Peyote Rock (II)

ISSUE #208

A year ago, I devoted an issue to a genre carved from sandstone that I decided to call Peyote Rock. Stuck ten miles south of Vegas at a work conference, I found myself miserable. I spent the evenings watching clouds as their bellies scraped the mountains and listening to Laura Stevenson. I was thinking about my inner avalanche—feeling mad, soft, hot, and mean, all at one convoluted time. I made a playlist to capture some newfound sound.

I had to miss one of my best friend’s birthdays that week. Turns out, Peyote Rock was his favorite issue. This year, I have to miss it again—and I’m missing it terribly. Today is his very day, so I’m delivering a sequel. My gift is to try to top myself, to refine Peyote Rock until it may as well be Waller Rock, the genre dedicated to his unique taste. We’ll see how I close I can get.

On Wednesday, I called him to talk about Summer Madness. That’s what he called the emotions of climate change, the anger of watching a life accelerate. The 100–degree standard and the shrinking reservoir. And it’s true: I haven’t had a good summer in years. I’ve certainly never had a good August—I can’t imagine being born right at its doorstep. He’s a trooper for it, and he deserves to have a pool.

That astrological predisposition is probably why he loves Peyote Rock: sun-spotted, fuzz-blistered, twangible punk rock that sounds like you just collapsed face-first on a gravel slope. Peyote Rock was built by nature’s outliers—crust-punks and cowpokes, volcanic pariahs, those who need their country music with a glass eye and a switchblade. Don’t know what I mean? Just listen.

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