanyon. Was that a message from beyond this existence we call reality? I mean what do you think?

When Khan’s own suicide manifesto splashed across social media years later, the ghosts of Kanyon started howling. I stepped into the breach, a long-distance exorcism conducted over a flickering phone line. We spent hours descending into the cellar of the soul until the King stabilized. We talked for hours. He told me all sorts of stories about touring and recording with Black Lips, Jay Reatard. Meeting Lemmy and Lou Reed. He told me stories about people i had heard of but didnt know. The ones he loved, the ones he hated. He told me about a “female beating” band mate who had taken a woman’s ability to give birth. He told me about the time Jay Reatard was trying to “out punk him” and slathered his genitalia with some caustic chemicals, found in their garage practice space, which resulted in Jay being hospitalized for days having burned the skin off his cock and balls. And at the end of the call he thanked me and told me i saved his life. Because he was without question, going to kill himself before we spoke.

As a reward, or perhaps a curse, he connected me with a stripper in Austin. Well to more acurate a day time stripper from San Antonio.

The stripper and I met in front of C Boys on South Congress. Finished tallboys she had procured, then retreated to the park, drowning our senses in wine before staggering back to the sterile sanctuary of my Extended Stay. That’s when the raga began—Khan’s sitar wailing through the video-chat speakers like a funeral dirge for the sane. He played sitar into his iPad in a hotel in London. She danced in the nude in my hotel in Austin. Then the “gift” turned feral. The stripper asked me if I liked rough sex. I said not really but I’m into it if it turns my partner on. She immediately slapped me in the face. The dancer’s hands tightened around my throat, crushing my windpipe in a rank amateur’s attempt at a death-grip. (Choking for sexual enhancement is meant to constrict the blood flow, not airflow.) Then came the punchline, spat out like a broken tooth: “I have herpes.” 

I’m sorry, I don’t. And I’d like to keep it that way. 

Come on, you just have to wear a condom. 

I dont have any.

I stood my ground, my body a fortress of refusal against her frantic, desperate attempt to force a flaccid organ into a biohazardous womb. In a blur of fabric and fury, she snatched her rags and vanished into the night, leaving me alone with the droning sitar and the cold realization that I was the only one left in the room who wasn’t a ghost.

Waking The Indian

I got a book deal in 2015. Spent five years writing dirty stories about going on tinder dates. About half way through the five year research period the “me too” movement happened. The investors in the project decided not to go through with a book about a sexually promiscuous male character navigating the murky waters of modern dating. We all agreed while my behaviors chronicled in the book were wild, that I had not violated “me too law” ; however still they decided to pull the plug. 

I had negotiated a “kill fee” meaning if the book were for any reason not to be published and as a result I was not able to access a back end (royalty) that a predetermined fee would be paid at the deadline. I signed my contract 3/11/2015. The research period ended 3/11/2020 the same day president Donny J. declared a state of emergency and shut the free world down. 

Not knowing what the future looked like but being well aware that America was in a full blown housing crisis I decided to start building a real estate portfolio. I bought a house in Minneapolis. I was there the weekend of the George Floyd protests, completely by accident. I had been exploring the now empty cities of the American Midwest. The trip just happened to coincide with the tragedy. Minneapolis is a beautiful place when its on fire and the smell of tear gas has not yet dissipated. 

I believe wholeheartedly that the American government let the ninth ward of New Orleans flood so they could gentrify it. And so weighing my admiration for Minneapolis with the estimation that housing prices would drop dramatically I decided to buy a house, and got a hell of a deal. 

I spent a few months fixing it up. Mostly paint and spackle, gluing and screwing if you will. Minor plumbing and electrical repairs. The cold Minneapolis winter makes for a resilient bunch because rent prices went way way up the neighborhood once in flames became a destination at light speed after the unrest. I rented the property to a nice lesbian couple with a Somali son and a Jack Russell terrier and got myself a basement apartment in Whittier. I spent the rest of the year over drinking, working at pizza luce and sampling the smorgasbord of big breasted Minnesota women. I saw tits i didnt knew grew that far into the English alphabet. 

Then i bought a boarding house in Des Moines. Enlisted Julio, my long time graffiti buddy, to renovate and manage the property. Then two dilapidated homes in Detroit I bought at an online auction and then as i promised my mother i put a down payment on a house for her in Omaha where she had planned to retire. I closed on the house in Omaha. Cleaned out the apartment in Minneapolis and headed down to the muddy banks of the Missouri river to get the Omaha house ready for mom. 

The house was in the Malcolm X neighborhood. I didnt say A Malcolm X neighborhood. i said THEE Malcolm X neighborhood. As in the one he was born in. i dont have much to say about my time in Omaha. It was very relaxing though i did suffer a traumatic injury to my lower back while skateboarding in the winter of 2021. 

I will say Omaha is the strangest place I have ever lived socially. I can’t really explain it so I’m not gonna try. It’s the world’s biggest small town. It looks like a city. Like a nicer dallas with hills like knoxville but noone new moves in, people peak in highschool marry then divorce whoever they knocked up and that’s a typical whitebread Omaha story. 

Now black omaha is the shit. I can’t tell you how many cackles i would get when i would say 

“ If Malcolm X was born here I know why he hated white people because yall have a particularly crackery breed of cracker ass cracker here.”

In late 2022 I bought a condo in Queens New York and for the next few years I would spend my winters there and summer in Omaha pretty much just playing golf every day at the Steve Hogan golf course and drinking beers and writing at night. Mom had decided the amount of stairs in the house wouldn’t be good for her knees so my brother Eddy built out a basement apartment for her in his house. Geary had popped out a couple of kids in South O so it was a pleasant and calm few years for me. Having a summer home and occasionally playing “fun uncle”

In New York I had been dating a younger girl from England who was there for a two year contract from work. So when she went back to London I rented my queens apartment out and considered Omaha full time. Unfortunately a squatter had moved into the attic and i was tired of all the responsibility so I listed the house and sold it in 5 days. 

A year prior I had made an appearance on a popular podcast. Inside true crime with matt cox. I sold a bunch of books and won a grant and an investor from my previous book deal in 2015 offered me a ghost writing position in Austin. Due to my signature taking residence on a series of NDAs i cant say what the project is but this long winded seemingly braggadocious explanation brings us to me in an extended stay in Austin talking a bipolar musician out of killing himself and in the process being sexually assaulted by a day time stripper. 

I was on my way back to Austin from New York with a Subaru outback filled with minimal possessions when I got a call from the King. King Khan that is.

What he told me and I wrote down is a sprawling, Shakespearean tragedy played out in the dirt of the American Southwest and the frost of the Mohawk Rez. 

***

The phone buzzed on the nightstand of my hotel room in OKC like a trapped hornet. It was Khan. I picked up the phone, and the King’s voice came through like a jagged piece of glass dragged across a velvet curtain. The voice on the other end wasn’t the boisterous King of Berlin I’d seen in 2015; it was a rasping, high-voltage transmission from a man who had been through the industrial shredder of the soul.

“Ellis! You beautiful, gritty bastard,” he barked, the sound of a sitar droning faintly in the background. “I’ve been reading your dispatches. You’ve got it, man. You’ve got that Bangsian fever. the kind of writing that smells like stale beer and truth. You’re the only one who can help me stitch this together. I’m living a novel, Ellis! A nightmare in Bisbee! I’ve been hunted by the Cartel, caged by the law, and betrayed by a Muse who carries a screwdriver like a crucifix. We have to write it. The redemption arc, the manic collapse, the whole bloody mess. From the Rez to the SROs, we’re going to document the death and rebirth of the King.” 

Together we are WAKING THE INDIAN!

I sat up in bed. He was asking me to be the chronicler of his madness.

“Start at the beginning,” I said. “Start with the film.”

In 2024, the world thought King Khan was awaiting the London premiere of Not Indian Enough—a gonzo-realist autopsy of the fentanyl crisis and the slow-motion genocide of the Indigenous peoples in “So-Called Canada.” But the King wasn’t in London. He was in flight.

Driven by a suicidal manic episode and a soul sickened by the shifting political winds of Europe, Khan abandoned his “Fortress of Solitude” in Germany. He left his family and his crown behind, planting seeds for 250 orphans at the Anidan Children’s Home in Kenya. a place he intended to make his permanent home. But before the savannas of Lamu, there was the desert of Arizona.

He was lured by a ghost named Danae Maria Martines of the Coyote sisters, the “Hoodsie D Woodsie” of his dreams. She was a poetess of the maelstrom who claimed a battle with lymphoma. Khan, a man who had lost too many to the “C-word,” chased her 6,000 miles into the spooky, sun-bleached bones of Bisbee, Arizona. What followed was a romantic apocalypse. They were kicked out of every dive bar and flophouse in town, a blur of erotic bliss and public intoxication that ended with the King in a cage.

Cochise County Jail was a circle of hell. Deprived of his Seroquel, the King was cast into solitary confinement—no toilet paper, no running water, no dignity. He fought back the only way a chaotic deity could: he shredded his styrofoam meal trays and stuffed the drains, flooding the jail four times in a protest of liquid defiance. He attempted to exit this life four times, once with a razor blade hidden on an infected ear-piercing Danae had given him.

When the bars finally opened, he was a feral cat. The Bisbee police declared him an arsonist (from New Orleans) and a menace; the “Acid King” warned him the Cartel was sharpening its steel for his throat. He scurried through public parks and ate from dumpsters until Danae hid him in the Vista Hotel—a hobo’s oasis of cedar trees and desperation in Sierra Vista. It was there, among the racketeering victims and the elderly homeless, that the dream curdled into a nightmare.

Danae, a woman who had once stabbed a lover thirteen times with a screwdriver, turned on the King. She vanished into the desert with thousands of dollars of his art, his music, and his identity, leaving behind a trail of false accusations that nearly buried him.

But the universe provides for its holy fools. The Drazek family from Green Bay reached out through the static, providing the bread and board that the desert denied him. A Public Defender named Lisa Fitzgerald navigated the legal minefield until the charges turned to dust.

From the Calvary Church recovery groups to a Greyhound headed for LA, the King was propelled back to the North. He found sanctuary on the Mohawk Rez with his uncle, Mitch Deer, and later in Toronto with Jay Sherritt. Surrounded by Anishinabe singers and a Mötley Crüe of Toronto musicians, he traded the garage-rock fuzz for the celestial drone of the sitar.

Now, the trail has led to Austin. He was going to be living at Greg Ashley’s studio, recording a sound that bridges the gap between classical ragas and the lysergic howl of a young Roky Erickson. Ellis and Khan would spend their days running through the Austin streets, playing sitar for the homeless at the Masonic Lodge, the same healing frequency he brought to the elderly in the parks of Bisbee. The King will be safe in Kosse, Texas, under the management of Matt Drazek, heir to the Grande Ballroom legacy. The circuit is complete. The MC5 and The Stooges provided the spark; Khan, Jones and Ashley are providing the future.

I drafted that as Khan fired off his experiences in the American southwest and an island off the coast of Kenya. I’m a writer of “meta fiction”, fictitious non-fiction if you will. not a journalist. I loathe journalists. Why? One word. Betrayal. IYKYK. But a man can only sit and day dream new stories for so long until he has to drink off the proverbial hose and write a story stranger than fiction. I pulled out my other laptop, this one i dont connect to the internet, i decided to do a little digging.

I searched the archives of the Bisbee Observer and the Herald/Review (Cochise County). Look for reports between late 2024 and early 2025 regarding “Arish Ahmad Khan” or “King Khan” involving “public nuisance,” “disorderly conduct,” or the “Bisbee arson”.

Madness in the Canyon

Early reports centered on a series of “disorderly” incidents at local Bisbee landmarks. Journalists noted a “flamboyant out-of-towner” causing friction in the narrow streets of Old Bisbee, leading to several removals from bars and heritage hotels.

When the legal situation escalated, local reporting focused on Khan’s time in the Cochise County Jail. The papers noted the unusual nature of the “flooding” incidents, where a prisoner used shredded materials to sabotage the plumbing. At the height of the local paranoia, rumors circulated, and were fueled by community social media, that Khan was linked to a string of fires, leading to the “menace to society” label that you mentioned.

Later briefs in the legal section of the Cochise papers noted that the more serious allegations were eventually diverted or dropped, thanks to the intervention of the public defender’s office and his enrollment in the diversion program.

Then I saw on instagram that Shanon from Shannon and the clams had publicly disowned and denounced Khan. i shot her a DM and fished around for her thoughts oh what was going on with Khan. she in so many words said she didnt know or care and that since he had called Seth Bogart of Hunx and His Punx, quote, a “FAGGOT” she would not now or ever have anything to do with him.  

Then an email comes in and Khan has sent chaotically formatted clippings from the news articles written about him

Police reports detail King Khan’s erratic behavior in Bisbee

By Lyda Longa lyda.longa@myheraldreview.com

Nov 13, 2025

BISBEE — A series of reports released by the Bisbee Police Department detail the extent of the disturbances leveled on Old Bisbee by a Canadian musician who has been hanging around since mid-October. Arish Khan, known in the world of punk and psychedelic soul music as the frontman for King Khan and The Shrines, is currently calling the Cochise County Jail home. But before he was booked for a sixth time —now held on $5,000 bond — he left a trail of profanities, harassment and nonsensical conversations with locals and tourists, in his wake in Old Bisbee. Bisbee Police officers have had 12 contacts with the 48-year-old Khan since he landed in Old Bisbee sometime in October. Arish “King Khan” Khan, who has been causing a ruckus in Bisbee, left this behind at the entrance to the Bisbee Justice Court-Cochise County Sheriff’s Office on Wednesday. Cochise County Attorney Lori Zucco said Thursday in an email that the state would prefer that he not be released from custody.

“The State opposes release because Mr. Khan is a repeat offender who continually breaks the law and criminally trespasses on local Bisbee business establishments,” Zucco said. He would be free to go, however, if he pays his bond, she said. That would require a bond payment of 10% of the total imposed, which would be $500. Based on the incident reports filed by police, Khan has caused a great deal of consternation in his short time in the area. It is unknown exactly when or how Khan arrived in Old Bisbee. He has no transportation and according to police, was living with an elderly man who told officers that he enjoyed Khan’s sitar-playing. But other people living in the building where Khan was staying grew increasingly afraid of him and the individual who cares for the elderly man told police that Khan was using drugs, the Oct. 17 report shows. One man told police that he would not leave his animals unattended if Khan was still in the building. A prior report dated Oct. 9 — likely the first encounter police had with Khan — shows the cops responding to The Legion Bar on Subway Street after the owner said Khan was “being disorderly” towards customers. On Oct. 24, a Bisbee officer spoke with Khan outside the Bisbee Coffee Company where Khan had allegedly trespassed. The policeman told Khan that Khan’s brother had called law enforcement and was concerned about Khan’s mental state. The officer also told Khan that his medication was at the police station and that Khan should pick it up. Khan said he was not taking his meds, but assured the cop that he was not a danger to himself or others, the report reads. A few days later, on Nov. 1, police responded to OK Street after a hotel owner called about Khan. The proprietor said Khan was sitting on the front steps of the inn and making inappropriate comments to passersby. He claimed that Khan scared one of his hotel employees telling her he was “going to get her” the report says. Terrified of Khan, the woman quit her job at the hotel, the report says. The hotel owner also told police that he was afraid of Khan. On Oct. 25, an employee of the Bisbee Coffee Company called the cops saying that Khan was yelling profanities and harassing other workers at the cafe. On Oct. 21, the manager of the complex where the Coffee Company is located — 2 Copper Queen Plaza — called police and said Khan was making sexual comments toward the Coffee Company employees, the report shows. By the time this call was made, Bisbee Police were already familiar with Khan. “This individual had already been identified by me as Khan, Arish, a man who was new in town and already known to some officers,” the policeman wrote in the report narrative. The last report, also taken on Nov. 1, involved a Bisbee resident who called police about his neighbor. The resident had been providing Khan with a room and money, the report shows, and the man who contacted the authorities was concerned because Khan had shown up and was looking for his benefactor, the report says. Several people have commented on social media that Khan is in dire need of mental health assistance. One individual said she spoke to a couple of his band members and he rejected their offers to help. Others have said that Khan has a wife and two daughters — one of them also a musician — who live in Berlin. Khan has been arraigned three times at the Bisbee Justice Court. He faces charges for criminal trespassing and disorderly conduct.

***

Article #2 

SIERRA VISTA — Arish Khan, known in the psychedelic soul and garage rock world as King Khan, has emerged in Sierra Vista after he burned more than a few bridges in Bisbee and was advised by close friends to not return. On Monday afternoon, the 48-year-old, sporting a dark blue sweatshirt with the words “Museum of Death” emblazoned across the top and a series of macabre cartoon characters on the front under the lettering, met with the Herald/Review to “speak his truth.” Khan, who nowadays prefers to be called Buddha, said the reason he wanted to come forward is because the Herald/Review wrote several articles about his antics in Old Bisbee. He’s also aware that there are a handful of people in that city who might want to do him harm should he darken Bisbee’s door again. Khan’s presence in Bisbee first came to light on social media with various individuals complaining about his behavior and others calling for compassion because of his mental health issues. Khan is the first to say that he is bipolar and he takes medication daily for his condition. When he spoke to the Herald/Review on Tuesday, he said he was on, and has been regularly taking his medication. He was arrested a number of times for trespassing at the Bisbee Coffee Company and he faces one charge of criminal trespassing. He said he is scheduled to appear at a hearing in Bisbee Justice Court on Dec. 16. But back to the burning question: How and why did Khan, who used to be the frontman for a Montreal group called King Khan and the Shrines, end up in Bisbee? It’s all about a girl. And maybe some art. And maybe because Khan wanted help. “A lot of people could say that my coming to Bisbee was a giant scream,” Khan said. “I was like, ‘Hey world, I’m lost.’ I don’t have my bands anymore. I don’t have any way of making money. I’m lost. Please help me.” A father of two daughters ages 23 and 25, Khan landed in Bisbee in October after a woman he said he had collaborated artistically with, told him about the mile-high city and how free-spirited and artsy it is. At the time, Khan was living in London. The woman also told Khan that she was ill and he said he wanted to help her. Khan flew to Phoenix from London. When he arrived, he convinced a cabbie to drive him to Bisbee for $500. On the three-hour journey, Khan said he and the cabbie spoke about the woman and the cabbie gave him advice on how to woo her. Once he arrived in Bisbee, Khan said he did not want to burden the woman and her family, so he became homeless, sleeping at the Grassy Park and staying on the front porch of a man who had heard of his music and wanted to help him. But what started out as a visit from an eccentric, artistic and well-read individual who once led a colorful and sometimes bizarre life as he traveled with his band, turned into a nightmare of sorts for some Old Bisbee business owners who trespassed Khan from their doorsteps because of his erratic behavior, police reports show. It’s hard for Khan to focus. He has a plethora of knowledge in his brain and he spits it out all at once, going from one topic to the next. He spoke about his three-week incarceration at the Cochise County Jail and claims he stopped up the plumbing at the lockup by stuffing the toilet with styrofoam. He was released on Nov. 25 after his mother paid his bail. After several digressions, Khan finally said he was in love with the woman he came to Cochise County for. He hopes to collaborate with her on more artistic projects and wants to marry her. He headed to Sierra Vista after the man he had been staying with advised him to get out of Bisbee, lest he be harmed. At the place where he’s staying, Khan has set up a mini-art exhibit of his and his girlfriend’s work. The pictures are leaning on the air-condition window unit outside his motel room. Some of the characters in the artwork resemble the cartoons on his sweatshirt. A rift with his bandmates about differences of opinion on the Israeli-Gaza conflict, broke up King Khan and the Shrines, Khan said. He is also estranged from his brother and sister who Khan said consider him “pond scum.” He plans to return to London in April for a showing of a documentary he made called “Not Indian Enough.” Also, his visa will expire by then. Khan said he will apply for a three-year visa so he can come back to Arizona. “I hope that with your article, people in Bisbee will be talking about me, being like, ‘Oh it’s OK for him to live there,’ ” Khan said.

Photos of actual police reports

Biohazardous Raga

I woke up early, groaning, while brushing last night off my teeth i saw the bags under my eyes were the color of a bruised kidney, i made my way to the porch for my breakfast half of a yellow american spirit cigarette and the remnants of a coors light from the counter, and then the ice came—a silent, crystalline violence that lacquered the world in a treacherous, frozen skin. It was the kind of weather that makes a man want to crawl into a bottle and pull the cork in after him.

The digital grid had collapsed. The Ubers were gone, their drivers huddled in darkened apartments, dreaming of traction. But Khan was landing, a localized cyclone descending into the frozen heart of Texas, and someone had to go into the breach.

I coaxed the Subaru onto the sheets of ice, the tires searching for a purchase the earth refused to give. It was a slow-motion dance in to disaster. I scooped him from the airport—a man who carries his own atmosphere—and within minutes, the geography of the city surrendered to the white-out. We were lost in a landscape of jagged, frozen monsters.

My phone had given up the juice, its battery bled dry by the cold. I pulled into a gas station—a fluorescent island in a sea of gray—to beg the gods of navigation for a direction.

When I stepped back out into the biting wind, the world had shifted. There, in the passenger seat of the Subie, the glass fogging with his manic breath, sat Khan. And The Instrument, He had the sitar out of the case, a curved, wooden rib of another world. He was picking a tune, the metallic wraiths like notes bouncing off the windshield.

The ice was thick enough to snap a power line, the roads were a graveyard of dead engines, and we were effectively blind in a city that had forgotten its own name. But there was Khan, fingers dancing over the wires, weaving a new tune out of the freezing dark. He wasn’t worried about the map. He was tuning the apocalypse.

       Hey ellis,  sheck this out ive been waiting to play this for you i wrote it in jail in arizona its called solitary confinement. He opens with a low, sitar drone that bleeds into a rhythmic, haunting garage-blues shoe stomp.

They took my Seroquel and they locked the door. Left me shivering on a concrete floor. No silver spoon, no plastic fork Just the sound of the silence and the devil’s work. I’m in solitary, yeah, I’m all alone In a house of shadows, in a pile of bone.

Solitary confinement, breaking my mind Looking for a spark that I’ll never find No running water to wash away the sin Just the walls closing out and the walls closing in Solitary… yeah, they got me in the hole.

I shredded the foam, I stuffed the drain Tried to wash the poison out of my brain Four times the water rose up to my knees While I begged the ghosts for a moment of ease The Acid King is calling from the desert heat While the sheriff’s boots are clicking on the street.

I got a razor blade on a safety pin Danae, my darling, where have you been? The infection is blooming, the fever is high It’s a long way to Lamu and a short way to die (Sitar solo—manic, high-pitched, echoing like a siren)

They call me an arsonist, they call me a threat But I’m just a man that the world wants to forget In the Vista Hotel, under cedar and sky I watched the vultures circling on high Replace the ‘I’ with the ‘we’ and the illness is gone But I’m still in the darkness, waiting for the dawn.

Solitary… No water… No light… Just the King… and the night.

I sarcastically slow clapped his performance and with a cigarette pursed between my lips and said 

That was marvelous, you are a song bird of our generation. Now get in the fucking car my nuts are turning into ice cubes. Load up that Indian banjo we got to go. 

***

We get back to the crib and geek out on each others art. Khan packed a rolling suitcase full of canvases and trinkets he has collected from germany to kenya to Arizona and everywhere inbetween. 

We made some strong coffees. Pour over coffee is the only way to make coffee. French press is for people who like the theatre of coffee making, more than the actual taste of ground coffee beans and water. 

Khan is my self appointment sobriety sponsor. Its not sticking. I may never be sober but he encourages me everytime i take an extended break from the hooch. A few months back i dried out for 21 days and he had a friend of his from Fender send me a telecaster and a 10 watt frontman amp. I showed him how i tune my guitar.

See back in the day i would essentially tune all the strings to the same note then distort the guitar with either a gain or overdrive function on the amplifier or a few times ive owned DS1 distortion pedals. What this tuning would do; is give me the ability to make a bar chord with just my middle finger. I really only play guitar when I’m hurt from skateboarding and my left hand has constantly been injured for the last thirty years, leaving me with almost no dexterity.

Maybe 15 years ago a musical mentor of mine, Zachary Blizzard of San Francisco listened to my tapes and said why dont you just tune in open G? I did some research and found the “keith richards method” of dropping the lower E string and tuning the remaining five strings to GGDGB. I dont know anything about guitar. I dont know a chord i dont know scales. I just like making distorted noise come out of the thing, really loud. So in my amateur brain i thought the lower E string was the E string that was lower on the finger board not the lower sounding E at the top. So i have for the last 15 years played guitars with five strings no hi E string tuned GGDGB. But again this gave me the ability to make tapes when hurt from skateboarding. 

Khan thought this was extremely funny that i got the richards tuning wrong but in a way found my own unique style while accommodating my disabilities in my left hand. He too had developed his own tuning on guitar he called the “sitar guitar” he explained it but i dont remember but the tuning mimics the drone effect of the sitar. 

We spent the rest of the night geeking out on records from my DJ set. He only brought one LP with him; it was some Montreal response to the cramps. I think it was called deja voodoo or something. 

We got up early, had coffee and i asked Khan what he had planned.

I want to play my sitar for the homeless people of Austin. This instrument has magic healing powers and im just done playing guitar for over privileged cocaine sniffing hipsters in bars. I want to wake the indian inside of me and heal the lost and forgotten with this here sitar 

I said ok. I know a couple spots where they hang out. The problem was that it was February and Austin had just gotten a nasty freeze. So everywhere i was used to seeing the unhoused were baron. Finally off of East Cesar Chavez we found an encampment of a few hobos who were rolling up the skinniest blunt i have ever seen. Khan asked politely if he could play for them and they seemed excited and said yes. When Khan pulled out his sitar one homeless man exclaimed.

It looks like a giant bong! 

Khan played a few minutes of a classical sitar Raga.

Another hobo said 

Makes me wanna smoke hashish!

Then khan took a minute to educate the fellows on the sitar and indian music. One man asked whats the name of that song? Khan said its not a song. Its a Raga. you see, in Indian classical music, a raga isn’t a specific song, but rather a melodic framework for improvisation. When played on a sitar, it becomes a journey of “coloring” the listener’s mind, in fact, the Sanskrit word ranj (the root of raga) literally means “to color” or “to dye.” Think of a raga as a unique musical personality. It’s more than a scale; it’s a set of rules that defines which notes to use, which ones to emphasize, and how to move between them to evoke a specific emotion or mood.

So you just freestyleing dawg? inquired one man in a shiesty mask.

Essentially, Because Indian music is improvisational, two sitarists playing the same raga will never play the exact same “song,” yet both will stay strictly within the “laws” of that raga. Since every raga has a “skeleton” that the sitarist must follow. Arohana & Avarohana: The specific way notes ascend and descend. Some ragas skip certain notes going up but use them coming down. Vadi & Samvadi, The “King” and “Queen” notes. The Vadi is the most important note that the sitarist will return to most often; the Samvadi is the second most prominent. Pakad, A signature melodic phrase. It’s the “musical fingerprint” that lets a listener immediately recognize which raga is being played. 

We packed up and continued our journey but the cold had driven the unhoused into the shelters and churches. Khan wanted to stop and get a photograph in front of “Juan in a million” the benches out front say “world famous”. We got the snap shot and in the way back to the car i saw a young man climbing into a dumpster. I grabbed a bottle of water from the trunk and headed over to him. I told him we were doing outreach, giving out water and soothing the symptoms of homelessness with classical indian music. Khan saw me talking to the man in the dumpster from across the street and he headed over with his sitar. He asked the man if he could play for him and the man said yes. The man seemed to start to fall asleep. He then asked khan a number of questions and he went into his sitar tutorial again.

When we got in the car i said. 

You know i wasnt convinced when you said this instrument had healing powers and maybe it was the mix with whatever he was injecting in that dumpster but you could see a visceral change in his face when you played. 

Yea dude its true. My mom would play sitar when i was in her belly. And when i was an infant i would cry and cry and the only thing that would put me to sleep was the sitar. This is the whole point of my journey to Austin. I need to heal myself by playing this instrument. And like they say itn 12 step programs im healing the people who need it the most, while healing myself.

Interesting…what are you healing from?

My partner Mark Sultan and i had the number one song on tik tok, we made millions. But then the band broke up and i was essentially directionless. Until i started my project “not indian enough” a film about the missing and murdered indigenous women of “so-called” canada. 

Yea thats why you were in London right? for the premiere?

Yes and it got pushed back.

Ah! I’m seeing a pattern here. You arent in crisis. You arent crazy, you are bored and directionless. Your band breaks up and you get a ton of money. You dont have to hustle to get money and you dont have a partner to work with. So you “ go nuts”. Then you assemble a team and get a new project and you make the film. Then at the very end of that project right before the premiere you “go nuts” again. Now you’ve found a new direction to go in and a new project. 

Ellis its scary how well you know me. He fought back a tear. 

Hey man, humans are simpler than we give them credit for i learned all this shit when i was a kid in a synanon- attack therapy cult.

Synanon? Asked Khan.

Yea it was some rehab in malibu back in the day. It focuses on addict blaming. The school i went to took that format and chinese internment camps and basically ran a human trafficking scam.

HOLY SHIT! Said Khan.

Yea i know more than most psychologists with masters degrees.

Dude you should be my therapist! Ill be your sponsor and you can be my therapist. 

I mean khan just cause i know the books doesnt mean im qualified to do that , in any way. 

***

We got back to the house and watched the new spinal tap movie. It sucked but i didnt care. I was barely watching it. I was getting good and drunk. My “sponsor” King Khan told me not to but didnt shame me for doing it anyway. I was also doing my nightly writing exercise. 

Ellis, why arent you watching the movie. Asked Khan.

Cause it sucks. 

What are you writing?

Getting something ready for the book about today.

Can i read it?

No!

Why not?

Cause you’ll share it with that wife of yours. 

So? You’re a good writer. 

She hates me. She accused me of being a fan boy when we connected in London.  Then you sent her that first chapter where i said i wasnt a fan of yours and she had a problem with that. She just wants to be upset about something and thats fine as long as it aint me. 

Will you read me what you are writing?

Alright alright…

“my Subaru skulked over the terminal ward that is East Cesar Chavez Street. The air tasted of burnt rubber and old adrenaline, a thick, gray soup of human exhaust. Then, he sat. Cross-legged on a piece of discarded cardboard, cradling that teak-wood insect…the Sitar.

He began to pull at the strings, and the Alap crawled out like a slow-motion riot. It wasn’t a song. Songs are for the high-rent districts where people still believe in the lie of “Tuesday.” This was a surgical strike on the silence of the dispossessed.

The sound didn’t come at the men huddling in the shadows; it came from them. A low, vibrating hum that bypassed the ears and went straight for the soul. It was the frequency of the Earth’s own heavy heart. The Meend—that long, liquid slide between notes—stretched the air until the reality of the gutter began to warp. The concrete didn’t feel so hard when the molecules were being rearranged by an ancient frequency.

“Look at him,” I shouted over the rising drone, my voice a jagged edge in the shifting sonic haze. “He’s not ‘performing’ for the poor. He’s hacking the biological reality of the sidewalk! This is Metaphysics, no, no this is meta- chemical! He’s using that gourd to broadcast a signal that says the Bureau of Despair has been liquidated! He is transmitting an airborne electromagnetic mineral”

The sitarist’s fingers were a blur now, hitting the Jhala. A metallic, percussive storm that sounded like a murmuration of starlings attacking a typewriter. It was beautiful and terrifying, like an automobile collision, in slow motion where nobody gets hurt and everyone gets stoned. The sympathetic strings were screaming in a language that predated the fall of man.

There was no “help” being offered here. No pamphlets. No thin soup of condescension. Just the raw, bleeding energy of the Raga. It was a total sensory hijack. The homeless weren’t “the homeless” for those moments; they were the temporary inhabitants of a golden, vibrating palace built of pure mathematics, crushing an ancient enemy, that is, sorrow.

He stopped. The silence that followed was heavy, like a satin sheet falling over a crime scene. The sitarist packed his gear and walked into the neon fog, leaving the street corner a little more tuned, a little less broken. It wasn’t charity; it was a cosmic jailbreak.”

Ellis, you are a fantastic writer. Why dont you write like this all the time?

Cause i want my semiliterate high school drop out friends to be able to read what i write too. Its a balance between shutting up the intellectuals and acknowledging and engaging the intellectually disabled.

What do you mean when you say. The lie of tuesday?

Youve never heard of the lie of tuesday?

No. 

Hold on i wrote something about this in a zine years ago. I went into my closet and got out a copy of my Zine Drugs & Barbecue from nearly a decade ago and read to khan… 

“”Listen, you want the straight dope on Tuesday? We’re talking about the most soul-sucking, beige-colored, high-fructose-corn-syrup-fueled scam ever perpetrated on the human race. Youve heard of the Sunday scaries im sure. But nobody talks about the Tuesday terrors.

Tuesday is the Nadir of the Spirit. It’s the day when the weekend’s triumphant, beer-soaked cacophony has finally dissolved, leaving you standing in the fluorescent glare of a 7-Eleven with nothing but a dry sandwich and the realization that you’re a cog in a machine built by a committee of boring sadists. The Great boredom swindle.Tuesday is the day that “The Man” wins. Monday is a war, you’re hungover, you’re defiant, you’re screaming at the alarm clock. But Tuesday? Tuesday is the day you submit. It’s the day the “Normalcy Signal” is at its peak frequency.

The Spreadsheet Stupor…It’s the day of the meeting about the meeting. It’s the day when “efficiency” becomes a god and “spontaneity” gets taken out back and shot.

The No-Man’s-Land…It’s too far from the last party and too damn far from the next one. It’s a temporal void. It’s the flat, featureless desert of the work week where the sand is made of shredded memos and the sun is a flickering 60-watt bulb.

The Lie Of Tuesday, is that this is how it’s supposed to be. The Lie tells you that the hum of the lightbulb and the glow of your computer screen are the only reality you’re entitled to. It’s a lobotomy of conformity and calendar.

Tuesday tries to convince you that the world is stable, that the authorities are in charge, and that your internal fire is just a “malfunction” that can be cured with a lukewarm latte and a sensible pair of shoes. It’s a betrayal of everything loud, fast, and real.

It’s the day that says: “Shut up and file the paperwork, kid. The abyss is closed for maintenance.”

Flat White Underbelly

The next morning we drove around looking for more homeless. No dice. It was too cold and after posting videos to youtube Khan was getting blow back that his playing sitar for them and filming it was exploitative. 

You wanna just bop around and hit record stores? I asked.

Yea totally. Maybe since its cold we could ask around about DJ gigs. Khan said. 

Yea and you could get some of your own records and we can tag team the turntables. 

I cant DJ my own records. Thats lame. Said Khan.

The fuck you cant! i saw Stevie Wonder play a gig at the Bill Graham auditorium and half way through he stopped playing live and just played his own records and talked about them.

 We drifted down North Loop, the Subaru skating on the silver skin of the world like a drunk on a frozen pond. Breakaway Records sat there, dark and shuttered, its vinyl treasures locked away from the ice. The air was a thin, cold blade. I suggested we seek sanctuary in a nearby cafe, a place to crouch and wait for the gears of commerce to grind back to life.

I ordered a drip coffee. It was a mistake born of a cheap heart and a ticking clock. I should have gone for the Americano.

The water in Austin is a chemical lie that taste like dirt, and the beans they roast here are far too acidic, biting at the back of the throat like a jilted lover. San Francisco had ruined me—turned me into a high-priest of the bean. I crave a dark roast as black as a widow’s heart, the kind that carries a fine, shimmering “mother of pearl” oil on the surface. Anything else is just colored water.

Then the barista, a creature of light and misguided hospitality, turned her gaze toward Khan. “I’ll have a coffee too,” he started, his voice a low rumble. Then the hesitation. The shift in the wind. “No, wait… I’ll have a… flat white.” I lowered my sunglasses. I looked at this large, magnificent Indian man, this nomad of the earth, and I felt the heat rise in my chest. “Really?” I asked, the words dripping with a slow, seething anger. “A. Flat. White?” In an instant, the three-dollar tab swelled into an eight-dollar monstrosity. It was a fiscal hijacking. The barista, bless her deluded heart, handed me my acidic swill and began the elaborate construction of Khan’s milk-laden vanity.I stood by the door, the cold air licking at the glass, and watched the alchemy of the espresso machine. Let’s be honest, if you require anything in your cup beyond ground beans and the grace of hot water, you don’t like coffee. You like a coffee-flavored milkshake. You like the lie.”

I stared Khan down with the fire of a thousand hells. He stood there, unbothered by the cosmic weight of his entitlement, waiting for his foam while the world outside continued to freeze over. I couldn’t believe the gall of the man—ordering a boutique dairy-cloud while I choked down a cup of battery acid just to save us a nickel. It was a beautiful, infuriating testament to his spirit. The man was a King, and Kings don’t drink drip. 

The barista served him his flat white and Khan ever so sneakily grabbed a package of artisanal twinkies and stuffed the extremely noisy wrapper into his coat pocket in an otherwise silent cafe. I walked out ahead of him and avoided the sheet of flat white ice in front of the cafe. I sat in the car and fired up the heater and looked to see where the lummox was in his journey to the passenger seat. He was ever so gracefully waddling across the flat white ice like a large indian penguin, trying not to slip making the slowest getaway from any heist, since the invention of stealing. He got in the car and said.

So breakaway records it is?

I know that you know that i saw you steal those tasty cakes. And a fucking flat white? You dont order a fancy drink if I’m ordering a drip coffee. You get something of equal or lesser value. If we werent in the cozy confines of my subaru id slap that “flat white” all over you

Sorry i just dont have any money right now. I only have canadian dollars. 

Look man i spent a year in juvenile hall because my brain dead skate buddy stole a soda from burger king. I’m not ok with this stealing shit. Ive been watching you steal sweets and art supplies, and this shit has to stop. Dont steal around me or im leaving you wherever we are. And you’ll be lucky if I don’t slap the dogshit out of you first. 

Ok. sorry. No more stealing. 

We had only been around each other for a matter of hours and his frenetic energy and utter lack of situational awareness was grinding me down. 

Breakaway wont be open for a bit. lets go over to Half price Books. They have records and they just bought the whole Norton catalog. They have some of your records too. 

Ooh maybe i could autograph them? 

I dont see why they would mind. I heard Michael jai white goes all over the place signing copies of spawn comics. So whats the deal with norton records? Are they going out of business or something?

Well, the owner Billy did die. I think its kind of in a weird limbo. His wife Miriam played in the cramps. She runs it now. 

When i was DJing in the bars in SF and Brooklyn it was like a faux paux to have their records. The “real DJs” had to have old copies of 45s. Reissues were a no no. 

Why? Asked Khan disgusted.

I KNOW! You are never gonna find some of that shit if Norton didnt preserve it. I found a pretty things ep 15 years ago and i to this day havent found any of those songs on another vinyl. Did you ever record anything with them?

Yea i did a couple of singles. Youd probably like the cover of aley oop…

By the holly wood argyles?

Yes except we published it as the bollywood argyles. Said Khan

Thats amazing. You know that song was just a bunch of drunk dudes singing about a comic strip from the funny pages called “alley oop”? 

Really? Khan asked shocked.

Yea it would be the equivalent of us getting blitzed and writing a song about garfield or doonsberry or something. So whats the deal with norton?

You know what lets call Miriam Linna she would probably love to clear the air for the book. 

“Miriam its KK! 

Hey KK! its been so long i hope you are well! She exclaimed truly happy to hear from him. 

So im here with a writer Ellis Jones, hes the new Lester Bangs. He DJs and is a big fan of norton and he is writing a book about me and we were heading to half price books to go check out some records. Ellis tells me they recently acquired the entire norton cataloge.

Yes they did, they pretty much bought us out, they have a 121 stores and they have stocked all of them with our records.

That is Fantastic! Ellis was wondering if you could give us a rundown of the label for the book. Are you guys going out of business? Khan asked surprisingly tactfully.

Actually, rumors of Norton Records’ “demise” are greatly exaggerated! While the label has faced a series of truly Shakespearean tragedies, it is still very much alive and kicking. As of 2026, Norton is celebrating its 40th anniversary. While the physical storefront in Brooklyn is gone and my husband has passed away, the label has adapted to a new era.

When did you guys start the label? 85? No… 89?

Close, but no, Norton started in 1986 by myself and my late husband Billy Miller. Norton was born out of our Zine, Kicks. We specialized in “primitive” sounds: garage rock, rockabilly, and forgotten R&B. We accidentally rescued the careers of cult legends like Hasil Adkins and Esquerita.

So Norton isnt going anywhere?

Well KK the nature of the future is that it is always uncertain but the label has always had to fight rumors that we are “done” or “going under” even as far back as hurricane Sandy in 2012 our warehouse in Red Hook, Brooklyn, was submerged under several feet of seawater. Nearly our entire back catalog of vinyl was destroyed. In a legendary show of community, hundreds of volunteers spent weeks in the mud, hand-washing “sopping wet” records to save what they could. And you know even after billy passed in 2016, everyone thought it was over as he was the heart and soul of the label’s archival spirit, 

And how did he pass? asked Khan

He passed away after a long battle with multiple myeloma.

  So what is in store for Norton in 2026?

Despite the setbacks, Norton hasn’t folded; it has evolved…In 2026, we started a new partnership with HPB to handle our massive stock of LPs and 45s, ensuring the music stays in circulation. 

Im still doing kicksville radio, still broadcasting the “Norton sound” 

What is kicks ville? Asked Khan

It is a 24/7 radio station and a weekly show on WPKN… hey listen KK i hope this answers your questions about the label. I cant wait to read the book when it comes out…but ive got another call coming in and ive, ive got to go. 

The call couldnt have come at a better time.  We pulled into the HPB parking lot off North Lamar.

In Store(s). 

We walked over to the records and i went straight to the gospel section.

Why are we going to gospel? asked Khan confused.

I stashed your records over here so noone else could get them before me. Nobody coming here to buy a Michael W. smith album knows who you are.

We collected three 45s one was a King khan solo offering called “its a lie” with an absolutely deadly instrumental b-side. Called “ congratulations I’m sorry” the other was a Christmas themed split with Black Lips on one side and KIng Khan & BBQ show on the other. The third was a recording of La La Brooks of the crystals singing a song written by Khan. We took the records back to the buying counter and he asked if he could sign them. They were happy to have him do it. An employee asked if he was living in Austin now. He said no. He was doing a residency here. Then like Khan does when he meets a new person he ear fucked the helpleess book worm about all of his troubles with a “black magic woman” in bisbee, being arrested 10 times and suffering homelessness.  Khan didnt just sign the 7 inch records he , for lack of a better word, defaced the sleeves. Drawing wieners, writing “steal this 45” Crossing mark sultans name off the christmas record and changing Black Lips to Black Nips, even giving santa black face and the child on his lap a pistol. do do do da da da by the police came on the loud speaker and khan proclaimed it was the most annoying song ever recorded. However I will say he treated the La La Brooks record with maximum love and respect and just signed the label. While he signed he told me little tid bits from his chaotic career. Yo ellis did i ever tell you I flicked lou reeds nose after he sang “vanishing act” to me at a sydney opera house rehearsal. I feel like the lou calling me little richard, gil scott heron and johnny rotten is the best quote i never used in my career. I met andre williams at 18 and knew him all of my life, The Mighty Hannibal called me his protege and when he would get mad at me he would call me “lying ass khan” and he would call jared from the black lips “jive ass jared”. One time, I played guitar with GZA twice, once in toronto and someone got stabbed while we played and fab five feeddie introduced me to gza after seeing King Khan and BBQ show and told gza i was one crazy nigga. The employees thanked him for signing the records and we went over to look at what Norton titles they had. I recorded the interview but im not going to transcribe the 45 minutes of dialogue Khan is a compendium of music history and other “esoterica obscurica” you can watch the full interview on my youtube page or you can just do like we did and dig through the crates and buy anything with a norton label. And now you know you can do that at half price books nation wide

After HPB we went to Breakaway and they didn’t have any of his records. We decided to go hunt for more Hobos to play sitar for, but stopped at P. Terry’s Burgerstand for lunch and I suggested since Waterloo records was on the way to the Austin version of Skid Row. That we stop in and see if we could film another impromptu record signing. We got to the front door and a sign said it was closed for inventory. He was disappointed and turned to walk away. I was like nah nah nah. This is probably the perfect day to do this. No customers, they will probably let us film. We walked in and a scary goth queen stopped us at the door. He said I’m King Khan and I’m going around record stores and signing my records. She didn’t believe him till a guy named Gus came out and confirmed that he was in fact King Khan. the goth girl’s whole demeanor changed and said “ i really like your records” Gus said believe me if she says that its a high compliment she has strong opinions about music. Khan thanked her for the compliment. They only had one record in store; it was “King Khan & BBQ Show: Live at Izola.”. A criminally underrated live album from 2005 with Velvet Underground, Johnny Thunders and Rolling Stones covers. A surprisingly righteous performance considering Khan gorged himself on sardines before going onstage (im not shaming this man at all but he eats like a horse, food truly is a drug for Khan) “everytime i burped for two days i had fish coming into my mouth…literally cumming.” he regaled gus of touring eastern Europe with two other men in a smart car. While Khan was signing the record at the front desk he made a connection with Caren Kelleher the owner of Waterloo, who also happens to run a vinyl manufacturing plant in Austin a crucial connection that needed to be made as khan was in town to record an album. like the records Khan signed at HPB he doodled all over the sleeve and he trauma dumped his recent experiences and sprinkled tidbits of his career and music history into his diatribe. He told stories of Henry Rollins punk rock memorabilia collection that he sold him the cramps original snare for 10k, Iggy Pop’s jacket from raw power, the mummies car… Etcetera. He told the Waterloo crew about visiting Roky Erickson in a mental institution and that Roky had AAE written all over his belongings, this stands for “an ancient enemy”. Khan also told them when he was in solitary confinement in Arizona that the same three letters were written all over his cell AAE. Roky is a very important person to Khan, he opened for Roky at the Austin Levitation Fest and read Roky his Tarot. He told them the story of Timmy Vulgar shitting his pants in an elevator and calling the cops on hotel security. Again im not going to transcribe stories ive heard a hundred times. So go watch the full interview on youtube. 

I will say that a lot of people do autograph signings that last 45 minutes but they generally sign more than one autograph. Then Gus asked how we knew each other and Khan told him we have a mutual friend in Jay Reatard. And that i had intervened in a suicide attempt in London. Then he immediately went into another rant about Jay. 

“I first met Jay when he was 17 years old. He booked us a gig at Barristers, the line up was The Spaceshits, Deadly Snakes and Reatards. When we showed up in Memphis it looked like a ghost town. Skid Marks (drummer of the spaceshits) has always  been a magnet for scum bags and immediately befriended a one armed man who had just come out of prison. They disappeared in search for some weed. When Jay showed up he told me that he had just gotten engaged to be married. He also apologized about the lack of people at the show in advance, the reason was simple… “Everyone hates us in this town.”  There were 4 people in the audience that night, Greg Oblivian and the dudes from Impala. But the show went on and it was great fun. Later that night everyone went to Greg’s house to hang and listen to records and Carson Binks (Legend of San Fran), Skid Marks and I decided to go for a Memphis adventure with Jay. We drove around crazy ghettos in search of drugs. All we wanted was a little weed, none of us wanted any of the countless crack offers, not even Jay. We parked at a gas station for some cigarettes and when we were getting back into the car I remember all these crack heads coming out of nowhere asking me for a smoke. They were crawling towards us like true zombies and even continued to follow the car in slow motion as we drove away. It really felt like George A. Romero was somewhere around the corner. Jay spoke of these crackheads with a sense of pride which was followed by pure hatred. He was really into showing us the nitty gritty of his city. After hours of unsuccessful attempts Jay seemed fed up with searching and told us we could go to his mom’s and get some weed. So we showed up at her house at around 3 AM, sure enough his mom was awake watching TV and his little sister was sitting in the cutest mini lazy boy chair i had ever seen. His mother was so kind and invited us in and was thrilled to have some Canadians in her house. It felt so timeless like it could have been after school but it was actually 3 AM. His sister was adorable, she looked like a little Shirley Temple. At one point his step dad poked his head out and basically looked just like what Jay had described earlier as a real “pinhead.” We hung out and smoked some dope with his mom and then proceeded to Alicja’s house where he had just moved in. When we got there he showed us some crazy analog organs and we had a little jam (this was all years before Lost Sounds). It was so amazing to see how into space sound he was already at that age. Carson passed out in the corner on a rug like the pigmonkey (a nickname his Japanese girlfriend gave him years later) that he is. Jay and I stayed up till the wee hours of the morning and swapped tales about total debauchery. He told me about how he played a show in a mechanic’s garage where he got naked and dumped a can of motor oil over his head. He was literally slippin’ and a slidin’ everywhere and could hardly even play a note on his guitar. Then some douchebag rolled a spray can towards him. Jay didn’t even look at what was in the can, he just opened it up and sprayed it all over his balls. Within a few seconds he collapsed into a foetal position screaming his head off. He had emptied a can of Easy off oven cleaner on to his junk. Could you just imagine the facial reaction of the doctor that had to examine him later, finding this 16 year old naked boy covered in motor oil with the first two layers of skin off his penis burnt off? It really felt like I had found a lost twin, two exhibitionist punk kids who loved to fuck shit up and get fucked up. He told me he went night swimming with some buddies and this girl whom he couldn’t stand but who used to follow him around like a puppy. When they got to the “lake” he got butt naked and jumped in. When he came out he was covered in shit, he had jumped into a cess pool. The first thing he did was go up to the girl and sit right next to her and put his arm around her. In the wee hours of the morning Jay wanted to sneak into Alicja’s room to show me something. We were giggling like little kids and he went straight to a little night table next to her bed. He pulled out this cherry cola flavored body gel that Hustler magazine had just put out. He poured some into my hand and told me to rub it on my wrist. I did and my wrist got hot. We giggled some more and he told me about how when he was a kid he used to take a can of Pam to school and huff it with girls “cuz it made your privates hot”. It was funny cuz I had never met Alicja before and it felt like we snuck into Jay’s big sister’s room. So what’s next? “Wanna watch a UV porno?” Ofcourse!!!!! We watched a porn movie that was filmed entirely in heat sensitive UV. It was incredible. You could see how the blood rushed into body parts as they got hotter and the cum shot looked like an erupting volcano. I mesmerized Lemmy in a studio in Frankfurt ten years later describing this exact porn film, I still don’t know what it was called. Despite his hatred for everything in Memphis, Jay loved it and was proud of all the scum. And that was the beginning of what became a great brotherhood for life. Jay loved showing class and painted his face with pride when the Death Cult first rolled into Memphis, and he was by far the wildest of the bunch. All the times we shared after this were as insane as you probably have heard, lots of nudity, burning money, drugs and pure mayhem, but there is no need for me to get into all that cuz when i think of the Jay who lives permanently in my heart I see a big hearted lion who just loved to entertain us, sometimes shit got real out of hand but it was all a part of the fun. The last day i spent with Jay was very different from the first time we met. We were playing a show together in Buenos Aires and had spent the night before in Sao Paolo getting utterly obliterated. We shared a cab to the Sao Paolo airport, we both hadnt slept the whole night. He was telling me about this Geto Boys song that he loved so much about a guy who kills his girlfriend, it was really scaring me how much he loved this song. When we arrived at the airport he bought me some water and a beer. We went to the bathroom where he threw up standing with the door of the toilet stall wide open, i was blowing my nose so hard it sounded like a trumpet and looked like an abortion had come out of my nostril. We were the only two guys in the bathroom and then in walks this old Brazilian man who must have been like 70 years old. He was in slow motion. When he opened the door he took one look at us, me with bloody slimeball in hand, and jay vomitting. He just turned around and left. We erupted into very loud maniacal laughter. We flew into Buenos Aires, checked into a luxurious hotel, and went swimming. We sat by the pool and talked about how great things had turned out for us. We went for a bite to eat and walked around the city for a few hours, he spoke of how he had made peace with his dad and was really stoked about that. We sat down and ate a nice meal and he got the check. Later that night we played in a soccer club house for a strange party of people who may or may not have really got what we were doing, but whatever we had a shit load of fun. I saw him piss in some soccer trophy backstage, it was a real hoot. I miss him everyday and I know that wherever he may be right now he is surrounded by all the legends that made us who we are. Jay Reatard was a real rock n roller, a true death cult champion and the first and only male lips that have ever touched my penis. There I said it. 

The Eternal Conversation

I was still carrying the heavy, grey luggage of the previous night’s booze, my skull a hollow cathedral where the choir was screaming out of key. To quiet the demons, I started crushing beers. It was earlier than the law of God or man should allow, but the sun was a cruel witness and the alcohol was the only shroud I had.

We sat in the dim light of the apartment, two nomads moored in a sea of empty cans and static. We talked until the air was thick with the vapor of our combined histories.

It was a brutal, beautiful dialogue—a cross-pollination of the sacred and the profane. We tore into the meat of the world. Politics, The grand, decaying circus of the state. Women, Those fleeting visions of grace that leave you bleeding in a bar-ditch. Farts, Low-brow, high-velocity humor that reminded us we were still animals. Conspiracies, The jagged, paranoiac architecture of the hidden world. I say conspiracies not conspiracy theories because I think we can all agree in 2026 there are no “theories” anymore. Ten years ago if a barfly told you an evil cabal of pedos ran the world you’d roll your eyes so hard you’d almost choke. In 2026 you roll your eyes even harder because he would be stating the obvious.

Then came the reckoning of the work. I pulled my music and my art films out of the shadows, the digital gargoyles of my own making. I showed him the photos—frozen shards of time captured in the grit. He looked at them with that sharp, hawk-like intensity, his mind a steel trap for the aesthetic.

Then Khan opened his own vault. He showed me his world—the music that sounds like a fever dream and the images of a life lived on the jagged edge of the frame. It was a trade of souls, a digital potlatch where we burned our best work just to see if the other man could stand the heat.

The beers kept disappearing, the aluminum clicking against the table like a rhythmic, metallic pulse. We were two derelicts charting a map of a territory that didn’t exist yet, building the foundation for Waking the Indian out of cigarette smoke and the desperate, honest debris of our own lives.

Later in the night the conversation took a more serious turn. 

Ellis you said you were in a therapy cult. How did that happen?

I was a kid it was one of those kidnap schools, they make movies about them now. 

So your parents sent you there?

Yea my mom really didnt have a choice. I was looking at juvenile prison time. Some kid had been beating on me and one day i had enough and scalded him with hot coffee. 

So you’ve always been violent?

No, ive always HAD to be violent. There is a difference between me and people who like hurting others. I grew up in Florida, there wasnt a lot of peace and love going around down there. Its beat or be beaten, only the strong survive. 

Well im sorry you had to go through that. It must have been traumatic. 

Yea it was but i learned a lot about psychology and i read a million books. They punished us with writing 5000 word essays so I harnessed this craft that brought us together. 

What would you say was the most important thing you learned in there that helps you today?

Well i truly believe that most of the problems people experience in life can be easily solved by the accountability that is taught by the Karpman Triangle of dramatic situations. 

Cartman triangle? Like south park? asked Khan. 

Karp-man. With a K. The Karpman Drama Triangle, developed by Dr. Stephen Karpman in the 1960s, is perhaps the most elegant explanation for why human relationships often feel like a repeating “bad movie.” At its core, the triangle is a social model of destructive interaction. It’s not about people who are actually in danger, but about people who are unconsciously playing roles to satisfy hidden psychological needs. 

The Victim, Their stance is “Poor me!” They feel oppressed, helpless, and ashamed. They look for a Rescuer to fix things for them, but if they are “saved,” they often sabotage the solution to remain in the Victim role.

The Rescuer, Their stance is “Let me help you!” On the surface, they seem heroic. However, they keep the Victim dependent to feel valued. They feel guilty if they aren’t “fixing” someone and often ignore their own needs to focus on others.

The Persecutor, Their stance is “It’s all your fault!” They are controlling, rigid, and authoritative. They keep the Victim “in their place” through blame and criticism to avoid feeling like a victim themselves.

I believe entering into this triangle in any way for any reason can lead to an endless cycle of abuse. The reason it’s called a “drama” triangle is that it is theatrical and kinetic. No one stays in one corner. People constantly switch roles, which creates a dizzying cycle of dysfunction, The Rescuer becomes the Victim: A Rescuer tries to “fix” a friend (the Victim). When the friend ignores the advice, the Rescuer feels unappreciated and moves to the Victim corner (“After all I did for you!”). The Victim becomes the Persecutor: The friend feels smothered by the Rescuer’s unsolicited help and lashes out (“Mind your own business!”), moving from Victim to Persecutor. The Persecutor becomes the Rescuer: To make up for their outburst, the former Victim might then try to “rescue” the original Rescuer’s feelings. This cycle is addictive because it provides a “psychic payoff.” It allows everyone involved to avoid taking real responsibility for their own emotions and lives. You could argue that the Drama Triangle is the primary source of human misery. It Replaces Intimacy with Conflict; Real intimacy requires vulnerability and honesty. The triangle uses “games” to create a false sense of connection. People feel “close” because they are fighting or fixing, but they never actually know each other. It Drains Personal Power; In the triangle, your emotional state is always dependent on someone else. If you are a Rescuer, you only feel good if someone is failing. If you are a Victim, you are powerless until someone saves you. It Prevents Resolution; Problems in the triangle are never solved—they are only “processed.” Because the roles depend on the problem existing, there is a subconscious incentive not to find a permanent solution. The Hard Truth; If people simply refused to take the bait—if they stayed out of the triangle—the vast majority of “toxic” relationship drama would evaporate instantly. Life doesn’t become perfect, but it becomes manageable.

So how do you break the cycle of abuse? Khan asked eagerly.

To avoid the cycle, you have to move from Reaction to Responsiveness, Instead of Victim, be Vulnerable, Acknowledge the problem, but take responsibility for the solution. Instead of Rescuer, be Caring/Empowering, Listen and support, but don’t do the work for them. Ask, “What do you plan to do about this?” Instead of Persecutor, be Assertive, Set boundaries and state your needs without blaming or shaming.

So thats why you got mad when i ordered a flat white? I was being the victim with no money and asking you to rescue my tastebuds with a beverage, and rather than persecute me by slapping the flat white out of my hand you set a boundary? Asked Khan

EXACTLY! I shouted. 

So then why were you mean to my wife? 

Well khan im not perfect—but she had no respect for boundaries or my perspective in our situation. She thinks I’m enabling your bad behavior. Your stealing, mania, narcissism, etcetera. She refused to believe that we have conversations like this, and that i dont condone your asocial behavior and i call you out on your myriad of personality disorders. You know they say two wrongs dont make a right—i say two wrongs dont make a wrong either. Two plus two equals four, it doesnt equal two.  I can be a rattle snake. And a rattle snake gives you ample warning before it strikes. She felt victimized by you. She saw me as a toxic person playing the rescuer role and she persecuted me. And i told her that. She didnt respond to the rattle so i struck. Verbally of course. You cant get mad at a rattle snake because it bites harder and faster than you. Its a rattlesnake its just being a rattle snake. 

Makes sense she can be a very hardlined uncompromising woman she is german after all. Said khan. 

Yea and these are the people who needed a trans atlantic military intervention to convince them genocide was a bad i dea. 

What else did you learn?! Khan asked with child-like giddyness. I love this this is like cocaine talk but were sober…well, im sober. 

Well its like this man you are a text book case of just living in the Karpman triangle thus in a perpetual cycle of abuse. You seem to quite often find yourself in a “crisis”—perhaps stranded in a city with no money, perhaps you offended the wrong person at a club, or having a creative meltdown. You reach out to your inner circle, or the public, oozing helplessness. “I’m an artist, the world is against me, and I’m in trouble.” then you reel in a “Rescuer” , a friend, a fan, or a bandmate to bail you out. Then comes the over correction once bailed out, the guilt of being the “Victim” is too much for your ego. To flip the power dynamic, you suddenly become the Grand Benefactor. you find someone else in your world who is struggling and shower them with intense “help”—unsolicited advice, money you doesn’t really have, or artistic mentorship.”I am the one who understands your soul; I am saving you.” You are now “lording it over their head,” creating a debt that can never be repaid. The moment the person you “helped” shows any independence—or the moment your original Rescuer asks for a boundary—you feel betrayed and lash out. You burn the bridge, creating a brand new “crisis”, and the 45 record starts spinning from the beginning. 

Sullenly Khan asks, so how do i break the cycle?

Well like i said before i cant solve the problem for you, i would be rescuing you and i would be in the drama triangle. The Karpman Triangle acts as a black hole for energy. You are always being “bailed out,” you never have to develop the skills to avoid the precarious situation next time. This has become a personality disorder of receiving love for you. And what youve been experiencing in the public eye is Relational Burnout. In your eyes People have stopped being Rescuers and become “Persecutors” just by setting a boundary like saying “No, I won’t send you money this time”. To you, that “No” feels like an attack, justifying his next outburst. Because what you are saying is do what i want or you dont love me. And not being loved is the biggest fear of a true narcissist.

I think you are right i am a narcissist. But how could i not be ive had people blowing smoke up my ass my whole life because “im King Khan”

See, thats the victim again. And i agree to some degree. The trapping of fame and fortune are a worthy adversary. And Vice magazine creating a cult of personality around you and bands like the black lips didn’t help. But at the end of the day you’re the narcissistic asshole, in the mirror. You gotta just pull the cord and get off the train of hedonistic pursuits. Look for the triangle of drama in everything and refuse the role assignments. Especially in your own mind. You are mentally unwell, you could be Bi-polar, you could have a traumatic brain injury from that Almighty Defenders show where no one caught you on the stage dive. You could just be a brat. I dont know. Your mind is your biggest enemy. “An ancient enemy” if you will. But you are the only one who can fight this adversary. No one can help you. But its ok there is hope because youve been training your whole life for this fight because the other person in the ring isnt some spooky monster. Its you. Your wants your fears your anger and indignant, etcetera.  

Khans head was hanging. And then i heard the sob and i heard snot and tears hit the linoleum floor in my apartment. 

I love you man he said balling like a man who hadnt cried maybe in his entire life. He blubbered for minutes straight, what felt like hours. I got him some tissues.

Youre right!! Youre so…fucking right. He said through snot and saltwater. I need help. Im so fucked up.

Yea you do brother we all do. Everyone should be in therapy. But unfortunately big pharma has convinced everyone the pill is a magic solution. I think medication should really just stabilize your brain chemistry so you can do the work in therapy. 

The idea that a memory is physically “stored” as a specific protein molecule is a fascinating mix of neurobiology and metaphor. While we don’t have a single “memory molecule” like a stamp on a page, proteins are indeed the literal building blocks of every thought you’ve ever had. In neuroscience, a memory isn’t a static file; it is a strengthened connection between neurons. This process is called Long-Term Potentiation (LTP). When you learn something, neurons fire together. To make that connection stick, the brain must physically bridge the gap (the synapse). This requires the synthesis of new proteins.

What does that mean? Khan asked with a whimper.

It means a lot of people smarter than us believe that memories are actual proteins that exist in your brain. I dont know if theyve ever proven it but the great thing about science is that most of it is based in theory so think of this as an exercise in thought rather than me telling you hard hitting facts. 

Khan rifles and wipes his nose and says ok ill try.

 When a memory is formed, your DNA triggers the creation of proteins like Arc or PKM-zeta. These proteins act like architectural reinforcement. They travel to the synapse and physically enlarge it or add more receptors, making it easier for those neurons to talk to each other in the future. If you inhibit protein synthesis in a lab setting immediately after a subject learns something, the memory never “consolidates.” It simply vanishes. In this sense, without the protein, the memory does not exist. I personally think this is what happens when you blackout from drinking. The memory protein never consolidates. I cant remember an exact quote but there is an interaction between alcohol and protein where one cancels the other out. That why you eat a big greasy burger and you feel less drunk or hungover. There is a common misconception that “venting” or “reliving” trauma is inherently healing. However, biology suggests otherwise. When you recall a traumatic event, you aren’t just looking at a photograph; you are reactivating the entire neural circuit. This includes the amygdala, the fear center, and the endocrine system, stress hormones like cortisol and adrenaline. So when you went to all these record stores and just trauma dumped on these strangers you didnt just bum everyone out you actual retraumatize yourself everytime. Because neurons that “fire together, wire together,” every time you relive a trauma without a new perspective, you are essentially “practicing” the trauma. The brain perceives the remembered threat as a current threat. This reinforces the protein structures at that synapse, making the traumatic memory even more robust and easily triggered. When i was younger i read about this concept in neurobiology called “Reconsolidation”. When you pull a memory out of long-term memory into working memory, it becomes labile—meaning it becomes soft, unstable, and capable of being changed. For a brief window of time, the proteins holding that memory together actually unlock. In reassociative psychotherapy, the goal is to “update” the file before it saves again. So this is the whole point of therapy in my book. You recall, You bring up the traumatic memory, unlocking the proteins. Then while the memory is unstable, you introduce a new association—such as a feeling of safety, a realization of survival, or a cognitive reframing. As the brain goes to “save” the memory back into long-term storage, it has to create new proteins to stabilize it. Because you added the new context during the window of instability, the new protein structure now includes the association of safety or resolution. It’s like opening a Word document (the trauma). If you just read it and close it, nothing changes. If you read it and it scares you, you’re adding “Bold” and “Red” to the text. But if you open it and type a new ending—a “Tagline” of resolution—when you hit Save, the version stored on the hard drive is permanently altered. So if you arent doing that in therapy and you are just hoping medication makes you all better you are just wasting your time. 

Khans jaw was on the floor. Ive been told i was crazy for most of my life and the solution is just always pills. “Oh hes on his meds he is off his meds, get him new meds” but noone has ever mentioned any of this. 

Think about how labor intensive that i? If all 8 billion people on the planet could use that as everyone does have their own trauma then we would need billions of therapists to spend millions of hours to get everyone mentally healthy. Thats why i say that this opponent in the ring that you have to defeat cant be beaten by anyone but you. You gotta think of your therapist as that spitty old man in Rocky that rides his bike while you run. The therapist is the coach, you gotta fight the boxing match. 

We watched some funny movies to lighten the mood. And i killed the case of beer that i started early in the day and we went to bed. We got up in the morning pre dawn and headed to me the master of psychedelic rock. GregAshley.

Greg Ashley’s Creamery…land of milk and honey.

He came out of the white heat of Houston, a man etched in the stark geography of the Texas scrub, and he carried the dust of it all the way to the salt-slicked air of Oakland. His name was Greg Ashley. He was a maker of songs and a carver of sound, a technician of the electrical ghost. For twenty years he moved through the world like a wolf across a frozen tundra, solitary and lean, leaving a trail of black-wax records in his wake.

In the year 2003, a man named David Katznelson of Birdman Records laid hands on a burned CD—a silver disc of raw, solo static—and the pact was sealed. Thus rose The Gris Gris. They were a four-headed beast: Ashley on the wire-strung guitar and vocals, Joe Haener hammering the skins, Oscar Michel on the low-thrumming bass, and Lars Kullberg tickling the ivories. They played a music of the spheres if those spheres were cracked and leaking oil. It was a black magic psych cult, a primitive stomp that blended the old hallucinatory echoes with a garage-punk violence that would make a sane man seek the nearest exit.

They cut their self-titled debut in 2004, birthing the single “Mary No. 38,” a track that rattled the teeth. By 2005 they had wrought For the Season, and they rode that dark horse until the end came in 2009 with a record called Live at the Creamery. Then the band dissolved into the ether, leaving only the smell of ozone and spent tubes.

But Ashley was a man possessed by a restless, shivering muse. He had come from The Mirrors and the Strate Coats, and he was not about to go quiet. He retreated to his fortress, a recording studio dubbed The Creamery. There he birthed a long line of solo works—Medicine Fuck Dream in 2003, Painted Garden in 2007, and the Requiem Mass of 2010. He chronicled the rot and the beauty in Another Generation of Slaves and Pictures of Saint Paul Street. By the time Fiction is Non-Fiction and Radio MDMA arrived, he was a veteran of the psychological wars, culminating in the 2025 arrival of Neon Exotica. He even reached back into the graveyard of pop to exhume Leonard Cohen’s Death of a Ladies’ Man, re-recording the whole damn thing as a testament to the heavy-hearted.

He wrote a book too. Called it Anecdotes. It was published around 2019, and it wasn’t some flowery rock-star rag. It was a cold, hard stare into the sun. A proper anti-drug book. He told of the Texas dirt and the Oakland psych-rot, of the crack-pipes and the blackouts and the shivering, sweating hell of the detox. It was a sobering reminder to any young buck with a guitar that the “interesting” life of a twenty-one-year-old is just a sad, dull funeral by the time you hit thirty-five.

He looked at the world and saw a “bullshit society,” a rigged game where the winners toss down consolation prizes like scraps to a mangy dog. He lived on San Pablo Avenue—the “Saint Paul Street” of his songs—a place of pure, unadulterated debauchery. He’d tell you that a man’s soul fares better in the “sticks,” even if the money is thin as a winter coat in a blizzard.

He was a crotchety ghost in the machine. He held onto his Hotmail account like a man clutching a life raft in a digital storm and treated the smartphone like a demonic artifact he couldn’t quite master. He didn’t care if the fans liked his shifts in tone or his jagged turns. He played for the truth of the note, not the applause of the crowd. He stood on the deck of a sinking civilization, indifferent to the water at his knees, still twisting the knobs on a tape deck to find that one perfect, agonizing frequency.

The sun was a raw, red wound on the horizon when we crested the rise, the 35 North unwinding before us like a scorched ribbon of asphalt. We passed the derelict bingo hall on the town’s edge—a monument to failed luck and cheap linoleum—and pushed out from Austin into the scrub. The instructions were a skeletal map of the Texas void: right on Texas 7, left at the sign for Norton Cemetery. Our destination was The Creamery, an analogue redoubt carved into a cabin in the middle of a godforsaken nowhere.

“Man, I’m telling you,” Khan shouted, vibrating in his seat like a tuning fork struck by a lunatic. He was jacked on a volatile sludge of caffeine and sugar. “When you see his process, you are going to flip your goddamn shit.”

We had spent the drive baptizing our ears in the first two Gris Gris albums. Then the reception died, surrendered to the static of the hills, and I was left with the pure, unadulterated velocity of Khan’s mind. He rambled like a dervish—Palestine, the orphans of Lamu in Kenya, music that sounded like the birth of a galaxy. We traded filthy stories and picked at the scabs of our recent heartbreaks until the gates of The Creamery finally appeared. Greg Ashley stood there, a quiet man, civil as a village priest but with the eyes of a man who’s seen the back of the moon. He lives on these eighty acres of inherited dirt with his girlfriend, Betty. The land is a sprawl of forest and ponds and a small house, but the real business is the pasture. Greg rents the soil to local horse breeders, a final station for the “non-viable” mares. It is the literal place where they go to die, grazing in the tall grass until the light fails for the last time. The studio took its name from Greg’s old haunt in Oakland—a 1930s creamery. Here in Kosse, he records the desperate and the inspired for three hundred dollars a day. You get a bed and you get to mine the grey matter of one of the greatest engineers to ever run magnetic tape. He gave us the tour, the habitable fringes of the farm, before telling Khan he had a gift. We walked into a field of hay where Greg reached down and hoisted a bleached horse skull from the earth. Khan took it like it was the Holy Grail.

“You want to see a fresh one?” Greg asked.

We trekked a hundred yards to a watering hole where the remnants of a mare lay collapsed, looking for all the world like she’d taken one last drink and simply croaked into the mud.

Back in the studio, the air turned electric. Khan had taken a hiatus from serenading the vagrants of Austin; he wanted to cut an instrumental psych-opus—a collision of boleros and classical Indian raga. A unguided journey through the cerebral cortex. Greg, a wizard of the discarded, rigged up piezo discs salvaged from old smoke detectors and wired them to the base of Khan’s sitar with a common quarter-inch jack. In minutes, the ancient instrument was a screaming, electric beast. Greg spoke of the “trash drums” he’d built after dumpster diving in Grosse Pointe, Michigan, scavenging speakers drowned in the floods. He’d flipped them, encased them in PVC, and slapped drum heads on the top. He turned the speakers into receivers—a reversal of God’s own physics. It’s the same trick the RZA used, turning a pair of headphones into a microphone by plugging them into the input of a guitar amp. The speaker becomes the ear.I got Khan settled in the cabin, but the air was getting heavy with his energy. He wanted me to stay, but I needed the silence of the road. I hadn’t had any trim in days and there was a bartender in East Austin I needed to drop some dick off to. I needed to decompress.We stood in the dirt and smoked. Greg asked how I knew Khan.”I don’t, really,” I said, the smoke curling into the Texas sky. “We became telephone friends when he was planning on killing himself.” I told him I wasn’t a “fan” of the music—fanaticism being a disease of the weak—but I’d seen King Khan & BBQ and the Black Lips more than any other band on the planet. Why? Because they make music for girls, and wherever I’ve lived, there’s always been some bubbly babe dragging me to the front row. We bonded over the ghost of Jay Reatard; I used to sell Jay cocaine back in the day. Greg knew him too. I left them there in the haze and headed back to the city. When I returned days later, the recording was in full swing, a fever dream caught on tape. We spent the day shooting the intro for a film called Waking the Indian, then Khan followed me back to Austin to film more street performances, the weather finally breaking warm and the sun turning the world into something almost bearable. A texas freeze can be as cruel and unforgiving as the oven that is july in central texas. 

Unicorn’s Eyelash

It was the kind of Texas morning that smelled like burnt toast and broken promises. We needed coffee, a massive plate of greasy fuel to coat the stomach, and a single damn sitar string.

We stumbled into Moon Music, blinking like cave creatures shoved into the light. Khan wanted a string. The guy behind the counter looked at us like we were asking for a unicorn’s eyelash. You don’t buy sitar strings; you buy wire by the foot and forge your own destiny.

But Khan? He’s got that manic, high-velocity logic that would make a sane man weep. He decided to splice two guitar strings together—a jagged, metallic marriage of convenience. What occurred was a sonic nightmare, an untunable Frankenstein’s monster of stringularity.

Khan was cranking the pegs, his face a mask of bewildered intensity, but the math just wasn’t there. The problem was there were two different gauges.  You can’t make two distinct souls scream the same note when they aren’t built for the same tension. Khan leaned back, plucked the monstrosity, and it let out a tolling, metallic groan. “Sounds like the bell from AC/DC’s Hells Bells,” he remarked, a grin cutting through the madness.

Then the air shifted. In walked a vision—a white woman, six feet of Texas stature, looking like she’d stepped out of a fever dream. She saw the instrument and moved in.

The odds? Forget it. Don’t even try to crunch the numbers. She was a Texas native raised by Hindu yogis, a music teacher walking into a shop at the exact cosmic second a nomad was wrestling with a sitar. It was a glitch in the Matrix, a pure Burroughs-style fold in time.

Khan, never one to miss a beat or a chance to perform, offered her a lesson. “Five minutes,” he barked. “I can teach you this in five minutes.”

I hit record on the camera. The digital clock bled red numbers:

 Time Code 4:53: She was doing it. Proper sitar chords, vibrating through the shop, cutting through the stale air.

After the lesson boys at Moon Music sat there, trapped in the crossfire of Khan’s “trauma dumping”—a ritualistic purging of the soul he performed for anyone within earshot on this godforsaken trip. They listened with the glazed eyes of men watching a train wreck, then pointed us toward a violin shop down the street.

Maybe they had the wire. Maybe they just wanted us out. We headed back into the heat, chasing the ghost of a note that hadn’t been played yet.

The violin shop was a mausoleum of high-end wood and suffocating silence until Khan breached the perimeter. It smelled of expensive varnish and repressed emotions. We were looking for length; we were looking for gauge; we were looking for a miracle.

The classical nerds behind the counter—pure, unfiltered high-brow technicians—should have recoiled. Instead, they were sucked into the vortex of Khan’s frenetic energy. It was a chemical reaction. They pulled out a cello string, thick and hopeful, but the physics remained stubborn. No dice.

the lady behind the counter, eyes gleaming with a sudden, jagged spark of madness, suggested the unthinkable: The Bow. She dragged a cello bow across those silver sitar strings, and the shop filled with a haunting, metallic groan—a sound like an apparition trapped in a radiator. It was a revelation. It was the seed of a future nightmare. Khan stood there, brain-wiring firing like a cheap circuit board in a thunderstorm. He’d later recreate this back at the Creamery, a primitive weapon of sound fashioned from dead horse hair and a rib bone.

Usually, when Khan starts the “trauma dump,” or as I like to call it fucking someone’s ear pussies, people look for the nearest exit or a heavy object to hide behind. Not these fiddlers. They hung on every jagged syllable, every sordid detail of passes, the jailhouse, the african orphanage, their eyes wide and wet with a strange, academic hunger. It wasn’t pity; it was fascination for a creature they couldn’t categorize.

The internet, that bloated, digital hydra, had already spat venom at Khan’s crusade to heal the homeless with the sitar. The “serious” practitioners wanted blood. So we pivoted. We headed to Barton Springs, seeking the sun-baked sanity of the public.

The pool was locked tight “closed for cleaning”—a bureaucratic middle finger to the heat—but the creek-side was crawling with the beautiful and the bored. Khan didn’t just play; he performed a high-wire act of cultural sabotage.

He’d start with a classical Indian Raga, precise and shimmering, pulling the air tight with spiritual gravity. Then, with a manic grin, he’d shatter the peace with what can only be described as the Indian Banjo. He channeled the spirits of Woody Guthrie and Chuck Berry, filtered through the grit of Otis Redding and the sweat of James Brown. The lyrics were a foul-mouthed, absurd, and brilliant tapestry of the human condition. “He sang a sonnet to a woman in a bikini, a raw, howling anthem about the glory of her hairy legs. She didn’t flinch. She danced. It was a beautiful, filthy moment of pure Texas truth.”

Between the bouts of musical madness, the educator emerged. He’d break it down for the spectators—the drone strings, the sympathetic vibrations, the bridge between the East and the West. He wasn’t just playing a guitar; he was weaponizing the stringularity of his own existence, blending two worlds into one loud, distorted, and perfectly honest scream.

The night came on with a sudden, final violence. We had spent the daylight hours carving “Waking the Indian” out of the Texas air, the digital tape spooling through the camera like a long, synthetic vein. Then the dark. We drifted into a bar—the name of which has been scoured from the ledger of my mind—and there she was. A Comanche woman of such devastating, ancient beauty that for a moment, the world stopped its spinning. I fell in love with the speed of a falling stone.

Then, the light went out of the world.

There is a glitch in the meat-machinery of the brain, a failure of the memory proteins to set like summer concrete. The locomotive was high-balling down the tracks, steam screaming, but the cab was empty. The ghost was out of the machine. I had entered the abyss of the blackout, a fold in time where the self is a stranger.

I woke, standing up, to the sound of a man screaming into the void. It was a security guard, his face a mask of civic outrage. I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the bar, blinking like a dead eyed lizard. A plastic bottle of neon-green margarita mix lay shattered at my feet, a chemical blood-letting on the pavement. The bouncer, a man built like a meat-locker, peeled back my jacket to reveal two more stolen bottles tucked against my ribs.

I had been riding Khan’s back all trip for his sticky fingers, yet here I was—a common thief in a fugue state. I was scraped up, bleeding from some forgotten skirmish with the earth, but the gods of the drunk and the damned were watching. I drifted away into the Austin night before the cuffs could click or the boots could find my ribs.

Khan found me later. He had my phone, a piece of glass and silicon that held the only evidence of our existence. He looked at me with those wild, unblinking eyes—the eyes of a man who had once, in a fit of transgressive performance, farted in the face of Lindsay Lohan at the Cannes Film Festival.Khan farting in the face of a young lindsay lohan. Cannes Film Festival.

He didn’t yell. He didn’t mock. He spoke with the heavy, prophetic weight of a judge in a border town.

“As your sponsor,” he said, the words hanging in the air like smoke, “I recommend you quit drinking.”

When a man who has desecrated the sanctity of a French film festival with his own gastrointestinal rebellion tells you to put down the bottle, you listen. The moral authority was absolute. The abyss had stared back, and it was holding a bottle of stolen tequila.

I quit. I walked the earth dry and hollow-eyed for five long, agonizing days.

We had decided that if we had a productive day of shooting that we would take the next day off. I drank the hangover off. Sobriety would have to wait till tomorrow. By the night time the lights had gone out again. And I must have really butted heads with Khan because he took a 150 dollar uber back to the farm. We made up a few days later over text messages and in a few more days I was back on the farm shooting the film. Khan is not insane, not crazy, just a bit nutty, a benevolent crackpot, but Khan has a gentle soul and I consider him family. You don’t judge the strength of a bond by how you ride the highs but how you come back higher from the lows and brighter out of the darkness. 

I think…I’ve Had It

The phone rings, it’s Khan. Hey Ellis, what are you up to?

Writing the book im pretty sure im up to the current date.

Can you send me what you have written?

No.

Why not?

Because I sent you the first chapter and you leaked it to everyone. You can read it when I come back up and give me notes. 

when are you coming back up to Kosse? 

I’m not sure man ive been putting a lot of miles on the car and spending a lot on gas. I gotta go to Florida in a week to save some loot. 

Ok. I upset Greg.

How?

I painted all these pussies on the walls outside the cabin. Tons of bleeding pussies. Its bloody.

Of course he is, dummy! His mom stays in that cabin when she comes to town. I think Ive had it brother. You aren’t making any progress. You didn’t seem to take anything from our chat in chapter seven, just crocodile tears. I’ve spent a lot of money on expenses. We’ve made the film or at least, A, film. This “book” is at least a Novellette. I would agree its not really finished but its a fun read. You are like a bull in a china shop. I know you take seroquel for sleep but you aren’t taking anything for your mania. Personally i dont think you are crazy. I think you are an asshole and you just dont give a shit how your behavior affects anyone else. I think at this point you need to go home to germany and get on a medication that you take all day something to put you on an even keel. 

Khan hangs up

I text Greg Ashley…you need to get him outta your hair for a couple days? 

Yea i could use a break. He painted a bunch of shit on the outside of the cabin, which i do not own. 

Let me think about it. He is on thin ice with me too. Id hate to bring him out here and have to kick him out again. 

I text greg a few hours later…i know you might be mad at him, but dont forget to check on him, he is suicidal after all. In other news i just cant justify the time, expense of frustration of working with him anymore. Not to mention hes around me 24hours a day when hes in Austin. I think Ive had it.

I can certainly understand. Betty looked in on him a couple of hours ago. He was sleeping.

You think hes crazy? Or just an entitled asshole?

Both I think. I think he needs bipolar medication and he has had people blow smoke up his ass cause they think he is famous. Im pretty sure he needs to see a doctor though. Hes acting really funny lately i think he might burn the cabin down, im gonna take him to a motel tomorrow and tell him to go to psychiatric emergency services.

The madness didn’t just creep in; it blew the doors off the hinges. It started up north in the frozen, cheese-bound wastes of Green Bay, right after Greg Ashley’s creamery gig dissolved into a screaming vortex that landed Khan squarely in the local psych ward. Standard operating procedure for the Maharaja of Mayhem. But a midwestern rubber room can’t hold a demon like that for long. Once released by the state, he fled south down the Mississippi, chasing the ghost of raw, unadulterated American rot straight into the humid, moss-dripping heart of New Orleans.  

“I believe we are at a crossroads in human existence… as to whether we preserve life as we know it or we sit idly by and allow it to be squandered away. What type of legacy are we going to leave to our children?” 

“No Democrat would hand me that award. It was just thrown to me second-hand… Ain’t no difference between politicians.”

 (On receiving a Lifetime Achievement Award signed by the Biden administration).

“They fired over 30,000 rounds of ammunition into a wooden house… and didn’t hit nobody. We believe we had four little angels watching over us.” 

–Malik Rahim

I had a deeply moving, raw conversation with Malik Rahim, a lifelong community activist and former leader of the Louisiana chapter of the Black Panther Party in the 1970s.

I went to the Gwanji and Hollywood Community Center in “Freetown” (traditionally Algiers, New Orleans), to speak with malik rahim the conversation maps his journey from childhood to his time in the Navy during the Vietnam War, his foundational days with the Black Panthers, and his ongoing mutual-aid work today. Malik Rahim gave me a physical tour of the center. He explains that it is named after two local figures (Gwanji and Hollywood) who were murdered during an attempted robbery at the building when it was a barbershop. Today the center practice Mutual Aid & Survival, The center serves as a “warming station” during freezes, a food distribution hub (running “Red Bean Mondays” that feed up to 100 people the best Red Beans and Rice in all of Louisiana), and an emergency preparedness hub for hurricane season. he showed me their solar generator and compost bathroom setups, emphasizing that they are training locals with livable-wage skills to rebuild and survive disasters.

Born in 1947, Rahim notes he doesn’t say he’s from New Orleans; he identifies with Freetown, the original township name for Algiers. Milik Grew up in Freetown and his grandmother’s house in Gretna, Louisiana, home to one of the largest historic “Maroon” communities—escaped slaves who vowed they would rather die in the bayou than live in bondage. His grandmother, a follower of Bishop Turner and Marcus Garvey, instilled severe racial pride and self-worth in him from an early age 

Malik Rahim joined the U.S. Navy during his senior year of high school and was sent to Vietnam with some of the first combat troops. He notes his ongoing health struggles due to handling and being exposed to Agent Orange on a helicopter carrier. Malik described the cognitive dissonance of being paid a meager base salary plus $65 in combat pay to kill people abroad, while watching the civil rights struggle explode back home with the assassination of Malcolm X, the march on Selma, and the Watts riots. He returned to the U.S. deeply bitter toward the government 

Upon returning to the states, Rahim refused to join standard society. In 1970, he, his first wife, and his children joined the National Committee to Combat Fascism (NCCF), a precursor to an official Black Panther chapter in New Orleans.

The governor publicly vowed to crush them. On September 15, 1970, over 100 New Orleans police officers laid siege to their wood-framed safehouse in the housing projects, firing an estimated 30,000 rounds over 20 minutes. The Panther 12 survived the attack, Miraculously, due to sandbags and military experience, none of the 12 activists inside were hit. They were arrested, rushed through court, and placed on death row on the exact same day.After 11 months of captivity, the “Panther 12 Shootout” took their case to a jury and were found not guilty of attempted murder.

While held in the prison “dungeon,” Rahim bonded with legendary political prisoners Herman Wallace and Albert Woodfox. They organized for prison rights based on the Panthers’ 10-Point Program.

“To those poor souls who don’t know Black history, the beliefs and desires of the Black Panther party for self-defense may seem unreasonable. To Black people, the ten points covered are absolutely essential to survival. We have listened to the riot producing words “these things take time” for four hundred years. The Black Panther party knows what Black people want and need. Black unity and self-defense will make these demands a reality.

What We Want

1. We want freedom. We want power to determine the destiny of our Black Community.
2. We want full employment for our people.
3. We want an end to the robbery by the white man of our Black Community.
4. We want decent housing, fit for shelter of human beings.
5. We want education for our people that exposes the true nature of this decadent American society. We want education that teaches us our true history and our role in the present-day society.
6. We want all black men to be exempt from military service.
7. We want an immediate end to police brutality and murder of black people.
8. We want freedom for all black men held in federal, state, county, and city prisons and jails.
9. We want all black people when brought to trial to be tried in court by a jury of their peer group or people from their black communities, as defined by the Constitution of the United States.
10. We want land, bread, housing, education, clothing, justice, and peace. And as our major political objective, a United Nations– supervised plebiscite to be held throughout the black colony in which only black colonial subjects will be allowed to participate for the purpose of determining the will of black people as to their national destiny.

What We Believe

1. We believe that black people will not be free until we are able to determine our destiny.
2. We believe that the federal government is responsible and obligated to give every man employment or a guaranteed income. We believe that if the white American businessmen will not give full employment, then the means of production should be taken from the businessmen and placed in the community so that the people of the community can organize and employ all of its people and give a high standard of living.
3. We believe that this racist government has robbed us and now we are demanding the overdue debt of forty acres and two mules. Forty acres and two mules was promised one hundred years ago as restitution for slave labor and mass murder of black people. We will accept the payment as currency which will be distributed to our many communities. The Germans are now aiding the Jews in Israel for the genocide of the Jewish people. The Germans murdered six million Jews. The American racist has taken part in the slaughter of over twenty million black people; therefore, we feel that this is a modest demand that we make.
4. We believe that if the white landlords will not give decent housing to our black community, then the housing and the land should be made into cooperatives so that our community, with government aid, can build and make decent housing for its people.
5. We believe in an educational system that will give to our people a knowledge of self. If a man does not have knowledge of himself and his position in society and the world, then he has little chance to relate to anything else.
6. We believe that Black people should not be forced to fight in the military service to defend a racist government that does not protect us. We will not fight and kill other people of color in the world who, like black people, are being victimized by the white racist government of America. We will protect ourselves from the force and violence of the racist police and the racist military, by whatever means necessary.
7. We believe we can end police brutality in our black community by organizing black self-defense groups that are dedicated to defending our black community from racist police oppression and brutality. The Second Amendment to the Constitution of the United States gives a right to bear arms. We therefore believe that all black people should arm themselves for self-defense.
8. We believe that all black people should be released from the many jails and prisons because they have not received a fair and impartial trial.
9. We believe that the courts should follow the United States Constitution so that black people will receive fair trials. The Fourteenth Amendment of the U.S. Constitution gives a man a right to be tried by his peer group. A peer is a person from a similar economic, social, religious, geographical, environmental, historical, and racial background. To do this the court will be forced to select a jury from the black community from which the black defendant came. We have been, and are being, tried by all-white juries that have no understanding of the “average reasoning man” of the black community.
10. When in the course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume, among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature and nature’s God entitle them, a decent respect to the opinions of mankind requires that they should declare the causes which impel them to the separation.

We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal; that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable rights; that among these are life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. That, to secure these rights, governments are instituted among men, deriving their just powers from the consent of the governed; that, whenever any form of government becomes destructive of these ends, it is the right of the people to alter or to abolish it, and to institute a new government, laying its foundation on such principles, and organizing its powers in such form, as to them shall seem most likely to effect their safety and happiness. Prudence, indeed, will dictate that governments long established should not be changed for light and transient causes; and accordingly, all experience hath shown, that mankind are more disposed to suffer, while evils are sufferable, than to right themselves by abolishing the forms to which they are accustomed. But, when a long train of abuses and usurpations, pursuing invariably the same object, evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their right, it is their duty, to throw off such government, and to provide new guards for their future security.”(teachingamericanhistory.org)

In our talk Malik Rahim states that while the prison industrial complex is devastating, the medical industrial complex is actively destroying poor communities by turning healthcare and mental health into unaffordable luxury items. Reflecting on Hurricane Katrina (where he later co-founded Common Ground Relief), he dismisses conspiracy theories about the government blowing up the levees. Instead, he blames “hurricane corruption and racism”—the levees failed simply because they were cheaply and corruptly built, treating the Lower Ninth Ward and poor areas as disposable flood basins.

**For more on Malik Rahim watch the full video: A Black Panther Speaks | An Interview with Malik Rahim 

(The Follow Up)

After the Malik video came out Chainsaw Staffer “King Khan” was so excited he took up residence at the Gwangi and Hollywood community center. and began recording music. He turned an entire floor of the community center into what looked like a haunted house, decorated by a schizophrenic. It was a psychedelic graveyard littered with the carcass of sanity, but King Khan doesn’t just dance on graves, he digs them up, builds a throne out of the bones, and demands another helping of Red Beans and Rice. 

That’s where I enter the frame, sitting back in Austin, wondering if the video work Id done for Khan I’d sweated blood over for the man was just another bad debt to write off.. Then, the wire cleared. Not only did Khan pay the invoice, but he slapped an extra grand on top like a lunatic throwing chips at a roulette wheel, demanding I get my ass down to New Orleans immediately. So I went. You don’t say no to a thousand-dollar invitation to the end of the world. What followed was a seven-day blur of pure, unadulterated, weapons -grade excess. A week of eating amazing, rich, rich food that coated the gut, washed down with cheap beer and punctuated by lines of white powder chopped out on grease-stained mirrors. We tore through New Orleans like invading mercenaries. One minute we’re inhaling overstuffed po’ boy sandwiches on the sidewalk, the next I’m sitting in the dark, smoky recesses of Visions Gentlemen’s Club,

watching Khan party like an absolute medieval warlord, throwing cash and commanding the room with the terrifying, hypnotic energy of a man who hasn’t slept since the Obama administration.

On gay easter, I ran into pro-skater Dustin Dollin and the guitar player from Miranda and the Beat at Bud Rips. We drank, and they started listing the casualties, telling me all the ways I already knew Khan was completely out of his mind. I listened, nodding along to the familiar liturgy of his manic genius and public degradations. But then the guitar player dropped the anchor: he told me how Khan’s abrasive, relentless, irritating behavior had made his young daughters cry. That was the line in the sand. You can burn down the venue, you can stiff the promoter, and you can snort the moon—but when your radioactive bullshit starts making your kids weep, the rock ‘n’ roll romanticism evaporates. I was done. No more video work. No more riding shotgun in the sidecar of his nervous breakdown.

And yet, the tragedy of Khan is that the music remains a beautiful, terrifying beast. Before the wheels totally came off, he managed to assemble a band with former Black Panthers and a blind drummer named Popcorn. They formed a band called Ballet Or The Bullet.( elasticstage.com/ellisjones for the vinyl.)  “BALLOT OR THE BULLET…THE PSYCHOTIC ODYSSEY OF KING KHAN: DEATH, GUMBO, POWER TOOLS, AND THE DELTA BLUES SOUL SANATORIUM” The album they cut out of that madness is a masterpiece of American garbage-can poetry. It sounds like a haunted, Delta-blues version of the Almighty Defenders meets the switchblade swagger of the Gun Club and the psychobilly swamp-filth of The Cramps. It is raw, bleeding, holy, and completely unhinged. Khan is a monster, a thief, and a certified lunatic who belongs behind bars or under heavy sedation. But goddamn, the record is good.

I finally escaped back to Austin, my heart hammering against my ribs and my clothes smelling like stale tobacco and fried shrimp. No sooner had I touched down in Texas than the wire report came in: Khan had been kicked out of the Black Panther community center. The offense? He’d been caught red-handed stealing power tools. Yea thats how this ends khan blows through a shitload of money on cocaine, “coyote style” lap dances at visions and recording equipment and gets caught by Malik Rahim stealing power tools from the community center to pawn to buy more cocaine. No surprise, Malik kicked him out. Big surprise, he didn’t stomp the shit out of him in the process. You have to respect the sheer, bizarre pettiness of it. From there, the circle completed itself. 

“The post-mortem happened in a dim room filled with the kind of people who survive these things.”

-Ellis Jones