[ A continuation of I, Bomstad. (Part One) ]

Rock

Bomstad completed two recordings in the year 2005. When I refer to his output as “relatively prolific,” he replies: “Frusciante sucks ass. Next year, I’m going to pinch an album a week.” In spring of 2005—in the guise of a Skynyrdesque delinquent known as Jerome Jestersen—Bomstad released “In Dutch,” a Turkish-style hip-hop collage of drunken garage jams recorded in Wichita in 2003. Critically and commercially, “In Dutch” was utterly ignored. In August 2005, under his own (supposed) name, Bomstad served up “Riotic Vitriolic,” a five-song EP of quick and complex guitarscapes, beautiful and inspiring, punctuated by intestinal vocalizations and kitchen utensil percussion. On first listen, I remark the mix sounds muddy. “It’s a pop album, fucker!” yells Bomstad, incredulous.

As of this writing, “Riotic Vitriolic” has sold 3,000 copies in Kansas alone.

As a composer, Bomstad favors the mid-tempo. “Graffiti,” the album’s only upbeat ripper, a Pantera-like chug-a-lug, is an abrasive reflection on love and disappointment:

You cunt, I hate you

Aaarrgh!

Guitars cross and wail, Cars-like synths pop up, and Jumex cowbells bang approximately to the beat as Bomstad warbles a vitriolic reality in a tone flatter than paper. “I really liked that bitch,” Bomstad says wistfully as “Graffiti” abruptly derails.

“Are you a Romantic, Bomstad?”

“Hell yes. Once, on mushrooms, I fucked a girl on the roof of my car. It was a full moon. She dug it—hard! Har har har…” He makes devil horns with his fingers.

“What do you mean, Bomstad?”

“I mean it.”

“Tell me the memory of a thing that frightened you before the age of ten.”

“Oh, that’s easy,” Bomstad nods. “Remember that movie Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom? That bald guy that ripped the heart out? I used to dream he was outside my window every night.”

“What do you think it meant, Bomstad?”

“It meant I was fucking scared.”

Pig

We go downtown to the Bourgeois Pig for a final interview. It’s a busy night at the bar. “I’m a big celebrity here,” Bomstad whispers as we walk in the door. Bomstad wears a powder blue velveteen blazer; on the back of the blazer, custom-stitched in pink sequins, are the words “Anal Virgin.” He also wears tablespoons of cologne and Egyptian mascara. The bartender notices our entrance and stiffens. Bomstad bellies up, spits on the floor and starts drinking: Old Overholt and Chartreuse; neat, side-by-side, pineapple juice back. “If you want a tip, meet me in the bathroom!” he har-hars to the bartender.

“That chick thinks she’s cool, wearing shades at night,” Bomstad sneers to the bartender.

“She’s blind, Bomstad,” says the bartender, with loathing.

Bomstad looks back at the blind girl. Then he walks over to her table and steals her Cosmopolitan.

The haughty music reviewer for a local paper slips onto the stool beside Bomstad. He orders a beer and puts money down. Bomstad looks over: “Hey asshole!” he screams in the reviewer’s ear, “you suck!” and Bomstad pours the Cosmopolitan on the reviewer’s shoulder. The reviewer storms out, threatening vengeance, forgetting a ten dollar bill on the bar. Bomstad chuckles and orders another round.

“Watch this,” says Bomstad. “See that motherfucking frat boy? In the corner, a clean cut lad chats up a brightly-colored sorority girl made of fiberglass. Bomstad pulls a plastic bag from his pocket. It’s filled with small black rocks.

“What’s that?”

“Aquarium gravel. Don’t leave home without it.”

Bomstad puts the bag on the bar and carefully pulls it open. The bartender watches with narrowed eyes. Bomstad picks a pea-sized pebble from his bag, looks over at the frat boy and, admirably, forcefully, flicks the stone past those C-shaped teeth and directly into the frat boy’s mouth. The stone bounces off the frat boy’s uvula and ricochets under his tongue. He snorts and chokes, expelling Heineken through his nose, revolting his lacquered sorority girl.

“Cockblock, motherfucker!” laughs Bomstad.

An hour later, the bartender discreetly calls the police.

“I am a goddamned rock star!” Bomstad shrieks, standing upright on the footrest of his barstool, swaying to the reggae music. “I am the blackest man in Ethiopia!” He throws a pretzel at a drunken senior citizen.

Bomstad’s eyes scan the room like lasers, catching and charging the attentions of the startled patrons. Next he pants like a bulldog and stares at the middle ground. The crowd is apprehensive—women lick their lips and men put their hands in their pockets. A blowsy CFO, caught in Bomstad’s gaze, trembles like a snake-handler.

For a moment, there is palpable tension—it seems as though Bomstad might suddenly disrobe, or play air guitar, but quickly he turns from the eyes and sinks down on his barstool, shivering. He pulls his coat tight around him.

“You racist bitches,” he mutters reproachfully, to no-one. “Buy me another fucking Couvoisier.” And then, as if on cue, red and blue lights fill the room.

Bomstad never goes easy: there are accusations of profiling, and abstract attempts at haymakers; there are tears and threats of lawsuits; and finally, there is “going limp”.

Bomstad shoves a crumpled wad of bills at me as the officers struggle with handcuffs. “Bail me out, you piece of shit.” (Later, in the bathroom, I counted Bomstad’s money: over four thousand dollars.)

“I’ll take care of it.”

“Don’t make it too quick,” Bomstad warns. “A couple hours. Give me time to get some.” He winks, spits, sneers, and then the officers haul him towards the door.

“You get good head in jail!” Bomstad shouts to the crowd, and he is gone.