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A First foray in Space...

I’ve been thinking a lot about space lately.  No, not stars, blood moons, or black holes and the like but space as in venues, as in the common areas open to all.  The space where you, I, and others meet to interact. Yeah, that kind of space.  It seems to me that in some instances we are using it all wrong.  Perhaps you agree, perhaps you think I think too much, or perhaps you think I am thinking about something that requires no thought at all.  Well…as it happens at the gig Friday night someone brought up this very topic.  They asked me if I went to see (insert metallic HC band name here) at “the Post” the other night.  He said that it was one of the most violent shows he ever saw; dudes (yes nearly all men) were laying waste to each other while the band played. Oh, how the stars align.

 I am not sure where the kung fu dancing style at HC shows first appeared.  The acquisition of this fact is of little importance to me and I think I’ll live without that curiosity being satisfied.  What does concern me is what it portends for what I thought was a foundational principle of punk/hc/whatever-you-wanna-call-it (this thing we all do).  That principle being that a punk/hc show was our show and our space; it belonged to no one person or group; instead belonged to everyone who attended the show. The swinging arms, flying kicks, reckless thrown elbows, destroy utterly this idea by creating malicious enclaves [barriers] between the band and the audience.  I know, I know, I don’t get it, I’m old, I’m weak, or maybe it is that my kung fu just isn’t up to snuff, or maybe…just maybe, bear with me…cuz it might pain you to imagine such things…I’m right.  

Here’s the scene, you’re at the show really excited to see the bands.  Maybe you’ve heard the band, seen them before, or your ‘bro’ hipped you to them and you’re there to check ‘em out.  The band takes the stage, turns on their rigs, gives you cannibal come vegan snarl before launching into the sickest riff you’ve heard since that Slayer riff that sounds oh-so-close to what you’re digging now was released…then it happens.

Out of the darkness, you see what looks like a self-defense demonstration.  Fists and elbows fly without hesitation, that dude in the short-shorts is swinging his leg around with such speed that you are sure he’s part windmill.  Other participants tuck up and throw hands and mule kicks at imaginary attackers besetting them from all sides. Before you know it, the entire crowd has fled from the stage.  Cramming themselves into every inch of the periphery with arms held high to protect their faces from the mayhem.  The crowd forgets about Constipated Cookie Monster and the Beatdown Five providing the jams and who are pounding the stage like silverback gorillas in need of anger management.   When you finally feel comfortable enough to focus on the band you realize that the majority of the space for the crowd is monopolized by a dozen or so “dancers” and the remainder of the crowd is forced far from the band.  Mood killed and the show that you wanted to see so badly is now a bad memory which you wish never to repeat.

To many this sounds like an awesome time and mores the pity a typical show.  To others, myself included, this sounds absolute shit.  Whether or not the band is good or bad, is worth seeing again, or any other information gleamed from watching a band has been supplanted by the inevitable question, is staying in this room to see this band worth losing my teeth or getting knocked the fudge-out?  Those questions are nothing new and have been asked since the first guy staged dove (stage-dived? Oh, where are my punk rock grammarians at?) into the crowd.  What makes a substantive difference to me is the way in which space is used.

Punk/hc is visceral form of expression that in many cases lacks, utterly, any sense of subtlety.  As the form evolved from the late 1970s UK punk and The Ramones style retro-rock into 80s USHC the reaction to the music changed as well.  This is not unexpected as the inherit urgency of HC drives people to move without regard for themselves or others.  This trend continued with the expansion and popularization of HC.  The advent of crossover only worked to increase the ways in which the music elicited reactions in its expanding audience.  Pogoing was replaced by slam dancing and stage diving which became (?) moshing [whatever the hell that is anyway?!?!] by the late 80s.  Some bands eschewed the physical aspects of punk/hc and issued a challenge to their audiences (Fugazi) while others tired of violence that occasioned their shows and moved towards other audiences (7Seconds).  These changes coupled with the inevitable ending HC of other bands, the sound people wanted/loved/expected/demanded was hard to find.

Out of this vacuum came the explosion of late 80s HC bands, mostly SxE, who wanted to revert back to the pre-crossover style of HC and all that came with it.  At the same time, those people moved by the crossover thing kept progressing trying to make heavier and more ‘heavy and powerful’ records.  Then one day it happened, someone somewhere created the riff that played with just the right drumbeat moved people to stomp around then someone started swing their arms or legs and voila you have whatever-fudge kind of dancing they call it.  It may never have been equated before but punk/hc shows are a lot like real estate, location matters.  

The closer to the stage one can get at a show the better says I. Being able to see, to hear, and to feel (yes, we talking about feelings) the music is the purest way to enjoy any performance.  Plus up the front by the stage packed side by side with all the others wanting the experience, can create a collective sense of shared experience that remains bigger than any single show.  The shared sense of release, of elation, and of expression between the band and the crowd is strongest nearest the band.  The farther you move from the stage the less effect the band has on the room.

Not everyone wants to be up front smashed together being sweated upon, spat upon, spilled upon, jumped on, knocked around, and generally battered about while interacting with others also trying to enjoy the performance in its purest form.  Some people are not terribly interested in the bands performance; they are just there to dance, to slam, to mosh, or whatever the hell you call it.  The band is nothing but a soundtrack to release. Don’t get me wrong, to each their own…it’s not my thing (anymore) but I can see the necessity of just exorcising all the pent up emotions, piques, frustrations, and energies that punctuate life. Have at it y’all and ‘¡fuck it up __(insert name of city/state/scene here)___ style!’  All the young punks love a bit of that as the saying goes…

Behind the sing-a-long crowd and the dancing fools is the people who want to see the band, experience the music but would really prefer to be knocked around by kids who do not share the same fears about health insurance deductibles or the fragility of “old bones”.  In the back, there a bit more talking, visiting, seeing that person they’ve not seen since the last time (insert band here) played, also beverages flow freely and are consumed more responsibly (suggesting fewer spills not less liver damage).  Frankly, if one wants to be honest it is probably these people that bought tickets in advance and upon whose beer sales the venues counts to make a profit from the show. [drink up y’all!!]

I know, I know this a very general example and crowds are rarely described this easily.  The point I am trying to make remains apparent though.  The collective space of the show, the venue, is divided up amongst the crowd and inside the finite area the space is shared.  Everyone has their space to react and to interact with the band and everyone else in attendance.  If you want to be right on the stage as close as possible to be splashed with beer, sweat, and be spat upon by the guitarist from Night Birds or accidentally smacked upside the head by the singer of Scream or bass player of Econochrist (true stories y’all…for reals) then have it.  If, however, that is not your thing and you just want to go nuts dancing then back it up a few feet and go off.  Of course, if none of this appeals to you and all you really want to do is see that band that does it for you then you’ll likely be nearer the back.  Sharing is caring y’all, it isn’t always pretty or fair but it making use of a public space for mutual benefit.  In stark contrast to the above sits any live video of a beatdown/metalcore type band.  

YouTube is replete with videos where huge swaths of space are devoted to a dozen or so people engaged in what appears to be a synchronized martial arts demonstration or an attack by a swarm of invisible bees.  What is readily apparent at these shows is how the few “dancers” have pushed the rest of the crowd to the periphery of the venue.  There are few to no people at the stage experiencing the show.  All those people not “dancing” are trying to balance between watching the band and watching the dancers; undoubtedly they are doing so out of self-defense and for the inevitable train wreck that is foot to head or hand to head contact.  

In this exercise I see only one group telling another ‘this is how you will use this space, disagree at your own peril’.  Admittedly, I highly doubt any such an utterance emerged from the mouth or mind of any participant.  It never had to, the effect is the same.  What was once ours is now theirs and that isn’t cool.    

Slow your roll young blood…I’m not saying I know what punk is (can anyone really?) and I’m not saying anything negative about any individual, group, band, scene, etc. though clearly I am having a bit of a laugh at your silly asses.  What I’m saying is that what is happening with the use of space at some shows is self-defeating, selfish, and in the long-run a dead end for expression.  

Let’s really drive this point home shall we…no ambiguity, no mincing words, nothing left to chance or lost in translation…Lest you think I am picking on other forms of expression (personal or musical), or annoyingly kvetching about a style of music I don’t like (I’m not), let me be clear…I am only noting that the way in which the public space is used at one type of show occasioned by this style of dancing is not about shared use.  The way in which one small group dominates that space open to all appears to me to be antithetical to all that I believed punk was to be which was a liberating movement and a leveling force opening up avenues of expression to those previously shut out of venues for creative expression.  

QED vatos!

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D.R.I. live at Trees in Deep Ellum, Dallas, Texas during 8 May 2013.  This was a fun time as this show was part of a mini-tour of the late 1980′s line of D.R.I.  It never hurts to think of the past while living in the present.  I didn’t know anyone in the last 80′s who did not like some D.R.I.  Thanks to Gonzo for going to the show and providing this clip.  Deep thoughts and less video to appear here sooner than later.

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Common Ground was the short-lived venue in Dallas, Texas open during 1991 and 1992 between the October 1991 closure of Slipped Disk and late Spring and early Summer opening of Easy Street Theater.

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Screeching Weasel should always made me smile

I am convinced that when anyone first begins to delve into any style of music there are certain bands that “mean” more than others.  To my ears My Brains Hurts by Screeching Weasel was the best punk record by any band recording at the time of its release.  This was, at the time for me, a no-B.S./no-discussion fact and I was not interested in debating the point with anyone on any level.  The crux of my argument was how could you listen to that record and not want to smile and singalong.  When Screeching weasel popped up on the Common Ground calendar, I could not believe it. I was going to get so see the best damn punk band in America at the time and if you disagreed, you were wrong!

During 1991 punk was to me encompassed sounds as variegated as Siouxsie and the Banshees, the Dickies, Negative Approach, Born Against, Youth of Today, Flipper, the Big Boys, and Napalm Death.  In my mind, Punk was not a specific sound, or a physical look, or a fashion statement; punk was more a way of approaching daily life.  In short, punk meant doing or saying what you wanted, how you wanted to say it, when you wanted to say it, if only because if you did not say it no one else would do.  Of course, one did all this with the explicit understanding that you accepted fully the costs and benefits of your choices.  Exemplifying my belief was Screeching Weasel.  In the face of scene splintering into SxE, grindcore, crust, NYHC, Ska-punk, Dischord, peace punk, and SoCal Bro-core, Screeching Weasel played an unapologetic mix of the musical pop stylings of The Dickies and The Ramones punctuated the unvarnished lyrics/opinions of Ben Weasel.  

Pre-internet music shopping was about diligence and the experience of finding a record that informed your world differently.  In many instances, I had only heard of records from seeing them on “want-lists” or trading friends of auction adds in the back MRR.  Many of the classic HS records could not be heard unless you had a copy or new someone who had a copy.  It needs to be said over and over…it was FUGGING hard to find punk records.  Every week Chris and I would scour the used bins at Direct Hit, RPM, Forever Young Records, Recycled Books and Records, Half-Price Books, and many more little shops.  The efforts paid dividends as we connected with other punkers hunting records, the clerks who came to know us and would hold records for us or inform us of cool stuff upcoming that we should buy.  It was not convenient like now where you can read a review of band and stream or download their entire catalog in minutes.  It was through this near obsessive exercise of hunting that I first heard Screeching Weasel.

The first Screeching Weasel song I heard was “This Bud’s for You” off the MRR compilation LP They Don’t Get Paid, They Don’t Get Laid, but Boy Do They Work Hard (A D.I.Y. Complication) and I loved it!!  [I read later that the song was a joke but I don’t care.]  That LP is a classic and straight forward punk sound of the music and low-brow critique of SxE found in the title made that song my favorite. [This is no mean feat on an LP that also has Nausea, Christ of a Crutch, Jawbox, Dissent, the Detonators, Amenity, Cringer, and the Libido Boyz amongst others.]  I could empathize greatly with the anti SxE mindset; I was not a drinker of any note and I genuinely liked many of the SxE bands.  What I did not like, however, and still do not like are those that take themselves seriously rather than taking their responsibilities seriously.  More precisely, what I did not like was a more militant brand of SxE that would be known as Hardline which was beginning to rear its intolerant head in scenes around the country. I think it was this that ole Ben was targeting.  Regardless, the upbeat tempo, no frills hc punch of the song and production to match made it a standout on the LP and as a result the song made it on every comp tape I made for a few years.  In the end, the comp LP did what comp LP was supposed to do; it made you want to locate more from the best bands and I was on the hunt for Screeching Weasel.

It must have taken me nearly a year or so to find any other Screeching Weasel records.  As was often the case, our local stores didn’t stock any of their stuff and frankly they really were not the sort of band that dominated want or trade lists.  It appeared that during the late 80s and early 90s Screeching Weasel were still largely a regional band.  When Lookout Records! advertised that they were releasing the new Screeching Weasel record this began to change.

My Brain Hurts was a breath of fresh air to me when I bought it at Direct Hit Records.  Instantly, that album made much of what I been listening to or hearing sounded bloated, stale, plodding, and second-rate.  Admittedly, this was a slight overreaction but what’s the point of being young and excitable if you are to be staid and stodgy?  

The album had everything I loved about punk; the songs were catchy, it sounded timeless but remained rooted in the rooted in the past, there were no throwaways on the album, and it did not sound like anyone else at the time though clearly it remained complimentary with many bands that existed at the same time.  I played the LP to death when at home and the cassette I made of it, did its duty holding out until the end in my car’s tape deck.  I made EVERYBODY who rode in my car listen to it; friend and family alike found no reprieve or respite from the bouncy sounds when rolling with me.

By the time the day of the show arrived my proselyting meant that instead of the usual two-some, Chris and I, we browbeat another two or three of our friends to make the drive into Dallas to see Screeching Weasel. Upon arriving, it looked like this would be one of the biggest shows at Common Ground.  The street in front of the club was rent with mommy and daddy type cars.  Clearly, the suburbs were emptying tonight and all the punkers and punkettes were coming to the show.  This only added to my nearly irrepressible excitement.

Dallas had a dearth of good local bands during the early 90s.  The majority of bands merely aped their favorite bands; no matter how well a band executes this maneuver it is depressing to those that realize this. Sadly, I thought Pasty Face was such a band.  Their earliest shows saw them trying to sound like the Bad Brains to which they gradually added funk influences ala the Red Hot Chili Peppers.  By the end of their run, Pasty Face was an overt RHCP tribute band without the name to match.  Importantly though, they brought out paying kids that would ultimately benefit the headlining band.  I knew they pulled a crowd but I assumed that all the kids at Common ground this night were there to see Screeching Weasel.  IT was not the first time I was proved wrong.  Mercifully though, I chose to schmooze rather than watch Pasty Face. I cannot remember whether we were inside or outside but we just killed time as distant from Pasty Face as we could waiting for Screeching Weasel.  

Just before the band was about to start, my buddy Todd grabs me and asks if I wanted to work the stage lights.  I had no idea Common Ground had stage lights much less that they “needed to be worked”.  Of course I said yes, it seemed asinine task and I was the person for it!  As the band took the stage Ben commented into the microphone, “Where’d everybody go?”  Then only did I noticed that the crowd that once numbered 150-200 was now down to about 35 people.  [I always stood near the stage and had no reason to look behind me.]  Inexplicably and to my amazement, nearly everyone left!! Clearly most of the crowd were friends of Pasty Face and never heard of or did not care to hear Screeching Weasel…bless their hearts!

Despite the fleeing hordes, Screeching Weasel played on entertaining immensely those that remained.  In fact, the only thing that appeared to hamper their ability to play was the stage lights.  In my ignorance and exacerbated by my glee, I was flicking the switches along with the drummer beat.  I think Ben said something about it giving him a headache and making him nauseous or something like that as Todd came walking over to me in a hurry and forcibly removed me hands from the lighting controls.  Fair enough I thought, now I was free to go stand with remaining crowd in front of the stage.  The band sounded so much better from the front than the side of the stage.  

In the few breaks the band took between songs Ben talked a bit about the songs they were about to play or told amusing anecdotes.  The only funny story I remember was about the song Jeannie’s got a Problem with her Uterus. After playing that song at an earlier show, a woman came up to Ben and let into him about that song stating he was a misogynist because he wrote that song. Ben quipped that he had to wait until he got home after the show to look up what misogynist meant to know what she said to him.  The remainder of their set is lost to the ages and I can only smile thinking about it so I am guessing I enjoyed it.

           As per usual, I could not tell you how many songs they played or which other songs they played but apparently I loved it.  Those people who came with me all agreed that Screeching Weasel were great and we all left happy we came.  Before we left though, I bought a shirt and a 7” from the band that validated what I told everyone.  Though it long since stopped fitting, I still have my “Choosy punks chose Screeching Weasel” t-shirt.  The following years were good for Screeching Weasel as their popularity only grew as did my enjoyment for the band.

           It would be another couple of years before Screeching Weasel were to play Dallas again.  I think it was during the spring or summer of 1993 that they appeared on the calendar for Club No.  On this tour, Screeching Weasel had The Queers as an opening act. Oh yeah, it was going to be awesome! Unfortunately, Club No closed unexpectedly so nearly all of the shows cancelled and never happened.  Thankfully though, Todd and the coolest record store owner in Dallas stepped into save the day.  Kelly Keys offered her store for Screeching Weasel and The Queers to play a pass-the-hat show if I remember correctly.

           Direct Hit Records was small storefront in Fair Park area of Dallas.  It was at most 20 feet wide and 50 feet deep.  Nonetheless, it was an oasis in Dallas.  Kelly was a fan of underground music and she did everything she could to stock as much new and used records, tapes, CD’s, videos, and magazines as possible.  This day, Kelly pushed all the racks to the back to make some room for the bands to play and for a small number of people to watch.  Todd hipped me to the show and I drove in from Fort Worth for the midday show. I was like a kid at Christmas.  In my mind I was imaging the set list they would play replete with all my favorite songs.  This was not to be the case though.

           In keeping with the intimate nature of show, Screeching Weasel decided to play a “special” set. As Ben explained they were on their way to California to record a new album.  Since this was a small show and no too much unlike practice, the band decided they would play their entire new-as-yet-unrecorded album song for song in order.  This was the first time I ever heard Anthem for a New Tomorrow.  I must admit to preferring the versions I heard that day to the studio versions.  That album and My Brain Hurts remain my favorite Screeching Weasel albums to this day; yes, wiggle isn’t too bad either.

           Over the years, I had two more chances to see Screeching Weasel play in larger venues.  I did not go to either show.  It was not because I do not like them anymore (I still thought they wer very good) or because Ben is an asshole (boy howdy he was/is!!) but because something about them changed.  We all remember how they famously stopped playing live for a while and then their records became spotty.  Also during this period the band acquired an air of circus like hype and I didn’t care for it. For me the strength of the band was the workmen like way they went about being in a band.  Once that changed and when they became “a thing” they no longer seemed fun and frankly their albums no longer left you smiling.  The wit, humor, and bounce that punctuated their albums was replaced increasingly with bitterness, hype, and songs that are best described as filled then the whole Riverdales thing happened.  I’m still scratching my head about that…

           Screeching Weasel will always occupy a happy place in my life; my wife and I bonded over our shared loved for their early records when we first met 24 years ago. Occasionally, we still breakout those old albums and reminisce about how much we enjoy them.  Unlike me, my wife has never seen Screeching Weasel play live. It is for that reason we are going to see them play in Portland, OR this summer.  I am not sure what to expect of them 25 years after the last time I saw them but just thinking about the show and the two shows I already saw has me smiling again; for that fact I thank them.

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Arcruin, Yellow House, Dallas, TX opening for Los Crudos, pictures found on Flickr and taken by Mutant Sounds (hope you don’t mind boss, thanks for taking pictures of our hideous faces)

25 June 1994 was the day the above images were captured.  Arcruin, seen here, played the Yellow House in Dallas, TX just a few blocks from the Deep Ellum area of town.  We played there after the Los Crudos/Deformed Conscience show at the Galaxy Club.  Arcruin was supposed to play that show as well but punctuality ain’t punk, apparently. Dawdling by others left us with about 10 minutes to play our set.  We declined and gave 10 minutes to the next band.  When I see this picture, I smile remembering my friends, the shows we played, the laughs we had, and sheer fun of it all but I am happy those days are over.

Los Crudos first appeared in my world through my friend Todd Selfless.  Todd was sick as a dog for a bit and a buddy of his sent him a “get well” package entitled the ‘ABC’s of punk’.  This friend sent him three records; A for…well I cannot remember so who cares; B for Bastard’s Wind of Pain 12” (yeah boys, first press; that fugger is mine now!!); and C for Los Crudos’ Self-Titled 7”.  Clearly, B and C were awesome records.  Todd, however, due either to age or infirmity failed to recognize the greatness and re-gifted both of those suckers to me. Los Crudos astounded me when I first listened to it.  The energy they captured on that record still sparks today.  The passion and commitment of the band showed in the hand crafted artwork and in their ideas as presented in the songs.  I loved/love that 7” still.  A short while later, I heard that they were playing in Austin at a house party hosted by some former Fort Worth cats who moved south. We piled to punk-fam into many cars and drove south.

In an otherwise quiet North Austin neighborhood the punkers began to congregate.  I was not sure what to expect of Los Crudos live having only heard the 7” but their unassuming appearance and Martin’s warm and open personality made the band that much cooler in my eyes.  Once the Krayons folks arrived from South Texas the party was on and ready to go.  My only memories are that Los Crudos wowed everyone!  People stood mouths agape watching those four folks just do their thing as if it were band practice and we were all life-long friends.  Nothing felt contrived or forced; it felt authentic and I ate it up!!!  After the bands played, most of the Fort Worth folks stayed in Austin for Eeyore’s Birthday but I headed home. [Aside: the next morning as we left the house, we saw a fool so damn drunk from the night before that he slept in a hole in the ground made by the removal of a tree; fool looked like a hungover groundhog] I and my roommates decided to set up a house show for Los Crudos in Fort Worth.  

A day or so later Crudos arrived at our hose and played a great set along with Burden and Suiciety. The neighbors hated it, the landlord showed up screaming, Todd showed up and finally got it; a great time was had by all.  That night Crudos stayed at our place and hanging out with those guys was great fun and we loved it.  Whenever they played Fort Worth, it was a house party somewhere I happened to live. Trading records with Martin or driving around Fort Worth with the guitarist drinking orchata and laughing about the fact that I was blaring Black Sabbath still make me smile.  Seriously y’all, nothing was less punk at the time than jamming Sabbath; Ozzy of course, don’t even try that Sabbath without Ozzy nonsense…’cuz there ain’t no Sabbath without Ozzy!!!  (Sorry, Ronnie you have great pipes but it ain’t Sabbath no matter how badass those two records are and they are…man they are!!!!!!)

By ’94, I was in a band. I had been in others but none were that great and frankly do not warrant anymore mention than that.  Arcruin was different; I tried very hard to contribute on par with Jon, Nathan, and Dandi.  The band came together in the spring of ’94 at the D.I.R.T./Final Warning/Hellkrusher show in Dallas, TX.  Jon, Nathan and I were looking for a bass player; I’m still mystified why they decided to do anything involving me but fugg it now.  At the show, socializing as one does, word got around of our need and Dandi was mentioned to us.  Dandi was/is/will be cooler than most of you and he came back to Fort Worth from Dallas to jam with Nathan.  Jon and I went to Austin to the see D.I.R.T. et al again and left it to Nathan.  Dandi fit with what we were doing and was a no bullshit guy so he was in the band.  

Watching those three create the music over which I would scream/screech/blather remains one of the most informative experiences of my life.  I gained a greater understanding about executing on an artistic vision, negotiating with others while creating a shared expression, and (sadly) that I had no business being part of such an exercise.  In the context of the time, the shared expression we made and presented to the world was our own and unique.  We didn’t care what others thought about what we did.  We played fast and slow; we made it catchy and heavy.  We had 2 minute songs and 9 minute songs.  We created what we thought were heavy and compelling sounds that said something about us and did so as a-historically as we could.

This show at the Yellow House was played in front of friends and some people we never met.  We played for the other bands, people outside watching through windows and doors, people standing in the hallways, on the porch, in the yard, and people sitting in the cabinets as well as sitting under the sink. As usual, I remember little of playing. I gave myself over to the songs when we played.  I wanted nothing more than to be a focused vehicle for the ideas we had a group.  I thought I did it sometimes and was way off the mark other times but I tried.   We played anywhere and everywhere we could and with anyone we could.

We presented our thing in d.i.y. clubs, bars, kitchens, living rooms, bed rooms, and skate ramps. We were lucky enough to play with Rancid, J-Church, Angel Hair, Raw Power, Blown Apart Bastards, FYP, Whipped, Jara, Los Crudos, Deformed Conscience, and In//humanity to name a few. IF we had lasted more than 9 or 10 months we would have played a lot more with a lot more bands.   We did not care; we wanted to play.

At the end, Dandi and I walked away from music.  Dandi has some entanglements in Dallas and once clear of those he enlisted in the military.  I found love and rediscovered my camera.  I find more fulfillment in the expression of my omnipotent anonymous eye (camera) than I did in a band.  Jon and Nathan continued on with music and both created music that stands the test of time.

Nathan went on the play in Scorched Earth Policy shortly after Arcruin died.  He recorded a brilliant LP and toured with with Jack Control (WB2D, Severed Heads of State, and Butcher) as well as Chris P. (Signal Lost, etc.) before moving on to Slave One (future members of Garuda).  Both bands continued Nathan’s trademark heavy as hell guitar style.  I am not sure if Nathan is still playing music as we’ve not spoken in years.  Jon has likely created the most enduring musical catalog of anyone I know.

After Arcruin died Jon threw himself in music, of all styles.  Jon was/is a musician.  You may know Jon better for his work in Yeti, The Great Tyrant, or in the enormous Pinkish Black.  You may not appreciate those bands but what you cannot deny is his dedication to his vision; Jon is still work to execute his artistic vision like the kid I first saw playing drums for Little Boy nearly 30 years ago.  And for that we should all be thankful.

While I enjoy reminiscing a bit and would still love to have a beer with those guys, I would never go back.  I’ve learned more and lived more since our last show than I did in the 23 years before I was in a band.  My life with my wife, daughter, and my camera continues to provide me with what I thought I would have in music; an outlet to express what I believed important, vital, and worth saying.  I trust that those 3 guys would say the same or similar if you asked them…

hats off to then, to us, to them, and to it being gone for good.

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Real life pin holes y’all

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D.I.R.T., Hellkrusher, and Final Warning live in Dallas 13 March 1994

23 years ago this month, D.I.R.T., Final Warning and Hellkrusher played at the Galaxy Club in Dallas, Texas.  Never having imagined I would get to see a band that was on Crass Records and a contemporary of Crass, I did not almost believe that the band would actually play.  As with many moments in life, I am so glad I was wrong.

Many things followed in the wake of Nirvana explosion; some of which were bad and many of which were good…in hindsight.  The best one for me was obviously all the bands from the 80’s that reformed to tour or revived their dying band for one last album. Along with the bands that made you ask, ‘why bother?’ were those that made you say, ‘NO WAY!!!’  D.I.R.T. was definitely in that latter category.  (I am not sure who booked the show, even today, but I would like to thank them; thanks y’all!!)  

I was living in Fort Worth at the time and one of roommates, Jon, was the usual suspect in show going at this time.  Musically, Jon’s tastes were much the same as mine; though to be honest he has shown much better taste in music and wider pallet (check out his band, Pinkish Black…so good!).  When we saw the flyer it was a mutually sense of giddiness and confusion if I remember correctly.  We were confused about whether it was that D.I.R.T. or some other band with the same name.  Disbelief gave way to wonder and joy that we –forlornly living in middle of Texas – would get the chance to see a band whose ‘reputation’ was on high from their early days playing alongside so many anarcho-punk giants. Were they upon a pedestal for proximity and context?  I think the fair answer is, you bet your wrinkled-punk-ass!  If you didn’t/don’t perceive some bands like this then you are a better person than me or you just haven’t found that band yet.

As with many bands in the pre-internet days, D.I.R.T. was a band that if you didn’t own the record or didn’t know a guy who owned the record you likely never heard the band.  Word of mouth, reputation, legend, or however you care to term it was nearly everything. Aside from a review or a picture in a zine, many a punk band would never be seen by someone who did not have proximity to a good record store, steady venue, or the geographic good fortune to live on one of the coasts of the country.  To actually hear many a band required you work and to get lucky.  All I knew of D.I.R.T. was they were on Crass records, had a female singer, would soon be in Dallas, and that I was flipping going!  I did not know much of Hellkrusher either having never heard them.  Someone told me that part of the band used to be in Hellbastard; I’d heard them and that was good enough for me.  As the flyer reads, Final Warning was ex-Nausea member(s).  I loved that band so yeah, I was going and was tickled to do it.

Come the day of the show, Jon and I were in Dallas early. It was a Sunday (apparently) and we weren’t doing anything anyway so a-hanging we were. I seem to remember that most of the time spent before the show was spent at the storefront where some of the Dallas kids lived.  Jon and I chatted with Neil from Final Warning/Nausea/Tribal War records.  I remember him being cool but I only remember one exchange where Neil asked what we thought/knew of Todd from Selfless Records.  Having been helping Todd for a couple of years, I responded positively.  That’s when Neil mentioned the proposed project Todd had pitched to Neil.  A split live recording; 4 bands (Final Warning, D.I.R.T., Hellkrusher, and Arc Ruin), 2 LP’s, 1 side per band. [Don’t’ worry it never came out, though the recordings were completed and later released elsewhere.]  At some point after chatting with Neil, Jon and I found out that D.I.R.T.’s drummer was Stick from Doom…bye-bye Neil.  Jon and I spent the rest of our time chatting with Stick.  I couldn’t tell y’all one dam thing he said but he was cool if memory serves.  When show time came, armed with my trusty Pentax K1000, we made our way the few blocks to the Galaxy Club.  

I think Final Warning were up first when the show started. Playing a mix of metallic originals and a few Nausea songs, Final Warning went over well.  Kids were dancing around, having fun and singing along when they knew the tunes.  Even though the room was largely empty, I managed to get nailed while taking pictures. [Y’all be nice to us photographers especially you Kung Fu dancing asshats…knock that shit off too] The Galaxy had a sheet of plywood stage left opposite the entrance.  The wood was there are some sort of barrier between band equipment and the audience.  I was near that sheet of wood taking pictures when Trent (a mountain of a punker) plowed into me; I was sandwiched in between him and the plywood barrier.  I doubt the barrier gave much; Trent surely wasn’t going to yield to my scrawny self.  No sooner than I realized what was happening, I felt a crunch and heard a crack in my ribcage over the music.  For a few seconds I could not catch my breath, had a mother of a time staying on my feet, and it made the rest of the night a bit less fun.

By the time Hellkrusher played, I’d recovered somewhat and I was ready to enjoy more of the music.  Hellkrusher blew Final Warning away with their set; the band was a seething bundle of energy led by the ever pacing Ali on the vocals.  Ali bounded across the stage as if he were physically trying to exorcise every last bit of energy from his body.  Only the drummer was safe from accidental collision as he was ensconced safely behind the kit; the other two players I’m sure just tried to stay out of the way and emerge unscathed.  It was the first time I can remember seeing a d-beat band live that made me truly love the derivative genre that it is.  Only the taking of pictures interrupted my enjoyment of Hellkrusher. As good as they were, and THEY WERE, it was D.I.R.T. that drew me to Dallas this day.

Finally D.I.R.T. were up.  I don’t remember much pomp or ceremony coinciding with their taking the stage.  Feedback remained the only announcement of their taking the stage.  The increasing whine and drone led into a cracker of an intro song. When the singer started that was it; I was hooked and I could barely look away while they were playing.  Almost wholly unfamiliar with their music, I hung on every song.  Each verse and chorus seemed better than the last and became a new reason to be excited. I don’t know how long they played, I don’t know what songs they played, or how many pictures I took but I loved it as long as it lasted.  I do not believe I was alone in this.  

D.I.R.T.’s sound was melodic, driving, unrelenting confrontational, and punk to the core.  The singer sang and shouted her way through the set and she never failed to captivate the crowd with her animated performance of the songs.  Individual members of the crowd hurled themselves about the room, sang along, smiled, stood agape, and generally had the visceral reaction that I love in good music.  As happens more than I would rather, D.I.R.T. captivated me so that I forgot to take a lot of pictures.  The camera became an impediment to enjoyment rather than a creative tool to prolong the event.  After the show, I remember Jon and I decided to road trip down to Austin to see the same circus again one more night.  We did and had a lot more fun…but that’s fodder for a different post.

Looking back now, this show was a turning point in many respects. Jon and/or Nathan found a guy named Dandi played bass and that night.  Dandi came back to Nathan’s that night in Fort Worth and “tried out” on the bass.  Being a bad ass player, Dandi became the bass player for what would be Arc Ruin…that project would play shows, rehearse, road trip, and tour but would not survive the year.  More personally, of the pictures I took at this show and that you see now, two records came out that featured them.  

Final Warning Eyes of a Child 7” came out shortly after the tour and a pic I took that night was used on the inside the cover.  Sadly though, it was credited to Chris Boarts.  At the time it pissed me off immensely due to nonsensical “scene-politics” type things.  (Chris Boarts, Justine DeMetrick, Edward Culver, Murray Bowles, Glenn E. Friedman, etc. are the reason I took up photography so now I’m just proud to have my picture there and being seen regardless).  Nevertheless, I was over the moon to see something I did made permanent on that cover.

Hellkrusher released a compilation a few years back that collected all their recordings for a couple of years on one LP and CD.  The CD contained a live recording of the Dallas show about which you’ve just wasted precious minutes of your life reading. Accompanying the CD are several of my photos from the Dallas show which I had sent the band after I the tour. Though I have yet to see the CD in person a friend sent me pictures of the art work and I cannot wait to hold it in my hands.  It still pleases me and amazes me that my pictures grace a record by a band that I like.  

The long planned, artwork collected, recordings completed, work done double LP split live compilation died on the vine.  It never happened.  I have DATs of all the recordings and it would have been amazing to behold but alas it was not to be.  All the bands except Arc Ruin released their recordings so go out there and find them.

Dallas changed a lot in the last two decades and so have most of the people who attended that show.  Nearly every friend I had in the punk scene was there that night and I hope they all enjoyed it as much as I did.  Sadly a few are no longer with us.  For those that are and those that aren’t, it was fun we had some times and I hope everyone reading this can look back on their lives at some point with the same mix of happiness, embarrassment, joy, and sadness.  Jack, Scott (R.I.P.), Jon, Sarah/Scuzzy, Crawler, DJ, Trent, Jack, Chris, Nathan, Dandi, Jerry/Spencer, and to all the others I cannot name now Cheers y’all!!

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Hellkrusher, D.I.R.T. and Final Warning live in Dallas, Texas at the Galaxy Club during March 1994

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27 February 1995, Korn stunk up the Sick of it All show

I know opening bands on touring bills are usually throw-aways, but this band was so bad that I cannot recall the show without immediately asking myself, “what a-hole thought that would be a good idea?”  Truth be told the sombitches ruined the whole damn night for me.  All I wanted was to see Sick of It All but first I had to suffer through Korn…yup, that Korn!  I guess 90’s strange bedfellows are the strangest of all.

Life is full of guilty pleasures and it appears that liking Sick of it All is one of them.  The band seems to engender fervent followers and vociferous detractors in equal measure. I can still remember getting an earful from Sean C. at Direct Hit records the day I bought the first Sick of it All LP, Blood, Sweat, and No Tears. Advising me that he was not a fan of their ‘macho attitude’, Sean pooh-poohed me for buying the LP.  Somehow, I felt that I needed a non-descript brown paper sack to hide the LP as if it were liquor or porn.  Naysayers be damned! Attitude-schmattitude, the LP rips and I dug many of the subsequent releases.  I never went to see them during those late 80’s or early 90’s tours.  I did not want to plunk down my cash to see them open for metal bands so I just waited.  It took several years but finally I would see them play live but damn the hoops…

By 1995, Todd was booking many of the punk/hc shows in the Metroplex that were not house shows.  Any monies generated from these shows went into the label and helped to fund future releases.  Additionally, Todd made sure that everybody possible got to see the bands.  He was as cool as he could be about door prices, ALWAYS all ages shows, and making sure that people got into to see the bands.  Todd was notorious for squeezing extra kids in when capacity had been reached or just opening up the doors after the 4 song from the headliners to everyone outside who did not have sufficient funds.   In spite of all this sometimes, we dealt with some asinine rock n roll types and this show was definitely up there in the realm of f@#ktards.

When dealing with bands that have booking agents everything seems a bit more “professional”.  That’s is not always intended to have a negative connotation but in reference to this particular night it should.  As per usual we get the contract with its hospitality rider, “the rider”.  Usually, the stuff bands request makes sense, they want something to eat, something to drink, and clean dry towels.  Deli trays, bread, and certain types of beer are the most commonly requested items we’ve provided.  Other bands wanted cigarettes, pizzas (delivered at a very precise increment of time prior to the doors opening), socks (color, size, and style specified), candy, and other assorted items that a travelling musician may want.  Thankfully, Sick of it All was an easy band to make happy.  

Sick of it All wanted food and drinks.  They were not terribly picky or demanding and it was refreshing I must say.  We easily hit the big box store and bought the water and other beverages they wanted. On the day of the show we got the food they requested and made sure it was in their backstage area.  When it came to satisfying the opening act on the bill was another story.

Korn asked for an asinine amount of stuff.  It needs to be said that what most bands seem to forget and most people do not know, is that every penny we spend on the rider goes back into the promoters pocket from the door.  If we spend $250 buying you the things you want, the first $250 in the door is ours; no one loses their butt on the rider.  Korn clearly did not understand this.  They asked for breakfast cereal (it was an evening show so…your money pals), protein supplements, energy bars, milk, juices, food, beer (import preferred), water, towels, and a number of other questionable things that I cannot name but just remember them as seeming excessive.   Todd and I laughed as we dutifully bought all the items they requested knowing full well that they were going to pay for every penny of it.

On the day of the show, Todd and I were there before the bands to make sure everything was there and in good order. We actually cared about the shows and wanted the bands and the kids to be happy.  Nothing worse than a poorly managed punk show.  Sick of it all was the first band to arrive.

Sick of it All pulled up in their van.  Todd walked out to introduce himself and to learn if then needed anything.  No sooner than existing their van they asked, with some urgency, ‘Is Korn here yet?’ Todd and I answered ‘nope’ and with that they rushed past us and said ‘good, they’ve been drinking all our beer.’  As they entered the building I looked over at Todd and I think at that point, we knew this was going to be a long night.  

Korn arrived sometime after Sick of it All in their tour bus towing an equipment trailer.   Stop here for a second and ponder that first sentence.  [Jeopardy music playing…proceed] These fools, opening for a NYHC touring in a van playing a venue in an industrial area of a city in North Texas with a population under 750,000 people arrived in a full blow tour bus like they were fuggin’ Black Sabbath!  As they began to pile out of their bus in coordinated track suits, Adidas shoes, replete with their rock star attitude, SoCal hair, and white boy rap bling I could not help but laugh.   I was not the only person laughing at them as well.

Attached to The Engine Room, the venue in Fort Worth, was a little record store named Slacker Kingdom.  Randy B., the coolest person people in a three county area, ran this store and stocked all the best to be found in Fort Worth.  If Randy didn’t sell it, you didn’t need it.  Randy had a ton of Korn promo flats, posters, and other assorted ephemera. Their graphics, their song title, and everything about them made Korn was a walking punchline.  A crowd of kids and older folks sporting Sick of it All tattoos, straight edge fashion styles, and other NYHC influenced expressions were not going to be amused by Korn.

Their tour manager came looking for Todd.  Apparently, the band forgot their current status as a no name opening acting playing Cowtown.  The manager told Todd that Korn needed the “stage hands” to unload their equipment for them.  Of all the shit I’ve had to do at shows for bands, this had to be the most indignant I can ever remember feeling.  Todd and I had to unload their goddamn equipment for them.   We had to move their freakin’ weight bench and exercise equipment to get at the amps, instruments, and the drums!  So here I am weighing a buck-fifty nothing schlepping their dumbbells and stuff across the trailer to push the guitar and bass amps to Todd to roll down the ramp onto the sidewalk and into the club while all our friends laughed at us. Mother-trucker!  To say that I was fired up after that was an understatement; I was flipping pissed!!  I tell you what in front of God and all the neighbors, someone was going to hear about it.

By the time Korn played I was stewing in it.  Most of the hardcore kids refused to come inside while Korn played. The few that did were not amused and frankly nor was I.  I thought what they were doing was tired, unimaginably boring, pretentious, douchebag nu metal 90s bullshit!!  I availed myself of every opportunity to let everyone I knew know about it.  I advised everyone and hopefully the band, loudly, between songs that they sucked.   I’m sure that they had some bless their heart types digging what they were doing but the mid ‘90s much the like the majority of the 1980s rewarded the unimaginative pliant “artists”.  They played too damn long and just really put a damper on the night.  To this day, fugg ‘em, the scatting ass Cali-walking hemorrhoids!

Finally…finally…fugging finally…Sick of it All was about to play.  Now this wasn’t the Blood, Sweat, and Tears or Just Look Around Sick of it All, this was the Scratch the Surface version and I was still cool with that.  Older, wiser, and more able to kick your butt playing fast, slow, or heavy, Sick of it All was by 1995 a touring machine!  The band came out to what crowd had survived that Korn debacle and did what they do.  There were some knucklehead types in the crowd.  I remember seeing doing-your-own-thing boy (a local character) smack someone upside the head and then beat a hasty retreat for the door while the slapped asshat tried to learn who had hit him.  The dipstick never did, of course.  I do not remember how Sick of it All sounded or played.  Truth be told, after the Korn equipment crap and their general rockstar douchebag attitude I was bummed.  Here I was doing all this shit for free, not getting paid EVER and I had to stomach their foolishness just to see a band that I loved.  I’d just about had it and was so caught up in how much they sucked that I could not enjoy SOIA.  Thinking about it now still pisses me off.  

It would be a few years before I finally saw SOIA again. Todd booked them to play in Dallas when they toured for their next album and they killed as usual.  I would not see them again until 2014.  During the intervening years I stopped going to shows for over five years while Sick of it All moved labels a few times.  But when their touring schedule finally matched mine I was glad I still cared enough to go see them.  

In hindsight, it is likely unfair to blame Korn for me not enjoying the show.  That would be giving those pukes entirely too much agency and more importance than those now middle aged fat has-beens deserve.  I was just tired of all the b.s. of shows, music, “the scene”, hanging out, and all the other nonsense that forms barriers between a person and fun. Within a year or two I had largely stopped going to shows and would by 2000 not go to any hardcore shows until 2006. All things work out how they should and in that case that remained true.  In the end, Korn sucked and still sucks, Sick of it All are still great live, helping bands that suck sucks, I miss the Engine Room, Randy B. is/was/and will always be cooler than you, Kelly is missed (R.I.P.), and you’ve entirely too much time if you’ve read this much.  Bless your heart just the same.

DISCLAIMER: I know Korn sold a tons of record but I don’t give a flip.  I know that Korn made a ton of cash, again I don’t give a flip. Korn experienced more success and fame than I ever will and so the hell what?  Yup, you got it…I don’t give a flip.  Korn was emblematic of the worst of the ‘90s. Nu metal was nothing more than disco with a distortion pedal.  Their choreographed and contrived look buoyed by their focus group studied bad boy antics had a short shelf life evidenced by the fact that they are nowhere to be found now. Sick of it All still tour and where is Korn?  Exactly. QED y’all!

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That one time, I thought I was at a cult meeting and my world view changed after fIREHOSE finished playing...

Have you ever entered a room or a space and thought you were in a cult meeting?  Well I have and it turn out to be awesome!!  The people I encountered in this space spoke a different language, adhered entirely to a different view of fashion, engaged in blissful group rituals, and worshipped the meeting leader.  All of these facts existed in stark contrast to the wanting of their “leader”.  I was not a fIREHOSE fan before I went to see them but after that night, I kicked myself for not seeing them sooner.

I will readily admit I was not a huge Minutemen or fIREHOSE fan for the longest time.  I would readily annoy and amaze my friends by professing a profound disinterest in both above named bands.  I just never “got” them.  I did not see why a band needed a political division between bass and drums.  Also, I was not ready for the ideas or the musicianship.  I was thinking Ramones, Dead Kennedys, and Circle Jerks and those guys were talking jazz, folk, and art.  During my younger days, I reflexively recoiled from any band hyped to me.  Tell me something was the greatest band ever and I’ll refuse to listen to it just to spite you.  In the fullness of time, I can be worn down (usually) and during 1991 that was what happened.

I’m not sure when during 1991 I went to see fIREHOSE and I’m not really sure why I went, I’m just glad as hell that I did go.   fIREHOSE was booked to play Club Clearview smack dab in the middle of Dep Ellum.  Club Clearview was always an odd venue for a show for under 21 year olds like myself. Perhaps it was a generational thing but Clearview seemed to an older “safer” venue.  I saw some great shows there, including this one, but Clearview always felt a bit pretentious, stodgy, and too “adult” for me.  Quite the opposite were Rob, Chris, and I who all went to see fIREHOSE this night.  I think this was one of the last shows where all three of us would go together.  Rob, smarter than Chris and I, was starting to get his poop in one sock and stopped hanging out with Chris and I.   For Chris and Rob, seeing fIREHOSE was a huge moment; for me, it was another night out with friends and music.

Clearview was a room built between a bar at one end and the stage at the other.  The entrance passed entrants by the bar and emptied them facing the stage.  As we three dorks entered, I spied some friends from shows at the stage and went to speak with them.  Rob and Chris made a b-line for the bar as they saw old dude in a flannel drinking beer and holding court to an enraptured audience.  He spoke some foreign dialect I thought that sounded like a variant of English but then again it could have been Creole patois for all I knew. This of course was Mike Watt.  A more kindly soul I doubt existed/exists in punk rock.  Watt was not being the rock star glad handing with the punkers, far from it.  Watt was just a guy at the back shooting the breeze with the other drinkers.  In fact, if I had not been told he was in the band I would have thought him just another old guy still going to shows.  The only difference between Watt and the other drinkers was the quality of one liners and deep of thought given to each.  My favorite was “Thomas Jefferson was a punk.”  Think about it; of course, if you do not know anything about T.J. it makes no sense (Chris and I will still employ this one liner as code for anything absurdly fun).  Rob and Chris got their face time with Watt and like kids after Christmas morning beamed with their new gift…Wattage.

Meeting Watt held no appeal to me. It was not animosity nor was it apathy, it was just that the band and the guys in it were not important to me at the time.   Looking back on it, perhaps I should have bellied up to the bar with Chris and Rob to hear some ‘Pedro speak but that wasn’t me.  I prefer to observe than to participate; I have never been comfortable as an insider.  Instead, I was talking with Brian and Carl from Fort Worth.  I knew them from Slipped Disc, both guys were cool as hell and in a band I dug, Pledge.  After a few minutes of chit chat that said they were there to see Superchunk, the opening band, and fIREHOSE.  I had never heard Superchunk but trusting their opinion, I was excited to see what they did.  With Superchunk about to start, I walked back towards my friends and left it to Carl, Bryan, and the others at the front to bounce around during Superchunk.

Until the exact moment they began to play, I had never heard Superchunk or even heard of Superchunk.  I was hooked by the end of the first song.  What I heard that night was catchy, fast at times, upbeat throughout, sincere, punkish rock.  Superchunk had a big guitar sound, loud bass, a ton of energy, and no pretense about what they were doing and I loved it.  Always a fan of the bass and drums, a fact which made my disinterest in Minutemen/fIREHOSE all the more ironic, I was keenly interested in the lady on the bass. Not only could she play, had a great sound, but I found her cute as hell.   I had/have a weakness for the ladies who do what they are not supposed to do…and do it well.  I am not sure what songs Superchunk played how long they played or if it was their best show ever, all I know was that I loved it!  After the show, I bought their latest single, Fishing b/w Cool, out the back of their van from the bass player.  Being such a huge idiot and clearly ladies’ man (sarcasm), I was so tongue tied that I could bare complete the transaction for the 7”.  I wish I still had that 7”; I wore it out. Once Superchunk were done the crowd, such that 50-75 can compose, moved forward to the stage.  

Growing ever more gleeful by each pained minute spent waiting, the crowd grew louder and louder going from a murmur to an energetic uproar. The three players took the stage with little to no ceremony and took their places.  With a dissonant thud and boing on the bass, Watt sent the throng into a tizzy.  And that was the first hint I had that something “different” was about to happen.

The expression emanating from the darkened room facing the stage wasn’t quite elation, thought it was joyous.  Also, it wasn’t cathartic but clearly no one was holding back.  I can only describe it as a spontaneous and shared outpouring of recognition cum adoration for the band.  Not like people throwing their panties adoration but rather the kind that an equal gives another when something revelatory is being performed.    

With each successive song, the crowd loudly sang the words with the band as off key and out of tune as Ed and Mike.  No sour notes were noticed by the crowd who literally bounced off each other and the walls as they felt the music and rose and fell with every song.  Crescendo after crescendo was reached and exceeded none more explosive than when the band played Chemical Wire.  As one voice from many sources the whole crowd yelled ‘fuck it!’ in unison.  It was such an uproar that I asked Chris if that was that a Minutemen song.  Puzzled he looked at me and laughingly said, ‘nope’ after which he went back to enjoying the band and ignored my dumbass.  The music only stopped long for the players to tune.  Even during these brief lulls, the band kept the energy going with more Watt one liners.  Right before they played Red and Black Watt talked about some guy who released a Minutemen bootleg. Watt declared his disgust with the guy by intoning that he wanted to ‘jack the guy off with a sandpaper glove!’ Clearly, this resulted in laughs and shouts of agreement.  I can still close my eyes and see flashes of Watt on stage his cheeks filling like a blowfish just before he bangs out a note on his bass.  

From my spot in the back of the crowd, I felt the energy wash over me as the crowd enjoyed every song fIREHOSE played that night. The naked unvarnished and unabashed expenditure of energy as well as the enjoyment evident on the faces of the crowd still makes me think that I witnessed one of the clearest expressions of what is possible through music.  The power of a band to bring together a disparate collection of people (whose only connection is their attendance) for a brief moment to create a collective expression enjoyed equally by all still keeps me going to shows.

fIREHOSE probably played another show or two in Dallas before they called it a day.  I know Superchunk did but every time they came to town something came up and I could not make it.  To this day, both bands make me smile and miss my friends who are now scattered across the country.  Though I never saw either band again, I’m okay with it.  That night and those two performances were so special that to my mind it was better to have experienced it once and never to have seen either again than to see both a number of times and never have had such a night. 

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DEMO-STRATING my appreciation for these bands and demos.  All the above demos were from Dallas/Fort Worth area bands active during the late 1980′s and early 1990′s.  I won’t post any sound files as I do not own a tape deck anymore.  

The Agitators were fun as hell.  They played a Dickies cover and the singer went onto be in the Hellions and (Reo) Speed Dealer.  I saw Neurosis open for them at a Community Center near White Rock Lake in Dallas, TX. 

Days of Decision played unique sounding tunes as compared to all other D/FW bands.  Moses, the guitarist, once saw Slayer in Dallas, TX when they toured in a Trans-am towing a U-Haul trailer.  

Greenella played a cover of TSOL’s Blackmagic off Change Today LP, ballsy move.  Rob, the bass player, ran the Argo in Denton, TX.  If you saw a punk show in Denton during the mid to late 1990′s that was not a house party, thank Rob.  Our mutual friend Chris, once put a “hooked on phonics worked for me” bumper sticker on a Denton PD cruiser while it was parked outside the Argo.  I cannot imagine why the Argo closed so soon.   

Raided-X were great and I bought this demo at Direct Hit Records in Dallas, TX.  Kelly Keys, the owner, was cooler than you and still likely is; she wisely suggested I stop running my 19 year old mouth to the stinky homeless looking guy reading magazines saying I would thank her...its was GG Allin.  Thanks, Kelly!!  Raided-X opened for the Circle Jerks at the Arcadia theater when the Circle Jerks were supposed to record a live album.  Raided-X sounded great, the Jerks did not record and album...dammit.  

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In the early ‘90s, I doubt anyone could name a hardcore band from Arkansas other than Econochrist.  A person in the know, meaning from Arkansas, might name Trusty or later Chino Horde but in reality Econochrist is really the be all and end all of hc in Arkansas…if you were not from Arkansas.  I cannot argue with this judgment, and you cannot either.  Don’t begrudge Econochrist this accolade.  This reputation was well earned from good records and great live shows.  

When I first grabbed the July 1992 calendar, Econochrist was the band I wanted to see most.  I went to see them play in ’90 at Slipped Disc but I had to leave early and missed them play; yet another reason why working nights sucks, no?  My friends raved about how good they were and how much I missed by leaving.  Generally, I take such musing with a grain of salt these days as most people are full of it but at the time I swallowed such nonsense hook line and sinker.   Every subsequent Econochrist release, review, interview, or photo I saw in a ‘zine was salt in the wound.  

That Friday night, which honestly made not one damn difference – it wasn’t like I was doing shit that mattered during the week – you dig?, I was ready to see another show.  Still excited from Grimple and limping form Capitalist Casualties I was primed and ready to see another great band.  As usual I remember noting about the opening bands.  I am sure they were local or regional bands.  I am sure they were great, if they are reading this of course, otherwise let’s go with the rule that if you cannot remember something about a band it was because they were unremarkable and not remembering them is appropriate.  (NOTE: Sleeping Body who played are exempt from this rule as they were great every time I saw them.  I just cannot remember anything.) After all that I cannot remember it was time for the band I do not wish to forget seeing, Econochrist.  

I like to think that I am like most other people and as such a creature of habit.  Given the chance, I prefer to stand stage left or in front of the bass player.  To my ears bass and drums make a band, y’all can have the rooster show by the guitarist and primping singer all y’all want. As you can imagine, when I heard that the bass player for Econochrist used to be in Christ on Parade I was ¡whoohoo! dorky pleased.  Not only was I going to see a band that was supposed to be the mierda but I was going to hear live the bass player for a band I dug immensely, Christ on Parade.  (Contemplate that for a moment and realize how much of an idiot even cares about such things) The band no sooner than launched into the start of their set and my recent spate of luck continued.  In the midst of a visually impressive maneuver I’m sure, the bass played whooped me in the temple with the head of his bass.   Either one of the tuning pegs or a point on the end caught me an immediately raised a lump.  Damn it hurt. (This was neither the first time nor the last time I would get hit upside the head at a show, Agnostic Front, P.I.L., Scream, etc. etc. etc.)  Neither of us I missed a beat, the bass player kept on playing and I yelled ‘f@ck!’ really loud.  I doubt anyone other than me noticed.  If they did, I am sure they were jealous that they too could not hit me upside the head. Hit away because the band was so dang good, I did not care a flip!

Have you ever noticed that when seeing a great band live it appears that time stops or no longer matters?  I have and I know when that happens that I am experiencing something truly amazing.  I cannot recall how many times after watching a great set that I could not tell someone how long the band played, what songs the band played, or anything other than it was great.  Use whatever tired cliché you wish to describe the feeling you get when the band and the audience are meeting each other as equals and the energy exchanged works to feed a self-perpetuating moment that few can remember precisely but that none will ever forget.  This describes the Econochrist set perfectly.  I remember flashes of that night.  The bass player alternated between grimaces and smirks as sent wave after wave of low end thump into my chest.  The singer, Ben who I met a few months later in San Francisco and was cool as hell, committed to every moment that night.  Sincerity can be faked, honesty feigned, but commitment cannot be either. You cannot fake a performance that much and get away with it.  For his part, the guitarist remained a hive of activity and proved to be damn nimble for a big guy.  For however long they played, Econochrist kept me enrapt.  

I still see Econochrist t-shirts and patches from time to time.  Unlike my bands, my thoughts do not immediately go to how overrated, criminally usually, band X is.

(It’s a fact 50% of bands suck, 40% are good but not great, 5% are so bad or unoriginal that they should never have formed, 3% are great (of these too many breakup before recording anything), 1.5% make me wish I was deaf, and .5% are so good that seeing them is worth all the effort, wasted time, and the other b.s. that comes with going to punk/hc shows.)

 Econochrist were great live and that’s a no-bull fact!  Their second LP Trained to Serve remains one of the best HC LP’s of the early ‘90s.  I am glad as hell that I saw them and they were great.  All that said, I am also glad that they stopped touring and releasing records as well.  I like to think of it as the band knew they had their time, they made the most of their opportunity and moved on to the rest of their live

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Crust, Toadies, KNON benefit, and a Tongue

With Easy Street having become a gig collective, I came to view seeing shows as a task some nights.  This was never truer than when the Toadies and Crust played as part of a KNON benefit. The whole noise-rock, Trance Syndicate coolness was lost upon me utterly; disclosure, I still do not see why Ed Hall or their ilk were “the shit”.  That in mind you can imagine the joy on my face when the singer of Crust, clad only in a diaper, began to remove items from the dirty diaper and hurl them from the stage.  

Pre-internet, the best part of going to shows was the hope that something you heard or saw that night would change the way you viewed music or at least give you another band over which to obsess for a while.   When Easy Street Theater went from a club run by Greg and Jack to being a collective, without Greg, they needed volunteers to help do things.  We were trying for something ala Gilman Street.  Always willing to do shit-work, handy with a broom, as well as going to be there anyway, I volunteered.  This meant I would be there almost every night it was open, paying to get in, not getting paid anything for going, and I also had to clean up after the punkers.  Some nights, I knew I made the right decision as I witnessed great shows; other nights, I felt like the biggest idiot on the planet…the latter brings us to the Crust show.

I liked the Toadies as much as the next person.  I did not see them as much as Randy B. did, but I went when I could.  Always great live and with a cool as hell lady on bass, Lisa, you could not hold much against the Toadies.  Gigging around the country with their muscular indie/punk, derisively dismissed Pixies-esque rock, the Toadies just made you smile.  Liking the Toadies was like rooting for the Li’l Engine that could. I did not, however, get the same warm fuzzies from Crust.  Crust embodied many things I disliked about music during the 90’s.  

Hype, for some reason band during the 90’s could not be a collection people doing their thing. No, no…that was entirely too simple.  Every asshat had a shtick, every band was important for this reason or for that reason, every band was trying to out “Subpop” the next band.  The endless hype, self-congratulatory praise, and shameless auto-fellation endemic to the decade got old fast.   Worse still, was old trying to get paid; reunions…that was a very 90’s thing as well.  

Cashing in on what was without adding anything new remains probably the number one 90’s punk/hc dick move.  Take a moment and think of all the 80’s bands that got back together to cash in on the Nirvana/Greenday money train.  The breadth and depth of bands remains staggering.  I’m not going to name any of them (no free publicity here dudes).  Some bands added to their catalog with good new releases while others just sucked.  In the end, 90% of reunions did nothing but drag a bands’ name through an embarrassing mud pit shamelessly chasing the success that was never theirs to obtain.  Wow, that was mean of me….I get it though, now anyway, with money at stake and musicians tending to need it, it made sense to give it a shot.  Sadly though, they were all fighting for the biggest chunk of the same crumbs and that was just sad.  I cannot blame them for that but I can blame them for the shlock that followed.  

To my mind, Trance Syndicate Records was front and center to much of what I disliked about the 90’s.  Yeah, the dude from the Butthole Surfers ran the label.  And yes, all the “cool” bands were on his label.  But the label seemed like a sad attempt to replicate Subpop’s success.  Oh, and of course, everyone gobbled up the colored vinyl limited run gems they released’ because of course colored vinyl “sounds better” and won’t your friends be some impressed that you were hip enough to be in on the know so early as to snag the goodies. F@ck You!  Even now, typing this fills me with disgust and brings a sneer to my face.  Loud obnoxious-punkrock-pigfuck-wanna-be-psychedelic-MC5/Stooges worship isn’t cool because you act like it is! Just because you play loud, half fill Emo’s, and convince yourselves that you’re a matured musician with valuable things to contribute doesn’t mean your shit.  

On this night the good, the bad, and the otherwise came together to help KNON.  Our local radio station, KNON, had been a beacon of hope during the 80’s.  Living an hour or so NW of Dallas in a town of about a 1000 people was depressing as hell.  Having discovered punk/hc and indie music before moving north, KNON’s sounds were a godsend in that little town.  That station and its volunteer DJ’s provided me endless hours of discovery informing much of my musical and artistic taste one radio show at a time, thanks y’all!!  Giving back when they could Easy Street, Crust, and the Toadies teamed up to raise some cash for the station.

I cannot say anything about how any band other than Crust played that night.  To say that Crust dominates by recollection of events is an understatement.  All I can remember from that night is Crust; because it bordered upon the traumatic.  Seriously, it was hideous.  So much so, that I cannot tell you how Crust sounded; I have no idea.  What I can say, however, is how they performed.  It was compelling, annoying, captivating, horrifying, and maddening all at the same time.

Imagine if you can the most shambolic racket you’ve ever heard from a stage being spewed out, loudly, to a collection of misfits, malcontents, and general 90s ne’er-do-wells that you’ve never encountered before in your life.  Add to this the sight of a tall lanky man with tousled hair wearing nothing except an engorged and filthy adult diaper.  This was my introduction to Crust.  As their set drug on, the singer dipped into his bag of tricks and created a new layer of mess for me to clean after the show.

First came the cereal if memory serves.  Timed, I’m sure to coincide with some aspect of their musical genius to provide a stunning visual and artistic impact, the singer threw handfuls of breakfast cereal into the audience.  No, I do not remember which variety….like that makes a dang difference anyway.  (Just stay with me son, I’m story telling.)  As Easy Street was a BYOB venue and of course drinkers invariably becoming drunks, some sloppier thanothers, combined with sweat, all other manner of body excretions, and the existing “patina of filth’ on the floor to create a uniquely persistent layer of organic God-knows-what that I would have to clean after everyone went home.  As annoying as the cereal was, it pales in comparison to the singer’s tongue.

I have a child now, a beautiful little girl…thank you very much, so I know what to expect inside a dirty diaper.  I am sure some of you reading this have children as well and likewise have reasonable expectations what to find inside a dirty diaper.  Well, the singer from Crust clearly wanted to dispel any notions of reasonable dirty-diaper contents that night.  After several songs of caterwauling, pretentious self-satisfying noise, he reached into his waist bound bag of fun and produced the most hideous possible item I would have never imagined.

From his stained, formerly white now mud colored and sagging diaper he slowly and tantalizingly produced a tongue.  I don’t mean something little, no this guy had been walking around since lord knows when with a cow’s tongue jammed up against his junk!  I cannot even begin to imagine what drove him to such a decision or what it does to a scrotum to have a cow’s tongue rubbing up against it for a while, or even what anyone else thought at the sight of it. The only concern I had at the time was ‘lord don’t let him throw that towards me’.  Of course, he threw it but thankfully not towards me.  At this point a brief aside is necessary.  

I like to think I am a reasonable person given to good decision making and lacking any sort of malicious bent (likely wrong on one of those) so if that guy threw a tongue at me I’d get the hell away from it.  Nope, that’s not what happened.  Instead, the crowd began to throw it amongst themselves and back at the stage.  This lead to a game of catch. As the tongue bounced around the room, little pieces appeared to shear off it. That was not the worst part, meat stinks.  Meat stinks, it is both fact and political point of view.  Almost immediately, the stench of raw meat at room temperature filled the show space.  This stench just added to the existing aroma of sweat, beer, ass, foot, and sickly sweet breakfast cereal providing a stomach turning bouquet on which my sinuses burned.  Of course, being a vegetarian there is nothing I wanted more to clean than the bits of tongue left around the room as well the tongue which finally came to rest in a lump against a wall.  

Once the crowd left and the bands broke down their equipment and began to leave, I set about the task of cleaning up cereal, tongue, the usual post show detritus, and the diaper previously worn by the singer of Crust.  After the tongue the singer removed the diaper and threw it into the crowd.  I cannot remember what I was thinking at the time but now the only thoughts I have are about the tongue.  What kind of person thinks that the best way to compliment and to present their music live was to stuff a cow’s tongue into a filthy diaper only to remove the tongue and hurl it at the audience?  Still baffled by that one but I would love to see the thought process that arrived at that decision; it has to be a clear example of genius at work.  Upon reflection though, having seen Crust and others of their ilk did help me to form my musical tastes.  For that I thank them...it’s always good to know what you do not like.

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In retrospect, 1992 was the calm before the storm.  The exposure the underground gained from Nirvana was diminishing by that time.  “Grunge” bands largely came from outside the underground community by 1992 and the next penetrating light of success had yet to burn into punk rock.  In the last year or so before NOFX, Greenday, Rancid, Bad Religion et al. exposed punk, fissures were emerging in punk/hardcore that remain today.   From D.C., Baltimore, and Sand Diego an abrasive, “artistic”, emotive, perhaps even a little pretentious, explosion of sounds cleaved off swaths of bands and kids. The sounds of California were as they always were except for the burgeoning “power-violence” sound emanating from the ends of the state.  Likewise, a nasty, harsh, and ugly view of life was emerging from the Southern states from New Orleans to Miami.  Texas, my home, was still years behind everybody else.  In the midst of all this movement and change was I your humble narrator a 19-year-old wet behind the ears punk kid knowing nothing more than a crap job and going to shows.  In the summer of 1992, all that was to be would be presented to audiences as Easy Street Theater in Dallas; most of us just did not see it for what it was, a divided future.

Always suffering from a myopic sense of vision, I was rarely – if ever – the first to see the coming wave.  On this one hot July night, I would have the coming wave crash right on top of me and smack me in my unsuspecting face.  Having never heard anything remotely like the sounds of Assuck and Hellnation, I was absolutely speechless and captivated at the same time. I had no way to describe what I heard, what I saw, and what I saw the sounds caused others to do.  Now, that previous statement might be a bit of an exaggeration.  I “had” heard Napalm Death and the early grindcore bands.  They just didn’t do it for me so the dalliance ended quickly.  Funnily enough, I was in a band that played at Slipped Disc a couple years before and we jokingly played a “Napalm Death” cover. We simply coordinated our noise and grunted; we did this so convincingly that year’s later people would comment to me about seeing that band and remembering how we played a ND song. That aside, actually being there to interact with those sounds live is nothing like hearing it on an LP.  

I never truly appreciated the physical aspects of being in a band until the mid-1990s when I was in another band.  Playing music, any music, takes a physical toll of the players.  This fact is clearly evident on the faces and bodies of musicians when they play and that is exceedingly true as the music becomes more extreme.  To witness the contorted, pained, and torturous grimaces of the players begs the question as to why anyone would play such music…rhetorically of course.  I do not remember who played first that night but Assuck is what I remember most.  

I used to argue that you can tell the success of a band by the number of new faces it brings to a club.  The regular folks will almost always be there night after night, if we had anywhere else to go we would go there, and since we were not “there” clearly we had nothing else.  Assuck and Hellnation brought a snarkier and uglier crowd than usual as well as a contingent of people new to Easy Street Theater.  Unlike the hefty size of the evolutionary throwbacks that populated metal shows, the grindcore/deathmetal crowd were scrawny loudmouths given to asininely rebellious activities and generally destructive dipshittedness. I could get behind nearly all that at age 19.  These new faces, some of which would become friends and acquaintances, responded to the noise they heard in a most uncoordinated and primitively-visceral ways. There was no “moshing” or a “pit”, instead just a bunch of flaying individuals doing their best to interpret the sounds they heard in the movements of their bodies; Nijinsky would be proud.  Easy Street Theater had a nice-sized room and a stage of good height; the latter of which no band used that night.  

This was the first show I could remember where the band played on the floor and not on the stage.  It seemed silly to my mind because how would everyone be able to see the band if they were on the floor; what a dumbass thing to consider…jeez.  In the center of this big room, I swept and mopped more that I care to remember, the band set up their equipment.  

The guitarist, drummer, and the vocalist, singer, thingy type person; I prefer to call him the person with the loudest mic.  It’s a more precise description.  Probably more striking than the missing bass player was the praying mantis like drummer of Assuck.  I remember this guy being much taller than his drums and being long and lanky to the point of appearing deformed.  The strange motions through which he moved as he played were bizarre.  He appear more like some kind of backwater Southern wizard in the midst of some serious incantations than a drummer in a band.  The singer likewise was memorable not for the way he leapt about but rather how he planted himself.  The singer staked out an area on the floor and as if to channel a great force he braced himself for backlash such forces create.  The guitarist meanwhile moved about the room like a scraggily possessed Muppet.  The noise they made was thunderous and impressive.    

After watching Assuck play, I wandered outside trying to process what I just witnessed.  I do not even remember Hellnation playing as I never went back inside.  Like any great revelation, either the recipient embraces fully what they just witnessed or after the fog clears, they reject it outright only to embrace it later, maybe.  I was not sold on Assuck, Hellnation, or grindcore in the slightest.  Nothing I saw that night changed my mind.  That is not to say that the performance was easily dismissed.  It wasn’t, it simply took a while to digest.  The most enduring fact of that night was who was not in attendance.

When I first started going to shows, it did not matter what “type” of band was playing; it was a show, so you went.  In a few years, all anyone cared about was Lookout Bands, Ebullition bands, Dischord bands, Crusty bands, or whatever-the-hell self-imposed categorization brought out “the kids”.  Instead of finding ways to put all these bands on the same bill thereby bringing everyone out to see all the different bands, line-ups became “stacked” with only one style of band.  All this did was make it harder for bands to find an audience and for an audience to be exposed to new ideas.  Inevitably, all the faces that made shows so much fun were rarely seen. So and so would not go see that band because they were on that label or were too “emo” or they were not “into hardcore” anymore whatever nonsense allowed for dismissing a band.  It sucked and made going to shows a chore; yes, I was as guilty as anyone else more than I care to remember.

While I still do not like grindcore as a genre or Assuck as band, I can appreciate that the artistic impulse behind the expression was as valid as any other bands’ regardless of form or execution.  Sadly, this fact is all too often lost on myopic or overly focused dorks…ahem…like your humble narrator.  Now years, later I can see bands I do not like and appreciate the validity of their art while simultaneously never wanting to experience it again.  I only wish I could learn such facts without continually violating Bismarck’s maxim (only a fool learns from their own mistakes).

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Looking at the above calendar, I should not have to discuss the quality of shows that July 1992 brought to Easy Street Theater and Dallas, TX.  Admittedly, the shows are stacked more heavily at the start of the month than the end but damn…that was a great month!   As I sit trying to start this post I am nearly unable to communicate anything more articulate other than ‘damn dude!!!’.  Even accepting the past is almost always remembered more fondly than it was, you cannot help but smile at the thought of seeing those bands play.  It might sound silly, but many of the nights shown above had me hearing a band for the first time and more often than not I was utterly floored by them…from what I can remember.    

By July 1992 Easy Street had morphed into a gig collective and show space.  I am not sure whose idea it was but if it was mine (it wasn’t), I chose the worst “job”…I was a lowly worker at the space.  My evenings were marked by watching bands, emptying trash, sweeping, wandering the parking lot, and generally doing what most moms did at home…cleaning up after ungrateful little punks.  For this pleasure I paid to get in like everyone else and then went to work cleaning when y’all went home.  When The Dread and Capitalist Causalities arrived, we were happy that mustard smell left the room.   Usually the smell was stale beer, trash, puke, or urine…the usual bouquet of punk clubs. Mustard was a nice change but not something I needed turning into part of the aroma of the club.  Easy street’s importance would not be immediately obvious from the drab appearance of the building.  [In case you’re wondering about the mustard, that was generously provided and liberally applied by Grimple the previous night.]

Easy Street Theater was a sparse three roomed disused adult theater in an industrial neighborhood NW of downtown Dallas; in this, it was perfect for shows.  Thankfully, the neighbors were long since gone by the time the kids began to arrive. There was little foot traffic past the club so the kids were safe to hang out in the parking lot between bands. More importantly, the police that patrolled the area did not really care what we did ‘as long as you do not make us do something about it’.  This was an attitude with which we could work knowing full well that most punks were not going to behave within the bounds of the law no matter what we asked.  Add the tolerable heat of summer nights that followed copious amounts of damnation-in-hell-like-heat and it was just another day/night in Texas.

I think it fair to say that most touring bands had low expectations of shows in Dallas.  Without argument, Dallas never approached the vitality of Austin or Houston when it came to local music scenes.  Dallas never had the ‘artistic space’ for underground music as it was, and I am sure still is, horrendously susceptible to trends.  This sad fact was on display for nearly every week night show all summer. Punk was not “in” so few if any came out for the shows.  A throng of nearly a dozen watched Grimple the night before and an increase of 25% the next night still left the space glaringly empty.    In Dallas’ defense, it is not fair to view these bands backwards saying that they are “huge” now so the whole town should have gone to the show then.  It just wasn’t like that y’all.  I am not sure what The Dread and Capitalist Casualties thought of their first time in Dallas, TX.  Most bands appeared appreciative and happy to have any audience but I am sure that at some point they have to look out from the stage and just think that we did all of that for this?  

If Bloodline played with The Dread and Capitalist Casualties, I cannot remember.  Considering the fact that I was not drinking then tells me that they were a no show or played an utterly unremarkable and forgettable set; it happens to every band at least once.  The Dread on the other hand were highly memorable.  

Not quite the power trio of days of yore, the Dread nevertheless played great bouncy, with some testicular nods (ballsy y’all), catchy punk rock.  When their LP came out, I would and often did liken it to Toxic Reasons.  Their earlier records never reflected this fact but live they always had that power and oomph.  The Dread’s songs were fast without being ludicrous, catchy without being sugary, and smart without being a basis for a championship game of Scrabble.  In short, the Dread were awesome.  Hate me now, but I’m going to say it…the Dread had a female member and that too also made them memorable.  

In areas of the country where large numbers of women are active members of the scene this sounds rural and ignorant to the extreme.  Fine, guilty me.  For someone from Dallas, however, where the contribution by women was strong but made by few in number this fact is memorable.  Athena was her name; was she a good bass player?  I have no idea as I am not now nor was I then a musician. Did she contribute to a band that I dug greatly?  Yes, hell yes, and Shitchyeah!  Now, if only Capitalist Casualties only hit me the same way.

I never before saw a visually uninspiring band absolutely astound me.  Capitalist Casualties from what I remember were a wooly sort of band with a soul patch, a facial style the wife derisively calls “the flavor savor” with loads of hair all over the place.   The name Capitalist Casualties did endear them to me somewhat and watching them jump around and play and say whatever they did at ludicrously fast speeds was fun and they did play stupid fast.  The dozen or so other there watching alongside me seemed to enjoy it as well.  But here’s the thing, that style, grindcore, fastcore, powerviolence, hardcore, or whatever name you give it gets old fast…really fast. About the same time, I was beginning to become bored with the band the singer decided to emphasize some point he was making by throwing the mic stand.  

Now in a room that could easily hold 100-150 kids currently occupied by at most 12 kids what are the chances that the mic stand/projectile would strike someone?  Before you answer lets furhter complicate this calculation by asking if it were to strike someone what are the chances it would hit me?  Well, of course this is what happened.  

I stood there disinterestedly complacent in the knowledge that there was no way the stand would come anywhere near me.  Of course, I was wrong.  Hurtling through the air at a downward angle, the mic stand hit my right leg just below the knee and slid/scraped/ground down my shinbone almost all the way to my ankle. The initial force of the impact knocked my leg back and made me stumble. Given that I was the quintessential 130 pound conglomeration of skin, bone, and only enough muscle to effect movement, it was pretty sturdy of me not to tump like a big headed baby.  Undoubtedly looking more foolish than usually, I availed myself of my new found ‘out’ and I hobbled to a bench in the front room to inspect me leg.  

The reddening scrape down my leg was now beginning to sting and hurt.  I spent the remainder of Capitalist Casualties set seated in the front room being bored, at best, and annoyed at worst.  When the show was over as was all to usual an occurrence, people pointed, laughed, and stared at me but this time it was because of my leg rather that something idiotic that I did or said while trying to be cool.  I do not remember if the bands gave the episode any though after it happened.  I do know that years later when I saw the Dread again and had a chance to speak with the band they remembered that night.  Athena recalled the incident rather humorously; can’t blame her really, most people who know me know I am good for a laugh especially when I’m trying to be serious.

The small crowd that turned up were appreciative from what I remember.  Unlike larger scenes where everyone is too cool to sincere, the kids that composed “lesser” scenes always did what they could to encourage bands to come back a second time.  The kids in Dallas usually bought stuff from bands and generally did what they could to make bands feel welcome.  I appreciated this fact more greatly in the coming months as I toured the U.S. with a Dallas area band.  Looking backwards from the present, you can fool yourself into imaging that huge crowds populated shows every night.  In reality, a dozen to two dozen kids at a show was average and 50 was a “huge” show. Good ole days indeed.

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So I went to see this band play once.  I never heard them before I saw them but by the end of the night I thought they were great!  These three guys played sincere, honest, urgent songs to a willing crowd.  The few of us that were there appeared to enjoy every moment.  During lapses between songs or when strings broke they told jokes, played name that tune, and continually interacted with the audience as if we were old friends. To this day it remains one of the most relaxed and egalitarian shows I ever attended.  I am other sat on the stage without fear of being pummeled or piled upon by the kids bouncing around behind us.  It was almost utopian by the end of the night.  

In the months and years that followed this band became “the shit”, “the best band”, moved beyond punk to the point where everything they did was feted, adored, and adulated to the point of it making me not like them anymore.  I skipped their shows, refused to buy their records, and would swear that they could fart through a used tube sock draped over a roadside cone onto an onboard mic attached to a 1976 TI home cassette player/recorder then leave the tape to bake inside the corpse of an opossum locked in the back of a 1968 VW microbus once owned by Wavy Gravy and now abandoned in the epicenter of Death Valley, CA for 3 years and then mastered by a first grader pressed onto a flexi disc and folded six times before being shipping to the kids…and it would still get a great review and go through 6 pressing of 5,000 copies each.  In fact, I disliked people who liked them.  Then after they signed to a major label released one album that “true fans” hated and broke up I  bought the last album and discovered I loved it more than the one they played when I first saw them.   To this day, people who were barely alive when they called it a day still note them as “the most important band”.   This ever happen to you?  No? Well this is my Jawbreaker story.

26 July 1990 was when I first heard Jawbreaker.  I went to see them for the simple reason that they were playing.  It did not matter to me that I never heard them before they played.  This approach made every show exciting as I did not know if I would love the band, hate the band, or just leave because I was bored. Jawbreaker captivated me when they played.  They were not a jump around band; they did not “look cool”.  In fact, they were pretty damn normal and kind of ugly like me if I may be so bold.  That was not why I liked them.  I liked them for all the reasons named above and because they played great songs as if they would die if they did not.  While I saw stage right in front of the bass player they never created a moment that made me want to turn around to see how many other people were in the room.  As far as I cared or was concerned, I was the only person in the room while they played.  I am sure that is completely wrong but they were so damn good that I never noticed anyone else.  I do not even remember if I bought anything from the band after the show.  I literally don’t remember shit other than sitting on the stage watching them play.  After that night I never saw them play again.  

Returning to Metroplex three years later by famously playing Mad Hatter’s in Fort Worth, TX but mere blocks from my home and I still did not go to see Jawbreaker.  Why may you ask?  Well I will tell you why.  It was solely because of the nauseating hype surrounding the band.  Darlings are rarely my thing and when the crowd is a self-anointed collection of 90s stereotypes I care even less.  You’d of thought they were Girls Vs. Boys at one point. This show as many of you know is famously traded by fans and even though I know a ton of people at the show, I do not care to hear it. At the height of the hype, I still cannot listen to them without being disgusted.

This is totally a problem of my making and nothing about the band.  I know it, I accept it, but I still hold it against the band.  Who doesn’t love a little irrational transference?  Ever the contrarian once they signed to a major label and released the wonderfully crafted and listenable Dear You they had my attention again.  If it bums out “the kids”, I am listening.  I bought the record on cooler than you colored vinyl, which really does make the record sound better no matter what anyone claims to the contrary.  In fact, the more people whined, complained, bemoaned the lesser album, and predicted it as the death knell of the band, I liked it all the more.  

In the end, this is more a story of the 1990s before, during, and after Nirvana.  I saw Jawbreaker before Nirvana played when the underground was safely underground. Artists suffered through unprofitable tours, to appreciative fans, and we in the crowd vilified them if they attempted to improve their situation through hard earned opportunities. During Nirvana’s rise to popularity, the underground was now a spectacle but still an area of abstraction and amusement for most people.  Suburban Dick and Jane bought Nevermind but did not fully buy in to what Nevermind represented.  By the time, after Nirvana rolled around there was no underground.  Everything that was once outside the mainstream was now bought and sold in magazines, board rooms, and TV commercials.  Bands who once worked tremendously hard to produce an album while staving off starvation now enjoyed a short period of profitability.  Some even created great records that changed pop culture or created careers for umpteen generations of knock-off bands.  In the end though, nothing was as it was and there was no way it could be.  In a nutshell this is Jawbreaker to me.  I liked them, they exploded, I hated them, they imploded, everyone doubted them, I liked them again, and they called it a day.  

Don’t be a fool, like me, listen to their records and like them for what they are not what people are saying about them; don’t let the ceaseless nonsense that emerges from the mouths of other overshadow how great a band was live. Jawbreaker were great during 1990 and were most probably great until they stopped being.  I will never know and that is all about me. 

[convertidophoto]

Have you ever been so excited to a see a band that you made a flyer for the show yourself, printed  a hundred copies, and used your own free time to drive 25 miles to Dallas to hand out the flyers?  No?  You probably never have because your decision to read this notwithstanding you are a rational, reasonable, and sensible person who would never be such a dork.  I on the other hand…well…c’mon, are you going to make me say it?

I do not remember when I first heard Battalion of Saints but I remember when I first had the chance to see them play.  No it was not live per say; it was on the Flipside No. 2 video that I bought at Direct Hit Records.  I never had the chance to see them play during the 1980s.  Growing up in smallish towns in Texas provides one a great education in the ways of the indigenous redneck but it does not provide one with great opportunities to see bands play live.  As I learned to duck a punch (never quite perfected that one actually), that you can outrun most bubbas if they are wearing boots, and always sucker punch someone bigger than you, the rest of my cohorts in metropolitan areas were going to see shows.  The sum total of my seeing the band was two songs that are included in that video.  I loved every second of those few short minutes.

Replete with the pomp and swagger or more mainstream rock bands but also packing the punch of the most unregenerate hardcore bands, Battalion of Saints carved their own niche in the early 1980s. No one sounded like them at the time and though many have tried, no one sounds like them now either. Clearly fueled by abandon and chemicals, Battalion of Saints disappeared by the mid-80s having burned out rather than fading away as they say.  Their devil may care attitude remains tremendously compelling as any art created today; when you don’t a dang about tomorrow what you do today tends to be a tremendously compelling show.  From what I was told by my luckier friends who saw them was that they were just that sort of experience; a compelling train wreck of energy and bad habits clad in leather and perhaps some fishnets and spandex as well.  At the time of their demise having only two proper releases and those questionably iffy ones on Mystic Records, Battalion of Saints were at best a cult band and hardly a top tier band.  Never having much sense in such matters, however, I did not care because as far as I was concerned they here HUGE in my world.  [Can I call them the punk/hc equivalent of Van Halen?  Yes, I think I can.]   Playing with that analogy a bit more, just as we have all demanded or waited wantonly for the DLR/Van Halen reunion, I waited and hoped to see Battalion of Saints. In 1995, the unthinkable happened…Battalion of Saints released a new single!!

The mid-90s line up of Battalion of Saints could never be the original line up for the obvious reasons; if science is going to reanimate the dead, it is highly doubtful they will start with the likes of the former members of Battalion of Saints. (You know I’m right…first time for everything.) This new lineup, however, boasted one hell of a guitarist, Bones from Discharge and Broken Bones. Fronting the band was the only remaining person who could, George Anthony.  Accompanying them would be a rotating rhythm section.  The four members cranked out two scorchers that kicked ass just as much as the original material.  Pleasingly, the new songs sounded little like the older material.

Lacking the pomp and swagger of the 80s songs, these new songs were more confident and almost muscular in their delivery.  Gone was the flash and youthful brashness.  This version of the band used the songs to batter your age weakened butts and I loved it.  So much so, I even forgave them for the embarrassingly horrendous remix of the Second Coming LP included on the TAANG! Discography CD that was released around the same time.  Come to think of it, I even forgave them that tired 90s maneuver, the discography CD.  Can you name a more tired, unimaginative, and “90s” move than all releases on one CD or CD set?  No?  Me neither. With mounting anticipation, I hoped I would hear about a show in Fort Worth or Dallas (the proper order of cities, thank you very much).  I cannot remember who informed me of their upcoming show but I am forever in their debt.

Fort Worth and Dallas may be separated by 26 short miles but it might as well be a chasm significant enough to see from space.  Built on cattle and “Hell’s half-acre” of ill repute, Fort Worth revels in its “Cowtown” past while “Big D” Dallas embraces is presumptive sophistication and foppishly contrived urbanity.  Gimme a “funky-town” punk show anytime and that is exactly what I learned Battalion of Saints would be.  21 June 1996 or 1995 but definitely 21 June, Battalion of Saints, Total Chaos, and Gals Panic would be playing at the Engine Room.  

The Engine Room was the latest in the long line of Kelly (R.I.P.) and Melissa venues in Fort Worth.  These two lovelies ran nearly every venue that mattered in Fort Worth from the late 1980s until the late 1990s.  Tucked into a fairly empty industrial neighborhood on the southern edge of downtown, the Engine Room was perfectly located.  It was a few blocks from the highway, had zero neighbors after dark, and even the cops didn’t give enough of a damn to come round after hours.  Originally envisioned as a venue with two rooms, as Kelly once told me, the second smaller room never came to fruition.   Instead, the larger room with the balcony became the main show space.  In addition to punk/hc shows, Kelly and Melissa made this space available to every and any act that did not fit into other venues.  Even going so far as to divert shows from Dallas to Fort Worth.

Overcome with rapturous geeky joy, I ran to Kinko’s carrying my copy of Fighting Boys and stencils I made at work to create the utterly utilitarian and unimaginative flyer you see above.  I quickly assembled it in the slap-dash fashion you see and made 100 copies.  I then set to handing these out in Dallas as well as leaving copies in stores.  In typical Dallas fashion the punkers were “too punk” to care.  I cannot ever remember being told to f-off as much as I was when handing out those flyers.  Then again some of those Dallas dudes and dudettes were wearing a leather jacket June; an act of monumentally stupid proportions.  But then, to each their own…

When the day of the show arrived, finally, I could not wait. I remember that the show occurred during the week as the entire day at work I wanted to go home have a few beers and see the show.  When I wanted to see certain bands, bands that were important to me, I resembled a kid in the week before Christmas.  I am clearly excited, anxious, likely not sitting still, and definitely annoying the hell out of everyone else.  I’d like to say that this has changed over the years but…  Finally it was time to see them play.  

My buddy Todd Clearview saw Battalion of Saints during 1984 when they came through Dallas.  He told me that when their set was over the room was so packed that the band had to pass their equipment by hand over the crowd to the back of the room. To my mind, this show was sure to be that packed.  I distributed flyers, the venue advertised, and I am sure word of mouth got the news to more people.  It was a work night, what the hell else was everyone going to be doing?  As I walked into the Engine Room I was immediately struck by the total and utter lack of a crowd.

The Engine Room could easily accommodate 300 people and more if the Vandals are playing.  When I walked in maybe…maybe…30 people were milling around the bar.  I was bummed but it was not going to ruin my night.  As usual the wife and Chris H. were with me at the show.  Todd was there as well but he was hanging back somewhere chatting with the band or someone else.  Somewhere in the expanse of nothingness was Total Chaos and Gals Panic as well. I did not care to see Gals Panic and honestly cannot remember if I did.  Thankfully, Total Chaos played last.  This meant that I could see Battalion of Saints and leave without having to see Total Chaos.  For me, this was a fortuitous turn as I’d seen Total Chaos before and they were not my thing at all.

With little more than a nod to each other the drummer of Battalion of Saints started playing while the guitars began to feedback and grow increasingly louder.  At the exact moment when the tension was the strongest, George Anthony leaned into the mic and shouted, “Fighting boys head off to war…” and with that it was on!  I was loving it.  I do not know why I expected George Anthony to be taller but I was taken aback by his Dio like stature.  Stupid, I know but there it is.  Much like the Ramones, Battalion of Saints went from song to song with little interruption.  The addition of Bones on guitar was the perfect complement to George Anthony’s vocals. Both were big, full throated, and would likely overpower any weaker players.  Together they were so good!  Through the set, Chris, I and anyone else up front screamed, shouted, and sang along with all the songs you would want to hear from the band.  When the set was finally over, I was spent.  

My throat was sore and my voice was hoarse for days afterward.  Everyone around me was smiling and clearly pleased with what they just experienced.  I could not ask for more from the band.  Brimming with satisfaction and still buzzing from the set, I strolled back to the merchandise table snagged a shirt and bought a copy of the new 7”.   I pulled the total goof move and put that shirt on the next day.  My chest swelled like a rooster looking for a hen all the next day.  I still have that shirt today and though I do not wear it as often, I still love it.  I saw Battalion of Saints again during 1996 and while they were still fun it was not as good as it was the first time.  I remember the set being largely the same and played well but without the surrounding excitement that the band had the previous year.  In the end, the Battalion of Saints show was just another instance that makes me feel so lucky that I found this music.