Five Wild Dogs Shows That Changed History
Matt McCourt and the Wild Dogs were a huge influence on me in ways that I still struggle to articulate. I was first exposed to them on August 29, 1982 just 10 weeks out of high school. I went to see them every time they played in Seattle for the next several years. It was like religion for us, maybe even a cult.
Scraps of this consolidated piece were published previously in Denim & Leather by one of the other members of the cult. But this expanded summary was pulled together for Rusted Metal when it was published in 2020. These are the days of our lives…
No one who saw Wild Dogs play live was ever the same again. But whether a regional indi-metal band from the pre-internet age in a B-market could change the course of history has been the subject of much speculation. Until now...
5. Wild Dogs, Metal Church, Slayer—Mountaineers Club, Seattle-- June 29, 1984
The Dogs were a Puget Sound skating rink favorite by this point, but this was an important show for them. Metal Church had a considerable headstart and Slayer was already Slayer. Wild Dogs had the most to lose or gain on this night. Matt had some brand new metallic spiked shoulderpads, and the show started off well with the band seemingly aware of the bigger stage & higher stakes. But then some bullethead jumped out of the front row and tackled Matt and instantly the singer was back at the bloodwrestling pit that was Lakehills. His eyes grew wild and he punched a heckler in the face and tore out a handful of her bleached hair.
Slayer went on to become one of the highest grossing bands in metal history.
4. Headbanger’s Ball—Overlord, Wild Dogs, Culprit-- Lake Hills. October 30, 1982
This was only the second time the Dogs had played Seattle after their stunning debut on the same stage just 62 days prior. The element of surprise was no longer a tool in their studded belt, but the Dogs came out and promptly re-marked their territory, pissing on every bush and lapping up the heightened expectations. Matt greeted us in the front row as old friends—banging our heads and shaking his fists, pretending to hang himself from the rafters above the stage. The energy was high and the line between band & audience was indistinct. “We thought Seattle was great before,” he panted famously into the mic, “but this is the best fuckin gig we’ve had!”
Actually, it was their fourth-best…
3. Wild Dogs, Shadow—Stargate, Fremont. May 6, 1983
Like the most colorful memories, this show teetered on the edge between hi-voltage rock and roll party and an all out blood turf rumble. Staged at a converted church beneath the Aurora Bridge, this was the first time our scene had ventured so far west. Away from the comfort of Crossroads, we were exposed to a much more urban & sophisticated crowd—namely real live punk rockers twisted on real live drugs. There was a weird energy to the setting, high on tension. The punks seemed to want to fight. We just wanted to rock. Shadow managed to complete their set without being eaten. The Dogs came on next, extending an olive branch of cymbal crashes and raw volume. When the punks’ eyes rolled back in their heads at the end of the set, we made a break for it and beat it back to the ‘burbs.
2. Wild Dogs, Lipstick, Shadow—Bellevue Community College
What kind of world did we live in during the mid-1980s when this type of whack shit could happen at a community college? We’d waited all afternoon for the band to show up at Kim Harris’ EasyStreet Records. When they finally did, we nearly pushed their van over sideways, all seven of us. We felt like we were celebrating a world championship.
We were. We were celebrating the release of the self-titled Wild Dogs debut— a world championship record of rock. Produced on Mike Varney’s Shrapnel Records, it was (finally) a 2-dimensional representation of the songs we’d been headbanging to at the Dogs live shows all autumn. We already had ‘The Tonight Show’ from US Metal II, but now here was the whole record. Ten songs. Autographed and ready to slap on the turntable.
But first there was the show tonight. There were better actual performances, but this night Matt was dressed like Fred Flintstone with dyed black hair and a shredded orange shirt w/ black smudges. At one point, he leapt off the bass rig and landed on Paul Passarelli’s Jack Daniels bottle, badly twisting his ankle. He finished the set wincing in pain, but no less intense. Rock’s not dead…
1. NW MetalFest II, Crossroads—August 29, 1982
This afternoon changed my life. I’d just graduated from high school and had driven alone to LakeHills in my 1972 Impala. I had never been to a rock concert that wasn’t in a sports arena. I had no idea how to behave at an event like this.
There’s nothing like the first time. Wild Dogs were a late substitution on this bill and no one had any idea what to expect. They weren’t from Lake City or Juanita. This was only their second show with the classic lineup-- just a week removed from the NorthBeach debut with Varney’s band Cinema. Overlord had turned in a spirited performance preceding, and Culprit would make a strong impression later. But it was like a whole different filter on the room when Wild Dogs were on-stage. Most of these metal bands were 2-guitar attacks, but Dogs had this big farty bass and a shrill guitar on top and inbetween was this old, fat, insane maniac guy who I wouldn’t have looked in the eye if I’d seen him next door at the 7-11.
To be fair, Matt wasn’t old or fat, not really. He wasn’t 19 and 135lbs like the rest of us, though, and he was thoroughly insane. What made Matt McCourt such a compelling performer was his heart. He wasn’t sexy like Sinsel. He wasn’t mysterious like Van Liew. He couldn’t sing like L’Heureux. But he was just so pure and engaged and genuinely interested in sharing the glory. It was as if he’d been required to keep a long secret and was suddenly liberated—he wanted everyone in on it, to an almost evangelical degree. He was a mess—splashing with sweat and spit, eyeliner smeared like a panda, belly flopping over the wasteband of zebra spandex. He ran up and down the front line like… well, like a wild dog, looking for a break in a chainlink fence. He loved each us, his children, equally-- like a Wild God…
Yeah, we were pretty into it. We thought it would last forever—why shouldn’t it have? Imagine our surprise, then, when we found out that Matt had been kicked out of Wild Dogs! Replaced by the contemptible puffter John Tjeda, Matt was banished to Siberia, the band opting for a more-conventional, less ridiculous approach to heavy metal. In retrospect, the move seems obvious and justifiable. The eventual replacement Michael Furlong had a great contemporary metal voice, and Wild Dogs were a more marketable band with either of them in front. At the time, however, we were outraged and took it upon ourselves to sabotage our once-favorite band every chance we got.
6. Wild Dogs, Gorilla Gardens (the infamous Mild Dogs show). February 2, 1985
Hartman took the x-acto knife to the flier for this show, flipping the ‘W.’ He made a half-million copies and papered the entire county. How we even had the balls to turn up to the venue, let alone wait at the front of the line for the doors to open is beyond me now-- but suddenly there was Dean screaming at us. Not only did he did not share our zeal for the cut ‘n’ paste, but he seemed to be preparing to kick our skinny whites. Of course we used this opportunity to lobby for Matt’s return to the band, but Dean was having none of it.
“I THOUGHT YOU GUYS WERE OUR FANS!!” he bellowed in a very authoritative voice as a crowd gathered ‘round. Hartman and I, naturally, were in hysterics, the whole situation growing more hilarious with each passing moment. I don’t think we even went into the club, instead getting some Mooseheads and heading off to listen to Twisted Sister Ruff Cutts.
7-8. Wild Dogs—Lynwood Rollaway, etc
Matt’s out of the band… The new singer sucks…Let’s gob him... hey I’ve got some acid… The Moose is Loose… Take this next exit… Never Gonna Stop! Who are these people? Pulling Tjada’s hair… Roadies are huge when they’re tackling you... Lynnwood Police, handcuffs, scowls... Mouthfull of blood—mine? Bad crazy… Craig Cook-- shut the fuck up and let me handle this… Glaring cops, listening to Craig Cook… Rubbing my wrists after the cuffs are unlocked, just like Pacino… Hartman split his head open on the monitor… taken to hospital... That’s why they plucked me out of the crowd, to tell me... Towering paranoia… Where is the hospital?
I don’t think it was the same night, but in my mind’s bloodshot recollection it feels like the same gimmick. I’m driving the same girlfriend’s ‘73 Mach I, but this time Hartman is in the passenger seat in a tuxedo & blackface and his brother is in the backseat with a bale of mushrooms. State Patrol pulls not only us over, but also Maryann & Gayle, who are following us, angling toward an exit. We’re all on the shoulder of I5—me, the cop, then Gayle’s Nova. It is Halloween. I do not have a driver’s license or a registration. It is not my automobile. I should not be driving. The trooper is inconveniently African American. He looks hard at Bret. Just as he is about to tell me to get out of the car, Gayle makes a run for it. Trooper slams his palm down on the roof of the Mustang and runs back to his car. He rumbles past me with lights & siren wailing, catching her in a quarter mile, just past the exit. I start the Mustang and slowly roll down the ramp, into the night. This kind of shit could not happen today. It was the mid-1980s…