Check out Part 12 of Rode Tales/Rode Tails from Armond Blackwater’s blog
My first exposure to a beatnik coffeehouse was at a place called the Id. The jernt’s name was meant to be a hip reference to Freud’s word that describes the seemingly unorganized section of the brain that houses all the basic instincts and drives of the human animal. The Id seeks only to pleasure us, delivering our basic needs for food, shelter, and procreation. I dug the concept.
The lighting in the room was dim and multi-coloured. The tables were small, just large enough to hold a few coffee cups. The chairs were a collection of junk rescued from a landfill. A surreal fresco painted in fluorescent paint filled the walls surrounding the small stage. The signature scrawled in the right-hand corner of the painting read Tim O’Neil, a local artist I assumed. A single floodlight bathed the stage in red. The instruments for my cousin’s band stood…
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