“I’ve got bitch-tits and all that and I don’t give a fuck! I don’t like to hike and all that shit. Do you like to hike? Fuck that! Fuck nature!” That, Dear Reader, is just one of the many colorful bon-mots fired at me by the inimitable Bobby Liebling of doom metal stalwarts Pentagram. I had the honor of spending some time with Mr. Liebling yesterday and thus have been forever altered. Some of the conversational ground covered includes marital woes, infidelity (“What plays on the road, stays on the road… Know what I’m sayin’?”), colon cancer (“Colon cancer is the least of my worries!”) That’s the least of his worries?! The state of the music industry, off-shore bank accounts, drugs, drugs and more drugs, dentures (his, not mine), therapy (mine, not his), speech pathology, COPD, the powerful allure of women with blonde hair, “interesting” sexual proclivities, aversion to male genitalia or not, Rogaine or not, the Ten Commandments or not and 1970’s style power muff. All this was before the conversation really even got untracked!
That dizzying feeling you’re experiencing is what it’s like talking to this guy. He flits from one topic to another in a polluted stream-of-consciousness sort of way, punctuating his comments with wild gesticulations, conjuring a slightly more animated Charles Manson. Then, he downshifts and becomes as serene a person as one could imagine. He is positively Zen-like, then turns on a dime and grows manic all over again. It’s fascinating to witness.
Dear Reader, if you don’t know the story of Bobby Liebling and Pentagram, I implore you, stop reading this drivel and seek out the documentary - Last Days Here. It details the loooooong history of Pentagram, the band as well as Mr. Liebling’s personal struggle with drugs, mostly told from the inauspicious confines of his parents’ sub-basement, where for years he languished in addiction and relative obscurity.
I met Bobby Liebling on a sweltering Texas Saturday as he arrived in a blue pickup truck, driven by a genial young handler with a prodigious blonde ponytail and patchy beard. As he fussed with various personal effects in the truck’s bed, Bobby fussed with a handful of pills in its cab. He seemed flustered, not wishing to keep a fan waiting. While I appreciated the consideration, I assured the man I had plenty of time. Relieved, he slowed down and composed himself. Just then, he dropped one of the pills onto the floor of the truck and quickly grew agitated. Swearing, he alerted the handler to what had happened. I wasn’t quite sure what to make of the importance attached to this incident. Considering Bobby’s lengthy history with substance dependence and myriad health issues, I figured these pills could be anything for any purpose. I further decided it was none of my business and that, as they say, was that.