A HANDFUL OF DUST (ie. some musical reviews)

WOMEN IN PRISON "Strange Waves" 7" EP

Hey all of you heavy-hitting punk collectors out there, I got some news for that ass: Great punk records are still being made! I know, crazy, right? Here (along with that Lognhal… platter) is one of the best of recent memory. Straight-up raging scuzz-punk from Austin TX. This here 45 contains three of the world-beaters from their six-song demo that came out last year. I thought “Suicidal Exit” was the hit, but it’s not to be found here. Doesn’t matter cuz these guys got songs for days. Yeah, they actually remembered to write some! I, for one, appreciate that kind of forethought. This is what this record sounds like: Your cool friends just spontaneously formed a band, they’re bursting with a couple ideas, they get a case of beer, they go down to the basement (I know it’s Austin but bear with me), they turn on the old dust-covered PA, the one from the Seventies, the one with the sick reverb that’s got presence and depth unlike these goddamn tinny pedals of today; they crank the guitars up to a nice Saints-like roar, and as the drummer deals with the fact that the drum kit is a piece of shit, a reverse pride starts forming as a matter of fact. “I’m gonna make this pile of junk sound good,” he thinks. They start playing. You are three floors up, reading a book about autoerotic asphyxiation, slowly squeezing a lemon, when you realize that the distant thunder you feel shaking the house is actually the dudes downstairs and they are fucking killing it. “Strange Waves” makes you wanna freak out, fuck anything that moves, then snort it up your nose, hell shove it up your fucking ass. A lightning bolt hits you: “My dumb-ass friends are the best punk band in the city, the state, maybe even the whole country….?!”(EEK) (HozAc Records // www.hozacrecords.com)

SPERM WAILS “Lady Chatterley” b/w “Mr Wonderful” 7”

Anyone who is hip to the Sperm Wails knows that it’s a goddamn tragedy that they didn’t release more material. I don’t care if they toured with My Bloody Valentine, I don’t care if they personally rolled Kevin Shields’ spliffs every night, I don’t care if they wore their mums’ knickers when she went to church on Sunday mornings, I don’t care if they diddled dogs’ assholes with their tongues, I JUST WISH THEY HAD PUT OUR MORE SHIT. A 12”, a 7”, a flexi (hey it was the ‘80s), that’s it! Argh!! They had a modest legacy of being a relatively forgotten great band that time forgot, until five years ago, when a video from the Shelter Video Compilation (whatever the hell that is) was posted on YouTube. The video was for a song called “Lady Chatterley,” that didn’t appear on any of their records, and was perhaps their most vicious song (and this is a vicious band). The video seemed to hint at dark and terrible things, while the music sounded like Pussy Galore stripped of everything but the hate and yeah fuck the blues, we got plenty of depression and spite to draw from. A small-scale web sensation for fucked-up losers clued into such things. Enter S-S Records, beloved label of those same FUL, and now this song finally feels the kiss of wax. “Mr Wonderful” is a throwaway, a dalliance, but who cares when you’ve got that song on a little 45 rpm single. What is “Lady Chatterley” like? As scissorkicks comments on the youtube: “This song makes me want to smash everything ever.”  [S-S]

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GjZ-rOWiQHM&feature=related

LOGNHALSMOTTAGNINGEN  Fina Nyanser I Nya Finanser 7” EP

Holy fuck, this record. I’m tempted to do one of those ultra-obnoxious “This is what punk should sound like” spiels, but I’ll spare us both and just say that This is what punk should fucking sound like. I have no clue what they’re saying and I have no idea how to pronounce their name, but I do know that the drums are recorded so perfectly it makes me want to cry. The snare just thwacks you in the face with every hit, the bass has a great gnarly, dirty, but not too distorted, tone, and the guitar coats it all in a glorious sheen of treble. The singer rants just right and I dunno, it’s just really goddamn good. The only thing I can make out on the insert is that they lift a “melody” from the Young Identities’ “Positive Thinking.” Hey, great artists steal. But it’s “Nya Lognhalsar” on the B-side that makes me want to jump off a building in pure ecstasy. I swear it’s one of the best punk songs of the last few years. The weird thing is one of these dudes was in Boyracer or something? There’s a Slumberland connect. I love this record. Buy it.  [Local Cross]

SCARCITY OF TANKS  Bleed Now CD

Scarcity of Tanks is the ongoing concern of Matthew Ming Shank Wascovich, a reclusive poet perched on the shores of Lake Erie.  Despite his playfully anti-social tendencies, “Wasco” has managed to rope many a talented Cleave musician (and sometimes beyond) into his free-rock band, flirting with noise, jazz, and the more avant-garde offshoots of hardcore punk. 2008’s No Endowments brought all of these disparate factors together in a satisfying long-player. Bleed Now finds the group as close to a “normal” rock band as they have been yet, maintaining a relatively solid line-up and playing shows on a consistent basis. The album storms out with “August,” establishing the template, as Wasco declares his lyrics over Ted Flynn’s guitar, which peels off new directions in Classic rock shred, like Joe Baiza raised on The James Gang. The rhythm section is all muscular throb, bassist Sebastian Wagner occasionally finding the hidden melodies beneath the avant-thrum (like on “Cardboard”); the drums are in the capable hands of journeyman Clevo skinsman (and painter), Scott Pickering, Puff Tube himself, member of bands ranging from Spike in Vain to Speaker/Cranker. At the mid-century mark, he still pounds harder than kids a third his age. The man is a rock.

Not content with just monotoning his abstract lyrics, Wasco sings more on this release than ever before. “Requisite Fire” has a meditative Lungfish serenity, which is blown apart by the hardcore gallop of “Melt Dove Miles.” SoT has gone through some interesting transformations over the years, but this newest version may be the best yet. On Bleed Now, they come across like some sort of mutant post-punk avant-garage Jim Carroll Band, sans the Catholic guilt, instead a heaping pile of Rust Belt blues on their plates.  [Total Life Society/Textile]

SLEETMUTE NIGHTMUTE Night of Long Lives LP

Recorded back in 2003, and quickly vanishing into a haze of on-again/off-again possible release (mostly through that notorious scene-hopping label par excellance, Troubleman Unlimited), this legendary (to a certain scene of people at least) album finally sees a proper burial via Gossip guitarist Nathan Howdeshell’s new-ish label, Fast Weapons. The Portland group was a No Wave nightmare, a post-hardcore/math rock MARS, chops to burn, especially the drummer, who executes some truly sick rolls, and alternately pleading and pestering vocals. “INTERFERENCE….B&B Girls” is nearly 6 minutes of relentless No Wave pounding, stripped of all the gimmickry of the majority of Skin Graft bands, leaving the song itself lying in the street, a naked, mutilated corpse. “Scaring the Birds…Don’t Speak My Name” sounds like what you always thought acid rain felt like. This is dark stuff, confronting the more uncomfortable aspects of flesh and its desires, similar to the body horror expressed by contemporaries like early Chromatics and Shoplifting. The slash-and-burn attack of The Scissor Girls (and even Bride of NoNo) comes to mind, but Sleetmute Nightmute shows no sense of humor, instead clamoring forth with an intensity and focus rarely seen in today’s underground. The musical dexterity is off-set by the palpable anxiety and despair. It’s certainly not a fun listen, but I find myself continuously returning to the album, surrendering to the corrosive sheets of guitar and agonized vocals, but most especially those drums, which sound genuinely pained. Despite all the emotional turmoil in these songs, it makes me happy to see this lost slice of early Ought noise is finally out there for the general public.  [Fast Weapons//fastweapons.com]
 

CIRCLE X  Untitled 12” EP

Praise be to the holy god of Nihilism that this monumental slab of No Wave/proto-noise rock is finally once again available in the preferred format, 12” vinyl. Originally released in France back in 1979, reissued on CD in 1996 via Dave Grubbs’ short-lived Dexter’s Cigar imprint, and now, once again, courtesy of Insolito, this 4 song masterpiece is out there roaming the dirty streets looking for kicks, and maybe to get kicked. It’s truly remarkable how contemporary this sounds, yet it is so utterly of-its-time. An additional paradox is how absolutely filthy ‘70s New York it comes across, yet it was written and recorded in France. Opening with the closest they get to a traditional rock song, “Tender” has a guitar line that predicts The Pixies ten years early, punctuated by perfectly-placed feedback breaks. Tony Pinotti’s anguished vocals complement the gradually-disintegrating track with maniacal shrieks to “Bow to me!” “Albeit Living” begins with layered voices reciting a brief poem then dives head-first into an abyss of near-hardcore velocities and eviscerated guitar entrails. “Onward Christian Soldier” is a dirge that plows endlessly forward, an awful invitation to a pointless slaughter; almost like a Black Sabbath song cut adrift from blues and groove, a post-“War Pigs” trudge towards annihilation. “Underworld” starts off prefiguring the violent hardcore poetry of Antioch Arrow and interrupts with mournful breaks before savagely ending just as you are getting a handle on the cacophony presented to you. It is a breathless listen, and it is highly recommended.  [Insolito]

PUFFY AREOLAS  Funk Your Head Up cassette

Like, say, Monoshock before them, Puffy Areolas are the premier psych-punk heavy-skronk noise-blasted rock n’ roll ensemble of their time. There’s (parking) lots of pretenders out there, but I’d like to see any of these new-jacks match the Puffys in either drug use or wah-overload. This 5 song off-the-cuff tour tape seems like a bit of a check-in, songs in progress, and just an excuse to make some more noise and weirdness. “1982” is a scorcher; is Damon referencing one of the prime years of hardcore (the cut is short and fast), or is that the year he was born? I dunno, it rules tho. “Gentlemen’s Grip” killed live, but here it’s a little too blown-out, it really is hard to discern what’s really going on under the mess of in-the-red cymbal hammering and slobbery vocals. Let’s hope this one shows up on a proper release with a better recording.  Side 2 leads off with an untitled jam that shows potential, a sludgy riff  straight from the ‘70s is down there somewhere, waiting to lumber out of its pen.

“Funk Your Head Up” is prime Areola, a basement Hawkwind smoke-out that could last for days.  [self-released]

VAZ  Chartreuse Bull cassette

Vaz has been around for well over a decade now. In that time, they have released many records, become somewhat of a low-key Brooklyn institution, and had many auxiliary members, but the duo of Paul Erickson (guitar/vox) and Jeff Mooridian (drums) still keeps plugging away. On this long-gestating full-length they are joined by second guitarist Tyler, and even though I wish Erickson would return to the bass (which he handled so well in Hammerhead), between the two they make up for most of the bottom end not filled by Mooridian’s still-powerful and inventive drumming. Vaz is all about relentless, mutated hardcore riffs twisted into oddly-melodic shapes, capped by Erickson’s haunted wail. He kinda sounds like someone who went insane in an encounter with a Great Old One, and he’s returned to warn you of the cosmic horrors that await. Lovecraftian hardcore? How did the Mysterious guys miss that one? Anyway, it’s impressive that Vaz can still sculpt new shapes out of their formula, and they have a sound that’s not easy to mimic, which seems in rare supply these days. There’s nothing here that they haven’t done just as well, as on, say, 2003’s Dying to Meet You, but it’s a strong document, and deserves to graduate from the tape format.  [Damage Rituals]

 VOMIT SQUAD  “Amon Ra Bless America” LP

Puke punk by Mon’ Ree-all all-scars Choyce V., K. A. Khan, D. Fuckin’ Marx, and some guy named Dick Ritalin. Stoopid Red Cross vibes ooze all over this sumbitch; it’s catchy and sloppy and might lower your IQ a few dozen points, but do you listen to punk rock music to get smarter? (I do, sometimes, but I’m an idiot) My favorite thing about this is how some of the songs (“Rapture Gun” “Howard Ruark”) almost sound like The Fugs. The chorus of “ABCDEFG” goes “ABCDEFG FUCK YOU,” which pretty much says it all. [Psychic Handshake]

THE SLUGFUCKERS  “Three Feet Behind Glass + Instant Classic” LP

The Fuckers of Slugs practically wrote this review for me. Contained within the thick-ass record jacket, in true Dada fashion, is a manifesto. It trumps any references to Down’s Syndrome PiL, Psychedelic Horseshit in a particularly foul mood, or even merely typing the names People With Chairs Up Their Noses or Makers of the Dead Travel Fast.

CONCEPTUAL OPACITY – AN ABBERRANT MUSIC: The Slugfuckers’ Test of Musical (Dis)Taste [a selection]: “This band is one big joke, one endless experiment, one eternal orgasmic wank, one in TERMINabLe BORE.” “…our only recourse is to be anti-music, therefore pro-noise.” “The audience as beggar.” “The music is just an excuse.” “…better than eating or sex sometimes.” “The sound of stoppage and breakdown.” “We spray it all back at you.” “You dose yourself with mucus, booze, and downers…”

They almost break the spew/spell with a list of “friends and heroes” that includes SPK, N-Lets (who?), TG, Pere Ubu, Lee Harvey Oswald, ATV, The Pop Group, Yippies, Tristan Tzara, Luigi Russolo, etc. But the “CRAZYMIX, SCAPDASH” rant continues, and concludes with a threat of an invitation: “We advise you to keep away. We want to pulverize you with our maniacal love squeeze, hot tears up your cunt, shove spiders up your prick, force hedgehogs up your nose: We want you to feel like us and die. Throw away your strings.” [Insolito]

LOS LLAMARADA “The Restless Light” 7”

This band perplexes me. I thought they were fantastic live a few years ago, but their records never quite get there, that place they found in a dark moist basement of a bar.

This single is a perfect example. The A-side is a formless rant that never quite coalesces into anything very interesting, because of, or despite of, its murkiness. You decide, who cares. The flip sounds like a really drunk bar band barely jamming on a blues riff going nowhere. I feel like this is a good band, but you wouldn’t know it judging by most of their records. I’m waiting for that next moment… [S-S]

HUMAN EYE/SEX BEET split 7”

There’s plenty of talk on “the Scion issue” spread amongst various forms of readily available media, so let’s skip that and address the music itself. Human Eye’s side was recorded by Ivan Julian (Voidoids) and he’s got a nice touch, softening the Eye up a bit for their take on Timmy’s “Martian Queen.” It works. You can hear early Alice Cooper band in the rolling drums and melodic psych guitar action. Somehow these guys can take that in-bred Detroit influence and twist it into something fresh.

Sex Beet, on the other hand, seem completely out of place on the flipside. Their tune, “Alone,” (and it really is a “tune”) is a pleasant enough slice of catchy, vaguely psych, pop, but, really, what’s the point? You’ve got to try a lot harder if you’re gonna be on a split with HE. Saves the trouble of turning the record over, I guess. [Scion]

BLACK CONGRESS  “Slums of Heaven”/”Defeated” & “London’s Burning”/”Davidians” 7”

Black Congress are a Houston TX rock unit made up of some former Fatal Flyin’ Guilloteens and who knows what else. What I do know is they bring some heavy punk, unafraid to grind out hypnotic riffs with all manner of keyboard/sample noise adding to the din. “Slums of Heaven” almost gets into Loop territory, a rainy day bass-heavy dirge.

You’d probably be happy to know that “London’s Burning” is not a Clash cover, but maybe less pleased with it’s rather pedestrian ‘90s post-hardcore vibe. I think it’s the unnecessarily distorted vocals, but the song itself never communicates the rage it’s attempting to channel. “Davidians” is better, circular bass groove and random noises adding some depth to the proceedings. I just realized how much this sounds like Slug (esp. the vocals), but without the latter’s, shall we say, charm. With a little more focus, Black Congress could be a deadly force. I really dig the black-and-white photo aesthetic they’ve got going on with the sleeves of these two self-released singles. Rumor has it that AmRep is gearing up again, and maybe we’ll be hearing more from these guys via those guys. [self-released; no info!]

ZULUS 4 song 7” EP

Zulus are a Brooklyn combo with a core of Oakland transplants, ex-Battleshipmen Aleks and Daniel. Aleks steps behind the drum kit but still provides his special brand of hectoring vocals; Daniel hasn’t lost a step on playing oddly catchy sharp riffs that both pummel and bite, like on “Blackout” where a snippet of a “trad” blues lick pokes its head out at just the right moments. Some of the pounding on here recalls the best of the Hospitals oeuvre’, like if the Gories got real pissed off and real stoned. This bad boy is self-released and hand-packaged and it’s rock-solid. Scoop it. [Wizard Mountain]

[most of these reviews originally published on Terminal Boredom]

YOU WEREN'T THERE: A History of Chicago Punk 1977 - 1984

This is my desire, but it is also a question. I scream it to the heavens in barren fields, I mutter it to strangers on the train, I fever-speak it during sweat-soaked nights tossing and turning in my bed, I whisper it to ghosts in abandoned factories.

“WHY CAN’T EVERY PUNK SCENE HAVE A DOCUMENTARY LIKE THIS ONE?”

Think about it. Keeping it to just the good ol’ US of A, we have several major punk scenes. You’ve got yer LA, yer DC, yer NYC, yer SF, hell, even Boston and…..Reno?! Detroit, Austin, etc. And they all deserve a well-researched, meticulously-sourced, engaging, informative, and, above all, FUN documentary. A cinematic Please Kill Me or We Got the Neutron Bomb made by punks for punks, covering shit punks care about. You Weren’t There is that documentary, and it is about one of my personal fave US punk scenes: Chicago. The City of Big Shoulders, where bands were forged from bitterly cold winters; bands who approached punk like factory workers, head down, total concentration, no flash, just power, speed, and pride in a job well done.

But they weren’t humorless, quite the opposite, as we find out in this professional feature-length documentary. This isn’t some hack job by a former scenester with an axe to grind. This is an exhaustively researched film that puts you right in the thick of late 70s/early 80s Chi-town, with all the punks, freaks, fags, jocks, cops, drug dealers, bottom-feeders, and corrupt civil officials that populated the cityscape.

It’s a blast.

The movie opens with your typical scene-setting “Punk was for weirdos and everybody hated us and wanted to kill us” spiel. “Devo” and “faggot” being the preferred insults that close-minded Midwestern good ol’ boys threw at the bold new punks. But they found their safe spots quick. First at La Mere Vipere, then O’Banion’s, Oz, EXIT, etc…..

One of the astonishing things about this doc is the sheer amount of still photos dug up. You’ve seen all the DC and LA photos ad nauseum, but most of these Chicago pics are new to these eyes, and they are full of wild-looking punks and weirdos. Lots of fabulous art-damaged outfits are on display, thrusting you right into the dark dank drug-fueled nightclubs that were the havens for these freaks. La Mere even had a punk fashion show in ’77. Talk of MDMA, coke, hallucinogens, and poppers pepper stories of naked dancing, fucking in the shadows, and trannie bathroom hijinks. Sounds like a blast, you say? I agree, but apparently the Chicago police did not, and one day, La Mere burned to the ground, a victim of arson; most people agree that the cops themselves were the culprits. They hated the place. As well they should. It wasn’t for them.

Yes, this is what we want out of a punk doc. The stage is set, you have some idea of what’s coming next, but then it comes barreling into you – the Chicago punk scene, no longer in the shadows, full speed ahead.

Tutu & The Pirates! Proto-punk weirdness; hard rock dudes hooked on speed, Coop, and Zappa. They had a burning urge to take the piss out of everything (an excruciating STD piss).  Incredibly, a bunch of live footage survived and you can thrill to Tutu rocking thru “I Wanna Be a Janitor,” gazing in awe at the toilet seat bass they built. Ridiculous costumes and lunk-headed rock n’ roll, like The Dictators if they dropped the Noo Yawk attitude and were down with queers.

Then there was the completely art-fucked half-assed Silver Abuse, brainchild of Santiago Durango, future lawyer and Naked Raygun/Big Black guitarist. If Tutu & the Pirates were designed to make you laugh/feel slightly icky, Silver Abuse’s main intent seemed to be to purely piss people off, as evidenced by early cut “All Jews Must Die” (which they recycled into the considerably more light-hearted “Dogs Have Fun” after getting threatened a few too many times).  We get the feeling that the early Chicago scene was a bit wacky, trying its hand at being offensive, as any growing child should.

And then along came the Mentally Ill. According to Steve Albini, their “Gacy’s Place” 45 is “like the greatest record ever;” he says that about a lot of records, but in this case he may just be right. You can’t argue with the sheer outrageousness of both the Mentally Ill’s subject matter and their one-of-a-kind sound; dying vacuum cleaner as guitar, sleazy rubber-band bass, clattering drums, and those anguished, strangled vocals. When you listen to their records, you imagine the most cretinous, pin-headed mongoloids Illinois has to offer, but in their talking head segment, two of the members appear surprisingly well-adjusted, almost yuppie-ish even. But they still get delight out of offending anyone in spitting distance. They even claim they sent the “Gacy’s Place” 7” to the White House, and Mr. Gacy himself, who said the record was “sick.” Now that’s victory.

As we get deeper into the doc, we are presented with the building blocks of a real scene. Radio shows with punk celeb station IDs (“I’m Lux Interior and I’m here with your mother”), and, perhaps most importantly, the opening of Wax Trax, the ultimate Chicago record store (before it’s descent into full-on industrial EBM muzak).

And then, for a Chicago punk fan(atic), the real meat gets served. The Way-Outs, post-Silver Abuse, a goofy hybrid of surf (on Lake Superior??) and art-punk at hardcore song length (“Our set was 26 songs in just over 30 minutes.”), perhaps inspired by Wire, a major influence on the Chicago scene. The Way-Outs most significant contribution was Camilo Gonzales’ “Surf Combat,” which became something of a Chicago standard. Later performed, of course, by Naked Raygun (originally Negro Commando), one of the heavy-hitters of the emerging scene.

Just seeing the photo of a pre-Raygun Jeff Pezzati, 10-inch white fro and leopard-print spandex in full effect, is worth watching this entire flick. Pezzati quits his “suburban metal” band, Condor, and joins up with this pack of jokers who are in several open-door bands at once, forming their own mini-scene (NR, SA, Way-Outs, Toothpaste [who?]). All the bands did their own version of Raygun staple, “Bombshelter,” much like every band in the DC scene did their own version of “Stepping Stone.”

If you’re only familiar with the more well-known Throb Throb and onward Naked Raygun, then some of this early footage and audio may surprise (and delight) you. They were a bizarre amalgam of tribal rhythms, rockabilly heps and hair-dos, gang choruses, twisted art spasms, and post-apocalyptic humor with a curious pulp fiction/comic book angle. Durango explicitly states that Raygun were trying to create a unique sound, “a Chicago sound.” And to this day, there is nothing quite like early Naked Raygun, “Italian surf art-punk,” as a guy from Rights of Accused says.

After the torching of La Mere, Chicago punks found a new home base at O’Banion’s, a gay leather bar in a seedy part of town. As Pezzati says, “It made for a lively atmosphere.” These are the roots of any great scene.  But all the scenesters remember are endless fights (“375 fights in 2 and a half years,” claims one guy who worked there) as hardcore began to ascend (a Minor Threat/Youth Brigade/Necros flyer is spotted).

The scene moved to OZ, another gay bar. The uneasy alliance between Chicago’s underground gay community and the emerging hardcore punk crowd is one of the more fascinating aspects of the Chicago scene. OZ owner Dem Hopkins, not a beloved figure of the gay community already, became even more hated when he decided to turn it into a punk bar. The cops got in on the hate-wave and jailed Hopkins 20 times in 18 months. Did Hopkins give up? Hell no, he found another location and the scene started exploding.

Enter Strike Under. A key component in the early 80s Chicago scene, everyone agrees that Strike Under were an intense band, “steely” even. Hard/fast/tight. Assembly workers bearing down on their machines, stream-lined, economical, but not cold, not without emotion, it’s like they were preparing for battle. There’s some really wonderful, rather excellent-sounding (fortunately people were also busy documenting the scene, which pays dividends for the purpose of this documentary) footage of Strike Under and Naked Raygun playing in a loft in 1981. Punks are pogo-ing like mad to “Elephant’s Graveyard” (on the first ever Wax Trax record, a 4-song 12” EP called Immediate Action that could really use a reissue ). Singer Steve Bjorklund sounds like a mercenary who has been in desperate situations and lived to tell the tale. One member of Rights of the Accused says that they were the first “dangerous-sounding” band he had seen. Hard as nails. Gritty. Like Chicago.

Then came The Effigies. All muscle and menace, the other punks were genuinely scared of the tough-looking crew. Chicago pride, (as evidenced by their logo, which is the emblem of the CPD) mixed with contempt for the people who used the city for their own ends, made for a potent mix of serious music about serious issues. But they weren’t the usual cliché’d anti-war or world starvation sentiments, they were much closer to home, addressing situations that affected the audience directly. “Mob Clash” “Quota” “Haunted Town.” A refreshing take on the flawed “Save the world” mentality of a lot of hardcore, and something that echoes the local-concern angle of much of the British punk that was such an influence on The Effigies. Bands like The Ruts and Sham 69 provided a core sound that was expanded by the apocalyptic power of Killing Joke and the experimentation of The Pop Group. In a live clip from OZ, Effigies are playing their most well-known song, from their first single, “Body Bag,” and they sound like a jet engine. “Scary good,” says Pezzati. “Below the Drop” and “Boxed In” sound monumental, a new kind of rock beyond hardcore, post-punk, or heavy metal.

There was now a very solid Chicago scene, but the cops weren’t having it. They resented punks wearing the Chicago flag, and they harassed them endlessly. Luckily there was OZ, the freak-show bar that every punk scene dreams about. Hopkins tells a great story about a brawl that ended with his staff throwing a pack of neo-Nazis through the front plate-glass window, which allowed him to board it up and finally turn OZ into a true bombshelter.

The day Hopkins gets his liquor license, the cops raid the place and arrest him. Around the same time, out in Orange County, there are huge punk vs. police riots at Black Flag shows. Punk is seen as a growing social menace, a generation of pissed-off jacked-up kids, eager to smash some baby-boomer smugness. Everything is not alright. OZ had one last crazy hurrah, a 3 day bender of a show, that was recorded and resulted in the classic (and finally reissued) Busted at Oz comp, featuring the major players on the scene (Effigies/Naked Raygun/Strike Under/DA/Silver Abuse/Subverts).

The Subverts were kids from the suburbs who had a powerful, melodic, classic UK-influenced style, that still managed to sound almost hardcore. Their live footage is infectious.

DA was a ponderous mixed-gender art rock band that leaned towards the dark, spare post-punk of early Cure. They couldn’t find a home anywhere, so the punks adopted them, and they became one of the bigger bands on the scene, partly because their music was more accessible and had a pan-subcultural feel. They appealed to new wavers and goths as well punks.

OZ was done, but Wax Trax put out the Strike Under 12” EP, helping to legitimize the Chicago scene. Then Strike Under went down in a blaze of glory, the Bjorklund brothers fighting on-stage and off. 

Let’s take a breather from all of this history, and draw your attention to the expertly-synced music/photo/flyer(best show? maybe Dead Kennedys/Effigies/Strike Under/Husker Du/Naked Raygun)/talking head montage unfolding before your eyes. It’s a pleasure to watch this movie. There is a subtle, forward-moving narrative at play. For instance, Donahue Show footage of hysterical moms and zit-ridden punk kids arguing about the merits or non-merits of this music/lifestyle they have adopted. This music and these people were strange. They didn’t want to be your friend.

But Articles of Faith wanted to be your friend, maybe even your Dad, or principal. “A punk rock Bruce Springsteen,” says one guy. Vic Bondi is a divisive figure in the history of Chicago hardcore. Heavily influenced by the DC scene, AoF were faster than any band on the scene yet. They imported the blazing speed and proto-youth-crew pile-ups of a Minor Threat show, but they also incorporated dexterous musicianship into their sound, presenting off-beat rhythms and jazzy touches.

(Basically, they invented Ebullition Records.)

There’s some really great shit-talking in this doc. The Effigies and Articles of Faith had a vague rivalry that still resonates, with the Effigies accusing Bondi of fanning a nonexistent flame, yet here they are, 25 years later, still bitching about it. I love it. Punks are petty too.

Bondi and Albini are still squabbling like little brats. One of the chapters is even titled ‘Bondi vs. Albini.’ Bondi still seems hurt by some statements Albini made a quarter of century ago. But, in the present, Albini breaks down exactly why he thinks Articles of Faith sucks, and its fairly brutal. Bondi expresses regret at not kicking Albini’s ass at the Central American Social Club, where AoF booked many a great hardcore show. He even goes so far as to challenge him to “many rounds” in the here and now. I would pay to see that! Rollins always wanted to kick Albini’s ass too. I suspect the rail-thin Albini possesses some sort of Dim Mak-ian death-touch.

It would be disingenuous to pretend you don’t want to hear some gossip. C’mon, who you foolin’? We all know that’s the best part of American Hardcore.

Speaking of hardcore, 1983 rolls around and you’ve got the little-known Savage Beliefs playing a way-ahead-of-their-time (more than 5 years, at least) hybrid of hardcore and garage punk. Featuring a former Government Issue guitarist and a future Big Black-er, Savage Beliefs only managed to release one 7”, but there is allegedly a documentary they made, with their own soundtrack, and most likely that’s the snippet you see here. An intriguing band.

It’s ’83 and Chicago is swept up in the nationwide hardcore punk craze, but notable names from this time are a little harder to come by. There was the goofy youthcore of Rights of the Accused, teenage punk fans who formed a band and possibly predicted the bumper-sticker fad of the 90s with their “hit, “Mean People Suck.” In the modern-day segments, they still seem like fun guys. Negative Element were also one of the more well-known teen hardcore bands.

In the midst of all these over-flowing hormones, you had the deconstructed noise rock of End Result, drumless punk seething with hatred and warped sonics.

On the opposite end of that spectrum, you had the pre-Old Skull shenanigans of Verboten, a kiddie punk band that managed to find themselves on stage with the big boys. The footage from their TV appearance is, uhh, interesting. Sort of.

That old saw about the death of hardcore and punk in the mid-80s, via jock mentalities and rote genre trappings, gets aired here, but with a wink; the old guard knew they had gotten old.

Besides, Naked Raygun was peaking, Big Black was capturing some sort of subcultural zeitgeist with their abrasive drum machine-led sound that perhaps captures the post-industrial dread of the Midwest better than anybody has before or since. And Steve Bjorklund was just getting his criminally underrated Breaking Circus together, synthesizing various strains of post-punk into a new kind of Midwestern rock. The Effigies were on a similar path, but weren’t able to capture the power and excitement of their earlier recordings.

Documentaries of this nature can seem a bit redundant in this age of YouTube, where even the rarest of videos and live footage eventually finds itself on the ‘net. But it takes real care, attention, and artistry to present it in such a thorough, engaging, entertaining manner. This movie will educate you on the ins and outs of the early Chicago punk scene, while keeping you enthralled on the way. At over 2 hours, the directors didn’t skimp on anything. It’s an all-out blitz of should-be-textbook punk documentary film-making. Most of all, it makes you wanna listen to the records, and what better reaction can you hope for, when it’s all said and done.

WE ARE ALL PROSTITUTES

Bandcamp!

freefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefreefree

GOLDEN ERROR

http://goldenerror.bandcamp.com/


TOKYO STORM WARNING

http://tokyostormwarning1.bandcamp.com/


SOPHIE MOL

http://sophiemol.bandcamp.com/album/bikes-bands-booze-boys

some old poesy

      Shiver

• I greet your ghost
  smiling
  each day
  
  To think of you
  as a ghost
  is to disregard the reality
  that you are alive
  
  You will outlive me
  Yet
  I shiver
  in anticipation
  of your death
  
  Then
  I smile at your ghost
  Wave
  a hand in the air
  to dissipate
  YO U
  Destroy the moment
  Yes
  Say "moment"
  Say "immobile"
  Say "In movement I am torment"
  Say
  a fucking word that guarantees
  FUTURE
  A leaving
  
  Each day
  a leaving
  a greeting
  a wave
  
  Cities far away
  Grind at the thought of you
  
  
 

• Kids Stay Free!

  in the projects
  this girl
  head stuck out the window
  on the first
  nice new day of spring
  looks around like --
  "this shit ain't my fault
  but maybe I can fix it"
  she redeems this ugliness
  with pure presence
  
  three days ago
  she had a wicked cold
  nose dripping like the leaky faucet
  in the bathroom
  drop drop drop
  but you can't take a wrench to your neck
  and twist --------
  
  so she was resigned to it
  the sniffling and gurgling and aching chain
  that was this winter
  the endless stream of barely edible Chinese food
  her mother brought home from work nearly
  every goddamn day
  but her mother was a lousy cook
  and they both knew it
  so she didn't complain much
  
  she had forgotten what people
  looked like underneath the layers
  of clothes they wore
  she remembered thinking that people were lying
  that they didn't really have bodies
  that they didn't even exist
  she would think this about herself, but then
  concluded that she must be real
  because who has ever had thoughts like these before?
  
  she remembers her mother
  drunk in the living room
  rifling through boxes of memories
  telling her through a curtain of tears
  and snot ---
  "Don't ever trust a man, baby. They'll fuck you
  over sooner than later. I'm sick of being fucked over.
  Do you hear me, baby? I'm sick of being fucked over!"
  
  she just stood there and watched her mother cry
  
  even then she knew
  her mother asked for it
  secretly yearned for it
  sought it out like a divining rod
  
  

CAN'T STAND THE MIDWEST

Bleary-eyed, I'm up and out the door way earlier than usual, but that's OK, cuz the headphones are rocking Lizzie Mercier Descloux's early 80s avant dance cover of "Fire," and I can't help but think that, in a perfect world, this track would be sandwiched between Sexual Harassment's "If I Gave You a Party" and The Slits' "In The Beginning" on the universal radio station that was available all over the planet. Well, I ain't on Sirius, but I intend on rectifying this on my radio show after I return.

It's finally gotten cold here in the Cleave and, as I walk to the train, I wonder why I didn't throw some long-john bottoms into my backpack. Whoever heard of taking a vacation to Milwaukee? In the deadtime of late winter, colder climes seem like a raw deal. Especially when most everything you own is ripped. It's okay to indulge in the most mundane of ironies, particularly when they make you out to be a jack-ass. This thought occurs after running into Rafeeq at the makeshift cathedral that is the West 25th Rapid Station. He was going the other way, East, to teach. After hearing where I am headed, he asks, "Are you gonna buy a new jacket there?" Looking down at the blue corduroy jacket, seams split asunder, I think, "Yeah, that's a really good idea," but I just laugh and say, "Fuck no." Hell, it really did have a little more life left in it. So sue me if I get attached to random articles of clothing and think of them as if they were alive. Maybe that's a little strange, but there's some kid out there right now buying $800-a-piece rims for his car, and I know a kid like that, and I don't know how it's related, but you can have your rims if I can wear these rags. But, in the end, it wasn't the jacket that failed me; it was the pants.

There's a loose plan formulated in my mind. It goes something like this: Fly to Chicago, hook up with some friends, go see a show, maybe meet some people who are only names on a screen. Next day, head up to Milwaukee somehow someway, go see a show, actually two shows, meet some more faceless persons, possibly stay in Milwaukee hanging out and maybe seeing Ahia pals We March w/ Holy Shit!, then back to Chicago and fly back home. Why? Saw some good shows were happening, wanted out of town, not totally broke, and, well, why the fuck not? Just the fact that above, this was referred to as a vacation, says something, as I usually loathe the term. When I periodically travel, usually for weeks at a time, I somewhat obnoxiously correct people when they refer to it as a "vacation." "No, I'm traveling," I'll practically sneer. Vacation implies tourist which implies innocence and stupidity which implies easy target ("I hate tourists/tourists suck..."). But this seemed like a vacation. A cold and drunken vacation.

I'm in Chicago by noon, squinting at mid-afternoon sun-peeks through the stunning examples of Midwest cloud formations hovering above the city. Chicago. Only Los Angeles can compare to its vast suburban mega-sprawl glory. If LA is our country's ultimate living glitzy mall community, then Chicago is the strip mall down the road, cheaper stores but the goods are fine. Previous time spent here can be whittled down to a layover on a cross-country Amtrak sojourn and a few shows, Wire and Ex/Shellac/Fugazi. I jump on the El, and goddamn is it chilly up there waiting for that motherfucker. Gimme the piss-stink subways of New York anyday. But then again, the spring/summer is probably glorious in its elevation, as opposed to sweating it out with the rats down in the tunnels.

Via a bus and a newly-purchased pre-paid cellular phone (first phone of any kind within my reach for over two years!) I manage to meet my pal Sam on the street near his place. Sam is a very smart kid and excellent musician, who, at the tender age of 19, had already experienced quite a bit of the undie rock scene and he's all the better for it. He'll probably be a working musician with a semi-profitable band by the time he's 23, if not sooner. And that's no dis. He's just good and he's got great taste, partly cuz he listens to me (heh heh). Sam's from Cleveland, but he's in Chicago going, barely, to school. And I know the kid likes to get fucked up, but I'm still unprepared for the first thing out of his mouth; "Hey, you wanna get some whiskey?" Well, goddamn if I can argue with that logic, so off to the corner store we go to procure a bottle of Jameson. The easy availability of liquor in this town is a reason to celebrate, as Ohio is filled with asinine old Christian laws prohibiting the sale of hard liquor to only a few spots per district and also to ridiculous times that no alcoholic finds appealing. So armed, we head to his apartment where a half drank bottle of Jim Beam also awaits.

 

Back at Sam's, me and his roommate Ben and another visitor from Ohio (Columbus), Andy, get down to a few hours of record-listening and dope-smoking and liquor-quaffing like it was our job, and, really, shouldn't it be? We're pretty good at it. Hours later, I'm drunk as shit, but I must go. There's the Functional Blackout record release show waiting for me, after all. Also on the bill is Jay Reatard's new gig, Angry Angles, Milwaukee's Monitors, and New Orleans' Die Rotzz. I've got scrawled directions to The Subterranean courtesy of Sam, but before I leave I'm already thinking I'll fuck 'em up, and, sure as shit, I do. At some point I get on the wrong train, but it's alright, I'm trashed and I figure I'll just walk. I start walking down a major road, heading in what I think is the right direction, but it's getting late and I wanna get to the show, so I flag down a cab which is like conceding defeat, but sometimes you gotta admit when you're beat. I get in, "Corner of Division and blah blah," I slur to the cabbie and he says, "Oh, so just a straight shot down the road then," and I smile and say, "Yup," relieved that I'm not too far away and that this guy isn't gonna try to take me on a wild goose chase through Chicago with dollar signs in his eyes. Guess that target ain't painted on too bright.

I have him drop me off on the corner cuz I feel like an asshole taking a taxi, just one of those stupid quirks. In Jim Carroll's 'Forced Entries,' he writes how him and his girlfriend had a pact that they would never take a cab except in the most extreme emergencies. That's neither here nor there, but I dig the logic. As I'm paying at the door to the SubT, I remember an email that Eric Lastname had sent me a few weeks previous. We were supposed to meet at the show and he mentioned that it was his birthday weekend and I told him I'd get him a present and he wrote something witty about how he wanted a Twinkie with a $20 bill stuck in it, and goddamn if I wasn't gonna grant him his wish. I ask the door guy where a convenience store is and he points across the street (how convenient). I purchase the Twinkie and I'm standing at the counter unwrapping it, trying to stuff a 20 spot into it without mangling the delicate cake exterior when an attractive "older" (probably 5 years older than my ass) lady stares at me, obviously intrigued. "It's for a friend's birthday." "Well, you're a really good friend then," she laughs. I didn't have the heart to tell her that I have yet to meet the dude.

The Subterranean is three stories: the ground floor just a bar that I peeked in but didn't venture, the second story, the stage, the action, and a third level that looks down upon the goings-on below, like a cockfight or an opera. I stumble up the stairs and see B. Costello, FBer and TBer. Add novelist to that list and I stupidly forget to ask if he has copies of his book, but I do spend 10 bucks on the brand-spankin' new record by his band, The Functional Blackouts. This being their record release potty, and them having released one of the best punk LPs of the new millenium with their debut, it feels like the right thing to do. Jaw with Darius of Criminal IQ for a moment and time for a drink.

A whiskey and a beer and a seat, and who shows up, but Russ Romance, former Cleavite. Russ is a character for sure, known to drunkenly scream for pussy and/or drugs in the middle of a show, like between songs, or at the end, hounding whomever for the aforementioned. I think the word "uncouth" was invented for him, but there's something honest and charming about Russ. We had been DJs at the same radio station and would occasionally see each other at shows, but soon after moving to Chicago he began talking shit via the forums section of this digital rag. At first it was amusing and then it got annoying and I got pissed off and physical threats were exchanged and then I think we both realized "How gay" and it was good to see him again. (Just don't let him around a keyboard when he's drunk!)

Ex-Kill-A-Wattses, The Monitors, lead things off, and while their sci-fi new wave punk, think Rezillos meets Zolar X, is fun, it's just a little too quirky and derivative. If you're gonna claim you're from space at this late date you better really SOUND like it, a la Human Eye. Next is Die Rotzz, who mash up sleazy KBD punk with a gutter-garage growl. The drummer from Die Rottz doubles duties for Angry Angles, Jay Reatard's new-ish band with girlfriend, Alix, on bass and backing vocals. I had heard their "Things Are Moving" single, of which the title track is a stunner, but I'm still surprised at how fucking good this band is; fantastic songs which somehow combine the post-apocalyptic paranoia of Lost Sounds with the maniacal, amped-up '50s rock of The Reatards.

 

Earlier, I told Russ to point out Eric Lastname to me or vice versa. Eric's band, The Busy Signals, was playing on some small-wattage college radio station ("I live 10 blocks away and I can't get it," was a quote I heard regarding the signal) that night, but he was supposed to come to the show. He shows up and I drag him to a corner and pull the open Twinkie package out of my bag, golden fluff crumbling everywhere. He seems generally confused and later told me that he was freaked out cuz I was so drunk and he thought I was trying to give him half-eaten food. Then he sees the twenty dollar bill and we laugh and share the Twinkie. I tell him the twenty is his, 'cept he's gotta buy me a drink with it, so I guess it's kind of a shitty present, ha! Eric introduces me to the infamous Matt Coppens, whom I recognize from Horriblefest, but don't remember actually meeting. Matt doesn't let me down and begins randomly running into people, heckling audience members, etc.

Last but not least, the Functional Blackouts take the stage and strafe the crowd with their no wave punk. Long having dropped the bile-soaked Clevo-isms of the original line-up, the FBs are now more concerned with making you feel dirty and sick (instead of dirty and sick and ready to party, I suppose). Guitarist Mac sings songs of rubber-room dementia as he and Dr. Filth engage in high-end treble guitar damage that is almost Arab on Radar-esque. Meanwhile, the attack never lets up as Costello pounds away behind them like a hardcore Keith Moon.

The show is finally over and I am insanely ripped and Lastname offers his place for the night, so me, him, and his girl, Carrie, head back to his "shoebox" apartment in Wicker Park. It really is a shoebox, size small, but that doesn't stop us from smoking grass, tobacco, and loudly talking shit. We listen to the several hours-old Busy Signals radio recording, and it's my first time hearing them, and it definitely brings a smile, good songs and playing, poppy but muscular. Eventually, the alcohol takes its toll and we all pass out. 

The next day, me and Lastname sit around the house trying to recover. He cleans a little bit, plays me The Registrators' 'Terminal Boredom' LP, which I had never heard, and then we perform the short ceremony of indoctrination into the TB cult, which is similar to the rituals of the Knights Templar. Somehow I feel more secure, knowing that there are literally dozens of people out there that would probably buy me a drink if I asked them, solely because of my membership in this hallowed fraternity.

So the plan is to drive up to Milwaukee, which is only about an hour away, and go see not one, but two shows. A day show at a house, then the feature attraction at a bar called the Onopa Brewing Co., which has a killer line-up of Hot Machines/Tyrades/Angry Angles/Die Rotzz. But first, it's time to celebrate Eric's birthday as Ana and Jeremy from the Busy Signals and Carrie come over bearing gifts. Carrie has a plate of homemade cupcakes with various inappropriate but hilarious frosting-drawings upon them, while Ana and Jeremy bring a heart-shaped deep-dish pizza. Apparently there is a pizza shop that makes heart-shaped pizza on Valentine's Day, and, since we're close and they were convincing, the shop was nice enough to make one. It's messy, but delicious, as are the cupcakes.

Carrie, Lastname, and I head up in her car, Eric playing DJ. We listen to the recently reissued 'Keats Rides a Harley' compilation and the new Headache City album, of which one of the songs, 'Suicide Summer,' seems to last forever and gets stuck in my head for several days (perhaps in a vain effort to stay warm). I bust Eric's balls about his internet celebrity status while Carrie professes bewilderment about the whole phenomena. We reach Milwaukee by nightfall, hit the liquor store and then onto the house show.

There's a gaggle of Terminal Bores there, including Steve Strange (excuse me, Young Steve), Richard Adventure, Coppens (listen for the guy yelling about everyone being pussies), and Kevin aka Vint. Kevin and I had recognized each other on the forums as somewhat kindred souls, chiefly because of our interest in chemicals and strange musics outside the realm of acceptable punk. We had vague plans to hang out for a couple days. I was hoping he'd come prepared with any number of illicit chemicals, but it seemed like a twelve pack was all he could procure. The dude was a big motherfucker, I'll give him that. The first band starts and someone mentions that it is Steve Strange's new band. I go downstairs to check it out, and there's a smiling young man at the bottom of the steps with a big glass jar for band money. He looks at me strangely and says, "Do I know you?" "No, I don't think so, but you're the drummer for the Catholic Boys, right? I saw you at Horriblefest, you were wearing a We March shirt." "Huh, you look like someone I know. But nice to meetcha, what's yer name?" "Erick," I say. "Me too." "Well, goddamn there are a lot of Eric's here!" "Welcome to my home," he says. I give him some dosh and check out a couple songs by the band (named?). Decent snotty punk in a Rip Off Records vein? Sure. It warms my heart to see so many kids (atleast 75) at a house show, and makes me nostalgic for my own former spot, The Black Eye.

I go upstairs and meet some peoples including Richard Adventure and Casey from Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones, who are playing last. I think a band plays while all this hobnobbing is going on. I go back downstairs to see Rapid Adapter, who are good, tight, and slightly angular. Me and Lastname are bullshitting when some familiar guitar notes buzz into the air. We look at each other and make for the front. We know it's "I.U.D." from 'Bloodstains Across Texas,' but neither of us can name the band. I kept thinking it was The Huns, but knew it wasn't. Later someone tells us, "Duh, Plastic Idols."  

Yeah, duh. Anyway, great cover and a nice way to cap the set. Plastic Pets, who feature Wendy and Ryan from The Monitors, are next. Forsaking the retro-kitsch of their other band, Plastic Pets unload minute-long corkers that remind me of the Tyrades, maybe cuz of Wendy's sneering aggro-vox. One of their songs, "Support The Police (Beat Yourself Up)," jams its way into my brain-pan alongside the Headache City song. Between songs they take jabs at Coppens, which he happily returns. Everybody's getting rowdy and drinking is in full effect. Hue Blanc's Joyless Ones eventually take the floor and dish out double-drum kit/twin-guitar swamp-stomp that could be Creedence Clearwater Revival on a particularly nasty day. Or the Grateful Dead on amphetamines. People are full-on tranced, including Kevin who is flailing away in front of the band. At some point, he introduces me to two cute young ladies, one of which, Rachael, caresses my face and says, "You're pretty." Kevin starts cracking up and I tell her, "Don't say that. You're pretty, I'm drunk. Let's leave it at that." But I'm not as drunk as Steve Strange who lies on a couch upstairs, passed out, just asking for terrible things to be done to his person. Steve, I don't think we actually met, but I swear I didn't draw that dick on your face that was going into your mouth. Seriously.

 

It's getting near start time for the Onopa show, so people start fanning out, trying to find rides to the bar. I think about walking, but one look at the huge holes in my jeans and the snow on the ground, and I think better of it. Hell, with the cold north wind blowing right up my crotch, I'm fucking shivering already. Somehow I end up in an SUV with Josh Bushmeister at the wheel, sitting next to Coppens and Kevin. We debate having an emergency TB meeting, but instead choose to yell random shit at cars, or the air. We make it to the show safely and we're ready for some more rock.

 

Die Rotzz lead things off, and sound even better than the previous night. Ditto for Angry Angles, who are electrifying. Much whiskey-slugging is going on and it's good to see the folks from the Tyrades again, because not only does their band absolutely rule, but they are nice people all. They're up next, but ol' stoner Erick is already jonesin' for more THC, even though he finished off his last joint but a few hours earlier. What can I say, you have your Paxil and I got my grass. I bug Frankie, Tyrades and Busy Signals drummer and avid weed-smoker, but he wants to wait til after they play, which is perfectly understandable. Ah, but Carrie is here to save the day. She offers her one-hitter which I greedily accept and I go outside behind the club to further douse my nerves. As I stand there in the snow, the alcohol starts hitting me like a drunk husband. Whew! Just lemme hit this puppy and it'll smooth me out. Wrong! That rarefied sensation, The Spins, takes over my body and fuck if I'm gonna try to resist it. I'm actually surprised by this, didn't think I was that plastered, but, thanks to my years of pill and alcohol abuse, I'm a pro at puking, so I stand there in the snow and let it heave. Fragments of heart-shaped pizza and chocolate cupcakes come out in brown and red torrents, and, standing there, I look around, and think, "It's really quite beautiful and peaceful out here. A fine place to vomit." That over, a couple deep breaths, a few hits of the dug-out (I sterilized it with my lighter, Carrie, I swear!), and back to the show. I end up meeting Aluminum Not Guy, Keith, and his lady, and we talk about liquor and maybe a little bit of music. While we're jawing, Ryan from Monitors/Plastic Pets walks by and flips out on my Germs Army badge and asks to buy it. Then he offers a really sweet Buzzcocks pin I've never seen before, but I can't do it. The blue of my jacket is almost the exact color of the (G.I) circle, plus I got in LA. "Sorry, dude." I feel bad cuz he really wanted it and even went so far as to pull out his (G.I.) tattoo to drive the point home. Well, shit. I did play Lorna Doom at The Black Eye Communist Eyes Players' Ball. Still, I lost.

While waiting for Tyrades to blitz the crowd, someone jabs me in the throat. I turn and see that it's Coppens. I smile drunkenly and kick him in the shin, but I think, "Watch the throat, motherfucker. That's a sensitive issue." Coppens looks at you like he might want to fight, but he might want to fuck. Classic human behavior, it's practically Jungian. Later he gets thrown out for lobbing a pint glass at one of the bartenders (a lady, apparently; real "classy," buddy!). I see him, arms around a chick, wailing outside about it. Christ almighty, let's rock.
There's something about the Tyrades which inspires fits of violent dancing. It makes me feel like I'm trapped in a crowded subway car and the only way out is to thrash my way, arms flailing, elbows out like knives. It's a different thing, but the Jesus Lizard used to make me feel like this; all building tension, sharp riffs that raise the hair on your nape and access some lizard-brain compulsion to kill and maim. It's pretty much what you want in a modern punk rock band: post-millennial terror scares and barely-withheld urban sexual tension. 

Plus, it's fun. Robert stumbling across the stage, engaged in a private conference call with himself, every once in awhile speaking to us, or maybe just threatening Jenna, in that robotic retardo-voice that reminds me of a character from the never-written Men's Recovery Project radio play (or the gimp from 'Pulp Fiction'). Jim chops at the guitar, bug-eyed, doing self-contained leaps cuz he's got too much energy and not enough noise to satiate it. Jenna stands there, eye in the hurricane, her voice like an air-raid siren. And you can always count on Frankie demolishing his drums at the end/peak-point of the set. I dunno how that kit stays together.

Two things other than maniacal pogoing happen during this set. First, Kevin takes off back to Green Bay. He said that Todd Trickknee would give me a ride back to Milwaukee in the next day or two, but I felt like that was wandering too far from the vanishing point. So, there went any plans of gratuitous drug use, but that was OK, partly cuz of number two. Some hot blonde cocktail started booty-rubbing with me during the Tyrades set, so I started slapping her ass and she was into it, and we basically performed some honky version of an R. Kelly video. When the set was over she disappeared into the throng of sweaty hipsters. Nice not meeting you!

Hot Machines are next and Frankie wants to smoke, so we duck down into the dungeon-esque backstage area which is right next to the stage. We shoot the shit and smoke down, or up, or whichever. Hot Machines is Miss Alex White, Jered from The Ponys, and Matt Williams aka Billiams on the drums. Jered and Miss White take turns singing on their respective songs, and it walks a nice line between their styles. I can't see liking their other work and not feeling this shit. They had a new single for sale (it being a Dusty Medical record release show; HM 7" and a Hunches 7") so I scoop it. Show is over and I can barely stand or see. Lastname comes up and asks if it's OK if he and Carrie get a hotel room without me, so they can celebrate his birthday in proper style and I wave him off. Of course, have fun, I'll figure it out. Well, brave words, but soon the place is empty and I have no prospects so I stumble up to Jimmy Hollywood and ask if I can sleep in the Tyrades van. He says to ask Robert, so I do, and Robert looks at me pitifully and says, "Just come with us." All the bands are headed back to a Mistreaters' place, also, I believe, Dusty Medical himself. I end up in the Die Rottz van next to Jay Reatard, and I can barely keep my eyes open. We take a long drive to an outerskirt of Milwaukee and finally get to the spot. Up some stairs and into a real nice place with all manner of cool artifacts and records. I spy an armchair and swiftly plant my ass. The Tyrades head to a different apartment, so nobody at the place knows me, but no one seems to mind as I quietly pass out in the chair.

I'm woken up the next morning by some dude cracking up about a "broken ball-gag." What happened while I was out? Seems the toilet busted on this guy. I pry my eyes open and eventually meet him and the dude who passed out across from me. Scene photographer extraordinaire Canderson and Hozac major domo, Todd Killings. Canderson can't stop laughing about the busted ball-gag and the exploding toilet and pretty soon my hangover fades into infectious goofy grins. Nothing like a little bathroom humor to kickstart the day. After sitting there for awhile I figure it's time to leave. Alex White says, "Good luck on your tour!" thinking I'm in one of the bands. I say, "Oh, I'm touring by myself, and thanks, you too." I go to the coffeehouse across the street on the corner. On the wall are some of Canderson's photos. Eventually, some of them come over and I tell them my deal. Stranded in fucking Milwaukee. They sympathize and wish me luck. I just need to get downtown to the take the Amtrak back to Chicago. I decide that my predicament is partly Kevin's fault, so I call him. He seems to feel bad about the whole thing, so he tells me to call his buddy who lives at the house that had the show the day before. I ask him about the two girls, Racheal and her friend. He gives me her number too, and tells me to call her. I call Bret first, and leave a message. "I'm Kevin's friend from Cleveland, blah blah blah, can I maybe stay at your house, blah blah blah." Then I call Rachael, and she answers. She's out of the city proper, doing boring family things (ah, the life of a teenager), but she seems to feel bad about my predicament and curses Kevin for a minute, claiming "he's always pulling shit like this." Well, it's not really his fault, but still, I'll take the pity. Then she pauses and tells me she'll call me back. A couple minutes later, she calls and tells me her and her friend are gonna come scoop me. Ah, the life of a teenager! A half hour later, they pull up and I jump in. There's some scowling kid in the back who's brother. Now I'm entertaining fantasies of liquor store hold-ups and under-age brushes with the law, but it's Sunday, and that's the Lord's day, and he don't like no funny business, so, to the train station it is. I thank them profusely and they act like it's no big deal, which I suppose it isn't, but it saved my ass. I buy a ticket (20 beans one way) and then wander around downtown for a few hours. Soon, I'm gazing listlessly out the window at abandoned factories sitting like castles on the tundra. Back to Chicago, and a little more drinking left to go.

I call Sam and Ben and they tell me to come over. I'm just about broke, but I have enough to hit TBX, a burrito joint that Sam swears is a coke front. He tells me of his plan to write an expose' on the place for one of his creative writing classes. He also firmly believes that they put cocaine in the burritos and that is the secret of their success. The burritos are pretty damn good, but I don't get a numby, so maybe the dude's imagination is getting a little feverish. We mostly sit around listening to free jazz records. Then Sam gets a call that there is a half-full keg at a friend's house, but the tap is broken. So, it's up to me to get the tap (seeing as I'm the only one of age) and we go to the house and drink some beers. I'm suitably unenthused by the very young mix of kids and can barely stifle my constant yawns. Me and some kid start talking about music and he proceeds to make me feel really old, but in a charming way. "No way, you saw [blank]! Holy shit!" "Yeah, they toured constantly, it's no big deal." "I would give my left [blank] to see them!" Ah, the life of a "middle-aged" undie rocker, yeah, don't get much better than that. Then again, years ago I worked with this dude that would regale me with stories of seeing Black Flag, Husker Du, and the Minutemen in the mid-80s and I would seethe with jealousy, so, what goes around comes around (I won't tell you why). Sleep comes easily after all this.

My final night in Chicago and I got no money, but Ben wants to go out and is willing to pay for some beers. Apparently, the Empty Bottle has free shows every Monday with decent, or at least known, bands, so we head up there to see Mice Parade, a post-rock band that just keeps plugging away. Ben's a musicianly sort so he appreciates their mind-numbing well-played neo-elevator music more than I, but I do appreciate the rich irony of seeing what could be called "typical Chicago post-rock" on my last night in town. I try to get into their sub-Tortoise vibes, but the one-dollar Pabsts and cute art chicks trying to look aloof occupy most of my attention. But I do notice a familiar face behind the bar, Billiams. I introduce myself and tell him how I enjoyed the Hot Machines a few nights previously. Matt seems to understand the underlying message and offers me a shot of whiskey. He waves me off when I tell him I got no cash. After the show, Ben and I go on a bar-hopping stint that didn't pan out for much excitement outside of Ben drunk-driving his car to comedic effect through the streets of Chicago. We fly by a cop, Ben swerving into the oncoming lane, and I'm sure we're fucked (the kid's only 20 on top of it all; good fake ID though), but he seems nonplussed. I'm waiting for the lights, but they never come. We go to a few more bars, including some punk rock joint that he swears is always swinging, but the only thing swinging there were all the dudes' blue balls. We give up and go home.

The trip has finally come to the end, but it ain't quite over. In my rush to get to the airport, I get on the wrong train once again, and find myself back-tracking and losing valuable time. For the second time in my last three flights, I find myself running in my socks, clutching all personal items, through the terminal in an attempt to catch my flight. I get to the gate and there's no one around, but the door to the tunnel is still open. I consider just walking down it, but am paranoid of the security situation and don't want to be assaulted by any Homeland Security dipshits, so I just stand there, vainly hoping someone will appear and usher me into the plane's bosom. Almost answering my prayers, a stewardess emerges from the tunnel and shuts the door. "Hey, can I still get on that flight?" "Sorry, once the plane doors are shut, we can't legally re-open them." fuck. 6 more hours in Chicago, here I come. No money, starving, thirsty. 

At least I have a good excuse to miss work that day.

 

 

[circa 2005]