Whips N Chains

A belated but heartfelt Happy 2026! The year started off with a 'Bang Plus' - a trip to Seoul with mija, a subdural hematoma for my 94 yr. old mom (who fell out of bed at 3am en route to the bathroom), her ongoing rehab and insurance coverage craziness, a new job for me (I work in K12 education) and, now, más new música.

Since I posted 'Whips N Chains' on our Bandcamp page a few days ago, so many of you have messaged me asking about how the song came about that I thought it best to tell you 'here' as opposed to answering a slew of individual messages. Was it about anyone in particular? Was it based on a true story? Is it a love song? Yes. Yes. And yes. Lemme tell you 'bout it.

First, and generally speaking, songs come from- or out of pretty much everywhere: life events, feelings based on events or particular moments and experiences, memories, desires, relationships, trauma, joy, etc. Sometimes the song comes directly out of said events. By 'directly' I typically mean the song tells the story, chronologically or otherwise. Sometimes the song comes at- or to me sideways. 'Whips N Chains' is such a sidewinder. It's not so much a story but a declaration or realization based on a story. So here's the short story, morning glory:

I was 32, dating my 20 year-old drummer. As everyone from Wilco (re: 'Heavy Metal Drummer') to Jonathan Richman (re: 'Rock and Roll Drummer')will tell you, one should definitely exercise caution when dating or sleeping with drummers; all the more so, I guess, if or when the drummer in question happens to be in your band. And possibly even more so when: 1) The drummer is also the daughter of one of your doctoral program professors and 2) much younger than you. And let's not even go in to any sort of Bill Belichick-ey or 'dude, you're too old to be dating someone so young' speculation (trust me, I knew then but was at a decidedly idiotic and immature time of my life). Given the circumstances, there was plenty of extra combustibility at play. I don't know much, but I do know said combustibility does, at least, make for a great story, and eventually, a song or two.

Things were great until they weren't. Soon after we'd broken up, she and her housemates added a new roommate - a hot young guy who had a black belt in karate, and loved to cook (as related to me by blessedly gossipy mutual friends). We managed to keep the band together despite the break-up, but had move to a new rehearsal space because the new roommate had moved into the spare bedroom we'd been rehearsing in.

One night, I went to her place to pick her up for rehearsal and I saw the new roommate through the window as I pulled up to the house. Shirtless, ripped, and walking through the living room on his way to the kitchen to check on his creme fraiche or whatever the fuck else his fine ass had cooked. I was, thusly, distracted when I parked me car. I didn’t realize I’d parked my car a ditch. Before I go any further, allow me to add that I was not only jealous, but very, very stoned and feeling acutely old, if not wholly inadequate.

When I got out to go to ring the doorbell, the car tipped over and the front end went into the ditch my stoned, rattled ass hadn't noticed. It was dark but I could see the front of the car in ditch, the rear tires in the air, and me totally fucked. If I could see it, then so could Karate Boy and the ex-girlfriend drummer.

This was pre-cellphone era. There was no way I was going to knock on her door and let her and Karate Boy see what I’d done. So I'm standing outside, on the street by the half-sunken car wondering what I was going to do when I heard a loud, window-rattling bass thump thump-thump thump down the street. Back then, in my 'using days,' I'd gotten pretty good at identifying car makes by their headlights - a skill honed from countless hours of driving at night while either carrying drugs or driving while intoxicated. What approached me was no 'Crown Vic' or law enforcement vehicle. Even in my state, the headlights vibed more old school Chevy Caprice than anything else. Its purple ground lighting, near low-rider hooptie-ness was obvs despite the dark. The heavy bass, now shaking nearby windows and setting off a car alarm or two, along with a strong smell of weed only made things more stark for me:

"Great. I'm triply fucked. Karate Boy, the Ex, my car-in-a-ditch and, now, the growing probability that I was about to get fucked with by whoever was in that now-slowing down car. It drew close and came to a stop right in front of me.

The side windows were fully tinted, but the windshield only partially so. I could see 4 black teens in the car, engulfed in smoke, pointing and laughing at me. The front, passenger-side window came down. Silence. Then laughter. Fuck me.

I’d lost all hope when, suddenly, in a haze of skunk-weed smoke, the passenger says “Daaaang Mr.Navarro! What’d you do??”

It was 4 of my students! I suppose I should have told you earlier that I was teaching high school at the time. These guys were huge dudes, football players, and gleefully got out and pushed -pulled the car out of the ditch and went on their merry way (to my great relief).

The rescued car never looked so good. Gratitude and relief washed over me as I made my way to the door. My ex, Karate Boy and another housemate came in to view through the living room window.

I stood outside, just short of the porch light's reach, watching them talk, and laugh while eating dinner; a dinner likely made by the hot young dude. I looked at my ex, laughing at something he said, and I imagined that they were already destined to be together, that I was no longer anything but a bandmate, and an old one at that. I felt longing and loss and the weight of my stupidity. But I could not stop watching. I could not move closer to ring the doorbell.

I stood there and watched until they finished eating. I stood there, torturing myself until I fully felt the sweetness of what I'd lost and the sting of what now was.

Right then and there I understood about whips n chains.