Rutherford 'Jam' Malone

January 30th, 2006. One week prior, I had made what one could perhaps describe as a faux pas, referring to certain passages in the song as "ugly." I think I regard this moment as the beginning of the end for Abysmal Crucifix.

Girth did not react well to my blog post. He called the entire band together for a meeting in the studio. Margo, as always, sat next to Girth. Riffs, Mikey, and I arranged ourselves, on stools, in a semicircle facing them. "It has come to my attention," Girth announced, "that some of you—I won't name any names—have been posting some pretty nasty shit on the Internet, about songs I wrote and the way I run this band. I want to know right now: do any of you have a problem with the way I run things?"

Mikey nodded immediately and with ferocity. I gave a somewhat half-hearted nod. Riffs didn't acknowledge it at all. I think he had been drinking somewhat. Margo put her hand on Girth's shoulder and whispered, "Of course not, dear."

Girth placed one of his large, well-muscled paws over her small, milky hand and growled, "All right, Mikey, what's your fucking problem now?"

"Well," Mikey replied, sarcasm dripping from his lips like lambs' blood from a wolf's, "we've already had the debate about 'Willie's Swan Song.' The song sucks, but clearly your final judgment is that it's great. There's no way I can argue with such clear thinking. I do have to say, though, that your leadership is pretty fucking terrible."

"How so?" Girth asked, sounding genuinely interested. Through all my anger toward him, I still recognize that Girth is a complex, deeply conflicted individual, and he really did want to know about problems so he could resolve them. He just, very often, went about solving them in the worst possible ways.

"Let's start with, you don't listen to us—"

"This is not a democracy!" Girth snapped. "I write the songs, I produce and release the albums, I book us on tours, I do it all."

"Umm," Mikey said, "we play on the albums—"

"Badly, in your case," Girth muttered.

"Look, asshole," Mikey said," I'm getting real tired of you acting like a prick, okay. It's gotten ten times worse than it was before since you and Margo got hitched and you put her in the band full-time. You're not a god. You're a musician, and to be perfectly frank, not a very good one. Some of your songs suck, some of your playing sucks. Gosh, it's almost as bad as my playing at times." Mikey Parker does love his sarcasm.

"I don't mean to be a control freak," Girth said. "I have a vision, though."

"Well," Mikey retorted, "maybe your vision's blurry in this case, because the three of us see pretty fucking clearly that this band's falling apart. You're the leader, and you seem to be the only one who doesn't see him."

"What about me?" Margo asked.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Mikey said bitingly, "I didn't realize you two had stopped sharing one brain. I guess that's two against three."

Margo rolled her eyes, groaning. Mikey smiled to himself as Girth turned his attention to me. "What do you have to say, Jam? You were nodding that you have a problem with my leadership, too."

"I do happen to agree with Mikey's assessment of the situation, in some cases," Jam said. "I have quite a bit more respect for your musicianship and compositional skills than my friend Mikey. However, on occasion you do tend to be quite a..." I searched for the mot juste but could only come up with... "...taskmaster, for lack of a better word, when it comes to outside input regarding your songs."

"Is that so?" Girth asked, leaning back in his uncomfortable metal folding chair. He glances at Riffs, who stared down at his feet. I smelled the sour tang of gin wafting from his heavy breathing. "Riffs, you've been uncharacteristically quiet during all this. I take it you agree with Jam and Mikey?"

Riffs glanced up, for a moment making bleary eye contact with Girth before putting his head down again. He said quietly, and further muffled by staring straight at the plush carpeted floor, "Yes, sir."

"Well, if I have such a fucking problem with outside input," Girth said, "I'll tell you what I'm going to do. We'll mixdown a rough version of 'Willie's Swan Song,' and we'll take it to the goddamn people. After all, that's why we started that stupid website and MySpace shit to begin with—to connect with our fans. Well, this'll make a connection. We'll put up the song and get opinions, feedback, and then we'll see whether or not my being a 'taskmaster' is warranted. How's that sound?"

I knew none of us enjoyed the hostility in the air. I also think we all secretly feared Girth's adoring fans would come out in droves to support any new material—after all, it had been nearly four years since an Abysmal Crucifix release. Still, we agreed with Girth this would be an adequate solution to the problems. He mixed it down, MP3'ed it, and posted it on our website, along with a blog on MySpace encouraging fans to give us feedback on the song.

One week later, we had received a dismal three responses via e-mail. All were negative. I really think it was at this moment that Girth began to have serious doubts. Not just doubts about his leadership, which he often quelled by being an authoritarian with a hyperinflated ego; no, Girth was beginning to have doubts about his creativity. I'm sure he wondered if maybe Mikey, always the voice of dissention, was right all along that Girth was a hack songwriter, a poor musician. Perhaps he felt his Muse had left him now that he was chained to her as long as they both shall live. Perhaps his Muse was never Margo, or any of the nameless rabble of women who came before her. Maybe his Muse was Robin Kelley, whose final chapter had been sealed during those seven cold November days in Cedar Rapids, and now that the torch he carried for her had finally been extinguished for good,, he didn't feel himself capable of writing any decent music.

I can only speculate what was going through his mind at the time. It seems reasonable that he was questioning himself; after all, it was one day after our first argument about "Willie's Swan Song" that he announced a surprise performance of The Hedge, just to see if we had any fans left. It was during that awkward rehearsal week that he was found in a compromising position with former flame D.J. Koko, who perhaps Girth thought would reinvigorate the Muse he had lost. And it was during that week that he finally got rid of his entire band for good, sought out former love Robin Kelley, and demanded yes-man best friend and original Abysmal Crucifix drummer Carl Davenport join a new incarnation of the band. It doesn't seem surprising at all that these decisions were made hastily and as a result of a major life crisis. Rather than becoming crippled with self-doubt, Girth forced himself into a position where any self-doubt would clear up immediately after receiving nothing but positive vibes from his brain trust. If you will, he created a Valtrex of the conscious mind.

Does this anger me? Certainly. I would rather Girth have made an effort to repair the myriad problems our band shared, rather than simply cutting us loose. But I'm not angry at him for throwing me out of the band, as Mikey and Riffs are. I was ready to retire, and this has merely forced the issue and provided me the time to work on my own compositions, which you can listen to by clicking this link.

I am, however, continually angry at Girth for not performing the psychic healing he himself needs. Like much of his life, he's simply avoiding the issues. He's in a place now where he never has to deal with his megalomaniacal outbursts, his totalitarian methods for running a studio, or any of the other problems Abysmal Crucifix kept in check by hashing it out through healthy arguments, screaming matches, and temporarily break-ups. Without us, he's left in a sea of arrogance and egotism, and I fear he'll drown. I decided to participate in this website to use it as a sort of life-preserver. Catch it, Girth. I hope the current takes you back to us, someday.