Rock and Roll Guide
WHO FEEDS THE BUTCHER?
Can You Pass The Acid Test?
Jan 2026
I saw the greatest minds of my generation destroyed by a silver platter of french fries.
Can you pass the acid test?
Can you taste the roses as the meringue becomes sugared snow?
The night marks the inaugural gathering that will go onto be renowned for asking,
Who feeds the butcher?
A place to succumb and escape through salt, fat, spice, grease, fire and sticky excess.
Your mind is massaged and your plate is scraped clean.
When those merry pranksters boarded that bus, they were fully on the bus.
Destination: Further.
Cowboy Neal at the helm, I find the driver's seat with my name on it. When you dictate the pace, you dictate the space. The audience where invited to take their seat at the table. Seeing visions of lemon hazed party stimulants adorning 7inch singles with a technicoloured foreign currency to scoop. The fatal miscalculation happens early, always early, and it is entirely preventable but never desired. The first plates hit the table and nobody shows restraint.
Taking word from Allen Ginsbergs affinity with his buddhist sensibilities and disembodied poetics, the feeding starts in india.
Something fried that should have come with a warning, something pickled doing its job too well. Devouring while pretending they are just tasting. Hands move faster than forks.
Sip the Kool Aid. Go Further.
The rap of writers,film makers, poets and beauty queens punctuate the courses between the courses becoming a food of their own. So much so that we have collectively spilled our guts across the table for all to see by the end of the evening.
Chairs angle back. Hands rest on stomachs the way you check a tire after a long drive. Satisfied and never regretful. Plates get pushed away an inch but not enough to matter.
This is not eating for hunger anymore, this is an obligation to the congregation. We got on this bus together and by fuck we will get off together. The mind floats, half-listening, half-fading, everyone else fades at the same pace.
Amber glasses of lustred spiked jello build the speed freaks back up again. Whirled down fashionable gullets with tropical fruit concoctions after another after another after another.
Have you ever drank a lychee margarita off of the bhagavad-gita?
Then time does what time always does. It slips its greasy fingers across your night.
Someone stands just to remind their spine it is still in existence. Another disappears and returns glowing, rung out, baptised by a a bathroom mirror revelation. The music keeps going because of course no one would dare interrupt it now. Conversation multiplies and morphs, overlaps, eats its own tail. Stories you’ve heard before start mid-sentence and end at the bottom of the glass.
Dessert infiltrates our space. First a spoon, then a plate, then again the table is compromised. Hands resurface like they were never surrendered. Rosetinted french sugar renegotiates with fullness. Those who were seconds from vows of abstinence lean forward without apology. Swears this is your last bite while loading the next. Nobody believes you and nobody cares.
By the end of the acid test the table looks just right. Not pretty, but right. Plates licked clean to the memory of what they held. Glasses drained or abandoned with intent but no remorse. Just the shared recognition that the night was misjudged early and corrected late.
Nobody rushes the exit. They never do. Carriages at midnight, ambulances at 2 a.m., wheelbarrows at 5 a.m., hearses at daybreak
Bodies are heavy, minds are light. Chairs stay angled back, hands return to stomachs with satisfaction and delirium. We are past hunger, past choice. The bus is still moving. Further has been reached and quietly exceeded, and for a moment, everyone knows it was worth everything that came before. This was night one of the dinner party series now know as Who Feeds The Butcher?