Riff Eater: The Sonic Recipe of My Life

By Anthony Scott Ashworth

From realizing I wouldn't have survived the heat in the kitchen without music to determining that Coverdale era Deep Purple is pretty damn good, this is a collection of essays tying together my 35 year existence. These are the stories of my brightest moments and darkest times, the friends and family along the way and everything in between. Full of humor, banality, drinking, death, depression and lots of metal and rock music, these musings are meant to heighten senses when it comes to good food, good music, live loud shows, friendships and the ins and outs of being in bands while working in kitchens. This book covers the similarities of being a musician and a chef while unabashedly diving into the effects that both had on my life. This is the sonic recipe of my life. How food and music shaped me from the time I was a child until now.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lulu.com
• Release date: May 11, 2018
• ISBN: 9781387745845

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Riff Eater: The Sonic Recipe of My Life

RIFF EATER

THE SONIC RECIPE OF MY LIFE

ANTHONY SCOTT ASHWORTH

Some names and details have been changed as not to be intrusive upon some people I decided to write about. Some remained the same in order to pay tribute.

Copyright©2018 Anthony Scott Ashworth

All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce as a whole piece or singular sections. No part of this work is to be stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without obtained consent from the publisher.

Cover and layout design by Anthony Scott Ashworth

Cover layout and design Copyright©2018 Anthony Scott Ashworth

Editing done by an anonymous conglomerate

The soundtrack is compiled of songs available for purchase or streaming. In no way am I suggesting these songs be thieved from the artists or record labels that represent the artists.

Most everything in this publication is opinion or recollected memory. Anything that seems slanderous is definitely of my own formed opinions. Please take them with a grain of salt.

Any copyrighted films mentioned are solely used to express my opinion.

Any copyrighted songs mentioned are solely used to express my opinion.

Any copyrighted bands or artists mentioned are solely used to express my opinion.

ISBN 978-1-387-68333-8 (Paperback)

ISBN 978-1-387-74584-5 (eBook)

Table of Contents

RIFF EATER

THE SONIC RECIPE OF MY LIFE

INTRO

JUST FOLLOW THE RECIPE

THE BELLOWING FELLOW & THE CHILD OF UNREST

THE PORK BELLY GRILLED CHEESE

THE EARTHQUAKE

BOBBY JASPER

TUMULTUOUS TERROR

SQUIRRELS NOT GIRLS

NO ONE HAS EVER SURVIVED THE MEAT GRINDER

KOMMON GROUNDS

ROTTEN POTATOES

THE FIRST LINE COOK JOB

A LOOK BACK EVEN FURTHER

LOST IN HUNTINGTON AGAIN

THE COUPLE YEARS BEFORE COLLEGE

PHILLY, THE COLOR WHITE

RENO & THE COMEDIC TRAGEDY

STRANGLEHOLD

FAIRIES EAT COMMUNION

DEATHY CROCKETT

THE LIMA BEAN IN YOUR HEAD

DIVING INTO COOKBOOKS & THE HARVESTING CUNTS

SOULLESSNESS

SAI’I & SELF SCRUTINY

DEATH IN DROVES

IT’S ACTUALLY PRONOUNCED KEN-EH-WAH

SPEAKING OF THE BARS

CURATING OF THE LOUD

THE INEVITABLE LIST

PREVIOUSLY ON MTV…

LISTEN, YOU SMELL SOMETHING?

HALLOWEEN

OTHER PEOPLE’S PERFORMANCES

THE CODA

INTRO

I began writing this book about the importance of food and music throughout my life. As I dug deeper into my past I realized there was much more to write about than just beet salads and Slayer. As a child I was always trying to perform in some way for my family. It isn’t much of a surprise that I became a chef and a musician; two very similar ways to perform. This is a book chronicling my life from the first meal I created for myself to the last song I have written. This odyssey of mine has been full of much more experiences non-food and non-music related that this book had to be about the people who helped shape me and the encounters throughout my life both enchanting and not, that have led me to my current level of passion for food and music. I enjoyed watching old movies on VHS to drum up memories and loved listening to vinyl records during the times I would write. I also enjoyed envisioning what the soundtrack to this book would sound like. At the end of each section is a song. Each song was either important to me during the period I was recounting or was listened to during the writing. I would like to invite you to make a playlist of all the songs in the book. Familiarize yourself with them and hear them in your head as you move from section to section while reading. Hear them as the backing tracks during transitions in the story. I present you with the track listing to the soundtrack. This is the sonic recipe of my life.

The songs are listed in the order they appear in the book.

This Ain’t the Summer of Love-Blue Öyster Cult

Don’t Believe a Word-Thin Lizzy

Blue Christmas-Elvis Presley

Born to Raise Hell-Mötorhead  

Ghostbusters-Ray Parker Jr.

Going Blind-(the) Melvins

Wish-Nine Inch Nails

Shotgun-Junior Walker and the All Stars

Roll Right-Rage Against the Machine

Turn It Up-Busta Rhymes

43% Burnt-The Dillinger Escape Plan

Disciple-Slayer

High As Hell-Nashville Pussy

If You Want Blood (You Got It)-AC/DC

Congratulations Song-Corrosion of Conformity

We’rewolf-Every Time I Die

Suffering Overdue-Black Label Society

Dirty Women-Black Sabbath

Shoplift-Eyehategod

Just Got Paid-Mastodon

The Only Moment We Were Alone-Explosions in the Sky

Rotten to the Core-The Builders and The Butchers

Drought-Pelican

Ever Wonder Why-Ryan Bingham

Buenos Tardes Amigo-Ween

I Am Not a Goal-Oriented Person-Whores.

Halv King-Behold!The Monolith

Doomsayer (The Beginning of the End)-Darkest Hour

Scary Monsters (and Super Creeps)-David Bowie

Savin’ the Day-Alessi Brothers

I Put a Spell on You-Screamin’ Jay Hawkins

Twilight of the Thunder God-Amon Amarth

The Queen’s Constellation-Junius

JUST FOLLOW THE RECIPE

A recipe is a set of specific instructions for the proper execution of a certain thing. This thing can be a meal, it can be details of coding within information technology and it is the cocktail of chemicals you’re on to combat your anxiety. A recipe should list every component and tool that you will need to complete the task of creating the desired thing. It should contain all the information you need in order to get that thing done. For all extensive purposes, the recipe is the blueprint that guides you from the initial step all the way through to the final product.

Recipes are far more important than one would assume. When a medical doctor writes out a script he or she will start the prescription with a recipe (Rx) ―so you stop breathing heavy in large crowds. This usually pales in comparison to the importance of family recipes. Every family has that one recipe of grandma’s that is legend. The passing along and handing down of family recipes are much more than just relaying how to make a pan of lasagna. Teaching the proper way to follow a recipe is a huge lesson pertaining to a much broader theme. Taking the time to explain the importance of following a plan goes much further in life than just knowing the basics behind a good set of cookies.

Recipes have been a core theme in my life since the dawn of my time. From Granny’s recipe for pizza to my most current recipe for ferm-ented oat aioli, these formulas have had an impact on my life that has done little to be ignored; although, sometimes overlooked. The realization as a child heeding that my family cooked most of our meals from scratch was more of a revelation than just a simple light bulb popping on over my head. Furthermore, learning those recipes created a pattern of readiness for me. Being able to follow a recipe has eased the task of troubleshooting relationships, romantic and otherwise. Recipes have helped me become a better guitar player. It’s because of recipes that I am comfortable with explaining myself and being critical of every step along the way (something that has come in handy both professionally and socially).

Going back to the very beginning music, food, family and friends have always been the components of this recipe I call life. A friend recently described the formula behind writing a book by using the analogy of cookies. Once the components are mixed together you have the dough. It’s just figuring out how to make that dough into cookies. Do you want soft cookies or cookies with a crunch? How many cookies will your dough yield? All these questions and more will be answered within a recipe.

My recipe for life is simple. Take all the components and create the best damn thing you can with the tools provided. Consider all of your variables. Factor in time, temperature, humidity, elevation and anything else that may warrant the tweaking of a recipe. Be critical of your recipe. Test each step over and over until it is right. The recipe is for you to create something you desire. Most recipes yield enough end product for a family of four or for a couple. The recipe for my life yields for one. Me.

Sometimes I’ll make music to sooth my mind. Other times just listening to music is enough. The information available for a particular record is part of the experience for me. The track listing, the biography of the band, the album artwork; these are all things I read like a recipe. That information ensures that I enjoy the record to its fullest potential. During song writing I view the process just as I do a recipe. Each ingre-dient (guitar, bass, drum, vocal) has to fuse into an interweavement of a singular thing. If one ingredient is being used too heavily or too sparingly, the recipe for the song will be reworked until the song (the thing) sounds right.

I enjoy creating new dishes and writing recipes for each of the components on the plate―recipes within recipes. Without that set of recipes I wouldn’t be able to share the delicious thing I have created with the world. Without a recipe you can’t tell if something is fucking gluten free or vegan; a very important distinction in this day and age. I look at this as something that is paramount about recipes. If you know the literal make-up of something (or a situation) you can determine if there is a component that can be potentially harmful. Thus, deeming it unworthy to eat (or be a part of).

My life has been nothing more than a series of recipes. Some recipes I failed to follow and the thing was ruined. Other recipes I have tested and perfected. Research and development for recipe writing is just as important as following a recipe. If I provide the wrong instru-ctions, the thing is doomed from the start. A recipe takes time to perfect. Weights need adjusting, temperatures need dropping and the amount of butter needs doubling (always a good idea. Think of the phrase buttering someone up). Sometimes a recipe seems impossible to follow. Most family recipes have revisions in various colored scribbled script, sauce blots and oil stains all over a worn card stock. Take some time to love and care for these recipes that have been such a large part of your life. Take the instructions, components and tools from that stained mess of a card and type it into a document. Create a folder. Email that to the whole family. They’ll love you for it.

Don’t give up on the traditions. If a recipe calls for only an oven and a mixer don’t try to adapt it to a food processor and sous vide. Recipes should be proof that something was done enough times that it works. As long as you don’t fuck with it, it should work. Some things are better left untouched. Some things need to exist in the past like a relic. Archaic recipes are rudimentary and often lack pertinent information. But somehow if followed to the exact specifications and followed exactly the way they are written, they work. This just goes to show that a recipe can either be vague or detailed, but if followed to the best of the ability of the reader it should work. I view that sentiment as one of the best damn analogies for living life.

My life at times has seemed dormant and vague like an old recipe book printed in the 1950s. Most times it seemed to be going just as planned, other times were as if no plan could have ever been followed. Chaotic banality paired with mundane excitement. Occasionally life will not make sense enough to make the most sense. It’s nothing ironic or karmic. It is just life. It fucking sucks at times, but that’s just part of perfecting the recipe. Sometimes you have to fuck the cookies up in order to make a whole new batch of dough.     

Cue: This Ain’t the Summer of Love by Blue Öyster Cult.

THE BELLOWING FELLOW & THE CHILD OF UNREST

The spring usually came at the end of March in West Virginia. It was marked by the singing of birds during the morning hours and the soothing hum of crickets once the sun had set. My dad would light up the bright blue bug killer when dusk settled in. Our family evenings would move from the living room huddled around the cast iron wood burning stove out onto the porch where the popping of burning wood was replaced by the popping of bugs as they flew into that bright blue lamp. My mother would play cards or board games with my sister and me on the outdoor dining table and dad would grill up some dinner. The lighting of the insect slayer signified that summer was right around the corner. That meant the beach trip was coming up.

Growing up in West Virginia as my parents’ child, Myrtle Beach was the destination of a vacational Mecca made every summer. This particular beach front city wasn’t even the closest pack the kids up and head to the beach spot. I remember Virginia Beach being much closer and far less of an encumbrance of vehicular boredom. My parents had honeymooned in Myrtle Beach, therefore forming an overwhelming emotional attachment. The trip every summer was curated to relive those happy times. Mom and Dad would load my sister and I up and make the half day’s drive southeast from our Charleston, West Virginia home. Usually the trip was made with a few cousins, aunts and uncles; a caravan much akin to a funeral procession. Not for any dark similarities, just simply that there were that many cars.

When I say a few family members, it usually encompasses members of a very large family. To me, a few cousins are six or eight―sometimes upwards of a dozen. Gathering this many people together for a trip was an impressive feat of patience. It seemed to have taken most of the winter to plan the mass exodus out of the capitol city. The few weeks prior to the trip were always a scramble in order to execute the journey. My mother would spend evenings on the phone finalizing the travel arrangements. She’d drag that winding white spiral chord all over the kitchen as she made dinner and yapped with an aunt.

Well you’re just going to have to take that Monday off. We’re not coming back until that afternoon. I told you that a month ago when I booked the rooms, she’d firmly say with her Appalachian drawl.

Well you can just drive your own damn self back on Sunday then. I don’t know what else to tell ya. She often doesn’t know what else to tell you when she gets frustrated; something that has somehow worked in her advantage during most confrontations in her life.

My sister and I were decently behaved (read: fucking annoying) during the long trips to the beach. I am my sister’s senior by five years. This proved to be more of an annoyance than my parents had anti-cipated. We would complain about each other, to each parent separately, as if the sibling or the other parent wasn’t able to hear the complaints being made from the back seat. I was always trying to get the tractor trailer trucks to honk their horns for us, doing my best to ignore her. Just as any other kid she would fidget and moan if boredom got the best of her. She would call out, Nony if she wanted my attention. She couldn’t pronounce the T in my name when she was that young. My mom thought it was adorable; to me, it was a nuisance. I would roll my eyes and shake my head every time she would call out NONY! with a whiney shout. She was a daddy’s girl and I was a momma’s boy. It worked in my parent’s favor. Neither of them ever got bombarded by both of us at once. I would tell mom how annoying she was being and she’d tell dad how I wasn’t paying her any attention.

There was a quaint little ice cream shop in Myrtle Beach that looked something like an old soda jerk with big glass cases full of 30 different tubs of ice cream. The shop was a beacon to those that needed to cool off and get out of the sweltering moist heat attributed to summers on the playa of the South Carolina coast. The humidity during this time of year was pulpous. I could taste it. It sucked the breath out my lungs every time we would leave the air conditioned flat we had rented. In this kind of humidity you sweat differently. It’s almost a sugary perspiration. Mixed with the wonderful scent of OFF (the bug repellant), it didn’t do much to actually fend off the insects. All the mixture of OFF and sugary sweat did was kept the insects slathered to my skin after I would kill them as they landed on me. I smacked the back of my neck and told my parents about some dinosaurs. 

This parlor of prime flavors was located within a few blocks of this ridiculous prehistoric (read: dinosaur) themed miniature golf course. This place was a field of mystique and wonder. It had strikingly well constructed giant T-Rexes, Triceratops and volcanoes. Various dinosaur roars played on a loop to draw the attention of passersby―targeting the demographic of adventurous children with unadventurous parents who wanted nothing to do with the monstrosity that seemed to be a Tom Hanks sequel: Joe Vs. the Dinosaurs.

I wanted to go sloppily smack a ball around the Jurassic course. My parents were not into it. They did not want to partake in the same fun that I had planned. My sister was half crying, half complaining about how miserable the heat was making her. My parents took us to get a couple of scoops of Superman ice cream. This was nothing more than just basic vanilla ice cream dyed with several different food colorings and layered into a container, but to my sister and I, it looked like the best damn sweet treat we had ever been offered. This parental power play worked out for the best. The ice cream had shut my sister and me up. Immediately, I forgot about any prehistoric wonders as the man behind the counter slopped two scoops into a white foam bowl. The sugary concoction also put an end to my sister’s complaints against the summer heat.

She and I sat quietly, yet happily, spooning this multicolor mess down our gullets. My legs were swinging back and forth on the blue plastic chair; the back of my thighs slightly sticking to it with every swing out. My mother kept wiping my sister’s mouth and cheeks with a damp napkin. The napkin she dampened in my father’s ice water when he wasn’t looking. My sister was whining about her legs sticking to the plastic seat of the high chair due to that particular perspiration attributed to the humid south―that sugary perspiration.

An infant had begun crying and the man serving the ice cream commenced belting out operatic melodies over the child’s wails. My mother looked at my father and muttered, What a loon. I, however, was enthralled. The man continued to serenade us with beautiful song after beautiful song until the child became quiet. I have often wondered if that infant was struck by the same awe that I had been stricken with and that’s why he or she stopped his or her howling.

This was the first time in my youth that I had fallen victim to the allure of music. This loon had created an environment of mixed emotions by simply singing; not only singing, but singing very well. This in turn, had engaged a crowd. It had given my mother immediate thoughts of mental illness, given my father an overwhelming sense of annoyance and had given me a sense of happiness. I didn’t once try again to coax my parents into going to play a round of prehistoric putt-putt. Every chance I could get I tried to convince them to return to the ice cream shop.

I sadly don’t recall ever returning there. Probably due to my mother’s inclination that the performance of beautifully executed melodies set to the backing track of an infant’s caterwauling was clearly a sign of a dangerous man. This was a person who was not to be trusted to give her children any ice cream. If I had been a sly child I could have easily used my mother’s opinion of this bellowing fellow as a bargaining chip to go indulge in my original yearning: a romp through the giant reptilian landscape, smashing golf balls through fallen palm trees and gyrating rocks at the feet of mechanical dinosaurs. 

I have thought back to this particular event many times as I have gotten older. I try to conjure up the emotions I felt that afternoon in South Carolina. But I can never focus on what it was that affected solely me. Rather, I summon up the effect it had on the people in the room and how this fascinated me. My parents’ reactions to the dessert and a show performance were typical of those they held towards most of the music I ended up listening to, or the people I befriended, or the movies I preferred as a teen. These were reactions of an overall distaste, a general annoyance and a panicked murmur of it being crazy or scary. These reactions were usually followed by an over exaggerated release of breath with rolled eyes and a statement condemning whatever it may have been: Slayer, Antichrist Superstar, or The Crow.

These are just reactions of protective parents. I know for a fact that my mother found the man off putting because she associates loud outbursts from strangers with negativity. Plus my mother is a very empathetic soul, she was likely mulling it over internally as to why the man was ignoring the child’s unrest. My father’s annoyance was nothing more than a thought of come on man, shut up, or at least sing some Air Supply. Now that I think about it, if the man had been singing Can’t Smile Without You or I’m Your Man by Barry Manilow, my mother’s reaction would have been the opposite.

The mother of the distraught child seemed to be amused. Probably because the man’s singing was an escape from her child’s unhappiness. My sister, didn’t even notice the crooning man. She had crawled her way into dad’s lap. She was off in her own little world giggling at dad’s attempts to tickle her. She was just happy to be around mom, dad and brother. As long as someone was paying attention to her she was fine. However, the man’s melodies had mesmerized me. I was caught in a gaze of astonishment.

This cohesion of various reactions within seconds of each other is exactly what occurs during the opening cues of any performance. This happens often during a bar show consisting of a few bands. You’ll have the people sitting and chatting at the bar who just happened upon a free rock show at a hopping midtown bar. They are my sister, they could care less. They’re not going to interrupt their faceswap to pay attention to the band. Then you have the person that is there specifically to see only one of the bands. They will boast, This first band sucks, but I wanted to show up with enough time to catch the second band. Have you seen them yet? They’re great, way better than this crap. This is my mother. If the bellowing fellow had been singing something she liked, it would have been amusing. Instead he was singing something unfamiliar to my mother and that created a fearful rapport. It’s similar to when someone says I’m not into punk that shit sucks, I’m into rock and metal, the real shit. Blaring similarities when you really think about it.

My father’s reaction is the same as that of the friend that makes a request for a song, however, the band had planned to omit that song in order to play a brand new one. This clearly displeases the friend, but they’ll still watch. They will brood the whole fucking time, but they’ll watch. Then you have the lucky chap that showed up for the show because he saw a friend share the Facebook event. He hasn’t heard of the bands, isn’t really sure what to expect and just wanted to catch the performance of some live music. One of the bands starts, and holy shit this is heavy or groovin’ or totes rockin’ or something of the like runs through his head. This is usually followed by a loud mutter into the ear of a bar mate of how he is pleased with the band’s performance. This mirrors my reaction to the Phantom of the Parlor.

This simple occurrence during my childhood was the beginning of a long road into the eagerness of learning the art of performance. Well into my 30s, I have been a musician for 20 years, with 10 of those years in an amateur setting. When you do something as an amateur there is still love there. You still have passion. When it becomes your profession, it can erode your soul and distort your mind. Therefore, I like to say I am an amateur musician. I am plenty happy playing my bar shows with my friends and still enjoying it as opposed to having an itinerary, planned meals and a specific set list every night― fucking hating every second of it.

Before music there was food. This anecdote of the bellowing fellow and the child of unrest is set around an even simpler theme: the theme of food. Had that outing in Myrtle Beach happened without the ice cream shop as the setting and ice cream being the immediate goal, I may have never witnessed the performance of a lifetime―it may, in fact have been a life changing performance for me. Without that multi-colored mayhem they called Superman ice cream, I may have never seen the bellowing fellow ease the child of unrest. I may have never been enthralled by his operatic shenanigans. I may have never wanted to rock.

Cue: Don’t Believe a Word by Thin Lizzy

THE PORK BELLY GRILLED CHEESE

I don’t remember ever wanting to cook. I remember being very fond of eating, but the actual task of cooking didn’t appeal to me when I was younger. My earliest memory of loving food comes from my grand-father on my mother’s side, Bobby Jasper. He was a longtime baker that would always gift my mother and father a bag of goodies anytime he visited their home. Once they had my sister and me, he was there more often than not. Nonetheless, he always arrived with baked goods in hand. It mostly consisted of breakfast pastries, but sometimes he’d mix in some savory snacks. This bagged buffet is the impetus for my stark penchant for Appalachian staples―both savory and sweet.

There is a delicious damnation of bread that would make most chefs cackle at its appearance. Cheese bread is laughable to most people outside of Appalachia, but it’s so damn good. This stuff is so tasty that you cannot deprive yourself of it. No matter of the fact that it has a connation of being poor people’s food. It’s similar to focaccia bread except for the fact that a bunch of shredded cheddar cheese is added to it. Not melted over it, but baked into the top as a crust. That’s cheese bread. Microwave for 30 seconds and its one of the best damn snacks you will have ever shoved in your mouth. It’s something that would always adorn the tables of family get togethers and holiday meals.

If we were lucky he’d bring an extra bag full of pepperoni rolls. The white paper bag soaked with that orangish hue of the pepperoni fat that escaped during the baking. Splotches of that vibrant oil heightened my fervor. The enthusiasm with which I would tear into that bag was something reminiscent of a lion bringing down prey. My salivating mouth animated with low grunts as I felt the warmth of the bag. They were usually fresh out of the oven when he brought them to us, resulting in a resounding aroma when he