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…

Mono Men, Green Frog

The Mono Men aren’t a band anymore, but with a good enough excuse every seven years or so, they can be persuaded to throw down a shit-hot hour set of garage rock antha. Estrus Records kitten Carl Ratliff’s recent 40th birthday presented just such an opportunity. The Green Frog was selected as a venue, and tickets for the rare event sold out on-line in 19 minutes.

Opening the show was Portland’s Fireballs of Freedom, another band who frequently marinated the stage of the storied 3B Tavern back in the Estrus heydays of the 1990s. Next was poet Chet Weise who during that era fronted the Quadrajets and the Immortal Lee County Killers. The air in the room was moist with anticipation & perspiration when the Monos finally mounted the stage just after 11pm.

Without nostalgic introduction the band bucked into the title track from their 1990 debut Stop Draggin’ Me Down and the room came fucking undone. Bellingham didn’t always know what it had in its own frontyard back in the day, but the appreciation level was sky high as the Mono Men worked their way through the first phase of the show, featuring songs from the first album as well as the first single Burning Bush. Unlike last time there was a good enough excuse to put the band back together, the lineup included original second guitarist Marx Wright, who also co-founded Estrus with Dave Crider back in the late 80s. Former 3B owner Aaron Roeder on drums and Ledge Morrisette on bass, yep.

Chronologically appropriately, Marx handed his guitar & vocal duties off to John Mortensen as the band shifted into songs from the Wrecker period. Beer was flying by this point, the Monos steering through ‘Watch Outside’ and ‘Testify’ before gearing down low for the fan favorite Kim Salmon-penned ‘Swampland.’

You wouldn’t know these guys hardly ever even saw each other, let alone rehearsed. While it is true that most of this catalog has only three chords, the material seemed fresh yet familiar, spirited and relevant. And really fucking loud. The songs were tight, yet the atmosphere was relaxed-- except for all the sweating and screaming and fist-pumping. The scene was kind of a rock ‘n’ roll high school class reunion with a lot of hugging between old friends who don’t see each other enough. A bracket of songs from 1994’s Sin & Tonic signaled the end of the set proper.

“This is the part of the set we like to call ‘you asked for it,” snarled Crider as the band launched into a punishing 2-song encore of ‘Slammer’ and ‘Wimp.’ And then it was over. At least for here; at least for now. It’s a bit of work to put this together for one 60-minute set. Expect to see the Mono Men in a Latin-speaking country near you later this year.

  —Callous French

Machine Animal Mach II.5

As with so many things related to Machine Animal, it’s unclear whether this blurb by Callous French was ever used by or even submitted to the band.

With machine-like precision and animal magnetism, Machine Animal has entered Mach II. Actually, Mach II.5.

 Anthony ‘Beer Bunny’ Navarro, also of Bellingham deuce The Second Hand Suits has replaced Bill ‘Beard Bunny’ Anker on drums. Anthony makes lots of intense faces when he plays, and will use with his hands when necessary. Kind of like a drum machine animal.

 The band has also gone to a platoon system for fat strings. Original bassist Vincent Blackshadow will represent the band east of the Continental Divide. Chris Coyle, the easy-breathing leader of Sir Coyler and his Asthmatic Band (Seattle) will hold down the west coast basslines.

 Dave Crider and Zack Van Houton will continue shotgunning beers and finishing each others’ sentences. “This new lineup gives us more flexibility plus way more intense faces behind the drums,” said Dave before Zack added “Sharks are rad!”

 The whole thing started in 2016 when Dave & Zack got drunk and a turn-up contest broke out. It was like a rock and roll arms race—extreme guitardation. A rhythm section was added and made things even louder and more retarded.

 They liked the name Animal Machine, but something wasn’t quite right. They all wanted to be the singer, so they made a rule that no one wasn’t the singer. The songs were so fuckin’ dumb. Just dumber than dirt. Dumber than that horse you fucked. Bonehead rock. Inspired by some of the dumbest 70s hard rock & glam rock songs and bands, the dumb just kept getting dumber. Dumb and loud—like an animal.

 Shows. Shirts. Shit. Shinola. The skull-numbing down-dumbing Live in Wreck b/w Devil Woman single on California’s Valley King Records. The beards and bunny suits. The beers and balloon animals. A lifetime of decibels tamped into one year.

 The first year…

 Actually, Machine Animal works better than Animal Machine… 

Machine Animal is:

Zack Van Houten (Black Beast Revival, Machine Animal) Tele, vox

Dave Crider (Mono Men, Watts, DT’s, Machine Animal) SG, vox

Vincent Blackshadow (Sweet Invicta, Machine Animal) bass guitar, vox [Mid-west Div]

Anthony Navarro (The Second Hand Suits, Machine Animal) drums, vox

Chris Coyle (Sir Coyler and His Athsmatic Band, Machine Animal) SG bass guitar, vox [West Coast Div]

The Culprit Spring, 1983— I Was There

It’s a challenge to adequately describe what an influence Culprit had on me in the early ‘80s. Like all the other path-changing artists I was exposed to on August 29, 1982, Culprit blew my 17-year-old mind. I saw them a dozen times over the course of the next couple of years and wrote this piece for Bret’s fanzine in ‘83.

When they returned recently from recording their debut album in California, Culprit seemed anxious to get back in front of their loyal fans, and a blitz of shows commenced. The first back was at Lake Hills with Ten Minute Warning and Kidskin on March 12. Culprit debuted two new originals at that time that will be on Guilty As Charged, which should be out on Shrapnel Records in a couple of months. The new songs are "Tears Of Repentance" and "Steel To Blood."

Then they did a show at Astor Park on April 12. That was the first time Culprit had played an over-21 club, and for good reason; the vast majority of their fans are not properly aged. "We don't like playing bars," Culprit frontman Jeff L'Heureux told me, "but record company people just won't come to see us at Crossroads." That show was opened by Legacy and Overlord and the cover was only $1. Three great bands for a buck! I borrowed an ID, traded my spikes for a Speidel, lowered my voice and headed for Astor Park. I passed the picture and DoB tests but couldn't match the signature and was promptly shown the sidewalk by the biggest Iranian bouncer I'd ever seen. The show sounded great from the alley.

Culprit then opened for Rail in Wenatchee, for Q5 at Crotchroads and also rocked the High School Drags at S.I.R. (Seattle International Raceway) - all in two weekends.

But one of the best Culprit shows of this mythical season was at Natasha’s in Bremerton on April 8. Andy & I made the 6:10 ferry and stole some Hamm’s beers out of the back of an open pickup on the boat (Hammscam). The show was opened by Equus from Port Orchard and SATO from Burien. Sometimes at these shows you have to sit through one, maybe even two baby bands to get to the headliners, but not this time. All three bands were killer! Equus filed an all-cover set that included tunes by AC/DC, KISS, Motley Crue and a wicked version of the Beatles "Helter Skelter." SATO was up next and proceeded to sing about Satan for a half-hour. A little bit of Satan is tall fun, but these guys go a bit overboard. The funny thing is that they don't need to. There's so much talent in this band that they hardly know what to do with it all. They've got 30 fast fingers in their string section, particularly bassist Mike Starr. Their singer and drummer are excellent too. Maybe they just need an exorcism…

By the time the two openers had finished, Natasha's was pretty full. There were a lot of rivetheads there, but it seemed like they were mostly local and more likely "going out to Natasha's," than "going to see Culprit." No matter-- Culprit let them know they were there-- and blew more than a few unsuspecting Bremerton locals into complete oblivion.

Playing an 11-song set consisting of the nine originals from the album plus two of their stand-by covers, "Radar Love" and "Jailhouse Rock," Culprit killed. The vocals of Jeff L'Heureux were soaring as usual, and he gave his cords a good workout on songs like "Players" and "Ice In The Back." The Germ is so versatile—as strong in the lower ranges as he is in the higher ones. Scott Earl was his usual bindle of heavy metal energy. As electrically charged as his bass, The Bitch always seems on the verge of bursting into flames, his level is so high. Somebody should hook him up to a generator-- he could power the whole town. Bud Burrill, sported a Motley Crue shirt and was ferocious behind the drums, laying down a marching beat on “Steel to Blood.” Kjartan Kristofferson was in the grips of a flu bug that had already made its way through the rest of the band, so John DeVol handled most of the leads. But despite Kjartan's mild handicap, the pair was unbeatable, producing the searing leads and blistering riffs that have become their trademark.

Culprit is a very promising band. They are great showmen, skilled at working an audience. They are master musicians. Their sound is complex, precise and polished but also super aggressive with a razor steel edge, very unique in a genre that is rapidly homogenizing. Their material is solid and presents a cohesive sound. Still, none of these individual components seem to pin down the excitement of a Culprit show exactly. There's something about how the visual image and the music just all come together and click. Loud. You have to be there, I guess. And I was...

As promised, Guilty as Charged came out later that year. I couldn’t wait to put it on. I’d seen the band a dozen times by then and knew their songs very well. The record, of course, was a crushing disappointment. The performances were solid, but the sound was awful. Toy guitars, ladyfinger drums, no bass. I’d come to love these songs in the communal magic of the live skating rink experience: punishing volume, suffocating temperatures, all the fuckin’ headbanging. The sting of sweat and the smell of barf on Scott’s breath. Trying to replicate those powerful feelings by listening to these tin can recordings was discouraging at best—utterly defeating at its worst. There were OK shows ahead and a couple of new songs later on, but the writing was on the wall as far as I was concerned. Let’s go, move it….

If Ferlinghetti reviewed The French Dispatch

The delicious chore 

                        that is 

                                     Wes Anderson’s new film

                                               The French Dispatch, so much like its 

                                                                             rich 

                                                                            and 

friendless predecessors with their gameboard chase scenes 

                                            and 

ponderous panning, equally 

     past bit parts & lineless leading roles

                                         offering Oscar-worthy performances 

                                                                                      using 

                                                                                        only 

                                                         their eyebrows and posture. 

With a gallery of 

  rogues  

so familiar but for the straightjackets and 

                         misplaced American 

                    accents not even compensating let alone over-compensating dragging on a                                                                                                                     cigarette. 

Homage upon endless homage 

                                     concealing 

Inside Artworld jokes that no one gets 

                                     within their 

                       Vanquished Folds, drunk on mouthwash 

 smuggled in by naked jailers standing statue-still through monolog upon endless monolog 

                                                                  with the visual phonetics 

       of a dreamscape 

    that flips forth-and-back 

              from color 

                  to 

      white-and-black… 

Mr. (W)Right and co-consipirators with names like 

              Roman, Hugo and Jason Schwartzmann

banging pans and pots in the echochamber of Andersonian 

                                approach avoidance, 

   vignettes of formalism shot long and slow and so close  

                                   that no one can tell if it is 

                                                                                     brilliant 

                                                                                           or 

                                                                                  not brilliant. 

Except the part where Tilda Swinton says the mad young artist 'tried to fuck her’ (after he’d decapitated two bartenders with a meat saw) is funny 

                                               because 

      she is wearing some false teeth that make her talk funny and it sounds more like ‘vhuck’... "

Panic 22

I did ask Marco to not re-issue the first Panic record. As far as I was concerned, it was ideally couched— rare, respected and not hurting anyone. Just leave it there, why shake up a rug full of bugs?

I was already maintaining a Panic FaceBook page—not because I thought it was as good idea, but because someone else did and I thought that wasn’t a good idea. I took over the page, but that invited more notice, like this. Fuck!

My feelings are mixed about the re-issue of the 1991 Panic debut Epidemic. An advance copy arrived in this morning's post. 

For those who haven't known me for 31 years: I was a teenage headbanger. That's right— an unwashed, underemployed, denim & leather wrapped, fully involved disco-hatin' rivet head. 

To be fair, I'm still a little rough-hewn. But in my 20s I was an authentic dirtbag. And a pretty bitchin' heavy metal singer to boot. 

My first band was Panic (5/18/85--10/08/93) and it was pretty much the only thing that mattered to me for most every one of those days. I managed to keep some relationships together and I did gut out a bachelor's degree at Western and somehow avoided getting hooked on dark drugs. But from the time he woke up in the afternoon until the time he ran out of gas in the middle of the night, Jeff was all about THE BAND. 

We didn't make it. Our timing was just a few ticks off, as you-know-what plugged in and took over Seattle (and the world) in the early 90s. The once-dedicated audience for heavy Heavy Metal went fickle and the labels & media wouldn't return calls. We walked before they made us run, quitting while we were—if not ahead— then at least not yet a total joke. It is true, in fact, that we were on the cover of the beloved Rocket Magazine at the time we mutually decided to throw in the bandana. There's some heavy metal irony for you right there... 

It was unreasonably fun and rewarding being in a struggling heavy metal band. I wouldn't trade the experience for anything, but at the same time I don't entirely see the point in revisiting it. Reissuing Epidemic wasn't mine or anyone in the band's idea. In fact, I begged the guy who purchased the licensing from the original label not to do the project. I don't blame him for following through with it— reissues are part of what his label does and he'd paid good money to Metal Blade for the rights. I just thought it was perfectly fine where it was— fairly rare (12,000 original cops sold, most on CD & cassette, though some vinyl was pressed) and out of print. It wasn't hurting anyone, and I'd have preferred it stay that way. 

But it was going to come out with or without my cooperation, so I wrote some liner notes and sent a bunch of photos and relics to M-Theory to make an updated insert. And it looks fine. Part of the reason I resisted the idea to begin with is because I know what a hungup loon I've become about stuff like this— and if I can't control every aspect of production, I'll resent the finished product. So I certainly would have laid it out differently. And used different fliers. And a different typeface. But they did a decent job with it visually and didn't edit my notes and the ad copy someone wrote for it is actually very good and so I'm not complaining or at least shouldn't be. I'm not. 

I haven't listened to it because my record player is broken. I'm sure it sounds fine, but you can also just listen to it on Sonicare or whatever the fuck it's called. Nobody knows where the masters are, so I imagine it was duped off a CD. There is a download card for a 3-song demo recorded the summer before the record was— songs from the album, but demo versions. That part's kind of interesting, I'm sure I haven't heard those since then. But that was duped off a cassette (I assume) so it warbles a bit. Gives it some character, I guess. 

Another reason I'd hoped Epidemic wouldn't be reissued is that I expected to feel a tiny tug to observe the release with a party or even a show. With a solitary exception, Panic has avoided the weary trend of reuniting and in fact have only performed once in the 29 years since we disbanded, at a reunion for a sick friend. That benefit raised nearly $10,000 which made it totally worth it. But I believe that heavy metal ship has sailed, and without SOMETHING THAT I CAN TOTALLY CONTROL like a live show to celebrate the release, it just seems a bit hollow. 

I don't know how much these cost, but there's only 300 of them. So if you want one, then order before midnight tonight and receive as an added gift the scabs and/or beard clippings from a band member. Order before noon tomorrow and receive a stool or seed sample. Before the weekend you get a ketchup packet. After that not sure...

Infinite Jest

We interrupt your regularly-scheduled coverage of the collapse of civilization to bring you this unsolicited book report.

INFINITE JEST, DAVID FOSTER WALLACE-- 1996. BACK BAY BOOKS 1079 PAGES

*************************************************************

It’s not like I just go rushing to the dentist with every new tooth decay. But 29 had pretty much been reduced to rubble, so I scheduled the crown in an attempt to avoid a canal. I knew it would be a long appointment with built-in breaks, so I brought noise-cancelling headphones and a book the size and approximate density of a cinderblock. It doesn’t as much sit in your lap as on it…

“I see you’re reading Infinite Jest,” remarked my DDS, a skilled craftsman but not someone I consider a particularly agile small-talker. “Are you enjoying it?”

I said I didn’t think enjoying was the right word-- but that like it was powerful literature, sure.

“I haven’t read it,” he admitted, sitting to my right, already holding the syringe. “It’s kind of about dysfunction, isn’t it?”

The novocain shot is always the worst part. I looked from him to the needle, then back at him. The dental assistant was behind me, to my left. No one spoke or moved for what seemed like a very long moment, even considering how compressed time can feel in the dentist office. Eventually I rested my head back in the cradle of the chair and said ‘yes.’

“Alright Jeff,” he chirped buoyantly, the same as if I’d responded to a comment on the weather. “I’m gonna ask you to open up real wide for me...”

*************************************************************

The Boston Globe called Infinite Jest rabidly intelligent. The Atlantic Monthly proclaimed it a work of genius. Harper’s Bazaar said it was a sprawling piece of intellectual wizardry & social satire-- that it was at once serious, diagnostic, frightening, and lyrical and describing author David Foster Wallace’s imagination as limitless.

But those are dustcover reviews, probably commissioned. I’m writing a book report for free, because I’m out of episodes of Netflix or something. And book reports are supposed to like say what a book’s about.

I wish I knew...

My dentist hasn’t read it but even he knows it stars D. Function. And while there’s a lot more to it than that, he’s not incorrect-- neither is he the only one who hasn’t read it. Infinite Jest is among the most widely unfinished books of the last century. How many copies slouch on low shelves, sneering at lesser works-- a forgotten bookmark sticking out a third of the way through?

Most of my favorite books are short: Breakfast of Champions, Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, The Crying of Lot 49. You can read them in a weekend or in three baths if you really want. I liked Jonathon Livingston Seagull. Infinite Jest is a thousand rigid pages, the last hundred of which is an appendix of 388 errata drawn from the body of the novel. Some are as brief as #349 which simply reads [sic]. Others are lengthy (#110 is 19 pages) often with multiple footnotes of their own, meaning you need two bookmarks and a string tied to your ankle to find your way out of the somehow even more densely-leaded forest of errata (9pt!). Many of these asides feature complex underplots and formulas, graphs, unredacted field interviews and supertechnical social schematic equations related to concepts that increasingly diverge from the original footnoted idea 748 pages prior that you forgot about altogether and are subsequently surprised to be reminded of once you do finally return to the original like jumping off place.

I’m a slow and very linear reader. I read every word without skipping discriminately ahead UNLIKE SOME PEOPLE I KNOW and I don’t employ ghostreaders. I did read every page of Infinite Jest, many of them more than once. My pace-- call it steady-- is not complicated by the squinting associated with decoding metaphor and symbolism. When a white horse vaults a split-rail fence at the climax of a passionate love scene, I just go ‘huh.’

All good and well-- but what is it about?

Even DF Wallace didn’t always appear to understand exactly what Infinite Jest was about. While he did say in 2003 that it’s fairly clear ‘what happens’, he also conceded a certain lack of resolve, (dis)claiming “the answers all exist… (but) out of the right frame of the picture.”

“The story can’t fully be made sense of,” he admitted. Then he committed suicide in 2008.

So I think in terms of conventional like book report gradings, this one should be a sliding scale even though I don’t expect full credit since I’m turning it in 20+ years late…

*************************************************************

Insomnia is not without its benefits. I’m not usually relaxed enough to enjoy fiction when anyone else in my household is awake-- so most of my reading is done in the very dark of night or the gathering dawn. Merely sayin’-- and also copping that I would never have read this fucking book without this past six months’ reliable sleeplessness. Still: even during the day I could feel it staring at me, and more than once had to get up and put it in another room or otherwise out of my sightline. It’s no pamphlet; if it’s in the room, you can see it.

Infinite Jest starts in the future and ends in the past. At times hyper-precise as if written with a slide rule and ton of cocaine, while other times rambling and tangential as if transcribed from a voicemail left from a moving vehicle, it often feels like the Sympathy for the Devil movie-- a ponderous panning of seemingly unrelated vignettes depicting abstract violence and torture, a macabre theater of uncooked spaghetti right up the ol’ urethra.

The characters are almost universally unlikable. I guess I kind of rooted for Gately, and Mario is at least happy even if it’s only because he doesn’t know any better. Pretty much everyone else is deeply flawed and/or irreparably damaged: criminally insane, grotesquely disfigured, racist, narcissistic and addicted. The antagonist and title entity is a movie made by one of the co-protagonists’ late father which is so mesmerizing that anyone who views is dies within days because of their immediate loss of interest in anything else other than watching the movie-- including food or water. Infinite Jest quite literally entertains people to death.

The governments of what was formerly known as the United States, Canada and Mexico are spying off on each other, trying to locate the master copy of the film in order to eliminate the maps of the other countries’ populations. No one really succeeds (at least within the boundaries of the rightmost frame).

Generations of adolescences are spoiled by performance anxiety at a prestigious tennis prep school in New England. The Enfield Tennis Academy is covered in snow in its last appearance in the book.

Chemical dependence is a leading character and often manifests itself as the ghost of Recovery, specifically Boston AA. But despite the longterm sobriety of many of the ‘crocodiles,’ there are no blue skies or renewed leases or any actual redemptions seemingly for anyone. Rather, it is the ragged-right, secondhand smoke LABOR of Recovery—the plodding, rote obedience to a dogma that no one seems to truly understand or really even Trust, entirely. It’s a cruel swirly, but the best chance any of them have to stay alive-- so they keep coming back…

All that stuff happens, but I don’t think it’s really what the book is about.

***************************************************************

I don’t know if Infinite Jest is as hard a read as Gravity’s Rainbow or the Holy Bible—I’ve never read either. But after 800 pages of menacing concave ceilings, obsessive turd-tallying and repeated uses of words that not only do we no longer use in literature today but in truth were already not using in 1996—a reader kind of feels invested and that he might as well like finish. This is a great time for main characters to abruptly and without explanation begin speaking in first person after being portrayed till now in the third. This is the perfect time to provide detailed physical characteristics of main characters who to this point have not been described and to whom-- naturally and by necessity-- a reader has already assigned their own physical images. This is the ONLY sensible time to descend into a 36-page fever dream, fully eight of which are one single uninterrupted paragraph. Multiple colons in many sentences, levitating above the paper towel dispenser-- top hats for all my friends!

Because it does take six months to read. At least it did for me. To be fair, I did put it down between Thanksgiving and New Year’s as a Christmas present to myself. But it’s not like I felt any more or less hip after my winter break. It was still just as greasy a fistful of stories of Disease, abuse, disconnection, generational abandonment and unhealthy relationships between adults and minors—all running more-or-less parallel, sharing the same unfiltered tank asking what’s water. The apple (or pear, plum or peach) does not rot far from the tree...

Oh, it’s SUPER funny—don’t misunderstand me on that. DFW is a master of catch-and-release humor that elicits lolling about even the least-conventionally hilarious topics. As flung as this book seems at times, one does get the feeling eventually that there is not a single word out of place. What might be casually read or excerpted from the greater work could come off as random, but I don’t think there are any accidents in Infinite Jest. It is much more than the sum of its riddles, but I for one am going to have to read it again to understand exactly how much more.

Just probably not right now. Maybe a little Raymond Carver while I rest.

A Riddle in Ruby

Unsolicited quarantine book report #11. A RIDDLE IN RUBY BOOK 1 by KENT DAVIS, 2015. GREENWILLOW BOOKS, 425 PAGES.

I'm not what you'd call a 'regular' in the Young Adult genre. After vanquishing the postmodern turnbuckle of Infinite Jest, I read Kurt Vonnegut's personal favorite of his own works, The Sirens of Titan in a weekend. It wasn't MY favorite of his numerous masterpieces, though it did feature the familiar themes of prophesied arrivals of half-wit chosen ones (Happy Easter!), space & time travel, and farmed sex in space.

Richard Bach's timeless Jonathon Livingston Seagull is only 10,000 words and is easily read in an evening. Should be, incidentally. If you haven't read JLS since college, give it a quick flip. Solid pandemic messaging right there.

Montana-based Davis has forged a heroine for the Now in his Riddle trilogy. Ruby Teach is part pirate, part alchemist, and all dreamer-- a reluctant, lock-picking, shape-shifting teenaged messiah (Happy Easter!) bent on the Right Things, no matter the costs. Set in 18th Century Colonial America, the novel finds the protagonist hastily cast with a small crew of similarly green bravehearts, on the run from Tinkers and Her Majesty's Royal Navy alike. Clowns to the left of her, jokers to the right. Seemingly everyone the scrappy young fugitives encounter has been expecting them. Ruby knows or has or is something that everyone is keen to commandeer. It would be simpler for her if she herself knew exactly what it was. But she's just learning, too...

From Peter Antonsson's swashbuckling cover art through to the last twist, A Riddle in Ruby is thrilling adventure story packed carefully with plenty of modern day relevance. Gender identity, social equity and a seemingly endless series of moral gutchecks lurk in every darkened iron doorway and up every winding stone staircase. A great read for young seekers or old geezers alike. Can't wait to get started on Book II. YAAF!

C , Vincent Blackshadow

It's been a long time since I've shamelessly promoted my kids' art, but I see Patti has posted a link to Vincent's new record, so I think it's fair that I also be allowed to subject you, my unsuspecting social media acquaintance, to similar tortures.

Because it's not torture. Unless you don't like good rocking tonight, or maybe if you don't like subtly-cured melody tucked discreetly into short songs with one chorus. The first Boston record this aint. So if you like to be hit to death over the head with repetition or if you prefer polished production with glossy auto-harmonizered vocals, then maybe this not for you is.

Because 'C' was (almost) entirely made on 4-track cassette by someone without the formal training to know better-- quite intentionally on purpose. You can certainly make a record on your phone these days that sounds more conventionally professional than this, but the idea here was to build something that did not sound as if it had been crafted with the same tools available to everyone else for free. A lot of effort went in to making this album sound as shitty as it does.

Because it doesn't sound shitty. Hiss and hum and fart and the tones of discarded tracks that have been erased many sessions ago peeking out from under the final mix are the stuff that give recorded music some real DNA and that are often missing from modern music precisely because they're so easy to mute. There's a greasy, re-gifted thread that runs through this album, banding it together like a forcefield around the weird kids' lunch table in the corner of the cafeteria. They have all the secrets. They always have had.

And there are some secrets on this record. But you gotta listen to learn 'em. You might even have to listen twice. There isn't a note or chord out of place here. Some of it may sound a little rando at first casual pass, but I assure you that this is a very intentional work. The lyrics are insightful and bottomlessly clever. The melodies are sublime. And the atmosphere of the production gets more comfortable with each listen until you eventually can't imagine hearing it any other way.

But that's coming from a big fan who's listened to this a lot already. Several of these songs have been kicking around for years by now and these are merely the most-recent arrangements. Bandcamp isn't necessarily the most-familiar platform and that's no accident either. But it works perfectly fine, and I think you can pay for it if you want. However, I think Vincent would be more stoked if you listened to it without paying as opposed to the other way around. Go ahead, take a chance. On headphones if possible. And while you're there, 'B' aint bad neither...

(mastered by a real recording engineer, Evan Schiller)

(Try: Tell Yourself It's Good, Kick Down the Golden Door, Her Earlier Stuff)

Northwest Metalfest 8/29/82

I don't need FaceBook to remember me today's date. I always wake up on August 29th knowing exactly what day it is.

And today happens to be the 40th anniversary of August 29, 1982-- a day that changed my life forever.

The event was a heavy metal jamboree at a roller rink in Bellevue called Lake Hills Arena. I'd just graduated from high school and had been to plenty of arena hard rock shows. But the concept of local music was an entirely unfamiliar one to me. I'd read about Culprit in The Rocket and saw they were playing with 8 other bands starting at noon on Saturday. So I put on my leather jacket-- even though it was August-- and pointed my '71 Impala in the direction of Bellevue.

I didn't know anyone. My metalgeek buddy Andy was supposed to come with me, but in the end buckled to the pressure of having dinner with his parents, it being his 18th birthday (remind me to phone Andy later). So I went alone. I didn't 'meet' anyone that day, but this was the first time I saw a lot of dudes who would become close friends later. They all seemed to know each other, and I was a little intimidated by their killer studded belts and spiked wrist bands-- not because I was afraid of studs & spikes, rather because I didn't have any of my own. These guys had a considerable headstart on me. Hartman, James, Layton.

By the time Bad Brad Sinsel and TKO came on after midnight, my mind (not to mention my ears) were in rubble. I'd had no idea it could be like this. At the arena shows I'd been to, there'd been a huge stage with barricades. Way up on top of the stage were the British rock stars and then down on the concrete floor in a pool of sweat & bile were we fans. But at the roller rink, there was no such divide between the performers and the audience. I distinctly remember arriving at the the dizzying realization that these kids were all from the same tribe-- that the dudes in the crowd were only the dudes in the next band. They were all just taking turns being the rock star. I had not previously understood this to be a possibility.

The first guy I observed grinning and winking at his friends in the crowd was Glen Logan from Overlord. In that tattered Levi's jacket and the Capezios, whirling around hockin' loogies and bangin' on that trashed V, I thought he was the coolest. So many cats impressed me deeply that day. Van Leiw. Matt McCourt. The Friels. Scott Earl and the Germ.

It didn't take me too long to get my turn on the stage. But I'm not sure that ever would've happened had it not been for Metalfest II. I always liked having the mic in my hand, but never got tired of being in the crowd either.

Long Live Crotchroads! Forty years...

Metal Machine Music, Lou Reed

Insomnia is a rude bedfellow. I've been sleeping (or rather NOT sleeping) with it for most of my life, some periods worse than others. Thanks to the latest in a succession of Little Yellow Pills, these past few years have shown me some of the best sleep of my adult life. But once in a while my old adversary squeezes in between Patti and me, and I just have to get up and go to the guestroom and read it out.

What has worked a little bit lately, though, is Lou Reed's 1975 outrage, Metal Machine Music. Coming at the twilight of one his most-inspired creative periods which included Berlin and Transformer, MMM is an intentionally unlistenable brocade of feedback and tape effects, mixed at various speeds and pitches. True noise. There is no melody, rhythm, vocal or structure of any kind. And as if offering it at a time when the critic's spotlight was upon him was not wry enough for Blue Lou, Metal Machine Music is audaciously a 2-record set. Side A1 entirely indistinguishable from side A4.

I've tried white noise and mountain stream loops against insomnia and they've only served to wake me further thru sheer frustration. Metal Machine Music, though-- this might be 'just the thing...'

(if you try this at home, don't use Spotify. Because if MMM does its job and you're sleeping, you might just be jolted awake by "Uranium" by Kraftwerk, which Spotify assumes you want to listen to next. And the beginning of this song sounds much like the Emergency Broadcast System alert tone that we've all only ever heard as 'a test'. And that's not good for sleeping.)

Burn Out Loud, Vincent Blackshadow

I stopped being conventionally 'proud' of Vincent's musical accomplishments once he became an adult. But I'm still a fan, and am really jazzed about his new album 'Burn Out Loud.' A year in the making, it's a technicolor departure from the lower-fi 4-track cassette recordings of the past three years. I had the rare treat of previewing it last week in Brooklyn and I can tell you it is a rich and prismatic tapestry with lots of surprises tucked into its pleats. Like a rubber duck piñata filled with nips, nails and chocolate caviar, all you have to do is hit it hard and gifts start flowing...

Professionally recorded in Boston, pre-mixed in New York and glazed in West Seattle, 'BoL' is a filling art rock meal of a record. It is being pre-released today, with the World Premier coming at 6pm PDT. You probably don't have Bandcamp already, but that's the only reason you don't. It's free and easy to download and there really is some stuff on there that you won't find on other screaming services. 'BoL' will be on Spotify next week, but if you want to be first on your block, meet me on Bandcamp tonight and we'll rock together.

Robert Blake, Recitative

Don’t worry, I remember what I was saying last June about my record player.

In case you don’t, it got exploded in an electrical accident and didn’t work for five years. We finally got around to replacing it, but then that one didn’t work either-- so we had to take it to a specialist in Seattle who eventually fixed it up like new.

I was anxious to listen to some of the records that had piled up during those quiet years, but the repair shop was in Ravenna. Luckily Robert was in the neighborhood and offered to pick it up on his way home.

When I went to his house in the York District to collect it later that day, Robert slid a nice 180-gram copy of his latest album RECITATIVE on top.

“For your listening party,” he said with a wink.

I’d already worn out a copy of the CD, but was jazzed to have a vinyl copy—even if it did say LARRY on the back…

DAY #4: Recitative, Robt Sarazin Blake. Gift from the artist, 2023. Favorite side: Act I side A

If there’s a harder-working man in Bellingham show business than Robert Blake, I guess don’t know that dude. A Pacific Northwest native who’s called Bellingham home for more than 25 years, Blake is seemingly everywhere where there’s a PA, particularly in the summer. For more than 20 years, he has hosted and booked the wildly popular season-long Thursday night Happy Hour series in the garden at Boundary Bay Brewery. He’s toured extensively in North America and Northern Europe, playing small stages and house shows for fiercely loyal audiences of friends. He hosts and books the pandemic-born but surprisingly durable traveling livestream From the Kitchen Table. And of course, he is the founder and ringmaster of Whatcom’s favorite summer festival, the 21-year-old Subdued Stringband Jamboree.

And honestly, he doesn’t always even need a PA. He’ll play your wedding or your funeral, your porch or your pantry. All he needs is an acoustic guitar and some friends.

Robert will bring the songs. How he has time to write all these songs—let alone record and release them, usually on his own Same Room Records—is beyond me. This is his 11th album.

His father was a real live folk musician when he was growing up, so folk music is in Robert’s blood and bones. But his music aint really folk music, any more than all music is essentially folk music. You could call it Americana. You could call it roots. You could call it ‘singer-songwriter’ if you wanted to piss me off.

In the end it’s not all that important what you call it—neither he nor I will even have any way of knowing. Of greater urgency is what’s it sound like?

Like most rootsy Americana singer-songwriter folk troubadours, Robert Blake is a great poet and his songs need words to develop. Lots and lots of words. His streamy singing style is often as conversational as it is melodic, and some songs take on an accompanied monolog format. This works particularly well when the performer is introducing the band or reminding punters to tip their bartenders. The references to Dylan are handy (even though he’s not really-- or at least not only-- a folk singer) but there’s also a lot of Lou (Reed), Prine (John) and Todd (Snider) in his delivery and intent. He’s a storyteller.

And the stories on RECITATIVE are diverse and intriguing. Robert allows the occasional good-time up-tempo no-foul ramble like “Single Women” but also doesn’t shy away from a piercing purpose piece like “Own House, Own Guns” or “19 Shot.” His characters are inked around the edges with suggestion rather than description. You recognize that dude in “The Other Side of Fck it” without being spoonfed his vitals, and the utter hopelessness of his grim situation rings true as punch.

There's lots of humor here, like on the politically-perfect "Keeping Track." Lots of wonderfully wordy wordplay, too-- see: "Couples" and "Work." Other songs are just plain nice to listen to, and I can’t usually walk away from a spin through this record without the melancholy “Sketches” stuck in my head. Often for a week.

The images pile up and so do the reflections. Blake tucks references into verses where you might not expect to find them: same-sex marriage; gun violence; the collateral risks of war; imbeciles being President of the United States. It’s all here if you listen.

Professional musicians these days need to be flexible, and Robert Blake is indeed limber and well-hatted, never seeming to play the same song the same way twice. I’ve seen him do these songs a lot live, and it’s always a different experience. Sometimes it’s him playing solo, or maybe Jan’s to his left. David & Aaron are usually there in a combo of more than three, but not always. Sometimes it’s the whole High, Wide & Handsome Band. But not always.

The backing band on RECITATIVE is a group of friends from the Hudson Valley met on the road and courted into the studio on their turf, way back in 2015. Compared to other sparser Robert Blake recordings it’s practically an orchestra-- featuring keys, pedal steel, rich supporting vocals and the staggeringly lyrical horn interplay of Thomas Deakin.

It’s worth noting that this whole band returned the favor three years later, traveling the opposite direction to back Robert at the 2018 Jamboree, a show that eventually surfaced as the live album ONE SUMMER NIGHT. True to their words, the songs take on new life and dimension in a live setting, culminating with a humbling 13-minute version of the last song on RECIATATIVE, “Really Hard.” It was powerful live, and the recording does a faithful job of capturing some rare Saturday night magic.

The packaging of RECITATIVE is top-shelf. From the Michael Costelloe painting on the front to Larry’s name on the back, this is a heavy and handsome package—beautifully designed and produced. Lots of photos in the gatefold + melodious liner notes by the artist. The 2-record set is actually 360 grams and fully 85 minutes of music—an ambitious project fully realized. A triumph.

It occurred to me that I’ve always wondered what RECITATIVE meant, and that I’d never looked it up. I just now did, and it’s fitting. I won’t spoil it for you. Look it up for yourself (it’s on the internet) and pull it up on Bandcamp if you don’t own a copy of your own. Enjoy!

Devotchka, A Mad & Faithful Telling

I don’t collect records the way I used to. With a few freakish exceptions (YKWYA) nobody does.

To be fair, I was never an obsessive—even in the 1980s. I anticipated and purchased the new records by my favorite bands on their release dates—but I was no completist. Some of my friends had problems, though. Bret had to have every available version and format. When WASP released a 12” picture disc single of “I Wanna Be Somebody,” he’d buy one (sometimes two) even though he already had the white vinyl, the gold vinyl, the clear vinyl, the splatter vinyl, the die cut 7” and the Japanese import.

That first WASP may have been my favorite record of the entire era. But one domestic copy of the LP was sufficient for me. I still have it.

But sometimes we buy records we don’t need. That’s why there’s Record Store Day.

Week #6: DeVotchKa, A Mad and Faithful Telling. Purchased at Avalon Records in Bellingham on Record Store Day, 2019. Favorite side: I honestly can’t tell them apart…

Like many people, I initially became aware of DeVotchKa via the alternate art form of film. It is still impossible for me to separate the plot & performance of LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE from the music of DeVotchKa. They are one and the same, and I fell hard for both of them in 2006.

By the time I got hip, though, it would be impossible to see the band in a venue appropriate to their makeup. Between Nick Urata’s emotive crooning and the band’s array of subtle acoustic instrumentation, DeVotchKa demands to be seen in an intimate, comfortable venue. Preferably one with a round stage, velvet curtains, strong cocktails and maybe even a cigarette girl.

Imagine our disappointment seeing them for the first time in 2008 at the hellish SoDo Showbox, a concrete cooler that seemed too base even for Motorhead when I saw them there (on my birthday) several years later.

No. The days of being able to see DeVotchKa at the Triple Door or the Neptune, or busking on a sidewalk are done gone. They have been for decades.

So what’s a casual fan to do other than stir one up, slip into the smoking jacket and listen to DeVotchKa’s records at home? A MAD AND FAITHFUL TELLING is a perfectly good choice, because it sounds exactly like every other Devotchka record.

Not that I own or have even heard ‘every other DeVotchKa record’ but when I cracked the cellophane on this one after staring at it for five years, I was struck by how much it reminded me not only of the LITTLE MISS SUNSHINE soundtrack, but in fact everything I’d ever heard by the band, both live and on record.

For kicks, I whipped out my streamer and punched up the band’s latest album, 2018’s THIS NIGHT FALLS FOREVER. And I’ll be damned if it might as well have been the same clutch of songs.

All of which begs another hysterical, historical question: when a band puts out 12 records in 20 years and they all sound exactly the same—is the artist to be praised for consistency or derided for lack of growth?

It doesn’t really make much nevermind to me. I happen to like DeVotchKa’s tangos and timbre, their embrace of non-traditional instrumentation and the fact that they often sing in a language I don’t understand. But you don’t really need to own every record they’ve made. In fact, you really only need one. It doesn’t much matter which…

Coming in March: Oscar Snubs

(Cynic’s note: As if to spite me, DeVotchKa will be playing in town between the velvet curtains of the unspeakably luxurious and inviting Mt. Baker Theater on Thursday. The last time Patti and I saw them, we actually had to walk out because the sound was so bad at the first Tune-Up festival two years ago. But presumably all the microphones will actually be working indoors at the acoustically-perfect MBT. We probably should go…)

The Snubs

With the 96th Academy Awards ceremony coming up Sunday night, my attention turns as always to the stack of records accumulated during the five years my record player was broken.

The refrigerator got traumatically bashed apart at that same time-- also the stove, hotwater heater and CD player. Those were all replaced lickety split-- but the turntable gathered dust, must and disgust until recently.

By way of perspective, the academy awards for best actress and best actor that year (they’re called Oscars) went to two actors (we can just call them both actors) who portrayed actual historical figures. We call them biopics (it’s OK to call them bi AH pix. I do).

Green Book winning the Oscar for Best Picture that year was an outrage, particularly ironically since it was Black Panther that got most conspicuously beat. In early March, that’s something we call THE SNUBS.

Equally ironical, then, that there was a record waiting for me by a band of that very name.

Week #7: The Snubs. Gift from Hartman, 2021. Favorite side: B

If the Dead Kennedys had a recessive Dead Moon gene and wore disguises like Deadmau5, that band would be The Snubs.

Fast and funny, The Snubs don’t get cheated when it comes to content. When you’re getting 15 songs on a 20-minute record, you are not getting cheated. Or snubbed for that matter. It’s impressive what you can accomplish when you play fast and don’t solo.

OK, there is a guitar solo on “Washed Up Diying [sic] Fish” but it doesn’t exactly bog the song down. “Dump Run” crams 200 words into a 45-second song. Some of those words are “… found a bloody knife in an old leather pouch.”

Singer/guitarist Tommy De Nyd’s lyrics are quite hilarious and are in fact printed in unredacted form on the insert. Pearls like “Fake Mustache,” “Growing a Tail (True Tale of a SWM)” and of course “My ‘Punk Rock’ Parents Raised a Republican Kid” explore themes of isolation, neighborhood contempt and generally low aspirations-- just like their heroes. Or at least as much as any theme can be explored in 1:15. “We Suck at Partying Now” has a Monday Night Football reference, which I particularly appreciated.

It looks like The Snubs are from Seattle. They made this record in 2016 at Egg with Conrad and there appear to be several subsequent releases at least on BandCamp. I’ve never heard of them playing at Daryl’s, though, so maybe they gave up.

If they felt like they weren’t getting the respect they deserved, they’d be in good March company. Just ask Greta, Scarlett or Sofia. Shit’s tough all over. Happy National Women’s Day!

(Coming this spring: Growing up Jeff)

Def Leppard, Halloween 1981— I Was There

Our poker games are frequently put on pause when someone starts talking about music—everyone sitting there with a handful of cards blabbing on all drunk about the first Dio album or some Day on the Green. Inevitably, someone says “you were at that show?! I was there, too!”

One of these times, I suggested to the publisher of the local music paper sitting next to me that his rag should have a column called I Was There about shows of historical significance that (older) readers might relate to. Brent Cole agreed—and he reminded me of my idea on Monday morning with an assignment of 500-700 words on the historically significant show of my choosing. I’d forgotten the conversation, of course– but suddenly I was a columnist.

This review appeared in the WhatsUp Magazine in 2002. I’ll make it clear in this italicized introduction that there are few bands of any genre that I despise more than Def Leppard. I don’t imagine they are all that much worse than any number of others, but my disdain for them lies in the fact that they were once my favorite band. The importance of High ‘N’ Dry to my musical development cannot be overstated. And the first time I heard the follow-up Pyromania my heart was broken. They’ve only gotten shittier since then.

Still, 1981 was a very good year. I was there…

Halloween 1981 was a big night for me. I’d been to plenty of arena shows in the city, but usually in Greg Dumbshield’s mom’s station wagon. This night, I was drivin’ myself. In my ’71 Impala.   To a “theater” in Belltown, far away from the touristy comfort and landmarks of Seattle Center. Dressed as Angus Young.

I had been listening to High ‘N’ Dry all summer. Every day I listened to it and wondered how a record could be so perfect. From the springy opening riff of “Let it Go” to the last ringing chords of “No No No” Def Leppard’s second record was a masterpiece of lite metal.  Produced by Mutt Lange, it had all of the buzzy bluster of Highway to Hell, but also a sultry sense of dynamic seemingly beyond the chronological ages of its creators, none of them over 20– some allegedly as young as 16. How, I wondered to no one in particular, sitting in my room with headphones on as summer slouched away unnoticed, could any album be better than Highway to Hell?

And now they were coming. Inconcert, as they used to say. Steve Slaton was just starting to get hip, playing “Let it Go” and the title track on his MetalShop radio show, and at the last minute KISW pulled through with a Rising Star endorsement. I scoffed at the panicky marketing. “I was inta these dudes afore anybody,” I bragged to my parents before adding “bring my heel down on the toe and break the bone…”

Halloween was on a fucking Friday. I had such a stiffy as I pinned enameled AC/DC buttons all over the lapels of my navy blue suit coat and put it on over a white dress shirt, striped necktie and cut-off shorts. Horns and a tail finished the outfit, then I revved up the Impala and drove straight to Northgate, missing Belltown by six miles. Goddamnit. Not having yet matured into man, however, it was easy for me to stop and ask directions at the 76 station, and before I knew it I had actually parallel parked the Impala and was standing in line waiting to get into the Moore.

I immediately sensed something different in the crowd. They were dressed the same and used the same vulgar slang & poor grammar as the kids at the arena shows. But they seemed somehow more hip to the subtleties of the music and its implications. The Moore Theater held only 1200 people– these were the 1200 most informed and discriminating rivetheads in the Puget Sound region! These kids were students. They were my people…

The show itself was unbelievable, naturally. I had a third row seat, and jumped gleefully onto the armrests of it as soon as everyone else did, at the dimming of the houselights. The band clearly was experiencing that intoxicating and fleeting rush that floats an act in the midst of their break. They were young, playing the States for the first time to appreciative audiences. Reporters wanted to talk to them. Kids wearing their shirts were hanging around the alleys behind venues. And headlining bands (this night it was Blackfoot) were shunning them. They were on the way up.

There was something very sexual about Def Leppard in this period, before they turned into one of the lame, established bands they once frightened. And that sexuality was derived at least partially from their youth. The shirtless photos on the sleeve of High ‘N’ Dry– pasty white British skin and stringy hair (what’s wrong with being sexy?) bordered on child pornography. They were also all very fucking short. Pete Willis in particular was only about 18″ tall. He was great, though, playing this huge black Hamer Destroyer-style guitar that looked like it must have belonged to his uncle.

And the rest is history. Little Pete Willis wouldn’t see the next U.S. tour, because he drank too much. The other guitarist Steve Clark wouldn’t see the year 2000 because he drank too much. And the drummer Rick Allen couldn’t drink as much as he used to, because he lost one of his arms in a drunk driving accident. And everyone knows two fists are better than one when it comes to drinkin’.

As for myself, I sped the Impala back to the burbs and drank too much at Scott Fisher’s Halloween party with my regular friends. But my heart was back at the Moore with all of my new friends, the ones that I hadn’t actually met yet.  Handfulls of Halloween candy disagreed with kegcups of beer, and I barfed near the 10th hole of the golf course, still wearing my tail, though I’d lost my horns by that time. Trick or treat—Let it Go…

Schenkerfest

  “The Circus-Circus is what the whole hep world be

                                          doing on Saturday night if the Nazis had won the war.”    

                                              Hunter Thompson, Fear & Loathing in Las Vegas–  1971

In a month when Steve Van Liew sang Overlord songs with Palooka and Udo Dirkschneider’s son backed him on drums, Michael Schenker knew he’d have to throw down to even make the winner’s bracket. And on a rainy night at the bejeweled Neptune Theater, Michael did indeed rise up and throw down hard.

This was the most-bizarre spectacle I’ve ever seen set to rock music. Nostalgia is king these days– everyone knows that. Any used up piece of spent jet trash 80s ‘metal’ band can make rent by getting at least a couple of originalish members together and booking a tour. Whether it’s a sad comment on the state of contemporary heavy music that we’d rather go see the remains of Judas Priest again let alone a Mother Love Bone tribute is a secondary issue. Let’s just say there’s always money in the banana stand.

But this was different. It wasn’t just a rock show. This was a high-stepping retrospective musical revue of the strangest order.

 I didn’t know what to expect. Word was that all the main-era singers were going to be there, but I couldn’t imagine how it would be presented. The show was to begin at 8pm and there was no opener. Punctuality is very German. The houselights were hardly out when Michael stepped to the mic from the wings of stage left.

“I am Michael Schenker,” he proclaimed in his familiar accent. “Lead guitar! Welcome to Schenkerfest!”

Very direct. So German. He continued.

“On bass Chris Glen!” No Flight of the Bumblebee recorded intro. No scurrying roadies with penlights. No dry ice. He was going to introduce the band under plain white stage lights before ever playing a note. Like a recital.

“On drums Ted McKenna!” he continued, to wild applause from his loyal crowd. “On rhythm guitar and keyboards Steve Mann!”

And then without further posing or wording, he grasped the neck of his great ax.

“Into the Arena!”

 And with that he was off and running. If Michael had known when writing this instrumental for his debut solo album in 1980 how powerful a set opener it would make nearly 40 years later, he wasn’t letting on. Instead there he was, grinning from his signature crouch, the wings of his Flying V straddling his right thigh, winding his way  to the end of the opener before announcing Gary Barden.

Gary Fuckin’ Barden! One of my favorite pre-metal hard rock singers and by far my favorite of Michael’s solo partners. He strode out from stage right in pointy boots and a gambler pulled down tight over his eyes to the opening strains of the gentle “Let Sleeping Dogs Lie.” My hopes were high, but my expectations realistic.

Very unfortunately, Barden’s voice was totally cindered. Whether it’s permanent or just abad night is impossible to say from one show, of course– but his performance caused me to grab my own throat and gasp for breath. He muscled through four songs and did his best to appear relevant. But it was fairly painful to watch, and though I wouldn’t have thought it possible, I was actually relieved to see Michael throw his right arm around Barden’s shoulders, pose momentarily for the iphones, and dispatch him back to stage right before Chris Glen introduced “Captain Nemo.”

The instrumental served as a sorbet between singers, Michael alone at center stage effortlessly shredding as a god. And as Nemo reigned in, suddenly there was Graham Bonnet, all 70 years of him, emerging from the same wings into which Barden had disappeared–to the opening refrain of “Desert Song.”

Graham Bonnet is a freak of fucking nature. I thought he was 70 when I saw him and his new sidekick Yngwie from the front row of the Paramount on the first Alcatrazz tour in probably ’83. That was a long time ago, but it appears to have been nothing more than an afternoon for the timeless Bonnet. He still looks like he always has—slicked back hair, dark aviators, leather jacket with the sleeves pushed up. But his voice is so powerful, he just sings so hard he shakes the theater. Fully amazing. His one album’s worth of songs with Michael are not my favorites, but Bonnet turned in a spirited performance and looked as comfortable in the role as any of the singers all night.

And after four songs, Michael threw his right arm around the shoulders of Graham Bonnet, posed for the photos, and dispatched him back into the black void where I pictured Gary Barden moving down one folding chair so Graham could sit down in the proper order.

Michael stepped to the mic.

“It has been 40 years since I recorded Love Drive with the Scorpions,” he explained, rather academically. “I wrote this song for my brother Rudolph and I gave it to him.”

Dig Michael the stage rapper. No how you people doin’ tonight?! No it’s great to be back in See-a-tal! No let me see your cigarette LIGHTERS!!  Just the facts from Michael. Straight and to the point. Sleek and lean. He wrote “Coast to Coast” for his older brother, but he was going to play it for us right now.

Absolutely magical. The instrumentals woven into the set served a critical role in the construction of the evening—the engineering was magnificent. But to hear these gilded melodies coming live out of Michael Schenker’s guitar without any singer jockeying for favor was extra special. And I’m not a guitar player! Normally I need singing to be interested in music, but I found myself wishing my way through the verses to get to the solos and in particular enjoying the instrumentals.

And then of course, out pranced Robin McAuley.

The mid-80s McAuley-Schenker period was an uninteresting one for me, and the songs of McAuley’s set re-enforced that. We all know what the mid-80s were about, and that was on-display in all its tinfoil glory with dangling chains and lots of Bedazzler during McAuley’s set. His voice was fine if you like that kind of dreck, but there’s something very untrustworthy about that cat if you ask me. He looks like a Realtor they plucked off the golf course and dressed in pleather and a black wig. A very thick veneer. His tattoos and biker patches don’t fool me– he’s not very heavy metal…

Lucky for me he was only up there for four songs before Michael threw his right arm around his shoulders and paused, smiling, before sending him back to henhouse where Barden & Bonnet both moved down a seat.

From there shit got weird.

To this point, things had seemed very linear: chronological singers performing the songs of their respective eras, broken up by tasty instrumentals between courses. But once McAuley was finished, it turned into a real floorshow. All three came out at once and proceeded to swap verses on some songs from the recently released Resurrection album. The Neptune stage is not huge, and with three singers posting up, things got a little crowded. The three MSG ‘frontmen’ shouldered up together, each doing their own period-appropriate dance moves and winking at the crowd & each other. With their own cordless microphones, they reminded me of the Beastie Boys, taking turns on verses. One would step forward while the other two would fill in behind. Then they’d all come together for an endless chorus before Michael ripped off a double solo and they had to comp even more time, working those dance steps and winking up a lather. As much as I admired the concept, the manifestation of it made me feel kind of funny deep inside. I couldn’t tell if they were more like the 3 Stooges, the Witches of Eastwick or the Golden Girls– each with their own distinct costume, accessories and, presumably– superpower.

And then as if matters couldn’t have been more awkward, out came something called Doogie White, apparently the current ‘lead’ singer. He took his shift on what were presumably songs from the new record, brandishing the Sign of Rock and Roll at the audience, paying his tribute to DIO which included a song for the Master called “Before the Devil Knows You’re Dead.” Doogie’s kicked around this circuit for a while, but I failed to see his value in this setup. His voice was strained and his antics tiresome. If they needed a fourth hand to round out the singer’s cribbage tournament, then alright. But by that time the focus on the stage was getting a little fuzzy and the block of new material fairly monotonous.

But through it all, there was Michael Schenker just doing his thing. Chris Glen was definitely driving the band, and Michael had no responsibilities whatsoever beyond killing every single note and just being Michael. He’s really got that little crouching shuffle perfected, and he inches from one end of his sector to the other, just grinning up a storm– adorbs! Schenker’s personal problems of the 90s have been ponderously documented, but by all accounts he is clean and driven. He looks awesome in his uniform of (really) skinny jeans, patched vest and beanie w/ goggles. But it’s his playing that testifies to his clarity. The overall sound was pretty muddy, including Michael’s rhythm tone. But his solos were like drawn butter, sinfully rich and creamy.

Michael is 63 years old, but he looks like he could do this forever. He played almost three hours without taking a breather. He’s an energy star, that’s for sure– not a wasted word or movement. Economy is the name of the game. No empty audience banter and not a solitary wasted movement. His right hand hardly moves at all while his left is like a tarantula effortlessly wandering the neck of his Flying V.

“Do you want to hear some more?” he asked at the end of the Resurrection set. Naturally, the crowd wanted to hear some more. There was no secret as to what most of us had come to hear…

And Michael didn’t hold back. We’d pumped our fists in the air to some mixed material for more than two hours now, and there was no reason not to reward us with the UFO songs we’d hoped for. I thought maybe he’d do “Doctor Doctor” and bow out, but I’ll be damned if he didn’t offer up five classics including the obligatory extended middle solo section of “Rock Bottom” which was other worldly. The place went nuts as the singers racked up verses, each seemingly vying for Michael’s favor. They really kind of reminded me of a bunch of ex-wives who discovered that they really enjoyed hanging out together. 

I don’t know how long they’ll be able to keep that bus on the road, but I’m glad it made it as far as Seattle. It was a really big show…

PHOTOS by ROCKFISH! 

Garage Shock Memorial Day weekend 1999

There are a lot of adjectives one might employ in describing Garage Shock ’99. Deafening, dizzying, drunk and disorderly are a few that come to mind. I don’t know that I would call it shocking, however.

I kind of knew what to expect, after all. I was keenly aware of what Garage Shock was all about and what it could mean to a man’s liver. I’d also seen most of the 18 scheduled bands at one point or another over the years. But the beauty of an event like Garage Shock is that it’s all there at one time, just daring you to take it all, like that ill-advised late night double shot of Jaegermiester.

It was a fine, sunny, late spring Friday afternoon, and I rode from Seattle in the open back of a pick-up truck, landing in Bellingham in time to pitch my tent in the backyard of Garage Shock mastermind Dave Crider’s home in the Lettered Streets. Offering me a cold can of Budweiser beer, Dave Crider appeared remarkably calm as he relayed news of the kook perched on top of a rolled motor home on I-5, shooting into rush hour traffic with an assault rifle, wearing nothing but a pair of bath slippers and a flesh-colored moneybelt. Well, you know how stories get exaggerated as they’re passed, but in the end the guy had at least stolen a car and driven it wildly on the interstate, shooting at other motorists before abandoning the car and fleeing into a residential neighborhood to break into an elderly couple’s home and hold them hostage. Accurate details were difficult to come by in the calm Bellingham afternoon, but one thing was certain— holiday weekend traffic was stopped dead, and only two of the evening’s six bands had yet arrived.

Unnerving calm from Dave Crider: “Maybe the Coyote Men will have to learn some covers,” he said.

What sense was there in struggling? By this time, the work was done and matters were in the merciful hands of the Garage Gods. Plenty of people were here already—the band entourages alone numbered almost 100, and that didn’t include the zealots from parts flung who would sooner lose a digit than miss Garage Shock. From here on out, it was nothing but a furious gauntlet of handshaking and high-fiving, bearhugs and heart punches for Dave Crider and his Garage Shock partner, Aaron Roeder, owner of the 3B.

In the end, of course, traffic cleared and everyone was present and accounted for when the festival officially kicked off at 9pm sharp with France’s Thundercrack. Bassless and blue, the trio set a fine tone for the weekend, giving way to the Von Zippers, from Calgary. Hard to tell which was sharper—their big hooks or the pointy hats. But they rocked. 

Having worked up a powerful thirst during the first two bands, I missed a portion of the Coyote Men’s set in favor of a taste of alcohol at the Ranch Room. When you feature six bands in a night-- even with a shared backline-- sets have to be short, and changes quick, and forty minutes is barely enough time to cross Holly for two doubles. I got back in time to absorb the essence of the Coyote Men—Mexican wrestling masks on British dudes playing straightforward funnyguy punk.

The two doubles came in handy in the next forty minutes when the Monkey Wrench fucking brought their heels down on the toe and broke the bone. If there was a theme to this Garage Shock, it would have to be the Tim Kerr angle. With two of his own bands performing and a third with which he had long-standing spiritual ties, His stamp was pressed deeply into the palm of this weekend, starting with the last-minute addition of the dusty Monkey Wrench project, subbing for the awol Makers. Comprised of veterans from Mudhoney, Gas Huffer and Lubricated Goat, the Wrench needed only an impromptu rehearsal to get tight enough. Slinging their greasy brand of contemporized delta blooze around the 3B, they seemed like a touring band just playin’ another shit hot show.

It takes a tough act to follow the proverbial tough act to follow, but San Francisco’s Zen Guerrilla was up to it. I’d seen these noisepushers on a number of occasions, but this night they really brought it all to the hardwoods, ending with a totally ridiculous version of “Mob Rules” that made me goddamned thirsty.

Having only one double at the Ranch Room allowed me to catch the last half of Man or Astroman’s set. What can you say about MoAM? They’re like the Grateful Dead of garage rock. Shock veterans, they dialed and laid it down, leaving a panting throng to ponder Saturday’s promise.

That promise was fulfilled the next night with the Northern European spotlight of the weekend. Garage Shocks of the past had often featured geographical themes of one kind or another, and Saturday’s flair was decidedly Scandinavian, right down to the bottle of absinthe Dave Crider kept deep in his coat pocket. He poured me a tall green one upon my arrival at the venue, just prior to the start of the Flaming Sideburns set. These guys killed me—tough glitter punk from Finland, the singer Eduardo could be seen frequently throughout the weekend, elbow upon the paper towel dispenser in the men’s room of the 3-B in sunglasses and a pimpy leopard skin hat. Next were the Sewergrooves, the dark Swedish trio featuring Robert, the drummer of the Hellacopters.

What I needed right now after a tall glass of absinthe and several beers was some mushrooms. Luckily Bob & Tammy from Stanwood were holding, so we crossed State Street to their room at the Bellingham Inn for a chaw. Fortunately, they also had a bottle of Patron and a big bag of weed, and by the time we got back to the bar for the last couple of songs of the Insomniac’s modpop set, I had forgotten I’d ever stolen that car in the first place. The infinitely-fun and Tim Kerr-produced Sugar Shack, from Houston, was next and they were terrific. Just ask me. The dancefloor was vertical and the temperature was rising rapidly.

What happened for the next 200 minutes was a blur of pure rock. Dave Crider stumbled to the mic at center stage for an introduction.

“This is the band that changed my life and saved my life!” he shouted, and Stockholm’s Nomads launched into a set that proved why they’ve been such an important act over the course of the past 25 years. If MoAM is like the Grateful Dead of garage rock, these guys are like the Replacements of garage rock, so rock, godDAMN! What a gratifying performance!

In a perfect world, the Nomads set and the Hellacopters set would have been reversed, since the Nomads basically are the Hellacopters’mother, and since on this night the grizzled vets overshined the upstarts. The Copters’ sets the last time they were through the northwest, the previous April (their first time in the States) were more inspired than at Garage Shock ’99. But for anyone who might’ve missed those early gigs, the show at Garage Shock was still pretty hot, and the throngs poured into the warm spring night on State Street.  

The party afterward in the Fireballs of Freedom suite at the Bellingham Inn was a lot like the show itself, with beer and bodies flying. Lurching north on James Street just before dawn, I was delighted to be picked up by none other than Dave Crider, and we heartily proceeded to the 24-hour Taco Bell drive-in for some deferred Mexisludge. I came up early the next afternoon in a twist of taco wrappers, the interior of my tent its own weather system of toxic condensation. For the past month, I’d been concealing a poison tooth beneath a blanket of ibuprofen, and this particular “morning” the pain was excruciating, overshadowing a headache that in its own right was quite profound. I grabbed the cigarette cellophane containing the last of my 222s and stumbled up the back porch, through the kitchen and into the bathroom, just in time to find Bekki Crider standing up in the bathtub, reaching for her towel. Confused, embarrassed, dizzy and thirsty, I excused myself and stumbled back into the kitchen. A tall glass of water and some coffee later, I was ready for a beer and some rays before settling down for a long pre-show nap.

The crowd at Sunday night’s show was a little lighter than the previous two nights, as a few dozen lame fuckin’ pussies had taken road to get a jump on their recoveries. But that only left more oxygen and shorter beer lines for the healthy and hungry crowd that remained, and both came in handy during the glorious finale.

Dave Crider and Aaron’s band Watts kicked things off, filing an imperfect yet passionate set. This was the first Garage Shock at which their former band the Mono Men had not played, and the Watts set was clearly a release of energy for the two who had worked so hard putting this historic event together. Brian Teasly of MoAM gave Aaron the last few songs off, and the Garage Gods smiled.

Estrella 20/20 followed, kicking up the fuzz a notch, lonely in their representation of the Far East. Next came the Gimmicks from Seattle with their sassy junk rock act, singer Mark Starr thrashing about the stage like a goldfish in a dry handsink.

Despite my afternoon snooze, I realized toward the end of the Gimmick’s set that I was starting to wear down just a little. Fifteen bands in, I was beginning to feel the effects of the various cruel tricks I had subjected my innocent self to over the course of the preceding 48 hours. My legs ached, my eyes burned and my tooth was fucking killing me. There was a steady drip of grey paste coming from my left ear. But there was no turning back now. Indeed, with the end in sight, I resolved to stare unflinching into the yellow eyes of the balance of the weekend and endure whatever it had to dish out. Right after two shots of tequila and a Budweiser at the Ranch Room.

Good goddamned thing, too. The Fireballs of Freedom were that and more, stomping through their unique, whacked out brand of freedom fusion, setting a perfect tone for the certifiably-insane guitar army from Alabama, the Quadrajets. Sporting new members since their last visit to Bellingham, the Jets cranked up their spicy orange-and-blues machine well past its recommended capacity and let ‘er rip. The Quadrajets live on any ordinary Tuesday night are more than your pedestrian rock fan can handle, and at midnight on the last night of Garage Shock, they were pretty much out of their bodies.

Everyone was, really. It had been an amazing weekend. The distinction between old and new friends had become blurred, and it was like one big, drunken family. That’s the way it is at Garage Shock—bands generally leave their egos at home and come for the party. Instruments are shared, all door proceeds are split evenly and completely between all participating bands, and the hospitality of the bar is unmatched. Smoke ‘em if you got ‘em and start reserving a sofa for next year, that’s the idea.

But first, Tim Kerr had a little business to take care of. Swinging dreads and grinnin’ broadly, he countered perfectly the crazed vocals of Mike Carrol, coaxing sounds unnatural from his guitar as he led the Lord High Fixers through a beery set of skwak rawk to the Promised Land of Garage Shock Heaven. The crowd called out for more, and they got more, until there was no more to give by either side. And then my lips fell off.

                                                                                           --Callous French  

Broken Teeth, Bulldozer

OK so I guess my post from the other day somehow led people to believe our house exploded or something. And that’s not exactly true.

What happened was this:

It was actually only our electrical service that exploded. But it did totally explode. In the middle of the night. Woke Patti and I up from a dead sleep. Vincent was home from college for the summer, and I ran down to his space in the basement, hoping he hadn’t exploded something. I didn’t know if he was home or not. I flipped on the light and was relieved to find that he was in fact not there. But the overhead light glowed unnaturally bright before the light bulb exploded with a loud POP. My own adrenalin surging, I ran back upstairs and met Patti in the kitchen. The light in the rangehood was glowing super bright, too, and just as I reached it that bulb exploded too. There was smoke hanging in the air and the house smelled like an electrical fire. I ran outside to the garage where the exterior mounted light was shining freakishly bright and as soon as I reached it, that bulb exploded. I was beginning to think it was me...

“We gotta get out of the house,” Patti yelled, her eyes flashing. I was relieved when they didn’t explode. We ran out to the front yard to see if the whole neighborhood was pulsating. But things on the street looked normal, with the streetlight and the neighbors’ porch lights operating seemingly at regular power.

We phoned PSE and they said they didn’t see anything weird going on the neighborhood. “You need to turn electricity off to your house,” they said, “as soon as possible.”

I wasn’t stoked about going back into the house, let alone touching the electrical panel. But I found a rubber garden glove, and after psyching myself into it, I hit the main shutoff and the house went dark.

When the PSE tech got there around dawn, he lowered himself in his remote control basket and showed me the tree limb that had been rubbing on my main drop presumably for years.

“That was a pretty big explosion…” he said, examining the discoloration on the limb. “You’re lucky no one was hurt.”

And we were lucky, of course-- unless you consider your refrigerator, stove, fancy tankless water heater, microwave, garage door opener and hi-fi getting fried to be bad luck. Because all those items had been cooked by the reverse polarity generated when the casing had finally worn off the cable, exposing wires that weren’t supposed to touch. Toggling back to the unexplainable good luck-- the dishwasher, laundry machines, amplifiers, computers, television and light fixtures were all spared.

I didn’t really understand it then and still don’t now.

Anyway, it took 5 years to replace the turntable and now I have a bunch of old new records to listen to!

DAY#2: Broken Teeth, Bulldozer. Birthday gift from Matt 2016. Favorite side: A

Jason McMaster is a hard rock warrior. Not necessarily a household name-- at least in my household-- but rocking a Goog on his consecrated ass conjures a resume impressive in its perseverance alone. The most recognizable bullet is Texas-based identity crisis rockers Dangerous Toys from the very late 1980s. But this guy has not stopped working the hard rock room since first picking up the bass for Rampage as a teenager in the late ‘70s. Broken Teeth is among his most consistent and longest-running platforms, but it’s also true that he’s fronted tribute projects of the likes of Van Halen, Priest, Bon AC/DC, Rush, KISS and The Cult-- among others. Jason McMaster is a case study in rolling stones not gathering no mold. He’s a Lifer.

He's also an ordained minister in the Church of Disaster. But—you know—who aint?

The music itself has a distinct NWoBHM cast to it, reminding me immediately of ALL FOR ONE era Raven, maybe with slightly less whack vocals. Only slightly though. The musical performances are average, the production listenable. Standard issue hard rock lyrics about flamethrowers, cloven hoof and holes in the sky. Jason McMaster’s singing is fine. The whole record is just fine.

There isn’t much to set the original songs apart from each other but side A is definitely my favorite because side B has not one but in fact two fairly uninspired covers on it. On a record of seven songs, it seems a tic lazy to include two covers-- especially when one of them is a super straight rendition of Aerosmith’s “Lightening Strikes.” Who doesn’t love this song, but I already have ROCK IN A HARD PLACE and don’t need another true version of this hit. If you’re going to record a cover, pick something off-road like “The Hammer,” the closer of Motorhead’s landmark ACE OF SPADES. To Broken Teeth’s credit they did just this; to their corresponding discredit, they didn’t do a particularly interesting version of it. There was a Seattle band who played a super smokin’ version of this song in the early ‘90s.

Unlike the disappointing packaging of AMERICAN DREAM by LCD Soundsystem, BULLDOZER features a beautiful seablue splatter platter and hi-quality full-color jacket. Very tasteful.

One interesting note: being a 12” record, it did not occur to me that it might be a 45rpm spin. I hadn’t noticed there were only 7 songs on it, and put on side A. I listened through the intro of the lead song “Raining Fire” thinking what an unusual guitar tone it was. Even when the singing started, I wasn’t immediately certain that I was playing the record on the wrong speed. Maybe I’ll leave the setting at 45 and do a single next.

Tomorrow: Walking Papers, I Belong to You b/w Trophy Wives

Jane’s Addiction, April 17 1989— I Was There

JANE’S ADDICTION-- MOORE THEATRE, APRIL 17, 1989

“Fuck dude, you shoulda seen it,” blurted Screwdriver into the phone. I held the receiver away from my ear. I’d been at work at the printing plant in Georgetown for several hours on this particular Monday morning by the time he called, but I knew he’d just become conscious in Ravenna, sprawled out on a futon beneath a shadeless window, fully-clothed, the smoke still lazily curling from the bigmouth of his wake’n’bake. “Perry had the fire engine-red dreds, dude, it was INSANE…”

Screwdriver had been talking up Jane’s Addiction to me for more than a year now, since their first trip to Seattle opening for Love & Rockets, Perkins sitting on the floor and all the crazy vocal effects. He’d talked that first record to death, and I’d listened to it as a courtesy, but never quite caught his enthusiasm for the band. But that was normal—Screw was the kind of guy who talked incessantly, and you could never really buy into everything he went on about, because a portion of what he talked was all shit. 

But not Jane’s Addiction. By the time this particular Monday morning rolled around, I was fully on the bus and eagerly awaiting the second show of their two-night engagement at the Moore Theater. They were touring in support of their stunning sophomore offering Nothing’s Shocking, and they had come a long way from the group who’d warmed up for Love & Rockets a year earlier. They’d even been through Seattle just a few months prior, headlining a show at the more uptown Paramount as part of FM100’s self-conscious Rising Star series. But now they were back with a two-show set in a smaller, nastier room where they could shake their shit without any coked-up radio promoters prompting them as to the call-letters and the sponsors. Now was the time to write history.

I finally clocked out at the print shop and drove directly to the liquor store to purchase a fifth of Pancho Villa, silver. Relishing the first portion of it in the fine Seattle spring afternoon, I drove to my apartment on Capitol Hill where I changed into my punk rock threads and took a few bonghits of my own, awaiting Screwdriver’s call. When it came from Belltown, Poncho & I saddled back up and headed downtown.

Now, you gotta dig Screwdriver. He has more aliases than he has fingers, but the one I’ve chosen to identify him in this column comes from a spin on his last name, which is the same as a prominent manufacturer of hand tools, and I’ll tell you it aint Craftsman. His other knicknames are considerably more vulgar, and I will spare you them this time around, though I will not promise that one of Screw’s other personas will not make their garlicpussy-breathed way to the pages of ’sup! Magazine in the future, ‘cause we had some wicked cool times together, and we’re brothers.  But even in April 1989 the guy was a fucking trainwreck, and I’ve just rolled up to him on 2nd Avenue with a zip of the kill and a bottle of horrible tequila.

So what’ya think we did? We drove around for an hour, drinkin’ and smokin’ and lookin’ for a parking place, Screwdriver all the time telling me about how bitchin’ the show the night before was. We’re listening to the record, the sun’s goin’ down, we’re gettin’ drunk and stoned-- it’s great. Eventually it’s time to think about goin’ into the theatre, so we pull in sideways to a parking spot on 3rd and head toward the Moore.

The show, of course, was fucking amazing. After pausing briefly at the merch counter to admire the tokens we couldn’t afford, we headed directly into the pit just in time for the houselights to flash, twice. The energy in the room was incredible— high like the band, but also strangely reserved, kind of like slow-motion, even after the lights went down…

Things went completely nuts immediately after, naturally, but I’ll never forget the opener, Perry Farrell holding high in a elbow-length velvet glove a bottle of Dom Perignon, the opening refrains of “The Mountain Song” cascading down upon him, pupils like Frisbees and Joker Green dreds after coming out bright red 24 hours earlier. Then the ultra-violence, punishing volume, idiots rule…

(author’s note: several weeks later, Martin & I ventured over to Jerry’s house @ 3 am after watching the Soul Kiss video to try and score some weeds. I had, 12 hours earlier, been forced to make the rather difficult decision to either shatter my wrist on the refrigerator or knock my fucking asshole girlfriend’s teeth down her face, and had opted for the former. So after having my ‘boxer’s wrist’ set at the walk-in clinic, Martin & I proceeded to take all of my pain medicine with a half-case of Schmidt. If we’d known there was tall swallow left in the bottle of Poncho Villa underneath the passenger seat of my car, we probably would have drank that, too-- before setting off in the direction of Jerry’s. As it turned out, the 500 police officers that greeted us in Jerry’s culdesac with their blue lights flashing and their guns waving were “looking for someone else” and not only could not arrest us for an open container (which we weren’t even aware of) or for being grossly impaired (which we were totally aware of), but they actually had to apologize to Jerry’s parents for the disturbance.

Jerry’s folks weren’t holding, but we considered this a pretty decent outing, nonetheless. We even got a nightcap out of the deal.)

-- Callous French