ø - Razorcake

I 

t’s strange the things you learn about yourself when you travel, 

and the last two trips I took taught me a lot about why I spend so 

much time working on this toilet topper that you’re reading right 

now. 

The first trip was the Perpetual Motion Roadshow, an 

independent writers touring circuit that took me through seven 

cities in eight days. One of those cities was Cleveland. While I was 

there, I scammed my way into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. See, 

they let touring bands in for free, and I knew this, so I masqueraded 

as the drummer for the all-girl Canadian punk band Sophomore 

Level Psychology. My facial hair didn’t give me away. Nor did my 

obvious lack of national health care. I got in for free. 

I saw some cool things, like the bass Mick Jones smashed on 

the cover of London Calling, and I saw some lame things, like all 

the teen idols’ outfits. I wandered upstairs to the exhibit on 

rock’n’roll magazines and stared at a huge glass case full of Rolling 

Stone, Spin, 16, and other equally weak stuff. One of my friends 

saw me staring at the display and said, “Where’s Razorcake?” 

I laughed because it was absurd. Why would Razorcake ever be 

somewhere like the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame, and why would I 

want it to be there, anyway? I hope nothing I write ever ends up 

behind a glass case, where people can’t touch it and read it. The 

truth is, the place where I tend to see Razorcake the most is on the 

top of people’s toilet tanks. And that’s where I want to see it. 

Besides, I kept reminding myself, it’s the Hall of Fame, not the Hall 

of Talent. What kind of thing is fame to aspire for? Why would you 

want to be so famous that you’d have to spend your life in a glass 

case? And what could be more fleeting and vacuous than fame? I 

don’t know. The top of a toilet tank? 

This made me ask myself what all this work is all about. What 

do I aspire to? 

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Razorcake and razorcake.com are untangled and wrangled by Sean Carswell, Todd Taylor, 

Megan Pants, Skinny Dan, ktspin and Felizon Vidad 

Razorcake is distributed by Big Top Newstand Services, 

2729 Mission St., Ste.201, SF, CA 94110, info@bigtoppubs.com 

Cover designed by Jason Willis, ; photo by Todd Taylor 

Thank you list: “Are you crock potting ribs?” thanks to Julia Smut for her ever-diligent 

masseusing of our cover; Jason “Part of the Problem” Willis for his cannonball of a front cover; 

Grass stains that’ll never come out thanks to Petite Paquet for her Red Onions interview; “Hello, 

I’m Wesley Willis and I’m a rock star” thanks to Scott Cox-Stanton for his remembrance and 

PO Box 42129, 

Los Angeles, CA 90042 

www.razorcake.com 

I took my second trip to go to the wedding of an old friend, 

Tommy. Tommy and I have been hanging out together since we 

were about four years old, and we’ve been listening to punk rock 

together since before a lot of Razorcake readers were born. Tommy 

came to pick me up from jail when I got arrested for being a smart 

ass. I dragged the best man out of Tommy’s wedding after the best 

man dropped his pants at the bar. Friendships like this don’t come 

along every day. 

Before the wedding, we had the obligatory bachelor party, 

which led to the obligatory visit to the strip bar, which led to the 

obligatory bachelor on stage, drunk and dancing with strippers. We 

don’t make these rules. We just live by them. So Tommy was up 

there, with a topless woman ripping the buttons off of his fancy 

shirt, only to expose that underneath, Tommy was wearing a 

Razorcake t-shirt. It made me proud to see Razorcake representing 

up there on that stage. Seriously. Think of it metaphorically: when 

the societally acceptable costume gets torn off and life’s suddenly 

just about the down and dirty good time, there’s Razorcake, close to 

the heart. 

Okay, so I was pretty drunk. 

Later that night, a barely standing Tommy introduced me to his 

uncle. Tommy pointed at me and said to his uncle, “This is the guy 

who took all the crazy shit we did and put it in writing.” Even 

through the haze of a dozen beers, and beyond silly strip club 

metaphors, I realized that this is what I aspire to: the stories 

themselves. The idea of taking this wild life and this mad 

subculture we’re all a part of and putting it in writing. Spreading it 

around. Helping everyone know that we’re not completely alone. 

There’s no glass case separating us from life. It’s all right here. 

Nothing’s keeping us from reaching out and touching it. 

-Sean 

Davey and Mark Tiltwheel bid you fine hellos. 

Photo by Seth Swaaley 

the Willis family and Eyeosaur Productions for the pictures; Pabst fuck-yeahs to our new contributor Ben Snakepit; fake blood thanks to Randy 

Iwata for helping out with Nardwuar; burning dumpster thanks to Tito for his first column; “Wow, you’re self-taught” thanks to Rob Ruelas for the 

Rich Mackin illustration; high-kicking thanks to Bradley Williams for the ILCK II interview and Jeff Johnson for the pics; barbed wire, blood, and 

libertarian thanks to Art Ettinger for the AntiSeen interview and Jason Griscom, Allana Sleeth, Greg Bailey for the photos; creeps plus vanity equals 

real icky thanks to Patricia Geary for her column; Harry and Nancy Carswell for watching the birth of rock’n’roll and then birthing Sean, so he 

could write about it; it’s an addiction with few rewards thanks to Jimmy Alvarado, Cuss Baxter, Donofthedead, Aphid Peewit, Mike Beer, Puckett, 

and Wanda Spragg for their reviews; newsprint on the light switch thanks to Greg Barbara and Speedway Randy for their book and zine reviews; 

fuck this job, 52-hour Greyhound bus ride thanks to Not Josh for all of his reviews and coming out to visit us.

* 

www.razorcake.com • PO Box 42129, Los Angeles, CA 90042 

Issue #17, December 2003/ January 2004 

“I can see that otter’s dick” 

–From the liner notes to the posthumously released Wesley Willis Greatest Hits – Volume 3 

Sean Carswell ......................... A Monkey to Ride the Dog .................... pg. 4 

Art ........................................................... Shizzville!! ............................. pg. 7 

Rev. Nørb ............................................... Love, Nørb .................................. pg. 8 

The Rhythm Chicken .................. The Dinghole Reports ....................... pg. 12 

Maddy .............................................. Shiftless When Idle. ..................... pg. 16 

Rich Mackin .................................. The Twisted Balloon ....................... pg. 18 

Nardwuar The Human Serviette ..... Who Are You? ............................ pg. 22 

Gary Hornberger .......................... Squeeze My Horn ............................... pg. 28 

Designated Dale .................................. I’m Against It ........................pg. 32 

Tito ......................................... Nom De Plume .................................. pg. 36 

Ayn Imperato.................................. 90803 ....................................................pg. 38 

Patricia Geary .............................. Don’t Hold Your Breath ................. pg. 40 

Money .................................................... Lazy Mick ......................................... pg. 42 

Ben Snakepit ......................................... Snakepit ......................................... pg. 47 

* * * * * 

The Immortal Lee County Killers II.... Interview by Bradley Williams .... pg. 48 

Grabass Charlestons ..................... Interview by Todd Taylor .................... pg. 54 

Red Onions ........ Interview by Petite Paquet ...................................................... pg. 62 

AntiSeen .......................... Interview by Art Ettinger ............................. pg. 66 

Wesley Willis ...... Remembrance by Scott “Biscuithead” Cox-Stanton .... pg. 72 

Dan Monick Photo Page ........ Dead Soldiers Litter the Battlefield ......... pg. 77 

* * * * * 

Record Reviews ................. I'm Not Sure If It's a Joke Or Not, 

but I Know I'm Not Listening to It Twice .................... pg. 78 

Zine Reviews ... A Loose Wad of Half-Chewed Tarantula Parts .......... pg. 104 

Book Reviews .. Over 100,000 People Were Killed in Less Than 24 Hours ... pg. 110 

Video Reviews .. Music Videos Need "Plot" Like Porno Movies Need "Plot" ... pg. 112 

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SEAN CARSWELL 

SEAN CARSWELL 

My Mom the 

Rock’n’Roller 

(Sean’s note: My mom used to go to 

all of the Alan Freed rock and roll 

shows back in the mid to late fifties, 

and when I was growing up, she 

would tell me stories about them. 

I’ve always thought that they were 

great stories, so I got my mom to 

tell me about going to her very first 

show. I did a bit of research to fill in 

the details that she couldn’t remember, 

and I wrote out this story from 

her perspective [so as you’re reading, 

the “I” in the story is not me. 

It’s my mom. I was never a thirteen 

year-old girl]. For all of us who 

still go to rock’n’roll shows, here’s 

an account of what it was like fifty 

years ago, when rock’n’roll was 

just a baby.) 

Cathy Lobasso’s uncle agreed 

to take us all to the show. I was so 

excited. My father would ordinarily 

never let me go. I think it was 

because I was the only girl in a 

family of three boys. My brothers 

could do whatever they wanted, but 

whenever I asked my father if I 

could do something, his automatic 

answer was, “No.” 

This was different, though. 

Cathy and I could take the bus to 

the Long Island Railroad, like we’d 

done a hundred times before, and 

her uncle would meet us at the 

Jamaica station and take us the rest 

of the way to the Brooklyn 

Paramount, where we’d see our 

first Alan Freed rock and roll show. 

Since we’d know where we were 

going and we had adult supervision, 

my father couldn’t say no. 

He did say no, of course. My 

father hated rock and roll. He 

always used to tell me, “That god- 

damn music will never last.” He 

would only let me listen to it in my 

room, with the door closed. But 

almost every night after dinner, I’d 

go into my bedroom and tune in 

Alan Freed’s rock and roll radio 

show on WINS New York. Alan 

Freed was the best. He had a good 

4 ear for music. If he 

A MONKEY TO RIDE THE DOG 

...she came out on stage wearing a skin-tight silver dress, looking very ladylike. 

Then, she picked up her trombone and started blowing. The crowd went crazy. 

liked a song and he played it, you 

knew it would be a hit. He was one 

of the first white DJs to play music 

by black musicians. He didn’t seem 

to care what color you were, as 

long as the music was good. He 

was also one of the first DJs – black 

or white – to play guys like Little 

Richard, Fats Domino, and Chuck 

Berry on the radio. Remember, this 

was before record companies made 

cheap forty-fives. The only records 

were the big seventy-eights, and 

they were expensive. We never had 

enough money to buy records, and 

even if we had had the money, my 

family didn’t have a record player. 

So the only way I could listen to 

rock and roll was when Alan 

Freed’s show was on the radio. And 

I listened to it all the time. I learned 

to dance while listening to his show 

in my bedroom. 

In late 1954, he started promoting 

rock and roll shows at the 

Brooklyn Paramount. He’d book 

ten or twelve acts to perform over 

the course of about an hour and a 

half. There was a house band that 

would play the music for all the 

acts, because the show was mostly 

doo-wop bands. They could sing 

and dance, but they didn’t play any 

instruments. Sometimes there were 

musicians like Jerry Lee Lewis and 

Chuck Berry who played the piano 

or guitar, but even they needed the 

house band to round out their sound 

with drums and guitars and all. 

Each act would do one song, and, at 

the end of the show, a feature act – 

whichever act had more than one 

hit – would play two or three songs. 

The shows always sold out. 

Everyone at my high school went to 

them, and they always talked about 

how much fun they were. So when 

Cathy’s uncle said he’d take us, I 

couldn’t wait. I talked to my mom 

about it. I told her how much I 

wanted to go and she told me, “You 

can go. I’ll talk your dad into it.” 

Cathy and I met her uncle and 

her cousin at the Jamaica station. 

Her cousin was our age – thirteen 

or fourteen – and she was dressed 

in the typical teenage uniform of 

the time. We all wore jeans and saddle 

shoes and cardigan sweaters 

that we wore backwards. Cathy’s 

cousin also wore a scarf. Her uncle, 

though, looked like the typical, little 

Italian man you used to see 

around New York in the fifties. He 

wore a suit even though it was 

Saturday, and he had a copy of the 

Daily News tucked under his arm. 

He nodded to us and steered us onto 

the subway. As soon as we got on 

the train, he opened up his Daily 

News and started reading. He didn’t 

say a word to us. 

We got off at our stop and 

walked up to the Brooklyn 

Paramount. We were more than an 

hour early, and a line had already 

formed outside the Paramount. We 

got in line. Cathy, her cousin, and I 

were so excited that we couldn’t 

stop talking about the acts we were 

going to see and all. Cathy’s uncle 

just pulled the Daily News out from 

under his arm again and stood there 

reading it. 

As more people got in line 

behind us, more activity started to 

build around the Paramount. A lot 

of the singers in the rock and roll 

shows were guys and girls who’d 

started by singing on the street corners, 

and who were discovered 

there. That’s how Dion and The 

Belmonts – the guys who did 

“Little Runaway” and “The 

Wanderer” – got discovered. They 

used to stand on a corner on 

Belmont Avenue in the Bronx, 

making up songs, and a record 

company guy heard them there and 

signed them to a record contract. It 

seemed like every corner in the 

Boroughs had five guys standing 

there, singing doo-wop songs in 

those days. All of those doo-wop 

guys dreamed of being discovered, 

of having one hit song and playing 

the rock and roll shows. So different 

groups of doo-woppers hung 

out outside the Paramount, singing 

songs for everyone in line, hoping 

Alan Freed or someone would discover 

them. 

While we were standing there, 

we could also see the different acts 

coming in. We didn’t know who 

was who. We knew their music, but 

we’d never seen any of the musicians. 

We didn’t know what they 

looked like. There was a group of 

girls behind us, though, who had 

been to these shows before and 

knew who everyone was. We’d be 

standing there and one of the girls 

would say, “There’s The 

Flamingos,” and everyone would 

be talking at once, trying to get the 

attention of one of the guys in the 

band. The band members would 

smile and wave and sometimes stop 

to sign an autograph or two. You 

could tell the performers loved all 

the attention. They were just kids a 

few years older than us, and this 

was their way off of whatever street 

they were from. 

With all the activity, the wait in 

line didn’t seem too long, and, at 

one o’clock, the doors opened. You 

couldn’t buy tickets ahead of time. 

It was all first come, first serve. It 

was the same way with the seats. 

You could just take whatever seat 

you wanted, so we raced up front. 

We wanted to be as close to the 

stage as possible. We ended up sitting 

in the third or fourth row from 

the stage. The seats would be great 

for the show, but not so great for the 

movie. You see, before the rock and 

roll show started, they’d always 

show a full-length movie. 

Because they charged so little 

to get in and they had to pay all the 

performers, they didn’t spend any 

money getting a good movie. They 

always showed the worst movies in 

the world. I remember this one had 

something to do with giant 

grasshoppers taking over the world. 

No one watched the movie. 

Everyone in the place seemed to be 

talking. Everyone except Cathy’s 

uncle, who fell asleep as soon as 

the lights went down. 

We talked all through the 

movie. We were so excited; we 

couldn’t wait for the bands to start. 

I’d like to say that we ignored the 

movie, but when you’re in the third 

row and these giant grasshoppers

keep hopping around on the screen 

right in front of you, you can’t really 

ignore it. It was awful. 

Finally, the movie ended. The 

spotlight turned onto the stage and 

Alan Freed walked out to the 

microphone. He was a sharp guy. 

He wore a plaid blazer and slacks 

and a black bow tie and parted his 

hair to the side with a little bit of 

pomade. There was nothing too 

flashy or loud about it. He was just 

a really gung ho guy. He loved the 

music. He was excited about it, and 

he wanted everyone else to be as 

excited as he was. And it wasn’t 

that he didn’t have an ego. He had 

a big ego. It was his rock and roll 

show, after all. These performers 

were where they were because of 

him. It was his radio show that 

everyone listened to. It was his promotion 

that brought everyone here. 

He was even the first guy to use the 

term “rock and roll” to describe 

music (before that, “rock and roll” 

was ghetto slang for sex). But Alan 

Freed knew all of this and everyone 

knew it, so he didn’t have to play it 

up. He just introduced the acts, said 

really flattering things about them, 

and let the performers do their 

thing. 

The first act on that night was 

The Penguins. They’d just had a hit 

with the song, “Earth Angel.” As 

soon as their song started, the 

crowd went nuts. Cathy, her cousin, 

and I all jumped up from our seats 

and started screaming. It seemed 

like everyone did. We couldn’t really 

dance much. We had to stay in 

front of our seats. There were ushers 

who walked up and down the 

aisles, making sure that everyone 

stayed in line. They wouldn’t let 

you dance in the aisles, and they 

didn’t even like it when you got up 

from your seat. So all the kids 

would stand in front of their seats, 

jumping and screaming and singing 

along to “Earth Angel.” In the 

meantime, Cathy’s uncle just sat 

there, reading his Daily News. The 

Penguins did all their synchronized 

dance moves and sang their song, 

then left the stage. 

Alan Freed came out and introduced 

the next band. It was The 

Nutmegs. I don’t remember what 

The Nutmegs’ big hit was at the 

time. I think it was “Story Untold.” 

I remember The Nutmegs, though, 

because they all dressed in matching 

gold lamé suits. I guess because 

they thought it looked like the 

spice, nutmeg. I don’t know. They 

had the synchronized dance moves, 

too. All of the doo-wop bands did. 

It was the cool thing to do at the 

time. 

All of the performers weren’t 

doo-wop, though. We also saw 

Lillian Briggs that night. Alan 

Freed called her the trombone- 

playing truck driver. She was one 

of Alan Freed’s favorites. He 

booked her at a bunch of his rock 

and roll shows. And she really had 

been a truck driver. Before she’d 

been discovered as a musician, she 

drove a laundry truck in Allentown, 

Pennsylvania. That night, though, 

she came out on stage wearing a 

skin-tight silver dress, looking very 

ladylike. Then, she picked up her 

trombone and started blowing. The 

crowd went crazy. We all loved her. 

She sang her big hit, “I Want You to 

Be My Baby.” 

About ten different acts came 

on stage in a row. They all did one 

song apiece. With the exception of 

Lillian Briggs, almost all of the performers 

were black. Even the house 

band was mostly black, because 

before Alan Freed started pushing 

rock and roll, he did the 

“Moondog” radio show, which was 

all rhythm and blues, and before his 

rock and roll shows, he put on R&B 

shows with guys like Muddy 

Waters. Most of the musicians in 

his house band were holdovers 

from the Moondog days. 

I don’t remember the race of 

the musicians being a big deal, 

though. A lot of the press made it 

out to be a big deal. They wrote 

about rock and roll as if it were the 

end of civilization. Life magazine 

ran a big article that talked about 

the “frenzy” and “juvenile delinquency” 

of this new form of music. 

The worst thing, according to Life 

and the rest of the reporters writing 

about it, was that all these white 

kids were listening to black music. 

But we never thought about it that 

way. It wasn’t black music or white 

music. It was just rock and roll. 

When I was a kid growing up in 

Long Island, race wasn’t a big 

issue. At least I don’t remember it 

being a big issue. I have a friend 

named Ida Miller. She’s my age and 

she lived in New York when she 

was a teenager. When her family 

first moved to New York, Ida didn’t 

know one neighborhood from the 

other. She heard that Little Richard 

was playing at the Apollo, and she 

wanted to see him, so Ida and her 

sister took the subway to Harlem to 

watch Little Richard play. They 

were the only two white girls in the 

Apollo that day, but no one hassled 

them. 5 

SEAN CARSWELL

SEAN CARSWELL 

When we went to the shows in 

Brooklyn, the crowd was pretty 

well mixed, ethnically speaking, 

too. It was Brooklyn, after all. You 

get all kinds there. I never gave it a 

thought. 

Race was a big deal in other 

places, though. In the fifties, there 

were “white” radio stations and 

“black” radio stations in the South. 

The “white” radio stations would- 

n’t play any of the hits by the 

famous black stars like Little 

Richard or Fats Domino, even 

though those guys were from the 

South. Instead, white musicians 

like Pat Boone and The Diamonds 

would listen to the radio in the 

northeast, and, as soon as a song 

became a hit, Pat Boone or The 

Diamonds or someone like them 

would go into the studio and record 

the song. So the white stations 

wouldn’t play Little Richard’s version 

of “Tutti Fruitti,” but Pat 

Boone had a big hit with his version 

of the same song. 

The white versions of the songs 

usually weren’t as good. The difference 

was really obvious if you listened 

to the radio show that came 

on after Alan Freed’s, Jocko and 

His Rocket Ship. Jocko was a black 

DJ, and he played really soulful 

music, like Sam Cooke songs and 

Ray Charles songs. For a while, he 

always played a song called 

“Hearts of Stone” by a black group 

called The Charms. When you 

heard The Charms do “Hearts of 

Stone,” it was a really low down 

song with a kind of “bop-bopboom” 

bass to it. After “Hearts of 

Stone” became a hit, a white, 

female group called the Fontane 

Sisters covered it, and they took the 

low down song and sang it like a 

bunch of perky cheerleaders. Their 

version was really white bread. It 

was a different thing altogether. 

Anyway, getting back to the 

show, Cathy, her cousin, and I got 

to see The Penguins, The Nutmegs, 

The Flamingos, Lillian Briggs, and 

about a half dozen more acts all do 

one song each. During the whole 

show, the energy in the Paramount 

was incredible. Everyone was 

screaming and jumping around, but 

staying in front of their seats. 

Cathy’s uncle kept reading his 

Daily News. At the end of the show, 

Alan Freed came out and introduced 

one of his all-time favorites, 

Fats Domino. Fats Domino had 

been doing Alan Freed shows since 

Alan Freed was still the Moondog, 

but Fats Domino was more rock 

and roll than R&B. He came out 

and belted through two or three of 

his hits at the time: “Blueberry 

Hill” or “Ain’t That a Shame” or 

“I’m in Love Again.” When he was 

done, Alan Freed came back out, 

thanked everyone for coming, and 

that was it. Including the hour and 

a half movie before the show, the 

whole thing only lasted about three 

hours. 

The house lights came on. 

Cathy’s uncle folded up his newspaper, 

stuck it back under his arm, 

and stood to leave. The ushers were 

quick to clear everyone out. As we 

left, we saw another line stretching 

down the side of the Paramount and 

around the corner. It was full of 

teenagers waiting to see the day’s 

four o’clock show. 

We walked back to the subway, 

and Cathy’s uncle and cousin rode 

with us all the way to the Jamaica 

station. When we got off, we 

thanked Cathy’s uncle for taking 

us. He said, “You’re welcome.” I 

think it was the only thing he’d said 

all day. 

Over the next few years, I went 

to something like twenty to twentyfive 

different Alan Freed rock and 

roll shows at the Brooklyn 

Paramount and the New York 

Paramount (after the Brooklyn one 

was torn down). I saw a whole 

bunch of the big, rock and roll pioneers. 

I saw Chuck Berry do his 

duck-strut across the stage. He was 

amazing, and he was a feature act, 

so I got to see a few of his songs. I 

saw Screamin’ Jay Hawkins jump 

around, waving a shrunken head on 

a stick, singing “I Put a Spell on 

You.” I saw The Platters sing “Only 

You” and “The Great Pretender.” I 

saw Little Richard stomp on the 

piano and sing, “Good golly, Miss 

Molly, she sure like to ball.” I had 

no idea what he was talking about 

until I was much older, but I sang 

along, anyway. (I also found out 

much later that the original words 

to “Tutti Fruitti” were “Tutti 

Fruitti, good booty,” but the studio 

made Little Richard change “good 

booty” to “aw, rootti” when he was 

recording it.) 

I saw the Big Bopper before he 

got into that plane with Buddy 

Holly and Ritchie Valens. I saw 

Sam Cooke before he had a onenight 

stand with a woman who 

robbed him, and he got shot and 

killed trying to run her down. I saw 

The Shirelles sing, “Will You Still 

Love Me Tomorrow?” I saw Dion 

and The Belmonts sing “Little 

Runaway” and Little Anthony and 

the Imperials sing “Tears on My 

Pillow.” I saw Frankie Lymon and 

The Teenagers before Frankie 

Lymon’s voice changed and he 

could no longer hit the high notes 

that made him famous. To tell the 

truth, I can’t remember who else I 

saw play, but the shows were 

always different and they were 

always fun. 

After high school, I moved to 

upstate New York to go to college. 

During my first year there, a few of 

the major record companies insisted 

that songs by independent 

record companies were becoming 

hits only because the independent 

companies were paying DJs to play 

their songs. It was called “payola.” 

The majors urged Congress to 

investigate the practice of payola. 

Congress focused their investigation 

on two famous DJs: Dick 

Clark and Alan Freed. This was in 

1960. I don’t know if either of them 

had done anything, but WINS fired 

Alan Freed when the investigation 

started. It pretty much killed his 

career. He tried to get back on the 

He was even the first guy to use the term “rock and roll” to describe music 

(before that, “rock and roll” was ghetto slang for sex). But Alan Freed knew 

all of this and everyone knew it, so he didn’t have to play it up. 

radio a few times, but nothing 

worked. He basically drank himself 

to death by 1965. Nothing ended up 

happening to Dick Clark, though. 

He kept doing American 

Bandstand. 

No one could replace Alan 

Freed after that. A few DJs tried to 

fill his shoes, but it wasn’t the 

same. There was something about 

him and his shows. He was so gung 

ho, and there was just this sense of 

everything being fresh and new. 

A bunch of those old performers 

are dead now. A lot of them got 

famous and suddenly had a lot of 

money when they were used to 

having nothing, and they killed 

themselves with drugs and wild living. 

A lot of them had one hit and 

went back to being nobody again. 

A few of these old acts still perform. 

I’ve seen some of their 

reunion shows on TV. It’s funny to 

see these seventy-year-old guys 

singing songs about teenage love, 

but I still love those songs. I think 

it’s funny, too, that, fifty years ago, 

my father told me that rock and roll 

would never last, and it’s still 

around now. 

Music has always been like 

that, though. One generation never 

seems to understand the music of 

the generation that comes after 

them. Parents rarely understand 

their kids’ music. They never think 

it will last, when really, it’s not that 

different. It’s just the next step in a 

long musical progression. 

When I think about this, I 

always think about Cathy 

Lobasso’s uncle, because he didn’t 

care about rock and roll at all. He 

just read his paper through the 

whole thing, through all my 

favorite bands and all the songs that 

are the soundtrack to my generation. 

It was like he wasn’t even 

there. He tuned the whole thing out 

because the three of us wanted to 

go, and he knew that we could only 

go if he took us. He was a good 

sport. Without him, I may have 

never made it to any of those rock 

and roll shows. 

–Sean Carswell

I 

I have terrible news for the world: I may have 

been the last known humanoid to sing karaoke to 

a Sheb Wooley song whilst the redoubtable Sheb 

was still among the living. But wait! It gets 

worse! Okay, granted, it doesn’t get any worse if 

you’re Sheb Wooley; for the non-Sheb demographic, 

however, as the butcher told the young 

German housewife, the würst is yet to 

come. How much worse, Rev. Nørb? 

Well, i dunno: How much time ya got? 

How much time (TIME!) ya got ticktick-tickin’ 

in your head? Has time 

come today? Can you give me anything 

but time? Is time on your side? 

Etc.? Well, first off (or are we already 

on “next off?”), i finally got some 

decent hate mail (well, “hate e-mail” 

is actually the more technically correct 

term, but, you know, as long as 

the hate is there, i’m happy), so bloated 

and juicy with comedic rebuttal 

potential that i spent the last two 

months or so dancing in place with 

mischievous glee a la Dave Roller, 

just waiting for the chance to STRIKE 

– to merrily sever the metaphorical 

head of the plaintiff with a rusty waffle 

iron and display it on a pike to 

amuse friends, scare off enemies, and 

vex the overly front-yard-conscious 

neighbors – and then i fuckin’ go and 

ACCIDENTALLY DELETE ALL 

MY E-MAILS, including the offending 

gripe in question, WHICH, i have 

no doubt, WOULD HAVE SURELY 

SERVED TO RESUSCITATE MY FLAGGING 

CAREER AS THE PUNK ROCK EQUIVA- 

LENT OF TRIUMPH, THE COMIC INSULT 

DOG, thereby DELIVERING PLANET EARF 

UNTO A NEW GOLDEN AGE OF MERRY 

BILE AND CONTENTIOUSNESS, with 

myself as the highly-regarded and well-compensated 

point guard, o’ course. As a result, i (and, 

by implication, you) am left with only the following 

single (analog) letter – carried for 

months in my back pocket, and molded by sweat 

and heat to the form of my highly analog buttocks 

– to base a column around this issue: 

“Dear Rev. Nørb: What do you think explains 

the large number of Portland (OR) based comic 

artists, zine & misc. indy media types?” This 

fiery screed comes to us from a Mr. NAK of 

Attica, NY, who also identifies himself as “Stir 

Krazy Editor,” which raises more questions than 

it answers. Well, S.K., the truth of the matter is 

this: I’ve never-ever-ever in my long-legged life 

been to Portland, or anywhere in Oregon, for 

8 that matter – it always struck me 

REV. N0RB ø 

I 

REV. N0RB 

LOVE, N0RB 

NEEDLESS TO SAY, A 364-POUND BLACK MALE SCREAMING OBSCENITIES 

AT THE VOICES IN HIS HEAD IN PUBLIC PLACES IS GENERALLY 

FERTILE GROUNDS FOR MISINTERPRETATION. 

as the kind of place where facial hair and hiking 

boots were continually in vogue, and, hell, that’s 

just for the wimmenfolk. My gut feeling is that 

the underground creative types always tend to 

gravitate to where the good cement is, and, i 

mean, if one can’t score quality cement in 

Portland, where might one be expected to score 

WES AFTER RECENT BOXCUTTER-INDUCED 

HELLRIDE, 1992 

it? (for those scoring at home, “portland cement” 

is a hydraulic cement made by finely pulverizing 

the clinker produced by calcining to incipient 

fusion a mixture of clay and limestone or similar 

materials) Of course, the real reason is, most 

likely, that Asian slave labor (must... resist... 

joke... must... resist... joke...) affords multinational 

corporations like Nike enough extra 

jack that some of it is bound to eventually trickle 

back down into the communities where 

they’re headquartered; money, like drugs, is the 

type of thing where if you got enough of it 

bouncing around your community, you’re gonna 

wind up getting your hands on enough of it to 

get by – so, ultimately, the reason why one’d 

assume that marginalized aesthetic types cluster 

around Portland – if, indeed, not for the cement 

– is that Sri Lankan sweatshops bolster the 

area’s collective disposable income enough that 

ventures that would be flatly unprofitable in 

other areas of the country are actually able to 

scrape by there. See? Just like Ronnie said! 

Trickle-down economics DOES work! Well, as i 

I 

said, either that or the cement. Again, i’m not 

sure, as i’ve never been there, though i can say 

that i’ve always really fucking loathed Bill 

Walton (Dear Bill: Fred Gwynne called. He 

wants his act back), and i never rooted for the 

Lakers one day in my life (having nothing to do 

with the Lakers’ aggravating combination of 

glitz and success and everything to do 

with my Bucks’ Kareem Abdul- 

Jabbar v. the Lakers’ Wilt 

Chamberlain being the marquee NBA 

matchup when i was a five year-old) 

until the Portland Trail Blazers pulled 

that “Hack-a-Shaq” shit in the 1998 (i 

think?) Western Conference Finals, at 

which point in time i prayed to the 

golden calf of Baal (one thing you 

gotta say about Baal... he got his ass 

kicked by God a few times... but the 

guy was a true Baaler) that Shaq 

would perform a two-handed reverse 

dunk on (Portland coach Mike) 

Dunleavy, and leave him hanging 

upside down in the hoop that the 

ospreys who will certainly one day 

make feast of his liver get a head start 

right then and there. But soft! What 

light over yonder window breaks??? 

Do i seem... say... BITTER in some 

wise regarding Portland in general, 

and Nike in specific? And, whyso- 

ever would an even-keeled gent like 

myself wield such a burden of 

grumpitude? Could it possibly be that, 

say, oh, i don’t know, i, at one point in 

time, owned 10,149 shares of Converse 

stock? And that Nike bought out Converse 

this year??? And that, mais naturellement, i’m 

thinkin’ “YEAH, BAYBEE! MY FAITH IN 

THE VERITABLE SOLE OF THE SCENE 

HAS FINALLY PAID OFF! BABY I’M A RICH 

MAN! BABY I’M A RICH MAN! BABY I’M A 

RICH FAG JEW!” (er, delete the untoward 

Beatles reference there if you see fit), only to 

find that i actually DON’T own the 10,149 

shares of Converse i own, because 

Converse had declared bankruptcy, then 

“reorganized,” THEN was purchased by 

Nike? Like, my 10,149 shares of the CHUCK 

TAYLOR WORLD EMPIRE were somehow 

rendered completely NULL AND VOID for 

JUST LONG ENOUGH that Nike could 

swoosh in (har!) and take them and now i got 

NOTHING? Not to put too fine a point on it, but 

HOW EZZACTLY THE MOTHERFUCKING 

FUCK DOES THAT SHIT FUCKING 

WORK??? Who the hell is in charge of making 

up these rules, Brad at Rhetoric? How does the

company i own 10,149 shares of manage to 

strike my 10,149 shares from the book, and 

THEN sell the company??? ALL THIS SHIT 

WAS DEVISED SPECIFICALLY TO PISS ME 

OFF, WASN’T IT??? But wait! But wait! My 

black cat bone of contention protrudes even further 

thru the gaping wound! This “Holiday 

Season” (that means “Christmas,” but i’m not 

sure if people are allowed to say “Christmas” 

any more), i found myself at an after-bar party 

with some formerly-local twenty-year-old lass (i 

know, i know... a little old for me, but what the 

hey, i’m desperate) and her similarly formerlylocal 

twenty-year-old female roommate, and 

similarly formerly-local roommate is blathering 

ON and ON to me about the magnificence of 

Portland, where the bot’ of ‘em now live: “Oh, 

Rev. Nørb, the TOLERANCE that is in evidence 

upon the gilt-edged streets of my newfound 

community! Humans of EVERY POSSIBLE 

sexual orientation, all milling about the avenues 

and thoroughfares as one, untrammeled by the 

small-town myopia that makes Green Bay such 

an unlivable pit of small-town yuck! All may 

exist in harmony, to pursue life, liberty, and the 

orifice(s) of their choice, with nary a look 

askance! Every shape! Every size! Every race, 

color and creed! We exist as one, whipped to a 

homogeneous slurry like Hostess Fruit Pie 

filling by the depths of our divine TOLER- 

ANCE! UNITY IN THE COMMUNITY, 

MOTHERFUCKER!!!” Approximately twenty 

minutes later, the same chick who was giving me 

the speech about the majesty of Portland’s “tolerance” 

had her friend in the bathroom, 

reading her the riot act 

because she and i were making 

out. It was great. I’m standing by 

the door, jingling my car keys, 

waiting for Girl A to emerge from 

the bathroom, the door flies open, 

Girl A bursts out, Girl B yanks 

Girl A back in the bathroom, 

yelling “GODDAMMIT, GIRL A, 

HE’S THIRTY-SIX FUCKING 

YEARS OLD!!!”, the door slams 

shut, more yelling, more jingling... 

it was all i could do to restrain 

myself from kicking in the bathroom 

door, grabbing Girl B by the 

lapels, if such a thing even were 

present, and screaming “FUCK 

YOU, YA CUNT! I’M NOT 

THIRTY-SIX FUCKING YEARS 

OLD!!! I’M THIRTY-SEVEN 

FUCKING YEARS OLD!!! NOW 

LET ME FUCK YOUR FRIEND 

BEFORE I SEND YOU BACK 

TO PORTLAND IN A GOD- 

DAMN CEMENT MIXER!!!” ...i 

mean, if a were a forty-year-old 

black guy who liked wearing bras and giving 

blowjobs to seventy-year-old white colostomy 

patients, HEY, SURE, NO PROBLEM! PORT- 

LAND WELCOMES YOU! But a perfectly normal 

thirty-seven-year-old weird caucasian dude 

who’s caught the fancy of your twenty-year-old 

roommate? WHEEEET!!! WHEEEET!!! 

EVERYBODY OUT OF THE POOL!!! A 

GROSS ABOMINATION OF THIS NATURE 

CANNOT BE COUNTENANCED!!! Needless 

to say, the fact that i view Portland as a scurvy 

swab-pit full of stock-swiping slave-mongers 

and cock-blocking wenches can not help but 

addle my general perceptions of the community 

in a negative sense; mitigating this is the fact 

that, as of about 10:33 PM CDT 1 October 2003 

A.D., the Epoxies are likely the best band in the 

world (the qualifier “likely” does, in fact, indicate 

a certain hedging of the bets, true: However, 

i compensate for this vacillation by stating, in no 

uncertain terms, that as of about two Fridays 

ago, Pink Reason from Green Bay WI are the 

absolute worst band i’ve seen in my life, by a 

long shot, without question, and i am kind of 

old, so i’ve seen a lot of really horrible shit in 

my day, so this should certainly stand up). The 

reasoning behind this is four-fold: 1. Their 

records are good; 2. Their live show is good; 3. 

The underlying concept behind the band is good; 

4. I forced a reclusive friend of mine to come out 

and see them and not only did she love the band, 

she wound up having sex with me that night. 

THE MATH SAYS “PARTY ON!!!” WHICH, 

OF COURSE, brings me back to the original 

thrust of my grumblins: On the selfsame night i 

last saw the Epoxies (and formulated the thought 

that, hmmm, shit, i’m kinda getting somewhat a 

little bit sure that this is, in fact, the best band in 

the world), their immediate stage predecessors, 

the Returnables (a fairly great band whose 

Unrequited Hits CD was carelessly and erroneously 

left off my Top Ten of 2002 list) (sorry, 

operator error) played an Exploding Hearts 

cover, presumably for the very reason of playing 

up the Portland connection without actually 

invoking cement or making out with girls seventeen 

years one’s junior or Asian slave labor or 

the like (and, at this point in time, i assume you, 

the merry reader, are saying “by gosh, Rev. 

NOTE BRUISE IN MIDDLE OF FOREHEAD 

FROM LIFETIME OF BUPPING HAIDS 

Nørb, we have yet to hear you utter comment #1 

regarding the Exploding Hearts. Please slake our 

thirst for eternal knowledge regarding your feelings 

on this tragedy-wraught ensemble, remembering 

all the while, of course, that there is NO 

FOOD NOR DRINK allowed in the library,” to 

which i can only respond: “um, i’m not sure.” 

First things first, however: Very real sympathies 

to the family and friends of the members killed 

in the crash. Further, i offer up whatever inadequate 

sympathies i can give to the surviving 

member of the band. I’ve had two bandmates die 

in car crashes over the course of my rock’n’roll 

lifespan, and it’s not the kind of thing one can 

fully articulate to anyone who hasn’t experi- 

enced it – just as, i assume, having a parent or 

sibling die would be. These types of events tend 

to yield pains with a pretty f’n long half-life; i 

can’t even imagine what the surviving guy 

is/will be going through. For the rest of his life. 

See, i told you it got worse. Anyway, my take on 

the Exploding Hearts album is this: I dunno, i 

only listened to it once. Reason being that it 

went “doon-doon-doon, da doon-doon, da-doonda-doon-da” 

in not ONE but TWO different 

songs [don’t know the titles offhand – like i said, 

i only listened to the album once]. Why THIS 

has any bearing dates back to the first time i 

heard the Strokes: Once upon a time, there was 

some late-night after-bar convocation at my 

friend/ex-bandmate Erik’s house. Eventually, a 

female guest was able to finagle the Strokes 

debut album onto the stereo [chicks are like that] 

[or so i hear]. I had never even heard o’ the band 

before, but, apparently, some veritably 

DuChampian ready-made argument was already 

in place, whereby the hills were more or less 

alive with the sounds of drunken and impassioned 

“THE STROKES ARE THE NEXT BIG 

THING AND THEY RULE!” v. “THE 

STROKES ARE THE NEXT BIG THING AND 

THEY SUCK!” discourse. Being an even-keeled 

Scientist, of course, i just sat on the sofa [futon, 

actually] and drank more and listened. For a 

while, i just shrugged: Eh, i guess they’re doing 

a halfway decent impersonation of VU era 

Velvet Underground [if such a thing even really 

exists], who the fuck even cares? Can i have 

some more chips? But then...THEN! The 

Strokes veered into the one territory 

into which all Rock Propriety 

insists they Should Not Veer! 

They went “doon-doon-doon, da 

doon-doon, da-doon-da-doon-da.” 

I leapt to my feet. “I HATE THIS 

BAND!!! THIS BAND ARE A 

BUNCH OF FAGS, AND THEY 

SUCK!!! They go ‘doon-doondoon, 

da doon-doon, da-doon-dadoon-da,’ 

and i HATE ‘doondoon-doon, 

da doon-doon, dadoon-da-doon-da!!!’ 

FUUUUUU- 

UUUCCCCCCKKKKKK YOU- 

UUUUUUUUU!!! [or words to 

that effect!]” In any event, this led 

to a 4 AM screaming match about 

the validity of “doon-doon-doon, 

da doon-doon, da-doon-da-doon- 

da.” My feelings on “doon-doondoon, 

da doon-doon, da-doon-dadoon-da” 

are that, like a penis, it’s 

fine if it goes where it’s supposed 

to go – which would be in vague- 

ly catchy/aggravating faux-soul 

AM radio hits like “You Can’t 

Hurry Love” and “Walking on 

Sunshine.” If, however, “doon-doon-doon, da 

doon-doon, da-doon-da-doon-da” winds up in a 

more, say, ROCK context – “It’s Not My Place” 

by the Ramones, “A Town Called Malice” by the 

Jam, “Touch Me” [ugh] by the Doors – it is as 

unwelcome as a fully erect penis ravaging one’s 

anal tract unbidden would be. I mean, “doondoon-doon, 

da doon-doon, da-doon-da-doon-da” 

is, to me, the first last refuge of the aesthetically 

bankrupt [the aesthetically bankrupt generally 

have more than one last refuge; how they are 

able to pull off such a dazzling musical feat is 

unknown to this correspondent]; the tell-tale 

Mark O’ Cain of the musical scoundrel; the 

white flag hoisted on the fifth or 

9 

REV. N0RB 

I

REV. N0RB 

I 

sixth album by a band whose initial impetus has 

run the fuck right on outta gas. The presence of 

“doon-doon-doon, da doon-doon, da-doon-dadoon-da” 

on the Strokes first album, to me, 

indicated that the band did, in fact, blow dog, 

and should fuck right the fuck on off. In point of 

fact, my entire argument against the Strokes that 

night – and every night, and any night – was, 

cleanly and simply, predicated on the fact that 

they did “doon-doon-doon, da doon-doon, dadoon-da-doon-da,” 

and i HATE “doon-doondoon, 

da doon-doon, da-doon-da-doon-da,” 

save for special circumstances mentioned 

earlier. The end. Case closed. 

Pencils in the trays. WELL! Some 

time later, i acquire and plop the 

Exploding Hearts album on my 

turntable, and it’s fucking GREAT. 

Or so i think. Until i hear the sound 

that freezes the lymph in my 

unapologetically Burroughsian 

nodes: “DOON-DOON-DOON, DA 

DOON-DOON, DA-DOON-DA- 

DOON-DA.” I am paralyzed. 

“DOON-DOON-DOON, DA 


DOON-DA” is, was, and has always 

been the sure sign of the poseur, the 

spiritual leper – and here said bugaboo 

is, manifesting itself in the 

unseemly temple of what had 

appeared to be a top-notch album. 

SO! I’m reeling with the various perplexities 

that surround such a discovery, 

unsure what should be made of 

the confounding presence of 

“DOON-DOON-DOON, DA 


DOON-DA” in such an incongruous 

setting – i mean, do i press charges? 

petition for a redress of grievances? 

request a written apology? – when, IN A COM- 

PLETELY DIFFERENT SONG, i hear 

“DOON-DOON-DOON, DA DOON-DOON, 

DA-DOON-DA-DOON-DA!” I’ve come 

Undun! I pull the record off the turntable. This 

record is good – possibly even great – yet it 

exhibits a characteristic i find to be an immediate 

disqualification over the course of my studies 

in the Scholarly Contemplation of All 

Things Rocking. I decide i will mull over That 

Which I Have Heard, and play the record again 

some time in the future, when my objective 

judgment is not quite so clouded by the upperlevel 

Chinese Calculus of “DOON-DOON- 

DOON, DA DOON-DOON, DA-DOON-DA- 

DOON-DA.” Whilst i am in the process of so 

processing the initial troubling data, i get word 

that three-fourths of the band have been killed 

in a van crash. So NOW what do i do? 

Obviously, in light of current events, there is no 

way to be legitimately objective about the 

record any more; i couldn’t even come to terms 

with it when the entire band was alive. What if 

i play it again, and decide the band can get 

posthumously fucked because they go “DOON- 

DOON-DOON, DA DOON-DOON, DA- 

DOON-DA-DOON-DA?” I mean, thinking 

such a thing is hardly called for, given the circumstances. 

So what the fuck? What should i 

do? Play it again? Sam? Let it sit in front of my 

stereo untouched for the next thirty years or so? 

In a very short while, this album has become the 

most unnerving item in my fairly substantial 

record collection [edging out the amazingly 

10 creepy Save the Life of My Child 

by Simon & Garfunkel, and if you think i speak 

this in jest, listen to the fucking thing once]). 

Now, how this relates to you, Al Franken, is 

this: The same week that the Returnables – a 

Chicago band – gave rightful props to the 

Exploding Hearts was the week that the legendary 

Wesley Willis died of leukemia (at age 

40, mind you. I dunno. Whenever i know an 

adult who gets stricken by leukemia, i really 

hafta stifle an urge to quip “Leukemia? Aren’t 

you a little OLD for that shit?” [hard to milk 

any humor out of that, since everyone i knew 

WESLEY ROCKING OUT WITH THE WESLEY 

WILLIS FIASCO, CA. 1993 

who’s ever had it died]). Yep... my friend Erik 

(op. cit.) and i had made plans earlier in the 

week to go visit Wesley the afternoon of the 

Epoxies/Returnables show. Around 7 PM that 

Thursday, i informed my buddy Tom of said 

plans to see Wesley that weekend. Two hours 

later, Tom called me to say that Wesley was 

dead. D’oh. But, i mean, fuck, that’s what kinda 

year it’s been: Bands lose 75% of their members 

in van crashes, Johnny Cash and John Ritter 

croak simultaneously, my grandma dies one 

month and my uncle the next, the kid i babysit 

for’s two-year-old cousin falls down the stairs, 

gets brain damage, and dies two days later – 

heck, let’s not even bring Sheb Wooley into the 

mix right now, we have more than adequate 

misery to sustain us. ANYWAY! Let us Sing a 

Song of Wesley here. You either know who 

Wesley is, or ya don’t. Wesley was a six-footwho-knows-how-tall, 

364-pound schizophrenic 

autistic street artist and rock star from the 

Chicago housing projects. Perhaps you’ve met 

him? To jog your memory, he would be the 

humongous guy in the ill-fitting Goodwill 

suitcoat whom, upon making your initial 

acquaintance, robotically extended his hulking 

paw your way, informed you that he was 

Wesley Willis from Sha-Cawgo Illinois, and 

then either asked you if you were interested in 

buying one of his “compact discusses” or to 

bump his head. COME ON!!! BU’P MAH 

HAID!!! KEEP THEM EYES LOOKIN’ AT 

ME!!! BU’P MAH HAID!!! Perhaps you saw 

him on MTV, heard him on the Howard Stern 

Show, or are merely a connoisseur of one-man- 

plus-keyboard-accompaniment compact discusses, 

of which the Wes-meister released, i 

believe, in excess of fifty (okay, quick: How 

many of you have the first Wesley Willis CD? If 

more than one of you raised your hand, thou art 

in grave error: Wesley’s first CD was a CD-R, 

made back in the day [like about twelve years 

ago or something] when having a CD-R burned 

was a pricey rarity... Wes went into some studio 

or another, paid $400? $700? $1000? and came 

out with That Which We Would Now Call A 

CD-R. A while later, Wes found himself in need 

of a bit of cash, so he went down to 

the local prerecorded musical entertainment 

emporium, and told the guy 

behind the counter that he had a CD 

he’d like to sell to the store. His asking 

price, of course, was merely That 

Which He Had Paid for the CD initially 

– yep, $400 or $700 or $1000 

or whatever. The guy behind the 

counter offered Wes four dollars. He 

took it. Good luck huntin’ that one 

down)? Regardless! Since, in my 

infinite brilliance, i have deleted my 

e-mails – and since i am virtually 

incapacitated on cold medication 

right now (i can’t help it. The mucusbased 

alien behind my sinuses is 

threatening to shatter my left orbital 

bone even as we speak! How can this 

small mind cope?) – i have decided 

to fill up the rest of this column with 

Incoherent Tales of Wesley (anyone 

neither knowing nor caring who or 

whom Wesley Willis is should likely 

mosey on to the book reviews at this 

juncture). SO, ANYWAY, the first i 

ever heard tell of Wesley Willis was 

from my sometimes-drummer Ron. 

Ron used to be in a band with this 

guy Dale, who was a loftmate of Wesley’s, or 

something. Ron and my other sometimes-bandmate 

Erik had gone down to visit Dale one 

weekend, and had videotaped much of the proceedings, 

which was mostly Wesley asking 

everyone who entered the loft if they were there 

“to see the keyboard.” They kept on detailing 

how crazy Wesley was, so, naturally, i asked if 

this Wesley guy was as crazy as Walter, a mutual 

friend who essentially set the standard for 

legitimate mental unwellness amongst people 

we knew. Ron and Erik said the unthinkable: 

Wesley is CRAZIER than Walter. WAY crazier. 

Didn’t believe it for a minute. I mean, Walter 

was a pretty tough act to follow, insanity-wise: 

He was the kind of guy who would walk around 

your apartment in his underwear babbling about 

the Turtles or something with his polo shirt on 

backwards and the upturned collar covering his 

mouth, having no inkling whatsoever that his 

shirt was on backwards and he was following 

you around in his dirty underwear, to say nothing 

of grasping the apparently complex concept 

that many consider it bad form to roam around 

the house of an acquaintance babbling obliviously 

in such a fashion. I thought Erik and Ron 

were exaggerating Wesley’s craziness for effect. 

They were not. The first time i actually met 

Wesley, he was sitting in Ron’s yard, working 

on one of his six trillion spiral-bound notebooks 

of song lyrics (this was right around the time of 

“Casper the Homosexual Friendly Ghost,” 

which remains, to this day, my favorite Wesley 

song). I offered a generic greeting, and asked if 

Ron was home. Wesley responded by asking me

what it meant to “vamp it up.” I attempted to 

illustrate the concept, as i understood it, with an 

overabundance of phrases, examples, and ludicrous 

pantomimes – after which Wesley, who 

had not taken his eyes off me since he posed the 

question, followed up his initial question with, 

“Does it mean ‘to make new friends’?” What 

can ya do? His definition made more sense than 

mine, so i agreed with him, after which, i’m certain, 

he asked me to bu’p his haid. Which i did. 

We were buds thereafter. This would be a good 

time for a paragraph, but i don’t believe in such 

David Beckham Metrosexual fol-de-rol, so fuck 

you. Anyway! One of the problems up Wesley’s 

cranium was that he had two demons – 

“Nervewrecker” and, i believe, “Homebreaker” 

– yelling at him. A simple “Hi, Wes” might lead 

to a disoriented Wesley yelling “ARE YOU 

REAL, OR ARE YOU A VOICE???” – which, 

of course, almost anyone would instinctively 

reply “I’m a voice! A disembodied voice! I exist 

purely in the vale of your demented perceptions! 

Et cetera!” to, so ya kinda hadda watch what you 

said around him. On occasion, Wes would have 

an “outburse,” where either Homebreaker or 

Nervewrecker would be yelling at him to such 

an extent that it was necessary for Wes to verbally 

return fire. Needless to say, a 364-pound 

black male screaming obscenities at 

the voices in his head in public places 

is generally fertile grounds for misinterpretation; 

the most grievous example 

of which was Wes’ ill-fated bus 

trip where his verbal outburse v. his 

personal demons was interpreted by 

another passenger as threats, et al, to 

the extent where the other guy 

viciously slashed Wesley across the 

face with a box cutter in reprisal (the 

“other guy” was the subject of the 

Wesley tune “He’s Doing Time in 

Jail” – needless to say, said other 

guy’s name has been long since 

deservedly forgotten, if anybody even 

knew it to begin with). Wesley could, 

on demand, on a good day, imitate 

both Nervewrecker and Homebreaker 

– they both kinda sounded like Flip 

Wilson’s transvestite alter ego 

Geraldine – which, like everything 

else in Wesley’s life, never seemed as 

horrific as it truly was simply by 

virtue of being blunted by Wesley’s 

gift of being CLASS FRICKING 

CLOWN OF THE WORLD, forever 

and ever, Amen. If Wesley was able 

to take the bus from Point A to Point 

B without his voices yelling at him, it 

was defined as a “harmony joyride.” 

A “hellride” was just the opposite. 

Occasionally, you’d be standing in 

line with him at a convenience store 

or somewhere when he’d suddenly 

break into “SUCK MY MOTHER- 

FUCKIN’ DICK! LICK A LLAMA’S 

BOOTY HOLE!” whilst yelling at his 

voices; when one reminded him that he needed 

to mind his language, he’d apologize, and 

explain that the voices in his head just called him 

a “foul toad” and a “smiggeroo.” Then you 

could just say something like “Wesley, i assure 

you that you are neither a foul toad nor a 

smiggeroo,” and he’d be all right for a while – 

the bottom line being that, all the while that the 

guy was flailing around, screaming at his own 

head to DO HIM A FAVUH AND SHUT the 

FUCK UP, he was writing song after song after 

song after song and drawing ballpoint skyline 

after ballpoint skyline after ballpoint skyline 

after ballpoint skyline. I mean, i see no other 

being on the planet being so maniacally productive 

in the face of such multi-faceted adversity, 

do you? And Wesley stories? I got your Wesley 

stories! How ‘bout the time we were driving 

down to some gig with Wesley in the passenger 

seat, and Ron, driving, goes “Hey Wesley! Can 

you adjust the rear view window for me?” and 

Wesley goes “Yuh,” and immediately SNAPS 

THE REAR VIEW MIRROR OFF OF THE 

VAN, tosses it out onto the interstate, and 

resumes doing whatever it was he was doing 

before he was pestered with such a request? Or 

how ‘bout the time we were in the van, and 

Wesley kept having to piss, so, finally, we 

refused to keep pulling over for him, and made 

him pee in a Sunny Delight bottle, and told 

him to throw it out the window – ‘cept that 

Wesley didn’t bother to cap the bottle up before 

he tossed it, and we had the windows open? 

How ‘bout the time we were driving thru a black 

neighborhood Milwaukee with Wes, and he 

started leaning out the window yelling “KILL 

WHITEY!!! KILL WHITEY!!!” for no real reason 

other than the mood struck him? How ‘bout 

WES AND STUNT DOUBLE 

the time he stayed at my house, and asked if 

cough drops would make him fat? Then ate an 

entire 30-count bag of my Halls Mentho-lyptuses? 

The time he had soiled his garments, so i 

dressed him in cast-off Nørb-wear, including 

green-and-gold Zubaz pants? The time i 

taught him the phrase “KICK OUT THE JAMS, 

MOTHERS AND FUCKERS!!!”, and he kept 

screaming it at Wanda Chrome & The Leather 

Pharaohs all night while they screamed back at 

him to shut up? The time he kept asking Kim 

Shattuck if her band was called “Da Mupps?” 

And she kept saying “NO!!! IT’S THE 

‘MUFFS!!!’”, completely un-grasping the situation? 

The time he didn’t show up for a gig opening 

for the Gaza Strippers, so i went home, got 

my keyboard, shoved a box under my shirt and 

essentially played his set for him? The way 

everyone would cluster around him, trying to 

persuade him to write a song about this person or 

that, to which he would invariably respond “DO 

ME A FAVUH... SHUT THE (pause) UP!!!” The 

time he ate the entire eons-old box of King 

Vitamin cereal i couldn’t even persuade my 

rabbit into eating? The time he was hanging out 

in the mall in Green Bay, and was mistaken for 

a member of MC Hammer’s entourage? Don’t 

even get me started on the “Can I have a 

banana?” story! I – or anybody who knew 

Wesley – could go on for days (it’s not really the 

same without the vocal mannerisms – let the 

record show that the majority of ex-members of 

Boris The Sprinkler have incorporated various 

Wesleyisms into their speech patterns to some 

degree [and, in case you’re wondering, my 

name, in Wesley-speak, is “Rebrin Nø,” 

although simply calling close personal associates 

by both their first and last names will generally 

work]). I think the main thrust 

of my babbling is that there are plenty 

of people who claim to be “possessed” 

by their creative impulses; 

Wesley comes the closest to a literal 

definition of that as anyone i can 

conceive of. BUT ANYWAY, MR. 

NAK, back to your original question, 

which i believe was about Sheb 

Wooley: Yes, i sang karaoke to 

“Purple People Eater” in the early 

morning hours of August 30th, 2003; 

seventeen days later, Sheb Wooley 

was gone to his eternal purple-people-eatin’ 

reward. If anyone knows 

of any individual who sang karaoke 

to a Sheb Wooley song in the interval 

following the wee hours of August 

30th but preceding Sheb’s death on 

September 17th, speak now or forever 

cede the glory to me (and, if 

you’re gonna challenge my claim, 

i’m gonna need witnesses. Plenty 

witnesses. I’ve got the Figgs and former 

Replacement/current 

Guns’n’Roses-ite Tommy Stinson to 

back me up [and, for the record, 

Tommy said my rendition of “Purple 

People Eater” was “GREAT!”, and 

expressed open admiration for my 

knowing where all the goofy breaks 

were {why do i rock? On accounta 

Tommy said so... Tommy said so... 

Tommy said so, so, so, so what}. Of 

course, after some anonymous wag 

punched in “Sweet Child O’ Mine,” i 

had to defuse the mounting tension 

by tackling that number as well, with 

much less glorious results... but Pete Hayes of 

the Figgs said to keep that quiet, because T.S. 

could get in trouble with A.R. over such monkeyshines, 

should word reach him... so, needless 

to say, mum’s the word on my end]). In summation: 

Rock over London. Rock on, Chicago. 

WESLEY WILLIS: If he wasn’t dead, he’d 

be the ultimate survivor. 

–Love, Nørb 

11 

REV. N0RB 

I

RHYTHM CHICKEN 

RHYTHM CHICKEN 

The Dinghole Reports 

By the Rhythm Chicken 

(Commentary by Francis Funyuns) 

[Edited by Dr. Sicnarf] 

WARNING: This issue’s Dinghole Reports contains 

a Roy Rogers song and portions of the 

Fleet Farm 2003 calendar! So it’s come to this. 

Dinghole Report #32: 

More Ruckus in the Ladies Room 

(Rhythm Chicken sighting #8675309) 

Last autumn I was living in my northern 

Wisconsin woodshed when I received a phone 

call from Timebomb Tom in Green Bay. He 

wanted the Rhythm Chicken to supply some 

audio ruckus for his upcoming Bob Log III 

show. I accepted the invitation 

and the next Sunday night my 

Hen and I made our way down 

to Titletown, USA. The show 

was at 29 Steps, a second-story 

bar in Green Bay’s wild downtown. 

We lugged the chickenkit 

up all 29 and waited for the 

Sunday night show to start. 

Being a Sunday night show, 

it started out rather ill-attended. 

Ten or fifteen people showed up 

early and Tom gave me the 

green light. I set up my stage in 

the ladies restroom with the 

door open. The two gentlemen 

playing pool had to step aside so 

the rest of the club could witness 

my restroom rock. I think I 

might’ve interrupted their game. 

I unleashed my earth-scorching 

rock opera on the masses! My ruckus shook the 

foundation and chaos flowed from the crapper! I 

hope no ladies had to go potty, because that 

restroom was IN USE! Being the first opening 

act, I wanted to leave a little of the venue left for 

the rest of the acts to burn up, so I pinched off 

my audio stampede (remember that word!) and 

retired to the bar. There I was paid for my performance, 

one tall cool bottle of Pabst! I felt like 

a king. 

Being a Sunday night and seeing as how my 

Hen had to work up north the next morning, we 

couldn’t stick around long. We did manage to 

catch the first song by the next act, Green Bay’s 

Mystery Girls. I could be mistaken, but I think 

they were attempting an “unplugged” set that 

night, but then again my mind was on that tall 

cool bottle of Pabst and a quick chat with Mr. 

Log III. That was the extent of my exposure to 

the Mystery Girls, a band that, I 

12 

THE DINGHOLE REPORTS 

I made it to about five feet from the shore, pulled my lone white garment to my ankles, 

pointed my precarious poohole lakeward, and just let loose. 

believe, began after I left town. 

Now, fast-forward about nine months. My 

Hen and I are relaxing in our steel and cement 

post-commie apartment in Krakow, Poland. It’s 

Friday night and we are listening to the BBC 

World Network because it’s in English, and 

because it’s time for John Peel’s weekly show! 

Well, he plays four or five songs by various 

underground acts, and then announces a song by 

the American band the Mystery Girls called 

“Green Machine.” My Hen and I stare at each 

other in disbelief. The band sounds kinda bluesy 

and swaggery, and quite electronic. I began to 

entertain the possibility of there being another 

band with the same name, until the song was 

done. 

As the song faded John Peel comes back on 

the air and says, “Well, that was the Mystery 

Girls with their song ‘Green Machine.’ I wonder 

if that has anything to do with the Green Bay 

Packers, a very popular American football team. 

You see, their record label Trick Knee Records 

hails from Green Bay, Wisconsin. But, anyway, 

that was the Mystery Girls. Thanks for listening. 

Good-bye.” We sat there dumbfounded, staring 

at our potato dumplings. I was soon on our 

Russian-made rotary phone, dialing up 

Timebomb Tom back in the States with the odd 

news. I guess I can fully expect to hear the 

Horshacks next week. 

–For the first time in months, the Chicken’s 

ham radio comes to life. – 

[(Hello? Hey, Chicken! Hello?? Milwaukee 

calling Rhythm Chicken! – F.F. & Dr. S.)] 

Well, well, well! If it isn’t my little delin- 

quent helpers! I take it you guys managed to fix 

your ham radio? 

[To tell the truth, Mr. Chicken, we’ve just been 

sitting in the Cactus Club for the last four 

months. Then the Christreater serves us our last 

drinks before he and the Mistreaters leave on 

their European tour. It then occurred to us that 

we should sober up enough to check in on our 

favorite Polish chicken. – Dr. S.] 

(Yeah, we thought that if we’d leave you alone 

for a while you would create some more worthwhile 

ruckus to write about. Then we opened up 

the newest Razorcake and found out that we 

missed Mannertag! DAMN! I drained the Pabst 

off the radio, drank it, and here we are! – F.F.) 

You two can only blame 

yourselves for missing 

Mannertag. Then again, I don’t 

think your livers could’ve handled 

it! It even took me a few 

days to feel like a chicken 

again! So, tell me what’s been 

going on back home! 

[Well, the saddest news by far is 

that Johnny Cash has passed 

away. We played “Dirty ol’ 

Egg-Suckin’ Dog” on the jukebox 

for you, Mr. Chicken. We 

also decided that your first tour 

after returning home will be in 

honor of the Man in Black. – 

Dr. S.] 

Done. 

(Hey! So what’s been going on with you two in 

Poland? There’s people here who think that 

you’re just hiding out in Pulaski somewhere. – 

F.F.) 

Pulaski?!! No, but I really did get homesick 

when we missed this summer’s Pulaski Polka 

Days. The only thing that made up for it was that 

fact that we are IN POLAND! That has to be 

good enough! What have we been up to? First of 

all, WE WENT TO HEL! Yes, HEL! Honest 

Chicken, there’s a small Polish tourist trap on 

the Baltic Sea named “Hel,” as in “H-E-single 

hockey stick”! We even walked out onto the 

highway leading into town to sing a few choruses 

of “Highway to Hel.” Last week, I made my 

first batch of “barszcz” (more commonly known 

by its Russian name of borscht). Beets, where 

have you been all my life? It made my poop 

bleed! Then my mom and two elderly uncles

from Wisconsin came to visit for sixteen days. 

Attempting to show my family around Krakow 

and Prague was more tiring than a Rhythm 

Chicken parade gig! Then I became acquainted 

with a Polish band named “Wiewiorczaki.” 

With a name that roughly translates to “the 

Squirrel Men,” I liked them from the start! 

[It sounds like you’ve been busy, but if you can’t 

deliver any new ruckus reports I will have to do 

my own part! With your permission, Mr. 

Chicken, I would like to share with the readers 

my first Dunghole Report! – Dr. S.] 

I already gave the kiddies a Dinghole Report 

just before you two decided to pull your heads 

out of the Cactus Club. I’ve still got plenty to 

cluck about, Doc! You see, earlier this week I 

had a revelation! I was hanging around our little 

sardine can home listening to the same Roy 

Rogers CD over and over until one song exploded 

out of the music box like a burning bush! My 

Holy Church of Ruckus felt the first pangs of a 

new entity threatening to burgle my thunder! 

Until now, I was so sure that ruckus was the 

grandest state of being, the holiest condition, the 

supreme law of all lands. Then this song sang to 

my liver and my liver knew there was a new 

way. Ruckus is still the law, but behold the 

newest form of revolt! The Son of Ruckus! 

Decades before there was a band called Slayer, 

true evil was born in song. It sprung from, of all 

unlikely sources, Roy Rogers! The song… 

“STAMPEDE!” 

Let me share with you some of Roy’s Holy 

Scripture: 

Cold black clouds like funeral shrouds roll 

down their icy threat 

And we faced a fight this raging night with the 

odds on the side of death 

For a stampeding herd with its panic stirred 

is a thing for a cowboy to shun 

For no mortal man ever holds command when 

the cattle are on the run! 

STAMPEDE! 

The rising of the wind sends out its wail 

Driving cattle down an endless trail 

Rolling thunder booms sending cattle to their 

doom, STAMPEDE! 

There’s lightning! There’s thunder! 

There’s wind and rain, STAMPEDE! 

Now, do you understand? Is STAMPEDE 

the new RUCKUS?!!! Can STAMPEDE and 

RUCKUS share the throne? Is this a signal 

warning of the forthcoming split in the Holy 

Church of Ruckus? Does this all not reek of 

Martin Luther? Or is STAMPEDE a golden 

calf? This gets even scarier when I backtrack on 

my Roy Rogers CD and on just two songs previous 

to “Stampede,” Roy sings, “How do I 

know? The Bible tells me so!” Sicnarf! You’re 

an educated man, tell me your thoughts on all 

this! 

[Dunghole Report #1: 

Sprayin’ Crap at the Party!] 

It was about seven years ago and I was living 

in the upstairs attic of a bait shop just ten 

feet from Lake Michigan. That evening I must 

have consumed some strange fibrous materials 

before the gallons of Pabst, and then crawled 

into hibernation in just my tighty-whitey underwear. 

At some point in my slumber, I was halfawoken 

by some urgent need of which I didn’t 

quite understand yet. All I knew was that I HAD 

TO GET OUTSIDE AND I HAD TO GET 

OUTSIDE IMMEDIATELY! Still half asleep, 

and quite flustered from the growing anal pressure, 

I stumbled down the stairs and flung open 

the outside door. Once outside, I became more 

aware of my need to excrete, and the immense 

urgency of this need! I made it to about five feet 

from the shore, pulled my lone white garment to 

my ankles, pointed my precarious poohole lakeward, 

and just let loose. Still not fully awake, I 

almost fainted when the sonic blast shot my liquid 

feces out over the water. It was scary. The 

eruption was so intense that I thought some of 

my intestines were shot out with the doody. 

BLBLBLARSZTBLBLBLSHHHHHH!!!! I 

was one big spray-power painter, spraying the 

moonlit lake brown. 

Pressure was relieved and I felt I could 

straighten up and attempt to tidy up. I pulled off 

the tighty-whiteys and used them as toilet-paper. 

I was about to toss the browned whiteys aside 

when I became more aware of my setting. The 

bait shop was right in front of a harbor full of 

boat rental slips. I turned around to see a fancy 

yacht tied to the nearest dock, and there was a 

full-blown cocktail party out on the deck! I 

stood there naked, momentarily staring at the 

fifteen or twenty wealthy yachters. They were 

standing motionless, holding their martinis and 

staring at me with horror in their eyes! In my 

mind, I tried to go through everything they just 

witnessed. I then stumbled back up to my bed 

and pretended nothing ever happened. –Dr. S.] 

(MWAAAAHAHAHAHAHA!!!! I can just see 

the looks on those FIBs’ faces! – F.F.) 

–The Rhythm Chicken turns off his Polish 

ham radio and continues solo again. – 

I can see that those two are taking all of this 

even less seriously than I am. I feel as if my 

“one-Dinghole-Report-per-column” quota has 

been met, so now I can just cluck on about a few 

more tidbits and scratch along. I will now make 

the smooth transition to Fleet Farm! In northeastern 

Wisconsin we have these stores called 

Fleet Farm where men can go to shop man-style 

and stroll around the farmer’s hardware store 

that also sells Lee jeans and hunting gear. The 

rest of America has Menards, because Fleet 

Farm was Menards before Menards was 

Menards. Yeah, it’s the old school Menards. I 

think I was just a nine or ten-year-old chicklet 

the year I did ALL my Christmas shopping at 

Fleet Farm! Daddy sure made an early man 

outta me! (Note to self: try to get Fleet Farm to 

sponsor America’s first 13 

RHYTHM CHICKEN

Mannertag next summer.) 

ANYWAYS, I found myself in Green Bay’s 

west-side Fleet Farm last December and 

grabbed one of their free 2003 calendars, just in 

case we didn’t get any for Christmas (which we 

didn’t). Actually, I really prefer having a Fleet 

Farm calendar in our cement Polish cubbyhole. 

This whole year we have been kept up to date 

on all the really important dates in the Midwest! 

I don’t know how they decided on these days 

being important enough to be on their calendar, 

or why they didn’t include Pulaski Polka Days 

or the Kewaunee Trout Festival. Just to give 

you all a better idea as to what us 

Midwesterners celebrate, I thought I’d 

share with you some of our shining 

moments, and yes they make me homesick. 

Even though some of these are outside 

of Wisconsin’s borders, they could 

still be included under the umbrella of 

Wisconsinism. 

My Favorite Highlights of the Fleet Farm 2003 

Calendar: 

Jan. 18 – Brainerd Jaycees Ice Fishing 

Extravaganza, Gull Lake, Brainerd, MN 

Jan. 29 – Legend Fest 2003 (Formerly Winter 

Dance Party), Clear Lake, IA 

Feb. 2 – Otter Street Fisheree, Oshkosh, WI 

Feb. 7 – Hudson Hot Air Affair, Hudson, WI 

May 18 – Pigeon River Street Days, 

Clintonville, WI 

May 25 – Ole Oppe Festival, Alexandria, MN 

Race Into Summer Beaver Dam, Swan City 

Park, Beaver Dam, WI 

Jun. 6 – Walleye Weekend, Fond du Lac, WI 

Jun. 7 – Waite Park Spass Tag (fun days!), 

Waite Park, MN 

Jun. 19 – Musky Festival, Hayward, WI 

Juneteenth Day (????????) 

July 12 – Beaver Dam Lake Days, Beaver Dam, 

WI 

July 15 – Wisconsin Farm Technology Days 

(formerly Farm Progress Days!) (no location 

listed) 

July 25 – Lumberjack World Championships, 

Hayward, WI 

Aug. 5 – Crow Wing County Fair, Brainerd, 

MN 

Aug. 10 – Musky Jamboree, Boulder Junction, 

My ruckus shook the foundation and chaos 

flowed from the crapper! 

WI 

Aug. 15 – Northeast Wisconsin Antique Power 

Association Thresheree Horse and Tractor Pull, 

Sturgeon Bay, WI 

Aug. 16 – Boyceville Cucumber Fest, 

Boyceville, MN 

Aug. 22 – Barnesville Potato Days, Barnesville, 

MN 

Sep. 20 – 16th Annual Hodag Muskie 

Challenge, Rhinelander, WI 

Sep. 26 – Oktoberfest, La Crosse, WI 

Sep. 27 – Octoberfest, Appleton, WI 

The calendar also informs you of Fleet 

Farm being open on New Year’s Day, Memorial 

Day, July 4 th , Labor Day, Christmas Eve, and 

New Year’ Eve. However, they are closed on 

Easter Sunday and Christmas Day. You are told 

of the exact days of Quantradids, Lyrids, ETA 

Aquarids, Delta Aquarids, Perseids, Draconids, 

Orionids, Taurids, Leonids, and Gemenids 

meteor showers! So whenever we get to wondering 

what’s REALLY going on back in the 

States, all we got to do is glance at our trusty 

Fleet Farm calendar. We are TRULY informed! 

Drawing this column to yet another longdesired 

close, I would like to share with you my 

newest favorite Polish discovery. Just when I 

thought the Polish language couldn’t get any 

more difficult, I was taught a Polish tonguetwister! 

W Szczebrzeszynie chrzaszcz 

brzmi w trzcinie! Yes, that’s really a sen- 

tence! If you don’t believe me, just ask 

Wojtek in Plock! And finally, I believe I 

left you in terrible suspense at the tail 

end of my last column. Answering my 

first ever joke I conjured up in kindergarten, 

why DID the birds have a seance? A: To 

pee in the nest! Well, it was funny in kindergarten. 

Maybe I should eat some more beans 

and meet you in Grandma’s bedroom. Tune in 

nest time for more RUCKUS vs. STAMPEDE 

hooshwash! 

Today’s Dinghole Reports have been 

brought to you by the Fleet Farm, and the letter 

E. Morda w kubel, I nie bulgotac! 

–The Rhythm Chicken 

Rhythmchicken@hotmail.com 

www.rhythmchicken.com 

RHYTHM CHICKEN

MADDY 

MADDY 

SHIFTLESS WHEN IDLE 

At this moment, one thought came shining through my alcoholic stupor. 

I DO NOT WANT TO MAKE OUT WITH A UKRAINIAN MAN IN HIS MID-FFORTIES! 

Greetings from the international 

headquarters of the Tight Pants 

Enterprises! From deep in this lair, 

tuned to the sweet sounds of an 

album that, curiously, is called Emo 

but still gets a high TP-rating (ah, 

the strange wonders of Mr. 

Weasel!), and wearing a 

Vindictives shirt and the most 

dreaded pant-item of all time 

(sweatpants), a CRISIS is brewing! 

No, not the latest Earth Crisis 

album! Not Desert Crisis or Life 

Crisis or the song “Identity Crisis” 

by Thrice! (Ah, the wonders of a 

google search for “Crisis Punk!”) 

No! This crisis affects the heart of 

the Tight Pants operations! Yes, this 

crisis could very well SHUT THE 

WHOLE SYSTEM DOWN! (And, 

no, black bloc punk, I’m not talkin’ 

‘bout Seattle!) 

Right next to TPH (Tight Pants 

Headquarters) in Brooklyn, in the 

same building, on the same floor, 

with only about two feet of drywall 

in between, lurks – Ukrainians! 

Allow me to explain. 

I live on the third floor of a 

three-floor building. Two apartments 

on each floor. On the first 

floor, there’s an Israeli couple and 

some guys with a Get Up Kids 

bumper sticker on their car. On the 

second floor, there’s a bunch of 

Latino families. And, then, on the 

third floor, there’s us. And several 

Ukrainian men. Since I know about 

twenty sentences in Russian, 

including “What filth!”, “You are a 

mistake!”, “Stalin speaks the 

truth!”, “What a beautiful businessman!” 

and “What lies!” I figured, 

you know, we’d hit it right off, and 

be toasting to Mir in no time! 

At first, things went pretty well. 

The Ukrainians (one fat guy and 

one skinny guy, both in their mid 

forties), would help me carry my 

groceries upstairs, open the front 

door for me, and exchange the standard 

Nod-and-Smile (NAS) to indicate 

their goodwill. Alright! 

Perhaps in no time at all we’d be 

singing traditional Russian peasant 

songs together! Or, if I was really 

lucky, the Internationale! (Which, 

being the dork that I 

16 

am, I have printed out, in phonetic 

pronunciation, in Russian. If that 

wasn’t proof enough of my idiocy, I 

can also sing it in both French and 

English, and I have a CD with a 

Hungarian version. And I’m not 

even a Communist! Fuck punk, 

dude! Let’s hear it for uniting the 

human race!) 

It all seemed to be leading in 

that direction, especially when, one 

day, I came home only to realize 

that I had locked myself out. I got 

into the building, but couldn’t get 

into my apartment. To make things 

worse, it was the middle of a huge 

blizzard. I contemplated my 

options. 1.) Attempt to break down 

the door by ramming into it. (This 

option was rejected after a cursory 

glance of my five feet 105 pound 

body and the seven foot tall metal 

door.), 2.) Walk thirty minutes to 

the nearest coffee shop and wait it 

out. (This option was rejected after 

I realized that it was eight hours 

until my roommate got home.), 3.) 

Suicide. (I dunno, it’s ALWAYS an 

option!), 4.) Pretend to be at a 

Minor Threat show and spend the 

afternoon thrashing around in the 

hallway. (There ARE worse, if not 

dumber ideas…), and 5.) Knock on 

my Ukrainian neighbor’s door and 

ask them to climb out on the fire 

escape – which was already covered 

in ten inches of snow – and 

climb through my kitchen window, 

opening my door from the inside of 

my apartment. Yes! That was it! 

Luckily, they were home, and performed 

the required task in no time 

at all, braving snowy fire escapes 

and possible death! And they even 

gave me some Russian chocolate 

when they were done! Punk! 

So everything was going great, 

and the Ukrainians and I were on 

our way to a beautiful friendship. 

And then, one night, when I was 

getting off the bus, I ran into them 

on the way home. Using the five 

English words they knew “You, us, 

bar, drink, food?” they invited me 

to a bar at the corner of our street to 

drink with them. This, I knew, was 

not an opportunity to be missed! So 

I joined the Ukrainians, who were

lugging several pounds of various 

fruits, cheese, bread, and, yes, even 

plates! When we got to the bar, they 

arranged all the food and offered 

me some. Then they ordered me a 

glass of wine. Then another. I soon 

realized that the phrases “Stalin 

speaks the truth” and “What a beautiful 

businessman!” are not particularly 

useful bar conversation. After 

about twenty minutes, I communicated 

where I was from originally, 

what I am studying, and if I like 

New York. 

Then came another glass of 

wine. And more food. We were sitting 

in a booth, with the fat 

Ukrainian across from me and the 

skinny one next to me. Somehow, 

through my alcohol-induced haze, I 

started to realize that the skinny 

Ukrainian was inching his way 

over towards me. I tried to think of 

how to say “I have a boyfriend” in 

Russian, but all I could think of was 

“Breznev is a mistake!” and “What 

a beautiful Stalin!” I was screwed! 

I tried to move over more, but in no 

time at all, the skinny Ukrainian 

was practically on top of me, leaning 

over me and breathing hard. 

Ack! For all my obsession with 

things East-European, I have 

NEVER found Eastern European 

men appealing. Except for two 

notable exceptions: Mayakovsky 

(famous Russian poet) and, interestingly, 

my boyfriend (whose relatives 

came over from Hungary and 

Russia back in the day). 

Anyway, with every second he 

moved closer. Ack! No! At this 

moment, one thought came shining 

through my alcoholic stupor. I DO 

NOT WANT TO MAKE OUT 

WITH A UKRAINIAN MAN IN 

HIS MID-FORTIES! 

Unfortunately, the exact same 

moment that my realization of the 

situation crystallized, the skinny 

Ukrainian decided to PUT HIS 

HAND PRACTICALLY ON MY 

CROTCH! Ack! No! Uncool! 

Uncool! Less cool than even L.L. 

Cool J himself! 

I stood up in the booth and said 

I was going to leave. The skinny 

Ukrainian man didn’t move. So I 

pushed him and, unfortunately, had 

to almost mount him to get out, 

thus unwittingly accomplishing 

half of his goal! At that point, the 

Ukrainians looked confused, and 

said, “No, no. Drink! Drink!” and 

gestured to the bar. “No,” I said. 

“I’m going home.” Then the fat 

Ukrainian got up and ordered me 

another drink while I tried to leave 

the bar. Never one to refuse free 

alcohol, even in the middle of an 

unwanted Eastern-European groping 

session, I gulped it down, and 

left. 

And then the Ukrainians, with 

grapes and saltines flying everywhere, 

followed me out of the bar! 

Ack! I practically ran the block 

back to my apartment, up the stairs, 

and in the door. Behind me, the 

skinny Ukrainian was yelling, 

“Come over! Come over!” I 

slammed the door in his face and 

dead-bolted it. A minute later, he 

started knocking. After about ten 

minutes he gave up and left me 

alone. 

Ack! Practically defiled by 

Ukrainians – who live next-door! 

[See exhibit A] The shame! The 

humiliation! The sheer nastiness of 

it all! And the appalling lack of 

post-Ukrainian groping support 

groups! You’d think that’d be 

enough for one Razorcake column, 

but no! There’s more! From that 

night on, I tried to avoid the 

Ukrainians and hardly ran into 

them at all. If I saw them in the 

hallway, I waited until they were 

gone to leave, lest I have to fend off 

Ukrainian Crotch-Grab Part Two! 

Then I left for the summer. 

When I came back, the 

Ukrainians were still there, but this 

time, it was a whole new game! 

Whereas before, they tried to act 

macho and grab my crotch, now 

they had degenerated to walking 

around the hallway wearing only 

shorts, chain-smoking, and moping. 

Then, one day, when I was 

walking upstairs, I saw something 

in our hallway. Something that 

looked very much like mice hanging 

on strings. No! What kind of 

bizarre peasant ritual is this?! When 

I got closer, I realized that the 

beasts on the string were fish, not 

mice. Although at first I was 

Exhhibitt BB 

I realized that the beasts on the string were fish, not 

mice. Although at first I was relieved it wasn’t mice, I 

soon realized that they were FISH, and that 1.) they 

had been hung through their eyes, and 2.) They stunk! 

relieved it wasn’t mice, I soon realized 

(by which I mean I realized 

about five seconds later) that they 

were FISH, and that 1.) they had 

been hung through their eyes, and 

2.) They stunk! [See exhibit B] 

The next morning, I opened my 

door. (There are two doors to our 

apartment – one for the living 

room, one for my bedroom.) This 

separate door should, in theory, 

allow me to carry on a healthy callgirl 

enterprise, in complete secrecy, 

with the boys lining up in the hallway 

to wait their turn. But that 

morning all my dreams were shattered! 

My potential call-girl business 

ruined! For when I opened my 

door I ran right into a Ukrainian 

hair-cutting party! Four Ukrainians 

guys. One sitting on a crate. Two 

cutting his hair. And one smoking 

and staring at the thirty slowly- 

decomposing fish. No! No! No! 

Why had my previously clean and 

vacant hallway suddenly turned 

into a Ukrainian social club? Not 

only did this destroy my dreams of 

discrete prostitution, it also prevented 

me from making my usual 

run, clad only in a towel, back into 

my apartment to take a shower, 

undetected! If I were to try that 

now, I would have to 1.) be groped, 

2.) rub against dead fish that had 

just started to leak some sort of yellow 

goo, and 3.) get a haircut! Ah, 

the injustice of it all! 

At this point, one might consider 

calling one’s landlord. 

Unfortunately, my landlord loves to 

accuse me and my roommate of 

being responsible for any and every 

complaint. When we first moved in 

and the bathtub was clogged, he 

accused us of clogging it with hair, 

despite the fact that we both have 

short, blonde hair and the hair coming 

out of the drain was long and 

black. And then there was a problem 

with the electricity. (Our fault.) 

And a problem with the pilot light 

on the stove, which, judging by his 

tone as I explained that methane 

gas had filled our apartment and 

death was imminent, he was convinced 

that it was part of some sort 

of suicide pact. So, if I were to call 

the landlord, I would automatically 

be accepting responsibility for rampant 

dead fish, sleazy men, and 

Ukrainian haircuts. No! I will not! 

Nyet! Kakaya kracivaya Stalina! 

(No! What a beautiful Stalin!) 

So, I was forced to endure the 

situation. Every day, the stench 

from the rotting fish increased. 

After a week, you could smell it 

right when you opened the building 

door – three flights of stairs down. 

I began to have nightmares that I 

had been captured by the 

Ukrainians, force-fed maggoty fish 

and given a mid-’80s (Read: hip in 

Latvia) haircut! The dastardly dastardness 

of it all! 

After two weeks, the number of 

fish began to decline slowly, as the 

Ukrainians began to eat them, one 

by one. The haircutting season was 

a short one. After two weeks, every 

Eastern European man in Brooklyn 

had been properly shorn, and the 

hallway barber shop closed. 

Everything seemed to be 

improving. I hardly saw the 

Ukrainians anymore. And then, 

three weeks later, my roommate 

and I were leaving the apartment. 

We opened our front door, and 

there, not more than two feet away, 

was the skinny Ukrainian – wearing 

only briefs and socks. 

Kill me. 

MADDY

RICH MACKIN 

RICH MACKIN 

I first decided to write this 

when I was talking to my friend 

Sally about how being accused of 

assault caused me to research the 

subject. I noticed that there is a lot 

of material written about avoiding 

sexually assault and a lot of material 

about what to do if you have 

been sexually assaulted, but there 

isn’t much written about how to 

make sure that you never find yourself 

in a position where your 

actions might be considered sexual 

assault. 

There is plenty of information 

for women, but not much for males, 

and surely not for “guys” (to denote 

what would be called the “average 

American male”). Since most sexual 

assault is male on female, there 

clearly is a need for this information. 

“We teach our daughters to 

say ‘no’ to intercourse – and we 

hardly say anything to our sons” is 

clearly stated in the handbook 

against assault, No is Not Enough 

(Adams, Fay, M.A., Loreen- 

Martin). Bell hooks, in Feminism Is 

for Everybody, says, “No significant 

body of feminist literature has 

appeared that addresses boys.” The 

more I read about sexual assault, 

gender issues, and feminism, I 

found more information that I 

thought most men should read. But 

most of it was hidden in books 

clearly marketed towards female 

feminists or in books with title like 

Transforming a Rape Culture, 

which doesn’t exactly appeal to you 

as something to read in a park 

under a tree on your day off or in 

bed before sleeping. 

I acknowledge that talking 

about how actions might be considered 

sexual assault can seem 

strange. “If she says no, it’s rape,” 

right? Obviously. Of course. What 

if she doesn’t say “no,” but “I don’t 

think so” or “I don’t think this is a 

good idea” or even “maybe”? 

Maybe is part no and part yes. 

Arguably, a person should be clearer 

about their interest level, but 

shouldn’t the person initiating be 

seeking out a definite answer? Not 

“maybe,” not “I guess,” but “YES!” 

18 If you are initiating 

THE TWISTED BALLOON 

I COULDN’T EXACTLY SAY THAT HE ROBBED ME, BUT I DIDN’T FEEL 

THAT HE WANTED THE DOLLAR OF MY OWN FREE WILL. 

sexual activity, it is your responsibility 

to make it completely and 

absolutely sure that it is desired, not 

just that there is a lack of resistance. 

You shouldn’t “think” the 

other person is interested. You 

should be completely, absolutely 

sure without doubt of any sort. If 

you feel confident that the interest 

is there, what harm is a verbal confirmation 

going to do you? 

That’s so simple, but also rather 

unusual. In some ways, part of the 

excitement of sex and romance is 

not knowing what the other person 

is thinking and trying to figure out 

what is going on between you. The 

difference with active consent can 

be as simple as erring on the side of 

caution unless intent and consent is 

clear. A lot of discussion in an 

activist group that discusses these 

issues is, “Are we willing to get 

laid less for the revolution?” I think 

it’s not a question of getting “laid” 

less, but risking a night or two here 

and there to make sure that one’s 

“getting laid” isn’t the other person’s 

feeling pressured, or worse. 

We all should be aware and 

responsible for inequities when initiating 

sexual contact. Is one person 

bigger than the other? Older? 

Drunker? Is one a rock star and the 

other a fan? Teacher and student? If 

you are a six and a half foot tall 

man who is built like a wrestler, 

you don’t have to only date women 

who can fend you off, but you DO 

need to be aware that others might 

be intimidated by you, so you are 

responsible for understanding, 

acknowledging, and respecting that 

such intimidation MIGHT exist, 

and how it effects the other’s 

actions. Indeed, in many situations 

my own actions made women 

uncomfortable not for my intent to 

oppress or dominate, but for a complete 

lack of empathy for inequities 

of the situation and our relationship. 

This is the basic idea of privilege 

– that one person might have 

an upper hand that another does 

not. Usually, this privilege is directly 

linked to not being aware of the 

privilege unless one takes a 

moment to consider it. It can be 

simple as the fact that I, as a man, 

can take my shirt off on a hot day, 

and it just means I am hot. A 

woman doing the same is thought 

to be making a sexual overture. 

Unfortunately, this important concept 

is generally not discussed, and 

when it is, it’s almost exclusively 

by angry people who use it to 

scapegoat and overgeneralize – 

because men, as a gender, have 

privilege, white people as a race 

have privilege, etc. But anyone 

who tries to tell you ALL white 

people have it easy, or ALL men 

have it better than ALL women, 

well, the simple term for that is 

WRONG. 

I bring up men and women 

because, yes, most sexual transgressions 

and violence are done by 

men. Most victims are women. But 

the idea is not men are bad and 

women are victims, but that PEO- 

PLE have the ability to harm one 

another, and sometimes do so without 

realizing it, or at least considering 

that they might be. There are 

many ways someone’s actions 

might harm another without it 

being a case of direct attempt at 

harm. It’s not just one person’s 

intent. It’s the other’s idea of consent; 

to quote from No Is Not 

Enough: “Consent is based on 

choice. Consent is active, not passive. 

Consent is possible only when 

there is equal power. Giving in 

because of fear is not consent. 

Going along with something 

because of wanting to fit in with the 

group, being deceived, or feeling 

bad is not consent. If you can’t say 

‘no’ comfortably, then ‘yes’ has no 

meaning. If you are unwilling to 

accept a ‘no,’ then ‘yes’ has no 

meaning.” 

The idea that consent is something 

that should be sought out is 

not considered by many in our society. 

Pop culture presents the idea of 

sex being when the man proposes 

an idea and the woman accepts or 

fends him off. This isn’t necessarily 

a result of men being evil scumbags 

who seek to perpetuate patriarchal 

oppression. (Patriarchy, 

which traditionally means a system 

of male power heredity, is often 

used to mean a decided societal 

sexism where males oppress 

females, often used as a fancy word 

for “sexism.”) I think this is a combination 

of other, less obvious factors. 

Some men might very well be 

evil scumbags, but most have good 

intentions and somehow forget 

what the road to hell is paved with. 

Forget your intentions and consider 

the outcome. To quote from the 

book Hope and Recovery, “When 

in doubt – don’t.” 

Men and women communicate 

differently. (I realize that not everyone 

falls into the polarities of men 

and women, but most do. Even 

though it’s twilight as I write this 

doesn’t mean night and day don’t 

exist.) To sum up the 298 pages of 

You Just Don’t Understand by 

Deborah Tannen, both men and 

women speak not only in the direct 

messages they say, but the metamessages 

of how they say it. Men 

generally are concerned with direct 

information. Women are more concerned 

with the meta-messages. An 

example is that a woman might say, 

“Do you want to stop for dinner?” 

This means she does, or at least 

wants to discuss the idea. The man 

frustrates her by answering “Yes” 

or “No.” He might say, “I want to 

stop for dinner”: a statement, not a 

discussion. Neither mode is chosen 

consciously, neither way is right or 

wrong, and neither is cut and dry 

specific to either sex. Sex and gender 

also factor in with ethnicity, 

upbringing, socializing, and many 

other factors. But still, AS A 

WHOLE, men and women talk differently, 

and thus listen differently. 

The golden rule does not 

always work. You do unto others 

what you would like them to do 

unto you. Do they WANT what you 

want done unto you? A crass example 

is that many men I know would 

love to be awaken with sexual contact, 

especially orally; at least they 

say as much. Most women I know 

would be annoyed, if not feel outright 

violated to be awaken that 

way – even by long term partner.

Some people appreciate being 

asked questions; others feel this 

puts them on the spot. 

Men often simply do not “get” 

how women feel, because even if 

the tables were turned, the response 

would not be the same. This clearly 

was the case for me. It wasn’t that I 

didn’t care how the women around 

me thought; it was that I wasn’t 

attempting to understand their 

thoughts so much as making 

assumptions. If a young woman 

who was forty pounds lighter hit on 

me, I could easily tell her I wasn’t 

interested if I wasn’t. It simply did- 

ILLUSTRATION BY ROB RUELAS 

n’t occur to me that she might not 

have that ease. THIS is the idea of 

privilege. A critic told me I didn’t 

know what it was like to be female. 

Of course not. How COULD I? 

A man hitting on a woman 

could be considered a wonderful, 

flattering, and great thing; or a horrible 

violation of personal space; or 

a lack of tact; or any combination 

of these. A woman hitting on a man 

rarely makes the man feel violated. 

He might reciprocate, he likely will 

be flattered, but more than likely, 

the worse case scenario is merely 

disinterest. It is only in rare 

instances that men will be seriously 

offended by a woman expressing 

interest. (Same sex situations are a 

totally different issue. They mix 

consent issues with homophobic 

issues. That’s worth exploring 

another time.) As Peter Rutter 

explains in Sex, Power and 

Boundaries: “The harassment problem 

exists in a large part because 

many perfectly decent (and reasonable) 

men have simply never had 

anyone tell them, clearly and credibly, 

that some of their behavior is 

sexually offensive to the women 

around them.” 

I present a metaphor for sexual 

consent, in the hopes that it might 

hit home for some guys: panhandling. 

I might walk down the street 

and see some unfortunate soul with 

a sign and cup. I feel like putting 

some money in. They can eat, I feel 

like I did something good, everyone 

is happy. I like a street musician 

and put some money in his or 

her guitar case. I get music and 

reward it financially as I choose. 

Everyone is happy. In these two 

examples, the panhandler is relatively 

passive. The request is 

known but not forced. 

One day I went to the ATM and 

took out some money. As I turned 

to leave, a dirty, smelly man who 

was a full head taller than me came 

within inches of me. He looked 

angry. He surely was closer to me 

than most people initiating a conversation 

would be, and I felt my 

personal space violated. He asked 

me for a dollar. He didn’t threaten 

me, he asked. If I gave him a dollar, 

I couldn’t exactly say that he 

robbed me, but I didn’t feel that he 

wanted the dollar of my own free 

will. He didn’t say anything threatening, 

nor did he make any clearly 

threatening motions (like making a 

fist or showing a weapon) but all of 

his actions CAME ACROSS as 

threatening. Whatever his intent, I 

felt he would become violent if I 

didn’t give him money soon. 

I was a bit scared and felt like I 

was forced into a situation where I 

wasn’t in control at all. Yet, I could 

not honestly say that he was a thief, 

because he asked for something I 

could prove, or really even allege, 

as a threat. If I were to complain to 

authorities, he could even argue 

that he merely asked and I willingly 

gave. He could say that he got a 

vibe that I wanted to give him 

money. He might even refer to 

knowing that I enjoy giving money 

to other panhandlers because he 

saw me give money to the guy with 

the hat. 

You probably can draw similar 

stories from your own life – from 

the subtlety of staying on the phone 

with someone who doesn’t take 

into account that you need to get off 

the line (I know many mothers who 

respond to “I have to go” as if it 

was “Tell me one more story”) to 

finding yourself having to clean up 

someone else’s physical or conceptual 

mess, to having to defend your 

drunk friend in a fight they started 

– we all find ourselves in situations 

of various emotional blackmail. 

Sometimes it’s sexual in orientation. 

I can safely assume that most 

men I personally know would stop 

if a woman ever said “no” or 

“stop.” Unfortunately, in real life, 

human communication rarely is 

that cut and dry, especially with a 

subject so complicated. One friend 

brought up this point: “In our society, 

women are conditioned to 

make others happy. Women put 

someone else’s comfort above their 

own, sometimes agree to things 

(sex or otherwise) to make the 

other person happy, not because 

they really want to.” Someone else 

offered the feedback, “Women are 

conditioned from birth to never say 

‘no’ to anything, but 19 

RICH MACKIN

ather, to make polite excuses.” The 

excuse is a polite “no” which he 

addresses at face value. (Consider 

when someone invites you to an 

event you don’t want to go to. Do 

you say, “No, I don’t want to”? Or 

something like “Oh, I need to 

__________ that day,” which opens 

up the addressing of the excuse, not 

the thoughts behind it?) 

To even say “no,” a person 

needs to have the belief that saying 

“no” would have an effect, and 

sometimes that belief level is not 

there. Sex is a natural biological 

thing, like eating, but it has levels 

of spirituality, passion, and emotion. 

To be sexual in America in 

2003 combines your biochemistry, 

views on intergender and/or homosexual 

interactions as well as views 

on your and whatever gender the 

other person (people?) are with 

whatever views on sexuality your 

religion and upbringing put on you, 

mixed with whatever intellectual 

spin you put on it as you became 

your own person. Every sex act you 

engage in might have traces of 

every sex act you have ever had, 

along with any you may have 

viewed on TV or film, or heard 

from the other side of the wall. 

Now take all that and try and have 

a logical conversation with someone 

equally confused. 

“When she says ‘no,’ it’s rape.” 

What if she says “yes” because he 

framed the situation falsely, like 

forgetting to mention his other sex 

partners, or in one case I know, 

removing the condom halfway 

through? What if she is in no position 

to say anything? What if HE is 

in no position to say anything? If 

both man and woman blacked out 

from drugs or alcohol, but had sex, 

can you say it was consented to? If 

two people BOTH get drunk and 

wake to find that they had sex, how 

do they know who initiated and 

thus was responsible for getting 

consent? What if she wants sex and 

HE says “no,” or “not a good 

idea”? What if he passed out and 

woke up to her having sex with 

him? By the way, that last example 

happened to me. Does that mean I 

have been raped? I’m just asking to 

ask. 

Ever see Revenge of the Nerds? 

There is a scene where one nerd 

puts on the same costume as one of 

the jocks and has sex with the 

cheerleader who dates that jock 

because she thinks it’s her 

boyfriend, since they have the same 

costume on. Not only is this 

implausible, but it’s a form of rape. 

But in the movie, the way he 

expressed his love and gained hers 

was celebrated. 

When some people first start 

really thinking about consent 

issues, they wonder if anyone ever 

has consenting sex. Some militant 

feminists such as Andrea Dworkin 

and Catharine MacKinnon have 

equated all heterosexual sex with 

rape, and in doing so wrongly 

accuse men in general and present 

an extreme feminism that borders 

on self-parody. But there are many 

others, perhaps less known because 

of less shocking views, who are 

more optimistic. Joseph Weinberg, 

in his essay in “Transforming a 

Rape Culture,” suggests that sex is 

more erotic when it’s a sharing of 

power, not a power struggle. 

“Power with” instead of “power 

over.” This makes me ask, Who do 

you think should have more say 

about sexuality? Those who like 

sex or those who don’t? 

We do, and will, and can have 

both passion and concern about 

consent, but we need to spend a 

moment here and there to check the 

situation and see exactly how both 

(or all, I guess) parties stand. If the 

idea of sex is supposed to be pleasurable, 

don’t we all want the other 

person to feel pleasure too? Think 

about how much more willing people 

tend to do something when they 

feel like their interest level is being 

considered and respected? We can 

still have sex; we just need to spend 

a few seconds thinking about what 

to say and how to say it first. Some 

express the concern of “Simon 

Says Sex”: “Do you consent to 

THIS? Do you consent to THIS?” 

The widely acclaimed Antioch policy 

mentions stopping for verbal 

consent at each stage of an 

encounter, but what exactly counts 

as a stage? Maybe we don’t need to 

worry about every little step if we 

start relationships and encounters 

with more openness, honesty, communication 

and respect. I think a 

few key words here are judgement 

and foresight. 

Not to get all on blaming “the 

system,” but the way a lot of media 

is, we are trained to meet strangers 

in exciting situations, and by mere 

proximity find sexual compatibility. 

The way the judicial system 

seems to work as a moral code is 

that we feel bad not for what we do 

wrong, but to feel bad if we get 

caught. The restorative justice 

movement is even centered around 

the lack of being accountable for 

the HARM someone does to others 

and making amends, as opposed to 

the more abstract idea of “breaking 

a rule” so you should be punished. 

Meanwhile, much of the recent discussions 

about sexual assault in 

“radical” communities center on 

definitions. Definitions can be 

helpful, but less important (in my 

opinion) than what you call something 

is how it impacts the lives of 

people. 

–Rich Mackin 

Books used as resources/ 

reading list: 

Beyond the Blame Game, by Dmitri 

Bilgere, 1997, MPC Press (recommended) 

Boys Will be Men: Raising our Sons 

for Courage, Caring, and Community, 

by Paul Kivel, 1999, New Society 

Publishers 

Cunt: A Declaration of Independence, 

by Inga Muscio, 2002, Seal Press (recommended) 

Feminism Is for Everybody by Bell 

Hooks, 2000, South End Press (recommended) 

Gender Outlaw: On Men, Women, and 

the Rest of Us, by Kate Bornstein, 

1995, Vintage Books (Highly recommended) 

Good Will Toward Men, by Jack 

Kramer, 1994, St. Martin’s Press 

I Never Called It Rape, by Robin 

Warsaw, 1988, Ms. Foundation/ Sarah 

Lazin Books 

Manhood in America, by Michael 

Kimmel, 1996, The Free Press (recommended) 

Men’s Work, by Paul Kivel, 1992, 

Ballantine Books (Highly recommended) 

My Gender Workbook: How to 

Become a Real Man, a Real Woman, 

the Real You, or Something Else 

Entirely, by Kate Bornstein, 1998, 

Routledge (recommended) 

No Is Not Enough: Helping Teenagers 

Avoid Sexual Assault, by Caren 

Adams, M.A., Jennifer Fay, M.A., Jan 

Loreen-Martin, M.A., 1984 Impact 

Publishers 

Psychic War in Men & Women, by 

Helen Block Lewis, 1976, NYU Press 

(Highly recommended. It discusses 

gender in cultural and anthropological 

levels, not just in modern culture.) 

Refusing to be a Man, by John 

Stoltenberg, 1989, Breitenbush Books 

Inc. 

(Note that I used this as a resource. 

Some parts are great food for thought, 

others, well, just wait until you read 

the section about how men want to 

father boys in order to avenge their lost 

erections.) 

The Secret Life of Men, by Steve 

Biddulph,1994, 2003, Marlowe and 

Company (recommended) 

Sex on Your Terms, by Elizabeth 

Powell, 1996, Allyn and Bacon (recommended) 

Sex, Power and Boundaries: 

Understanding and Preventing Sexual 

Harassment, by Peter Rutter, M. D. (A 

good book, but not really worth reading 

unless you are doing research. 

Mostly discusses workplace and legal 

issues.) 

Sexual Violence and American 

Manhood, by T Walter Herbert, 2002, 

Harvard University Press 

That’s Not What I Meant! by Deborah 

Tannen, Ph.D., 1986, Ballentine Books 

(recommended) 

Transforming a Rape Culture, edited 

by Emilie Buchwald, Pamela Fletcher, 

and Martha Roth, 1993, Milkweed 

Editions. 

You Just Don’t Understand: Women 

and Men in Conversation, by Deborah 

Tannen, Ph.D., 1991, Ballentine Books 

(Highly recommended) 

21 

RICH MACKIN

NARDWUAR THE HUMAN SERVIETTE 

NARDWUAR 

Nardwuar: Who are you? 

Wayne: I’m Wayne from the band 

The Flaming Lips, who are you? 

Nardwuar: I’m Nardwuar, The 

Human Serviette. 

Wayne: And everybody probably 

already knows that, right, but I’m 

probably the first guy you ever 

interviewed who had a pre-bloodied 

Calvin Klein suit on, right? 

Nardwuar: Yeah, I want to know, 

is that real blood or is that fake 

blood, and does the audience ever 

throw real blood? 

Wayne: No, no, I hope they never 

do that because that would mean 

that someone had to bleed or someone’s 

dead or something like that. 

No, that’d be horrible. 

Nardwuar: Is there any audience 

blood on you right now? 

Wayne: No, this is all blood that I 

put on myself just last night at the 

22 show. We had to 

WHO ARE YOU? 

come through the border this morning, 

because we were driving from 

outside of Seattle into Vancouver, 

and I thought it would be a great 

challenge for the folks at the border 

to see me come through looking 

like this. 

Nardwuar: I thought the crowd 

throws blood on you. 

Wayne: Well, they do sometimes, 

yeah, but it’s not real blood. 

Nardwuar: Yeah, I wanna know, 

how do you know it’s not real blood 

if the crowd is throwing it on you? 

Wayne: Well, because if it was real 

blood it wouldn’t come out, I mean 

I’ve had a lot of experience with 

blood and I’ve bled myself, and it 

doesn’t come out of a suit. Plus, 

you know, it feels different and 

looks different. And really, what 

nut is gonna come to the show and 

throw blood? I mean I know a couple 

of people who have done it but 

that’d be rare. 

Nardwuar: Come on, you’ve 

played with the Butthole Surfers. 

They’ve had blood thrown at them. 

Wayne: They have bled onstage 

and they take their own blood 

onstage but no, I don’t think anyone’s 

ever actually thrown it. 

You’ve gotta imagine – you’re 

gonna go all the way from home 

with some blood. You’re gonna be 

out all night ‘cause concerts are a 

long thing. What are you gonna do 

with that blood? 

Nardwuar: You guys are headlining 

and stuff, you know. They don’t 

want to waste it on the opening 

band. 

Wayne: It wouldn’t make sense. 

But I did know a guy who actually 

went to a concert and threw his own 

human feces. But you could say he 

carried it with him. 

Nardwuar: That’s pretty good, but 

it’s not as good as GG Allin, where 

he throws feces at the audience. 

Have you thrown any shit at the 

audience? 

Wayne: I would never do that. I 

would never ever do that. 

Nardwuar: What’s the closest 

you’ve come to that? 

Wayne: No, I throw confetti, 

which is clean and smells fine and I 

throw balloons and I actually sometimes 

throw balloons that have 

things in them. 

Nardwuar: How about throw up? 

Have you ever thrown up onstage 

or shat your pants onstage? 

Wayne: No. 

Nardwuar: In twenty years of 

rock, Wayne Coyne? 

Wayne: No, I’ve come close, but 

there’s some magic that happens 

when you’re up there onstage, that 

those things just clamp up. I’ve 

never sneezed onstage, or shat

onstage. 

Nardwuar: Amazing. 

Wayne: Nick Cave almost did 

once. But I said, “Look, I think you 

have to rely on nature’s own...” 

Nardwuar: Were you onstage with 

him? 

Wayne: I was onstage with him, 

and he was having some trouble 

because he had eaten some of the 

chicken on Lollapalooza 1994 and 

it didn’t agree with him. He said, “I 

can’t go up there. I’m Nick Cave, 

and if I do one of those “rrrraaarrrhh” 

sort of screams, the whole 

thing’s going to let out,” and I said, 

“Nick, you’ve got to believe…” 

Nardwuar: You are Wayne Coyne, 

and Wayne what do you play? You 

play the recording studio, don’t 

you? 

Wayne: Well, I mean people have 

said that and that’s a great compliment, 

and the way that music 

works, that really is my instrument 

in a way. But when I’m onstage, 

you know, I’m not actually playing 

the recording studio up there ‘cause 

it would be too big, I mean I’d have 

to carry it up there every night. So 

onstage, I play sort of a fake guitar 

that has sounds coming out of it 

that I don’t actually make. And I 

have some puppets that I play with, 

and I have lights that I swing 

around, I have some fireworks that 

I set off. I do things that are exciting. 

I keep the show going. It doesn’t 

mean that music and singing 

and all that stuff isn’t exciting, but 

I mean, frankly, I don’t dance. I 

don’t do any kind of sexy dancing, 

so I sort of feel like, you know, if 

you don’t dance, you gotta do 

something. You gotta look crazy, 

like the way you do or something, 

you know. [laughs] 

Nardwuar: Thanks very much, 

Wayne Coyne. And now Wayne 

Coyne, welcome to Vancouver, 

British Columbia, Canada, home of 

Jason Priestley from Beverly 

Hills… did I spit on you there? 

Wayne: Three or four different 

times. 

Nardwuar: Sorry about that, at 

least it wasn’t blood. Ba-boom! 

Wayne: Right, but I think blood’s 

better, now that you’ve spat on me 

that much. No, I didn’t know that 

he actually is from here. 

Nardwuar: Yes he is, and I guess I 

was wondering, did you ever hang 

Jason Priestley when you did 

Beverly Hills 90210 or did you ever 

get in any fights with Shannen 

Doherty? 

Wayne: No, I think they were actually 

both not on the show when we 

were there. I think they were 

already gone. 

Nardwuar: What a rip-off. 

Wayne: Well I agree, because we 

walked into it thinking “Man, we’ll 

be walking into them.” But I never 

followed the show that closely. I 

mean I knew what the show was all 

about, but when we were on there I 

think it was already the second 

rung of folks. Who would that be? I 

don’t remember. But they were real 

nice to us, and they were all real 

famous. I didn’t know who they 

were, but I was busy [laughs] that 

couple of years. 

Nardwuar: Wayne Coyne, 

Canadian connections. On one of 

your records you have a Canadian 

flag. On Oh My Gawd there’s a 

Canadian flag. What are the 

Canadian connections? 

Wayne: Well, I mean, we watched 

some, uh… 

Nardwuar: A Canadian flag on the 

Oh My Gawd record. 

Wayne: There is, I know. I’m trying 

to think… 

Nardwuar: You’re friends with 

Heather Graham, aren’t you? 

Wayne: Yes. 

Nardwuar: And Heather Graham 

was in a movie with… 

Wayne: With… 

Nardwuar: Mike... 

Wayne: Mike… 

Nardwuar: Myers, who is…? 

Wayne: Who’s Canadian! 

Nardwuar: Who’s Canadian, so 

there’s a Canadian connection for 

you! 

Wayne: Right, but I don’t know 

Mike Myers. 

Nardwuar: I know but you know 

Heather Graham. How do you 

know Heather Graham? 

Wayne: I guess because she takes a 

lot of drugs and listens to music. 

Isn’t that how we get all our 

Flaming Lips fans? [laughs] 

Nardwuar: Ba-boom! Now 

Wayne, talking about Canada, did 

you have some bad gigs in Canada 

early on? I read about some bad 

gigs happening in Canada. 

Wayne: No, I think when you travel 

across Canada you travel from 

what seems to be civilized, sophisticated 

metropolitan cities like 

Vancouver… 

Nardwuar: Be careful… 

Wayne: Over to Montreal or 

Toronto, but there are some places 

in between which are wonderful 

but aren’t necessarily rock’n’roll 

art Meccas… is that, I’m being 

polite, right? 

Nardwuar: Well not really, 

because The Guess Who are from 

Winnipeg. Don’t dis Winnipeg 

there, Wayne “Cone.” 

Wayne: I’m not dissing anybody… 

Nardwuar: Wayne “Cone.” 

Wayne: I’m… 

Nardwuar: Wayne “Cone.” 

Wayne: [laughs] I’m just saying 

that you don’t expect that there’s 

always going to be an audience 

there, but we want to go and sort of 

see what these places are like anyway. 

I remember playing in 

Calgary to probably about four 

people at one of the nice resorts 

there, where you go and sort of play 

while people drink beer and battle 

off their winter colds. But we did 

stay at a hotel that was right outside 

of the leftovers of the winter 

Olympics, and we watched… I 

think we watched porn for a couple 

of days. But we couldn’t see it very 

well… 

Nardwuar: You watched the 

scrambled porn? 

Wayne: We did. 

Nardwuar: I’ve done that too. 

That’s fun, isn’t it! 

Wayne: Back in the late ‘80s, 

before there were satellites or anything, 

so it was scrambled, but if 

you got lucky, you could see it 

scrambled. And I think — this is 

just for me, and I don’t think I’m a 

weirdo — I think porn looks better 

scrambled. 

Nardwuar: Wayne Coyne of The 

Flaming Lips, tell me about 

Oklahoma City being a test market. 

Where you’re from, Oklahoma 

City, is a test market. Very interesting. 

Tell the people about that. 

Wayne: I think that is a polite way 

of saying that it’s the bland middle 

area, where if it works there, it’ll 

probably work anywhere, and this 

is the truth. The McRib was tested 

there, and it didn’t work, and that’s 

why you don’t get the McRib now. 

But MTV was tested there, and it 

worked, see? That proves that we 

know what we’re talking about. 

You’re not going to give us some 

meat that’s been pressed up to look 

like a rib. We’re from Oklahoma, 

we know what a rib tastes like. But 

MTV, where you get women walking 

around with no clothes on, and 

you get to hear rock’n’roll, now 

that’s something that Oklahomans 

want. 

Nardwuar: And here comes 

Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips 

testing quite a bit, now you’re testing 

the blood thing, some achievement. 

A big achievement, testing 

the blood and stuff like that. Now 

what about this mic thing you have, 

the video mic, what’s the video 

mic, Wayne Coyne of The Flaming 

Lips? 

Wayne: We live in such a great scientifically 

diverse world these days 

that you can actually 23 

NARDWUAR THE HUMAN SERVIETTE

NARDWUAR THE HUMAN SERVIETTE 

go online and go to one of these 

sort of spy stores and buy all these 

little things that you can spy on 

your friends with. So I got this little 

camera that’s on my microphone up 

there, and I just sort of connect it up 

‘til you can see my head. And we 

have a screen that plays behind us. 

Sometimes you can see my big 

head and my boogers up my nose 

and all that sort of stuff right there 

while I’m singing. 

Nardwuar: See, that is a really 

great achievement. 

Wayne: [laughs] 

Nardwuar: It’s great that you’re 

going out and doing that, you 

know, true Oklahoma City style 

there, Wayne Coyne. 

Wayne: I don’t know if that would 

be called Oklahoma City style… 

Nardwuar: Test marketing. You’re 

test marketing. 

Wayne: I agree. I have a curiosity 

about trying new things. You’re 

exactly right. 

Nardwuar: And there is an 

achievement of The Flaming Lips 

recently, an achievement, many 

achievements but one specially. 

Wayne: I think the biggest 

achievement is… 

Nardwuar: Getting sponsored 

by… 

Wayne: Did we get sponsored 

by… ? 

Nardwuar: Apple! 

Wayne: No. 

Nardwuar: Don’t you have a 

sponsorship with Apple computers? 

That’s amazing Wayne Coyne! 

Wayne: No. We do get a lot of free 

stuff from Apple, but I was actually 

in an HP commercial. That’s why I 

think there’s some confusion there. 

Nardwuar: Oh my god. 

Wayne: But we actually won a 

Grammy a couple of months ago as 

well. 

Nardwuar: That’s amazing. 

Congratulations. But the most 

amazing achievement you’ve done 

recently is – how the hell did you 

get Justin Timberlake into a dolphin 

outfit that was smelling of 

sex? 

Wayne: Exactly, well see, I was 

like wow, I like that. I hadn’t used 

that. [laughs] 

Nardwuar: And you are Wayne 

Coyne of the Flaming... 

Wayne: I am, and I think it just 

goes to show that Justin Timberlake 

probably does a lot more drugs than 

24 everybody thought 

he really did to begin with, right? 

Nardwuar: Ba-boom. 

Wayne: Well, there you go. No, it’s 

because he’s a nice guy, and he’s up 

for doing weird things. He likes to 

have fun. 

Nardwuar: You like to have people 

dress up as animals, and you 

supply the animals, don’t you? 

Wayne: We supply the animal costumes, 

and usually they don’t smell 

of sex, they smell good, they smell 

fresh and clean like you just did the 

laundry. But occasionally people 

do things in them, in the suits. 

Nardwuar: And Justin Timberlake 

didn’t care about climbing into the 

suit. He didn’t care about the smell. 

He wanted to hear the music first, 

didn’t he? He wanted to learn the 

dance moves! 

Wayne: Well, he’s got the dance 

moves down. That’s why we want- 

ed him to come up there and sort of 

rock out with us. And he was wonderful. 

I think it just goes to show, 

who would ever think that Justin 

Timberlake would care about The 

Flaming Lips? But when we met he 

said, “Yeah, I’d love to come up 

there and play with you guys and 

do this song.” He even went to his 

hotel room that night and learned 

the song. 

Nardwuar: Wayne Coyne, tell me 

a little bit about the animals and 

stuff that people climb into. Do 

they have sex in the outfits? Have 

you stopped them from having sex 

in the outfits? And just continuing 

on there, I’m just curious about, 

what do you do when that happens? 

Wayne: Well, I hope that they just 

get it over with quick when it does 

happen, but I don’t know if they’re 

having sex with anything other than 

themselves. I think a lot of times 

we’re drawing that new craze of 

crowd that’s called the Furries and 

the Plushies. You’ve heard of this? 

And I think that’s really why we’re 

drawing bigger audiences these 

days. 

Nardwuar: Is there any quality 

control of people coming to the 

shows in outfits? If someone comes 

to the show, do you boycott any 

outfits going on stage? Because 

you encourage people to bring their 

own outfits don’t you? What have 

been some questionable ones, like 

have you had bin Laden up there – 

you know what I mean? 

Wayne: Well, we have Santa Claus 

up there… 

Nardwuar: That’s pretty damn 

close to bin Laden. 

Wayne: And a couple of times 

we’ve had people show up as Jesus, 

so on one side of me is Santa Claus 

and on the other side is Jesus. And 

of course it’s Wayne from 

Oklahoma in the middle, right? 

Yeah, you should come up tonight. 

You already look like you’re ready 

to dance with us. 

Nardwuar: I want to play in the 

confetti! Now tell me about the 

confetti, a little bit about the confetti 

there, Wayne Coyne of The 

Flaming Lips. The confetti because 

you have confetti and so does 

Fischer… 

Wayne: So does… uh, Spooner! 

Nardwuar: Fischerspooner! 

Wayne: Oh okay, right… you gotta 

be quick with you, right. I didn’t 

know they did. 

Nardwuar: They have the confetti 

and when they play oftentimes they 

lip sync. They jump around, lip 

sync. Have you ever thought about 

doing that, just totally lip syncing? 

Wayne: I have, of course. We do 

that in our videos all the time. 

Nardwuar: But how about on 

stage, because that’s what 

Fischerspooner does. It’d be a lot 

easier for you to do your show 

without actually singing. 

Wayne: To me it would really be 

more trouble than it’s worth, 

because it’s just so much easier just 

to sing. And I don’t think one is 

better than the other, I just think it’s 

a lot easier because you like to talk 

and change things up a little bit, 

and it’s just more personal. 

Nardwuar: Wayne Coyne, there 

are some similarities between you 

and The Flaming Lips and 

Fischerspooner. Casey Spooner 

there – are you jealous of Casey 

Spooner, because he got to touch… 

Wayne: I don’t know! 

Nardwuar: Whose ass did Casey 

Spooner get to touch? 

Wayne: It must be Kylie 

Minogue’s… 

Nardwuar: Yes! 

Wayne: Because that’s the only ass 

that anybody really wants to touch. 

There’s a lot of asses out there, 

but… 

Nardwuar: Yes! You see, Casey 

Spooner got to touch the ass, and 

all you got to do was cover the ass. 

Wayne: No, I think I will get to 

touch it. I’ve invited her to come 

backstage… 

Nardwuar: Because you’ve covered 

her tune. 

Wayne: Right, and that’s the reason 

I say, “Kylie you’ve gotta come 

back here,” and if she shows up I’m 

sure she’ll let me touch it. I mean I 

don’t want to do anything with it, 

other than I’ll touch it, just so I 

could have one up on the 

Fischerspooner folks. How did he 

get to touch it? 

Nardwuar: I don’t know. It was 

arranged through the record company 

or something like that. 

Wayne: Well, was it a touch or was 

it like a grab? 

Nardwuar: He got a nice little 

grab. He said it was awesome. 

Wayne: Did she like it? I mean, did 

she respond? 

Nardwuar: Of course. She came 

back for more! 

Wayne: I can’t believe that… 

Nardwuar: She might have been 

contractually obligated. It might 

have been a contractual obligation. 

Wayne: I think if I get to touch 

Kylie’s butt, it’s going to be 

because she likes it. 

Nardwuar: It could have been one 

of those things that happened in the 

press, you know, like Lisa Marie 

kissing Michael Jackson. It could 

have been set up. 

Wayne: I wouldn’t want mine to be 

in that way at all. I hope mine is a 

genuine, “Let me touch your butt,” 

and she says, “Do it once and get 

outta here.” 


Flaming Lips, the song you have, 

“Do You… 

Wayne: …Realize” 

Nardwuar: “Do You Realize.” Are 

there dog whistles embedded in 

that? When my friend listens to that 

song with his dog, the dog goes 

crazy! Have you embedded dog 

whistles? 

Wayne: That’s because that dog is 

hearing the lyrics and the lyrics are 

so moving that the dog’s going 

crazy. That’s why. 

Nardwuar: No, but the whole 

album is filled with dog whistles. 

Wayne: No, no, no… 

Nardwuar: Is the whole album 

filled with subliminal dog whistles? 

Wayne: No, it’s not. 

Nardwuar: Here I am asking a 

man covered in blood. Very satanic. 

But are there dog whistles? 

Wayne: No there’s not, and you 

can trust me on that, because I have

dogs, and I play it all the time at the 

house and nothing happens to them. 

Nardwuar: There’s none, you 

swear to god, Wayne Coyne of The 

Flaming Lips, no dog whistles in 

“Do You Realize”? 

Wayne: No intentional ones. 

Nardwuar: So why do you think 

the dogs go crazy again? 

Wayne: I think it’s because they’re 

Canadian! 

Nardwuar: Ba-boom! 


Nardwuar: Now going back here 

to The Cramps… 

Wayne: Back to The Cramps? 

Nardwuar: Well we started talking 

about The Cramps. 

Wayne: Right, right we did. 

Nardwuar: Now, when I was listening 

to your early records, it 

really does sound a bit 

Crampish. 

Wayne: There is an element of 

The Cramps in there. But The 

Cramps are one of those inspirations, 

because they’re just 

such weirdos, and people 

don’t know how old they are, 

and where they come from, 

and all that sort of stuff, and I 

think there’s an element of that 

to The Flaming Lips. 

Nardwuar: But you don’t do 

any of that any more. You only 

go as far back as “Jelly.” You 

only go to the “Jelly.” 

Wayne: Well, it’s because we 

have been around for so long 

and our audience is perpetually 

like a new audience, and 

you’re always playing to people 

who just know your last 

couple of records, which I 

think is wonderful. And so, we 

try to play songs that we think 

everybody out there will 

know. And so I could play 

some old songs, but there’d 

only be like three or four 

weirdos like yourself in the 

audience who would know 

what we’re playing, and so I 

play songs that they want to 

hear. And when we do radio 

shows or shows at record 

stores or something, then we 

know we’re really connecting to the 

people who are weirdo, weirdo fans 

and who are perhaps even weirder 

than you, and then we will play 

some of the older stuff, just because 

we know… [laughs] 

Nardwuar: Thank you so much, 

Wayne Coyne of The Flaming Lips. 

Now I have a little joke here for 

you. I was listening to your early 

records, going way, way back, and 

your early records don’t sound like 

the Polyphonic Spree. 

Wayne: But that’s a good joke, 

right? Because I love the 

Polyphonic Spree… 

Nardwuar: You’re supposed to 

laugh at that. 

Wayne: Oh, okay. [laughs] 

Nardwuar: Is that funny? Is that 

funny? Can you tell the people the 

joke I was trying to get across? 

Wayne: Right, the joke is that people 

think that they sound like The 

Flaming Lips now, the Polyphonic 

Spree, right? That’s the joke? But I 

don’t think so. I think they sound 

like them. 

Nardwuar: But people have ripped 

you off, Wayne Coyne of The 

Flaming Lips… 

Wayne: No, no… 

Nardwuar: Yes, touring with STP 

and Candlebox. They ripped you 

off, didn’t they? Tell me the story 

about that. 

Wayne: No, they didn’t rip us off. 

We actually played up here in 

Vancouver with both of those 

bands. 

Nardwuar: I thought you played 

with Candlebox, and then they 

ripped you off, and then they failed, 

because they couldn’t copy The 

Flaming Lips! 

Wayne: No, they failed. Who 

knows why they failed. 

Nardwuar: You said… 

Wayne: No. 

Nardwuar: …in an interview that 

they copied you, and then they only 

sold four hundred records. 

Wayne: No. I think because we 

were on tour with them, and we got 

to be friends and they really 

admired our music, and I think they 

thought, “We want to be more 

weird and experimental like you 

guys.” And as you know, a band 

like Candlebox being experimental, 

that sounds… 

Nardwuar: You see, I was wondering 

about that, because Redd Kross 

toured with Stone Temple Pilots, 

and then Stone Temple Pilots totally 

ripped off Redd Kross. Would 

you admit to that, Wayne Coyne of 

The Flaming Lips? 

Wayne: No, I think music is one of 

those things… 

Nardwuar: Come on. Redd Kross 

were completely ripped off by the 

Stone Temple Pilots! “Big Bang 

Baby” – that’s total Redd Kross! 

Wayne: Nobody owns a certain 

element of what you can do in 

music. Everybody is always influenced… 

Nardwuar: What sort of kickback 

are you getting back from the Stone 

Temple Pilots? 

Wayne: [laughs] I’m not, I just 

wouldn’t make… I don’t think anybody’s 

even ripped us off. I think 

you can just do whatever you want. 

Nardwuar: [quickly] Polyphonic 

Spree. 

Wayne: No. Polyphonic Spree are 

great. 


Flaming Lips, De La Soul. You 

toured with De La Soul. What’s it 

like touring with a rap band and 

what other rap bands have you 

toured with? 

Wayne: De La Soul are really gentle, 

loving, peace-and-love sort of 

guys, which is great, but you hope 

that when you’re touring with rap 

acts and hip-hop acts that it’s a constant 

barrage of smoking crack and 

having sex and guns and all that 

sort of stuff, but it wasn’t. 

Nardwuar: Have you played with 

any other rap groups? Any other rap 

groups? Have you met any other 

rap groups? 

Wayne: Of course. We played with 

Jurassic 5 just last night, and about 

a month ago with Public Enemy, so 

yeah. 

Nardwuar: What was that like? 

That must have been a bit of a 

downer. 

Wayne: No, it was great. 

Nardwuar: Flava Flav is getting 

pretty big isn’t he? 

Wayne: What do you mean? 

Nardwuar: You’ve kept very 

fit and trim, and you exercise. 

Wayne: Flava Flav looks virtually 

the same, only I think 

the clocks are getting bigger. 

He still had the clocks on and 

everything. 

Nardwuar: Ba-boom! 


Nardwuar: I love you guys 

because you were, like, covering 

Dark Side of the Moon, 

the entire album opening for 

punk bands years ago… 


Nardwuar: I mean that is 

punk. That is punk. When did 

this happen – quickly winding 

up here – doing that for 

punk bands? 

Wayne: We didn’t cover the 

whole thing. 

Nardwuar: Yes, there’s a 

punk band called No Trend 

from Washington, DC that 

says you opened for them and 

you did the entire album . 

Wayne: I know, but they’re 

exaggerating that we did the 

entire album. We would play 

Pink Floyd songs and that 

was indeed confrontational to 

that crowd at the time. But in 

defense of ourselves, we didn’t 

do it because it was confrontational. 

We did it 

because we liked the music and we 

thought, “Well, these people are 

punk rock. They should like it that 

we’re doing what we like.” I 

thought that’s what it was all about, 

but in some ways you see it’s very 

restricted in other ways. 

Nardwuar: Just quickly, this interview’s 

winding up. But why did 

your Brian Wilson interview never 

see the light of day? You interviewed 

Brian Wilson! Why did it 

not see the light of day!? What the 

hell happened? 

Wayne: Because Brian Wilson, I 

mean – I know me and you are a 

pair of weirdos – but compared to 

us, Brian Wilson is just too weird. 

It’s unsettling to see 25 


him interviewed with me on TV, to 

tell you the truth. I have the interview 

with me and maybe some day 

we’ll just prove it. 

Nardwuar: Do you have it in your 

bus right now? 

Wayne: Well I don’t know if I have 

it. I carried it on the Beck tour so 

we played it a bunch on the Beck 

tour and, um, I think it’s disturbing. 

It really is. 

Nardwuar: Well, what does he do? 

Wayne: Well, he doesn’t 

answer questions very easily, 

like if you interviewed him he 

would cry and he may shit 

himself or whatever, you 

know? I mean… 

Nardwuar: That’s my dream, 

to interview Brian Wilson, 

Wayne Coyne of The Flaming 

Lips… 

Wayne: I know, but you’ll 

never do it because he’s just 

too uncomfortable. 

Nardwuar: Well, actually it’s 

my second dream because to 

interview you is a real 

dream… 

Wayne: Well, that is what I 

was told… 

Nardwuar: Because I was 

researching a bit about you 

there, “Flaming Lipper,” 

“Wayner Coyner” and I heard 

that you don’t do interviews 

before you play, that you only 

communicate non-verbally. 


Nardwuar: Somebody saw 

you before a show and you 

were like [makes choking 

noises]. 

Wayne: Oh, well, that was 

true. If we play too many 

nights in a row and then I talk, 

and then I talk too much and 

‘cause I only have so much of 

the voice and then bam! 

You’ve talked too much and you 

can’t sing that night. So I had to do 

a bunch of interviews where I was 

just sort of faking it. They’d ask me 

questions and I’d shake my head, 

yes or no. 

Nardwuar: You’re not faking it 

today! 

Wayne: Exactly, because I knew if 

I talked too much then I wouldn’t 

be able to sing that night. But it was 

really only for one day where I had 

to do two interviews that were 

going to be on TV and stuff. 

Nardwuar: Have the boom-box 

experiments ever gone wrong? 

Wayne: Everything goes wrong all 

the time but that’s the beauty of 

being in a band and accepting whatever 

challenges come along. Yeah, 

they would go wrong all the time, 

but I like it when you’re kind of 

forced to improvise or just do 

things. Yeah, of course, yeah. 


Flaming Lips, will My Bloody 

Valentine ever make another 

record? 

Wayne: No, no they won’t. No. 

Nardwuar: Why is that? 

Wayne: Because I don’t really 

think they exist anymore. But, um, 

I think it’s just lost its meaning. But 

Kevin Shields, he’s still a wonderful 

guy who will probably play 

weird, strange guitar and make 

weird recordings for the rest of his 

life, but I don’t actually think it’ll 

be called My Bloody Valentine. 

Nardwuar: Did you ever feel The 

Flaming Lips were used as bait at 

all because you’ve been on Warner 

Brothers all these years. Are you 

bait because, “Hey we got The 

Flaming Lips, they’ve been here 

thirteen, fifteen years. You gotta 

sign with us.” 

Wayne: [laughs] Well I only 

recently felt that because yesterday 

we played… 

Nardwuar: Do you feel a bit guilty 

then? 

Wayne: No, I love it now. I never 

knew how good it felt to be bait 

before, but I do know because yesterday 

we played with this band, 

the girl who sings in the band is 

fourteen years old so that’s bait-ish 

already. 

Nardwuar: Ba-BOOM! 

Wayne: I know! They’re big fans 

of The Flaming Lips because we’ve 

played their hometown Dallas, 

Texas probably about one hundred 

times, so they grew up with us and 

so when Warner Brothers went to 

sign them, one of the reasons they 

signed to Warner Brothers is 

because they loved The Flaming 

Lips. 

Nardwuar: Aww, and you felt terrible 

about that. 

Wayne: I think they’re fourteen, 

seventeen, and twenty. Yeah. 


Flaming Lips, thank you very much 

for your time. I really appreciate it. 

Wayne: Well, thank you sir, thank 

you. 

Nardwuar: Is there anything else 

you want to add to the people out 

there at all? 

Wayne: Um, to the Canadian folks, 

um, we love playing everywhere 

we go or we wouldn’t play if we 

didn’t love it. But I don’t want anyone 

to think that we would ever 

avoid Canada because of its, um – 

you know, these are weird times 

and getting over borders and that 

sort of stuff can be more difficult. 

No, it’s wonderful that we have an 

audience here and hopefully we’ll 

get to travel to go to Montreal and 

Toronto regardless of the mad cow 

disease. 

Nardwuar: And it’s cool that you 

like it because you’re a test market. 

If you like it, you’re a test market. 

You’re a test band. 

Wayne: And some of my greatest 

adventures, I’ve actually seen the 

Northern Lights three times while 

I’ve been in Canada and that’s marvelous, 

so yeah. Here’s the, the 

trip… 

Nardwuar: And as soon as you 

said that, look, the sun just came 

out. 

Wayne: Of course. 

Nardwuar: Isn’t that awesome? 

Wayne: I’ve been in Oklahoma for 

almost forty-three years and I’ve 

never seen a tornado and a thousand 

of them come through there 

every year and a couple of them 

came through when I was home just 

last week, but I’ve only been 

to Canada you know, maybe 

twelve times and I’ve seen the 

Northern Lights three times. 

Isn’t that wonderful? 

Nardwuar: It is Wayne 

Coyne. Wayne Coyne of The 

Flaming Lips, why should 

people care about The 

Flaming Lips? Why should 

people care? 

Wayne: Well, they shouldn’t 

care if they don’t want to. I 

mean we make music and we 

hope people like it and music 

is a wonderful, wonderful 

thing, so if you don’t like 

music, I’m sure you won’t like 

us. But if you like music, you 

should be hopefully looking 

for weird, wonderful things 

and we would be one of those, 

hopefully, that people should 

stumble upon. But the main 

reason is because I think we 

make optimistic music. You 

know when you have some 

sadness or some tragedy in 

your life or something, sometimes 

you want to hear people 

who are seeing brighter side 

of the universe or seeing 

another way out of this thing 

or whatever. And I think we 

represent that here and there, 

sure. 

Nardwuar: Wayne Coyne, 

I’m so sorry to take your time but 

I’ve got one last question if that’s 

okay. 

Wayne: Ahh, come on. What do 

you got… 

Nardwuar: One last question here. 

Michael Stipe. You scared him with 

UFO stories years ago. 

Wayne: I know… 

Nardwuar: Has he always been 

weird? Has that dude always been 

weird? 

Wayne: He has and I thought 

maybe in the last few years, maybe 

he finally wouldn’t be weird, but 

recently we played Athens, Georgia 

and we scared him off again. 

Nardwuar: Thanks very much 

Wayne Coyne. Keep on rockin’ in 

the free world and doot doola doot 

doo? 

Wayne: [laughs] What? You 

always do that “bum bum.” 

Nardwuar: Yes! Thank you! 

–Nardwuar the Human Serviette 

 


TITO 

TITO 

I used to live in the second to 

last apartment building at the end of 

a dead end street. The first thing 

you would notice when you turned 

onto my street was the enormous 

amount of trash piled up at the dead 

end. I never actually saw it happen 

but I guess people used my street as 

their dumping ground because they 

were too lazy to take their trash to 

an alley like any other self-respecting 

person would. 

Trash wasn’t the only thing that 

people would leave on my street. 

Parking was always next to impossible 

because it seemed like anyone 

who owned a large truck of any 

kind knew that they didn’t need to 

pay a lot fee to keep it parked legally 

because cops never rolled 

through this neighborhood, so the 

street was full of landscaping and 

moving trucks. Thankfully, I had 

my own parking space in the lot 

provided by my apartment building. 

The building itself wasn’t that 

bad. There were sixteen one bedroom 

apartments – I lived in number 

nine, the first one on the second 

floor. Below my apartment was the 

pool. I never even dipped a toe in it. 

The pool was cleaned every 

Thursday and by Friday afternoon 

the water resembled milk but a lit- 

36 tle more on the 

NOM DE PLUME 

Friday afternoon the water resembled milk but a little more on the brown side. The 

kids couldn’t get enough of that pool. Kids of all ages, too. Kids in diapers. 

227TH 

brown side. The kids couldn’t get 

enough of that pool. During the hot 

months there seemed to never be an 

empty moment in that thing. Kids 

of all ages, too. Kids in diapers. 

Speaking of kids, I was the 

only person in the building who 

lived alone. Every other apartment 

was occupied by a family. There 

were families of seven living in 

some of those one bedroom apartments. 

I was always convinced that 

everyone thought I was weird. I 

must have been weird. Why would 

a single white guy want to live in a 

neighborhood of Mexican families? 

Most of the kids seemed to like me. 

They either liked me or were 

intrigued by the local weirdo. 

Whenever I would do something 

outside like work on my car there 

would be at least one little kid trying 

to help me. They rarely talked 

to me. The ones who were too 

young to be in school didn’t even 

speak English. One day a little girl 

asked me if I was rich. I thought it 

was a funny question and, of 

course, I said no. 

RALLY THE 

PROLETARIAT... 

The kids were only a small part of 

the color of this neighborhood. It 

seemed like every night there was 

something interesting going on. 

The first night I spent there, I was 

startled by a man driving a car up 

and down the street rattling off 

what seemed to be a manifesto of 

sorts in rapid-fire Spanish through 

a megaphone. I had no idea what he 

was saying. He came around at 

least every other night. For weeks I 

thought (I hoped) he was spouting 

off some kind of political speech – 

trying to rally the troops or convince 

his fellow immigrant workers 

to unionize. One night I left my 

apartment to walk to the video store 

just as my favorite political activist 

pulled his rickety station wagon 

onto my street. As he started in with 

his diatribe he was flagged down by 

a man and his two kids. He stopped 

his car and a woman opened the 

tailgate from the inside and started 

slopping soup, rice and beans out of 

large pots wrapped in towels. This 

guy had no political agenda at all; 

he wasn’t trying to enlighten anyone 

with his views. He was shout- 

ing out his wife’s menu so they 

could pay the rent. DIY catering 

service. 

In fact, after a while I found out 

that you didn’t really have to leave 

the street at all to take care of your 

daily business. Every morning the 

tamale guy would come around 

selling sweet corn breakfast treats. 

Twice a week a produce truck 

would come by with all of your 

fruit, vegetable and household 

product needs. And at least once a 

week a guy would knock on my 

door holding two buckets – one 

with cheese and one with steaks. 

FOR THOSE ABOUT 

TO ROCK... 

This was the loudest neighborhood 

I ever lived in. It was the loudest 

neighborhood I’ve ever even been 

to. There were parties every weekend 

like clockwork. I don’t mean 

that someone would have a little get 

together at their place on a Friday 

night, I mean the whole street 

would get into it: live bands, fireworks, 

light shows. 

Weeknights were no 

library either. One night I woke in a 

flash as someone was blaring their 

music in the wee hours of the night. 

I quickly gathered my senses and 

realized that the music was coming 

all pictures by Tito 

from the house next door to my 

building and it was outside – directly 

under my window. It was 2:00 in 

the morning. The song came to an 

end and there was a long pause. 

Cool, I thought, they were just testing 

out their new outdoor sound 

system with one tune just to see 

how it kicks. Now everything will 

be back to normal. Before I could 

get back to sleep another song

kicked in. Fuck. Okay, they just 

need to run another song through 

the system and then it will be all 

over. No such luck. Immediately 

after the song ended another one 

fired up. This song sounded familiar. 

It was the same song that was 

just played, which, now that I 

thought about it, was also the first 

song that was played. This guy is 

playing the same song over and 

over, I thought. He must really be 

trying to ring out the EQ on this 

new system. After the same song 

played about five more times I realized 

something that I think I knew 

all along but didn’t want to admit: 

this wasn’t a guy playing the same 

song over and over again, this was 

a live band practicing the same 

song over and over again. Outside. 

At 2:00 in the morning. On a fucking 

weeknight. 

My only guess as to why this 

was happening was that all of these 

guys work at different times so the 

only chance that all of them had to 

get together at the same time was 

really late at night. And I could just 

hear one of the guys in the band 

now, “Oh, we can practice at my 

place but my wife and kids will be 

sleeping so we have to do it outside.” 

Thanks a lot guys. Brilliant. 

ARSON OR 

DIRTY DIAPERS? 

One day as I pulled my car into my 

designated parking space (which 

was right next to the wall that 

seemed to lean more and more 

toward my car everyday) I noticed 

a waft of smoke pass by me. I got 

out of the car thinking that something 

under my hood was smoking 

(I had been having radiator problems 

at the time). As I opened the 

hood, another cloud of smoke 

passed by. I knew that it wasn’t 

coming from my car but I wasn’t 

sure where it was coming from. 

On the other side of the leaning 

wall was the building’s dumpster. 

And now it was on fire. Not the 

dumpster itself, but the contents. I 

looked around to see if anyone else 

was there to take care of it – I have 

to admit that I didn’t want to deal 

with it; I figured that I could pass it 

on to someone else if that person 

were around. No such luck. I came 

up with the brilliant plan to fill the 

bucket that I kept underneath my 

bathroom sink to catch the water 

that leaked from the drain pipe and 

dump it on the fire. I ran up to old 

number nine and filled the bucket 

(that probably held no more than 

two gallons). After dumping its 

contents on the fire (which at this 

point was raging a good three feet 

above the rim of the dumpster) I 

quickly realized that it would take 

me hundreds of trips to get this 

thing put out. Now the dumpster 

was making loud popping sounds 

as the metal was buckling from the 

heat. 

Finally, someone else came 

around. I held up my bucket and 

shrugged my shoulders in kind of 

an I-don’t-know-what-to-do-aboutthis-raging-fire 

kind of way. He 

raised up his index finger to tell me 

to hang on for a second. He came 

back with a length of hose that was 

no longer than twelve feet. I knew 

that this thing would not reach the 

dumpster from where the faucet 

was and moving the dumpster closer 

to the faucet was out of the question. 

So, I quickly screwed the hose 

onto the faucet, cranked it up as 

high as it would go, pressed my 

thumb on the end to allow maximum 

pressure and held my arm at 

60 degrees to arch the stream into 

the dumpster. 

After about five minutes a 

small crowd had formed. After ten 

minutes I knew that my arms were 

about to give out. The stream of 

water that I had been shooting into 

the dumpster wasn’t putting much 

of a dent into the flame. By this 

time, I had help. Two guys had 

started dumping in buckets full of 

water. After fifteen minutes two 

others got the idea to push the 

dumpster closer using towels as 

industrial sized potholders so they 

wouldn’t burn themselves. When 

the dumpster was close enough for 

the hose to be placed inside I handed 

it over to a kid who was standing 

next to me and retired. I knew that 

everything was under control at 

that point. 

For the rest of the time that I 

lived in that building I would see 

that dumpster that was scarred 

black on the outside and smile. 

Much later a friend told me that 

sometimes, on hot days, dirty diapers 

will catch on fire in outdoor 

dumpsters. I’m not sure that I 

believe that, but it sounds pretty 

good. 

WHERE’S MY UNITY? 

No one ever really came over to 

that apartment. I honestly think that 

I have too many honky friends who 

see a neighborhood like that and 

immediately think that it’s a bad 

place. I don’t know if it’s just plain 

old racism seeing a 99% Mexican 

population and running for the hills 

or if the culture shock was just too 

much. I admit that I was a bit 

shocked for the first week that I 

lived there and then I realized that 

this neighborhood was as real as it 

gets. I had never in my life seen a 

neighborhood band together the 

way that they did on that street. I’ve 

lived in houses with as many as 

eight roommates and lived in so- 

called punk communities but nothing 

could ever compare to the sense 

of community that I felt on that 

street. Everyone was invited to the 

barbecue. 

I never saw or even heard of a 

crime being committed (something 

that I can’t say about ANY other 

neighborhood I’ve lived in in my 

whole life). I rarely ever locked my 

door and even if I did you could 

easily enter through the kitchen 

window that didn’t lock. 

Sometimes I even left my keys in 

my car. 

I wasn’t the only white person 

on the street. In the last few months 

that I was living there, two sisters 

moved into one of the apartments 

in my building. They hated it. 

Sometimes they would complain to 

me about how shitty the neighborhood 

was and how the building 

wasn’t well kept. I’m not your 

white shoulder to cry on. I like this 

place. 

I finally left that apartment to 

move into a house with roommates 

so I could lower my expenses. 

When I took a job at a pizza parlor 

a few years later there was a sign 

that listed a few neighborhoods 

under the heading: Do Not Deliver. 

On that list was the 1300 block of 

227th Street. Fuckin’ honkys. 

–Tito 

Hatemyjob31@aol.com

AYN IMPERATO 

AYN IMPERATO 

When I lived in San Francisco, 

I worked for a while as a personal 

assistant. It was pretty decent pay 

and, if nothing else, every day was 

never the same as the next. The 

position consisted mostly of performing 

basic and often meaningless 

tasks – everything from paying 

bills and answering email to ordering 

a staggering number of pain 

pills in obscene strengths from 

online websites. The lady I worked 

for was eccentric, festive and she 

liked to drink. 

The apartment I worked at had 

a panoramic view of the Bay 

Bridge, Coit Tower, The 

Transamerica building and Treasure 

Island. Looking out each window 

was like watching a real-life San 

Francisco postcard in motion. Giant 

cargo ships would sail by and glide 

under the bridge – you could see the 

state of the local economy by how 

many ships would or wouldn’t sail 

by that week. Often my job was to 

arrange flowers in the kitchen or 

prepare food while drinking rum 

and cokes and watching the ships 

pass outside the window. Yes, I said 

rum and cokes. I was a stand-in for 

an employee. And that’s why I 

stayed. Mostly, it was easy. 

Sometimes I had to make little 

crafts that she read about in magazines 

and wanted to try, but not 

really do the work herself. I would 

just sit there at the table and make 

little napkin rings out of twigs and 

dried leaves for Thanksgiving or 

string cranberries and bay leaves 

for the fireplace mantle. I was a 

punk rock Martha Stewart in a little 

apron and a studded pyramid belt. I 

gained many new, unusable skills. I 

still can’t cook to save my soul but, 

damn it, can I make a mean 

Christmas garland. 

One day I had to arrange these 

moss balls in a giant Roman urn on 

the porch. What is a moss ball you 

ask? I’m still not sure I know. 

They’re round. 

38 

They’re green. They’re covered 

with moss. I had to arrange them in 

this gigantor cream-colored ceramic 

pot. I sat there looking at them. 

How does a person arrange these… 

these giant green balls? 

“Make them look like food for 

the gods!” she shouted from inside. 

I paused and stared. Food for the 

Gods. Moss balls. I’m just not sure 

why ancient supernatural deities 

would choose algae-covered 

spheres as their dinner. I’m not 

even sure they would eat at all, 

being unable to, I don’t know, die 

and all. But what do I know? It’s 

not my job to know. I just moved 

them around and let the moss balls 

do the talking. 

If nothing else I have determined 

one thing. Rich people are 

weird. My boss is different than 

90803 

She just gave it to me. Trusted me openly, maybe blindly, to take all her secrets and take 

good care of her life. And it’s because she trusted and respected me, that I did. 

Moss Balls 

KAT JETSON 

AND GOOSE 

most in that she knows she is weird. 

She revels in it. I think it was even 

my job to confirm this weirdness. I 

think there is something in all that 

Fendi perfume and idle time that 

muddles and distorts a person’s perception. 

My boss rounds the corner. 

“Would you see if you can find my 

Marabou slides?” I look up. She’s 

wearing an orange facemask and a 

leopard caftan. She continues in all 

seriousness, “I kicked them behind 

the dresser a few days ago. And 

when you find them I can put them 

on, kick them off again and make us 

all vodka gimlets!” 

“Uh, yeah,” I nod, still working 

on the urn. “Gimlets. Yeah.” 

“Hey, when you’re done would 

you also look online and see if you 

can dig up some singing cham- 

pagne flutes? They would be so 

perfect for my party next week. But 

drop them from the belly of the 

plane! I need them fast!” 

“Singing champagne flutes. 

Right.” And she bursts into laughter. 

I am so cynical she thinks it’s a 

riot. It’s like our running joke. I 

don’t think anyone has ever been so 

blunt or honest with her in her life. 

I pause with a ball in my hand. “I’ll 

just put those overdue tax bills on 

my desk aside and look for singing 

flutes.” 

“Forget taxes,” she cries. 

“Singing flutes!” She cackles and 

heads back down the hall to her 

room. 

Earlier in the week my job for 

the day was to track down a topiary 

plant for her hallway – a specific 

one with the right amount of tiers, 

the right height, etc. I spent half the 

day tracking just the right one 

down, then picked it up and brought 

it up to her apartment. She placed it 

in her main hallway where we 

passed by it every day. 

At first, everything was fine. 

But after a day or so, a spider web 

began to form. At first it was just a 

few white, light hairs on the upper 

tier. Then it spread, slowly, into a 

multi-layered web-nest, spanning 

all three tiers of the plant. My boss 

noticed it then – I mean you couldn’t 

miss it – it was like arachnophobia 

in her entryway, and she began 

to holler, “That web! Ahhh! The 

web!” She locked herself in the 

bedroom and would barely leave, 

except to hurry to the kitchen to eat. 

I told her I would get rid of it, but 

she wouldn’t hear of it. She simply 

couldn’t deal. “The spider,” she 

said, “wherever it is, will get loose 

in the house. Just leave it alone!” 

Then the spider came out. It 

was a monstrous spider, nearly an 

inch and a half long without the 

legs. When you walked by it would 

scurry towards your end of the web, 

prompted by, I can only guess, 

vibrations from feet passing on the 

wood floor. My boss would just cry 

out every time she passed, “Aaugh! 

The web!” and the spider would 

scurry towards her. And even

though she turned pale with grief at the very 

thought of it, she wouldn’t remove it for days. 

When I completed one of my menial 

tasks, she would cry out and act like I’d performed 

a near Herculean event, though they 

were mediocre at best. Even bringing her a tall 

glass of wine, when I sensed she was stressed, 

would bring about extravagant praise. “You 

are amazing! Pure genius! Thank you!” 

We drank beer when we were working, 

champagne when we were celebrating. Of 

course my accounting got a little funny after 

several beers in the afternoon. At how many 

jobs can you show up, be incredibly hung over 

and it is really, really all right? In those cases 

she fetched me Advil and offered up a bloody 

mary to kill the pain. 

She was very thoughtful like that at times. 

She wouldn’t let me lick the envelopes when I 

paid the bills – she says the glue they use is 

bad. So I had to run them along a tiny wet 

sponge she bought specifically for that purpose. 

She had a small room dedicated to the 

dog. Inside were an impressive array of doggie 

treats – from liva snaps to yogurt-beef 

drops. And blue piddle pads, for when she 

couldn’t take the dog out for a few days. It 

was one of my many tasks to walk the dog, a 

beige Shitzu, on occasion. If I was too busied 

up looking for singing champagne flutes or 

stringing holiday garland, then the dog used 

those pads. Thankfully, it was not my job to 

change them. I didn’t even go near them. I 

fear the piddle pads. I just threw a few liva 

snaps in the room and closed the door or 

clipped on the leash and took her outside, far 

away from traumatic blue cloth pee-pads. 

Why did I work this basically meaningless 

position? Why did I give up other offers 

for slightly better paying, more glamorous 

sounding jobs? Because of the extreme flexibility 

that it allowed – if I wanted to take a day 

or a month off to kick around Hawaii or 

Thailand, or go on tour with my band, I could. 

No explanations, no fears. I knew I’d have a 

job when I got back and that she’d be happy to 

see me. Also there was the matter of the pay. 

It was really good, especially considering the 

mainly unskilled labor required, plus the benefits 

– free booze. And I could literally roll out 

of bed, throw on jeans or Dickies and put my 

hair up and I was dressed for work, since my 

boss would in all likelihood still be in pajamas 

when I got there. And wearing hose and heels 

would be laughable while hosing down the 

garden upstairs. 

It wasn’t all vodka gimlets and garland 

though – some days, especially around the 

holidays, were really stressful, and managing 

the bills and virtually all the money coming in 

and out was a pretty grim and huge task. There 

were days I left, went home and straight to 

sleep. There was this one day I was left to try 

to reconstruct all the expenses from an entire 

previous year, for the upcoming taxes. In the 

next room she played R&B songs for the better 

part of the day while I attempted to reconstruct 

her financial life in the next room with 

a ballpoint pen and several sheets of copy 

paper. I can’t forget that long, frustrating day 

when I could hear Aretha Franklin singing, 

“Freedom… Freedom… Freedom!” growing 

quiet in the distance as I left. 

And then there was the downtime. I found 

it in strange places. Standing over the copy 

machine, waiting for copies of recipes of 

seared asparagus casseroles, I could jot down 

a few ideas for songs or stories. Waiting in 

line at the grocery store was a moment to 

work on some lyrics in my head or write some 

quick idea on my hand. I wonder what it must 

be like to not have to work and have nothing 

but time to do these creative things. I can’t 

even picture life without coming home from 

some shitty job with a fist full of paper scraps 

with little guitar chords jotted down on them. 

I don’t think a person can truly claim to be 

an adult unless they’ve worked at some crummy 

job they hate for a few years. Some say it 

builds character. I think it defines it. If you can 

work through that for a few years and still find 

it in you to do what you love – after work, on 

weekends, at breaks, or in my case over the 

copy machine – then you’ve beat it. If you 

give up your dreams and just push them aside 

or develop an alcohol or drug addiction – then 

it’s got you. Work makes you stronger if in 

only that it builds the desire for something 

else. That frustration can be fuel for the fire if 

you let it, not the water that puts it out. And if 

you are lucky enough to one day not have to 

go to a shitty day job every day, you will seriously 

appreciate that freedom. 

Freedom. Outside one of the big bay windows, 

a flock of wild green and yellow parrots 

streaks by. Yes, you heard me. Wild parrots. In 

the middle of the city. It seems that someone’s 

pets escaped years ago and spawned a whole 

colony of squawking green birds. They launch 

simultaneously from a large tree under Coit 

Tower, a giant white phallic-shaped landmark 

from the past, and swoop down all together 

through the Telegraph Hill valley, squawking 

all the way. They circle over the building tops 

and back up to a giant tree, which serves as 

their perch. I liked to sit there on a break and 

watch the freakishly colored birds. There were 

none of these magic things in our neck of the 

city. Maybe because there are no trees there. 

In my neighborhood we have gray, strutting 

birds who hoot and peck for any scrap they 

can find on the ground. Not an exotic parrot in 

sight. I think of how this reflects our general 

status in life. They get parrots. We get 

pigeons. 

Working as a personal assistant can be a 

very intimate view into a person’s life. My 

person had health issues, so I managed her 

doctor files and medicines along with everything 

else. I took care of her when she was 

sick, and partied with her when she was feeling 

really, really well. I learned a lot at this 

job, though. She has taught me much, in a 

way. More than piddle pads or toxic envelope 

glue. It’s about trust, to the point of near 

insanity – just handing it away to a near 

stranger. She trusted me with her life, with 

every bank account, credit card number, social 

security number, all her personal health issues 

and many, many secrets. She just gave it to 

me. Trusted me openly, maybe blindly, to take 

all her secrets and take good care of her life. 

And it’s because she trusted and respected me, 

that I did. 

–Ayn

MONEY 

MONEY 

In the olden days of sail, unruly seamen 

could expect to be punished swiftly and severely, 

but the punishment was probably not as gruesome 

or barbaric as we have been led to believe. 

The easiest way to discipline a sailor was to 

threaten to take away his rum or tobacco ration. 

When this didn’t produce the desired results 

(and it almost always did) life afloat without a 

daily draught of grog or pinch of tobacco soon 

brought the scoundrel to his senses. 

Only in extreme cases like theft was it necessary 

to resort to corporal punishment. The 

thief was tied to the mainmast – the symbol of 

the Captain’s sexual power – and beaten with 

whatever was handy, usually a rope end. Scenes 

of jack-tars being brutally flogged were rare. 

Able-bodied seamen were difficult to replace in 

the middle of long ocean voyages, and it was 

impractical to incapacitate the help. 

Though such displays were less frequent 

than Hollywood would have us believe, history 

tells us it was not unheard of for captains to flog 

their men just for shits and giggles. When a flogging 

was unavoidable, it was turned into a gaudy 

spectacle to humiliate the offending seaman 

before his mates, thereby deterring them from 

following his example. Over time, the dispensing 

of punishment became as solemn as a court 

proceeding, as ceremonial as a theatrical production 

and as ritualized as a visit to a high-end 

boudoir. 

That all changed in 1840 when Richard 

Henry Dana. Jr. published Two Years Before the 

Mast, a stirring account of his voyage around the 

Horn from Boston to California. Dana, a common 

seaman, witnessed a flogging while his 

brig, the Pilgrim, was anchored off San Pedro. 

Thereafter he pledged to “do something to 

redress the grievances and relieve the sufferings” 

of working seaman everywhere, and his 

wildly popular narrative brought flogging to the 

public’s attention. By 1850, corporal punishment 

was banned aboard all Navy vessels. 

Thus, thanks to Dana, the security personnel 

who intercepted me the fateful night I decided to 

assault base security guards in San Diego made 

sure they got their licks in before I was brought 

into custody. The Navy may have eliminated the 

lash, but they sure as hell didn’t spare the rod 

when I was face down and spread eagle on the 

asphalt, clearly resisting arrest. 

They hauled me on board in handcuffs and 

leg restraints and presented to the Officer of the 

Deck, who sent me below to the forward crew’s 

lounge where I was presided over by a specially 

assigned watch until I sobered up. 

42 

LAZY MICK 

is often included in the ranks of protest literature, and it deserves its place there. 

Richard Henry Dana, Jr. 

At least, this is what they told me. 

I spent the next few days fretting over my 

fate. The trouble that had been shadowing me 

for over a year had finally arrived, and there was 

no ducking out of it this time. I would have to 

stand before The Man and take my licks. 

Once the charges were officially drawn up, 

the master-at-arms summoned me to the goat 

locker where I was paraded before an assembly 

of chief petty officers. Although they had the 

power to dismiss the charges if they felt they 

were not worthy of further investigation, they 

never did. 

The master-at-arms announced which articles 

of the Uniform Code of Military Justice I’d 

violated, and it was a long list. Assaulting a military 

police officer. Resisting arrest. Drunk and 

disorderly. Refusing to submit military ID. 

Disobeying a direct order. The longer the master-at-arms 

read, the more embarrassed I 

became, and then he got to the kicker: threatening 

a military police officer. It wasn’t so much 

that I’d made threats, it was the ridiculous nature 

of my threat, which he then read: “If I had a dollar, 

I’d kick your ass.” 

This produced more than a few grins and 

chuckles among the lifers smoking cigarettes 

and drinking coffee, but Chief Cleveland put a 

stop to that. 

“Do you think this is funny?” 

“No, Chief,” I said. 

“You’re damn right it isn’t,” he snapped, 

although clearly many of his peers disagreed; on 

the contrary, they thought it was fucking hysterical. 

Next I was brought before the XO, the second 

in command, who was in charge of conducting 

a formal inquiry into the matter. He, too, 

could dismiss the charges but the chances of that 

happening were slim to nil. 

The master-at-arms read off the charges 

again while the XO surveyed my paperwork. 

When he got to the part about me being a badass 

short of a buck, he shook his head and glared at 

me. 

My father was the XO on his last surface 

command. When I asked him what his job 

entailed he told me it was about dealing with the 

details so the CO didn’t have to. He used to 

complain that he spent 90% of his time dealing 

with the 10% of the crew who were dirtbags – 

his word – and the remaining 10% with the 90% 

who were good guys. If there was any doubt 

before there was none now: I was officially one 

of the dirtbags. 

The next day they scheduled Captain’s

Mast, a disciplinary hearing during 

which the CO considers the facts and 

imposes nonjudicial punishment – more 

serious than an administrative slap on 

the wrist, less serious than a full-on 

court-martial. Such punishments could 

include a formal reprimand, reduction in 

rate, forfeiture of pay and the dreaded 45 

& 45: forty-five days restricted liberty, 

forty-five days extra duty. Captain’s 

Mast was a lot like court except there 

was no jury and no counsel – just the 

CO, the master-at-arms and me. 

I was standing at parade rest near the 

exercise equipment when the master-atarms 

come out of the lounge and 

addressed me by my rank and surname. 

I’d finally been promoted to a fullfledged 

seaman – E3 on the pay scale – 

but I didn’t think I would be one for 

much longer. 

I went inside. The lights were on and 

the CO stood at a podium in the corner. 

The master-at-arms indicated that I was 

to stand at attention before the podium, 

so I did. I was extremely nervous. I 

would have much preferred to have been 

secured to a bulkhead and flogged; at 

least then I wouldn’t have to look the 

CO in the eye. 

The articles were read and I waited 

with dread for the master-at-arms to get 

to the part about how it was a good thing 

I didn’t have a dollar or there would be 

hell to pay. The master-at-arms hammed 

it up for the CO, as if he was just as 

shocked and outraged as he was, the 

cocksucker. The CO did not pussyfoot 

around. He looked down at his paperwork 

and dispensed my sentence, more 

for the master-at-arms benefit then 

mine, as he did not bother looking at me. 

“Forfeiture of half of one month’s 

pay for two months. Forty-five days 

restricted liberty. Forty-five days extra 

duty. Effective immediately. Do you 

have anything to add?” 

“No, sir.” 

“You are dismissed.” 

I did an about face and exited the 

compartment feeling a mixture of disappointment 

and relief. While it sucked 

that I was going to be stuck on the ship 

for the next six weeks, I was grateful not 

to have been demoted; but mostly I was 

just glad it was over. I had the strangest 

feeling of déjà vu, like I’d just been 

grounded and had my allowance taken 

away. 

While I was enjoying my restricted 

liberty (or eyeball liberty, as my shipmates 

called it, because it was liberty 

you enjoyed with your eyeballs) I finally 

got around to reading Dana’s Two 

Years Before the Mast. It did not take 

long for me to realize this Dana character 

was on to something: “There is not so 

helpless and pitiable an object in the 

world as a landsman beginning a sailor’s 

life.” Amen to that – and that was just 

page two. On every page I found a 

description of an event that echoed 

something I’d witnessed or experienced 

myself, some 150 years later, on a tin 

I was face down and spread eagle on 

the asphalt, clearly resisting arrest. 

They hauled me on board in 

handcuffs and leg restraints and 

presented to the Officer of the Deck. 

can chugging twenty-one knots-per-nautical mile, spewing 

black smoke out of the stacks. I felt a strong affinity toward 

Dana. The intensity of his dissatisfaction with his life at sea 

rivaled my own. “I had often read of the nautical experiences 

of others, but I felt there could be none worse than mine; for, in 

addition to every other evil, I could not but remember that this 

was the first night of a two years’ voyage.” 

I was in for two years. Dana was on a two-year journey. I 

was a squid, a non-rate, a deck ape. Dana was a common seaman, 

a jack-tar. Dana had left Harvard to go to sea. I’d put off 

going to college and joined the Navy to 

get my shit together. (The party school 

where I ended up was no Ivy League 

school, but work with me here.) When I 

read these words – “A sailor’s life is at 

best but a mixture of a little good with 

much evil, and a little pleasure with 

much pain. The beautiful is mixed with 

the revolting, the sublime with the commonplace, 

and the solemn with the ludicrous.” 

– I knew Dana had just joined 

Jack Kerouac, Hunter S. Thompson and 

Joey Ramone in my pantheon of personal 

heroes. 

Who was this guy? Richard Henry 

Dana was an eighteen-year-old kid 

brought low by an attack of measles 

that left his eyesight too weak for the 

rigors of academic pursuits at Harvard 

University. His blueblood father, who 

was friends with Robert Louis 

Stevenson, among others, offered to 

send him on a trip to India. Dana 

declined, joined the merchant navy, and 

the next thing he knew he was bucketing 

about the Atlantic on a ship less 

than eighty feet in length doing all 

kinds of Byzantine things with gaffs 

and guys, booms and braces, stays and 

sails. He was appalled at the way seamen 

were treated in the best of conditions, 

and when things got ugly he witnessed 

wrongs he swore to right. When 

he returned to Boston in 1835, he went 

back to Harvard and on to law school, 

where he became an expert in maritime 

law. Whenever he had a spare hour or 

two he worked on the book about his 

experiences at sea. When it was published 

in 1840, it was an overnight sensation. 

It’s hard to overestimate the influence 

of Two Years Before the Mast. As 

Harold Langley wrote in Social Reform 

in the United States Navy, 1798-1862, 

“Dana’s work was widely read, and his 

pledge was fulfilled beyond his expectations. 

His words added to the growing 

literature of protest on the subject of 

flogging.” Not everyone viewed Dana’s 

book as a step in the right direction. 

When Dana’s father’s famous friend, 

Robert Louis Stevenson, read the book 

that had all of Boston enthralled, he was 

outraged: “With several hundred rude 

beings confined within the narrow limits 

of a vessel, men of all nations and of 

the lowest habits, it would be to the last 

degree indiscreet, to commence their 

reformation by relaxing the bonds of 

discipline, under the mistaken impulses 

of a false philanthropy. It has a lofty 

sound, to be sure, to talk about 

American citizens being too good to be 

brought under the lash, upon the high 

seas; but he must have a very mistaken 

notion who does not see that tens of 

thousands of these pretending persons 

on shore, even, would be greatly benefited 

by a little judicious flogging.” In 

other words: praise be to God and don’t 

spare the rod. 

Despite the pressure from his 

father’s peers who, like the farmers 

who employ migrant workers or clothing 

manufacturers who utilize foreign 

MONEY

sweatshop laborers today, stood to lose profits 

if they were forced to pay their sailors a decent 

wage and provide them with sanitary accommodations 

and adequate food, Dana soldiered 

on. He wrote The Seaman’s Friend, a legal 

manual for sailors that did as much to help 

inform them of their rights as men as it did to 

educate sailors about the vagaries of 

being a contract employee of a shipping 

company. 

Two Years Before the Mast is 

often included in the ranks of 

protest literature, and it deserves its 

place there, but for most people in 

1840 – well before the Gold Rush – 

it gave readers their first glimpses 

of California, which was then part 

of Mexico. Adventure seekers and 

entrepreneurs alike paid close attention 

to Dana’s vivid and accurate 

descriptions of the communities 

along California’s coastline. Take 

this passage from a visit to Santa 

Barbara: “The country abounds in 

grapes, yet they buy, at a great 

price, bad wine made in Boston.” 

Descriptions like these raised more 

than a few eyebrows and caused 

many of reader to pack his bags and 

head round the Horn to seek his fortune in 

California. 

Perhaps Dana’s most famous reader was a 

Boston sailor who, upon returning from an 

uneventful crossing to Liverpool and back, 

caught the buzz about Two Years Before the 

Mast and picked up a copy. What he read electrified 

him, and inspired him to pen stories of 

his own. Thus began Herman Melville’s literary 

career, a man whom is regarded today as the 

father of American letters. 

Today there is replica of the boat upon 

which Dana sailed to California. It’s located at 

a little harbor in Orange County in a city that 

bears the name of its most famous crewman: 

Dana Point. At the harbor entrance is a statue of 

Richard Henry Dana, Jr. striking a romantic 

pose as he stares out to sea. It’s a beautiful statue, 

and I’m pretty sure Dana would hate it. It 

aspires to be sublime and ignores the commonplace, 

much less the revolting. 

Sure, Dana had opportunities that were not 

available to his shipmates. He was intelligent, a 

writer with immense gifts, his father was 

wealthy and well-connected; but when the 

Pilgrim lost sight of land and he was alone 

upon the ocean, Dana was nothing more and 

nothing less than a common sailor. His experience 

at sea was a short chapter of his life, of 

which he dismissively referred to his Two Years 

Before the Mast as a footnote. Some 

remember him as a man of letters; others 

see him as a man of the law, a man 

of principles. I choose to remember 

him as a man who changed the world 

on the strength of his convictions. 

I never went to Captain’s Mast 

again, but I never went to Harvard 

either. I got out of the Navy and 

although I’ve done a half-assed job of 

staying out of trouble, I haven’t kicked 

anyone’s ass for a dollar (the opposite 

cannot be said to be true with any 

degree of certainty). Like Dana, I have 

a story to tell, a story that is every bit as 

solemn and ludicrous and commonplace 

and revolting as Two Years 

Before the Mast, perhaps even more so. 

I haven’t changed the world yet, and 

I’m pretty sure it’s not my place to 

even try. Unlike Dana, I have few convictions, 

and would be hard-pressed to 

articulate them (The West Memphis 3 are innocent? 

Never say “one more” to a bartender? Be 

nice to your mom?) But in one sense old 

Richard Henry Dana, Jr. and I are exactly alike: 

you cannot stop us from expressing what we 

believe in. We will not be dismissed. 

–Money 

MONEY

LLeett’’ss Geett KKilllleed!! 

As I sit down to write this, the Immortal 

Lee County Killers II are somewhere in 

Europe. Mr. J.R.R. Token (drums, 

chains, vocals) and the honorable Chet 

“el Cheetah” Y. Z. (guitar, harmonica, 

vocals) out somewhere in the wilds of 

Europe… ah. Sounds good to me. But for 

a while they were in Southern California, 

and I was able to convince them that, for 

five days and five nights, it would be 

worth their time to let me tag along, 

drink beer, and do an interview. The 

ILCK2 hail from a region of the country 

that is stacked with musical tradition. 

There aren’t really any clubs to play in 

many places, and most bands down there 

constantly knock away in the boiling heat 

of house shows. They do it for themselves. 

They do it for you. The listing of bands 

down there, and the people who have 

contributed to the music that allows people’s 

hearts to open to the world, is enormous. 

It’s music that fights against the 

stifling stereotypes placed on the 

Southeast. 

Jazz, the blues, yeah, they had their 

roots in the south. In each state there are 

regional styles, all different, but the 

region is never as important as the heart. 

At many a first glance a lot of musical 

history would seem lost to the waves of 

urban expansion, but if you were to get 

out and get in the soupy heat, the voice 

might creep into you ears and stories 

would live. And you might see something 

that has fallen under the scope of the big 

boys. Something primal. Something 

beautiful and ugly. I miss it. It is my 

home. But when I met up with the Killers 

I was living in Southern California, and it 

was approaching the hotter part of the 

summer. Instead of the boiling 

Southeastern air there were waves of 

searing heat that rolled through the 

streets of Los Angeles. Palm trees, and 

In-n-Out Burgers. The Pacific and the 

sands. Two parts of the country, 2,000 

miles apart, each enjoying the other, 

making a new sound. The region is never 

as important as the heart. It never is. 

This interview took place mostly in 

Los Angeles traffic. Ladies and gentlemen, 

I give you the Immortal Lee County 

Killers II! 

Interview by 

Bradley Williams 

Photos by 

Jeff Johnson 

Bradley: Me, Bean, and JR went and had a 

double stack with cheese. What did you 

have for lunch, sir? 

Chet: I had a grilled portobello mushroom 

sandwich, fries, and a coke. 

Bradley: You’re going kind of light there. 

Chet: I’m running on premium octane these 

days rather than the bargain fuel, the lower 

octane fuel. My machine, my inner workings, 

need a little bit more gusto these days. 

Bradley: So you’re going for the gusto? 

The lifestyle? 

Chet: Yeah. 

Bradley: How would the gusto provided by 

the portobello mushroom sandwich help 

you to bite a man? 

Chet: To bite a man? 

Bradley: Yes. How would you bite a man, 

Chet? 

Chet: To correctly bite a man, you do not 

open your mouth completely wide because 

if you do, it gives them access to your 

mouth. They could fishhook you. It’s easier 

to knock out a tooth. You’re also not trying 

to take a chunk of flesh out of a human 

being. You’re trying to cause them pain. 

Bradley: How many men have you bitten, 

Chet? 

Chet: I haven’t bitten any man yet, but I 

would bite a man if I had to. 

Bradley: Why would you bite a man? 

Chet: If it’s between me and death or my 

portobello mushroom sandwich, I would 

bite a man. I have bitten women and I was 

not trying to cause pain, either. It was more 

of a pleasure type of sensation. More of a 

nibble. 

Bradley: So you bite men and nibble 

women? 

Chet: Right on the verge of pain. Right on 

the threshold. 

Bradley: So, you would say that you bite 

men but nibble women? 

Chet: Right. Well, nibble is… I don’t 

know, I guess nibble is… it’s… when you 

bite a man or a woman who’s trying to hurt 

you, it’s a self defense bite. Then it’s pain.

If it’s pleasure then it’s right on the threshold 

of pain. It’s a tantalizing bite. 

Bradley: This next question was posed to 

me by an undisclosed, absentee participant 

in this interview. Why don’t you grow a 

mustache, Cheetah? 

Chet: Because mustaches look goofy on me 

and I don’t want to. 

Bradley: It wouldn’t go well with the portobello 

mushroom? 

Chet: Yeah, I think a mushroom on my face 

would look bad, and I think a mustache also 

would look bad on my face, but that’s just 

my personal feeling. I mean I look sexy in 

many different looks and fashions, and I 

probably would look fucking great in a 

mustache, but I have to do things for me. I 

have to feel good about me. And when I see 

a mustache on my face I feel silly. And silly 

can be entertaining, but I want to entertain 

without being silly. And I think I have a 

nice upper lip. I don’t want to cover it up. 

Bradley: So mustaches are silly? 

I wonder how many 

people would cringe if 

I said the South, 

rather than the coasts, 

shapes America. 

Look through 

American History, 

brothers and sisters. 

You will be surprised. 

Chet: On me. In my eye. Now, like I said, 

another person could see a mustache on me 

and they will probably think that it looks 

beautiful, but when I see it on me I think it’s 

pretty silly. I’m a very self-conscious person. 

Bradley: J.R., do you think that a mustache 

might help you on the cell phone? You 

seem to have a way with the cell phone. (He 

doesn’t like to use them.) 

JR: Well, the mustache keeps your cell 

phone clean, I guess. 

Bradley: You have a reputation as a pizza 

dough tosser? 

JR: Well ol’ Token cain’t do much, but he 

can make you a mean pizza though. 

Bradley: Cain’t do much? Some would beg 

to differ JR. You have quite an underground 

reputation as being a formidable dog trainer. 

JR: Yeah, I can train dogs. 

Bradley: I remember one trick where you 

leashed your dog (Ozzy) to your belt, when 

you walked down the street. 

JR: Yeah, he learned how to heel good. 

Bradley: Learned how to heel good – Heel, 

Ozzy! 

JR: Yeah. 

Bradley: Who is the Worlds Greatest 

Drummer (WGD)? 

Chet: That would be J.R.R. Token. I’ll 

answer that one. 

Bradley: What constitutes a great drummer? 

I mean, there’s a lot of drummers, I’m 

sure you can’t be the fuckin’ best. 

JR: ‘Cause cain’t none of these damned little 

mealy-mouthed sons of bitches hold a 

torch to this man right here. 

Bradley: Mealy-mouthed? 

JR: Little bastards. 

Bradley: What you been reading here lately, 

Cheetah? 

Chet: Ah, I’ve read a book about the Doors. 

Light My Fire by Ray Manzarek. 

Bradley: It’s good stuff? 

Chet: It’s good stuff. I like the Doors. I like 

their story and I wanted to hear Ray 

Manzarek’s side, ‘cause I think he’s the one 

who’s really fucked up the Doors image. He 

was a great keyboard player and a great 

musician. Whether or not he knows, 

whether or not he realizes what he’s done to 

the Doors rep. He turned Jim Morrison into 

some sort of pop icon and so-called shaman 

when I think it’d be much better served to 

remember Jim Morrison as a great rock and 

roll singer. 

Bradley: More so than Jim Morrison the 

poet? 

Chet: No, I think Jim Morrison was work- 

ing on some good poetry and if the dumbass 

hadn’t killed himself early, he probably 

would have become a good poet, but I don’t 

think calling him a religious shaman is fair. 

Saying that someone can lead people in a 

religious manner to save their souls or transfer 

their spirits is quite a burden to put on 

someone who’s twenty-seven years old. I 

think that’s kinda all blown up in a negative 

manner to where Morrison is emphasized, 

rather than the Doors music, and Morrison 

as a mystical figure has turned into 

Morrison as a teen-idol. The Doors have 

almost ended up becoming a parody of 

themselves, especially with this new stuff 

they’re doing. It’s a shame. Really, they’re 

just an innovative, great rock and roll band 

and there’s not many people who can say 

that, and it should have been left right there. 

That’s a pretty fuckin’ great achievement. 

But anyways, I was reading a book about 

the Pre-Raphaelites art movement. I want to 

know more about the people who were 

painting. 

At the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame 

Tour, they have a notebook of Morrison’s 

where he wrote lyrics. It was pretty cool. 

We saw Hendrix’s notebook of lyrics. Otis 

Redding’s airplane. That was sort of 

intense. 

Bradley: You’re here in Los Angeles, you 

know, “come on baby light my fire.” This is 

the land of the Doors. How’s that been for 

you? There’s a big ass painting of him over 

in Hollywood. 

Chet: Yeah, I saw that. I don’t know how I 

feel about big murals. I guess it’s not really 

any of my business. I just like to remind 

folks, every once in a while, that there’s a 

lot of hype. 

Bradley: Chet, with the 

49

ILCK2 you seem to have focused more on 

influences that were hinted at with the 

Quadrajets (the previous band Chet was in) 

i.e. songs like “John Lee Hooker Is My 

Heavy Metal.” Are you able to focus more 

on your influences with the ILCK2? 

Chet: Absolutely. The Quadrajets definitely 

functioned as a group. The whole equaled 

more than the sum of the parts. Meaning, 

the group mind wrote the best music. 

Therefore, my personal wants, needs, and 

contributions did not 

manifest. I did sneak 

some blues into the 

Q-jets, like the song 

you mentioned. Also, 

we did an original 

called “She Likes It,” 

which swung like 

Hound Dog Taylor. 

We did a great 

Howlin’ Wolf song 

and a Johnny Shines 

song. But most of the 

guys weren’t as into 

blues as myself. We 

converged somewhere 

in ‘70s 

Detroit, Rolling 

Stones, and Southern 

Rock. Great experience. 

Bradley: From the 

Essential Fucked Up 

Blues, to Love is a 

Charm of Powerful 

Trouble, has there 

been any transformation 

in your sound? 

Chet: Yes. Essential 

bridged the Q-jets 

and ILCK. The first 

ILCK record is loud, 

noisy, and fast 

almost all the way 

through. I still was 

working on a new 

song writing direction. 

We also wanted 

to leave room for 

something new for 

the follow up, which 

would be Love. We 

didn’t want to put all 

the cards on the table 

first round. Not wise 

for gamblers to do. 

Bradley: What factors are at work here? 

Looking at the song titles, we see themes 

of love, pain, and the blues, not just as a 

state of being, but as blatant nods to the 

greats. 

Chet: Great art always contains an emotional 

charge. That charge gives the piece 

energy and life. We try to put ourselves 

wholly into our songs. I still think I have 

some way to go before I can bear all to an 

audience. It’s hard to put everything on the 

line for strangers. But, I’m much closer now 

50 

than in the Quadrajets to tell 

all. Human beings appreciate the truth. 

They appreciate others who are willing to 

share their being and feeling. The reason 

why is simple: we’re all going through similar 

trials and tribulations on our way toward 

our first death and transference. We like to 

hear of other’s personal victories and 

defeats. Helps us with our own struggle. 

The struggle makes for the human passion I 

so dearly love and makes for a fucking fun 

time. 

Individuals make up our world. No one knows better 

what to do for themselves than themselves. 

On a different level, ILCK is stirring up 

the socio-ethnic pot by blatantly referencing 

known blues greats. And sometimes with a 

little bit of irreverence. Gotta keep things 

evolving. Gotta let people know that everything 

comes from the heart. Doesn’t matter 

if you’re from white suburbia, like myself, 

or the juke joints of Mississippi, like R. 

Johnson; anyone can play blues. But the 

blues changes from individual to individual. 

Our experiences are different. The key to 

the highway is honesty. 

Also, ILCK mix references between 

blues and so called “finer” or “trained” arts. 

The title Love Is a Charm of Powerful 

Trouble is derived from Bill Shakespeare 

(Macbeth). And I mine William Carlos 

Williams, WB Yeats, and Dylan Thomas 

for lyrics just as much as JL Hooker. They 

are all great artists and poets. ILCK2 is not 

interested in ethnocentrism, racism, purism, 

or self-righteous intellectualism. We’re 

interested in good music. Sound is a form of 

communication. The spoken language 

allows for direct communication. 

Music 

allows for empathy. 

Both are used in art. 

Art saves lives. When 

I kick my amp and the 

feedback goes 

“whooom,” someone 

in the audience is 

going to say, “That 

dork feels like me.” 

Bradley: How do the 

practices of Jeet Kun 

Do factor in? How 

much a part of your 

song writing is pulled 

from the fighting philosophy 

of Bruce Lee? 

Chet: This could be a 

whole interview unto 

itself. Sifu Bruce Lee 

turned the martial arts 

world upside down. 

First, he trained westerners. 

Something 

unheard of at the time. 

Second, and most 

important, he created 

a new style of martial 

arts catering to the 

individual and free of 

limitations. The world 

of martial arts is 

steeped in tradition 

and dogma comparable 

to religion. Lee 

acted as a heretic to 

create an all-encompassing 

style which 

covered all ranges of 

fighting, from kicking 

to grappling. And 

there is true emotional 

content in his style. 

“The only limitation is 

no limitation.” 

Martial arts, like music, is an artistic 

expression. Consider why one fighter will 

choose to use his fists against an opponent 

while another may decide to use chokes and 

submissions. One draws blood while another 

does not. Along with JKD, I also love 

Brazilian Jiu Jitsu. 

Martial arts differs from naked violence 

because of the ability to express individuality. 

There’s a difference between indiscriminate 

and intimate violence. There aren’t 

guns, missiles, professional armies and 

criminals, or weapons of mass killing

involved in the martial arts I’m referencing. 

Only individuals pitted against individuals. 

Pussies use guns. To stare a person in the 

eye and pit skill against skill is an entirely 

different matter. 

Although two opponents are involved in 

an intimate physical and psychological discourse, 

the final goal of a martial arts duo is 

not common. If one fighter sticks to tradition 

and textbook style, the opponent who 

creates something new during the fight, the 

fighter who uses an original move, will win. 

Martial arts reward creativity absolutely. 

With music, jazzers can play strict textbook 

jazz standards all night long to applause. 

Rock’n’roll or blues cover bands can play 

all night for significant amounts of money. 

Unfortunately in music, craftsmen and technicians 

can be rewarded along with those 

who are original. Not 

in martial arts. 

Personally, JKD has 

taught me to relax. 

Taught me more 

about rhythm and fitting 

in with another 

human being. Now, I 

listen more to 

Token’s drums and 

can fit to his changes 

and emotions better. 

In music, the parties 

involved work 

together to realize a 

common goal – 

music. In martial 

arts, fighters must 

engage but there is a 

struggle. Therefore, 

my senses are being 

sharpened. If I can 

perform martial arts 

“in the void,” I certainly 

can perform 

music. When a fighter 

or musician is in 

the void, that means 

they are completely 

in the moment. 

Completely natural. Operating outside of 

convention and thought. Pure music. Pure 

fighting. Total honesty charged with pure 

emotional content equals absolute art. The 

martial arts have definitely improved my 

music. 

Bradley: So is there a rhythm to life? 

Chet: Sure. Listen for it. If you can’t hear 

the rhythm, stand a day in Los Angeles vs. 

Potts Camp, Mississippi. 

Bradley: Is life music? Is music life? 

Chet: Absolutely. I stayed up one night 

writing about his very subject. Once again, 

good art requires emotional content. The 

content comes from life. We sing about our 

lives. When I spend the night with my lover 

and put the experience into a song, I have 

simply transferred and organized the rhythm 

and sound from a night in my life into a 

more succinct expression – a song. Poetry 

does the same. Poetry organizes sounds and 

words into succinct combination to best 

describe life. Now, the clincher, you can 

live another person’s life through their art. 

A good poem or song allows someone else 

to share the poet’s life. Just like if you’d 

been there. 

Bradley: Is there a revolution in sound 

going on? 

Chet: I hope so. If not, we’re close to the 

end. 

Bradley: How does your revolution plan to 

deal with the battle between the power 

of the people and the power of the dollar? 

Chet: We’re all interested in a revolution of 

the spirit. I used to be more interested in 

economic and political revolution. I felt that 

the best political and economic organization 

would better facilitate my desire for humans 

to truly live free. “Free your mind and your 

‘Cause cain’t none of these damned little mealy-mouthed sons of 

bitches hold a torch to this man right here. 

ass will follow.” Now I’ve decided a revolution 

of the spirit must first occur, and then 

the proper socio-economic organization will 

follow. To be more specific, the world is in 

need of an ideological revolution. I believe 

people, especially Americans, have been 

tricked by the powers that be to believe that 

individuals do not matter. More and more 

people are turning toward “authorities” and 

“experts” for answers. For example, if 

there’s a problem in the neighborhood, the 

neighbors don’t take care of it. They call the 

cops. If there’s problems in the world, people 

seem to think that governments and 

politicians are smarter and more apt to cure 

the problems rather than the people themselves. 

That’s crap. Deep down, we know 

politicians and cops are causing many of 

these problems themselves or simply are not 

the best solution. Individuals make up our 

world. No one knows better what to do for 

themselves than themselves. The people 

have lost confidence in themselves. They 

are scared and looking for others to solve 

their problems. In truth, any person is a 

dynamic, intelligent, and capable living 

being. When folks realize this again, we 

won’t need these crooks running the game. 

We’ll run our own. With self-confidence 

and self-esteem comes integrity and respect. 

The consequential socio-political systems 

will be anarchic in nature. The evolution of 

the world has to end in this point. 

Otherwise, war and destruction will occur. 

Professional politics and governments are 

based around an Us vs. Them mentality. 

Politicians and cops are always drawing 

battle lines. This is part of their job. 

Someday we the people will learn that battle 

lines aren’t the solution. Reasoning with 

oneself and others 

is the solution. The 

only solution for 

living. I advocate 

“power to the people” 

in the truest 

sense of the phrase. 

Bradley: Do you 

feel a strong sense 

of closeness with 

your surroundings? 

Chet: I’m a believer 

in the “environment 

shapes the 

personality” explanation 

in psychiatry. 

I don’t think I 

would have been so 

compelled to 

explore soul music, 

blues, and jazz if 

those forms of 

music weren’t all 

around me. I feel 

lucky to be from an 

area of the world 

so vibrant with different 

cultures and 

their blending. The 

Southern United 

States holds characters from the worst white 

trash über-truck driving redneck stormtrooper 

to William Faulkner to the most 

cliché gang banger to Martin Luther King 

Jr. And there are infinite more examples of 

these kinds of extremities in all kinds of 

colors. 

I wonder how many people would 

cringe if I said the South, rather than the 

coasts, shapes America. Look through 

American History, brothers and sisters. You 

will be surprised. The Southern United 

States provides America with its figurative 

Id. And we all know from what part of the 

psyche a person’s passion and creativity 

springs – yes, the Id. We also know what 

part of the psyche a person blames when 

something goes wrong. 

Bradley: Why do you think some people 

are uptight and weird when they talk about 

people playing the blues? 

51

Chet: Purists suck, as do racists. 

Bradley: JR, What are you reading? 

JR: Tietam Brown, (Mick) Foley’s first 

attempt at fiction, and it’s pretty humorous 

so far, and the book I read before that was J. 

T. LeRoy, Sarah. And that’s a pretty good 

book. 

Bradley: Do you think that Mick Foley was 

one of the world’s greatest wrestlers? 

JR: Definitely one of the world’s greatest 

wrestlers. Cactus Jack, Mankind, Dude 

Love, Mick Foley, good stuff. 

Bradley: Aren’t his other books autobiographical? 

JR: Yeah. He’s the author of Have a Nice 

Day and Foley is Good. He’s written two 

children’s books as well. 

Bradley: Have you read his children’s 

books? 

JR: Naw, I haven’t read the children’s 

books, but I’ve read the two autobiographies. 

Bradley: Did he illustrate the children’s 

books? 

JR: Naw, Jerry Lawler illustrated one of the 

children’s books and I’m not sure who illustrated 

the other one. 

Bradley: Jerry Lawler? 

JR: Jerry “the King” Lawler. He’s from 

Memphis as well. You know, him and Andy 

Kaufman had the big thing going. 

Bradley: Oh yeah, that’s right. That’s in the 

movie (Man on the Moon). And he’s an 

illustrator as well? 

JR: He’s actually a very good artist. 

Impressed me at the time. 

Bradley: You’ve done some paintings in 

your time haven’t you? 

JR: I’ve been doing some painting. Not as 

much as I have been in the past, but I have 

been able to pump one or two out, every 

once in a while when we get a break. I’ve 

got one hanging up in Emo’s, and I sold a 

couple paintings to some nice folks in Texas 

and LA. 

Bradley: I think they’ve got a definite style 

and a technique behind them that’s unique. 

JR: We’re gonna put some up on the web 

page pretty soon, so be on the look out. 

Bradley: Recently, I was told by a friend of 

mine that during the Civil War there were 

minutemen in the south, and they had 

names which were regional in nature. One 

name was something like the Blount 

Mountain Killers. Is that where the 

Immortal Lee County Killers II got the 

name? The Civil War? 

Chet: Naw. Well, I know there are similar 

things now in the United States – different 

militias in different states – gangs. But, no 

we don’t. As far as the Civil War goes, 

probably the most famous group was the 

Culpepper Minutemen in Virginia, but no, 

our name didn’t have anything to do with 

the Civil War. 

Bradley: I went with ya’ll one time up 

towards Memphis and Arkansas. Who was 

that fella we was looking for in the graveyard, 

‘cause I remember we kept going 

from graveyard to graveyard. 

Chet: (Walter) “Furry” Lewis. We used to 

do one of his songs. “When I Lay My 

Burden Down.” It’s a traditional song, but 

we did more of his version. 

Bradley: When does something become a 

“traditional?” 

Chet: That song we do, “Rollin’ and 

Tumblin,’” that’s a traditional. I’m not really 

sure. There’s a body of songs that are 

folk songs that everyone has done for years 

and years and years and no one is sure 

exactly who the author is. It’s not just the 

blues. It’s all around. 

Bradley: Is there something that’s itching 

to get out? 

Chet: Gas station. 

Bradley: What has been your favorite gas 

station? 

Chet: [changing lanes] So far I’ve been 

really into 7-11 ‘cause they have sushi. 

Bradley: You eat that 7-11 sushi? 

Chet: I eat 7-11 sushi. It’s a nice snack and 

there’s an element of danger involved, too. 

It gets my adrenaline going. 

Bradley: What kind of 7-11 sushi do you 

get? Tuna steak, octopus? 

Chet: Well, they call it a California roll, but 

it looks like rice and imitation crab to me. I 

don’t have any problem with it. I think imitation 

crab is actually cod. 

Bean: It’s whiting. 

Chet: I think it’s pretty good. 

Bradley: Bleached fished made into crab. 

Beef into chicken. 

Bean: That’s the fish you can catch off the 

Gulf Coast. I used to catch those all the 

time growing up all the time down in 

Alabama. 

Bradley: Whitefish? 

Bean: Yeah down in Alabama. I got fishing 

trophies. I used to fish in the kid’s fishing 

rodeo down in Dauphin Island, Alabama. 

Bradley: Fuck yeah. Did you ever go soft 

shelling? 

Bean: Naw, I don’t want to mess with 

those crabs. I want to catch a king mackerel, 

the big fish – that’s the trophy fish down 

in the gulf. 

Bradley: You were born in a hurricane 

weren’t you Bean? 

Bean: I was born during Hurricane 

Fredrick back in seventy-nine. That’s the 

toughest hurricane to ever hit Mobile. I 

came in like I plan on going out – with a 

fury. [laughter] 

Bradley: Fuck the Killers. Why didn’t you 

get named Fredrick? 

Chet: Yeah, do this interview with the road 

manager. Fuck us. I’m just talking about 

the Doors, he’s talking about being in the 

eye of the fury. [laughter] 

Bean: My mom went into labor as the eye 

of the hurricane passed over our house. 

Then my dad, he piled my mom into his 

brand-new truck that he’d just got half a 

year before, and drove down the streets of

Music allows for empathy... When I kick my amp 

and the feedback goes “whooom,” someone in the 

audience is going to say, “That dork feels like me.” 

Mobile to the Mobile infirmary to get my 

mother to the hospital, just in time for me to 

be born under flashlights. I wasn’t named 

Fredrick. I guess she was too messed up. 

They put her on drugs, but one of my best 

friends, Dave, from Auburn, he was named 

after Hurricane Dave, which was two weeks 

before I was born. 

Bradley: That’s something down on the 

coast I’ve never heard of, naming kids after 

hurricanes. So you do a good bit of deep-sea 

fishing? 

Bean: I used to but I’ve been landlocked for 

the past six years going to school. But, 

yeah, I’d like to go fishing sometime soon. 

Chet: Landlocked!? Fuck them man! God! 

Landlocked in your education. They’re 

coming down on Bean, keeping him away 

from that king mackerel! 

Bradley: But where’s your education propelling 

you? What are you in school for? 

Bean: I’m going to school for aerospace 

engineering. I’d ultimately like to work on 

mission control for NASA. 

Bradley: You’re a rocket scientist? 

Bean: I’m a rocket scientist. Two classes 

away from earning my master’s. What I’m 

doing right now for my thesis is I’m developing 

a new method to design inter-planetary 

space trajectory for spacecraft that have 

an exhaust modulated propulsion system. 

Chet: Tell him about how’s there’s not 

enough computing power at the university. 

Bean: Right now I’m pretty much done. I 

have to run a big computer program to 

make all the calculations, but where I’m 

stuck at right now, I’m pretty much done 

with my program, but I need a supercom- 

puter to run it. If I ran it on my computer in 

my office, it would take seventy days to 

complete the operation of the program. 

Chet: So computers aren’t fast enough? 

Bean: Those sorry-assed computers. They 

need to do something better with those computers. 

Auburn University, you guys need to 

invest in a supercomputer! 

Chet: Bean is landlocked and he doesn’t 

have the right computing power either! This 

guy’s tragic. The tragic hero. 

Bradley: How did you get doing merch 

with the Killers? 

Chet: We need a rocket scientist. We need 

someone to make decisions. 

Bean: Well, right now I’m doing my 

damned computer program so I’ve got seventy 

days to spare. [laughter] 

Chet: You write to Lynn (another Killers 

roadman and all around wizard for 

Sarcophagus Studios) and ask him about 

when he tried to take the doors off a pharmacy 

with his motorcycle. 

Bradley: What? 

Chet: He was in the van with us, just another 

one of the crazy characters who’s gotten 

in this van. 

Bradley: Being that you’re in aerospace 

engineering, I assume you do a lot with 

aerodynamics. There was another band 

(Soledad Brothers) who recently had a little 

aerodynamic problem with their luggage 

rack. 

Bean: Yes, they did. I had to step up to the 

plate and come through in the clutch. 

[laughter] They’re excellent people. I 

enjoyed their company. They’re very, very, 

nice. 

Bradley: But their aerodynamics were in 

question? 

Bean: Yes, they had troubles with the aerodynamics 

of their van. 

Chet: It (the luggage rack) was on backwards. 

Bean: They had the luggage rack, on top of 

their van, on backwards. The first night we 

played with them, they thought I was full of 

crap, I told them they had their luggage rack 

on backwards. You know, we had a few 

drinks after the show, and in a drunken tizzy 

I wrote down how they needed to change 

their aerodynamics schemes for their luggage 

rack. 

Bradley: This was a proposal that was written 

to change the aerodynamics of the van? 

An impromptu proposal while you were 

running the merch stand at the show? 

Bean: Yes, it was written on a memo pad. I 

think they’re going to keep that for years 

and years and hold it close to their hearts, 

something they can always keep with them 

that will help them along the way, and 

improve their gas mileage on their van in 

their travels across the country. 

Bradley: With your calculations, approximately 

how many miles per gallon have you 

saved them? 

Bean: I’ve saved them approximately four 

miles per gallon, and with today’s steep gas 

prices, that’s very monumental in the success 

of a touring band. 

Chet: This has been surreal. 

Bradley: [After stuff, I bought a Red Bull.] 

Do you know what taurine is? Do you think 

it’s bull ball juice? I mean Red Bull. 

Chet: It can’t be. 

Bradley: That’s what I’ve heard it was, so 

whenever you’re drinking Red Bull you’re 

drinking bull ball juice. 

Chet: That sounds like fuckin’ black magic 

stuff from the Golden Bough. If thou 

wisheth to have the strength of a bull, eat a 

bull’s cock. From whence the spirit of the 

bull derives itself. 

Bradley: There’s a bull for a reason on the 

label. 

Chet: You know, I think you’re right. I 

think it is bull sperm. They’ve got factories 

of bulls masturbating. Just like they did 

humans. [silence] 

Bradley: Kind of like milk factories, but 

gizz factories for the bull. 

Chet: The have gizz factories for men, too. 

Test tube babies and stuff. They don’t pay 

very well for sperm. 

Bradley: Have you sold before? 

Chet: I’ve looked into it. 

Bradley: What magazines do they provide 

you with? 

Chet: I haven’t looked into it that far. I 

haven’t made it to the lobby. Evidently, 

they give a lot more for plasma than they do 

for sperm. 

Bradley: It’s just something I was curious 

about and I thought you would know. 

Chet: No. 

53

The Grabass Charlestons is a trio of ding dongs 

from Gainesville, Florida. Hell, I loved their split LP 

with Billy Reese Peters. Their seven songs were 

sped-up, tightly wound rock’n’roll, the type that 

mixes jiggers of Leatherface, warm 18-packs of 

Radon, the wrung-out shirt sweat of Tiltwheel, and 

the high-drama of the best episodes of Cop Boat. 

The lyrics are smart and heartful. Without being 

dicks or hoity toity, they extend a fine amount of literacy 

while covering such topics as direct, gun-toting 

threats to one’s boss and the golden age of 

Galaga video game mastery. Their songs have no 

gaps, no stumbling. They sound like chases, 

through swamps, decaying strip malls, fantasies, 

and bad dreams. The Grabass Charlestons gamble. 

They tumble around like that little ball in roulette 

before it finds a slot. They win. 

On The Greatest Story Ever Hula’d, there’s talk 

about suicide, waking up with a spear through your 

chest, and it’s still so catchy while poking the careful 

listener right in sternum over and over again. It’s 

hard not to be affected by its direct-line humility 

and passion. And, man, it rocks. We’re not talking 

fey, extended pinky tea-sipping, smile-for-thecamera 

passion, either. Juggernauts of smiles, 

bruises, and “where’d that come from?” cuts. The 

type of crazed passion that comes from years of 

being poor and finding that music and friends can 

pull you through almost anything. True celebration 

among the debris. 

Bros, not pros. 

This interview was earmarked for complete disaster. 

It started at four AM. Three hours prior, we’d 

had a long, not-very-rational discourse if two hundred 

beers were enough “too keep the buzz on” 

for the thirteen people staying in our tiny apartment. 

(By eleven AM, there were seven well-hidden 

beers left.) I’ll give credit where credit is due. 

The boys pulled through in the clutch. Raise one, 

or as many as you can carry, to The Grabass 

Charlestons. 

Todd: Will, you played in 

Downey, California today. Name 

the most famous drummer/singer 

in the world that comes from 

there. 

Will: The douche from the 

Eagles? 

Todd: I’ll give you a hint. You’re 

thinking the wrong gender. 

Will: The dude… 

Todd: No, the dudette. The lady. 

Will: I don’t know. I’m stumped. 

Todd: Karen Carpenter. 

Will: Oh, fuck. She’s an awesome 

drummer, too. She kicks ass. 

She’s good. She’s got a nice 

voice, too. I saw a clay figurine 

movie about the Carpenter family. 

Documented all the bad shit. 

Todd: When was the last time it 

was eight o’clock in the morning, 

you were drunk, and you were 

very happy? 

Will: Usually, when it’s eight in 

the morning and I’m drunk, I’m 

not very happy. 

Dave: I was drunk and unhappy at 

eight in the morning in handcuffs 

in Texas. 

PJ: July fourth, we were in 

Colorado Springs, Texas and we 

built a fire. Two bottles of 

whiskey. Many cases of beer. We 

got wasted. Dave, he goes out to 

fetch firewood and he fell in a

cactus bush. 

Dave: There was a dead tree that needed 

a little help coming down and I gave it a 

whole bunch of help and Newton’s laws 

got involved, and I landed on cactuses. 

PJ: We spent about an hour and a half in 

front of the van lights yanking those 

spines out. Dave, he’s injured, so he’s 

drinking with a vengeance. 

Dave: I was celebrating, man. It was the 

fourth of July. Texas had fireworks for 

hours. The vantage point we had, had the 

horizon of Texas. You could see communities 

competing with one another for 

fireworks. 

PJ: So, the next thing me and Will know, 

the tent is getting kicked by this – seriously 

– mirrored shade, mustachioed 

dude named Tracey Furgeson. “Line up 

in front of the van.” 

Will: The man’s fighting off lifetimes 

of insecurities. 

PJ: Hoping that we’ll give him the 

respect he needs so bad. Dave, at this 

point, is handcuffed and shotgunned. 

Very injured. 

Will: I was sleeping in the van at the 

time. I was looking at our friend 

Tracey knocking on the window. I was 

buried under some shit. I looked up and I 

saw him, “Oh, goddamn, it’s the cops.” 

Buried myself again. Then I kinda realized 

he was still there, so I got up again. 

He’s all, “Get out of the van!” So I got 

up, stumbled out with no shoes, shirtless. 

“What the fuck is going on?” Then I 

snuck back into the van and took a piss in 

a jug. But then the reality set in when I 

saw Dave in the back of the white car. 

PJ: We’re all lined up. They’re going to 

ticket us for the beer. Lame ticket, whatever. 

“You know that guy?” I see Dave 

handcuffed, looking really bummed. 

Shirtless. Haggard. 

Dave: I was shirtless the whole night. We 

got there, started the fire, shirts off. 

Will: Shirts off, dudes on. 

PJ: After the last time we saw him, he 

took a spill on the road. This guy was 

insinuating that we threw Dave out of the 

van. “Oh, we’re driving our van around 

this state park. Let’s throw Dave out for 

fun.” 

Dave: I threw myself places. I remember 

being upside down. I remember my head 

hurting and then remember my head 

being wet. 

Will: With blood. 

Dave: It seemed to make sense at the 

time. Trying to find campsite 127 and 

then I was woken up with mirrored sunglasses 

and a mustache. 

Will: [in super cop voice] “That guy’s 

injured. What happened?” 

PJ: He fell into a cactus. “That’s not cactus 

injuries. That’s road burn. What did 

you guys do to him? You guys went to 

sleep and left that guy in the middle of 

the road.” 

Will: The cop guy accused us of beating 

Dave up, throwing him out of the van, 

dragging him behind the van. Dave got 

taken to jail in Colorado Springs, Texas. 

Dave: I got to the cell and there’s a plate 

with three sections. There’s a pile of 

grits, jelly, and one of the biscuits had a 

half corner already eaten out. 

PJ: The guard was all, “Tuesday’s biscuits. 

Hell yeah. I don’t give a shit about 

him.” 

Dave: As I’m getting fingerprinted: 

“What’s the charge?” “Public intoxication.” 

“Fair enough. You got me.” 

Todd: Hair Beard Combo. 

PJ: Bullshit. 

Dave: I don’t have a hair beard combo. 

Todd: There’s a band called Hair Beard 

Combo. 

PJ: Aaron (Lay of Billy Reese Peters) 

and Will live with the Hair Bead Combo 

and they’re both very angry 

about it. 

Will: I wouldn’t say I’m 

angry about the Hair Beard 

Combo. I’ve been exposed to 

the Hair Beard Combo more 

than anybody should. It’s a 

thing and it’s something. I’ll 

tell you that. It’s there and 

there you go. Next question. 

Aaron: It’s two dudes who 

have this uncanny, weird 

sense of how to write songs 

in the sense that they write 

songs about the most ridiculous, 

stupid bullshit ever. 

PJ: Like blowjobs. 

Aaron: But the songs 

fuckin’ rule and you listen to 

them, and you’re like, 

“These songs are fuckin’ 

awesome. I love these songs, 

but, goddamn, I hate these 

dudes because they’re so 

obnoxious about having 

these songs.” Does that make 

sense? It’s a really sad thing 

because Will and I live with 

that. There’s been times 

when we come home and 

Will’s in the back yard, 

throwing a stick for my dog, 

Doyle. He’s freaked out and 

all pissed off. I’m just like, 

“What’s up, dude?” 

Will: They’re the type of 

guys, you’re hanging out – 

“Man, I’m going to put on 

this Elvis Costello record and 

then this AC/DC record.” 

“No, wait, let me put on this 

CD.” And before AC/DC, 

it’s the Hair Beard Combo. 

PJ: For the millionth time they’ve listened 

to it that night. 

Todd: What’s the best sexual come-on 

you’ve ever received? Does this ring any 

bells – “I want to have the sex with your 

homeless looking combo”? 

Dave: I’ve actually got a really good one. 

It was on my birthday. The actual quote 

is, “You go finish puking and brush your 

teeth, and I’ll be naked when you get 

back to your room.” That’s a game winner. 

And, when I get back to the room, 

the Elmer record is playing. Songs of Sin 

and Retribution. 

Todd: Dave, when was the last time you 

dressed as a leprechaun? 

Dave: That was the filming for The 

Revenge of the Leprechaun. I’ll send you 

a copy. 

55

Will: Do you know who The Leprechaun 

is? That little dude from Willow. I didn’t 

know that until a week ago. 

Todd: Has anyone seen Allison from 

Discount lately? 

Aaron: Allow me to speak candidly. 

Check it out. What are they called? The 

Kills. Do you know what’s really crazy 

about The Kills? [whispering] They 

smoke cigarettes on stage and shit. 

They’re real mysterious now. 

PJ: What’s this guy doing in the Grabass 

interview? How did you get in? 

Aaron: Gainesville is a small town and I 

just blatantly buh-huh. It’s a bummer. 

Dave: The last time I saw her, she was 

there with the other member of The Kills, 

Couch, or whatever they call themselves. 

Aaron: I think it’s also cool to include the 

fact that the Kills… “My name is 

Building.” The other person’s name is 

Bicycle or Chair. 

Todd: Since the split LP with Billy Reese 

Peters to your newest record – it’s The 

Greatest Story Ever Hula’d, correct? 

Dave: You’re goddamned right. 

Todd: I sense a shift. The songs are the 

full-length album are slower and they’re 

sadder. Is that true? 

Dave: Are you talking the straight mood 

or the mood is getting to you? 

Todd: Both. Tempo, slowing down. On 

the split, “Bossman” is active retribution 

against an employer, as opposed to walking 

the entire day with a spear through 

your chest or “suicide at eight bucks an 

hour.” 

Will: The first song you referred to, about 

the spear, is about a dream that I had. The 

second song you refer to, suicide at eight 

bucks an hour is actually about work and 

the shittiness of work. However, what 

you’re saying, yes, it’s true. The songs on 

that record were written out of a lot of 

fucked up shit that was going on and a lot 

of depression. A lot of sadness. I started 

writing songs as kind of a joke. I’d just 

write these funny songs. You realize after 

awhile – you’re playing a guitar and writing 

words – it feels good and it gets to a 

point where “I have to do this and it’s the 

only thing I can do.” That’s where I was 

at at that point. I was feeling kinda desperate, 

kinda shitty about everything. 

Todd: Tiltwheel’s the perfect example 

of that. They write songs that sound joyous, 

but you listen to the lyrics. 

Depressed. A lot weighing down on you. 

Will: It always changes. It comes around 

and goes around and you feel better and 

you feel worse and then there’s the world 

and the world makes you say 

58 

things that you have to say. 

Or that you can’t say or you’ve been meaning 

to say for a long time. Anyways. 

Todd: Here’s a quote. “The guitar player 

has this weird-ass haircut that looked like 

he fell asleep near a five-year-old.” 

PJ: That would be Dave. 

Dave: (Who plays bass.) Wherever you 

lifted that source, they were talking about 

me. I’m the guy with the bad haircuts. I 

get these really great ideas. See, us being 

mammals, nature gives us a palette every 

few months and so many people waste this 

palette. 

Todd: The palette is the pate. 

Dave: Touché. I do, honestly, think that 

stupid haircuts visibly fly the flag. Be the 

thorn in someone’s eye. 

Todd: Why Replay Dave? 

Dave: You don’t have that in your papers? 

Todd: Nope. 

Dave: Pinball. Wanted to write pinball 

reviews for a local zine and I needed a 

cool punk rock name and there’s eight 

million Daves in town, so Replay Dave 

just sort of flowed. I’ve heard so many 

dumb explanations. 

Todd: PJ, did you play in Against Me? 

PJ: No. 

Todd: You’re lying. 

PJ: End of interview. 

Dave: How the fuck did you get that one? 

Todd: That was from the Gainesville 

Family Tree. 

PJ: Want to hear the real story behind 

that? I was on that website one time, updating 

the Billy Reese Peters information. 

There’s this button. What I done did, I was 

looking up all of my friends’ bands. Army 

of Ponch. Railsplitter. The Bananas. I 

looked up Against Me! I was on my page, 

PJ Fancher Page, and I accidentally typed 

in “You are a member of Against Me!” 

instead of “You are searching for Against 

Me!” So, all of a sudden, I am a member of 

Against Me! Right after I did it, I looked at 

Against Me!’s page and it says, “PJ, guitar.” 

I emailed the guy that runs the thing. 

“I just accidentally typed in the wrong shit. 

Can you take that off?” And it bounced 

back. 

Will: It’s actually a larger plot to get people 

to think of the Grabass Charlestons as 

former members of Against Me! 

Todd: Will, did you really play for Radon, 

or was it another mis-pushed button? 

Will: Nah, I’ve never played for Radon. 

PJ: But Billy Reese Peters played with 

Radon at their last show. Radon’s bass 

player used to be in the Beltones. 

Will: I played in a band with James Ross, 

who was the replacement bass player for 

Radon. 

Dave: And Bill (Clower, Radon drum- 

mer) took over for you when The 

Habituals turned into Killbot Factory. 

Will: Yeah. 

PJ: Interwoven web of uh huh. 

Todd: PJ, are you in some way, 

shape, or form, related to Tom Petty? 

PJ: No. 

Will: Yeah, he is. Come on. 

PJ: Okay. I’ll give you the scoop. Tom 

Petty is my mother’s mother’s sister’s 

son, which makes him my second cousin. 

He gave me his first two guitars and he 

kicks ass. 

Dave: It translates to fuckin’ high fives. 

Aaron: Here’s what this translates to: a 

badass beach house on fuckin’ goddamn. 

PJ: Every birthday for the past two years, 

I’ll invite all of these… look at them. 

Dave: Upstanding gentlemen. 

PJ: Tom Petty has a kickass beach house 

that no one knows about and I invite them 

every year to bathe in his hot tub, his awesomeness. 

Will: Get a bunch of poor 

people sunburnt and play some horseshoes 

and spend all of our money on beer. 

Todd: What’s so special about your Rules 

About Poker t-shirt? 

Dave: It’s not even poker. It’s blackjack. 

We like gambling. We like helping people 

out. That shirt is a basic strategy for the 

game of blackjack. You’re not trying to 

get twenty-one, you’re trying to beat the 

dealer. You take that strategy, put it on a 

t-shirt, and you put it upside down so you 

can read it when you’re wearing the tshirt. 

PJ: It’s basically a cheat sheet. It’s legal. 

You can do that. 

Dave: I was sitting around one day. I was 

studying the chart, trying to become a 

master gambler, currently failing miserably, 

but having a hell of a time. “Man, I 

should put that on a damn t-shirt.” And 

then I said, “I should make it a damn 

Grabass Charlestons t-shirt. All I’ve got to 

do is put the words ‘Grabass Charlestons’ 

on the topside. Beeooow. 

Todd: What’s Texas Hold’em? 

Dave: Texas Hold’em is the highest evolutionary 

point in the came of poker. It is 

the version played in the World Series of 

poker. You get two cards and share five 

other cards with the rest of the table. Best 

five-card hand wins. The structure is simple, 

yet the play is complex. It gets in 

your brain and body. 

Todd: What happens on April first? 

Aaron: Jai alai season starts. 

Dave: You’re wrong, man. You looked at 

the website and it was not April first. It 

was April second. 04/02/03. That 

was our fuckin’ battle cry.

Todd: Did you get the jai alai tattoos in 

the same place? 

Dave: Dub T. (Will) and I did. 

Will: It’s (“Dub T.”) on my belt. 

Todd: Will, do you have a lucky hat? 

Will: I thought I had a lucky hat. I went to 

one of the stores, Bubba Ray’s, I think. 

They’re a chain in the Carolinas. I bought 

a really nice Stetson hat with a feather in 

it. It was gray. I loved it. I paid forty dollars 

for it, so I assumed it was going to be 

my lucky hat. I took it around to the local 

gambling establishments. However, I 

quickly found out that it was not my lucky 

hat. It was actually my unlucky hat. 

Dave: That don’t mean you don’t look 

good. 

Will: That doesn’t mean I don’t love that 

hat any less. I still love that hat. 

Todd: Dave and PJ, you both work for No 

Idea, one of the best, most honest record 

companies and distros on the planet… 

PJ: Don’t forget about Dub T. He cleans 

fish tanks there. 

Will: I clean the fish tanks once every two 

weeks. Except when I’m on tour or I don’t 

feel like doing it. 

Todd: I rarely do blatant endorsements, 

but No Idea’s awesome. Way over a hundred 

of releases, they pay their bills, and 

they’re really nice people. That doesn’t 

happen that often. 

Dave: No Idea #12 came out (No Idea 

started out as a zine.) and I was friends 

with one of Var’s roommates (Var is the 

owner of No Idea with his wife, Jen.) and 

he had a sign on his door, “Shitwork is 

needed.” I happened to have been working 

at a pizza place that went out of business 

and I was about to start working at 

China Express and I had two weeks to kill 

where I wouldn’t be employed. And for a 

young lad living off his pizza job, I kinda 

needed two weeks of money. I went in 

there, I put a lot of zine CDs and records 

together and I was such a fucking badass, 

they called me up every time they had 

something new. Then next thing I know, 

it’s five years later. I work there forty 

hours a week and a nice lady hands me a 

paycheck every Friday. What do you 

know. Then I realized college and my 

other jobs were getting in my way of me 

working there, which was a whole lot cooler 

than college or working other jobs. 

PJ: I started working at No Idea because 

the webmaster moved to Dayton, Ohio. So, 

No Idea had no way to update their website. 

I have a degree in web so I stepped in 

and did it. 

Dave: Other labels can learn a lot from No 

Idea. However, it’s a tricky education. The 

wisdom is in what we don’t do, not what 

we do. Observe the negative space. We 

don’t waste money on advertising. We 

advertise a lot, but exercise discretion. We 

try to be available, but don’t “pimp ourselves” 

and cram a product towards a market. 

A delicate balance, indeed. Most 

importantly, other labels shouldn’t look to 

other labels for how to do things. Find 

what works for your personal goals. 

Always seek advice, but understand the 

perspective that the advice comes from. If 

you have it in your head that Plan-it-X is a 

great label, which they are, it would be 

wrong to duplicate what they are doing. 

Find the points about them you like and 

make it your own. Any label that has existed 

five years has a commitment. Having a 

commitment is key. The rest will happen 

due to the commitment. 

Todd: That’s a pretty philosophical way to 

look at it. 

Dave: Well, I have a degree in philosophy. 

Todd: Will, what was the largest stunt you 

pulled off with your brother when you 

were kids? 

Will: Me and my brother lived in a tiny 

little town, Homosassa, Florida. Everyone 

used to call it Homo Stank Asses. I’m not 

kidding. I’d meet people in Orlando or 

Tampa or Jacksonville and they’d all say 

“Homo Stank Asses.” I swear to god, it 

was a natural reaction. So, me and my 

brother, we were pretty bored and he was 

older than me and he had all the good 

ideas. My brother’s a great man. I think he 

just lost his way along the way. Seriously, 

dude. Kind of a big bummer. My brother 

thought of the idea – you take a wig from 

you mom or grandmom’s house, right? He 

figured out a way to hook it up to a fishing 

reel and hide the fishing line. 

We lived in a neighborhood 59

with all these old people. They’d be 

walking. It’s been done in movies, but 

this was totally before that. This was 

when I was eleven. We’d sit in the palmetto 

bushes and reel it in kind of fast 

and it looks like this bizarre animal. It 

was awesome. The old ladies would 

freak out. Cars would stop. 

But, then, to improve on that – my 

brother’s an innovator on prankdom – 

take one of your mom’s old purses. Take 

a shit in it. This is when we were a little 

more advanced. This is when our friends 

had cars. My brother’s fifteen and I’m 

twelve. Take a shit in purse, get the shit 

all over it. Drive the purse to a popular 

intersection, which is very few in my 

hometown. We go to the shit bars by the 

river – the redneck fishermen bars – and 

he’d put the poo purse, that’s 

what we’d call it, by the entrance. 

“Holy shit, man, there’s a purse. 

Maybe there’s some money in it 

or something.” They’d pick it up, 

their hand would get all poopy. It 

was grand old times. We had 

some glorious redneck chases 

because of that. Those were the 

good old days before my brother 

became a southern Baptist. 

Todd: Who worked in a human 

resources office? 

PJ: That would be Will. 

Will: I never worked in a human 

resources office. Both me and 

Dave delivered Chinese food to a 

human resources office. 

Dave: You don’t know how deep 

this shit runs, man. 

Will: It bummed me out so bad. 

It was the human resources 

office. It’s so fucking sinister. 

Human. Resource. What does that 

mean? You go in there; there’s a 

big sign. It was a university, an 

institution of what’s supposed to be good. 

PJ: Helping out people. 

Will: The strange thing was that it was on 

the fifteenth floor of a football stadium. So 

you go into this weird office in the catacombs 

of the deep depth of this football 

stadium. No windows nowhere, and that’s 

human resource department of the 

University of Florida. It’s strange. There’s 

a massive waiting room – literally desperate 

people trying to get a job doing anything. 

There’s a catalog of people who 

sign up for a job. “Oh, what’s your name?” 

“Oh, my name’s Sheila Johnson,” or whatever. 

They look you up in this giant, hellish 

catalog. So, I’d go in there, still wasted, 

and deliver Chinese food to these 

robot bureaucrats. It’s kind of a bummer, 

seeing that shit. But it definitely made me 

never want to get an office job. 

Todd: Why the extreme hatred for LA by 

Gainesville bands, even by you guys. 

Dave: Panthro (UK United 13). I 

think it’s not the actual geography of LA, 

but the mentality of LA. The plastic, silicone 

fake imagery. We come from a nonplastic, 

passion-filled, ding dong swamp. 

PJ: We come from a place where you 

can ride your bike for five minutes, to go 

Common Grounds or Wayward Council 

to see a kickass show, not too much 

money, and have the time of your life. 

Dave: Hollywood produces the 

images of something that isn’t tangible 

but something you need to acquire to be 

happy and we see that as, no, you don’t 

need anything to be happy except your 

friends. 

Will: Every time I’ve been to LA, it’s 

I’m driving ninety miles an hour for two 

hours to get to somebody who lives down 

the street. Then you’re surrounded by bullshitters. 

This is in general. I’ve met totally 

cool people in Los Angeles. I’ve been surrounded 

by pseudo celebrities who aren’t 

even close to being celebrities but think 

they’re celebrities and people who have 

nothing to fuckin’ talk about except figures 

and asinine terminology that I don’t 

even know about. Completely devoid of 

humanity. It makes me want to freak out. 

Todd: The last time I saw you Will, with 

the Beltones, it bummed me out. When 

you played at eight o’clock, they were 

showing a TV program on the entire wall 

of a club right in front of you guys and on 

three separate TVs. You had a thirty 

minute set, people were into it, you asked 

for an encore and the bar was, vwoop, 

turned on the lights and blasted the TVs. 

Get out of here. 

Dave, when was the last time you were 

mistaken for a dead person under a stairwell? 

Dave: It was the summer of 2000. (When 

Dave was living in the storage space under 

stairs.) I had had a rough night of too 

much coffee and general unrest, perhaps 

some mild gallivanting about town. The 

upstairs neighbors had some guests that 

involved children. The duo of little ones 

went into the backyard, my yard, my toi- 

let, my view from home. I had my door 

open to let the breeze ruffle through my 

hair as I took a nap. I heard them coming 

in, as I hear everything that comes in the 

yard. I did my best to not attract attention, 

but a pair of legs visible sticking out from 

under a house through a tiny doorway 

leaves little to the imagination of an eightyear-old. 

There was a gasp, a yelp, and a 

rapid retreat to Mommy. I heard them 

mention “a body back in the yard.” Yep, 

that’s me. I wasn’t in the mood to make 

friends, so I jumped up and out, locked my 

door, and hastened to the other side 

of the yard where I jumped the 

fence and didn’t look back. 

61

ANTiSEEN formed in August of 

1983 in Charlotte, North Carolina. 

Since then, they’ve released seven 

full-length studio albums and over 40 

EPs. Thanks to TKO Records’ Vault 

of ANTiSEEN series, all of the band’s 

albums are back in print on vinyl 

and CD, and Steel Cage records is 

about to release a tome documenting 

the band’s history, Destructo 

Maximus. They’re one of the more 

distinct bands in the history of punk, 

adding dashes of country and early 

‘80s hardcore to a fundamental 

Ramones-influenced sound. I talked 

to vocalist Jeff Clayton and guitarist 

Joe Young about common misconceptions 

people tend to have about 

ANTiSEEN and about Joe Young’s 

experience running for office. 

Art: ANTiSEEN’s been around for a 

full twenty years now – how does 

it feel being a band for 

so long? 

Jeff Clayton: The part that I really like 

about having been together so long is some 

of the respect we get from some people 

even if they don’t like us, because in this 

kind of music it’s pretty much unheard of 

for bands to stay together this long. Lots of 

groups reunite, but we’ve never had the 

privilege to cash in on a reunion tour. 

[laughs] 

Joe Young: When we started, I figured a 

year or two if we’re lucky, we’d do an EP, 

get us in shows for free, and that would be 

about it. In ‘87 I left the band for a while 

and moved to Atlanta. At that time, I 

thought that would be it. I came back in 

early ‘88 and once we started getting to the 

Midwest and up North I had a feeling that 

we might keep going for a while. We had 

our first trip to Europe in ‘92 and started 

getting better labels to put out our records. I 

realized “this is starting to get fun all of a 

sudden. We could keep it going.” I think 

Clayton might have trimmed the split ends 

of his hair two or three times over the years, 

but he hasn’t had a real haircut since that 

first gig in ‘83 when he shaved it completely 

bald. 

photo by Jason Griscom 

Art: ANTiSEEN’s on a big label now, TKO 

– how is that working out? 

Clayton: It couldn’t be better. The records 

are actually getting out there. Now it’s like 

virtually every album we’ve ever done is 

back in print and you can get it for non-collector 

prices, which I know some fans are 

pretty happy about. I’m flattered that some 

people pay a lot of money for our records, 

but they really shouldn’t have to. [laughs] 

Young: TKO’s been the best label that 

we’ve worked with so far. Mark’s doing 

great. He’s really dedicated to pushing stuff 

and doing it right, and he’s got a lot of varied 

tastes. A lot of punk labels have a tendency 

to lean just towards one style of 

punk, but he seems to have a little bit of 

everything. 

Art: You’ve recently played some very 

high profile music festivals. How have you 

been received at these festivals? 

Clayton: Every one of them has been 

really good. We played the Beer 

Olympics down in Atlanta that’s put on 

by GMM Records. I guess that was 

just because of our association 

with TKO.

Art: You had to be one 

of the only, if not the 

only band with hair there. How was 

that? 

Clayton: Yeah, pretty much. It was definitely 

pretty wild. We definitely stuck 

out like a sore thumb, but we were 

treated real well by the crowd and the other 

bands. Nothing to complain about at all – it 

was fun. We played it two years in a row. 

And we just got through playing the L.A. 

Shakedown, which despite the mess that it 

started out as, ended up being pretty good 

for us. 

Art: And you’ve also done another 

European tour recently. Why do you think 

ANTiSEEN is so well received in Europe? 

Clayton: It’s kind of hard to tell. I think it’s 

‘cuz they really like hard American music, 

but since we first went over, there have 

been so many bands coming and going. 

Germany sees it all. Every band tours 

Germany. And you’d figure they’d be 

jaded, but we still get a good response over 

there. I think from talking to some of the 

people, a lot of them really like the 

Southern image and the fact that we don’t 

have to play it up, because we are it. We’re 

not like Pride and Glory or something that 

had to think about it and try it on for size. 

It’s really all we know and the fact that we 

are this type of person that they envision 

being one way, yet we play punk rock like 

the Ramones is something they can’t 

pigeonhole, so they enjoy it, which is fine 

by me. We really want to play Japan. We 

put a couple of singles out over there and 

we’re getting ready to have a “best of” 

album come out on CD over there. 

Art: For a better part of the ‘90s, 

ANTiSEEN was primarily known for having 

been a one time backup band for GG 

Allin – do you agree with that? 

Young: Yeah, I agree. That was a bummer 

because we’d started playing before we’d 

ever heard of GG or knew him. Once we 

met him and did that record – which we did 

right after he got out of jail – it did kind of 

catapult us up there for a period. The first 

two or three times we went to Europe, all 

they did ask us about was GG: did we like 

recording with him? It’s died down an 

awful lot. They’ve stopped bugging us 

about it. One thing I admired about GG was 

that when he came to stay with you, everything 

he had in his suitcase was everything 

he owned. That’s the way I’ve become. I 

don’t have a stereo anymore, don’t have a 

DVD. I don’t have a computer at my house. 

I have a couple of short wave radios. I listen 

to talk radio probably twelve or fourteen 

hours a day. 

Clayton: Of course, now I’m singing for 

the Murder Junkies again for the first 

time in almost a decade. I’ve been 

thinking about how we tried so hard to 

crawl out of that shadow, and now the 

album’s been released again and I’m 

doing these tours. I’m wondering 

if that’s going to 

put us right back where we were. But I 

think at this point in the game, ten years 

after he died, we’ve carved enough of a 

niche in the underground of our own that 

we’re finally seen as a separate entity now. 

All of the advertisements for these Murder 

Junkies shows say “featuring Jeff Clayton 

of ANTiSEEN on vocals.” The sexual 

deviancy that GG used to sing about – that 

ain’t our bag. We’re a little bit more on the 

violence side of things [laughs]. And I’ve 

heard people say, “Why don’t you do more 

songs like GG?” and it’s like well, we don’t 

do that kind of stuff. I think some people 

always wanted us to be the band of four GG 

Allins and it just wasn’t going to happen. 

Art: What are some misconceptions people 

have about ANTiSEEN? 

Young: I’m not saying that we’re not a 

political band. We’re not an apolitical band, 

and political issues might pop up from time 

to time in the songs, going all the way back 

to “NC Royalty,” but by in large we’re not a 

political band. Clayton’s not interested in it. 

I don’t even know if he votes. I think he’s 

more interested in telling a story and venting 

some frustration. It’s very seldom to see 

us doing songs where we’re railing at society 

or trying to fix the world’s problems in a 

three-minute song. That’s something Jeff 

and I always thought was ridiculous. My 

philosophy always was if the Beatles can’t 

do it, Bob Dylan can’t do it, or the Clash 

can’t do it, how are we gonna do it? How is 

one of our little songs really going to make 

a difference? Personally, I’m political. But 

as a band, we’re apolitical. Another misconception 

people have about us is that we get 

called metal sometimes. I think we’re about 

as far from metal as you can get. Our songs 

are too short; there are no solos. And I don’t 

see us as being metal at all. I think of our 

music as being just straight ahead rock or 

hard rock. I would have called it punk rock 

in the first ten or fifteen years we played, 

but in the last few years if you say punk 

people have a tendency to consider that to 

be more like Green Day or Avril Lavigne or 

somebody like that. And we’re not in that 

vein. The Ramones 

was the last group that I 

really latched onto and went, “Alright, 

I’ll be listening to these guys for 

years.” 

Clayton: That we’re racist because 

we’re from the South. As if the South 

were the only place with the Ku Klux Klan. 

In reality, I consider myself a rightwing, 

conservative liberal, as opposed to a bleeding 

heart, lefty liberal. The bleeding heart 

liberals are so hypocritical, but they never 

get called on it. If you call them on it, 

you’re considered a knee-jerk reactionary so 

it’s a no win situation to even voice your 

opinion. 

Art: Why do you think the more PC factions 

of punk rock spurn you? 

Young: PC is a sneaky way of saying liberal, 

and we ain’t a bunch of panty-waisted 

liberals, that’s for sure. 

Clayton: I don’t know because it seems like 

that faction seems to jump on us for things 

that other people have either done before or 

done a lot worse. For some reason when we 

push the envelope a little bit, it’s like the 

end of the world. Or maybe they really care 

about us. Some of the stuff we say that runs 

against popular opinion, I think we say with 

such joy and cheer that it makes people 

angry. But a lot of it is just people making 

assumptions because we’re from the South. 

Art: Do you think that, as a group, poor 

white people are overlooked, even looked 

down upon? 

Young: Since 1865, it has always been 

open season on Southern white males. 

Simple as that. Only white Southern males 

can be called white trash with total immunity. 

Clayton: Yeah, of course they are. Just 

check out TV everyday. You can put down 

poor white people all you want to, especially 

if they’re from the South. 

Art: What does it mean to you to have a 

rich, unashamed Southern heritage? 

Young: It means lots of humidity in the 

summer and 162 Braves games a year on 

TV. 

photo by Allana Sleeth

Clayton: To me it means 

not going along with the 

entire world’s belief that everyone in 

the South was for slavery. Of all the 

places in the United States, the South 

gets shit on the most. And it’s mainly 

by people who’ve never been down 

here. They think we’ve all got one tooth in 

our head and shit in an outhouse and spit 

tobacco out the side of our mouth. Just look 

at the show Dukes of Hazard. To me, living 

in a place that does have so much history 

and things to be proud of, and not things to 

be ashamed of, like the rest of the country 

seems to think, just makes me glad. I’m 

glad I live here and I’m glad my family was 

born and raised here. Keep the big city crap 

and the way they see us because if they ever 

want to experience it firsthand and get their 

conception blown out of the water, they can 

just come down here. 

Art: How much does sarcasm play into 

your lyrics? 

Clayton: A lot. If we didn’t have sarcasm, 

there would be no vocals on the records. 

There’s hardly any sacred cow that we 

won’t take a stab at. We’ll make fun of 

what we see fit. 

Young: The Dead Kennedys didn’t really 

want to lynch the landlord, I don’t think, in 

a literal sense. Neither do we. 

Art: Your name comes from the concept 

that you’re anti-scene, but you’ve arguably 

started a scene all your own, The 

Confederacy of Scum – do you see any 

irony in that? 

Clayton: Weird how that worked out, isn’t 

it? [laughs] We were the ANTI S-E-E-N, 

which was just a clever misspelling of s-c-en-e, 

and then ten or fifteen years into this 

game there’s a whole group of bands going 

on the same wavelength. It is kind of ironic 

that we’re anti-scene and created a scene. 

Young: I do see the irony there and I kind 

of have a problem with it because I didn’t 

want to be in any scene. And we didn’t really 

start the COS. We called the group 

ANTiSEEN because when we started there 

really was one scene to speak of in North 

Carolina and it was up in Raleigh with 

Corrosion of Conformity, No Rock Stars, 

and The Ugly Americans. Three or four 

bands up there and they thought they were 

the center of the universe, not just the state 

capitol. There’s always been a friendly 

rivalry between those of us in Charlotte 

and those in Raleigh. They always 

thought they had the best punk scene 

in the South on the East Coast. And 

that’s why we chose the name we did. 

Art: Your live shows tend 

to incorporate fire 

antics – do you expect that to change given 

the recent Rhode Island club fire incident? 

Clayton: I imagine it will… pretty unfortunate 

what happened there. I feel sorry for 

the families and the band. No band wants to 

see their audience hurt, much less killed. I 

don’t know. It was just a big series of things 

that had bad timing there. Look how long 

that group’s been together and nothing like 

this has ever happened. Nothing like this 

has ever happened in rock’n’roll. Ever. We 

talk about it all the time. With the stuff 

we’ve done –we don’t even have licensed 

photo by Greg Bailey 

pyro technicians working for us, and most 

times we do it without any kind of fire 

extinguisher or anything – we’ve never had 

any bad incidences. I’ve caught on fire a 

few times, but nothing that sent me to the 

hospital or anything. Just some stinky hair 

and my leg catching on fire. In light of the 

recent events, we will be having the brakes 

put on that, especially in some clubs, I 

would imagine. I’ll definitely make sure 

that we ask or talk to them about it first 

because you know fire marshals are going 

to be on the prowl 

more so than ever and 

that used to be a thing you didn’t really 

have to worry about unless a place 

was really crowded. 

Young: Probably so, because a lot of 

small clubs that we play, especially the 

ones that have the little tiny stages and little 

roofs, are just not going to allow it and 

some of the places we play around here 

have already laid down the law to us. We 

don’t really do explosions. We don’t use 

pyrotechnics per se. A little bit of flash 

powder or lighter fluid on 

a washboard – that’s not 

pyrotechnics, that’s not 

explosives. It’s fire, but 

not explosives. The 

biggest stunt that 

Clayton’s done for years 

is blowing up the washboards. 

We’ve never 

been able to do that overseas 

or even in 

California. We never had 

the time to find the right 

powder when we were 

out there. 

Art: What do the members 

of the band do when 

they’re not playing in 

ANTiSEEN? 

Clayton: I’m a stay at 

home dad. I make my living 

off selling stuff on 

the internet and through 

playing and through 

drawing. Sir Barry 

Hannibal is a plumber by 

trade. Doug Canipe lives 

the same kind of lifestyle 

I lead except he doesn’t 

have children. 

Young: We’ve never 

been a full time band 

where we’re making a 

living off of it. If we did, 

I think we would have 

broken up years ago. The 

fun of it probably would 

have worn off really quick if it were something 

we did for a job. For a job, I run my 

family’s floral business. 

Art: In what non-obvious ways do the floral 

arts and ANTiSEEN enrich one another? 

Young: Some burgundy roses match 

Jeff Clayton’s blood in color. 

Art: Have your florist talents ever 

wound up on an ANTiSEEN stage? 

Young: No way! 

Art: Have you ever done 

the floral arranging for a

hero of yours? 

Young: I don’t consider 

him a “hero,” but Senator Jesse Helms’ 

office called in an order one day when a 

prominent Republican in our town 

passed away. 

Art: Joe, you ran for office as a 

Libertarian and almost won – how was that 

experience? 

Young: I ran twice. I ran in 2000 and got 

clobbered for state office, but I ran in 2001 

and I missed by just fifteen votes at getting 

on the city council. I had 735 votes and the 

guy who edged me out for the last seat had 

750. He was an eight-term Democrat 

incumbent and he’d served on the council 

before. Just that I could even get close to 

him was a shock and I finished fifth out of 

nine people who were running. Now that I 

look back on it, I tell you I’m glad that I 

missed it, knowing what I know now. 

Art: Did you face negative campaigning as 

a result of his being in ANTiSEEN? 

Clayton: They tried to use it against him 

big time. “Go look at this guy’s website – 

the things that he endorses. Look at the language 

on this message board.” They pulled 

everything out they could. He even got 

attacked by one doctor there in town. Not 

literally attacked, but attacked via e-mail 

talking about all the stuff the band says. I 

wrote the guy back myself and said, “Look, 

you’re aiming at the wrong guy. You need 

to be mad at me. Joe simply plays the guitar 

to what I rant and rave about. If you want to 

talk about people bleeding and tearing shit 

up, that’s me, not Joe.” I hope we didn’t 

doom his career as a politician, but we may 

have. 

Art: What was the mistake that caused the 

recount? 

Young: Friday after the election was when 

we found out the mistake that had been 

made during the night of the election. What 

had happened is that they had counted a lot 

of votes twice. They had counted a whole 

bunch of my votes twice. Four of the eleven 

precincts double counted my votes because 

of a mistake over write-in candidates. There 

were several write in candidates on the ballot. 

Almost all of the people who voted for 

me were voting for the write-in candidates 

as well. And whenever they would vote for 

the write-in candidate, it would kick the ballot 

out of the machine, so my votes 

ended up being counted twice. I made 

a comment just jokingly on the board 

that, “I don’t know how this happened. 

Maybe when the polls closed 

that night all the precinct workers 

got drunk or stoned or 

something,” and that ended up being printed 

in the newspaper in town and things like 

that haunt me. I did not think, especially 

after getting clobbered in the 2000 election, 

that I had a chance of winning. I was doing 

it just to build up the party’s name a little 

bit and get some attention. And I figured 

that if I came even close I’d be doing good. 

I thought, “As long as I don’t finish dead 

last out of nine people running…,” but I 

was right on the edge. 

Art: Is ANTiSEEN a Libertarian band? 

Clayton: It’s really funny that for such a 

nonpolitical band, we sure get 

asked about politics a lot. I 

think a lot of the things we 

believe as individuals do coincide 

with the things outlined 

by the Libertarian party. 

Whether any or all of us are 

registered Libertarians, I know 

I’m not. I think Doug is. I 

can’t be sure about Barry. Of 

course Joe is. But having the 

“in” through Joe, we’ve 

learned a lot more than we 

would have reading on our 

own. A lot of it makes sense, 

just common sense. 

Young: I think a lot of our 

song themes are Libertarian 

oriented because they’re about 

personal freedom and choices, 

but I wouldn’t say that we’re a 

Libertarian band per se. I 

couldn’t think of anybody who 

is. I know Mojo Nixon considers 

himself a Libertarian and 

that pops up in a lot of his 

songs. When bands try to write 

Libertarian, it comes out bad, 

like Rush. Neil Peart is Libertarian and that 

pops up in some of their songs. They’re not 

really my style. 

Art: Political scientists tend to place 

Libertarianism on the left of the political 

spectrum. Do you agree with this designation? 

Young: That’s funny because a lot of people, 

especially here in the South, tend to put 

it more on the right. They seem to think of 

all of us as conservatives who just like to 

smoke dope or something. But I like to 

think of it as not being on the left or the 

right, but on a diamond chart. Ever seen a 

Nolan Chart, the world’s smallest political 

quiz? That’s where I consider Libertarians 

to be. I don’t consider us to be on the left or 

on the right. I see us on the top of the diamond, 

with the authoritarians and fascists 

on the bottom. 

Art: Is the internal 

ideological consistency 

of Libertarianism part of its appeal? 

Young: It’s probably part of the appeal, 

but it’s also part of what holds us back, 

too. Politics is all about compromise 

and I believe that’s why the Democrats 

and the Republicans have a stranglehold: 

‘cuz they’re experts at compromising with 

each other. 

Art: Few people with minoritarian political 

views see electoral politics as a viable 

means for change. Do you? 

photo by Allana Sleeth 

Young: It’s either got to be done by the ballot 

box or the ammo box, but I’d prefer to 

do it by the ballot box. I’m sure a lot of people 

who backed Gore or Nader consider the 

country to be a right wing conservative hellhole 

right now, and I have a lot of 

Libertarian friends who are constantly complaining 

about certain rights that are being 

stripped away. I know there were a heck of 

a lot of people protesting the war, some of 

whom I think just hate Bush. I knew a lot of 

people who felt the same way about Clinton 

for eight years, as if for eight years he could 

do no right. But I’ve tried not to be 

that kind of person. As much as I follow 

politics, I try not to let the 

happiness and quality of my life 

be affected by who is or is not in 

power.

REMEMBERING WESLEY 

1963-2003 

Wesley was my brother, and I 

never new the bounds of his music. 

We were all in foster homes as children 

and, until I was seventeen, I had 

never spent much time with him. 

Sure, we had visits but they were all 

supervised so we never got to play 

and frolic like children did. 

People take things for granted 

like having a mom and dad and a 

feeling of security that all children 

should feel. We didn’t have that, but 

through all the adversity we rose. 

Wesley was twenty when he got 

his first keyboard. It was a Casio. It 

was so small in his hands. He could 

barely hit the keys, so when he sold 

another drawing he got another one, 

bigger than the last! 

Wesley also loved listening to 

rock bands like The Scorpions, Bon 

Jovi, Pink Floyd, The Cure, many 

others. He would ask our brothers 

Steven and Walter to play songs for 

him to dance to, and they would play 

them all night. They had record collections 

that would rival Dr.Wax! He 

would hold his arms out to his sides 

like he was flying and bounce around 

like he was on fire and would sing so 

loud! 

He also had a love for clocks as 

well. One day, he came home with a 

school clock, so I asked him, “Why 

don’t you get a wristwatch?” not 

realizing his wrists were too large. 

He said, “‘cause I like it.” So that 

was that. 

Our mother was very abusive 

and an alcoholic. She would take his 

money and drink herself to sleep for 

what reason I never knew. Roger Lee 

was her boyfriend at the time. He 

was far from being a model citizen. 

He would have my older brothers 

running back and forth to the liquor 

store all night long!! He was the 

straw that broke up our already fractured 

home. 

But Wesley, Walter, Steven, and 

Richard were the backbone of my 

teen years. They taught me to appreciate 

life, no matter how hard it was 

living in the projects. We were 

always under ridicule by the people 

there, getting robbed. Life was very 

hard, but through it all Wesley 

reached for his brass ring and headbutted 

it, PROVING WHERE 

THERE’S A WILLIS, THERE’S A 

WAY!!! 

To all of his fans/friends, god 

bless you for the kind words you have 

for my brother. ROCK ON CHICA- 

GO, ROCK OVER LONDON!!! You 

gave music and memories never to 

be forgotten! I’ll see you soon, so 

save me a seat!! 

–Michael Willis 

by Scott Cox-Stanton 

With his permission, I’ve reprinted here 

the letter that Wesley Willis’s brother, Michael, 

shared with Wesley’s family, friends, and fans at his 

funeral service and on the Alternative Tentacles website. 

This letter offers a perspective on Wesley that 

many of his recent friends didn’t have. I was lucky to 

meet some of Wesley’s brothers at his service. 

Michael Willis’s words, his sincerity, his personality, 

and his warmth – not to mention his looks – reminded 

me so much of Wesley. Like Wesley, Michael 

downplayed the horrific times that he’d lived through 

and used his time at the service to honor his brother, 

to connect with Wesley’s fans and friends, to offer a 

positive perspective, and share more than a few 

laughs. 

When Michael speaks of being “ridiculed” in the 

projects, he doesn’t come 

close to signifying what 

most of us mean by 

“ridicule.” The middleschool 

variety of ridicule 

that many of us have known 

pales in comparison to what 

Wesley and his family 

knew. I hope we remember 

that the next time we hear 

anyone crying about the 

perils of being a punkrocker. 

Not long ago, I was driving 

Wesley home from a 

visit, back to his motel in 

Mount Prospect, Illinois. As 

we drove into Chicago and 

the high rises came into 

view, Wesley asked if I 

would drive him by an area 

of the housing projects he 

used to live in. As we got 

close, I could see the fear and silence in Wesley. It 

was an overwhelming moment. The memories 

seemed to hit Wes hard, and he said in a very assuring 

voice (and if you know Wesley, you know the 

voice I’m talking about), “It was a fucking war 

zone.” I took that as a cue that it was time to move on 

and head to the suburbs where Wes was staying. I 

could not even imagine the hell that Wesley went 

through in his younger life. I am so awed and so 

thankful that he rose through all the adversity and 

spread sunshine to so many people. When most of us 

would have given up, Wesley went forward 100% 

and channeled his creativity into making drawings of 

Chicago, which he sold. It was, for him, a way out of 

his circumstances. 

Enter schizophrenia. Schizophrenia, an illness 

that afflicts about one percent of the population, is 

the most severe and devastating form of mental illness 

known to humankind. With its onset, Wesley’s 

life took on a whole new realm of difficulties and 

complexities that were out of his control. The horrible 

illness tortured him in so many ways. The very 

medications, which were intended to provide him 

relief from the voices in his head, caused innumerable 

side effects, including weight gain. Gaining so 

much weight took a toll on Wesley’s joy. Getting out 

of bed to use the bathroom was as strenuous as a 

five-mile run. Getting in a car and putting on a seat- 

In a very small town in the 

middle of Ohio, Wesley 

walked in with loads of 

money in each hand. As he 

walked toward the teller, 

relishing the moment, 

Wesley proclaimed, “I’m 

Wesley Willis and I’m a 

motherfucking hustler. 

You better recognize.” The 

bankers failed to see the 

humor, and Wesley was 

escorted out of the bank. 

belt became a difficult ordeal. But Wesley always 

insisted that we all wear our seatbelts – another small 

way that Wesley showed how much he cherished life. 

I never heard Wesley feel sorry for himself. Instead, 

he wrote a song about his weight: “I’m sorry I got fat, 

I will try to slim down.” No nonsense. Wesley always 

cut to the point. 

Wesley made the best of all situations. Years 

after being diagnosed with schizophrenia, Wesley 

was diagnosed with diabetes. Like all things in life, 

Wesley handled his diabetes like a trooper. When 

he’d visit, he’d buy sugarless foods. After he decided 

he was lactose-intolerant, he’d buy dairy-free 

foods. He took whatever circumstances came his 

way and adapted. He wouldn’t let anything destroy 

his joyride! 

Then Wesley was told 

that he had leukemia. It was 

hard to tell how Wesley felt 

about this. When Wesley 

called me and told me he 

had cancer, in the next 

breath, he was telling me 

about his new keyboard and 

its heavy metal sound. 

Cancer was just one more 

thing trying to stop his 

joyride and he wasn’t going 

to let it. I know he must 

have been scared as a baby 

sometimes, but he chose not 

to dwell on it. He was too 

busy living to stop and think 

about dying. And that’s how 

he was until the very end. 

When people remember 

Wesley, I want them to 

remember his strength, his 

endless capacity for joy, and 

most of all, his dignity. We live in world that’s 

wound-up so tightly, that it’s hard for some people to 

comprehend the immense dignity of someone who 

has a mental illness and has no problem writing a 

song like “I’m sorry I got fat,” or saying “my dick 

has to piss” when he has to pee. But he had dignity 

like no other. He was proud of his work, and rightly 

so. He had a work ethic that would rival anybody’s. 

He was a truly great, honest, and dependable friend. 

He was the best bullshit detector I have ever seen. He 

knew who the “real” people were and he made 

friends with them. The others, he simply dismissed 

as customers. When I hear the talk of “is he being 

exploited?” I laugh. That’s an insult to Wesley and to 

the people who were so moved by his art and music. 

He was an artist and a musician because he was an 

artist and musician. He wasn’t on stage because 

somebody made him get up there. He was there to 

strut his stuff, to make money, and to meet his fans. 

His “demons” (the voices in his head) did what they 

could to shoot his plans down, but Wesley’s capacity 

for joy and his enormous will always won out in the 

end. 

Wesley truly enjoyed talking with everyone. 

There were no hierarchies in Wesley’s world. 

Though Wesley had many “high profile” friends, he 

didn’t care if you were Joe-celebrity or Joe-the-sandwich-artist. 

Everybody was on the same playing field

and he made everyone feel important. Wesley 

liked to introduce himself to new people by 

saying, “Hello, I’m Wesley Willis and I’m a 

rock star.” He took that title with pride, and he 

really did embody everything a rock star should 

be. He was a rock star, but he was like no other 

rock star I’ve ever known. He would stay after 

a show and talk with his fans all night, giving 

affectionate headbutts and exchanging phone 

numbers to make contact later. He loved to visit 

his fans, as they quickly became not just fans, 

but friends. Other rock stars visit the homes of 

their fans for an hour or so, when MTV’s cameras 

are rolling. But Wesley would buy his own 

pictures courtesy of the Willis family and Eyeosaur Productions 

ticket (usually Airtran, Amtrak, or Greyhound), 

and visit for days or weeks. He would enjoy 

playing his keyboard and writing new songs 

about the friends he made on each visit. 

I was blessed to have been such a close 

friend of Wesley’s. I was lucky enough to spend 

time with him right up to the very end. He was 

still in positive spirits the last time I saw him in 

his Hospice hospital bed. He was cracking 

jokes and being the Wesley we all loved. 

However, we knew Wesley was dying, and it 

was heart breaking. Wesley was my great 

friend, my mentor, my muse, and angel. 

Though his immense spirit lives on in all of us 

who loved him, his bellowing voice, his hilarious 

and tender answering-machine messages 

and phone calls, his hand-holding, his eyes, and 

his unfathomable warmth will be missed forever. 

Though there’s really no way that words 

can capture what it was like to hang out with 

Wesley, I do want to share a few of my favorite 

memories. Those of us who were lucky enough 

to spend a lot of time with Wesley have an endless 

supply of stories such as these. I hope these 

words can convey a bit of the humor, sweetness, 

and joy that Wesley shared so generously 

with his friends. 

73

Wesley, the early bird: Wesley was set to visit 

us in Florida. We showed up at the Jacksonville 

airport early to meet him at his gate. Much to 

my surprise, I saw Wes at the front door of the 

airport in a wheelchair, with a security guard on 

each side of him. Wes saw me and got a huge 

grin on his face, “Scott Causey! I decided to 

come early. I have been here for four hours. 

Flight 8590 from Chicago to Atlanta was a 

joyride. Flight 337 from Atlanta to Jacksonville 

was a hellride. I had an outburst on the airplane.” 

The security guards did not look very 

happy. 

Wesley’s bonding rituals: In addition to headbutting, 

Wesley liked to hold hands – I remember 

driving all night in our Dodge Stratus rental 

car, holding hands and singing Roger Miller’s 

“King of the Road” and Glenn Campbell’s 

“Rhinestone Cowboy” at the top of our lungs. 

Wesley the headbanger: On one road trip, 

Wesley strutted his stuff up to the counter of a 

Wendy’s in Michigan City, Indiana, with his 

headphones blaring. To the woman at the 

counter, he said (loudly!), “How do, Miss? I’m 

just having a rock and roll joyride, listening to 

that satanic heavy metal of Iron Maiden.” 

Wesley, the Krautrocker: In his Hospice hospital 

room, Wesley had a little fan mounted on 

his bedrail to keep his face cool. I told him that 

if you sing into a fan, you’ll sound like a robot. 

Immediately, he turned toward the fan and belted 

out Kraftwerk’s “We are the Ro-bots... doo 

doo dee doo.” 

Wesley, the Christian: Driving through 

Alabama with Wesley, our radio stopped for a 

while on a religious station. The preacher said, 

“The Lord is my shepherd,” and Wesley spouted 

out, “The Lord is my German shepherd.” 

Wesley, the conversationalist: The day that 

Wesley was being moved into the Hospice 

house, due to his severe pain, the doctor came 

into his room to check on him one last time and 

tell him he’d be moving. Wes was listening to 

his music, and when the doctor walked in, 

Wesley called out to him, “Do you like that 

rock and roll song called ‘The Frogs’?” The 

doctor looked at me, confused. I said, “He 

asked if you like his rock and roll song called 

‘The Frogs.’” The doctor was already a covert; 

he said he loved it. 

Wesley, telling it like it is: Back in his hotel 

room after a show, Wesley did the first thing he 

always did. He counted his money. This night, 

he’d made an especially large amount of 

money. I walked into his room to find him 

naked, lying on his bed, surrounded by money. 

Smiling, he shouted out to me, “I’m a rich 

black man!” 

Wesley, the advocate for the working class: 

Wesley sang a couple of Beatles songs at a concert. 

First, he sang “Hey Jude,” then he sang, 

“All the Lonely People,” but he did his own 

version, changing it to “All the Working 

People.” Wesley was fascinated with the working 

class, and he really did appreciate workers. 

Wesley, the human calculator: A young lady 

at a concert in Milwaukee asked Wesley how 

old he was. Wesley answered with cheer, and 

asked how old she was. She said nineteen. 

Without missing a beat, Wesley said, “You are 

6,935 days old.” I remembered the number so I 

could test Wes later and call his bluff. He was 

completely accurate, and from that day on, Wes 

has been my calculator and telephone book. 

(He remembered nearly every telephone number 

he’d ever been given – and that was a lot.) 

When I hear the talk of “is he 

being exploited?” I laugh. That’s 

an insult to Wesley and to the 

people who were so moved by his 

art and music. He was an artist 

and a musician because he was an 

artist and musician. He wasn’t on 

stage because somebody made him 

get up there. 

Wesley, the “good ol’ boy”: Wesley was lying 

in his hospital bed, looking very bad. We were 

scared that he was fading away. Then suddenly, 

he shook his head and opened his eyes wide, 

pronouncing, “I’m just glad they got Uday and 

Qusay.” 

Wesley the joker: Wesley decided in the middle 

of a tour that he needed to get larger bills so 

he wouldn’t have to carry such a wad of cash. 

Wes could get very pushy, and he pushed on. 

So I drove him up to a bank in a very small 

town in the middle of Ohio. Wesley walked in, 

dressed in his Sean John gear, with loads of 

money in each hand. As he walked toward the 

teller, relishing the moment, Wesley proclaimed, 

“I’m Wesley Willis and I’m a motherfucking 

hustler. You better recognize.” The 

bankers failed to see the humor, and Wesley 

was escorted out of the bank quicker than he 

could calculate how many days were in fortythree 

years. 

Wesley; he ain’t no rerun: I quickly learned 

that Wesley does exactly what Wesley wants to 

do. He invited me to be a member of the 

Dragnews on a short tour of the south and I 

played slide guitar to accompany his new batch 

of “country rock songs.” During the first show, 

I requested that Wes play one of his hits, 

because his fans were calling them out. Wes 

shouted at me, “Shut the hell up. I’m doing new 

songs. I ain’t no rerun from What’s 

Happening.” I learned to shut my mouth and 

play along with the man and his music. 

Wesley, the advisor: My wife Tracy taught at 

the University of Florida. One day, when 

Wesley was visiting, she came home and told 

him how discouraged she was with her class. 

She said she’d given a test and nearly every 

student had failed it. She asked Wesley what 

she should do. As if it were obvious, Wesley 

replied, “Give ‘em a re-test.” That’s what she 

did. 

Wesley, the pop culture encyclopedia: Tracy 

and I had just heard the news about the fire at 

the Great White concert. We couldn’t quite 

place the band, and struggled to remember their 

hits. As with any other time we needed rock- 

’n’roll trivia, we called Wesley. Without hesitation, 

he said, “Great White sings ‘Once Bitten 

Twice Shy.’” He proceeded to sing the song. 

We told him about the concert and he was really 

bummed. 

A final memory: In my final memories of 

Wesley, he is tended by his caretakers and 

friends: Carla Winterbottom and Tammy 

Smith. Their endless, loving care brought great 

peace to Wesley, and to those of us who loved 

Wesley. I know that their presence made 

Wesley’s final days a joyride. When I visited 

him, I knew it was the last time I would see 

him. It was slow leaving, and I remember 

standing at the door and telling Wes goodbye 

for about the twentieth time. Wes got the last 

words in. To my wife, he said, “I love you, 

Tracy.” He then turned to me and said, 

“See you later, Biscuithead.” 

I love you, Wesley, and I will see 

you later, Biscuithead. 

75

Dan Monick’s 

Photo Page 

“Any kid who tells 

on another kid 

is a dead kid” 

—Richie White, 

“Over the Edge”

Please note: If you’re 

an established record 

company, and you send 

us a pre-release without 

all the album art, we’re 

probably going to throw 

that shit away... 

cock gobblers. 

+/-: You Are Here: CD 

The band is doing the symbol thing like 

Prince or it’s easier to graffiti your band 

name around town instead of writing it 

out as Plus/Minus. That was the only 

thing of interest here. The music bored 

the shit out of me. –Donofthedead 

(Teen Beat) 

2¢ WORTH: 

United States of Hysteria: CD 

From Sin City, USA, these guys give 

you a CD of twenty-one songs. They 

remind me a lot of older Bad Religion. 

Fast and melodic. It’s a well done CD. If 

you like Bad Religion or melodic punk, 

this is for you and it’s only six dollars 

post paid from AVD Records! 

–Mike Beer (AVD) 

9 POUND HAMMER/ 

SOUTH 75: Split 7” 

Four songs by two bands that refuse to 

let the memory of the Fabulous 

Thunderbirds and Molly Hatchet fade 

into obscurity. Take from that what you 

will, and keep in mind that the labels on 

this record are printed on the wrong 

sides. –Not Josh (Eugene) 

A FRAMES: Self-titled: CD 

Seeing as there’s a dearth of information 

included with his, I know jackshit about 

both band and release. So far as I am 

able to deduce, these guys are either 

some old fringe-punk band from the 

early ‘80s or are heavily influenced by 

such groups. The music is rife with the 

angular, choppy rhythms and monotone 

vocals that so many of the bands in that 

gray area between art punk and edgy 

new wave seemed to wallow, sounding 

sorta like Servotron covering the 

Normal. Either way, old or new, these 

guys rock somethin’ fierce. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (S-S) 

ABUSE, THE: 

Are You Ready for…: 7” 

Pretty typical American street punk 

here. Songs about not belonging, living 

in the “lawless streets,” and, of course, 

drinking comprise the bulk of this 

release. They’re good on a musical 

level, but lyrically there’s nothing 

remotely new, exciting or remotely 

clever. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(www.theabuse.web1000.com) 

ALLEGIANCE: Whose 

Border, Whose Fight: CD 

Based solely on the sound of this, one 

might mistakenly take these guys for 

some long-lost British oi band from 

1982 or so, but no, this is comprised of 

fifteen tunes recorded within the last six 

years in Japan by what appears to be 

two Japanese dudes and a white guy. 

True to the style they’re obviously influ- 

78 

enced by, the arrange- 

Sung by what sounds like a pair of short school 

bus riding coeds in matching his and her hockey 

helmets after their being partially euthanized 

with nail polish remover on the way to the 

studio. Now THAT'S a beautiful thing, man. 

–Nørb 

ments are spare, yet oddly melodic, and 

the lyrics are often political in nature, 

resulting in an overall well executed 

package. I dog a lot of the newer oi 

stuff, primarily because so much of it 

sucks so bad, but this is a nice example 

of a band managing to keep things “traditional” 

without resorting to wallowing 

in a cesspool of drunken, violent stereotypes. 

Thumbs up. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(www.ghetto-rock.com) 

ALLERGIC TO BULLSHIT: 

Train I Ride: 7” 

Ivy, who sings for ATB, has a wonderful 

set of pipes. She’s clear, loud, and can 

hold a note. The fact that she’s fronting 

a dirty DIY punk band makes these proceedings 

mighty fine. This’ll probably 

help about fifteen people out, but ATB 

sounds like Seaweed (nice and sinewy. 

The songs breathe and aren’t claustrophobic) 

coupled with the occasional fun 

but sad motivation of Bitchin’. Songs 

range from the joy of riding a train to 

the sorrow of being a product of a foster 

home (“Fuck You Motherfucker”). Iggy 

Scam (author of the great zine, Scam) 

not only plays guitar but writes an informative 

essay on a pack of spray-painting, 

beer-drinking punks and some 

things to remember when fingered by 

The Man as a group. Skip laundry for a 

couple days and send your two dollars 

to ‘em. You won’t be sorry. –Todd 

($2 ppd., Half-Day) 

ALTAIRA: Weigh Your 

Conscience: 7-song CD 

Although, yes, you could make a very 

convincing argument that Altaira 

cribbed the game plan of Hot Water 

Music’s Forever and Counting and have 

looted some from Tiltwheel’s basement, 

I still think they’re mighty good. 

(Translation: burlap vocals, the bass, 

guitars, and drums all have to work 

hard, and it’s all very personal without 

resorting to personal attacks or boo hooathons.) 

Altaira have got a natural feel 

of song weight and dynamics: not one 

instrument dominates, the vocals snarl 

when they have to, and the playing goes 

from epic to atmospheric to anthemic 

without the acrid smell of a band using 

the musical clutch for the first time and 

doing that horrid whisper to scream to 

whisper bullshit. Besides all that, these 

seven songs are genuinely catchy, take 

time to breathe, sound heartfelt, and 

although well played by each member, 

aren’t a wankfest. Thumbs up. –Todd 

(Attention Deficit Disorder) 

ARGIES: 

Himnos de Combate: CD 

A collection of singles tracks released 

domestically to support this long-running 

Argentine band’s upcoming US 

tour. Musically, this leans toward the 

Clash side of the punk equation, right 

down to the fascination with reggae, yet 

they manage to retain enough individuality 

to keep from ending up in the dung 

heap of bands ripping off days past 

(cough…Rancid…cough). A damn fine 

collection and proof that the United 

States and England aren’t the only 

hotbeds of punk rock greats. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Cochebomba) 

ARGONAUT: 

Shoot the Moon: CD 

Sludgy stoner rock about as exciting as 

the last Soundgarden LP. Pass the bong, 

I think I’m Ozzy. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Infect) 

ARTLESS: Plugged: CD 

Assuming that most Razorcake readers 

are familiar with MRR scribe and perennial 

fly-in-the-ointment Mykel Board, 

this is the collected recordings of his 

punk band, Artless, who were active in 

the ‘80s. Collected here are tracks 

culled from the band’s three LPs, and a 

single or two, plus a few unreleased 

tracks. As expected considering the 

source, the lyrics are faux-reactionary in 

tone to piss off all the lefty sensibilities 

that permeated the scene back then, with 

titles like “When You’re My Age You’ll 

Be Selling Insurance,” “Vegetable 

Rights,” and “We Want Nuclear War.” 

The accompanying music is sloppy, 

mid-tempo for the most part and just as 

obnoxious as the lyrics. In short, this is 

the perfect holiday gift for your most 

cherished Crasshole buddy on whom the 

humor will be completely lost. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (The Only Label in the World) 

ASSCHAPEL: 

Fire and Destruction: CD 

Twelve tunes of blazing hardcore/thrash 

that is on the borderline of metal at 

times. All the songs have titles like 

“Unholy Destruction,” “The 

Sledgehammer Assault,” and so on. You 

get the idea. These guys don’t disappoint. 

This is one kick ass CD. It even 

comes with a thick booklet too. These 

guys are scheduled to tour Europe soon. 

If you don’t live in Europe I’m sure you 

can catch them in their hometown of 

Nashville, TN! Either way, see them if 

the opportunity arises. Now go buy this 

CD. –Mike Beer 

(Crimes Against Humanity) 

ATMOSPHERE: 

Seven’s Travels: CD 

I’m no authority on hip hop. The depth 

of my knowledge goes little deeper than 

Public Enemy to the Wu-Tang. I ultimately 

got turned off by the talk about 

bitches and gats and bling bling and 

whathaveyou. A couple years back, I got 

turned onto Atmosphere by their fellow 

Minnesotans, Dillinger Four and Dan 

Monick (who takes pictures for this 

magazine). It’s addictive stuff. The 

rhymes are organic, flow effortlessly, 

are made by humans I can relate to in 

more than one way (they name drop 

Lifter Puller and sing about drinking 

Jim Beam, among other things), and it 

keeps my head bobbing. Also, since I 

know a little bit about the band, they 

were seriously courted by the majors but 

decided – partially because they’re a 

diehard part of the underground community 

and partially because they’re not 

suckers – to pass on the easier sellout 

route and were able to make the exact 

album they wanted to. If you want a 

complete change of taste, or hang out 

with a bunch of people who loath punk, 

this may be your bridge. 

–Todd (Epitaph/ Rhymesayers) 

BENEATH THE ASHES: 

Nailed to Your Ruins: CD 

A personal wet dream of mine would be 

to one day watch all the whimpering 

emo bands and all the “AAAUUUR- 

RRGH!” metal bands (such as this one) 

take a flying fuck hand-in-hand off the 

nearest cliff. Well, there’s that one and 

the other in which John Wayne Gacy is 

free and attracted to boys in hornrimmed 

glasses, Beneath the Ashes tshirts, 

and sporting the latest in backpack 

fashion. –Jimmy Alvarado (State 

of Grace, address thoroughly illegible) 

BETWEEN THE LINES: 

Wake Up Call: LP 

Yeah, this is the stuff. Twelve tracks of 

fast, angry Belgian hardcore punk. The 

singer screams instead of grunting, the 

band is tight, and the music kicks pretty 

hard. It’s also slightly melodic and 

would fit in well with Kill Your Idols, 

the Get Up and Go’ers, and Paint It 

Black. Check ‘em out. –Not Josh 

(Rock n Roll Radio)

BLACK JETTS, THE: 

3-songs: CDEP 

Can you be any hipper? I bet at least one 

band member has bought leather pants 

since they started the band. My guess 

would be that it’s whoever is playing that 

groooovy tambourine. Plus, it’s on that 

“vinyl CD” which I just don’t get at all. 

It sure as hell doesn’t fit on my spindle. 

–Megan (www.theblackjetts.com) 

BLACKS, THE/ 

CIVIC MINDED 5: split 7” 

The Civic Minded 5 rules. They’re kinda 

like a cross between Black Flag (the guitar 

tone and the intensity of the music) 

and FYP (the spazzed out good times 

and the we-don’t-give-a-fuck attitude). 

They epitomize everything I like about 

punk rock, and these two songs are their 

best yet. And the Blacks…jeez. I’ve 

heard a lot of bands, and the Blacks don’t 

really sound like any of ‘em, definitely a 

compliment in this case. It’s loud, fast, 

and noisy, and I like it a lot, especially 

the drumming, which is unbelievable. 

Great split. –Not Josh 

(Recess/ Chemical Valley) 

BLACKS, THE: Self-titled: 7” 

NOTE: All my 7” reviews were done 

with the lights out this issue. WHAT I 

THOUGHT IN THE DARK: Song #1: 

This is the worst Bo Diddley i’ve ever 

heard in my life. If i ever emit a Bo 

Diddley this bad, shoot me. Actually, 

even if i’m merely WATCHING a band 

emitting a Bo Diddley this bad, and i 

don’t kill THEM, kill ME, for being a 

passive enabler. Song #2: Sounds like 

the second song on an old one-sided Rip 

Off Records 45. Not bad. Song #3: 

Hmm, i’m not sure if i can count this as 

a Bo Diddley or not, but if i could, the 

first one wouldn’t really be all that bad. 

Song #4: Pretty common “He’s Waiting” 

type chords, drummer occasionally does 

a neat little Mitch Mitchell kinda thing. 

Eh. WHAT I THOUGHT WHEN THE 

LIGHTS CAME ON: Hey! Martin 

Savage! From the Locomotions and the 

Tokyo Knives! Geez, don’t quit your day 

job, dude (said day job, i assume, being 

to play “Sigma Attack” non-stop for six 

or seven hours at a time to small groups 

of invalids and shut-ins)! BEST SONG: 

“You Don’t Love Me” BEST SONG 

TITLE: “Mojo Bean” FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: I have number 

66 of 500, and the only professional 

athlete in any sport i can think of who 

wore #66 was Ray Nitschke of the Green 

Bay Packers. –Rev. Nørb 

(Zaxxon Virile Action) 

BLISTERHEAD: 

Punk Royale: CD 

One word: RANCID. These guys are 

very influenced by Rancid. They live in 

Sweden and I’m sure Rancid is their 

favorite band. For what this band does, 

they do it well. The lyrics are good, the 

music is good and its very singalong-y 

like Rancid, although I must say these 

guys do have early rock’n’roll thing in 

their sound too, which makes it interesting. 

So if you like Rancid or the style 

they play, you will love this CD. –Mike 

Beer (KOB and Mad Butcher) 

BORN DEAD ICONS: 

Unlearn: 7” 

If I say the Motorhead of hardcore, it 

doesn’t do this band justice, but that’s 

exactly what it sounds like, minus the 

solos and trimming the song length while 

still setting a definite tone and not shying 

away from slower, heavy breakdowns. 

It’s awesome (in the original sense, not 

the dude/brah sense) and amazingly cinematic. 

It’s almost impossible not to 

have something play and worm around 

in your head when the record spins. I picture 

bombed out cathedrals, but that’s 

just me. I’ve always wondered what 

Lemmy and Co. would have sounded 

like if they were sliced in half, lengthways, 

and sewn onto the sliced-in-half 

bodies of Negative Approach. I no 

longer have to. Rumor is, they’ve done 

all Turbonegro sets and called themselves 

Turbohooker, so they’ve got to 

have a sense of humor, too. –Todd 

(Heart First) 

BOUNCING SOULS, THE: 

Anchors Aweigh: CD 

These guys are back once again with a 

brand new full length. If you’re a fan of 

The Bouncing Souls, you will be delighted. 

Sixteen songs of what you have come 

to love from these guys. Melody, soul, 

and a tuneful experience. To top it off, 

some personal lyrics, as well. Pop punk 

at its finest. So if you’re a fan, pick this 

up. It even comes with some bonus CDR 

footage! –Mike Beer (Epitaph) 

BREAK, THE/ 

LET IT BURN: Split: CD 

The Break: Decent enough poppy punk 

rock, although the emo flourishes of the 

second track made my flesh crawl. Let It 

Burn: I really liked the music here, rife 

with just the right balance of pop hooks 

and hardcore attack, but that slight whine 

in the singer’s voice and his monotone 

delivery just grated like nails on a blackboard. 

A little more vocal melodicism 

and I would’ve been all over myself 

praising these muthafuckas. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Doghouse) 

BROKEN BOTTLES: 

Not Pretty: CDEP 

There are two kinds of punk rockers: 

those who like Broken Bottles, and those 

who have descended from a feral species 

of goat-people who live an underwater 

grotto off San Clemente and subsist on a 

diet of radioactive cheese. Seriously, I 

know there are people out there who 

don’t like the Bottles, and I don’t get it. 

The songs are fast, catchy, layered with 

tension and have epic hooks. For those 

of you who have only seen them live and 

haven’t listened to their recorded output: 

you’re missing out. It’s sharp, sonic, 

super-clean. The title track, “Not Pretty,” 

is an inverted love song stripped of all 

sentimentality and “Orange County” is 

the best kind of anthem: short, savage 

and emblematic of awful honesty that 

doesn’t need to be articulated to be true. 

My only complaint is that it only lasts 

sixteen minutes. This EP gives every 

indication that the Bottles first fulllength 

on TKO will be the most anticipated 

release of the year. 

–Money (Finger) 

BUMP- N -UGLIES: All- 

American 4-Pack: 7” 



THOUGHT IN THE DARK: Holy shit, 

this sounds just like that Bump-N-Uglies 

7-inch i reviewed in issue #14, and Toby 

Ms. Pants says: 

In case of fire, 

pack these in the 

truck first. 

These are the 

top 7”S since 

the last mag. 

Underground Medicine Mailorder, Conneticut 

1. Carbonas, I’m Astray (Die SlaughterHaus) 

2. Deadly Weapons, You’re So Selfish (Rapid Pulse) 

3. Vaticans, Commotion (Pure Filth) 

4. The Fitts, II (Big Neck) 

5. The Bags, Disco’s Dead (Artifix) 

6. The Blacks, Doin’ Me In (Solid Sex Lovie Dolls) 

7. Mystery Girls, Turned On {special edition} (Bancroft) 

9. Sgt. 6 Assault, Goin’ Down on You (Rapid Pulse) 

Dr. Strange Records 

California 

Top 40 7”s 

8. Scat Rag Boosters, Leavin’ Town (Solid Sex Lovie Dolls) 

10. Henry Fiat’s Open Sore, I Was a Teenage Pretty Boy (Ken Rock) 

1. Skulls/Texas Thieves split (Dr. Strange) 

2. Operation Ivy, Hectic (Lookout) 

3. Bay Area Thrash, various artists (625) 

4. Aus Rotten, Fuck Nazi Sympathy (Havoc) 

5. Lower Class Brats, Deface the Music (Punkcore) 

6. Thretning Verse, Time for War (Puke n Vomit) 

7. Gnats Sucker, All Things… (625) 

8. Limpwrist/Knifed, split (Rejected) 

9. Caustic Christ/R.AM.B.O., split (Busted Heads) 

10. A Global Threat, Earache (ADD) 

Disgruntled Mailorder, California 

1. Lipstick Pickups, Better Than You (Kapow) 

2. Loli & The Chonies, Weenie Choker Rock N Roll (Repent) 

3. First Time, You Can’t Hurt Me (Johnny Cat) 

4. Toys That Kill/Fleshies split picture disc (Geykido Comet) 

5. Henry Fiat’s Open Sore, I Was a Teenage Pretty Boy (Pandacide) 

6. Tokyo Knives, Smell My Ass (Ken Rock) 

7. Flash Express, Who Stole the Soul (Revenge) 

8. Bebe Buell, Gargoyle (Ultra Under) 

9. Clorox Girls, self-titled (Johnny Cat) 

10. Dirtbombs, Pray for Pills (Corduroy)

eviewed in issue #15. WHAT I 

THOUGHT WHEN THE LIGHTS 

CAME ON: D’oh!!! BEST SONG, 

BEST SONG TITLE, ET AL: op. cit. 

–Rev. Nørb (Low Down) 

BUSINESS LADY: B Lady: CD 

Shit, I’m gonna have a hard time with 

this one. These youngsters have made a 

pretty big impression on me lately, and 

as sometimes happens with bands that 

really hit me in the face, I’m having a 

hard time coming up with pigeonholes 

and reference points. Musically, they 

remind me a lot of Chicken Scratch, 

whose 1990 Important People Lose 

Their Pants has high status with me, but 

I haven’t talked to anyone who knows 

who Chicken Scratch was in ten years, 

so that probably won’t help you. There 

is (in this Locustian town) a certain 

post-Locust aspect to it with the keyboards 

and whatnot, but without all the 

spasticism or theatre. There’s dissonance, 

so you might could call it no 

wave, or experimental at least. There’s 

boys and a girl taking turns with the 

singing and screaming (probably all join 

in for the two minutes of weeping – so, 

okay, so there’s some theatre); I was trying 

to think of who the lady singing 

reminded me of and Wanda said it’s 

Kim Gordon. Her voice, when it shows 

up, exudes a kind of passive authority 

without really commanding anything. 

The boys scream and yell more, but 

that’s boys anyway. Musically, 

restrained noise and creepy beauty 

undulate together and are reflected in 

lines like “tears and teeth” and “cause 

the cuts just a hair bigger.” Overall, 

from the musical presentation to the 

lyrics to the visual layout, they seem 

like smart people who don’t give a fuck 

what everyone else is doing and maybe 

these days that’s all it takes to make me 

happy. Must be; it’s working. 

–Cuss Baxter (Business Lady) 

BUTTLESS CHAPS: 

Love This Time: CD 

College synth-rock is better than Nyquil 

when you need a good night’s sleep. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Mint) 

BUZZARD, EL: 

Self-titled: CD 

Noise rock from the AmRep school of 

thud-punk. Some righteous shit here, if 

that sound is your bag. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (www.el-buzzard.com) 

CADAVERS, THE: 

Self-titled: 7” 

Three tracks from a demo recorded by 

the band that became the Bodies. The 

music is essentially in the same vein as 

the Bodies, meaning that it’s tight, uptempo 

and top-notch. The sound quality 

is a bit muffled, but the songs are strong 

enough to shine through. Good stuff. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Radio) 

CAPITAL SCUM: 

Freak Show: 7” 

New tracks from an ‘80s hardcore band. 

The tunes are reminiscent of both 

Discharge and Battalion of Saints, 

meaning they are pretty solid doses of 

thud punk with gruff vocals and just a 

hint of metal thrown in the mix. Not too 

shabby. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Rocknroll Radio) 

CARRIE NATIONS/ 

THIS BIKE IS A PIPE BOMB: 

split: 7” 

I was super excited to see this one come 

out. Two great bands, each with two 

tracks only available on this 7”. Both 

bands have a folk-inspired feel to them 

and deal with some serious issues, but 

never lose a dance-y pace. My favorite 

track is TBIAPB’s “Better off Dead,” 

which has the overlapping male and 

female vocals that they have pretty 

much perfected. Highly recommended. 

–Megan (Plan-It-X) 

CATCH 22: Awaken: CD 

Thirteen tracks of killer early ‘80s 

metal. I’m not talking thrash metal, but 

mid-paced metal. Full-on bang-yourhead 

metal: Ozzy, Dio, Twisted Sister. 

There is a little Metallica influence in 

there, but minus all the whacked-out 

clothes and makeup. You get it all. 

Killer solos, great song titles (“Blood on 

the Bricks” is one of the many), highpitched 

drawn-out notes! 

YEEEEAAAAAAAA! For what it is, 

this CD is killer, and if you yearn for the 

early ‘80s, grab your jean vest, get this 

CD, and bang your head! –Mike Beer 

(Molten Metal) 

CHEAP SEX: 

Launch off to War: CD 

Parrot punk (nice colorful dye jobs, kiddies) 

with all the expected trimmings 

that’s destined to serve as great background 

music as their adoring fashionpunk 

fans scream “fuck the system” 

while scarfing down a Big Mac. Jeez, 

considering the sheer number of bands 

that look and sound exactly like this 

these days, it must be mucho profitable 

affecting the pose and being a walking, 

talking stereotype. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Punk Core) 

CHECKERS, THE: 

Make a Move: CD 

I’m very skeptical of new wave’s current 

revival in punk rock, because I wasn’t 

that fond of new wave in the first 

place. Devo was cool if you didn’t try to 

listen to a whole album, and there were 

a lot of good new wave songs, but they 

were few and far between. I’ve been 

enjoying a lot of the new new wave, 

though, and the basic difference is that 

the newer bands remember to bring in 

the rock. The Checkers are a good 

example of this. The vocals are quirky 

and the music is jerky, but it’s faster and 

more rockin’ than any new wave from 

the first round. They show their influences 

in their covers, ripping through 

cool adaptations of “Observer” and 

“The Fanatic.” Really, though, it’s the 

originals that carry this album through. 

Songs like “Seeing Spots” and “Is He 

In?” really burrow into my brain and 

stick with me long after the album has 

ended and I’ve moved on in my day. 

Basically, The Checkers are exactly 

what the Waitresses should’ve been, and 

Make a Move is a solid album from 

beginning to end. –Sean (Teenacide) 

CIRIL: Hysteria Driven: CD 

Looks like Rudimentary Peni, sounds 

like Rudimentary Peni, even has 

English-accent vocals, but they’re from 

Long Beach! That’s in California! 

Spooky, huh? –Cuss Baxter (Know) 

CLANN ZU: Rua: CD 

Is it bedtime already? Complicated artsy 

stuff that has me scrambling for my 

Raw Power record so I don’t fall asleep. 

–Not Josh (G7 Welcoming Committee) 

CLOROX GIRLS: Self-titled: 7” 

Four tracks of lo-fi, straight-ahead punk 

rock here. The three mid-tempo tunes 

were good, but the last track, a raver 

called “Trashy Daydream,” is the pick 

of the litter. That tune alone makes his 

worth yer green. Better act quickly, 

though, ‘cause there are only four hundred 

of these puppies out there. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Jonny Cat) 

COLLISIONS, THE: 

Talk Is the New Action: CD 

Boring, arty rock music. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (www.windjam.com) 

COMMUNITY SERVICE 

PROJECT, THE: 

Process of Illumination: CD 

One of those melodicore bands that are 

musically competent but didn’t get me 

interested from the get go. 

–Donofthedead (Refried) 

CONSTANTINE: 

Shine a Light: CD 

Occasionally noisy alt-rock that starts 

off strong and then veers off into 

Boringsville right quick. The fact that 

the singer reminded me of Springsteen 

in all the wrong ways didn’t help matters 

much. –Jimmy Alvarado (Sub Pop) 

CONSUME: 

Who’s the Real Monster: 7” 

Whoo-doggie. Aggressive, masterfully 

executed hardcore that’s thought provoking 

(“the need for acceptance has 

overruled competence”) while the 

music’s as heavy and dangerous as a bag 

of hammers thrown out an eight-story 

window into a crowded street. The guitar 

work’s complex, rough, and eerily 

melodic, so hints of both Tragedy and 

No Parade (two bands well worth seeking 

out) are present, too. (Also superearly 

Mudhoney. How odd.) By doing 

that, they make one of the catchiest antiturning-animals-into-clothing 

songs 

I’ve heard in a long time. Of interest, to 

keep them being subsumed by the 

waves of other hardcore bands, they not 

only have a song about how sharks have 

been demonized (“Carcharodon 

Carcharias”), but include an essay on 

the topic of shark hunting in the lyrics 

booklet and have a picture of a shark on 

the cover. Excellent. I love it when hardcore 

has undeniable hooks and smarts. 

–Todd (Consume) 

CRESTFALLEN: Self-titled: CD 

Seriously over-the-top hardcore, skirting 

a fine line between bands like Die 

Kreuzen and the grind noise of Nasum 

and the like. The covers of “Minor 

Threat” and “Human Fly” were a mistake, 

though. Might I suggest something 

along the lines of United Mutations or 

Void next time ‘round? –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Robotic Empire) 

CRIMES OF THE 

CONSPIRACY: When You Get 

This Letter, Burn It: 7” 




Cheater beats are definitely a lost art. 

Song #2: Well, at least it STARTED like 

one of the weird instrumental songs off 

the first Meat Puppets 7-inch... Song #3: 

It’s a good thing i restrict my gambling 

to placing wagers on basketball games, 

because i would’ve put fifty-to-a-hundred 

down that this song couldn’t possibly 

suck as bad as the last one... and 

lost. Song #4: Uhh... how much would it 

break your heart if i told you i took the 

record off in the middle of Song #3? 

WHAT I THOUGHT WHEN THE 

LIGHTS CAME ON: When You Get 

This Letter, Burn It? I think they actually 

meant to say “When You Get This 

RECORD, Burn It.” BEST SONG: 

Song #4, o’ course BEST SONG 

TITLE: “When You Get This Record, 

Burn It,” which i had to invent for them 

FANTASTIC AMAZING TRIVIA 

FACT: The guitar player’s name is 

“XB.J.X” Presumably his friends call 

him “XB?” –Rev. Nørb (Pop Riot) 

CURSES, THE: 

Throw A Fit: 7” 

Energetic pseudo-garage rock with 

lyrics so simple that one is left to wonder 

if whoever wrote them either didn’t 

really bother to put much effort into 

them or is just some sort of unrecognized 

haiku genius. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Home-Bilt Bomb, no address) 

CZOLGOSZ: Guernica: CD 

In 1937, at the height of the Spanish 

Civil War, Nazi forces bombed 

Guernica, a small Spanish town. 

Ostensibly, the Nazis were bombing 

Guernica to protect the fascist dictator, 

Franco, who was attempting to forcibly 

take control of Spain. On the day when 

the Nazis bombed the town, though, 

there were no soldiers in the town and 

no real military targets for them to go 

after. They essentially bombed a marketplace, 

killing more than a thousand 

people, mostly women and children. 

The whole point of the attack was to 

demoralize Franco’s opposition. It 

worked. People in Spain were very 

bummed out. The bombing changed the 

face of modern warfare. Since 1937, 

every military in the world that has 

dropped bombs has intentionally 

dropped bombs on civilian targets in 

order to demoralize their enemies. One 

of Pablo Picasso’s most famous paintings, 

Guernica, is a memorial to this 

1937 bombing. The painting Guernica 

used to hang in the press room of the 

United Nations building as a reminder 

of the UN mission to stop this type of 

tragedy. In March of 2003, Colin Powell 

insisted on covering the painting up 

before holding a press conference at the 

UN, during which he announced that the 

US would attack Iraq. The album, 

Guernica, is the type of smart and angry 

hardcore that you would expect from a 

band who would name an album after 

these events. From the first song, “No 

War but the Class War” to the last song, 

“Antifascists,” Czolgosz wear their politics 

on their sleeves and rip through 

some pretty powerful songs that incorporate 

the best aspects of street punk 

and hardcore, not unlike Toxic Narcotic 

and the Pinkerton Thugs. –Sean 

(Rodent Popsicle) 

81

DAN SARTAIN: Dan Sartain 

Vs. the Serpients: CD 

I’m not sure what this is. The liner 

notes say that this Dan Sartain guy 

recorded this himself and played most 

of the instruments, except when he was 

helped out by some semi-famous musicians 

like Gar Wood and Mario 

Rubalcada (Rocket From the Crypt). 

My theory is that it’s a huge inside joke 

made by the incestuous San 

Diego/Swami Records scene, like 

Beehive & the Barracudas. The music 

is basically stripped-down roots rock, 

and it’s pretty good. I hear some echoes 

of RFTC and Hot Snakes, and maybe a 

bit of the Starvations here and there. 

–Not Josh (Swami) 

DAN SARTAIN: Dan Sartain 

Vs. the Serpients: CD 

I actually saw Dan Sartain play the 

same day that this came in. He opened 

for his label-mates the Husbands. He 

got me up to the front of the club, but 

couldn’t make me dance. It seemed to 

teeter on the edge of rocking on out, but 

then got reined back in. A whole room 

of people standing in appreciation, but 

wanting just a little more. That’s how I 

feel about the album, too. The best 

track is easily the first, “Tryin’ to Say,” 

which is a hard one to follow up. It’s 

raw and the emotion seems genuine. 

From there we go into “PCB 98” which 

is a huge step down, but then the bar is 

raised again on “Walk Among the 

Cobras Part 3.” The rest of the album 

continues on this pattern. Not a bad 

album. There are definitely some great 

tracks on there. Best for late night 

drinking music when you don’t want to 

piss off the neighbors too much. 

–Megan (Swami) 

DARLINGTON: 

Moron-a-Thon: CD 

...if i ever ran a Pop-Punk Whorehouse 

– and who’s to say i don’t already do 

so? – i think one of the hapless johns 

i’d invoke my one-way-mirror privileges 

on would be Christy Darlington. 

I’m not sure why. The guy just always 

struck me as “interesting.” Not “interesting” 

as in i’d like to sit him down 

and ask him a bunch of deep and philosophical 

questions just to help slake 

mine own thirst for knowledge kinda 

interesting, but “interesting” like a big 

dragonfly with its brains turned to bubblegum 

on your front window still 

buzzing and writhing around kinda 

interesting. I mean, it just seems like 

the dentist gave him the Loony Gas as 

a child, and no one ever thought to turn 

it off. Oh, to be sure, the album starts 

off deceptively underneath the looniness 

radar, with a buncha “serious” 

type numbers seemingly aimed at currying 

favor with the latter-day Connie 

Dungs sales demographic; following 

that, things ratchet up into a suite of 

honest-to-young-Weasel numbers 

about pool parties and pajama parties 

and surfing in Croatia and suchlike, as 

if the guy could somehow simply 

WILL life into a long-dead shindig. 

Only at the tail end of the record does 

the TRUE Christy Darlington gibbering 

retard pervert savant-itude finally 

surface, as if he was ultimately unable 

to keep up the pretense of being a sensitive 

and artistic Connie Dungs pop- 

punker and/or a dweeb-ass “Teenage 

Slumber Party” regurge-a-tron for the 

duration of an entire compact disc. 

Submitted for your approval in this 

matter, from “ATM”: “She likes to give 

me head, I like to give her head/She 

tastes so good I’ll lick her back to front, 

oh yeah/No way I ain’t ashamed ‘cause 

I love dirty sex/I love the way she 

smells and how she tastes, oh yeah” 

and this, from “Electrocute Me”: “I’m a 

naughty girl, I’m a dirty girl, yeah I’m 

a filthy slut yeah... Well I love porno 

sex, I’m really hot in bed, I’m a sinner” 

and “I love your shorts-n-flops, I love 

to fingerfuck” and even “Love it when 

your feet R dirty/Pull your panties 

down I’ll lick it up yeah.” I mean, how 

could ya not love the guy? He’s like 

this hopeless pervo-dork who more 

than likely really believes that If He 

Sings It, They Will Come. And then, of 

course, he will as well – even though 

Science says one’ll get infinitely more 

pussy singing about how one enjoys 

slapping women up than one will by 

pledging one’s eternal selfless devotion 

servicing the Temple of Squack in 

song. Dunno why that is. Probably 

because chicks are stupid. Almost as 

stupid as guys. However, luckily, with 

Christy Darlington on our side, we’ll 

never relinquish our slight edge in the 

matter!!! Booyah!!! BEST SONG: 

“ATM” BEST SONG TITLE: 

“Electrocute Me” FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: Darlington 

were originally known as “The Mess,” 

but they weren’t the same The Mess 

you’re thinking of. 

–Rev. Nørb (Stardumb) 

DEAR DIARY I 

SEEM TO BE DEAD: 


I don’t get this whole screamo phenomenon 

any more than the emo phenomenon. 

I mean, some asshole yelling in 

my ear does not make the music any 

more creative or less pretentious, and 

basically you get the same suckass emo 

crap with the added bonus of a jerkoff 

bucking for throat polyps. They can 

keep it. –Jimmy Alvarado (Dead Tank) 

DEATH WISH KIDS: 

Discography: CD 

A couple of members of Death Wish 

Kids, including vocalist Andrea Zollo, 

went on to Pretty Girls Make Graves. 

And as inventive, distinctive, and 

grounded in songwriting PGMG is, this 

band wasn’t. This is a collection of 

songs from that go from bad (their ’95 

release) to worse (their ’94 demo that 

sounds like it was recorded with towels 

wrapped around all of the equipment). 

It’s derivative, clonky, cliché-riddled, 

monkey beat, scream-athon hardcore 

that, even if you’re so bored that you’re 

reading along with the lyrics, it’s close 

to impossible to decipher them. 

Somewhere in the middle of the mess, 

they go on and rape the shit out of the 

Vibrators’ “Whips and Furs.” Yeeowch. 

–Todd (Aerodrome) 

DEATHXDEATH: 

The Glamour of Evil: CD 

Classic OC hardcore, from Oakland. 

Think “Richard Hung Himself” with 

loads more speed, an overall darker 

outlook, and updated for today’s actual

adolescents. Says it’s got a video on it, 

but my computer won’t do it. Do it, you! 

–Cuss Baxter 

DEEP 13: Eleven Stories: CD 

Some Louisville hardcore that, while 

well played, failed to tickle my fancy. 

Could’ve been the metal overtones running 

rampant on this disc, but something 

just didn’t sit right and subsequently 

failed to keep my interest 

piqued. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(www.eugenerecords.com) 

DELTA INDIA ECHO: 

They Found My Naked 

Corpse Face Down 

in the Snow: 7” 

Angry, noisy hardcore with oodles of 

violent lyrical imagery and mile-long 

song titles a la Charles Bronson. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Grey Sky) 

DEMONICS, THE: 

Dunebuggy Gang: 7” 




Neat instrumental, considering it 

reminds me of both Agent Orange and 

Radio Birdman, two of the most overrated 

bands ever, plus i gotta crank the 

stereo so high to wring any volume out 

of this 45 i’d probably blow a fucking 

fuse if i had the lights on right now. 

Song #2: “Dunebuggy Gang?” Whoever 

wrote this piece of shit oughtta be 

dragged thru a gravel pit behind one, 

unless they honestly woke up one day in 

such a state of dementia they truly 

believed they were the male coming of 

Nikki Corvette, in which case they 

should merely be locked up and sedated 

heavily. Song #3: This song, apparently 

entitled “California Nightmare,” is, 

without question, the GAYEST FUCK- 

ING WASTE OF SONIC WAVES i 

have EVER heard IN MY LIFE. This 

song is so fucking gay the only way i’m 

going to be able to sleep at night is to 

pretend it was all just a clever and ironic 

parody. This is the kind of shit your 

roommates wake you up with at like 3 

AM on Thursday morning. In a word: 

“One Way Ticket to Manitowoc.” Wait, 

that’s more than one word. WHAT I 


CAME ON: Wait, the Demonics? Is this 

the same Demonics who didn’t used to 

suck, or is this a whole new Demonics 

who have been invented with sucking as 

job #1? BEST SONG: This record is a 

piece of shit. BEST SONG TITLE: This 

record is a piece of shit. FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: This record 

is a piece of shit. –Rev. Nørb 

(Gearhead) 

DETONATIONS, THE: 

Victim b/w Rayman: 7” 

The A-side is the keeper and has the feel 

of the Gears, early Cramps, and a sprinkle 

of X (with the oscillating 

male/female vocals). Nervous, sketchy 

vocals, hollow-sounding guitars, jangling 

bass and solid songwriting that’s 

got a nice twang and groove. For the Bside, 

I don’t think it’d be a bad thing to 

cut some of the longer, slower fat that 

keeps the song together. It drags a little. 

However, that’s partially made up by the 

beautiful packaging: silk-screened fluorescent 

and silver inks, and a picture 

that looks like an alternate to early 

Briefs promo shots, but the band’s 

wrapped in explosives, not hit with bats 

and chains. –Todd 

(Rhinestone/Detonations) 

DISEASE, THE: 

Dyslexic Experts in 

Reverse Psychology: CD 

Holy shit, what a racket…. Take the 

synth chaos of a band like Le Shok, 

channel it through yer average grind 

band, dump it in a blender and hit 

“puree.” Don’t think I’m gonna be able 

to sleep too comfortably tonight. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Alone) 

DISKORDS/ 

LOW ROLLERS: Split: 7” 

Diskords: The first song, “Touch of 

Evil,” reminds me of “Tatum O’Tot”-era 

Red Cross. Their other track is a pretty 

pedestrian cover of “Summertime 

Blues.” Low Rollers: Lo-fi rock, one 

praising the ‘65 Thunderbird, and the 

other a cover of Elvis’ “Trouble.” 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Jonny Cat) 

DOWN BY LAW: windwardtidesandwaywardsails: 

CD 

I’ve been dreading writing this review 

since the disc showed up in the mail. I 

had to special order this album when it 

came out to make sure I got a copy, 

expecting a return to the vintage form 

that DBL displayed in the first half of 

the 1990s, hoping that the four years 

which had passed since Fly the Flag 

would result in something which surpassed 

the greatness of 

Punkrockacademyfightsong, All 

Scratched Up and Last of the 

Sharpshooters, one of the best runs of 

great albums that any punk band ever 

had. To fully understand this review, 

you must also understand the following: 

I am a huge Down By Law fan. I played 

their first album in my first stint in college 

radio. Blue helped pull me through 

recovery after a major illness and 

surgery that laid me out for the best part 

of a year. I made out with my then-girlfriend 

while they played their cover of 

The Outlets “Best Friends” at The 

Palladium while touring to support 

Punkrockacademyfightsong. Hell, I took 

the name for my Web site from that 

album. All Scratched Up got me through 

one of the worst road trips and relationships 

of my life. Last of the 

Sharpshooters came along after my 

mom’s suicide and helped bandage 

some of those wounds as I recklessly 

tore San Diego apart on my mountain 

bike. If I were ever to get inked with any 

band-related tattoos, DBL would be the 

first. And I already have it designed. 

That’s the kind of shit you need to know 

to understand this review. And with all 

that said, this album disappoints me. I 

don’t suppose that I should be surprised, 

particularly given the ridiculously high 

expectations I had for it. I’ll start off as 

objectively as I can – superficially, this 

album is a return to musical form for 

DBL. The songs are short, fast and loud 

– it’s straight-forward melodic punk in 

the 1993-1994-era SoCal vein. The 

songs seem political but, again in the 

vein of vintage DBL, are primarily 

expressed in personal terms – simply 

put, people possess politics which are 

shaped and framed by their experience 

and DBL has always acknowledged 

that. And with all that said, there just

seems to be something missing from 

this record. While Fly the Flag was, by 

and large, a forgettable album, this disc 

is infuriating precisely because it’s better 

than the previous release, because it 

echoes DBL’s great records of the past 

yet somehow still comes up lyrically 

short-handed with lines like “Now he 

don’t know but he’s been told / That no 

government ever had soul” and “No 

flag can help the Lone Ranger tonight.” 

And perhaps it’s the case that the tenderness 

and affection that DBL once 

expressed when writing about struggling 

with growing up (like “All 

American”) now finds itself framed in 

lines which seem trite to me (“Teenage 

nights / Lead to grownup days / That’s 

alright / ‘Cause you learn how to 

play”). However – and this is the hardest 

part of this review for me to write – 

if I’m going to be completely honest 

with myself, I suspect that this album is 

exactly the sort of thing that flipped my 

lid in all the right ways back in 1994 

and 1995 and that if I had heard this 

album ten years ago, I probably would 

have gone nuts over it… but that was 

ten years ago. It’s not now. Some years 

ago, I wrote a bio of sorts for Down By 

Law and in it, I noted that punk rock 

was never supposed to be about the 

past; it’s not supposed to be about who 

you were, it’s about who you are and, 

more importantly, who you’re going to 

be because the best punk has always 

been about change, not nostalgia… or, 

to crib a line from DBL, “I’m looking 

forward to not looking back.” Over the 

past decade – hell, even over the past 

year – my tastes have changed radically 

and while I can listen to this album 

and hear something that would have 

had me down front at a show, howling 

along with every word when I was in 

my twenties, it doesn’t say much to me 

about who I am now, what I’ve seen 

and where I’ve been. In a lot of ways, 

that was always what I loved most 

about Down By Law’s music. The 

songs reflected where I was and who I 

felt I was; to crib from the new Give Up 

The Ghost record, I loved the songs 

because I lived the songs. In them I 

found a mirror that reflected me. And at 

this moment, the hardest part of being 

both a fan of this band and friends with 

people in it is that while these songs 

may speak to someone at the same 

place I was, all they say to me is that 

I’ve changed and that, while we can 

still be friendly and respect each other, 

our less-traveled roads have parted 

ways. –Puckett (Union) 

EAT MY FUK: Wet Slit 

and a Bottle of Whiskey: CD 

Liquored up and with hustling, bustling 

ding dongs, Eat My Fuk lunge headlong 

into total fukkin’ GG worship, 

musically cloning (but with better production 

than) the mid-’80s “You’ll 

Never Tame Me,” but vocally closer to 

the GG of later years: hoarse and gruff. 

Problem is, Geege was so charming 

because he tried with all his might to 

outdo his heroes, and Eat My Fuk just 

tries to be GG. Very punkrockin’ and 

enjoyable if you can put up with all the 

hole-fingering, juice-gashing and faceloading 

of wads. –Cuss Baxter 

(Bestial Onslaught) 

ECFU: Cassette tape 

Well, hell, I got pissed off when I put 

out a tape of my band and certain 

fanzines had a no-tape policy. I don’t 

know if Razorcake has a policy, but this 

is the first tape I’ve gotten from Todd, 

and I think it’s exactly the reason certain 

zines have a no-tape policy: the 

recording level is so low it’s barely 

audible at top volume on two different 

tape players, the lyric sheet isn’t even 

set up to go in a cassette case (okay, I 

guess, since it didn’t come in one – it 

came in a rubber band)(wait, I think it 

came in a safety pin and I put the rubber 

band on later), and there’s no land 

or email address, just a phone number. 

“ECFU” apparently stands for “Electric 

City Fuck You” but “you” starts with a 

“y.” Songs are about “I hate my dad,” 

“I hate work,” “I hate my school,” “I 

hate New York City,” “I like to skate” 

and the movie Return of the Living 

Dead. Call ‘em up: 518-346-7291. I 

think they’re from Schenectady. 

–Cuss Baxter (ECFU) 

ELECTRIC EYE, THE: 

Electric Wisdom: CD 

CD: Okay. First song! 

Me: Songs that sound like the Tight 

Bro’s From Way Back When covering 

“Flowers” off of the first Psychedelic 

Furs album! (DING!) 

CD: Second song! 

Me: Uh... songs that sound like “Play- 

Doh Meathook” era Electric Love 

Muffin covering “Hot for Teacher?” 

(DING!) 

CD: Third song! 

Me: Songs that very briefly remind one 

of that Love & Rockets cover the Gaza 

Strippers close their set with? (DING!) 

CD: Close enough. Fourth song! 

Me: Pass. 

CD: Fifth song! 

Me: Songs you hear outside a Fireballs 

of Freedom show that at first you think 

are covers of “Milk & Cookies” by the 

Offbeats? 

CD: I’m sorry, time is up. 

Me: Okay, well, thanks for having me. 

BEST SONG: “You Got It Wrong” 

BEST SONG TITLE: “(Fuck Off) 

Grim Reaper” FANTASTIC AMAZ- 

ING TRIVIA FACT: The Who Sell Out 

is generally considered the first rock 

album to omit the song titles from the 

exterior packaging. –Rev. Nørb (Dirtnap) 

ELECTRIC EYE, THE: 

Raise the Sword: EP 

Hard rock punk rock about magic 

power and wizards and swords and 

stuff. Not as stonery as you’d expect; 

more along the lines, musically, of 

Boston’s Hullabaloo, if anyone remembers 

them: gruff, goofy vocals, sloppy 

hard rock riffs and endearing whogives-a-fuck 

silliness. The Electric Eye 

are from Portland, Oregon, though. 

–Cuss Baxter (Super Secret) 

ENABLERS, THE: 

Sweet Fuck All: CD 

I think the singer is trying to be the 

modern Bruce Springsteen, even 

though the Boss is still putting out 

records. He sings in the same whispery 

gravel, and he’s got the science down 

pat. Too bad it just sounds like ass. The 

promo sheet said that they sound like 

Social Distortion, Leatherface, 

Replacements, and Hot Water Music. 

Seeing how I like three of those bands, 

and don’t mind the other, I feel offended 

for those bands. Maybe I should 

move to Portland, OR. –Megan 

(Newest Industry)

EVIL ARMY: 

Conquer Human Life: 7” 

If you ever wondered what DRI would 

sound like with Glen Danzig crooning 

and providing the gloomy mental 

imagery, wonder no more. Evil Army 

embrace crossover metal, fronted by a 

dude who can sing punk-style opera 

and threatens to “Overrule this place 

with fire.” Better than Damnation and 

the current-day Misfits, that’s for sure, 

but not as good as Orange County’s 

Spooky or Japan’s Balzac if this is your 

bag of bloody halloween treats. –Todd 

(Contaminated) 

FACE FIRST: 

Ignorant Assholes: 7” 

By-the-numbers, vaguely metallic 

hardcore with a pissed off singer who 

seems to have some issues with 

women. I find it interesting that they 

claim in one song to see right through 

“racist nazi pig[s],” and then parenthetically 

title a song “Whoriental” four 

songs later. I guess if it’s in her “nature 

to be such a whore,” a little hypocrisy 

never hurt, eh? Methinks the title they 

chose is a tad more fitting than they 

intended. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Rat Town) 

FILTHY VAGRANTS: 

Watching Them Burn: CD 

First off, I think this might have been 

recorded and released a little prematurely. 

I can’t get over hearing the 

vocalist fall in and out of time, straining 

to squeeze in the lyrics. The vocal 

delivery is similar to Tim Armstrong of 

Rancid’s style. The music has sort of an 

early period Good Riddance sound. If 

the music was played tighter, the songs 

would come off stronger. I know 

metronomes suck, but I think it’s needed 

here. The intent is there but this 

release is hard for me to listen to. 

–Donofthedead (Ninety-Six) 

FIRST TIME, THE: 

You Can’t Hurt Me: 7” 




I kinda like this, there’s a part that 

reminds me a little of some of the 

bridge in “Erotic Neurotic” by the 

Saints. Song #2: I kinda like this, it’s 

got a cool lead. Song #3: I kinda like 

this, probably because i liked the first 

two songs. Bonus Track: HEY! 

“THROW IT AWAY” by the 

GERMS!!! I LOVE this song! This 

record is cool! WHAT I THOUGHT 

WHEN THE LIGHTS CAME ON: 

That was about it, since the record didn’t 

come with a picture sleeve. BEST 

SONG: “Throw It Away” BEST SONG 

TITLE: “Throw It Away” FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: I like 

everything the Germs ever recorded in 

a studio, EXCEPT for the GI album, 

which is kinda weird, if you think about 

it. –Rev. Nørb (Jonny Cat) 

FITTS, THE: II: 7” 

Headed by Alicja of the Lost Sounds 

(who also runs the excellent 

Contaminated Records), this all-female 

trio plays what I suspect most all-lady 

bands want to when the world’s sucking 

something awful. The song titles 

say it all – there’s no love loss: 

“Contaminated (By Your D*!#@K)” 

and “Girls Like U (Deserve 2 Die).” 

But, shit if it ain’t catchy in a Pixies, 

early Breeders way where there’s 

creepy, almost intergalactic, fungus 

seeping in on the edges, recorded 

excellently where it’s all raw and 

chafed as an untreated infection, and 

none of it sounds like mud. As it should 

be. –Todd (Big Neck) 

FIYA: Room for One More: 7” 

What is in the Florida water? There are 

so many good bands coming out of 

there right now. Fiya is no exception. I 

don’t hear any unifying sound that 

would place them in with other 

Gainesville bands that I hold pretty 

highly, but they definitely hold their 

own. They play emotional hardcore 

that sounds like neither of those words 

had ever been tainted. –Megan 

(Dead Tank) 

FLASH EXPRESS: 

Introducing the 

Dynamite Sound of: CD 

Soul-inflected trash punk that, on the 

whole, ain’t as good as some, but is far 

better than most. I’m willing to bet they 

rock the fuck out of a stage. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (www.hititnowrecords.com) 

FM KNIVES: 

Keith Levine/Valentine: 7” 

In the pages of this very magazine, the 

FM Knives claimed that they sound 

nothing like the Buzzcocks, but I’m 

here to tell you that they were lying. 

I’m gonna go so far as to say that 

they’re trying to sound like the 

Buzzcocks, because there’s no other 

way for them to pick up Pete Shelley’s 

British accent growing up in 

Sacramento. Still, that doesn’t stop the 

FM Knives from taking their influences 

and making something fresh and new. 

And, no matter how you look at it, the 

FM Knives are fucking awesome and 

this two-song forty-five is worth every 

last penny. –Sean (Dirtnap) 

FORNICATORS: 

Brat and Punk Division: 7” 

I guess when English isn’t your first 

language, you don’t quite realize what 

a silly name “Fornicators” is. I guess it 

also doesn’t matter, because these 

Swedish fuckers rock through three and 

a half cool street punk songs with attitude 

like the Stiff Little Fingers and 

tight melodies like Bombshell Rocks. 

They also have a half of a song that’s a 

ballad, but we’ll have to look beyond 

that. This is their first seven inch, and I 

have to think that they’ll learn to do 

better and turn into a pretty solid band. 

–Sean (Fornicators) 

FOURTEEN OR FIGHT: 


I like hardcore that’s clean, yet jagged, 

and startlingly bloody, like a fifteen-car 

pileup on the freeway, only on the 

stereo. And that’s exactly what 

Fourteen or Fight deliver. Smash’m, 

crash’m, “Thank you Minor Threat, 

we’ll take it from here” hardcore. If 

you’re looking behind the ears, lifting 

up the tail, and checking the teeth for 

pedigree, it contains ex-members of

MK Ultra, Charles Bronson, and 

Ambition Mission. Sweet in a toothless 

smile and concussion sort of way. –Todd 

(Lengua Armada) 

FRACUS: On Trial: CD 

Their obvious influence is the Misfits 

and they are pretty close on the vocals, 

then they add a Bay Area twist on what 

some Texas bands in the mid and late 

‘90s started playing. Less Lord High 

Fixers and more The Champs. It’s drunk 

punk and it’s pedestrian. Maybe I need a 

beer to enjoy it. –Wanda Spragg 

(Cheetah’s) 

FROM ASHES RISE: 

Nightmares: CD 

Sweet holy hell, From Ashes Rise have 

always been able to assemble full arsenal 

hardcore. Nightmares is no exception. 

Similar in their placement of the 

audio claymore to musical brethren, 

Tragedy, the vocals are just on this side 

of hysteria, they intertwine spools of 

barbed wire guitars, and the drumming 

seems to permeate everything like some 

fuck-you-up biological warfare gas. 

What’s hooked me on From Ashes Rise 

is no matter where I hear them, dark 

clouds seem to form from their heaviness. 

It’s not all doom and gloom, actually, 

and I find myself grinning along 

quite often because their science is so 

fucking tight. I think for brief seconds 

that From Ashes Rise makes songs that 

could literally, and instantly, change 

people’s lives, just like a car accident. 

Think of the best of both Black Sabbath 

and Seein’ Red welded together like a 

new monster that’s got new tricks up its 

sleeve and old scars to show you what 

it’s been through. That said, Nightmares 

differs noticeably from the recently 

released split they did with Victims on 

Havoc Records. From Ashes Rise’s side 

of the split was more dedicated to setting 

a tone and establishing a definite 

atmosphere. Epic without the cheese, 

like watching dust settle after a bomb 

blast. This album seems to be about 

direction – heading somewhere fast 

while trampling bodies underneath. If 

you’re new to From Ashes Rise, I suggest 

getting them both and listening to 

them back to back. That’ll be a mighty 

fine block of time listening to music. 

Highly recommended. –Todd 

(Jade Tree) 

FUCKED UP: 

Baiting the Public: 7” 

I’ve scratched my head for the better 

part of eighteen years and continue to do 

so. What makes some hardcore so 

patently ho-hum while other bands 

sound like they’re, metaphorically, 

sticking a firecracker up a cat’s ass so 

the explosion happens right in front of 

you, claws are flying every which way, 

and it’s sticky? I still don’t know, but 

Toronto’s Fucked Up kick all of the 

excitement knobs as far as they’ll go. 

The songs aren’t full-out speed blasts 

and the mid-tempos suit them well. The 

guitar work pings off itself and the 

drumming sounds happy among the 

chaos, so it’s not only trammeling and 

feisty, but the songs are injected with a 

new sense of urgency. (Very much like 

Sweden’s defunct Get Up and Go’ers.) 

By doing all that, not only can I tolerate 

the freakout sax and clarinet outerlude 

on “The Public,” it actually sounds good 

and well placed. If I were in a masochistic 

mood, I’d beat my finger with a hammer 

so I could give this a bigger thumbs 

up. –Todd (Deranged) 

FURIOUS IV: Is That You?: CD 

Rancid goes to college. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Naked Jain) 

GACY SOUNDTRACK: CD 

As can be expected from the musical 

score of one of the more recent entries 

in the booming serial killer series of 

biopics, the music is, naturally, moody 

and creepy sounding (what were you 

expecting, circus music?!?). If film 

scores ain’t your bag, let me add that 

this would also make for some primo 

mood music for your next Halloween 

haunted house. Two thumbs up for this 

on that tip alone. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Pascal) 

GENERATORS, THE: 

Excess Betrayal… 

and Our Dearly Departed: CD 

A bit of a musical departure here for 

these guys. The songs on this latest 

release are considerably more mature 

musically and lyrically introspective 

than previous efforts, sometimes venturing 

into mainstream rock territory 

instead of relying on the oi-inspired 

brand of rock/punk they usually rely on. 

There’s an interesting progression going 

on here that might piss off some fans, 

but nonetheless shows that the boys are 

putting some work into their craft rather 

than relying on the same-old same-old. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (I Used to Fuck 

People Like You In Prison) 

GENUINE: 

Bury the Hatchet: CD 

Complete discography of another band I 

never heard of before. It’s not surprising 

that I have never heard of them. The 

graphics on the cover has the XXX. That 

tells me right of the bat that this is 

straight edge. Upon reading the liner 

notes, this is a project band surrounding 

a guy named Aaron Edge. Some songs, 

he does strictly by himself. With others, 

he recruits his friends to help him when 

needed. Those friends are from the 

bands Botch, Himsa, and Trial and 

Champion. I’m a kook here. I haven’t 

really heard those bands either. What I 

can tell you is this sounds like modern 

day hardcore. Very metal mixed with 

that ‘88 straight edge sound. Solid production. 

It will be appreciated by those 

who strictly follow this genre. 

–Donofthedead (State of Grace) 

GET GET GO/ 

ARCHEOPTERYX: Split: CD 

Get Get Go: Two guys, manning guitar, 

drums and no bass, turn in seven tracks 

of skronky noise that sometimes veers 

into screamo territory. Archeopteryx: 

Pretty much the same formula as the 

aforementioned band. Both groups 

make a helluva racket with oodles of 

changes in tempo and dynamics, yet fail 

to impress much. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Pandacide) 

GG ALLIN 

AND ANTISEEN: 

Murder Junkies: CD 

A reissue of an album released a decade 

ago that sounds like a weekend jam session 

for Antiseen with GG ranting 

along. Better than some of the other 

GG-related releases out there, but still 

nothing to write home about. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (TKO) 

GOLDBLADE: 

Strictly Hardcore: CD 

This is supposed some hot-shit punk 

band from the UK, but all I’m hearing is 

crap rock music with miserable lyrics. 

I’m willing to bet they’re embarrassed 

by the whole exercise in ten years time, 

‘cause this puppy sucks pretty hardcore. 

–Jimmy Alvarado 

(www.thickrecords.com) 

GUARDIA NEGRA: 

Adrenalina!: CD 

Don’t know exactly where they hail 

from, but they are a self-proclaimed 

anarcho-communist “redskin” band 

who play rudimentary punk and sing in 

French and Spanish about petrol bombs 

and waging war on the bourgeoisie. 

Hey, man, whatever floats yer boat. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Cochebomba) 

GUNMOLL/ 

ANNALISE: Split 7” 

Gunmoll have always been a notch from 

complete adoration from me. Full-on, 

gutted vocals, instrumentation that 

would make sense in almost any 

Leatherface song, and plenty of punch. 

“Fantasy”’s a pretty rockin’ song. But in 

“In My Place,” there isn’t that extra 

“holy shit” element that splinters them 

off from bands they’re similar to, like 

Hot Water Music, and, to a lesser 

degree, Radon. Said in another way, 

they’re second tier. Annalise are okay. 

UK pop punk that crib notes from early 

Jam and have more than a passing blush 

to the Connie Dungs, but the end result 

is more pedestrian and a lot more bland. 

The vinyl’s thick as a poker chip, has 

cool orange bloops in clear vinyl, and 

the packaging is immaculate. –Todd 

(Boss Tuneage) 

HAROLD RAY: 

Live in Concert: CD 

Some high-octane, high-quality soul 

from Mr. Ray and his cohorts, not unlike 

the Sonics in their prime covering James 

Brown. Although I probably would’ve 

preferred studio work to a live recording, 

the sound quality here and energy 

level of this live performance make for 

an entertaining listen. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Alternative Tentacles) 

HAVOC, THE: Our Rebellion 

Has Just Begun: CD 

Lacking oxymorons in your life? How 

about a new crusty punk disc courtesy 

of a Jesus-punk band decked out in all 

the finest in stereotypical anarchoposeur 

accoutrements and parrot-color 

dye jobs? Normally, my first instinct 

would be to dismiss them for the bad 

joke they are, but I’m really working 

hard on being a little more understanding, 

so I can really empathize with these 

guys and their plight. Hell, if I called 

Whittier home, I’d probably be just as 

lacking in original thought and sucking 

on the tit of religion with the same zeal. 

Just to keep them on their toes and feeling 

“punk,” feel free to drive through 

Uptown and pelt ‘em with crackers and 

communion wafers. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Punk Core) 

HEATSEEKERS, THE: In 

Praise of…: CD 

Not essential, but far from disposable 

garage punk that owes a lot to the New 

Bomb Turks, both in the high-stepping 

instruments and the clear, jets-in-thestratosphere 

vocals of either Ryan or 

Owen (they both sing). There’s no denying 

that they’re catchy, have much-better-than-average 

songwriting skills, 

know what works in the Cramps catalog, 

and can play well. But I don’t hear 

that extra spark. Take someone along 

the lines of the Beltones (who used to 

live nearby, if I’m not mistaken), a band 

that took a very similar, tightly clustered 

set of cues and mixed up the mix just 

enough to stake their own claim. I’m 

willing to give the Heatseekers some 

leeway and hear their next release 

because parts of songs really get moving, 

but taken as a whole, it sits right in 

the middle. On related news, the drummer, 

Chuck Loose, makes some graphically 

arresting cool gig posters. You can 

check them out on the internet. –Todd 

(OHEV; www.ohevrecords.com) 

HELLA: Dilute: 2 X CD 

Two full disks of free-form jam rock. I 

just don’t get that shit. Maybe I don’t 

have the right drugs. I hope I never get a 

hold of any. –Megan (Sickroom) 

HENRY FIAT’S OPEN SORE: 

I Was a Teenage Pretty Boy: 7” 

What in god’s name has come over me? 

I get a new HFOS recording and I start 

to pant and squirm and quake like a 

pubescent girl front row at a Justin 

Timberlame concert. I can feel my journalistic 

dignity wriggling down my legs 

and flying away from me like a pair of 

love-soaked underpants sailing stageward. 

I gotta get a grip on myself. But 

hot damn – these demento-shaman satan 

grooves have real honest-to-goodness 

demon blood pouring out of them and 

splattering everything in sight with a 

happy dangerous idiocy. Woof. Step 

right up and get yours. This here HFOS 

band blasts you in the face like a baseball 

bat covered with snot. And you will 

ask for more. –Aphid Peewit 

(Ken Rock) 

HOLY GHOST REVIVAL: 

Hot Love in a 

Berlin Bombshelter: 7” 

Sorry, Jethro Tull was never my style. 

They should’ve sent this to High Times 

instead. –Megan (Burn Burn Burn) 

HOSPITALS, THE: 


Finally! Someone jammed Doo Rag’s 

blues rock plug into Pussy Galore’s 

noise socket and it lights shit up like one 

of those fireworks accidents where 

everything blows up at once on the 

ground and the guy’s arm flies off and 

you’re sitting in the stands with a Bomb 

Pop in your mouth and everyone starts 

screaming and the guy behind you kicks 

your neck. The riff on “Friends” alone 

just beats me to death every time, and it 

only goes for like twenty seconds and it 

makes me feel the way I imagine it 

would have felt to have heard Led Zep 

or AC/DC for the first time when they 

were fresh, or, for that matter, the way I 

did feel when I first heard Black Flag 

(which, incidentally, I 

87

keep reading references to in others’ 

Hospitals reviews and I don’t hear it, 

musically, but the punch is there) or, 

unavoidably, Pussy Galore. Raw (I mean 

seriously raw), almost sub-rock, bashing 

gets hurled in all directions by two guys 

with a few drums and a guitar (and at 

least one Suicide record, whose “Rock 

and Roll is Killing My Life” is here) and 

if ever a record deserved the mantle “in 

the red”, this is it. –Cuss Baxter 

(In The Red) 

HYBRID MUTANTS: 

Escape Velocity: CD 

For those of you with insufficient science 

backgrounds, “escape velocity” is 

technically defined as “distance d 

between sofa and CD player divided by 

the time t it takes the listener N to get up, 

walk over, and hit the stop and eject buttons” 

– in my case, that’s nine feet eight 

inches divided by approximately three 

seconds, or 3.2667 ft./sec. Fascinating. 

Seriously, though, it cannot bode well for 

those who fret about the continued viability 

of organically constructed 

guitar/bass/drum music when packaging 

and songtitles (“Cassi-O” “Apollo-1: 

Fire in the Hole”) make listener N, prior 

to the actual listening, wonder if he’s 

been assigned some kinda techno thingus 

to review, and, after listening, cause 

listener N to lament that fact that he, in 

fact, was not. BEST SONG: “Sunsets & 

Cigarettes,” i guess BEST SONG 

TITLE: “Cassi-O” FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: Graphics 

attributed to one “Heineken Skywalker.” 

Okay, that rules. –Rev. Nørb (LEM) 

HYPNOMEN, THE: Altamont 

Boogaloo b/w Shake: 7” 



THOUGHT IN THE DARK: OH MY 

FUCKING GAWD IT’S AN INSTRU- 

MENTAL COVER OF “LATIN SHAKE” 

BY LT. GARCIA’S MAGIC MUSIC 

BOX!!! IT’S FANTASTIC!!! IT’S AMAZ- 

ING!!! IT’S FANTASTICALLY AMAZ- 

ING!!! IT’S GENIUS IN OUR TIME!!! 

IT’S TIME IN OUR GENIUS!!! YOU’VE 

GOT YOUR CHOCOLATE IN MY 

PEANUT BUTTER!!! WELL YOU’VE 

GOT YOUR PEANUT BUTTER IN MY 

CHOCOLATE!!! (WHO IS THIS, 

CHESTNUT STATION? NAH, COULD- 

N’T BE, THEY’D CRAP IT UP WITH 

VOCALS OR SOMETHING) THIS IS 

TRANS-STUPENDOUS!!! IT’S FAB!!! 

IT’S GEAR!!! IT’S MUNCH-O’S!!! 

IT’S GOT ME THINKING IN ALL CAPS 

JUST LIKE LYDIA LUNCH!!! WHY 

HAS NO ONE THOUGHT OF THIS 

BEFORE??? I AM SAVED!!! 

SAAAAAAAAAVED!!! WHAT I 


CAME ON: HEEEEYYYY..! THIS isn’t 

an instrumental cover of “Latin Shake” 

by Lt. Garcia’s Magic Music Box! It’s a 

cover of REGULAR “Shake” by the 

Shadows of Knight! How could i be so 

misguided??? HOW I COULD, IN 

FACT, BE SO MISGUIDED: As you 

doubtless recall, “Shake” (key phrase: 

“got her eye on the drummer and the 

GIT-tar man”) was recorded by the 

Shadows of Knight during their stint on 

Buddah Records, the quintessential sixties 

bubblegum label. Being exactly That 

Kind Of Label, one of Buddah’s 

umpteen studio assemblages quickly followed 

up the initial “Shake” with a faux 

Latino takeoff/spinoff/knockoff that is, 

in fact, the aforementioned “Latin 

Shake” by the aforementioned Lt. 

Garcia’s Magic Music Box – essentially 

the same song, but with marginally more 

ethnocentric instrumentation, and dopey 

new lyrics about some guy named Jose. 

Many of the Hypnomen’s instrumental 

embellishments to original recipe 

“Shake” (shakers, percussion, et al) parallel 

those added in “Latin Shake,” so, all 

things being equal in the absence of 

lyrics, the instrumental “Shake” of the 

Hypnomen is actually quite “Latin 

Shake”-esque in form! Amazing, hey? 

BEST SONG: “Shake” BEST SONG 

TITLE: “Shake” FANTASTIC AMAZ- 

ING TRIVIA FACT: Both “Shake” and 

“Latin Shake” were co-authored by Joey 

Levine, who sang lead on the original 

“Latin Shake,” as well as the Ohio 

Express’ “Yummy Yummy Yummy” 

“Chewy Chewy” and “Down at Lulu’s,” 

the Reunion Band’s “Life Is a Rock (But 

the Radio Rolled Me)” and the original 

version of the oft-covered “Quick Joey 

Small.” He also co-wrote “I Enjoy 

(Being a Boy)” by the Banana Splits 

(later covered by the Queers, as well as 

REM, oops, that was redundant). Levine 

also sang lead to original recipe “Shake” 

over the existing Shadows of Knight 

backing tracks, releasing same under the 

“Kasenetz Katz Super Circus” name. 

Thank you for asking. –Rev. Nørb 

(Gearhead) 

I EXCUSE: …Is Dead: CD 

I’ve yet to complain if a band takes 

Leatherface as their template and lets 

their own passion fill in the gaps with 

bits of Hüsker Dü, Chicago-style punk 

(via Naked Raygun), and element X. 

What Japan’s I Excuse immediately lack 

in a sound of their own they more than 

make up in current vitality and how 

much this feels like a fresh batch of tunes 

that are still blooming instead of a dated 

re-run. Gargling broken glass vocals, 

guitar and bass that are more tightly 

woven and wider in breadth than an illegal 

dragline fishing net, a record that 

places the drums up in the mix, and articulate 

pleas for peace from the only country 

that ever got a nuclear bomb dropped 

on it are all indications that this is getting 

a big thumbs up. –Todd (Snuffy Smile) 

I EXCUSE: 

Burn the Empty to Ash: CD 

As if you needed one, here’s another reason 

to go to Japan. I Excuse plays fantastic 

rough-and-tumble melodic punk, 

quite a bit like the Thumbs, especially 

vocally. That’s great in itself, but what 

really lights this disc on fire is the whitefucking-hot, 

razor sharp guitar work 

straight out of the Leatherface songbook. 

Hear that, Thumbs? Put out a record and 

go on tour before this band steals your 

thunder. –Not Josh (Newest Industry) 

I.R.D.: 

Aldrig Kopt – Aldrig Sald: 7” 

Word is that some of the dudes in 

Millincollin are in this Swedish band, 

but I.R.D. sound much more crusty than 

a squeaky clean skate pop punk band. 

Instrumentally, they’re very much a 

hardcore band playing Motorhead, 

which put them in league with Born 

Dead Icons, but they’re not as good. 

There’s galloping and pounding drums, 

constantly sawing guitars, the occasional

solo, and a polyp-y lead singer. It’s half 

in Swedish and half in English. The 

English half is a tad slower and more 

distinctively metal. Decent. –Todd 

(Combat Rock Industry) 

IN THE WAKE OF THE 

PLAGUE: Self-titled: 7” 

Ripping, balls-to-the-wall hardcore up 

to its eyeballs in Discharge influence, 

yet managing not to come off as yet 

another clone of that band. Impressive 

noise. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(In the Wake of the Plague) 

INHUMAN: 

The New Nightmare: CD 

This is what the kids call hardcore these 

days. Well, maybe, they might not call 

this hardcore. But they might! Me, I 

know my metal and I can not be swayed. 

This is metal: East Coast hardcore with 

the down tuned bass and guitars and the 

heavy riffing. The drummer busts a lot 

of double bass action through the songs. 

Only thing missing is the guitar solos. 

But that would be dating myself. The 

singer reminds me of the singer from 

Strife. Pretty fuckin’ heavy, dude! 

–Donofthedead (A-F) 

IPANEMA: Je Suis un 

Baseball Bat vs. Skull: CDS 

I know that it’s cheaper to make a CD 

instead of a vinyl 7”, but it sure seems 

like a waste putting out a two-song CD. 

I know, at least for the consumer, it 

would be cheaper to buy a 7” than a 

CDEP in most cases. If I had to pay like 

$10 for this, I would be pissed. Looking 

at the packaging, it doesn’t give me a 

clue that this is only basically a single. 

The songs are about average in the 

melodic pop punk vein that has elements 

of Hot Water Music meets Strung 

Out. –Donofthedead (Boss Tuneage) 

JOLENES, THE: 

Rinse and Repeat: CD 

Cutesy girly pop. Hand me a barf bag 

quick. –Jimmy Alvarado (Last Chance) 

JOYKILLER, THE: 

Ready, Sexed, Go!: CD 

This is an anthology of Jack Grisham’s 

last band before he reunited TSOL. I 

personally liked the self-titled first 

album. Ron Emory played guitar on that 

record and he added that TSOL/Beneath 

the Shadows feel. I had lost interest 

when I heard the second record: Static. 

Ron Emery was not playing. I also 

thought at the time that they sounded 

too Cathedral of Tears/Tender Fury to 

me. I saw those bands a bunch of times 

but I was too punk rock and ignorant 

back then to enjoy it. Their last release 

was Three. I didn’t even listen to that 

one. Hearing this band again is more 

enjoyable now and coming in with unbiased 

ears makes this interesting. The 

band experiments with more varieties of 

music and has developed a poppy, 

melodic expression over time. If you 

want punk, buy their first release or stay 

within the first nine tracks. If your mind 

is open, give the disc a full spin. 

–Donofthedead (Epitaph) 

JOYKILLER, THE: 

Ready, Sexed, Go: CD 

Funny thing, drinking is. Seeing as I dug 

the last TSOL album, Todd gave me this 

‘cause I’d told him I’d never heard any 

of Jack’s post-TSOL/Cathedral of Tears 

bands. As soon as I pressed play, 

though, I found myself perplexed at my 

ability to sing along with damn near 

every track on this. Then it hit me: not 

only had I heard Joykiller before, I’d 

actually owned a couple of their cassettes, 

lost long ago and subsequently 

shrouded in the drunken haze that other 

people would probably identify as the 

1990s. DOH! Sorry for unwittingly fibbing 

to you, homie, but you know how 

it is…. Anyway, this is an anthology of 

tracks culled from their three albums, 

plus a few unreleased tracks originally 

slated for release under the names “The 

Go” and “Gentleman Jack.” While the 

songs are just as swell as they were 

when originally released, it’s especially 

nice to hear the band’s progression from 

“good punk band” to “good punk band 

with some startlingly solid songwriting 

skills,” all in the space of one 80-minute 

disc, and the new tracks are just as swell 

as the older, more familiar tunes they 

accompany here. It’s also interesting to 

hear what is arguably the bridge from 

vintage TSOL to the current TSOL. 

Kinda helps to make a little more sense 

of that “comeback” album of theirs, 

Disappear, which took a little digging 

to find that old magic, ‘cause listening 

to this shows step-by-step what they 

piled onto that classic sound, thus making 

it easier to excavate it from their 

more recent work . But, in a sudden glut 

of overanalyzing, I digress. This is one 

fine album, buy many copies to make 

sure you always have one on hand and I 

thank both Epitaph and Todd for helping 

me to recapture some seriously lost 

memories. –Jimmy Alvarado (Epitaph) 

KARST: 

Receive the Void: CDEP 

Two of songs: “Lambs of God,” “Circle 

of Ground” (bonus of third [lacking of 

title], best of three). Victoria of Damad. 

Damad of Savannah (Savannah of 

Georgia): vocals of monster, vocals of 

muppet. Metal of doom, overtones of 

black. End of review. –Cuss Baxter 

(Hater of God) 

KICK, THE: 

Rumors, Rumors: CDEP 

If I wanted to listen to the Goo Goo 

Dolls, I would go buy their CD or borrow 

it from my wife. –Donofthedead 

(Dim Sum) 

KID DYNAMITE: Cheap 

Shots, Youth Anthems: 2 X CD 

I can’t overstate how much I liked Kid 

Dynamite when they were around and 

how much I still miss them. They took 

the instrumentation of Minor Threat, 

Gorilla Biscuits, The Circle Jerks, and 

Bad Brains, the smart brains of Articles 

of Faith and Born Against, sucked out 

all the good stuff, and made melodic 

hardcore a contemporary force between 

1997 and 2000. They were one band 

who looked at an already ridiculously 

high bar and raised it on themselves 

while reclaiming hardcore from bald, 

floor-punching metallers. Then they 

broke up at the release party for their 

second record, when the singer, Jason, 

wanted to go and make movies. This retrospective 

package is smartly put 

together. Track selection and order both 

make great sense (like all the covers are 

lumped together, as are the demo out-

takes). The liner notes are fantastic. 

With every song, there are anecdotes 

about song writing, troubles and triumphs 

in the studio (“Dave and I had to 

do the hand clapping tracks numerous 

times. It sucked.”), the general mood, 

sound secrets (what’s that noise at the 

end of “Rise Above”?), stories on how 

the band became to be (Thomas of 

Strike Anywhere tried out as a vocalist), 

and the occasional car wreck. 

Besides the fact you don’t have to track 

down a small slew of compilations for 

all of KD’s songs, there’s an original, 

unreleased song on here, started in 

1998 and finished in 2003: “The 

Unheard Chorus.” Plus, there’s demo 

versions of five other songs, which is 

worth the price of admission itself. To 

round it out, there’s live radio show off 

the soundboard. The DJ’s a tool but the 

playing’s great. The DVD that accompanies 

is a short affair: three camcordered 

songs, and preview for the 

KD documentary. Wholly worth picking 

up. –Todd (Jade Tree) 

KING PRAWN: 

Get the Thirst: CD 

The UK’s answer to Sublime, a decade 

too late and with a larger band personnel. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Golf) 

KNIFE FIGHT: Self-titled: 7” 

Hardcore’s like an elbow to the face: 

it’s a reasonably simple formula, and 

pretty much anyone should be able to 

do it with some degree of success. But 

every once in a while, something 

comes along like a whirlwind, and by 

the time you realize that you’re dealing 

with professionals your nose is 

smashed beyond recognition and the 

front of your shirt is drenched in blood. 

That’s what this 7” is like. Not only 

does it thrash at a thousand miles an 

hour, it’s catchy as shit and it rocks like 

a motherfucker. Eleven songs, no 

metal. –Not Josh (My War) 

KNUCKLEHEAD: 

Voice Among Us: CD 

Still another North American oi band 

with the obligatory Irish inflections 

added to the sound to provide them 

with some sort of pseudo-European 

street cred. Included is an earlier album 

that ain’t all that much more interesting. 


(www.ghetto-rock.com) 

LAWRENCE ARMS, THE: 

The Greatest Story 

Ever Told: CD 

According to the press sheet, this band 

sounds like Jawbreaker and 

Crimpshrine. I’d say that’s a decent 

comparison, if outrageously ambitious. 

Throw in some Alkaline Trio and early 

90’s wuss rock heroes the Posies and 

there you have it. Not exactly an ass 

whooping or anything, but pretty okay 

stuff nonetheless. Cool artwork, too. 

–Not Josh (Fat) 

LEG HOUNDS, THE: 

Self-titled: LP 

I ordered a bunch of stuff from 

Demolition Derby (which, if you’re 

looking for European releases, you 

should definitely check out) and they 

were nice enough to throw this in as 

well. The Leg Hounds are such a solid 

band. Everything I’ve heard is consis- 

tently good. No frills, just rock’n’roll. 

The LP is recorded in mono, which 

works so well for them. I can’t figure 

that out. On their CDs they have both 

mono and stereo recordings, but I 

always think the mono just sounds 

right. Another great release from a band 

that has a pretty predominant place in 

my collection. –Megan 

(Demolition Derby) 

LEVELING, THE: 


I haven’t heard anything that sounded 

this much like early DRI in a really 

long time: eleven tracks in twelve minutes, 

led by Chad from Brother Inferior, 

also available on a 7” (with less 

tracks?), from Oklahoma, political and 

societal lyrics that go beyond the 

clichés, and, oh yeah, the last track 

(perhaps this is the bonus one) has the 

gallopy feel of old (old? maybe all) 

Iron Maiden. Look for the one with 

skulls on the cover. –Cuss Baxter 

(Angry, Young, and Poor) 

LIPSTICK PICKUPS: Better 

than You/Make Your Bed: 7” 

If three chords of trashy, garage punk 

with female vocals give you an aural 

orgasm, this is your new booty for your 

shake! It’s got two songs that blow by 

so fast, you jones for another fix. I keep 

having to get up to put the needle back 

on the record. Listening to this over and 

over, I feel soiled from the dirtiness of 

the songs. –Donofthedead (Kapow) 

LOCUST, THE: 

Plague Soundscapes: CD 

The name of the game for the Locust is 

compression. They use, basically, the 

same instruments as the Rick Wakeman 

band: keyboard, guitar, distortion pedals, 

drum. Instead of attempts dethroning 

the “wizard of the keyboard” and 

making epic length songs about mythical 

beasts prancing through enchanted 

forests, the Locust turn the sock inside 

out, cut song length down to pretty 

much zip, and wad it into a little, 

radioactive ball. Then they file the 

songs under titles like “Your Mantel 

Disguised as a Psychic Sasquatch.” 

And they’re pretty fuckin’ awesome at 

pulling it off. It’s often silly (“it’s time 

for the eyeball crotch to have a looksee”), 

but their tongues are firmly 

planted deep inside their powerviolence-inclined 

cheeks. Pretty sweet, 

and pretty much guaranteed to clear the 

room of people who can’t handle a little 

noise. Plague Soundscapes is like 

Cliff’s Notes for people with ADD. 

–Todd (Anti/Epitaph) 

LONGBALL TO NO-ONE: 

The Little Boy Picked 

Up a Rock…: CD 

Japan’s Longball to No-One have made 

a real leap. Shit-tons of diaper-butted, 

can-you-spare-a-hug emo bands claim 

excellent bands as influences – like 

Drive Like Jehu, Rites of Spring, and 

Jawbox. However, when I put on said 

emo bands’ records, all I usually hear is 

a long, extended whine and the sound 

of money getting siphoned out of a 

trust fund. But, with LTN, I hear the 

updating of Jehu and Rites I’ve been 

waiting for, nigh since this emo thingy 

started crying its eyes out. LTN are 

dynamically experimental and are not

afraid to shift tempo and show a 

softer belly, but when they roll over, 

the music’s full of bristles and teeth 

and rocks the fuck out. Which puts 

us right at the doorstep of unadulterated 

emocore in the purest, best 

sense of the word. Give the album a 

bit to grow on you and it’ll reward 

you. –Todd (Snuffy Smile) 

LOVEHOPEANDFEAR: 

Roseep: CD 

Admitting once again that I don’t 

know anything about hardcore, but 

I do know what I like. When asked 

if I know what I’m looking for all I 

can say is, “I’ll know it when I see 

it” and this is a little too clean for as 

scary as it’s supposed to sound. The 

vocals are over the top, in the “he 

needs a lozenge” hardcore way, but 

the music is just a bit too standard 

metal to make it all gel for me. 

–Wanda Spragg (State of Grace) 

MAGGOTS, THE: 

Do the Maggot!: CD 

If you are a fan of ‘60s garage punk, 

you need to check out the bands on 

Sweden’s Low Impact Records. I 

have heard great bands from that 

label, like The Strollers, 

Sewergrooves and The Skreppers. 

This band is no exception. I 

received a 7” of this band for 

review awhile back and I definitely 

decided it was a keeper. I feel the 

same way about this release. It has 

that garage sound with snotty energy 

of punk but rock is the focus 

here. The thing that makes this even 

more special is that it sounds like it 

was recorded in the ‘60s. It would 

fool many on first listen if this was 

on a record playing with the pops 

and ticks in the background. I don’t 

know how big they are in Sweden, 

but I would think they would be 

popular here. The music is dead on 

and very easily consumed in these 

ears. Rock on, my brother and sisters! 

–Donofthedead (Low Impact) 

MAGIC BOX: 

Bliss of a Madman: CD 

Another moody, sonically expansive 

instrumental release from this 

label. Although it’s very pretty, this 

would better serve as a soundtrack 

for a film, or at the very least a yuppie 

sex session, rather than a casual 

listen. –Jimmy Alvarado (Pascal) 

MALEFACTION: Where 

There Is Power There Is 

Always Resistance: CD 

Metal core that goes black sometimes, 

grinds a lot, never smiles, 

protests the standard protestibles, is 

from Canada, offers a list of 

resources for staying informed on 

the protestibles, and thinks doing a 

Death Sentence cover gives them 

license to program a “bonus track” 

at the end of two minutes of silence. 


(G7 Welcoming Committee) 

MANDRAGORA: 

Full Bloom: CDEP 

A mixture of ‘60s garage rock and 

psychedelia, like later period Redd 

Kross but with a darker sound. I 

wonder: if it was recorded in mono, 

would it sound cooler? 

–Donofthedead (Mandragora) 

MANIFESTO JUKEBOX/ 

I EXCUSE: Split EP 

A Finnish band and a Japanese band 

who both kind of remind me of the 

best of Hüsker Dü, with the thick 

ringy guitars and the kind of protoemo 

lyrics and fuzz and energy. 

Two songs each on red vinyl, it’s a 

reissue of a 2001 issue on Snuffy 

Smile. Snuffy Smile’s a cooler 

name than Combat Rock. 



MANIFESTO JUKEBOX: 

Self-titled: CDEP 

Re-release of MJ’s first 7” with 

bonus tracks that were on a split 

with I Excuse. This was the record 

that got the buzz going on this 

Finnish band. They released their 

first full length, Desire, on numerous 

labels in Europe and last year 

stateside released Remedy on BYO. 

If you like that post punk sound of 

Fugazi meets Hot Water Music, this 

band is for you. Any of their releases, 

including this one, is strong on 

musicianship and energy. It was 

good hearing these songs again 

since I had filed away their 7” a 

long time ago. –Donofthedead 


MATCHBOOK ROMANCE: 

Stories and Alibis: CD 

Broke my own “Jimmy will stay 

away from the Epitaph mystery 

meat piles” rule just for kicks and 

got bit in the ass by this disc of 

wimpy emo/pop punk. When, oh 

when will I learn to trust my better 

judgement? –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Epitaph) 

ME FIRST AND 

THE GIMME GIMMES: 

Stevie: 7” 

The score’s simple. A punk supergroup 

plucks up a mailroom shipper, 

who can really fuckin’ croon, 

out from a karaoke bar, and they 

continue to play long after the joke 

was supposed to get stale. 

Eventually, they get to tow a bar 

along with them on the Warped 

Tour with Heather of the Teen Idols 

being their personal bartender. 

Three albums down and countless 

7”s on multiple independent labels, 

it’s still really quite astonishing 

how good they are. I can’t say I’ve 

ever voluntarily listened to Stevie 

Wonder (they do “I Just Called to 

Say I Love You” and “Isn’t She 

Lovely”) or seventy percent of what 

they cover, but their albums are 

great for family visits and long drives 

in mixed company (read people 

who like top forty or contemporary 

country). As always, thumbs up. 

The message in the matrix acetate is 

pretty funny too, but I don’t want to 

ruin the surprise. –Todd (No Idea) 

MEXICAN BLACKBIRDS: 

Just to Spite You: CD 

Solid, straight-ahead punk rock, 

long on ‘tude and short on extrane- 

ous bullshit. Ladies and gentlemen, 

meet my favorite band of the 

month. Highly recommended. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Dirtnap) 

MINDS, THE: 

Rip Out Your Eyes b/w 

Dead, “Blockout: 7” 

If the Mummies clacked late seventies 

punk square in the jaw, instead 

of going back into the vaults of the 

‘50s and ‘60s, that’d be the starting 

block for The Minds. Organ used 

sorta like a bat is prominent in the 

mix. Synchronized screaming interludes. 

All instruments wielded like 

weapons, but instead of committing 

some felony offence, these 

Portland, Oregonians slice, dice, 

and tumor up some nicely wrecked 

garage punk. The Minds fit perfectly 

right next to Smogtown, The 

Epoxies, and folks who like the 

new wave but aren’t slaves to its 

charms and still know how to rock 

the fuck out. Recommended. –Todd 

(Alien Snatch) 

MODERN MACHINES: 

Thwap!: CD 

So, just two days ago, I was jumping 

up (and down!) in a crowded 

punk house next to a freeway in 

New York City, rockin’ out to the 

sweet sounds of the Modern 

Machines on tour! Straight out 

Compton, uh, Milwaukee, my 

friends (Disclosure! Disclosure!) 

rock the Hüsker Dü way, with 

drunken abandon! Get this CD if 

you like… punk rock, basement 

shows, dancing around like a 

moron ‘cause you drank too much 

Blatz! Also, you need to track down 

their demo tapes – much crazier, 

faster, and, ack!, dare I say it, better! 

Still, this is Fruit Loops! Yum! 

–Maddy (New Disorder) 

MODERN MACHINES: 

Thwap!: CD 

Well, here’s an interesting change 

of pace: here’s a punk band apparently 

influenced by Sorry Ma-era 

Replacements. You don’t hear that 

much these days. Sure, they ultimately 

bored me to tears, but they 

garner massive points for thinking 

outside of the standardized poppunk 

box. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(New Disorder) 

MODEY LEMON: 

Thunder and Lightning: CD 

Two-man trash punk. My, how 

inventive and original. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Birdman) 

MOLOTONIC: 


Here’s something genuinely different. 

It’s not really country, but the 

banjo fits in just right. There’s a 

saxophone in all the songs, which 

you wouldn’t think would fit in 

well at the hoe-down, but it actually 

fills out the songs perfectly. 

There’s male and female vocals that 

run the gamut from singing pretty 

to yelling angry. The drums sound 

like a freight train chugging up and 

racing down hills. And, when the 

songs get under your skin and you

have to sing along, the lyrics are worth 

singing along to. I don’t know how to 

classify this or what buzzwords to use, 

and they really don’t sound like any 

bands I’ve heard, so the only frame of 

reference I can give is this: if you like 

This Bike Is a Pipe Bomb and Against 

Me, you’ll probably like Molotonic. I 

can’t stop listening to it. –Sean 

(Molotonic) 

MONDO TOPLESS: 

Go Fast!: CD 

Ack! I have a problem! I can’t tell if I 

either 1.) do not like any new garage 

rock because it’s bad or 2.) do not like 

any new garage rock because I no longer 

like garage rock! Oh, the turmoil! I 

mean, I’m in no danger of relinquishing 

my membership in the Rip Offs fan 

club, but, whereas there was once a time 

when I liked about thirty percent of all 

new garage, the numbers have since 

plummeted to a measly five percent – at 

best! Anyway, this CD does not resolve 

my confusion. It sounds like all garage 

rock sounds. You know, organ, bass, 

drums, guitar. They cover The Stooges. 

They’re not bad, but until I figure out 

my dilemma, I just can’t say if they’re 

any GOOD! I could be the new 

Kruschev, with old garage being, of 

course, Leninism and new garage rock 

being the new Stalinism! Give me a little 

time! I can’t decide if I should take 

off my shoe and bang it on the table or 

not! Stupid? Yes! Is this Stalin-Os? I 

don’t know! –Maddy (Get Hip) 

MONKEY POWER TRIO, 

THE: Almost Clean: 7” 

The eighth release from a “band” that is 

apparently comprised of a group of 

friends who get together for one afternoon 

every year to record a bunch of 

songs, then release the crème de la 

crème from the session. This year’s 

results are at times giddy, at times 

moody, at times more arty than is good 

for ‘em, and interesting overall in a latenight 

college radio sorta way. Limited 

edition, clear vinyl, handmade covers 

and opaque packaging. Not bad overall, 

although I probably won’t listen to this 

more than twice. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Pocahontas Swamp Machine) 

MORSE CODE HEARTBEAT: 

Paper Cuts: CD 

I know absolutely nothing about hardcore 

with the exception of what hardcore 

sounded like in the 1980s and, 

other than liking Los Crudos and Teen 

Cthulhu, I missed the whole thing. I 

honestly didn’t even know that hardcore 

started to sound like Slayer until the 

‘90s. With that said, I really liked the 

entire CD, but my lack of knowledge is 

holding me back from lengthy comparisons. 

–Wanda Spragg 

(Suburban Justice) 

MORSE CODE HEARTBEAT: 


Very arty cover, but the music contained 

therein was uninspiring metal-cumhardcore. 

Purty pink marbled vinyl, 

though. –Jimmy Alvarado (Grey Sky) 

MOTOCHRIST: Greetings from 

the Bonneville Salt Flats: CD 

Suck it, Motochrist. I got pissed by the 

cover, which has a picture of a dragster, 

yet the title makes a salt flats reference. 

Call me picky, but top fuel dragsters 

with wide-open carburetor intakes and 

mushy, over-sized back wheels are for 

the quarter mile on paved roads. If the 

rig doesn’t automatically die on the 

Bonneville Salt Flats from salt being 

sucked into the engine, it’d run about as 

a fast as a senior citizen pushing a grocery 

cart up a steep incline. Perhaps the 

cover image is cool? Dunno. But the 

dude wearing a Valvoline shirt on the 

back cover should have it ripped off his 

chest. Motochrist sound like leatherpanted, 

past middle-aged Guitar Center 

hair rock. No, not good. –Todd 

(Heat Slick) 

MOTORPSYCHOS: 


Note to all aspiring bands: If you feel 

the need to add the word “rock” to your 

web address, the odds are it’s because 

you don’t. One needs look no further 

than this release for proof. 


(www.motorpsychosrock.com) 

MUMMIES, THE: 

Death by Unga Bunga: CD 

First of all, I’m psyched to have the 

Mummies on CD finally for the convenience 

of car rides and between class listenings. 

Secondly, this a collection of 

tracks from their singles. Some have 

been reissued, but one the whole you’d 

have quite a search to find all these 

songs. I don’t know what it is that the 

Mummies have that other garage punk 

bands try to emulate, but very few come 

close. Worth it for the “Zip A Dee Doo 

Dah” cover alone. –Megan (Estrus) 

MURDER CITY DEVILS: 

RIP: CD 

This is a recording of the Murder City 

Devils final show, after keyboardist 

Leslie Hardy had already left the band. 

It was also recorded at the end of their 

final tour, so even though one member 

was missing, her replacement had gotten 

pretty good at playing the songs, and the 

songs on this recording are tighter than 

I’d normally expect from a live recording. 

The recording quality on this is 

okay. When I listen to it in my truck, a 

lot of the cooler parts of the songs get 

absorbed by freeway traffic. Sitting at 

home, listening to this through a good 

stereo, though, I actually appreciate the 

added fuzz of the recording. It makes the 

CD sound like I’m hearing it bouncing 

off the concrete walls of a club while my 

ears are ringing. The Murder City Devils 

play a solid set here, too, including a 

pretty even mix of songs from their fiveyear 

career. I guess it’s a shame that 

these guys broke up, but all in all, RIP is 

a pretty good parting shot. 

–Sean (Sub Pop) 

MUTILATED MANNEQUINS: 

Lordship and Bondage: CD 

Low-rent goth trying desperately to 

sound inventive, but ending up sounding 

trite and rather silly instead. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Mutilated Mannequins) 

NETWORK, THE: 

Money Money 2020: CD/DVD 

Looks like the new wave revival is in 

full swing over at Adeline. There’s hints 

of Berlin, Men Without Hats, Bow Wow 

Wow, some other ones I can’t instantly 

recall (lotta one-hitters back then, you

know), but mostly it’s redolent of 

Freedom of Choice Devo, which I’d be 

an asshole to even try to deny as a cultural 

touchstone (nay, milestone). 

Honestly, I was pretty ambivalent at 

first, but after a few forced listens, it’s 

started to grow on me. They obviously 

know what they’re working with and 

what to do with it (they all have funny 

names, like Snoo and Fink, and underpants 

on their heads, so you can’t tell 

who they are – I suspect that Billy Joel 

fellow from Green Day is one but I’m 

no authority) and have access to probably 

the same instruments the original 

new wavers used (like those keyboards 

with the handle so you would wear it 

like a guitar) and, a couple duds aside, 

the whole package comes off sort of like 

listening to MTV circa 1983. I only 

watched the DVD part once because the 

video gave me a swelling, itching brain, 

and I don’t really know how DVDs 

work so I probably missed some parts, 

but I’ll tell you this: there’s naked ladies 

on there. –Cuss Baxter (Adeline) 

NEW BOMB TURKS: 

Switchblade Tongues, 

Butterknife Brains: CD 

Bear with me. The New Bomb Turks are 

the Dunkin’ Donuts of garage rock. For 

awhile they seemed to be everywhere. 

Almost everybody with an ounce of 

musical taste agreed that they were a 

high water mark for the game, neck and 

neck with the Devil Dogs and the 

Mummies. They appeared to be on a 

long, constant tour and seemed to have a 

release every month for five years 

straight. I can remember a stint when I 

saw them three times in four months 

without really even trying. From Eric’s 

often imitated overdrive vocals to the 

adrenal stab to the heart guitars, to the 

almost supernatural songwriting sense, 

to their rock solid, no-earthquake-canbreak-it 

rhythm section, there was no 

chink in the armor. There’ve been no 

bad New Bomb Turks songs. Sure, some 

are better than others, but none of them 

slurped shit. Donuts. People, such as 

myself, who appreciate the fine art of 

deep frying and cheap, plentiful coffee 

realize there are far too many pale imitators, 

far too many ways to fuck up the 

seemingly simple ingredients. In LA, 

there are no Dunkin’ Donuts. I get an 

acute pain every time I take a chance on 

mom and pop donut shop and the apple 

fritter crumbles like a stale dough turd 

and the coffee tastes like used oil (this 

isn’t to say that Star Donut doesn’t make 

great donuts; they actually rule, but I 

digress). New Bomb Turks. I get an 

acute pain every time I take a chance on 

some pouty motherfucker who screams 

“brothers and sisters” or “Hallelujah” 

while their designer corporate garage 

rock sounds like acid poured in my ear 

(or a publicist spewing in my ear). I 

can’t fault Dunkin’ Donuts or the New 

Bomb Turks institutions for perfecting 

the game and delivering what I’ve been 

asking for the entire time. Long, 

strained metaphors aside, this coverheavy 

album of outtakes, a lost EP, and 

harder-to-find international releases 

proves the continued power of band that 

can make odds and ends sound like a 

fully realized album that’s sweet and 

fuckin’ smokes. 

–Todd (Gearhead) 

NEW MEXICAN 

DISASTER SQUAD: 


I’ve been searching really hard to find a 

melodic hardcore band that can pick up 

where Kid Dynamite left off, but more 

and more, I’m seeing what a tough thing 

that is. When I first popped in this New 

Mexican Disaster Squad, I thought I had 

a candidate for a carrier of the Kid 

Dynamite torch. The singer has the ability 

to switch from singing to screaming 

and still sound good, and to race 

through lyrics really quickly without 

completely losing coherence. The guitars 

blend some nice hooks into the 

songs, and the drummer keeps things 

moving. The songs start and finish pretty 

quickly. Still, after a few songs, my 

attention starts to wane. I start to feel 

like I’m listening to a three-song seven 

inch four times in a row, not one, 

twelve-song album. If this had been a 

three-song seven inch, I would’ve been 

really stoked on it. As it stands, this 

album is good background music, but I 

was hoping for more. –Sean (A-F) 

NICOTINE: 

School of Liberty: CD 

Here is a band going strong for ten years 

now. This Japanese band is supposedly 

described as the Japanese NOFX. I 

don’t hear it. I hear a little Pennywise 

mixed with the Swedish band Venerea 

and a little Snuff thrown in for flavor. 

There’s seventeen tracks total and I was 

able to listen to all of them. That is no 

small feat when this music junkie listens 

to a ton of shit. The songs are super tight 

and infectious. The lyrics might not 

make sense but they sure follow the 

music. The musicians are as tight as the 

production. The band seems to be able 

to stop on a dime. It sounds like they 

really worked hard on the songs. They 

let them mature before recording. All in 

all, these guys take the whole melodicore 

thing and keep the bar raised. They 

know that the melody is the hook and 

I’m hooked. There are so many bands 

that try to play this style of music and so 

many who don’t get it. –Donofthedead 

(Asian Man) 

NO DECENCY: 

This Is the Reason: CD 

I almost always wince when people I 

sorta know hand me a piece of music. 

It’s not that I don’t wish them well, I’m 

just not so big on having to tell bands 

that I think their music sucks. One of the 

axioms to reviewing music is that so 

many really nice people make really bad 

music. That all said, No Decency has 

quickly become one of my current 

favorite punk/hardcore bands in the LA 

area. Not only is lead singer/guitarist 

Aaron able to spawn a stage-diving session 

of four, with a running start from 

the kitchen at a house show, these three 

guys have learned their lessons well. 

And fast. They’re young and ultra-excited/ 

borderline retarded (in the best 

ways, I assure you). The music’s a great 

blend of Hot Water Music (for the slower, 

anthemic, fist-in-the-air parts), Strike 

Anywhere (for the house-is-on-fire, 

keep-playing bits), those hidden brokenback 

melodies in Panthro UK United 13 

that most bands keep missing, and they 

bring a couple extra rounds of ammo of 

their own to the fight. So it’s catchy, 

smart, rebellious, and shoots up the god- 

damn place. Not only are their hearts in 

the right place, they can play in a way 

that’ll make you care about what they’re 

singing, too. On their website, they’re 

promising to have hats you can drink 

beer out of for sale really soon. –Todd 

(Destroy All Records) 

NO RETREAT: 

Pray for Peace: CD 

Even with anti-war lyrics, cookie monster 

metal sucks ass. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Da Core) 

OI POLLOI: 

Fuaim Catha: CD 

Oi Polloi are a long-time, multi- andshifting 

member band out of Scotland. 

Politically, they take a stance similar to 

Crass (anarchism), while incorporating 

many of the same ethics and politics: 

anti-police, pro-animal, anti-industrialist, 

gay-friendly, pro-everyone’s-land, 

anti-capitalist. Musically, one can really 

hear the influence these guys have had 

on the US band, Toxic Narcotic. Aside 

from the drum-circle monologue poem 

that opens this long CD up, the two 

bands can both play convincing, primitive 

thrash. Then they can switch effortlessly 

to into slower folkloric, traditional 

numbers without betraying either 

approach to music. It’s a lot to chew on 

in one large bite and the politics are 

extremely blunt, but after repeated listens, 

this has grown on me. There’s surprising 

bits all over it. –Todd 


OPERATORS 780, THE: 

Power Version: CD 

Yet another ska/rocksteady record to 

wholly ignore for the derivative 

umpteenth-generation, played-out pilf it 

is. Can’t wait ‘til punta-core is the next 

big thing, ‘cause, much as I love the 

original stuff, this focus on only one 

Caribbean rhythmic style is beyond 

ridiculous. Fuck, even the Skatalites 

branched out now and then. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Longshot) 

OSCURO: Self-titled: CD 

Moody, atmospheric instrumental music 

that would no doubt compliment your 

average indie film quite nicely. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Pascal) 

OZOMATLI: 

Coming Up: CDEP 

I have been on a Latin kick for a few 

years now and I still haven’t learned the 

language. Right at the point when I need 

a change from the usual, Ozo puts out a 

new teaser EP. Excited like a little girl 

getting her first Barbie, I rushed out to 

get this. After self-releasing their debut 

EP and recording two full lengths on 

Interscope’s Almo label, they jump ship 

and sign to a jazz label. From what I 

hear on this six-song release, nothing 

has changed from the label transfer. In 

fact, the songs seem more focused. The 

songs still have that party vibe that has 

lured thousands into their fan base. The 

mixture of funk and Latin makes for the 

horrifying sight of this Asian man trying 

to dance. At least I do it in the privacy of 

my home so I won’t leave mental scars 

when people see me at shows. They may 

not be punk but they are more politically 

active than most. 

–Donofthedead (Concord) 

PANSY DIVISION: 

Total Entertainment: CD 

PD shouldn’t need an introduction, but 

it’s been awhile since Jon Ginoli and 

company have released a new LP. I fell 

for PD in 1994 when they put out the 

Jack U Off 7” and it’s nice to hear that 

not much has changed in the ten-plus 

years since they started. The song writing 

has a formula and the words have 

always been more shocking and ground 

breaking than the music, but they have 

something charming about them that is 

still fresh even after a five year break. 

–Wanda Spragg (Alternative Tentacles) 

PEELANDER-Z: 

P-Bone Steak: CD 

Self-described as “The Japanese Noodle 

Samurai Punk Band,” Peelander-Z is 

one weird bunch. Three Japanese guys 

from New York get some costumes 

together and decide to rock out. Vocals 

remind me of a cross of Biafra mixed 

with the guy from F.O.D. who’s name 

escapes me. The songs have that late 

‘70s, early ‘80s punk sound. The lyrics 

are either in broken English or Japanese. 

If you want something silly and has that 

garage feel, this is your new favorite 

band. –Donofthedead (Swell) 

PENNYWISE: 

From the Ashes: CD/DVD 

I won’t deny my past. The year was 

1991. I’d been in college a couple years. 

Then, as now, I was poor. At the time, in 

Flagstaff, Arizona, the cheapest way I 

could sample new music was the used 

cassette bin at an independent record 

store. They were three-buck gambles. 

Pennywise’s self-titled made it through 

some rough winters and the roulette of 

putting a cassette into the Kraco tapeeating 

machine. I played that tape multiple 

hundreds of times. It was one of 

those auto-repeat players. On the inside 

cover illustration, one of the members 

looked like wrestler Steven Nash (long 

hair, goatee, sunglasses) and another 

guy had “freestyle skater” hair (the 

feathery hair-blower swoop). I was still 

a rabid Bad Religion devotee, and 

Pennywise had the melodic, tight, muscular 

punk down to a tee. It was seamless 

and tough, like a ball bearing. It was 

perfect for driving and wishing harm on 

the entire hippie race. I was, largely, in a 

musical vacuum. To this day, I don’t 

have cable TV, don’t know much about 

the alignment of snowboard companies 

and extreme sports to whatever music 

they’re pumping. There was no good 

radio station for hundreds of miles. 

When I moved to LA in ’96, I got the 

chance to see Pennywise a couple of 

times and interviewed them twice. They 

were very nice, but, man, their fans, by 

and large, were almost as big of dicks as 

NOFX’s fans. Meaty dudes with sexual/aggression 

issues and backward baseball 

caps punched and pulled one another’s 

clothes off, circling in an evermore-sweaty 

bliss of dirt and sweat. It 

was like watching a movie where you 

like the soundtrack but it didn’t equate 

to what you’re seeing. I had such different 

ideas in my brain when I played 

their tape, window down, through the 

forest, on roads where I wouldn’t pass 

another car for at least an hour. Not one 

to hate a band by who they attract, I’d 

still pick up their releases, 

one after another. 

93

Partially, it was nostalgia. Partially, I 

really liked them. Enter From the Ashes. 

In the past twelve years, Pennywise has 

gotten more politically savvy and tighter 

as a unit. They’ve always been a little 

bit more than pro – and thank equipment 

manufacturers frequently. Each album is 

sonically a little better than the previous. 

And although I enjoy parts of this 

album, I can’t help but feel that they’re 

painting themselves into an ever-contracting 

corner. Sure, all of the elements 

they’ve help define in previous albums 

are there, but the punk rock elements in 

their songs sound like they’ve been in 

captivity for too long. Their musical 

beast is no longer feral. It’s been caged 

in and trained to a form of Pennywiseical 

musical perfection. I think that’s 

their intention. (The DVD spends some 

time in showing the great pains they go 

through in recording an album.) But in 

doing so, for me, Pennywise has 

become more and more devoid of snarl, 

dirt, grit, and the unexpected explosions 

that I really enjoy in current bands. They 

want, and make, clean, proficient punk. 

I want dirty punk that leaves a rash and 

an infection. Ironically, their mostly pop 

songs, like “Yesterday,” with a piano 

interlude, become their strongest efforts 

for me, because it stretches them, if 

even a little bit. –Todd (Epitaph) 

PINHEAD GUNPOWDER: 

Compulsive Disclosure: CD 

I actually jumped around when I saw 

this, and I can be a pretty lazy fuck. I 

seriously can’t understand why anyone 

wouldn’t love Pinhead Gunpowder. 

They’re still poppy, still simple, still just 

so catchy. It’s only nine songs, which 

leads me to play it a minimum of two 

times every listen. It’s the kind of album 

that your favorite song is always the one 

that you’re listening to for each song 

throughout the whole album. Perfect for 

mix tapes, car rides, and dancing 

around. –Megan (Lookout) 

PINK SWORDS: 

One Night High: CD 

What do you get when you take the dirt 

out of trash rock? This. I don’t know if 

it’s in the recording, but it just comes 

across so clean. There could be something 

there, but I lose it in the sterility. 

This makes me think of office girls 

going out for a night on the town and so 

they trade in their suit-dress for a mini 

skirt and a spiked bracelet thinking that 

they’re so bad. However they do thank 

some awesome bands that you should 

check out if you haven’t yet: Riverboat 

Gamblers, The Ends, and the Motards. 

–Megan (Mortville) 

PLAN B: 

Picturesque: CD 

It’s nice to see a bunch of God-boys 

singing about not getting the girl. Lord 

knows I wouldn’t go near the whiney 

little dudes. –Megan (Dirty Work) 

PLEASURE FOREVER: 

Alter: CD 

If Tom Waits were thirty years younger 

and had a hard-on for college rock, I bet 

his band would sound just like this. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Sub Pop) 

PLEBE, LA: 

Conquista 21: CD 

Think Voodoo minus the ska and with a 

much better grasp of the Spanish language. 


(www.laplebe.com) 

POPULAR SHAPES: 

Bikini Style: CD 

Loosely, very loosely, the Popular 

Shapes are in the same camp as The 

Lost Sounds, the A-Frames, and Le 

Shock (RIP). Hyper-angular, almost 

robotic voiced, whelped guitars, Wireloving, 

Gang of Four-idolizing, Stick 

Men With Rayguns-admiring punk for 

animated mannequins. There’s nothing 

wrong with them, and I find myself really 

enjoying parts of songs, but like a 

spice that slips off the side of your 

tongue instead of blooming right in the 

middle, I can’t hold my arms up in the 

touchdown position when listening to 

the Popular Shapes. What’s weirder is 

that, on repeated listens, I’m both liking 

it more and liking it less. Huh. If you 

don’t squint at adventure and don’t need 

straight-ahead melodies holding your 

hand all the way through a song, I say 

give ‘em a chance. I’ll sit here and see if 

it grows on me. –Todd (On/On Switch) 

PREACHER’S KIDS, THE: 

Wild Emotions: CD 

Retro-garage punk with enough 

Cochran, Bo Diddley and the Pagans in 

the mix to lend authenticity. Not a bad 

listen and I bet they raise quite a ruckus 

live. –Jimmy Alvarado (Get Hip) 

PROCEDURE, THE: 

Rise of New Reason: CD 

Emo and hardcore mix about as well as 

Kool-Aid and frog piss. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Blackout) 

QUEERS/MANGES: Split: CD 

Queers: Cover songs that make me feel 

like I’m watching Nick at Night. If the 

Queers were around in the 1950s or 

early ‘60s, they would be the shit. 

Manges: From Italy, play a Ramones 

meets Screeching Weasel brand of punk 

pop with added vocal melodies. When 

bands cover the Cheap Trick song 

“Surrender,” I always put them up 

against Big Drill Car’s version. Most 

bands don’t reach that level of perfection 

and it’s true here. –Donofthedead 

(Stardumb) 

QUICK FIX KILLS, THE: 

Saint Something: CD 

Angular college rock sure to get fans of 

Dischord Records all hot and bothered. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (My Pal Goo) 

RAMBLIN’ AMBASSADORS: 

Avanti: CD 

Twenty-four minutes of top-notch surf 

and spaghetti western instrumentals. 

Great soundtrack for your next Fistful of 

Dollars-themed shindig. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Mint) 

RE.4M: Wordseye: CD 

Every once in a while an album is, pure 

and simple, so friggin’ cool that genres 

and pigeonholes are rendered meaningless. 

Such is the case with this, the work 

of underground hip hop producer/MC 

RE.4M, who, aided by a cadre of 

friends, has made one hell of an album 

here, a diverse blend of musical styles 

and influences married to some truly 

jaw dropping vocal gymnastics. The 

tracks alternate from furious exercises 

in alliteration (courtesy of rappers 

Neila, Beond, Gajah, Olmeca and others), 

both a-cappella and backed by 

sparse, spacey beats, to instrumentals 

that occasionally bring to mind both 

Black Sabbath’s “Planet Caravan” and 

the sun-damaged pseudo-Persian psychosis 

of Savage Republic. Of course, 

enough solid beats permeate the proceedings 

to please those only looking 

for something to facilitate shakin’ that 

ass, but those who prefer to assess what 

they’re listening to on a deeper level 

than merely providing background 

noise will also be more than satisfied 

with what’s going down, ‘cause this is 

literally sick with levels on which to 

take it. In short, regardless of whether or 

not you like rap music, RE.4M and his 

buddies have managed to come up with 

an album that is not just mandatory listening 

for hip hop fans, it’s mandatory 

listening for fans of music, period. 


(Nomadic Soundsystem) 

RENO DIVORCE: You’re Only 

Making It Worse: CD 

I truly wish people would come to grips 

with the fact that they are not Mike 

Ness. Hell, Mike Ness isn’t even Mike 

Ness anymore. It seriously sounds like 

the singer locked himself up and listened 

to Somewhere Between Heaven 

and Hell for a good week before stepping 

up to the mic to record. I don’t 

think I’d lose friends if they played this, 

but I can’t see myself ever putting it on 

through my own volition. –Megan 


ROCKET SCIENCE: 

Born in Hell: 7” 

Really good ‘60s-inspired trash rock 

from Australia, true to the sound of the 

period and frenetic enough to keep from 

sounding dated. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Voodoo Rhythm) 

ROY: The Red EP: CDEP 

College rock with country twang around 

the edges. The more up-tempo songs 

weren’t too bad, but the mellow, 

acoustic shit was about as fun as 

Chinese water torture. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Crash) 

RUINS: 

March-October 1997: LP 

Jazzy, grindy skronk by this Japanese 

bass/drum duo, recorded live in Tokyo 

and Paris. Although the noise they make 

is interesting, the tracks begin to blend 

together by the third or fourth track and 

you’re left pondering what you’re gonna 

eat for lunch tomorrow instead of paying 

attention to what’s coming outta 

your speakers. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Enterruption) 

SATURDAY NIGHT KIDS: 


These are the guys who would’ve been 

intimidated by Fonzie. Fifties pop 

inspired pop punk with wimpy, not quite 

whining, but still annoying as all hell 

vocals. –Megan (Route 13) 

SHOCKS, THE: 

Bored to Be Zero 3: CD 

Excellent eleven tracks of punk rock 

from this German three piece. I love it. 

The music is killer! It’s snotty, fast, and 

snappy most of the time. They show a 

little sign of new wave from time to 

time and sometimes they remind me a 

little of an early ‘80s post-punk pop 

band, but for the most part this is all-out 

punk. It’s done very well. The cover art 

is great and the packaging is nice, too. 

The booklet is all high gloss. You can 

tell they put some time and effort into 

the design of this CD. It all worked out. 

I can’t tell you what they are saying 

‘cause all the lyrics are in German, but 

if you can read German (unlike me) you 

will be set! If you like punk rock, get 

this CD. You will be glad you did! 

–Mike Beer (Dirty Faces) 

SICK FITS: Are We the 

Young Savages?: CD 

Lo-fi trash punk not unlike your average 

Rip Off Records release. Pretty good 

overall, sometimes sounding like a 

revved-up Controllers. Some “bonus” 

tracks here as well, including a live 

cover of the Urinals’ “Ack Ack Ack” 

that is recorded so poorly that you can’t 

help but wonder what the point was in 

including it. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Longshot) 

SKIP JENSEN AND HIS 

SHAKIN’ FEET: self-titled: 7” 

The one-man band seems to be making 

a comeback. This was mostly recorded 

in his bathroom, so there’s definitely a 

low fi sound to it. The shakin’ that his 

feet are doing is usually connected to a 

tambourine, which is a bit much for me. 

I’m more of a stomp kind of girl. 

–Megan (Yakisakana) 

SKULLS, THE: 

The Golden Age of Piracy: CD 

The Skulls continue to impress. The 

sound on The Golden Age of Piracy is 

meatier and fuller than their stellar 

Therapy for the Shy, and instead of 

sounding more pro, they just sound bigger, 

punchier, and continue to slash 

through song after song. Still firmly 

planted in the spastic energy of early LA 

punk that infused the Dils, Gears, and 

Weirdos, they’re not afraid to get better 

and more comfortable at what they do. I 

admire their ability to play the shit out 

of a song, fuck around with tempos, set 

moods, whip out short flashes of tasteful 

playing ability, and still not lose sight of 

making bare bones punk rock songs that 

you’ll be humming for days on end. 

Let’s not complicate matters. The Skulls 

playing is like a mousetrap. They know 

how to set it all up, bait it, and cock it 

with few wasted movements. Once 

sprung, their songs snap right into place. 

Job done. Surprisingly, however, is the 

fact that my favorite songs on this 

album are the slow burners. “Monet,” 

“Black Day,” and “Jerry #5” sound like 

long-lost archetypes to non-ass punk 

power ballads. Instead of merely meandering 

in the hopes of roping in some 

pussy (as per heavy metal formula), 

they all sound like quieter trips down 

dark allies filled with broken bottles, 

exposed syringes, and bruised dreams. 

–Todd (Dr. Strange) 

SLEEPYTIME GORILLA 

MUSEUM: Self-titled: CD 

Live recordings of a band that played 

moody, experimental music. I’m willing 

to bet my right arm that they were amazing 

live, but, while the sounds here are 

varied and interesting, 95

to say the least, they seem to suffer a bit 

without the accompanying visual stimuli. 

Wish I’d seen ‘em. –Jimmy 

Alvarado (Sickroom) 

SMOGTOWN: 

Tales of Gross Pollution: CD 

Could Smogtown really be as good as 

all the hype we’ve given them in 

Razorcake? Yes. Yes they are. And now 

those fuckers have gone and broken up. 

Money already wrote their obit in the 

pages of Razorcake. So what are we left 

with? One last offering of this now 

defunct, but someday legendary punk 

band. Tales of Gross Pollution is the CD 

version of Smogtown’s original demo 

tape. They recorded it less than a month 

after they had formed as a band, and, 

amazingly enough, their science was 

tight even that early on. The songs are a 

little slower than most Smogtown 

songs. This album doesn’t showcase the 

band at their best. Still, there’s a real 

beauty to the rawness of the songs, and 

keep in mind that a not-at-their-best 

Smogtown is still a shitload better than 

most bands at their best. Also, for someone 

who already has pretty much everything 

else these guys have put out, it’s 

nice to have one last new thing to listen 

to. Some of the songs from this first 

demo were later re-recorded and 

released on other albums. Four of the 

songs here popped up in different versions 

of the Beach City Butchers 10”, 

and one more of them was re-recorded 

for the Führers of the New Wave album, 

but the other fourteen songs are new to 

me. It’s probably pretty obvious to you 

if you’re still reading this review, but I 

highly recommend this one. 

–Sean (Disaster) 

SPONTANEOUS DISGUST: 

North American Bald 

Beaver Preservation 

Society: cassette 

There was a little note that came with 

this tape, explaining that the guys in the 

band ransacked the used cassette section 

of their local Goodwill and dubbed their 

own album on to those tapes. My copy 

was dubbed over Working Class Dog by 

Rick Springfield, which means, to the 

credit of Spontaneous Disgust, there is 

now one less copy of “Jesse’s Girl” in 

existence. Listening to this tape, they 

have done the world an even greater 

favor by recording their own songs for 

posterity. Nothing is sacred; they attack 

everything from VH1’s favorite punk 

rocker (“Henry Rollins Get Off the 

Air”), buddyhead.com (“Attack of the 

35-Year-Old Indie Rockers”), and the 

current state of punk rock (“Despite All 

the Rumors, Metal Still Sucks, Kids”), 

all the way to the self-explanatory “Why 

Do So Many People Like Tom Petty?” 

As for the music, it’s like a cross 

between god, wet vaginas, and hot dogs, 

only better. I suggest you get this posthaste, 

maybe your copy will be taped 

over Nightmare at Maple Cross by 

Girlschool. –Not Josh 

(Pregnant Midget Porn) 

STFU/MONSTER SQUAD: 

Split: CD 

STFU: Swell, straight-ahead hardcore 

along the same lines as Insult during 

their I Wanna Be a Burn Victim period. 

Wicked good stuff. Monster Squad: 

More gallop-tempo hardcore, not as 

immediately catchy as STFU, but they 

definitely grow on you by the third 

track. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Rodent Popsicle) 

STRAP-ONS: $4 Whore: CD 

Decent enough mid-tempo punk with 

some staggeringly stupid lyrics addressing 

asshole cops, being in love with bargain-basement 

prostitutes and the ineffectiveness 

of using a Glad baggy as a 

rubber. –Jimmy Alvarado (Naked Jain) 

STRYCHNINE: Oakland 

Stadtmusikanten “Live” in 

Bremen, Germany: CD 

A soundboard recording of an Oakland 

band playin’ in the fodderland. Sound 

quality is good, naturally, and the performance 

is strong as well. Musically, 

their gallop-core didn’t quite make me 

all giddy inside, but their cover of 

“We’re Desperate” elicited many a belly 

laugh. –Jimmy Alvarado (TKO) 

STUN GUNS: … And There 

Was Nothing We Could 

Do About It: LP 

I was handed this at about four in the 

morning from someone I think everyone 

was calling Buddha at someone’s house 

I’d never been to while a Great Dane 

was eating dumpster pizza off of the 

counter. I was a little less excited the 

next morning. Hungover and finally 

home, I put it on. Holy shit! This album 

is so good. It’s one of those albums 

where you can hear small glimpses of a 

band, but on the next listen you hear 

someone completely different because 

they’ve made it all their own. This listen 

I’m getting some Vindictives, but I’ve 

never heard that in there before. Songs 

range from Tiananmen Square to girls 

on drugs. I’d never heard of them 

before, and this is one hell of a taste. 

Apparently, Dan Destructo from No 

Fraud was involved in some of the 

recording for this. The packaging is 

right up there with the sound. It’s on 

clear vinyl, which I’ve always liked the 

most for some reason, with a screenprinted 

cover (red on black), and a ton 

of goodies thrown in as well. Well worth 

looking for. –Megan (Shut Up) 

SUBSET: 

Dueling Devotions: CD 

Jimmy got to Razocake HQ before me 

and all he left me to review was this 

lousy CD. –Donofthedead (Tight Spot) 

SUPPRESSION/ 

ATOMATRON: Split EP 

I’d heard the tremendously noisy 

Suppression on a couple comps and 

expected big, fucked-up things from 

them, and ain’t now yet disappointed as 

two of these three tracks do a slightlyless-manic 

Lightning Bolt and the third 

is pure noise. One’s called “Boy Vomits 

Hamburger in the Full Moon Light.” 

Atomatron’s more drug-oriented, what 

with the reverb motherfucked vocals 

and some of the tense breakdowns. No 

guitar, so there’s a little Lightning Bolt 

shooting through these guys, too. Makes 

the sound “bwowdleowldedodoot.” 

–Cuss Baxter (C.N.P.) 

SUSHIROBO: The Light 

Fingered Feeling of: CD 

Smart “modern rock” screaming for 

KROQ airplay. Sadly, they’ll probably 

never get it. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Pattern 25) 

SWEETHEARTS, THE: 

L.U.V.: CD 

I’d think it would be tough to combine 

solid Texas rock’n’roll with Nikki 

Corvette-style bubblegum vocals, but 

The Sweethearts blend them together 

seamlessly. The songs rock and make 

me want to sing along, and that’s a good 

combination. L.U.V. comes across like 

the best of The Chubbies, or an 

Eyeliners live set when the Eyeliners are 

really on. It’s good shit. –Sean 

(Mortville) 

TEARS, THE: Self-titled: CD 

One of the greatest tragedies of my generation 

is that i used up all my good 

Tears wisecrackery in an earlier piece, 

as this band continues to fail to produce 

any manner of strong reaction with me 

other than an occasional acute appreciation 

for the glories of kneesocks and 

playing guitar on one leg. I mean, on the 

one hand, they’re kinda good; on the 

other hand, they have like exactly zero 

by way of legitimate “A” material. On 

the mysteriously unaccounted for third 

hand, however, they do have a fairly 

decent supply of B+ material (“Miss 

Queen” “Never Alone” “Another Girl” 

and “Worst Lie” coming immediately to 

mind) (well, not immediately, i kinda 

had to look at the track listings to jog 

my memory, but, i mean, you know, 

fairly immediately thereafter), so who 

am i to be critical? Yet, on the one hand, 

the songs kinda lumber along when, by 

rights, they oughtta be snapping and 

crackling; on the other hand, maybe it’s 

the lumbering that would theoretically 

set them apart from those who wouldst 

waste our time with their incessant 

snapping and crackling. Yet, back to the 

first hand, the whole “punk-fed, bluesweaned, 

and barely legal!” thing has 

been kinda universally beat to death for 

years; yet, then again, there are enough 

idiosyncratic aesthetic elements bouncing 

around in the mix that the band is 

managing to forge a collective identity 

regardless. But, then again again, i really 

see no evidence of legitimate creative 

genius at work, nor indications of the 

latent presence of same. But, then again 

again again, how much of that does one 

really need to function effectively within 

the parameters of the rock & roll 

idiom? But, yet, on the one hand, a lot of 

those student-level blues string-bendin’ 

riff thingies are pretty hokey and played 

out; yet, on the other hand, some of ‘em 

are really fuckin’ cool (“Worst Lie”), 

though, back to the hand we started on, 

i can’t imagine anybody, anywhere, 

wanting to hear white kids from 

Wisconsin singing the phrase “Tuesday 

morning” as “Tuesday Mo’nin’,” and 

what was the last truly great song written 

by caucasians that accented the 2 

and the 4? “Taxman?” But then again, 

there’s that last song (“I Know It’s 

Hard”), reminiscent of that Joe 

King/Lisa Marr duet of a few years 

back, but sung by what sounds like a 

pair of short school bus riding coeds in 

matching his and her hockey helmets 

after their being partially euthanized 

with nail polish remover on the way to 

the studio. Now THAT’S a beautiful 

thing, man. BEST SONG: “Miss 

Queen” or “Worst Lie” BEST SONG 

TITLE: “Blew My Baby Away,” 

although “Fast Cars” worked pretty well 

for the Buzzcocks FANTASTIC 

AMAZING TRIVIA FACT: Back cover 

depicts guitarist Natalie perusing an 

issue of Cheri, which was the first skin 

mag i ever bought, back when i was 

confused about my sexuality (i.e. i 

thought i dug white girls with big tits) 

–Rev. Nørb (Trick Knee) 

THREE MINUTE MOVIE: 

The Film Reflects a 

Dramatic City: CD 

I can honestly say that I’ve loved everything 

I’ve heard from Snuffy Smile. 

They’ve introduced me to great 

Japanese bands like Baggage, I Excuse, 

The Urchin, Minority Blues Band, and 

Pear of the West, and they’ve releases 

seven inches by some of my favorite 

American bands, like The Thumbs, 

Super Chinchilla Rescue Mission, and 

The Timversion. So I had a feeling that 

I’d like Three Minute Movie, and they 

didn’t disappoint me. Actually, I had 

more than a feeling. I had one of Three 

Minute Movie’s songs on a comp, and 

whenever the comp ended, I’d find 

myself singing the Three Minute Movie 

song in my head. It’s good stuff. Midtempo 

punk that borrows a little from 

Leatherface (in the way that it can really 

crank up the tension in the songs) and 

a little from Hüsker Dü (pulling perfect 

melodies out of songs that sound like 

they could explode into chaos) and 

some guitar parts sound like they come 

straight from the Replacements, but ultimately 

it becomes its own thing: very 

tight and very skilled without being the 

least bit polished. It looks like the title 

of this album suffers a little in the translation 

from Japanese to English, but 

nothing is lost in the translation of the 

rest of the album. It sounds just right in 

any language. –Sean (Snuffy Smile) 

TRAGEDY/ 

TOTALITAR: Split: 7” 

Tragedy’s the band that I’ve been looking 

for for over a decade. They hit all 

the right spots. Dark, edgy, full hardcore 

that isn’t a throwback, that is intelligent 

musically and lyrically, and there’s not 

one gap, from the artwork to the nuclear 

radiation flying off the record player as 

the vinyl spins. Not to sound like a hippie, 

but the songs simultaneously soar 

higher and snap louder than any hardcore 

band I’ve heard in years. These two 

songs, “No End in Sight” and “None of 

Your Business,” were recorded at the 

same time as their debut album. 

Flawless. Totalitar: are fantastic in their 

own right but don’t flick all of my 

switches like Tragedy. I sort of wish it 

wasn’t on a split with Tragedy, because 

I know when I’ll pick this out, I’ll be 

playing the other side three or four times 

in a row. –Todd (Armageddon Label) 

TRASH CAN SCHOOL: Big 

Bang Radiation Blues: CDR 

This was sent to my brother Katz, who I 

believe has not written one word for this 

magazine. He was only involved before 

issue #1. I guess it was because of the 

Flipside magazine association of the 

other contributors and staff that this 

would be sent to Razorcake. Since it 

was for my brother, it was put in my 

box. I never bought, lis- 97

tened to or saw this band before. I do 

remember the name and I equate it to 

the late ‘80s to the early ‘90s. If you are 

from the LA area from that time period, 

I would associate this band as a Raji’s or 

Al’s Bar type of band. To be more specific, 

I’m picturing Saccharine Trust. 

Noisy, dirty, jazz punk that bangs along 

while you go for that twelfth beer of the 

night. Not my thing. I will hand this to 

my brother since this was addressed to 

him and not keep it for myself. 

–Donofthedead (Jinx) 

TRAVOLTAS, THE: 

Endless Summer: LP 

Jock #1: Duuuuuude, it’s totally like a 

new Blink 182 record, brah! Plus there’s 

this fuckin’ sweet ass keyboard that 

makes ‘em sound like No Doubt, dude! 

Jock #2: Blink 182 mixed with No 

Doubt? Totally fuckin’ sweet, dude. And 

have you heard the new P.O.D.? 

–Not Josh (Radio Blast, 

www.radioblastrecordings.com) 

TYRADES, THE: 


If it’s not painfully obvious by now, it 

will be. I’m a geek. On the toilet, I often 

read grammar rules. This time, I had the 

Tyrades on, blasting their spazzy, 

shouty, and noisy punk rock that knows 

how to cut the crap and slice the song 

down to bone and fur. Lead vocalist, 

Jenna, is a siren. The playing’s perfectly 

demented, skewed, and always rushing 

forward, sort of like a drug-manic early, 

proto Devo mated to a band that sounds 

like they break metric tons of instruments. 

Even when they repeat choruses 

over and over again, it doesn’t seem like 

pointless repetition, but stalking, teethbaring 

taunts. Then I came upon these 

two sentences in Strunk and White’s 

Elements of Style. I only had to change 

one word. “Never imitate consciously, 

but do not worry about being an imitator; 

take pains instead to admire what is 

good. Then when you play in a way that 

comes naturally, you will echo the halloos 

that bear repeating.” That’s exactly 

what the Tyrades do. To a tee. –Todd 

(Broken Rekkids) 

ULTIMATE FAKEBOOK: 

Electric Kissing Parties: CD 

It’s one of those bands that you see at 

the local club on a week night that are 

almost punk but mostly rock. They put 

out a CD! –Donofthedead (Law of Inertia) 

UNICORNS, THE: 

Who Will Cut Our Hair 

When We’re Gone?: CD 

Do you ever pick something up because 

it looks so terrible that you assume it has 

to be good? This is a perfect example. 

First, they’re called the Unicorns for 

fuck’s sake. That should be such a 

badass band in my book. Second, the 

cover has a rainbow and lightning 

drawn in colored pencils. Finally, the 

back is hot pink with super curly-q letters 

that you can barely read. That being 

said, this is quite possibly worse than 

the packaging. Sort of like Portishead, 

but without any redeeming qualities like 

decent vocals and music. 

–Megan (Alien8) 

UNPERSONS: III: CD 

By-the-numbers emo-tinged metalcore. 

Lotsa tempo changes, lotsa screaming, 

lotsa crunch, but I couldn’t keep myself 

remotely interested. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(www.atalossrecordings.com) 

UNSEEN, THE: Explode: CD 

It’s tough for me to wholeheartedly 

endorse The Unseen partially because it 

bugs me when bands go so far to dress 

up like classic punk rockers. It’s my 

hang up, I know, but really, it’s not 

Halloween and you’re not shocking 

anyone. You’d be better off just wearing 

what’s comfortable. Also, I think The 

Unseen’s over-the-top crusty look tends 

to stick them in a category with much 

lesser bands like the Casualties, which 

is a shame, because The Unseen is way 

better. My other hang up with The 

Unseen is that I liked guitarist Paul 

Russo’s first band, The Pinkerton 

Thugs, so much better. When I can get 

beyond those two things, which really 

are my problem and not the band’s, I 

have to admit that The Unseen is a solid 

band. They bring a lot of energy to their 

songs, and, though it’s fast and angry 

throughout, there’s enough difference 

between songs to keep things interesting. 

I like the way Paul sings, too, and 

he seems to be singing more on Explode 

than he did on their last album. Overall, 

it makes for a pretty good listen. 

–Sean (BYO) 

UPPERCUT: Four Walls: CD 

Your average NYHC release, meaning 

that it’s up to its Marshall stacks in 

metal and boring as fuck to wade 

through. –Jimmy Alvarado (Blackout) 

URINALS, THE: What Is 

Real and What Is Not: CD 

To give all due respect, the Urinals have 

been around for a long time – starting as 

a punk parody band in 1977. They 

quickly developed into a real band, had 

disagreements, changed their name to 

100 Flowers, called it quits, then 

reformed in a slightly different form, 

and changed their name to Trotsky 

Icepick. The Urinals were a supporting 

band the night Black Flag was arrested 

onstage in LA for disturbing the peace. 

Somewhere in or after all that, 

Amphetamine Reptile released a compilation 

of many of the difficult-as-fuck to 

find 7”s, titled Negative Capability… 

Check It Out. That’s a great listen. You 

get to hear how they began like Wire 

and where the Minutemen quite possibly 

got their knack for short but full 

songs. A bunch of more well-known 

bands have gone to cover Urinals songs. 

The Butthole Surfers pop right into 

mind. What Is Real and What Is Not is 

their first release of new material since 

1984’s Drawing Fire. The Urinals have 

always been arty, but I remember more 

bits of shattered glass in the listener’s 

ear. This CD is nice. Nice. It’s not 

patently disappointing, like Devo going 

into the studio and re-recording “Whip 

It” specifically to make an advertisement 

for a home duster, but it’s also not 

patently exciting, like the charge the 

first time I heard “Ack Ack Ack Ack” or 

“Sex.” A lot of the songs on this CD are 

extremely light and fluttering, like 

David Byrne’s solo work after the 

Talking Heads, which can be clever and 

pretty, but I just don’t find myself hankering 

for it. In other words, they’re 

covering the ground well covered and 

sown in late-’90s indie pop instead of 

jumping into the noisy direction of 

whence they came. That all said, “I 

Make Love to Every Woman on the 

Freeway” is pert, catchy, and as itchy a 

song you’re bound to hear this year. The 

Urinals are a band who’ve gone from 

angst to a more dust-free environment. 

Take that as you will. –Todd 

(Warning Label/Happy Squid) 

VARIOUS ARTISTS: 

Boston Scene Report: CD 

Four bands from Boston are highlighted 

in the first scene report series put out by 

TKO. Suspect Device: two really solid 

tracks. They’ve nailed down catchiness 

without embracing a pop sound. Tommy 

and the Terrors: I can’t recommend 

them highly enough. These guys have 

been around for awhile now and never 

leave me less than impressed. It’s bands 

like them that let me keep my head held 

high when I say I like street punk. A- 

Team: on the first song I thought I heard 

a lot of Motorhead influence. The second 

track was a Motorhead cover. The 

Fast Actin’ Fuses: psychobilly meets 

metal riffs. Not necessarily a combo I’d 

recommend. I don’t know how well a 

full length would fare with me, but the 

two tracks aren’t enough to keep me 

from listening to the comp. So, I guess 

I’ll get used to it. On the whole, a good 

comp. I just wish there was more – 

either of tracks or bands. 

–Megan (TKO) 

VARIOUS ARTISTS: Get into 

the Underground Groove: 7” 

Four bands each contribute one song to 

this seven inch. One of the bands is 

called the Goxxip and they’re fronted by 

the singer from the Gossip, and another 

band, The Supreme Indifference, has 

Kim Gordon from Sonic Youth and Jim 

O’Rourke, who often plays with Sonic 

Youth. I really like the Gossip. I really 

like Sonic Youth. I often like Kill Rock 

Stars releases, too. So I would think that 

this would be a pretty good record, but I 

was dead wrong. I couldn’t find anything 

I liked about this seven inch. I 

could hardly stand to listen to it all the 

way through. It’s just too much noise 

and not enough song to hold it together. 

–Sean (Kill Rock Stars) 


Punk Seven Inch CD, 

Volume One: CD 

This is a collection of six seven inches 

that Lookout released in 1988 and 1989, 

and it was a cool thing for me to pick up 

because I used to order a lot from 

Lookout ten years ago, and I always 

wondered what these seven inches 

sounded like, but I never dropped the 

three bucks down to find out. So now I 

have my answer. The first two bands, 

Corrupted Morals and Isocracy, sound 

so similar that I can never tell when one 

band ends and the next begins. They 

both bridge the gap between the Dead 

Kennedys and Green Day, but neither 

Corrupted Morals nor Isocracy has anywhere 

near the talent of the bands that 

came before and after them. Both bands 

are snottier than a six year-old’s sleeve 

on a rainy winter day. The next band, 

Plaid Retina, sounds like a sped up 

Corrupted Morals or Isocracy. Still snotty. 

Still forgettable. Next up is the 

Yeastie Girls, who do a cappella raps 

about women’s issues and left wing pol- 

itics. I’m not sure if it’s a joke or not, 

but I know I’m not listening to it twice. 

The next band is Surrogate Brains, and 

finally, you can hear some of the sense 

of humor and infectious melodies that 

made Lookout famous. These guys even 

forgo the snottiness for some sincere, 

gruff vocals. The Surrogate Brains EP 

would’ve been worth my money ten 

years ago. Finishing this disc off is 

Kamala & the Karnivores. Man, 

Kamala’s so nice; I’m such a dick. 

(Sorry, couldn’t resist). They put out 

four awesome, female-fronted pop punk 

songs (pop like the Go-Gos, punk like 

the Ramones. You can’t go wrong). So 

this basically comes down to a fortyseven 

song disc with ten good songs on 

it. That’s not a very high batting average. 

If the original singles are still in 

print, you’d probably be better off picking 

up the Surrogate Brains and Kamala 

& the Karnivores records and letting the 

rest of it fade into obscurity. 

–Sean (Lookout) 

VARIOUS ARTISTS: The 

Sound of San Francisco: CD 

A compilation bands currently making 

the scene in San Francisco, including 

Black Cat Music, The Coachwhips, Big 

Midnight, The Aktion and others. 

Although it serves as a nice primer of 

the myriad of sounds the SF rock scene 

has to offer, some of the stuff here veers 

closer towards ‘70s rock than is comfortable. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (Alive) 


Tower 13: LP 

Compilations are a harder and harder 

racket. On one side, you usually have to 

sell them for less than a regular album, 

you have to deal with the personalities, 

logistics, and maintain consistent 

recording environments of seventeen 

bands, but mostly, comps have been 

smeared by the assy sampler. (A sampler 

collects previously released tracks 

under the premise of introducing the listener 

to new bands by luring them in 

with the bigger name bands.) The fact 

that the tracks on Tower 13 were made 

specifically for this comp and aren’t just 

donky, cast-off mediocre covers should 

give you some idea how much faith is 

put in Hostage by bands that aren’t necessarily 

under its wing. Heap on top of 

that if you have the guile/cajones to 

release a comp only on LP, you’re 

almost committing financial suicide. 

That is, if no one cares a lick about any 

of the music on it. The power of Tower 

13 is that not only are Hostage honchos 

Rick and Paul upright citizens and righteous 

defenders of both vinyl and the 

true OC punk sound, they have great 

taste in music that’s wide enough for the 

bands and songs to differ from one track 

to the next, but their tastes are contracted 

enough so it all sticks together with 

some dysfunctional, sandy glue. Say 

you lived in Croatia. If you listened to 

this fucker all the way through carefully, 

you’d have to shake the dirty water 

out from the sleeve and get a hepatitis 

shot after the needle returned to its cradle. 

The OC I know is fully representing, 

staring you right in the face, 

cracked stucco, stained teeth, neck tattoos 

and all. This comp is a little different 

from Cuts, the last blazing Hostage 

comp, in that there are few run-away 

favorites. It’s solid from 99

tip to tail and I like best it as a whole 

unit, like an hour of the best radio show 

you can imagine. It’s rare that I’ll say a 

comp is essential. This one is. I, literally, 

bought five of these to give to 

friends. Here’s the band list: The Drips, 

The Fakes, Smogtown, Broken Bottles, 

The Pegs, The Main, The Decline, Ciril, 

Smut Peddlers, The Crowd, D-Cup, The 

Revlons, Discontent, The Negatives, 

Thee Indigents, and Cell Block 5. 

–Todd (Hostage) 


VooDoo Rhythm Label 

Compilation: CD 

It’s a pretty decent compilation of very 

primitive rock and roll on the VooDoo 

label. Taking cues from the likes of 

Norton, Sun, Estrus (the years of 1994- 

1997) and Crypt as far as musical direction, 

but adding in a spooky halloween 

record and a European bent; giving a 

home to Lightning Beat-Man, John 

Schooley and DM Bob and the Deficits. 

It’s a good introduction to a label that 

has put out a slew of records in the past 

eleven years, but still hasn’t seen much 

American recognition, except from a 

few Beat-Man fans.–Wanda Spragg 

(VooDoo Rhythm) 

VAZ: Dying to Meet You: CD 

Plopped this in with the expectation that 

I was about to be annoyed by yet another 

two-man band trying to cash in on the 

fluke that is the White Stripes, so imagine 

my glee at being blown away by 

some of the best skronk-pop to come 

along since Sonic Youth started laying 

off the sheets-of-noise approach and 

actually tried to adhere to conventional 

song structure. This is rife with guitar 

noodling that would make Lee and 

Thurston beam with pride, complimented 

by some seriously wicked drumming. 

Derivative, yes, but a rehash? No. 

While reminiscent of that famous New 

York band, these guys have enough of 

their own twist to keep the proceedings 

inventive and fresh. Most astonishing of 

all, they’ve managed to create the same 

amount of racket with half the band personnel. 

–Jimmy Alvarado (GSL) 

VELCRO LEWIS / 

THE DUTCHMEN: Split: 7” 

Velcro Lewis: In the lineup somewhere 

after Mick Collins, Rudie Ray Moore, 

and Andre Williams, Velcro Lewis 

shakes and cruises through some roughvoiced 

R & B punk. Dirty and filthy. A 

tad solo-y at the end, but as a whole, not 

bad. The Dutchmen: Sort of sounds like 

a funkier, riff-alicious Mog Stunt Team. 

I hated the radio growing up in the seventies 

– that hasn’t changed – and the 

“classic rock of the 2000s,” such as 

these fellows play, I still have no 

patience or admiration for. –Todd 

(Shit Sandwich) 

VODKA JUNIORS: 

...All Them Clowns: CD 

Fast, melodic, harmonic singalongcore 

that sounds to me like 54% of everything 

that passes for punk these days, 

with almost nothing (besides funny 

names) to belie that fact that they’re 

from Greece! I don’t remember having 

heard any Grecian punk before, but I 

would’ve expected it to sound like the 

stuff that comes (or used to) out of the 

Eastern Bloc, all creepy and weird and 

somehow wrong but right. This stuff is 

right, but wrong. Comes with a comic 

book, though! –Cuss Baxter 

(Cannonball 666) 

VOLUME 69: 

Karhore All the Way: CD 

Fuck technology. This CD wouldn’t 

work in either of my CD players. I 

would, however, like to point out that 

Volume 69 is a really dumb name. 

–Not Josh (volume69@societyx.net) 

VORTIS: God Won’t 

Bless America: CD 

Mid-tempo punk, arty political punk 

with vocals vaguely reminiscent of the 

Crucifucks, courtesy of a fifty-nineyear-old 

who spends his days as political 

philosophy professor at Purdue 

University. Interesting, rabblerousing 

tuneage overall. –Jimmy “Big Head” 

Alvarado (www.thickrecords.com) 

WAGE OF SIN, THE: 

A Mistaken Belief in 

Forever: CD 

Kittie fans take note. Here is a new 

group of females ready to kick ass. 

Musically, picture a summit of 

Norwegian death metalers and East 

Coast youth crew types discussing a 

recording project. Have them switch 

uniforms and this is the new sub-genre 

that is created. I would have never 

guessed this was an all-female band 

until I looked at the liner notes. The 

cover of the Journey song, “Separate 

Ways,” was brilliant. –Donofthedead 

(Immigrant Sun) 

WASTED: 

Suppress & Restrain: CD 

I dug up that this is a re-issue of their 

first LP that went out of print quickly. 

Most copies were sold within Finland 

and this is co-released by their original 

label, Combat Rock Industry, and Boss 

Tuneage. I read that they have been 

touring a lot in Europe and gaining in 

popularity. The songs are tight, melodic 

and mid-paced. This album can be 

matched up against any of your favorite 

oi and early UK punk bands. The production 

is solid but maintains that raw 

edge. I’ve also read about them being 

compared to early period Rancid. I 

don’t hear it. But who am I to judge? It’s 

only my opinion. This is another great 

release for us outside of Finland or 

Europe who have never heard of this 

band before. –Donofthedead 


WE INVENTED 

TORNADOES: Self-titled: CD 

Well, they look like hardcore kids, so I 

was all primed to have my head peeled 

back by the ensuing onslaught of noise I 

was expecting, but the music that’s 

coming outta my speakers is some lame 

college/indie rock crap. What a fucking 

disappointment. –Jimmy Alvarado 

(Learning Curve) 

WEAKERTHANS, THE: 

Reconstruction Site: CD 

Some of the songs on here are kinda 

good. They’re kind of upbeat and 

remind me of bands that I like, such as 

Superchunk and Dirt Bike Annie. At 

best, the other songs sound like Jets to 

Brazil, which is to say pretentious crap; 

at worst, these songs wouldn’t be out of 

place at a coffee shop where they spell 

it “shoppe.” It seems like there’s more 

bad songs than good ones, though. 

–Not Josh (Epitaph) 

WEAKERTHANS, THE: 

Reconstruction Site: CD 

The first thing you need to understand 

about this album is that it is not punk in 

any traditional sense. The politics are 

not obvious, the music is not fast nor 

would it be likely to appeal to your 

average Fat Wreck or, oddly enough, 

Epitaph fan. Instead, The Weakerthans 

focus on the subtleties of politics – the 

effects on people, the real implications 

and results of policies… and, in almost 

every case, offer some hints at transcending 

these things. Essentially, The 

Weakerthans craft songs which are stories, 

documents of lives (their own, their 

friends, people they’ve imagined) that 

resonate because the details are all too 

true. The music veers between countryinflected 

pop and straight-forward rock 

and roll, ringing with instrumentation 

which doesn’t seem to have much of a 

place in most contemporary music – 

found gadgets that make interesting percussive 

noises, lap and pedal steel, 

glockenspiels, keyboards… the list simply 

goes on. The strength of this album 

isn’t in its catchiness – the first two 

Weakerthans discs were far more immediately 

accessible. This album’s 

strength lies in how much repeated listening 

it bears. I have easily heard this 

record more than one hundred times 

since I got it (for about two months, it 

was my morning rotation – period) and 

I still can’t get enough of it. It’s true that 

these songs seem gentle and comforting, 

that they present a form of musical 

solace for the lonely and disenfranchised, 

for people who are struggling 

merely to feel alive, if not actually live. 

It’s also true that they represent what 

music, at its best, can be – something 

which replaces the “bitter songs [we] 

sing,” which reduces the humiliation 

and anger which results from the “small 

defeat[s] the day demands,” which 

reminds us that we all possess reserves 

of inner strength which we have not yet 

begun to tap. –Puckett (Epitaph) 

WEIRDOS: We Got 

the Neutron Bomb: 

Weird World Volume 2: CD 

A second helping of rarities and such 

from this, arguably LA’s first (and in the 

top three of the “best” category) official 

punk rock band. While it is easy to start 

complaining about what is included (yet 

another, albeit differently mixed, version 

of “Neutron Bomb,” and a 

rehearsal take of “I’m Not Like You,” a 

studio version of which was included on 

Volume One) and what isn’t (“Why Do 

You Exist” is conspicuously absent, 

making it the only remaining track from 

the Destroy All Music 7-inch on neither 

volume of this series; their take on the 

Door’s “Break on Through” or any versions 

of live favorites “Do the Dance” 

or “I’m a Mole”), there are more than 

enough goodies to keep fans’ appetites 

sated, such as Denny Brothers’ “solo” 

work like “Skateboards from Hell” and 

a track or two from their Warhead 12inch, 

an early rehearsal with Dave Trout 

in tow for a run-through of “I Want 

What I Want,” alternate takes of previously 

released tuneage and unreleased 

live songs that appear nowhere else in 

any form. Plus, it’s the Weirdos, for 

chrissake, so you know going in that, no 

matter what, the proceedings are gonna 

be at worst top notch. I’m not gonna rip 

into you about what utter wannabes 

you’re gonna look like if you don’t soon 

have a copy of this in your collection, 

‘cause I think that little fact is glaringly 

obvious. –Jimmy Alvarado (Frontier) 

WHATEVER IT TAKES: 

A Fistful of Revolution/ 

Stars & Skulls: CDEP 

According to the inside of the CD, this 

is a collection combining both A Fistful 

of Revolution and the Stars and Skulls 

EP. I gave this a listen and, although it 

wasn’t my thing, it was interesting and 

well done. The songs are mostly midtempo 

and melodic and soulful. There 

were some fast parts and some upbeatness 

in some songs, too. I don’t think 

it’s what you would call emo but it is 

mellow. The last track is mostly an 

acoustic number with some whistling 

(whistling is good). This band also has 

at least one member of Anti- Flag in it. 

If you like W.I.T. you will be stoked 

cause they have a split 10” out now with 

The Code. Like I said, not my thing but 

if you like the mellow DC type of thing, 

this would be for you. 

–Mike Beer (A-F) 

WHITE OUTS: 

Solid State b/w 

Coffin Nails: 7” 

How the Motards could be the tightest 

sloppy band on the planet and make 

mumbling and gurgling almost poetic, 

the White Outs hold the same charm, 

although it’s more on the heels instead 

of hanging from the rafters. Fuzzed-out 

guitars, Goodwill budget rock that’s far 

from sterilized and has that worn-at-theelbows 

charm. The A-side, “Solid 

State” is the keeper. It’s a great split personality 

song that almost seems like 

two. It gains momentum, stops, pauses, 

then introduces what sounds like a welltuned 

Fisher Price organ (but could be 

anything), then collects itself at the end. 

Neat. The B-side’s a mite repetitious 

and sows the fields of the not-so-triumphant 

parts of the Seeds catalog. 

–Todd (Shit Sandwich) 

Y, THE: Soooo Intense: 7” 

The Y, from Gainesville, just made the 

journey out to the west coast and I got to 

see them in Riverside, CA. They played 

in someone’s bedroom, which had at 

one time been the garage and was about 

the size of a small to mid-size car. 

Despite this, as The Y started to play, 

the best four-man mosh pit started. I’m 

talking tackling, running across the 

kitchen and diving into the room, and 

quite possibly the most brilliant idea 

ever – hitting people with other people’s 

hands. And The Y? They rocked 

through it all. I’ve been told by two people, 

on separate occasions, that The Y 

would change my life. I’ve seen their 

tattoo on at least five people. The 7” 

captures all of this pretty well. Best 

song is either “O.O.C. in the 

U.S.A.” or “M’ Jus’ Waggin’ 

M’Tail A’ ‘Cha,” depending on 

the mood you’re looking for. 

Shirts off, dudes on. –Megan 

(Sooooo Intense) 

101

C O N T A C T A D D R E S S E S 

to bands and labels that were reviewed either in this issue 

or posted on www.razorcake.com in the last two months. 

• Adeline, 5245 College Ave. #318, 

Oakland, CA 94618; 

 

• Aerodrome, PMB #133 302 

Bedford Ave., Brooklyn, NY 11211 

• A-F, PO Box 71266, 

Pittsburgh, PA 15216 

• Alive, PO Box 7112, 

Burbank, CA 91510 

• Alone, PO Box 3019, 

Oswego, NY 13126 

• Alternative Tentacles, PO Box 

419092, SF, CA 94141 

• Angry, Young, and Poor, 140 N. 

Prince St., Lancaster, PA 17603; 

 

• Asian Man, PO Box 35585, 

Monte Sereno, CA 95030 

• Attention Deficit Disorder, 

PO Box 8240, Tampa, FL 33674; 

 

• AVD; 

 

• Bestial Onslaught, PO Box 

230494, Boston, MA 02123; 

 

• Big Neck, PO Box 8144, 

Reston, VA 20195 

• Birdman, PO Box 50777, 

LA, CA 90050 

• Blackout, 931 Madison St., 

Hoboken, NJ 07030 

• Boss Tuneage, PO Box 74, Sandy, 

Bedfordshire, SG19 2WB, UK 

• Broken Rekkids, PO Box 460402, 

SF, CA 94146 

• Burn Burn Burn, 4040 Woodland 

Park Ave. N, Suite #4, 

Seattle, WA, 98103 

• Business Lady; 

 

• BYO, PO Box 67609, 

LA, CA 90067 

• C.N.P., PO Box 14555, 

Richmond, VA 23221 

• Cannonball 666, PO Box 52817, 

N. Erithrea1, 4671 Athens, Greece; 

 

• Cheetah’s, PO Box 4442, 

Berkeley, CA 94704 

• Chemical Valley, 205 E. Alluras, 

Tucson, AZ 85703 

• Cochebomba, PO Box 546, 

Randolph, MA 02368) 

• Combat Rock Industry, PO Box 

65, 11101 Riihimaki, Finland; 

 

• Concord, 100 N. Crescent Dr., 

Suite 275, Beverly Hills, CA 90210 

• Consume, 1916 Pike Place, Ste. 

12-719, Seattle, WA 98101-1097 

• Contaminated, PO Box 41953, 

Memphis, TN 38174 

• Crash, 1122 East Pike St., PMB 

1037, Seatttle, WA 98122 

• Crimes Against Humanity; 

 

• Da Core, 4407 Bowes Ave., 

West Mifflin, PA 15122 

• Dead Tank, 2351 Ernest St., 

Jacksonville, FL 32204 

• DeathXDeath; 

 

• Demolition Derby, PB 4005, 

2800 Mechelen 4, Belgium 

• Deranged, PO Box 543, Station P, 

Toronto, Canada 

• Destroy All Records, PO Box 

56173, S.O., CA 91413 

• Detonations, 5012 Dauphine St., 

New Orleans, LA 70117 

• Dim Sum, 1705 Van Arsdale St., 

Oviedo, FL 32765 

• Dirtnap, PO Box 21249, 

Seattle, WA 98111 

• Dirty Faces; 

 

• Dirty Work, 61 Weston St., 

Wilbraham, MA 01095 

• Disaster, PO Box 7112, 

Burbank, CA 91510 

• Doghouse, PO Box 8946, 

Toledo, OH 43623 

• Dr. Strange, PO Box 1058, 

Alta Loma, CA 91701 

• ECFU, 518-346-7291 

• Enterruption, PO Box 884626, 

SF, CA 94188-4626 

• Epitaph, 2798 Sunset Blvd., 

LA, CA 90026 

• Eugene; 

 

• Fat, PO Box 193690, SF, CA 

94119-3690 

• Finger, 9231 W. Central Ave. Unit 

D, Santa Ana, CA 92704 

• Fornicators; 

 

• Frontier, PO Box 22, 

Sun Valley, CA 91353 

• G7 Welcoming Committee, PO 

Box 27006, 360 Main St Concourse, 

Winnipeg, Manitoba, 

Canada R3C 4T3 

• Gearhead, PO Box 421219, 

SF, CA 94142 

• Get Hip, PO Box 666, 

Canonsburg, PA 15317 

• Golf, Unit 15 Bushell Business 

Estate, Hithercroft, Wallingford, 

Oxon, OX10 9DD, UK 

• Grey Sky, 1339 NE Roselawn, 

Portland, OR 97211 

• GSL, PO Box 65091, 

LA, CA 90065 

• Half-Day, PO Box 3381, 

Bloomington, IN 47402 

• Hater of God, PO Box 666, 

Troy, NY 12181 

• Heart First, Florian Helmchen, 

Landsberger Str. 146, D-80339 

Munchen, Germany 

• Heat Slick; 

• Hostage, PO Box 7736, 

Huntington Beach, CA 92615-7736 

• I Used to Fuck People Like You 

In Prison, Schäferstrasse 33a, 

D-44147 Dortmund, Germany 

• Immigrant Sun, PO Box 150711, 

Brooklyn, NY 11215 

• In The Red, PO Box 50777, 

LA, CA 90050; 

 

• In the Wake of the Plague, 

548 Broderick St., SF, CA 94117 

• Infect, PO Box 1201, Tacoma, 

WA 98401 

• Jade Tree, 2310 Kennwynn Rd., 

Wilmington, DE 19810 

• Jinx, 113 ½ N. La Brea Ave. #102, 

LA, CA 90036 

• Jonny Cat, PO Box 82428, 


• Kapow, PO Box 286, Fullerton, 

CA. 92836 USA; 

 

• Ken Rock, c/o Stefan Hultman, 

Fabriksgatan 39b, 412 51 Goteborg, 

Sweden 

• Kill Rock Stars, PMB 418, 120 

NE State, Olympia, WA 98501 

• Know, PO Box 90579, 

Long Beach, CA 90809; 

 

• KOB; 

 

• Last Chance, PO Box 42396, 


• Law of Inertia, 61 E. 8th St. #125, 

NY, NY 10003 

• Learning Curve, 2200 4th St. NE, 

Minneapolis, MN 55418 

• LEM, PO Box 3052, Summerville, 

SC 29484-3052 

• Lengua Armada, 1010 ½ 

Rivertine Ave., Santa Ana, 

CA 92701 

• Longshot, PMB #72, 302 Bedford 

Ave., Brooklyn, NY 11211 

• Lookout, 3264 Adeline St., 


• Low Impact, Box 475, 701 49 

Orebro, Sweden 

• Mad Butcher; 

 

• Mandragora; 

 

• Mint, PO Box 3613, Vancouver, 

BC, Canada V6B 3Y6 

• Molotonic, 1236-B NW 14th Ave., 

Gainesville, FL 32601 

• Molten Metal; 

 

• Mortville, 2508 West 12th St. 306, 

Austin, TX 78703 

• Mutilated Mannequins, 

876 Valencia #C, SF, CA 94110 

• My Pal Goo, 47 Hardy Dr., 

Princeton, NJ 08540 

• My War, 36 Kings Cir., Malvern, 

PA, 19355 

• Naked Jain, PO Box 4132, 

Palm Springs, CA 92263 

• New Disorder, 115 Bartlett St., 

SF, CA 94110 

• Newest Industry, Unit 100, 61 

Wellfield Rd., Cardiff, 

CF24 3DG, UK 

• Ninety-Six, PO Box 932, 

Yucaipa, CA 92399-9998 

• No Idea, PO Box 14636, 

Gainesville, FL 32604-4636 

• Nomadic Soundsystem, PO Box 

291578, LA, CA 90029 

• OHEV, PO Box 772121, Coral 

Springs, FL 33077 

• On/On Switch, PO Box 641122, 

SF, CA 94164 

• Pandacide, PO Box 2774, 

Petaluma, CA 94952 

• Pascal, 11684 Ventura Blvd., #906, 

Studio City, CA 91604 

• Pattern 25, 610 20th Ave. E, 

Seattle, WA 98112 

• Plan-It-X, 5810 W. Willis Rd., 

Georgetown, IN, 47122-9117 

• Pocahontas Swamp Machine, PO 

Box 980301, Ypsilanti, MI 48198 

• Pop Riot, PO Box 14985, 

Minneapolis, MN 55414 

• Punk Core, PO Box 916, Middle 

Island, NY 11953 

• Radio Blast; 

 

• Radio, PO Box 1452, 

Sonoma, CA 95476 

• Rat Town, PO Box 50803, 

Jax Beach, FL 32240 

• Recess, PO Box 1666, San Pedro, 

CA 90733-1666 

• Refried, 430 Lennox Ave., East 

Patchogue, NY 11772 

• Robotic Empire, PO Box 4211, 


• Rocknroll Radio, 

Oosthamsesteenweg 129, 3581 

Beverlo-Beringen, Belgium 

• Rodent Popsicle, PO Box 1143, 

Allston, MA 02134 

• Route 13, 1109 Prospect Ave, 

Willmington, DE 19809 

• Shit Sandwich, 3107 N. Rockwell, 

Chicago, IL 60618 

• Shut Up, PO Box 1671, 

Oakland, CA 94604 

• Sickroom, PO Box 47830, 

Chicago, IL 60647 

• Snuffy Smile, 4-1-16-201 Daita, 

Setagaya-ku, Tokyo 155-0033, Japan 

• Sooooo Intense, 507 E. Carcas St., 

Tampa, FL 33603 

• S-S, 1114 21st St., Sacramento, 

CA 95814 

• Stardumb, PO Box 21145, 3001 

AC Rotterdam, The Netherlands 

• State of Grace, PO Box 8345, 


• Sub Pop, PO Box 20367, Seattle, 

WA 98102 

• Suburban Justice, PO Box 56055, 

PDX, OR 97238 

• Super Secret, PO Box 1585, 

Austin, TX 78767; 

 

• Swami, PO Box 620428, 

San Diego, CA 92162 

• Swell, PO Box 287004, 

NY, NY 10128 

• Teen Beat; 

• Teenacide, PO Box 291121, 

LA, CA 90029 

• The Only Label In The World, 

c/o Seidboard World Enterprises, PO 

Box 137, Prince St. Station, 

NY, NY 10012 

• Tight Spot, PO Box 49543, 

Austin, TX 78765 

• TKO, 3126 W. Cary St. No. 303, 


• Trick Knee, PO Box 12714, 

Green Bay, WI 54307-2714 

• Union Label Group, 78 Rachel E. 

Montreal, QC, H2W 1C6, Canada 

• Voodoo Rhythm, Jurastrasse 15, 

3013 Bern, Switzerland 

• Yakisana, 51 Rue Renaudel, 

76 100 Rouen, France 

• Zaxxon Virile Action; 

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104 

ALT.CULTURE.GUIDE: 

The Journal of (Un)popular 

Culture, #1, $10 

7 ½ x 9, glossy cover, perfect 

bound, offset printing, 147 pgs. 

This is an extremely mixed bag. 

There’s a great series of columns 

looking at the Recording Industry 

Association of America (RIAA), 

and how they’re more than partially 

to blame for putting the musicloving 

consumer over a barrel. It 

even provides some revolutionary 

(to the RIAA) steps to stem the 

hemorrhage of sales that major 

labels are currently experiencing, 

like lowering unit price, long-term 

artist support, and not putting out 

so much crap. Rev. Keith A. 

Gordon brought up many salient, 

effective points and facts that 

would helpful to read if you’re a 

musician or just a passionate music 

listener. That’s what I really like 

about this publication. What I don’t 

quite get is why it’s ten dollars and 

has advertising. I thought the reason 

ads are involved is to keep the 

price down. Ten bucks is a mighty 

big gamble on a magazine. I’m also 

not sold on their take on “new rock 

sound” spearheaded by the likes of 

the Strokes, the White Stripes, and 

The Ravoneettes. Any serious discussion 

of garage rock, I believe, 

shouldn’t omit or gloss over the 

deep legacies Estrus, Rip-Off, In 

the Red, Gearhead, Crypt, or the 

institution known as Tim Kerr. 

Instead, it’s a list dominated by 

major label poop and folks in 

designer clothes. Hail the 

Mummies, Loli and the Chones, 

The Gories, New Bomb Turks, and 

The Jewws, put the heads of the 

Mooney Suzuki on a pike, and 

we’ll call it even. –Todd 

(826 Old Charlotte Pike East, 

Franklin, TN 37064) 

ARTCORE #18 &19, $4 ppd, 

3 Euros Europe, £1.50 U.K., 8 x 11, 

glossy cover, offset, 34 pgs. 

Put together by Welly of Four 

Letter Word (UK, not LA, and not 

the non-existent boy band that sued 

for the name, either), this is a 

densely packed zine that has a deep 

love for older punk rock but it doesn’t 

let that love overshadow current 

asskickers. #19, for instance, has an 

interview with Roxy of Epoxies 

sidled next to essays on three bands 

that you should go out of your way 

to listen to: The Offenders, The 

Avengers, and The Subhumans (the 

Canadian one with Dimwit). The 

essays are far from boring, are peppered 

with great details (I didn’t 

know the venue, the Mabuhay 

Gardens, was a Jewish synagogue), 

and aren’t told from overtly academic 

hanger-on or never-been-there 

perspective, but by long-time fans 

still in the thick of it. Hey, if punk 

rockers don’t preserve their own 

memories, who else will do it right? 

My only complaint, and it’s a small 

one, is that some of the contributors 

take quite a few too-easy stabs at 

Blink 182 and their ilk. There’s so 

much great stuff out there. It’s just 

tougher to dig down and find it. 

Ignore MTV. It’s pretty easy to do. 

#18 has interviews and essays on 

CH3, DFA, Pitch Black, Our War, 

Send More Paramedics, Kill From 

the Heart (the great website), The 

Effigies, The Big Boys, The 

Adolescents, SST, and artist Shawn 

Kerri (who drew the Circle Jerks 

skankin’ guy). #19 has End on End, 

Steel Rules Die, Shatterhand, The 

Freaks Union, the art of Banksy, 

Vaultage, Th’Inbred, and X-Claim 

Records. Highly recommended for 

any long-term punk fan. –Todd (1 

Aberdulais Rd., Gabalfa, Cardiff, 

CF14 2PH Wales, UK) 

CATHEDRAL, #1, $2, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 40 pgs. 

I’m skeptical about underground lit 

journals because they usually suck, 

but I gave this one a shot because 

it’s cheap, it’s unpretentious, and 

it’s named after Raymond Carver’s 

best story. And Cathedral didn’t 

disappoint me. This issue features 

the work of three writers. Emerson 

Dameron writes surreal vignettes, 

the best of which was about a town 

that set up its public transportation 

system as a roller coaster. Patrick 

King (who’s also the editor) contributes 

two stories that come off 

like cautionary tales about how 

people have gotten too separated 

from one another. The stories are 

better than I just made them sound, 

though. My favorite of the three 

writers is Karl Koweski, who 

writes down-to-earth stories about 

ordinary, working class people, but 

Koweski is smart enough to add a 

plot. One story is about kids dragging 

from bumpers of moving cars 

on snowy days (intentionally; it’s a 

game; cool story). Another is a 

funny, sad story about a guy planning 

to rob a bank. It’s definitely 

worth your time and two bucks. 

–Sean (Patick King, 138 Overland 

Rd. #3, Montevallo, AL 35115) 

CHUMPIRE, #163, a stamp, 

5 ½ x 4 ½, 8 pgs. 

Chumpire is a personal-type zine 

that has been around for thirteen 

years. The author talks about everything 

from shows to school to going 

to a gay pride picnic held at a local 

brewery. It’s still a quick read, even 

though there’s a lot of stuff 

crammed into these eight pages. 

–Not Josh (Chumpire, PO Box 27, 

Annville, PA 17003-0027) 

CRACKS IN THE WALL, #4, $1, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 26 pgs. 

One way to get my attention is to 

name your zine (or dog, or sand- 

wich, or whatever) after a Jerry’s 

Kids song, so you can bet that I had 

high hopes for this one. He starts 

out by listing his Top Eight 

(because Top Tens are overused) 

records to listen to while at work, 

which is always a cool thing. But 

then he goes into a really long story 

that he came up with while at work, 

and to tell you the truth, it’s kind of 

boring. The drawings interspersed 

throughout the magazine, however, 

are pretty neat. If anything, this guy 

should stick to drawing comics and 

writing stories that are short 

enough to read on one trip to the 

bathroom. –Not Josh (Cracks in 

the Wall, 2 Tinkham Glenn, 

Wilbraham, MA 01095) 

DESTROY ALL MONSTERS, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, 24 pgs. 

Apparently, this was written in 

1895 by the author of such works as 

The Smell of Fuck and The Erotic 

Adventures of Edmund Fitisk. 

Okay, what the hell, I’m gullible. 

This is a reprint of his guide to battling 

monsters, and it offers such 

sage advice as, “Simply assume 

that there are Monsters out in the 

hall or outside your windows, 

because nine times out of ten there 

are,” and the always helpful, “If 

that pile of filthy laundry looks to 

you to be a Monster crouching, go 

right up to it. Poke it or ask it a few 

simple questions.” Weird. –Not Josh 

(Love Bunni Press, 2622 Princeton 

Rd., Cleveland Heights, OH 44118) 

DESTROY, #6, no price listed, 

8 ½ x 11, glossy 

This is the Destroy that comes out 

of the UK, not to be confused with 

Destroy All Monthly that comes out 

of LA. This zine rules. You have 

interviews with Rupture, Force 

Macabre, Cathedral and more. The 

featured band of this issue is the 

Plasmatics. You can’t go wrong 

with that! There is even an interview 

with the owner of MCR 

records and with that jerk who 

owns Beer City! Tons of reviews 

and even a CD that is coming with 

it. (My copy was a promo and the 

CD hadn’t come back from the 

pressing plant yet, but I’m sure it’s 

going to be a good one.) Let me tell 

you something: this mag totally 

stands out from others. The content 

is good. The layout is all cut-andpaste 

(but he does a damn good 

job!), and the whole mag is printed 

on a glossy paper that will hold up 

to all the reading and passing 

around this mag is sure to get. 

(MRR coordinators take note of 

this!) This mag had a very mid-‘80s 

feel to it. Very to-the-point, no BS, 

and a good read. It took him a few 

years to get this out ‘cause of some 

problems, but it was worth the wait 

and he assures us the next one will 

come out really soon. I don’t know

what the price is on this but send 

the guy $10 and you won’t be disappointed. 

–Mike Beer 

(Destroy, PO Box 1122, Bristol 

BS99 2HX, United Kingdom) 

DIE SWEET, 5 ½ x 8 ½, 

copied, 28 pgs. 

This zine is basically two short stories 

about living with roommates, 

only the stories are adapted into 

comics. The artwork is pretty good, 

and it kind of reminded me of a 

comic book called Urban Hipster, 

if any of you have ever read that. 

The stories are straightforward and 

easy to relate to, especially the part 

about getting people to clean up 

vomit, which is like pulling teeth. 

Man, I like comic books. –Not Josh 

(Cybele Collins, 29 Hudson St. #2, 

Providence, RI 02909) 

DUNK AND PISS, “the first ten 

issues,” $2, 5 ½ x 8 ½, copied (but 

with a color cover!), 70 pgs. 

Dunk and Piss is great. Alex tells 

really good stories about school, 

fucking up, caffeine, and stuff like 

that. This is an anthology of his 

favorite stories from the first ten 

issues, except the first four, because 

“those are really hard to find cuz 

they suck and I burned the ones I 

had and yeah.” If you missed out on 

these issues the first time (like me), 

or if you’re curious as to what color 

the color cover is, pick this up. It 

makes me nostalgic for the days 

when I, too, had bedsheets with 

minimal stainage. –Not Josh 

(Dunk and Piss, 11 Alger Dr., 

Rochester, NY 14624) 

EAVES OF ASS, #2, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 22 pgs. 

I like zines where people just write 

whatever the hell they want. At the 

very least, it makes for an interesting 

read. The author of this zine 

published his theory of how the 

Highlander movies are really about 

Jesus and might have even been 

written by Jesus. There’s no telling 

how drunk this guy was when he 

wrote this stuff. The record review 

section is him and a couple of 

friends getting drunk and discussing 

why such-and-such band 

sucks or rules or whatever, which is 

pretty funny. The funniest part of 

the zine is a copy of a really steamy 

love letter that he found on the 

ground somewhere, mostly because 

it was a love letter that somebody 

just threw on the ground like yesterday’s 

news. Eaves of Ass is a 

pretty funny name, too. –Not Josh 

(Craven Rock, PO Box 406784, 

Louisville, KY 40204) 

FROM THE DIANE FILES, #1, 

10 cents, 4 ¼ x 5 ½, copied, 46 pgs. 

In November of 1992, the editors of 

this zine placed a fake classified ad 

in MRR. This is a collection of the 

responses. As you can probably 

expect, there’s not a whole lot of 

sunshine and flowers here. The 

responses range from “mildly disturbing” 

to “pretty fucked up,” by 

my standards, at least. It’s kind of 

an interesting look into the psyche 

of fringe culture. –Not Josh 

(Love Bunni Press, 2622 Princeton 

Rd., Cleveland Heights, OH 44118) 

GARAGE AND BEAT, #9, 

$4, 8 ½ x 11, 56 pgs. 

I kinda like the vibe (man) of this 

zine: Relaxed and devoid of pretension. 

The writing is almost neovanilla, 

in a way, but that acts as a 

plus: Unlike other publications that 

also cover the wide temporal swath 

of pop and rock (er, excuse me, i 

forgot whom our sponsor was: 

make that “garage” and “beat”) that 

G&B does, but are so hipster/nutcase-densepacked 

with arcana 

and/or attitude that anyone who 

comes in not up to speed can only 

watch helplessly from the sidelines, 

i actually feel like i could be part of 

the dialogue here, as opposed to 

just sitting at my desk, taking notes. 

I mean, during the interview with 

Emitt Rhodes, there’s a friggin’ 

PICTURE of his garage, but 

NOBODY asks him about the first 

Detonators album (which was, as 

you’ll doubtless recall, “recorded in 

Emitt Rhodes garage” unless you 

think Juan was lying when he made 

up the liner notes), and then Emitt 

is getting tanked at Red Lobster 

and starts babbling about 

Pythagoras, which is where i would 

jump in with return-fire babbling 

about the Pythagorean “musical 

mean” (which – i THINK – is the 

number that, given a smaller number 

X and a larger number Y, 

divides the difference between X 

and Y in the same proportion it 

divides the difference between X 

and the mean average of X and Y. 

For instance, if X = 6 and Y = 12, 

the mean average is 9, but the musical 

mean is 8, because 8 is two 

greater than 6 and four less than 12, 

and 8 is also two greater than 6 and 

one less than 9 – in other words, 8 

is exactly twice as far from 12 as it 

is from 6, but it’s also twice as far 

from 6 as it is from 9. HOW THIS 

AFFECTS YOU, AL FRANKEN: 

Well, about a million years ago, i 

figured out – how exactly i figured 

this out escapes me – that if you set 

X equal to an A-chord, then, by definition, 

12 is equal to a high A 

[octave = pitch doubling]. BUT, AS 

IF BY MAGIC, THAT MAKES 

THE MUSICAL MEAN EQUAL 

TO A D-CHORD AND THE 

ARITHMETICAL MEAN IS 

EQUAL TO AN E! That is to say, X 

is the root chord – the First – and 

the musical and arithmetical means 

are the IV and the V, respectively – 

THAT IS TO SAY, PYTHAGO- 

RAS INVENTED FUCKING 

“LOUIE LOUIE.” I’ll take music 

of the spheres over music of the 

squares ANY ol’ time, baybee!!!) 

But, yeah, Emitt Rhodes is drunkenly 

babbling about Pythagoras, 

and i wanna jam my head thru the 

page and either call him on his shit, 

or have him call me on my shit, or 

have someone call someone on 

someone’s shit, or, heck, as long as 

there is called shit, i guess i’d be 

happy. But, i mean, yeah: I do not 

feel helpless in the face of this magazine, 

and that is good. I was also 

proud of myself for recognizing the 

name “Jerry Kennedy” as the guy 

who produced the first Roger 

Miller album, and for owning a 

Buggs album that has a completely 

different song called “Soho Mash” 

than the editor has (seemingly pretty 

much one song every album was 

called “Soho Mash,” even if it was 

really a cover of “It’s In His Kiss” 

or whatever). Other features 

include a blow-by-blow analysis of 

the Beatles’ “Revolution 9,” interviews 

with the Bippies and Larry 

Taylor (who played bass on a bunch 

of Monkees songs, as well as being 

in Canned Heat [pointless anecdote 

#429: When i used to work for 

Domino’s, we used to still have a 

bunch of old cans of Sterno in the 

back, that i guess drivers in the 

olden days used to use to keep the 

pies warm before some brain surgeon 

invented the insulated bag... 

anyway, when things got slow, i 

would occasionally fetch a can of 

Sterno, and walk thru the restaurant, 

bobbing the can around like it 

was singing, whilst i busted out 

“Goin’ Up the Country” in my 

worst falsetto. Er, maybe you had to 

be there?]), and a feature on Them 

written as a high school English 

class assignment. Hey, i TOLD you 

it was unpretentious. –Rev. Nørb 

(P. Edwin Letcher, 2754 Prewitt St., 

LA, CA 90031) 

GENERATION: DEAD, #1, 

8 ½ x 11, 16 pgs. 

I like this guy’s attitude: “I know 

what you’re saying: ‘Man, there’s 

totally 1000 magazines out there 

just like this one.’ Well, guess what, 

now there’s 1001.” Right on. This 

just talks about obscure movies and 

stuff, which I like reading about. 

My main problem is that it’s really 

light on content. Hopefully, if this 

gets beefed up in the future, we 

might have another Film Geek on 

our hands. –Not Josh 

(Louis Perchikoff, 1017 Fountain 

St. #2, Ann Arbor, MI 48103) 

GOBSHITE QUARTERLY, 

#2, $5, 8 ½ x 11, 70 pgs. 

The cover of Gobshite Quarterly 

claims that it is the 105

“Rosetta Stone for the New World 

Order.” That’s strange, I didn’t 

think that the New World Order 

was ready for its very own crappy 

goth band. Bad music geek jokes 

aside, this is a slick, literary journal-type 

of magazine, and some of 

the content is pretty good. Not 

much else to say here, other than 

the fact that these fuckers totally 

ripped off of the last Vitamin X 

album for one of the illustrations, 

and they also misspelled 

“Portland.” –Not Josh 

(Gobshite Quarterly, PO Box 

11346, Portland, OR 97211-0346) 

GRIND THAT AX!, #1, a stamp, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 28 pgs. 

The premise behind this is simple: 

people have stuff to gripe about, 

and they need a forum to do so. 

That’s a pretty good idea. That way 

people can vent their frustrations 

without annoying the people 

around them. Most of the stuff in 

Grind That Ax! is kind of petty and 

self-serving, but I guess you could 

say that about most people’s complaints, 

and this way you can just 

stop reading instead of telling people 

to shut the hell up. –Not Josh 

(Stephanie Shank, 830 17 th Ave., 

Seattle, WA 98122) 

GRUMPY HORIZON, 

4 ¼ x 5 ½, copied, 8 pgs. 

Hey, this is pretty funny. On each 

page there’s a cool drawing, and the 

accompanying caption of each 

drawing is taken from the weekly 

recap of Passions (a soap opera), 

and the results are way funnier than 

I make them sound. Short but 

sweet. –Not Josh (Love Bunni 

Press, 2622 Princeton Rd., Cleveland 

Heights, OH 44118) 

HOLY TITCLAMPS, $3, #17, 

6 x 9, bound, copied 

Does anybody use page numbers in 

zineland anymore? Just a thought. 

Holy Titclamps is a gay zine celebrating 

its tenth anniversary with 

this issue (“promoting the homosexual 

lifestyle since 1989”) and 

included in this special issue are 

smatterings of poetry 

(Ennoblement of Cocksucker, 

Illuminations), prose (The View 

From Here, Pope) some novel 

excerpts (Chapter 2 of Sarah 

Schulman’s The Mere Future, Pack 

of Men by D. Travers Scott), and 

comics, work from fallen comrades 

stricken by AIDS and more pictures 

of dick than yer average zine. 

Founder Larry-bob started the zine 

in ’89, inspired by the newly 

birthed homocore scene coming out 

at the time. The last few pages 

include a chronological timeline. 

An eye opening read for this heterosexual. 

–Greg Barbera 

(Holy Titclamps, PO Box 590488, 

SF, CA 94159) 

HUMMINGBIRD SYMPTOM, 

4 ½ x 5 ½, 30 pgs. 

Love Bunni Press put out a shitload 

of zines this time around. This one 

is mostly a bunch of mopey intellectual 

writing with a few pictures 

here and there, but at the end 

there’s a bunch of cool drawings by 

the same person who did the drawings 

in Grumpy Horizon. I bet if 

you send these folks a few bucks, 

they’ll send you a whole bunch of 

stuff, and it’s worth it for Grumpy 

Horizon. –Not Josh (Love Bunni 

Press, 2622 Princeton Rd., Cleveland 


JERK!!, #7, a stamp, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 4 pgs. 

In case you missed my review of 

the two previous issues of Ben 

Trogdon’s zine, here goes. The 

name of the zine changes with 

every issue (Bow Wow Wow, 

Thanks for Nothing, Death of a 

Toaster, etc.). It’s one page folded 

in half, making it a quick read. And 

I can’t stress this enough: it fucking 

rules. Ben’s really enthusiastic 

about everything. This is the last 

issue he made before he started 

school, and it’s got short interviews 

with the Teen Idols and Ken 

Dirtnap. Did I mention that it rules? 

–Not Josh (Ben Trogdon, 191 Glen 

Oban Dr., Arnold, MD 21012) 

MAXIMUM ROCKNROLL, 

#245, $4, 8 ½ x 11, newsprint 

Although by no means perfect, 

MRR is a really important zine. Not 

only do they have easily the best 

coverage of international punk and 

hardcore, they also have a really 

broad range of musical coverage, 

so while I might not like “extreme 

powerviolent grindcore” or whatever, 

somebody out there does, so 

it’s good that those two people can 

read about their favorite bands. 

Tons of columns, reviews, and 

interviews with La Fraction, 

Artimus Pyle, Intense Youth, the 

Gimmies, and I’m just scratching 

the surface. –Not Josh 

(MRR, PO Box 460760, San 

Francisco, CA 94146-0760) 

METAL RULES! #16, $4.95, 

8 ½ x 11, glossy cover, 99 pgs. 

More metal, metal, metal than you 

can shake a metal detector at. 

Loads of cheesy interviews with 

mostly European guys in bands that 

have an unreadable band name logo 

that looks like a loose wad of halfchewed 

tarantula parts that someone 

spit out. Plenty of pix of churlish, 

hairy doods locked in constipated 

tough guy poses. And if that 

in itself isn’t strange enough for 

you (and if it isn’t, just how fucking 

numb are you?), they throw in 

interviews with third-string actors 

like Steve Guttenberg and the guy 

who played “Neidermeyer” in 

Animal House. King Diamond 

meets Entertainment Tonight. Odd. 

– Aphid Peewit (Metal Rules! 2116 

Sandra Road, Voorhees, NJ 08043) 

MODEST PROPOSAL, #2, 

$3, 8 ½ x 11, 60 pgs. 

A lot of comedy is hit-or-miss. 

Such is the case with the comedy 

magazine Modest Proposal: some 

of the stuff in here is really funny, 

and the rest of it is just kind of 

“ughhh.” I think that if the people 

who put out this magazine had 

some kind of quality control, it 

would be a lot better. –Not Josh 

(Modest Proposal, PO Box 3211, 

Tempe, AZ 85280) 

MURMUR, #2, $2.50, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, 43 pgs. 

I don’t really know what to say 

about this one. The content is really 

dense and poetic, so it’s not exactly 

light reading. I could just say, 

“Fuck you, ya fuckin’ fuck,” and be 

done with this review, but everything 

about this, from the layout all 

the way down to the way the pages 

are folded, shows that a ton of 

effort went into putting this together. 

So I won’t say that it sucks, 

because it doesn’t. It looks really 

cool, it’s just hard to pay attention. 

–Not Josh (Boing! Collective, 608 

S. 500 E. #2, SLC, UT 84102) 

NEUS SUBJEX, #54, a stamp, 

3 ½ x 8 ½, 6 pgs. 

If you’re not familiar with Shawn 

Abnoxious of blankgeneration.com, 

he writes really long reviews of 

records that you probably don’t 

want and he never really gets to the 

point. This is the zine that he puts 

out and it’s pretty much like the 

other stuff that he writes, only more 

dumb. But hey, it’s folded up like a 

travel brochure! –Not Josh 

(The Neus Subjex, PO Box 18051, 

Fairfield, OH 45018) 

THE PERFECT MIX TAPE 

SEGUE, #2, Brutal Honest Tea, 

4 x 5, copied, 16 pgs. 

A personal zine about the trials and 

tribulations of living on couches in 

community punk rock houses in 

places like Portland. I love the 

small format; it reminds me a lot of 

Portland’s Mike Daily and his 

series of Spun titles where beatnik 

stream of consciousness prose 

meets blog-like self disclosure. 

Standing alone, I could take or 

leave this zine. But if it’s one in a 

long line of serials, sign me up for 

the fall season. –Greg Barbera (PO 

Box 14332, Portland, OR 97293) 

THE PORNOGRAPHIC 

FLABBERGASTED EMUS, #6 

& 7, 5 ½ x 8 ½, copied, 48 pgs. 

This is where Wred Fright finishes 

up his year-and-a-half long enterprise 

of publishing a serialized 

novel. If you haven’t read my five 

previous reviews of this zine, it’s a 

novel in seven installments about 

the adventures of an unsuccessful 

(financially, anyway; there are 

some things they’re successful at) 

garage band. After reading the first 

issue of this, I was hooked. I 

emailed Wred and told him that, if 

he didn’t finish writing the book, 

we were gonna fight. Well, the 

fight’s off and the book’s over, and 

I kinda want to read it again. It’s 

hard to review just the end of the 

book, because you don’t want to 

give too much away. Suffice it to 

say, Wred wraps everything up 

nicely. Actually, for such an 

unorthodox novel, TPFE ends 

much in the same way as a classic 

British novel like Tom Jones 

would. Though I’m not really comparing 

this to Tom Jones. Wred’s 

got a real handle on the absurd. His 

sense of humor is spot on, and, by 

the end, I felt really close to the 

characters. All in all, the whole 

book is a good read. He’s got the 

whole thing up on a web site somewhere, 

but don’t rely on this. Write 

to Wred and get all seven zines 

before they’re all gone. –Sean 

(Wred Fright, PO Box 770332, 

Lakewood, OH 44107) 

SHREDDING PAPER, #16, 

$2.95, 8 ½ x 11, 

glossy cover, newsprint inside 

The tagline on the cover of this San 

Rafael, Calif.-based zine boasts: 

“America’s Record Review 

Magazine.” And let me tell you 

they ain’t kidding. The bulk of this 

zine is record reviews – over 500 of 

them – including everything from 

metal (25 Suaves) and Belgian oi 

(Discipline) to modern rock (Eels), 

reggae (Lee Perry), twee pop (the 

Lilys), and psyche rock reissues 

(Clearlight) and country (Nashville 

West). These cats cover all sides of 

the spectrum and for that alone I 

give them two thumbs up. Toss in 

some prerequisite columns (from 

editors Mel C and Steve Yaver to 

contributor J. Edward Keyes) and 

smattering of band interviews 

(posthumous Exploding Hearts, 

former Wedding Present/current 

Cinerama David Gedge and 

Japanese pop Mummy The 

Peepshow) and a handful of single 

reviews (single reviews?) and 

you’ve got a very well-spent three 

bucks. –Greg Barbera 

(Shredding Paper, PO Box 2271, 

San Rafael, CA 94912) 

SHUTTLE BUS, Vol. 2, #1, $1, 

6 ½ x 10 ¼, copied,16 pgs. 

Ann Arbor-centric zine that features 

an interview with Pittsburgh 

power trio (((microwaves))) that 

includes one of the best questions 

ever asked: Black Flag or Slayer? 

Another article on 107

how to run a CDR label, which 

focuses on four Michigan-based 

labels (Scratch & Sniff, Stop/Eject, 

Hanson, Bulb) and a New York 

entity (We’re Twins), equating yesteryear’s 

photocopied zines with 

today’s CDR labels. Yet again we 

find another gem of a quote tucked 

inside this tiny zine: “Don’t be 

held down by the tyranny of jewel 

cases; there are dozens of ways to 

package your CDR.” Then there’s 

the Top Ten Things That Don’t 

Suck About Ann Arbor piece that’s 

downright humorous and not only 

includes the obvious band, radio 

station, or local outsider artist plug 

but also functions as a quick guide 

to hipsterism: championing a 

comic shop, video store, some 

restaurants and the Kiwanis Club 

rummage sale. Did I forget to mention 

the comics? The Quick & 

Tasty Recipes For Poor People? 

Goddamn if this ‘lil zine doesn’t 

pack a wallop of a punch for a 

measly dollar bill. –Greg Barbera 

(Shuttle Bus, PO Box 7504, Ann 

Arbor, MI 48107) 

THIS TIME LAST YEAR, #3 

Early June 2003 (with a woodcut 

hand-printed cover) and #4 (The 

Exploding Hearts) June 2003, 

5 ½ x 7, copied, 42 pgs. 

The lady who puts these together is 

the extremely talented photographer, 

Chrystaei Branchaw. She works 

closely with a bunch of 

Northwestern punk bands and 

takes shots of bands coming 

through her town. It’s a photo zine. 

The more geographically close a 

band is, the more intimate they 

seem in these zines. Like, instead 

of a performing up on a stage, the 

people in bands – like the Diskords 

– seem so comfortable with 

Chrystaei taking their picture, it 

almost seems like an extended 

family album. Except the photography’s 

all top notch. #3 has pictures 

of Pho Bang, The Epoxies, 

The Electric Eye, and others. #4 is 

as beautiful as it is sad, as it’s 

almost all pictures of The 

Exploding Hearts. Rest in peace. 

Some of the pictures were from the 

photo session for their last album. 

Some of them are the guys goofing 

off, playing live, and being human. 

Their personalities seemed to leap 

right into her lens. Wonderful 

work. –Todd (PO Box 40342, 

Portland, OR 97240) 

TOO MUCH COFFEE MAN 

#18, $4.95, 8 x 10, offset, color 

cover, perfect bound, 64 pgs. 

Those not familiar, Shannon 

Wheeler is the brain and pen 

behind the Too Much Coffee Man 

comic. In this magazine, he’s corralled 

an impressive array of writers 

and cartoonists in addition to 

showcasing his own work. I had no 

expectations going in, and was 

mighty impressed the further I read 

into it. It’s unpretentious, funny, 

and well-written. This is the 

“Yellow Fever” issue so it looks 

into Asian culture from some many 

engaging signposts. Anime? 

What’s that? “Enjoying anime,” 

Kyle Davis writes, “is predicated 

on a willing suspense of disbelief, 

a profound love for ninjas and 

robots, or a desire to see hot cartoon 

chicks bound by tentacles.” 

Sign me up. I also never fully 

understood why I like the old 

Godzilla and have been ho-hum 

about the fancy, computer-generated 

one. Will Viharo offers a helpful 

hand: “Keep away from the CGI, 

guys, there’s no greater corporeal, 

organic pleasure than watching a 

guy in a rubber monster suit stepping 

on toy tanks. It’s a timeless 

artform.” There’s really no dead 

spots in this mag at all. Also covered 

are why so many American 

guys dig Japanese ladies, Zatoichi 

(a highly successful Japanese film 

franchise), a look into seriously 

tuning up street racers, and much 

more. Extremely enjoyable. –Todd 

(Adhesive Press, Box 14549, 

Portland, OR 97293) 

UNCERTAIN NERVOUS 

SYSTEMS, 5 ½ x 8 ½, 50 pgs. 

What? Love Bunni Press? I’ve 

never heard of such a thing. You 

mean they publish stuff, and then 

send it to other people for review? 

No kidding! This is the more political 

side to their publishing empire, 

I guess, with a short article about 

how product placement in television 

shows became an acceptable 

practice after 9/11 and a really long 

and well researched article about 

Donald Rumsfeld, among other 

things. They’ll probably send you 

this even if you don’t want it. 

–Not Josh (Love Bunni Press, 

2622 Princeton Rd., Cleveland 


VINYL A GO GO, #2, $1, 

5 ½ x 8 ½, 48 pgs. 

This here rock and roll fanzine 

focuses mostly on new wave and 

power pop. There’s a bunch of 

reviews of bands like the Cinch 

and the Fevers, plus a really funny 

interview with the Riff Randells. 

There’s also a lot of sappy emotional 

stuff about girls and an article 

by Josh Rutledge (not to be 

confused with yours truly) called 

“The Humble Aspirations of a 

Fascist Dictator,” which is somehow 

funny and pathetic at the same 

time. Pretty cool shit. –Not Josh 

(Lew Houston, 100 W. High St. 

#1A, Topton, PA 19562)

Dance of Days: Two Decades of Punk in the 

Nation’s Capital 

by Mark Andersen & Mark Jenkins, 446 pgs. 

It’s probably somehow inevitable, in an 

Orwellian “Room 101” sort of way, that a person 

like me – a one-trick gadfly who’s taken 

more than a few untoward stabs at some of the 

more zealous strains of straight-edgerdom out 

there – would wind up having to stare a book 

like this straight in its clean and sober eyes. I 

probably had it coming. Just like I had a DWI 

coming and just like I had to stare straight into 

the clean and sober and wildly-caffeinated eyes 

of the chain-smoking, court-appointed drug 

counselor who kept telling me over and over 

what a wretched substance abuser I am. 

Thinking back to all the times I immaturely 

pantsed clear-minded soldiers in the sXe army 

(figuratively, of course. I’m too much of a wuss 

to do it in real life) – why, in the pages of this 

very magazine – egad, I shudder to think what 

else I might have coming. Will some black, 

laughing winds of fate somehow plop me into a 

“reality” TV show where I’m trapped in a room 

for a month lifting weights, playing Parcheesi 

and drinking Yoo-hoo with Ray Cappo and 

Porcell from Youth of Today? The mind reels. 

But I am, of course, exaggerating the solemnity 

of having to grapple with this tome. 

It seems to be a knee-jerk reaction of mine 

that whenever I’m surrounded by starched-up, 

neatly-pleated seriousness, I inevitably feel 

compelled to make a roaring ass of myself just 

to break up all the seriousness hanging in the air. 

In truth, reading this book is not as bad as being 

arrested for drunk driving. It’s much better than 

that, really. And it is chock full of information in 

much the same way that bran cereal is full of 

dietary fiber. Be that as it may, I must admit to 

feeling slightly uneasy as I made my way 

through Dance of Days; I felt a nagging feeling 

like I was somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be, 

110 

as if I were wandering without a 

membership card through the secret passageways 

of some ancient hermetic order 

that has secret hand shakes and arcane rituals. 

Though this isn’t a straight edge 

book, it chronicles many of the people and 

events that were to set the stage for sXe 

and later become a major influence on the 

movement (and eventually even 

emo.) 

This is a book – akin to England’s 

Dreaming and We Got the Neutron Bomb – 

that sets out to document the spawning 

activities within a particular musical/cultural 

pool or “scene.” The spawning beds 

here, of course, are those that loosely fall 

within the geographical area of 

Washington DC. But the lava lamp-like 

protoplasmic coupling, de-coupling, 

dividing, and multiplying of so many 

earnest young punk rockers in so many 

DC-area bands is downright dizzying, 

even for a sober reader. My Attention 

Deficit Disorder simply will not allow me 

the luxury of assimilating all the comings 

and goings of so many characters – especially 

when so many of those characters 

are cranky, diaper-rashy yits with blooming 

messiah complexes. Take for example, 

one of the main focuses of the book, HR of 

Bad Brains: a colorful, interesting guy 

until his “interestingness” is swallowed 

whole by his own ponderous self-righteousness 

and prejudice. So while this 

book and its meandering storyline are crawling 

like an ant farm with characters, there just aren’t 

any real characters in it. I like Minor Threat as 

much as the next guy, but I’ve always found Ian 

MacKaye to be about as interesting as a box of 

wet-naps. Oh, here and there you have a few illmannered 

“bent-edge” punks (like Fear, Black 

Market Baby, some guy named Don Diego) who 

stumble briefly into the narrative and then right 

back out again; Tesco Vee and the Meatmen pop 

up a few times only to be dismissed by the 

author(s) as important buffoons and quickly 

pushed aside to make room for someone or 

some band more full of moral rectitude. But this 

is a quibbling and flimsy complaint because this 

is, of course, a work of “nonfiction” and the 

authors are merely reporting on the activities of 

real people in space/time – they are not responsible 

for which characters come across as being 

“important” and which characters come across 

as being “minor.” Or are they? Here again 

another age-old bias of mine creeps in: I’m a bit 

Henry Fordish in my opinion of history on the 

whole; most of it’s probably “bunk” of some 

kind of another and calling any of it “revisionist” 

is redundant. But I’m teetering harrowingly 

close to the bubbling, stink-festering abyss of 

epistemology here, which is a slippery turd ride 

we don’t need to go on right now. And to be fair, 

though falling short of any Howard Zinn-like 

appraisals of their own “objectivity,” the authors 

do admit their short comings and limited perspectives 

right up front. 

Dance of Days is very informative (I finally 

found out where those X’ed hands came from) 

and though the authors make sure to get a message 

out along with the storyline, they generally 

avoid the type of wringing over-intellectualizing 

that bogged down parts of England’s Dreaming. 

With its clear, even-paced journalistic writing 

and wealth of behind-the-scenes information, 

Dance of Days will be gluttonously gobbled up 

by anyone with more than a passing interest in 

the formative years of harDCore, straight edge 

and riot grrrls. For me though, pretty much any 

book that tries to recapture the spirit and intensity 

of anything bursting with as much raw, gritty, 

unbridled life as a burgeoning punk scene – 

straight edge or bent edge, DC or London – is 

doomed to disappoint. It will be as brittle and 

lifeless as butterfly carcasses stuck with pins to 

styrofoam slabs. For history buffs and those 

with a passion for the particular scene in general, 

it can provide a scaffolding with which to 

build an understanding of the intricacies of that 

scene. For a more disinterested outsider like 

myself, it can serve only as a dusty visit to 

someone’s attic full of old photo albums and letters 

and a few taxidermied grandparents and 

great uncles and aunts propped up here and 

there. –Aphid Peewit (Akashic, PO Box 1456, 

New York, NY 10009) 

Guy Debord: Complete Cinematic Works 

Translated and edited by Ken Knabb 

Guy Debord, best known for his writings 

such as The Society of the Spectacle, also made 

six films. He founded the Situationist 

International group of avant-garde artists, advocating 

all forms of art for everyone above the 

capitalistic work society, fighting alienation. 

The group was very influential in Europe, especially 

in the 1968 student revolt in France. This 

book on his movies gives a glimpse into what 

they were with complete scripts, description of 

the imagery, and some stills. Alas, after 

Debord’s producer was assassinated, he pulled 

the films from circulation. In 1994, at age sixtytwo, 

Debord committed suicide. His widow rereleased 

the films after his death, but they are 

still hard to find. 

Judging from the book, the films sound like 

a strong companion to French New Wave films 

– although Debord did not like Godard – and 

today’s conspiracy master Craig Baldwin 

(Tribulation 99, Sonic Outlaws). The text of the 

films comes from Debord’s famous writings on 

the destruction of human interaction and the 

worship of advertising image, as capitalism sells 

the idea that only by buying things can someone 

really be happy and successful. Actual human 

interaction and the creativity everyone has 

inside them are stifled. It’s a short leap to 

today’s cult of celebrity and war by television 

channel. 

Without the films available, it is hard to 

judge them and the book. In my mind it is a 

great thing, inspirational and intelligent, but the 

stills cannot convey the true feeling of the films, 

where editing and shot length were very controlled. 

Debord’s text is great, I assume serving 

as cliff notes to his longer writings. The film 

stills are interesting; all found from other 

sources, thus the comparison to Baldwin’s 

genius connections of found footage. Side text 

does a nice job of explaining the images on 

screen but it only hints at the possibility. 

The author, Ken Knabb, who first published 

The Situationist International Anthology in 

1981, is probably the best writer possible for this 

book, since he is a respected voice on the history 

of the group. Any present day anarchist and 

DIY-er will obviously be into this book – so will 

anyone simply tired of being gagged by shitty 

Hollywood movies, TV politicians, and backyard 

billboards. Hopefully, the interest in the 

book will push a future release of the actual 

films. –Speedway Randy (AK Press, 674-A 23 rd 

St., Oakland, CA 94612-1163)

Saving Private Power, The Hidden History of 

“The Good War” 

By Michael Zezima, $20 (hardbound), 214 pgs. 

Zezima does an excellent job debunking 

many of the myths surrounding America’s 

involvement in World War II. This book, thankfully, 

begins to pick away at the historical monolith 

of warm fuzzies that Tom Brokaw (author of 

The Greatest Generation) and Steven Ambrose 

(the popular historian whose research has been 

faulty and guilty of plagiarization many times) 

have hammered at over and over again. WW II 

wasn’t purely good against evil. It was a war, 

like any other war; innocent people died and 

were used as pawns. Inhuman deeds were done 

on both sides. Zezima also accomplishes a lucid 

treatment of a complex situation, much like 

Howard Zinn. He gives a fair shake to not only 

the generals and ultra-powerful industrialists 

(who had the most to gain from this war), but 

also the working class (who had the most to 

lose, namely their lives). As stated in this book, 

by WW II’s end, 75,000 American troops were 

MIA (missing in action). Most of them were 

blown into unrecognizable chunks. 

Zezima also has a good knack for looking at 

the wider picture. War is not just men in battle, 

nor strategists vying for power and property, but 

the ability to get nations of citizens foaming at 

the mouth. Enter the Creel Committee – the first 

government agency for outright propaganda in 

the U.S. Formed during WWI, it published seventy-five 

million books and pamphlets with one 

goal in mind: make war sound like a fantastic 

idea. During WWII, the publicity firm of Young 

and Rubicam was hired. They solidified that 

notions that best propaganda appealed to the 

emotions (not intellect), is understood by the 

“lower third” of the populous, and should never 

show photographs of dead U.S. soldiers (which 

is a large reason why the war in Vietnam lost 

favor with the American population). These propaganda 

models are still in effect today. 

But, WWII was a war of democracy vs. fascism, 

right? That’s good, right? That’s a gross 

oversimplification. Here are a couple of the hundreds 

of transgressions that corporations hope 

you forget or have never caught wind of. 

DOA: Greatest Shits: DVD 

Thirteen (get it?) DOA videos created 

between 1978 and 1998 by the band that 

served as the Canadian Clash, the 

Canadian Ramones, and the Canadian Sex 

Pistols (exchange rates, i guess) and 

should certainly need no introduction for 

any Razorcake reader. As one might 

assume, the best clips are the three from 

‘78-‘81 (“punk” era, if you will) – a live 

version of “Disco Sucks” shot with perplexed 

motorcycle cops watching punkaddled 

audience members rending a 

Canadian flag asunder (on Canadian 

Independence Day no less), an out-of-tune bang-thru of “Get Out of My 

Life” shot at the Peppermint Lounge in NYC, and the “real” 1979 video 

for “World War 3” – where a fresh-faced lineup of Shithead, Rampage 

and Biscuits lip-synch poorly but earnestly to the original 45 version of 

the song (the later LP version was even better) which coined the phrase 

“New Clear Day” well ahead of D. Fenton & Co. The five “rock” era 

(‘82-‘90) videos are highlighted by “Takin’ Care of Business,” where the 

band plays hockey in matching lumberjack shirts (while coached by no 

less a Canuckian music luminary than Randy Bachman) against a team 

of evil, suit-wearing businessmen (“DOA v. The Man” being pretty much 

the theme of every video here, except for “World War 3,” where the 

theme is merely “DOA v. Lip-Synching”), and are the kind of thing one 

Prescott Bush, grandfather of our current president, 

along with Union Banking Corp., raised 

fifty million dollars for the Nazis by selling 

German bonds to American investors from 

1924-1936. They only confessed when the feds 

shut the enterprise down in 1942 under the 

Trading with the Enemy Act. In 1933, Standard 

Oil of New York invested one million dollars in 

Germany for technology that turned soft coal 

into gasoline, that if Germany didn’t have, it 

couldn’t have declared a long, protracted war. 

Standard Oil also, well in to the war, up to 1942, 

honored chemical contracts that were directly 

responsible for the making of Zyklon-B, which 

was used in the concentration camps. Okay, so 

some corporations suck, but, overall, our side 

was good, right? 

Just because the Nazis were bad doesn’t 

mean that America and its allies are beyond 

reproach. Dresden was the seventh largest city 

in Germany. It was being flooded with refugees 

and was a huge, largely unscathed target. In the 

context of war and strategy, I can understand – 

and not agree with – the idea of bombing. But 

Winston Churchill, Britain’s prime minister and 

war director, wanted to create a “new kind of 

weather” in Dresden, and had scientists develop 

new bombs built for maximum destruction of 

life and property. The rationale is that Churchill 

wanted to flex his arm so brutally that Stalin 

(our ally at the time) wouldn’t think that the rest 

of the allies were soft. Gasoline bombs (the predecessor 

to napalm) were dropped with conventional 

bombs from the bellies of over 2,000 airplanes 

for eighteen hours straight. The result 

was an enormous flame, eight miles wide. It created 

a firestorm. There were literally tornadoes 

of flame, which scattered pieces of victims up to 

fifteen miles away. Over 100,000 people were 

killed in less than twenty-four hours. Think of 

the town or city you live in, and even if you 

imagine, on the outside, several thousand troops 

occupying it, how can any side of a war kill 

90,000 innocent people in a day and still be considered 

good? I don’t think it can. 

Besides providing a rounded view of the ins 

and outs of WWII, I also appreciate Zezima’s 

thirst for details that haven’t been repeated over 

and over again. For instance, I didn’t know that 

on July 28, 1945, an American B-25 bomber ran 

into the Empire State Building, killing fourteen. 

Nor did I know that Cole Porter’s 1934 song 

“Mona Lisa” originally contained the lyrics, 

“You’re the tops, you’re Mussolini.” That’s fun 

stuff to know. 

Zezima – aside from the occasional schoolyard 

taunts and name calling of established historians 

– does a great job of showing that, quite 

a few, if not all, of the levers of power and 

modes of rhetoric that were developed during 

WW II are still in place today. They’re glaringly 

obvious in America’s current wars and foreign 

policy. Although this is a book primarily about a 

war that happened over fifty years ago, it’s also 

a timeless reminder of how little nations have 

learned about compassion, how much they’ve 

learned that wars work to the top one percent’s 

advantage, and what they gain if the population 

at large remains ignorant to these facts. Highly 

recommended. –Todd (Soft Skull, 71 Bond St., 

Brooklyn, NY, 11217) 

The Zine Yearbook: Volume 7 

Ed. by Jen Angel & Jason Kucsma, 164 pgs. 

The title of this book is fairly self-explanatory. 

Like a high school yearbook, the Zine 

Yearbook highlights what has been going on in 

the past year or so. To continue the analogy, it’s 

pretty broad in terms of what it covers, so a lot 

of stuff is going to fall through the cracks. 

There’s also that uncanny quality about the 

whole thing where you can look through it and 

see a bunch of stuff that you don’t give a shit 

about. But I don’t want to be all nitpicky and 

negative about the whole thing, so I’ll just stick 

to the positive stuff. Some of the neat zines 

included that I’ll be on the look out for are 

America?, Cryptozoa, Cudgel, Ration, Scenery, 

and Slop. As for the rest of the stuff, some of it 

is okay, and some of it is pretentious “look at 

me, I’m a zinester” crap, so this is more like an 

overview of the zine community than a “best 

of”-type book. Wow, it looks like I can 

write short book reviews. –Not Josh 

(Soft Skull Press, 71 Bond St., 

Brooklyn, NY 11217) 

assumes one might occasionally play for 

overnight guests. The remaining five 

videos from the “Career in Barely 

Listenable Rock Activism” era (‘92-present), 

are, not surprisingly, barely watchable 

as well, with the exception of “It’s 

Not Unusual,” which is kinda painful to 

sit thru anyway, simply on accounta it 

makes you realize how head-and-shoulders 

the Tom Jones cover was above their 

own material at the time. The whole 

ordeal concludes with a concise sevenminute 

documentary on the band’s career 

(incl. testimonials from Biafra, Rollins, 

Dave Grohl, et al) that at least partially mitigates the band’s later unlistenability. 

Ultimately, not being much of a rock video aficionado (hey, if 

you’re not Mud or Freddie & the Dreamers, you don’t NEED to make a 

video), in a perfect world, i’d rent this for a buck at Family Video, watch 

it once (and enjoy it), tape “World War 3” and “Disco Sucks” for the 

archives, bring it back the next day and be done with it. You, consumer, 

are welcome to improvise your own strategy. BEST VIDEO: “World War 

3” (hey, i only like videos where the band stands somewhere and pretends 

they’re playing their song. Music videos need “plot” like porno 

movies need “plot,” yaknowhaddimesayin? MOST IRONIC FEATURE: 

Well, it’s sort of a toss up between A. how pretty much every video is 

DOA railing against THE MAN, yet the first thing that 

103

popped up on the teevee screen when i put this in the player is that big 

red “WARNING” thing that says how if i break copyright laws, Interpol 

is gonna come get me, and B. the fact that the Canadian Home Video 

people only gave this a PG rating. –Rev. Nørb (Sudden Death, Cascades 

PO Box 43001, Burnaby BC Canada V5G 3H0) 

Guttermouth: Live at the 

House of Blues: DVD 

“My name is Mark and I’m just an alcoholic singer of a mediocre 

punk band.” Guttermouth on DVD is what you expect. It probably won’t 

make any converts, but fans of the band should eat it up if somehow they 

weren’t at the House of Blues. One of the Orange County comedy skate 

punk bands that Kung-Fu specializes in (Ataris, Vandals), Guttermouth 

plays painless, catchy songs about girls and assholes. Kung-Fu puts on a 

great production with perfect video and sound. The DVD is worth the 

dough, including twenty songs, band commentary about rocket science 

and interview footage. A live concert CD is in the package with an extra 

song (“A Perfect World”). –Speedway Randy 

Noisy!, The First Punkervision Comp! DVD 

$20, world-wide shipping, ninety-four minutes 

Punkervision does a great job of using multiple cameras, clear photography, 

and soundboard-quality sound to capture some great performances. 

None of it is blown out, shaky-as-hell, back-of-the-club, on-anextended-arm 

footage. That takes some dedication, especially for a band 

like Good Clean Fun, where there’s hardly any existing light and there’s 

a ton of bodies jumping around. In no small way does this comp remind 

me of the first couple rounds of Flipside’s videos, where there’d be ten 

bands, each doing healthy slabs of sets. (In case you’re wondering, what 

kept those original Flipside videos from resurfacing is that many of the 

bands sold away the rights to their own songs, and legal matters were too 

expensive and complex to keep them the videos in print. That’s why only 

the “Best Of”s are available.) I also enjoy footage that just isn’t a music 

video in-the-making. There’s sweat, minor fuckups, mis-steps, angles 

that show Eddie Spaghetti’s tubby belly, and Nørb taking his glasses off 

before he does a handstand on stage in his Wolverine getup. My favorite 

set on here is by the Fleshies. Their shock therapy stage presence front- 

ed by the lead spazz, Johnny, who seems to be ever-healing from selfinflicted 

wounds, is definitely good times. The beauty and curse of this 

DVD is how diverse it is. I’d be hard pressed to find anyone who likes 

all the bands, and the styles of punk they play, but there’s a good chance 

there’s more than a couple in here to grab your attention. Here’s the list: 

Propagandhi, Supersuckers, Good Clean Fun, Diesel Boy, Atom and His 

Package, Fleshies, Boris the Sprinkler, the Line, Blocko, and Degrassi. 

–Todd (www.punkervision.net) 

Dillinger Four, Toys That Kill, and Rivethead, Tour Summer 2002, 

$10, DVD 

This is worth the ten bucks for the belt fighting footage alone. (Belt 

fighting is just that. Take off your shirt, hold the buckle in your hand, and 

start swinging. It devolves into plantation-style whippings. Billy D4 to 

someone: “You’re not bleeding… bad.”) It’s all rough and tumble 

footage, but it’s all clear and clearly done by fans of the bands. If you 

poke around long enough on the DVD, there are lots of in-between candid 

shots – like tops-sawn-off Coke cans that hold beers on the driver’s 

console of Rivethead’s van along with their fucking with the Julianna 

Theory’s merch guy – and live performances by three of my favorite 

bands. Highlights are many. Here are a few. Rivethead play in front of a 

gigantic stained glass window that no one falls through. There’s a danceremix 

video of their drummer, Half Pint, dancing with his dog. Todd, of 

Toys That Kill, in his Crazy Larry alter ego, plays in a white trash bag. 

Sean Cole demonstrates proper form for dumpster diving, and bassist 

Chachi gets a royalty check for wearing a Razorcake t-shirt on stage. 

That translates into a beer or two, at least. You can also hear what Mary 

J. Blige taught Paddy of Dillinger Four. While being let in on his urinal 

confessionals, Paddy also makes new friends in the bathroom. My only 

warning with the DVD is that, although I didn’t hold up a stopwatch to 

it, about half of the material is hidden and some of it will seriously fuck 

with your DVD player so you’ll have to get up and eject it. I’ve had it 

for six months and just found a hidden Hot Carl audio track. 

Monkeywrench “street team”/ “pro gear, pro attitude” punk rock 

and order this one direct. –Todd (Nate Gangelhoff, PO Box 

8995, Minneapolis, MN 55408; zerooverhead@hotmail.com)

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