When I was 17 in 1991, I rode my Bicycle from Moore to Norman, Oklahoma, to see my favorite band, The Leaving Trains. Falling James in a glam and punk, yet classic way, broke the gender barriers by dressing as femme as possible. He was also very adept at floating around genre while being true to melody, be it punk or country, pop or rock. I set off on my bike on a hilly road. Only a year earlier a kid, riding a bike home from a punk show, had been hit by a car, dragged, and killed by a drunk driver. I was very paranoid the entire way, it took several hours, but I arrived safe. I ran into friends quickly, at the arcade in Norman, and we went right away to an apartment where I was introduced to Fang and grogs of wine. I drank a giant bottle of Carlo Rossi to-my-head, and ended up getting driven home, without seeing the band, and without my bike. I woke up in the morning in what at first I thought was a pool of my own blood, but no, I had just chucked a gallon of burgundy in my sleep. My mom was yelling to wake up for school, then she was off for work, and I was ditching class because my band mate Reggie had an office position and had it rigged so we could get away with it. I was sad I missed that band. I mean the album was called Fuck, and it was really good and often challenging. My favorite track is 27 Days. I never saw The Leaving Trains, but that particular night was a night I can’t remember, I mean forget
Mystery Doll 