“What have you done with Funk Moonbeam?”

I am asked this question more than almost any other. It is not easy to answer because Funk is his own man, albeit with an ether and adrenochrome habit. But fear not, because Funk is back… 

For those who have not yet had the pleasure, Funk was an occasional contributor to this twisted site. We lost touch at the end of June, since which time (for reasons that I fear will become hideously apparent over the coming weeks), Mr Moonbeam has been busy hitting an all time low. In our most recent communications (lots of disinhibited screaming and block capitals) he informs me that he has finally beaten the waking madness and wants once more to share his journey with people he has never met, but who he regards as friends. He has already forwarded a number of (what he describes as) “new journal entries” covering the last few months. Some arrive as e-mails, others arrive in the post, all out of sequence and bursting with tragedy and delusion. I am gradually piecing the story together and will share the entries with you as soon as they start making sense.

In the meantime, by way of background feel free to enjoy Funk’s earlier posts by clicking on “Das Moonbeam ist Rocken” which can be found skulking in the Categories section of this site. If that sounds too daunting, I can summarise the story so far as follows (with a few choice extracts from earlier episodes).

Funk Moonbeam was born in Verbier (Switzerland) in 1990. His brutal childhood found him exiled  in the Alps by the time he was fifteen where he worked as a goat herd, visited only by certain of his uncles and their dogs. He emerged from this ordeal with an ether habit and a broken heart and formed a balls-out rock combo  with Ace La Rouge (vocals, emotional torture) and Tiff Pennisbrith (drums, moog, drifting). Funk’s musical influences are said to include Jerry Lee Lewis, Kraftwerk, Adam Ant and Dolly Parton.

Earlier this year Funk had been working on Magnolia Glock (his debut album, tracks from which had generally been well received on the Swiss ski resort  hotel circuit) when, further to unknown charges, he was arrested. This proved to be a blessing as he was locked up with a 300 pound eighty-something Samoan who had been a hot shot attorney out California way, back in the seventies. The Samoan became a mentor and advised Funk how to make it big with a dazzling recording contract.

Funk explained the moment that the Samoan revealed the plan thus:

“After an uncomfortable night the feds grilled my for an hour with their legal double-speak. The upshot is that the charges against me are being dropped. I still don’t know what those charges are, or who brought them, but I’m sure glad to be bustin’ out so I can get back to my music.

The Samoan seemed pleased for me and we talked like father and son as I waited for some crazy legal documents to be cooked up. He advised me that I have a rare talent-and he should know, he was there at the start of it all in the seventies. He laid out a genius plan, and the best bits are set out below:

1) Get me some wheels. He was fixated on me gettin a red ragtop if I wanted to do it properly (Ace, Tiff and the gear could follow in a van).

2) fill said ragtop with recreational narcotics and at least one weapon (I was ahead of him there on all counts).

3) get on the road to Rome. The Ethereal Festival is due to start there in June where all the seriously cool music guys get it on. If I can get the band there in one piece and on time and if I can find Stockton then a record contract is mine.

When the feds finally came for me the Samoan put on his loin cloth and held me, weeping as though we may never meet again. I was powerfully moved and left him my ipod and mobile and told him that I’d be in touch and that he’d never be far from my thoughts. Then I left, determined to get to Casbah in Verbier as a matter of urgency to clear my mind and nostrils with a hearty snort of ether and a magnum of Grey Goose. Tiff was certain to be there and I had no time to waste in gettin him on board.”

It had all seemed so simple, but once out of jail Funk’s first meeting with Tiff was far from triumphant:

“After gettin out of jail I hitched a ride to Verbier in a juggernaut with three big-ass bull dykes off their tits on mescaline. It was like bein in heaven with those angels teasin me about bein a rock star. When we arrived  I felt dirty because even though I had a full load and was still emotional after leavin the Samoan, I knew that I’d been used…

The sun was still blindin me like a bastard when I spotted said Tiff on the terrace at T Bar. He was locked onto some honnies who were bein guarded by some giant bastards. He had probably been up for three days straight and was givin them the old tongue flick and using a bottle of Hooch like a phallus. I got him out of there just in time…

…Tiff was gettin the eye from everyone in the place and I was gettin the horrors because they were playin some faggot Brit band who call themselves Coldplay. Jesus, what I could teach those boys! Tiff had lost his baseball cap and so was in a bad way cos, even though he has the longest brown hair (at the sides that is) he ain’t got too much goin on up top. He was wailin about the chicks outside and what he had in store for them whilst strugglin to position a napkin on his head like a bandana. I told him that he had a look of Axl Rose and he broke down as I ran to the rest room where I laughed until the puke ran from my mouth…

…I hit him with the Samoan’s monstrous plan, The Plan, our biggest opportunity to strike gold at the Etheral Festival in Rome. Did Tiff fall to his knees to pay homage to my brilliance? Oh, no, no, no, no, no! The despicable bastard went turbo despite everything I’d been through to drag the c**k s*****g Plan out of the Samoan. Here was Tiff “why don’t you stuff your Plan up your exit hole” Pennisbrith tellin me to stick it up my arse where mobiles and ipods had once dwelled. He had my balls in his hand and was squeezin hard. I’d have done anything to stop that ball squeezin agony, but it got worse. Through a heavy sweat I reminded him that I needed a ragtop for the trip to the Festival and that his uncle’s cousin (from Andelfingen) had a red 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible. The perfect Red Shark! Tiff took a bad turn at the mention of his uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. Using a mix of Afrikaans, French and gibberish he told me to f**k the f*****g band, that I was  a f**go*t, that I smelt like ripe f***y f**t and that he’d rather get bare backed by the Samoan than ride by my side to Rome.

I had been too upset to tell him that he’d be riding behind me in the van with Ace and the gear. He want for his knife and I made for the mountains. As usual.

And now, back in Verbier I still feel sick. Even ether doesn’t move me . Looks like it’s over before it’s even begun. Looks like I’ll be on the streets tonight, although I might go to the studio tomorrow to delete the master tapes of Magnolia Glock.”

As is common with most young men, Funk changed his mind about destroying his masterpiece and decided to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and steal his car instead. This proved to be a most unfortunate decision:

“My music, my band, Axl (my pet rattlesnake) and the cops could all go to hell. I was so stoked that I couldn’t even be bothered to burn the Magnolia Glock master tapes, but I did find time of source a gallon of ether and a range of clean(ish) hankies…

After hours of painful trudging some hot chalet girls, who owed me about a million favours (they like ether even more me), drove me half way to Montreux. It was a tight squeeze and hotter than Satan’s ass crack in the back of that Fiat but they knew how to party. Man they knew how to work their private muscles. It was like a rodeo until the lights went out.

I woke up hours, or days later spitting blood. My left eye was sealed shut. I was coughing up blood as well. My Gretsch was gone, as was my ether. Those musky bitches had screwed me over bad style. All those fanny hags had left me was my Remixdakickz black splash custom Air Force One sneakers, Rocawear “Block Party” jeans, Johnny Blaze hoodie, Sean John Hill denim jacket, Chinchilla coat and Angorra bucket hat. Man I was boilin alive. My sweat started fizzin when I realised they’d f****d off with my gold plated icey highlighted cross pendent and chain, my icey silvertone mic pendent and chain, my Coolio pendent and chain and my Jesus Head and Goldtone bracelet. Damn those jizz smudged vixens to hell and back.

As I crawled out from behind the dumpster I could feel that my balls had been comprehensively emptied. For my next mistake I dropped my jeans to check for further injury and a pack of street wise goons came at me, flashing their blades in the sun. Man, I took one hell of a beating. That night I busted into some grannie house and lifted a fist of francs and later found a bum who scored me some NASTY acid. That was one bad bastard night. Holy Jesus, I never knew bats came in so many colours. In the twisted grip of a trip I found a writing pad and a box of crayons and started bangin out some kind of diary that I’m now deciphering to bring this to you. I must have spoken to the Samoan, at least in my mind, because I’d scrawled out the followin discussion:

Funk-F***k you man, I’m dyin. Those p*****s screwed me real bad, real bad. I ain’t hangin in here. I’m on a bridge you flabby c**t. Yeah man, there’s shit loads of cars below ready to squash my lilly white ass all the way to Palookaville.

The Samoan: Cool your boots little one. Sounds like you need a hug. Imagine me there with you. Let me hug away your tears. You’re bigger than any of those chalet girls. You can’t let them break you, or the street wise gangsters who beat you senseless. Find your destiny, like I advised you. Get to the Ethereal festival in Rome in a ‘71 convertible Chevrolet Impala, find Stockton and all your troubles will be far away. The world will queue up to suck your c**k when you are famous, it’s just a matter of time.

Funk-But look at me, I’m havin an out of body experience and the sun is cookin me! I ain’t got what it takes man, I ain’t gonna be a star, I’m a second rate shit fiddler.

The Samoan-You’re suitably at one with your body and the sun, yes you are! You’ve read Karl Marx and you’ve taught yourself to dance, you’re the best by far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that.

Funk-When will I see my picture in the paper?

The Samoan-I can’t answer, I can’t answer that. You’re a slave to fashion and your life is full of passion, it’s the way you are! You’ve suffered for your art with your jogging in the park, you know you should go far! But you keep asking the question, the one you’re not supposed to mention.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-Oh I can’t tell you when you’ll see your name up in lights.

Funk-When will I, will I be famous?

The Samoan-You keep asking me babe.

Funk-I can’t wait!

The Samoan-You’re a talent, you know that I’ve noticed. You’d like to be a legend, a big star overnight! I can’t answer your question.

Funk-I can’t wait. It’s driving me insane…

The conversation must have ended there because the following three pages are filled with crayon sketches of a unicorn being hunted by three dragons and a male pornstar. But, as ever the Samoan had made me see sense. I had to find Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen and get his car. Then a small matter of tryin to get the band back together and finding fame in Rome.”

En route to Andelfingen Ace came to Funk in a dream and he fell in love. Some time later Funk found Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen, and his heart was broken by some terrible news:

“It was after snorting a full can of deodorant that the light burned brightest behind my closed eyelids and Ace La Rouge came to me. She wore a yellow catsuit and little else, looking every inch the hottest tits-out rock honey alive and the only woman powerful to take back the lead vocals in my band. In my delerium she floated above me, snapping her fingers to some tune on her ipod. I was writhin between the suitcases, feelin down and troubled, needin a helpin hand. Everything was goin wrong, my sorry life was dark as penguin fur and filled with clouds. And then she sang to me; her voice like a perfect flute, hitting every note in more than one key. Hours later, when she disappeared like a sprite, I wrote everything out in my jotting pad with a green crayon under a flickering lighter. 

In the time that we shared I forgave Ace for almost everything and knew that if only I could get the band back together then we could make it big. But I had to follow the Samoan’s plan and get the Red Shark. When I tipped myself out of that coach and started the 30 mile walk from God knows where to Andelfingen in the canton of Zurich I was hurtin real bad. My ribs was all busted to splinters after the beatin I took at the hands of that mob of street bitches in Montreux. I looked like a sleazy tramp; even my Sean John Hill denim jacket was ripped and quality shit like that don’t rip easily. When I got to the village the sun was goin down and I asked around for Tiff’s uncle’s cousin from Andelfingen. The way the mums shielded their kids eyes and aimed their dogs at me suggested that they hadn’t heard of Tiff’s uncle’s cousin. I was ready to chuck myself in the river Thur when I fell to my knees on Thurtalstrasse 3 near the Marketplatz calling Ace’s name, calling Tiff’s name and hammering my bloodied fists on the paving slabs.

Then, from nowhere, a giant mountain of pure fat bastard loomed over me. I expected to be beaten to death there and then just for being a hot rock rebel, but to my amazement the man mountain helped me to my feet. I had been in this situation more than once, and knew that I would be too weak to fend him off if he dragged me into a nearby alley to soil me; but I was amazed for a second time when he introduced himself as Tiff Pennisbrith’s uncle’s cousin: Patrice Phannybaahteur!

We ended up in some dive either called Zivilschutzzentrum or Spaetzlipfanne or some other combination of Germanic consonants. It was a restaurant of some description and I thought at one point that Patrice (who had a gentle voice, much softer than Tiff’s) was trying to get me drunk and fatten me up on rosti for some consensual romp or other, but no! He just seemed even lonelier than me and kept bangin on about his sad old memories from when Tiff was a boy.

I was zoning out, thinkin of Ace and tryin to call her name without bein too obvious, when I realised that I had to pop the question. I spent about an hour flattering the bastard (complimenting his thick neck and jaundiced eyes) and then told him straight that Tiff needed his 1971 Chevrolet Impala convertible (the Red Shark!) for a bit of business.

Patrice Phannybaahteur laughed in my face, and when he stopped laughing he hit me with it. He no longer had his Red Shark. I spat my drink (Smirnoff Black Label) in his face and made a speech about how he had to give me that car, that my future wealth and fame depended on it. And when I’d calmed down (Patrice had a fork against my groin under the table in the rapidly emptying restaurant) Patrice explained that Tiff had already collected it not 24 hours earlier.

Holy Mary, Joseph and Solomon! Patrice hurt my feelings in the worst way when he told me that Tiff had formed a new band with Ace and that he was taking her to Rome in the Red Shark! In that moment I knew exactly what to do, but Tiff had a head start and I had to move fast. When Phannybaateur disappeared to bleed the lizard I stole his coat, keys and cash and made off into the night full of booze and cheese based potato, like a black panther with a score to settle and a damsel to save…”

Thereafter, Funk returned home whilst suffering a severe psychotic episode and  made a terrible discovery!

“Patrice Phannybaahteur’s Fiat Panda was makin some sick noises and smells when I abandoned it in the road outside my crib in Verbier. I hated myself worse than usual for stealin such a nasty craft. I’d spent the content of Phannybaatheur’s wallet on six cans of deodorant (the snortin kind), two litres of Smirnoff and almost twenty tins of Red Bull. I’d driven the wheels of that beige bad boy half way across Switzerland and was in a state of delerium. I had been sick too often to count (the evidence still splattered around the dashboard, over the pedals and down the outside of the door) and was hurtin real bad. All I knew was that I had to get the master tapes to Magnolia Glock, my laptop and a hot shower before headin down to Rome to catch Tiff and Ace.

I fell over the bins as I ran to the door and then I saw it; the 1971 Cevrolet Impala convertible, gleemin hell-red in the drive. I knew Tiff was probably already in the studio, stealin my work whilst no doubt bangin Ace over the mixin desk. It was time to shut that goat fluffer down for the final time…

…I was slumped on the steps shoutin at the kids who were laughin at me when the door opened and I fell inside. My mother almost collapsed at the sight of me, her only son, lyin in the soil and weeds. But I drew strength from my anger, from what Tiff was doin to Ace, and made down the hall. My mother tried to stop me and dropped the letters that she’d been readin. I noticed that they were all addressed to me, my private correspondence and I hated that devil so badly that I wiped the blood from my nose and tried to rub it in her face…I wondered how much Tiff had paid her, or what other inducements that horny rat bastard had offered to turn her against me.

We struggled for a very long time and I knocked my old bike over and stamped on it, even though I might have needed it later to make my getaway. By the time I overpowered mother she was cryin and shoutin the Lord’s name and lookin terrified, no doubt realisin that after I finished with Tiff I’d probably be back in jail or rigged to an electric chair for all it mattered to her. When I burst into the studio my eyes were stingin and I could hardly see. My face was wet with blood and other fluid and as I dried my eyes there they all were; Tiff, Ace and, oh God have mercy, my old man!

Tiff had my laptop in his grasp and looked as though he was packin heat. Ace had her hands over her mouth and although my father was reclined on my bed he jumped up when he saw me. His face looked like the tip of a whale’s cock, all fat and bruised and full of murder. He pointed at me, laughin more than the kids outside, more than my uncles ever had, and started makin baby noises and callin me his little boy. Over and over again, sayin I was his baby and just pointin like he didn’t know what to do with his fists. Then my mother arrived and started sayin much the same. I started shoutin at Ace, wantin to know why she never came to me when I called her name like she’d promised. Whale cock was repeatin himself like he was at a funeral callin me a little boy like I was stupid and, when I could take it no more, I said somethin like, “I get down to dry my hair with a little touch of gel, I read all the newspapers but my mother still reads my mail! I won’t wish my life away but tell me if you can, who decides when I’m grown up and I’ve turned into a man?” Now I was really shoutin as I demanded, “Drop the boy, drop the boy! I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. Drop the boy, drop the boy I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

I spotted the keys to the Impala near the bedside lamp, plannin my next move, but had to get it all out in the open. “I’m tired of the boy thing, I’ve got other things to do. I’d like to be in politics, can’t take another visit to the zoo. No more bikes or plastic models and braces on my teeth. I’d like to drive as Dino and live out of my reach. Drop the boy, drop the boy. I’m a man, yes I am but they still call me boy. I’m a man, yes I am and I’ll be jumpin for joy when they drop the boy.”

Then I did what comes natural in times of trouble and started takin that studio apart. I went at the mixin desk with a baseball bat, deafened by my pumpin heart. I did the window, the shelves, my DVD’s and then went for Tiff. Old whale cock came at me sayin don’t do it son, or some redundant shit like that and I went for him with the bat, determined to burst his cock head and Ace was slappin me and my mother was screamin and Tiff joined in, tryin to get that heavy bat off me so he could use it on me.

Tiff’s abnormal weight and the brain carnage of prolonged deodorant abuse was too much and I was on the floor crawlin to the door and then everythin was clear. I threw a lamp at Tiff and as it struck him full in the face I nabbed the keys to the Red Shark and threw myself out of the window. Somehow I had also managed to grab my laptop and I took off in the Impala.

After running away in a blind panic Funk took residence in the basement of Hotel au Vieux-Valais in Verbier. After an unpleasant interlude with two cleaners Funk contacts the Samoan for advice.

“Back in the basement I was amazed that I got a signal and was straight on to the Samoan. He was in a bad state because there is a new inmate in his jail cell. The Samoan refused to elaborate but I could hear the tears in his voice…Then I burdened the big guy with my sorry story and begged him to help me with his wisdom.

The Samoan listened, complaining that the battery in the mobile I’d smuggled in for him, was gettin kinda low. Then, when I was on my knees, beggin for him to help, he said (in that deep voice that used to sooth me to sleep), “We’ve been broken down to the lowest turn. Being on the bottom line sure ain’t no fun. But if we should be evicted, huh, from our homes, we’ll just move somewhere else and still carry on. Oh, hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on Oooh, ah baby. Hold on, hold on, hold on, hold on ooh, oooh, aah. The only way is up, baby for you and me now. The only way is up, baby for you and me now.”

Every part of my body tingled as his wisdom aroused my pride, gave me belief. Through tears of ecstasy I got a lot of shit on the table, tellin the Samoan about how Ace had betrayed me with Tiff, how my band was in bits and how I hadn’t eaten for days. The Samoan was right there for me sayin, “Now we may not know, huh, where our next meal is coming from, but with me by your side you’ll face what is to come.”

I said, “Boy I want to thank you, yeah, for lovin me this way. Things may be a little hard now but I’ll find a brighter day.”

Havin fixed my head with his counsellin (three little bottles of spirit also helpin to straighten me out), he got down to business. He advised me to clean myself up. He knew a hot girl called Heidi (who owed him some favours) in Bourg-St-Pierre who was good with soap and sissors and could re-invent me as a rock star. A new image would give me the inner determination to find Tiff and Ace, get the band back together and then get us all down to the Ethereal festival in Rome where our music would knock the shit outa the big A n R guys from the majors. If I could find Heidi, all I had to do was tell her that the Samoan had sent me and she would know exactly what to do.

I don’t know where Tiff and Ace are and it may already be too late, but I’m leavin this stinkin basement and headin for Heidi; right after I’ve properly thanked Kimi and Mika for their kindness.”

And there we leave it for now until I’ve deciphered the next batch of Funk’s “new journal entries”. I suspect that Funk Moonbeam is in for a big surprise when, or if , he manages to track Heidi down. I am also negotiating with Funk to let me showcase some tracks from Magnolia Glock on this site. He’s hard work, but I’ll do my best…