Allan McNaughton - Drop Out

Films, more zines, Barack Obama (MRR #308)

2009-02-14T18:06:00.000-08:00

I don't consider myself a film buff of any description. The wife and I have a Netflix account but have a tendency to keep a DVD for at least a month before returning it unwatched. A complete waste of money. I think watching films is an impulse thing for me: if something happens to come on the telly that looks interesting I'll watch it, or if I feel like watching a film I'll go to the video shop and see what tickles my fancy. Unfortunately the video shop nearest us closed recently (prompting the switch to Netflix) although there is a really good one that's not that far away. I hardly ever go to the cinema these days, despite living in a place where you can hardly move without passing a great art-house theatre or multiplex mall. You get the best of all worlds here, the latest special effects blockbusters play next door to the most obscure indie documentaries, so choice isn't the problem. Price might be though; it's ridiculous what they charge for films nowadays... when I was knee-high to a grasshopper you could go to the matinee and catch a Buster Crabbe Flash Gordon serial, the latest Charlie Chaplin, and a newsreel about good old Tommy knocking the Hun for six (all enjoyed while sucking on a bag of jujubes), for under a shilling.
Like most red-blooded boys growing up in the Seventies, I loved Bond films. The first ones I saw in the pictures starred Roger Moore as Bond, which was confusing because I was used to him on TV as The Saint. However, there is only one true Bond, and that's Sean Connery. There was the added thrill that he was from Scotland, so it wasn't totally unrealistic to think I could grow up to be like him. Like most red-blooded boys, I wanted to be a secret agent when I grew up. The fact that I am not a secret agent (or an actor) is probably the only department in which I am not exactly like either Bond or Connery. James Bond films shaped me into the hyper-nationalistic, violent, xenophobic misogynist I am today.
My next great love was kung fu films. Bruce Lee became another hero of mine and I had a massive poster of him from the final scene of one of my all-time favorites, Enter The Dragon, on my bedroom wall. I remember being really bummed out that I was blond and definitely not Chinese so I knew I wouldn't grow up to be just like Bruce Lee. I have a hazy recollection of seeing Enter The Dragon at the cinema but since it came out in 1973 (when I was 3) I'm either wrong or I saw a re-release of it. I definitely remember my dad taking me to see The Big Brawl (1980) starring Jackie Chan. I used to come out of films like that so excited and full of energy. The film wouldn't quite leave me for a while: part of me would believe that I was in fact a kung-fu master, and that any passer-by on the rainy Scottish night-time street was a potential enemy from a rival Shaolin temple.
I think I came to the realization that there was more to the pictures than action films around the time the UK finally got a fourth television channel. Channel 4 was initially started with a remit to focus on obscure, fringe programming. They also had a reputation for showing a lot more skin than the other channels. As my adolescent self stayed up far too late watching Channel 4 on my little black and white portable telly in the hope of seeing some tits (or even the odd patch of pubic hair) I was inadvertently exposed to all kinds of artsy-fartsy experimental film making, not to mention plenty of social realism, documentaries, and a lot more queerness than I was comfortable with at the time.
As I got older (right up to the present I suppose) my tastes have centered around the sort of gritty social realism exemplified by Ken Loach or the British kitchen-sink dramas of the 50s and 60s. I love Ealing Comedies. Film Noir. Bill Forsyth (Gregory's Girl, Comfort And Joy, Local Hero). What list of film favorites would be complete without Spinal Tap?
I almost forgot to mention one film that dominated just about every kid's psyche around my school: Quadrophenia. I wasn't a Who fan before I saw it and it actually took me a while after it to become one. I also was never really a mod, I wasn't anywhere near cool enough, but that film came along at just the right time for me and many others, shaping musical tastes, fashion styles, and aesthetics for years to come, in the UK at least. I doubt whether The Jam and other mod revival acts, not to mention 2-Tone, would have been anywhere near as big without the movie version of the Who's rock opera.
Do yourself a favor and seek out some of the stuff I've mentioned above, and now you know the sort of stuff I like, get in touch with your own recommendations.

The Loneliness Of The Long Distance Runner:

***
I'm writing this just after the voters of America elected their first non-white president, Barack Obama. It's still early days obviously (he doesn't take office for a couple of months!) and a lot of folk seem to have lofty and slightly unrealistic expectations for the man, but the mood is hopeful. I've said before in these pages that I don't put much faith in 'democracy' or party politics but at the very least it's encouraging that the leader of the free world is African-American.
Less encouraging is the success (by a slim margin) of Proposition 8 here in California. Proposition 8 contained an amendment to the California Constitution defining marriage as a purely heterosexual institution. This measure was sponsored by a cabal of conservative, right wing, and religious groups in response to the Supreme Court's ruling that same-sex marriage was legal in this state. As someone who's been married for over thirteen years I often tell my queer friends that it's not all it's cracked up to be, but in all seriousness marriage (rightly or wrongly) bestows certain rights on people and to deny those rights to a class of people is discrimination. 'Defenders' of the 'sanctity' of marriage insist that the Proposition was not about discrimination or about taking away anyone's rights, citing that gays could attain all the same rights as married straights by entering into civil unions. This is not just a smokescreen; it's an outright lie. While a civil partnership does bestow some of the same rights as marriage, some crucial rights are still left out. For example, the US Immigration and Naturalization Service doesn't yet recognize civil unions. I have been able to live and work (and pay taxes) in the USA for so long because my spouse is American. If I was gay, forget it. Still, the fight against Prop 8 isn't over: the Yes on 8 campaign was funded heavily by the Church of the Latter Day Saints (i.e. the Mormons, who not so long ago promoted polygamy), but as a religious organization with tax-exempt status, they're not supposed to use their money to try to influence legislation. At the very least they should lose their tax-exempt status, but let's face it, it probably won't happen.
***
As a result of writing about some of my old favorite zines a few issues ago I heard from my old friend Adam of Go! fanzine, who was pleased to be able to demonstrate to his girlfriend that he was once at least "a wee bit famous." Glad to be of help Adam. See ye in the Halt. I was also grateful to receive the latest issue of Seven Inches To Freedom, an entertaining read out of Florida. This issue (#6) is in fact dedicated to the best of the Florida scene. Considering that the only decent thing out of Florida is Tom Petty and I can only stand him in small doses, I expected a pretty thin issue, but in fact the zine is crammed with stuff, including an extensive discography of almost every Florida label since 1989 and an argument for the first Scrotum Grinder 7" being the best Florida record ever. I'm going to have to take your word for it on that one, boys and girls. If you want to check it out yourself I believe one US dollar will suffice (double it if yer forrin): Joe Lachut/SITF, PO Box 457, Fort Myers, FL 33902-0457)
***
While on the subject of zines, a recent visit to Issues (a great magazine store in Oakland) reminded me that I was remiss in not mentioning Chunklet when discussing my appreciation of mean-spirited humor. Although it doesn't come out very often, Chunklet never fails to entertain, despite the fact that it consists almost entirely of indie-rock inside jokes. Also, for some reason, they take a lot of digs at MRR even though none of the writers (and certainly none of the readers) have probably read an issue of Maximum since the mid-90s, if ever. The issue I just picked up, #20, is, predictably, dense with jokes in type so tiny you'll need a new prescription by the time you've finished it. I can't even begin to start listing some of the contents so just take it from me: you need it. It's a little pricey at $10 but one issue goes a long way. This will be in your bathroom magazine rack for months. Go to chunklet.com.
Wow, I think this might be one of the longest columns I've done for the mag. Still, I missed last month's deadline so I've got some making up to do. PO Box 22971, Oakland, CA 94609, USA. I surf my ego at www.allanmcnaughton.com. I've also been a somewhat irregular contributor to Bricks And Mortar, the music blog started by MRR's own cheeky mockney chappie Tim Brooks. See what Tim and I (and some other familiar faces) have got to say for ourselves at bricksandmortar79.blogspot.com. Cheers!

Skate Muties & Riot Grrrls (MRR #306)

2009-02-14T18:03:00.000-08:00

I was enjoying an after-work Stella Artois along San Francisco's scenic Embarcadero with young Timmy Brooks the other day when we got to reminiscing (as we often do) about the good old days. We got onto the subject of our favorite UK punk zines from the 80s and early 90s, especially the best of the bunch, Skate Muties From The 5th Dimension. It's been noted that they 'borrowed' a lot of their schtick (not to mention their entire layout) from Rev. Norb's (Sic)Teen zine, but no-one did a better job of skewering the UK punk and skate subculture at the time. That period was a grim one in the world of UK punk zines. I was obsessed with zines for a while. I wrote off for a new one just about every time I got a crudely mimeographed advert in a letter from someone (in those days every letter came in an envelope stuffed with extra dross in the form of distro lists, adverts for tapes, records, or zines, or pamphlets about animal rights - they would have cost a fortune to post if the entire British punk scene wasn't using the same half-a-dozen second class stamps, barely held together by the soap and glue used to render the postmaster's franking machine useless). A succession of flimsy, badly written, one-or-two issue punk zines found their way into my letterbox. I'd get something in the post every day, but for the most part there was very little worth wiping one's arse with. There must have been a list of rules and regulations somewhere about what you could or could not include in your zine. The first thing that had to be excluded at all costs was any sense of humor. However, as long as you had some reprinted Hunt Saboteurs pamphlets, articles on a woman's right to choose (written by a bloke, obv.), interviews with anarcho celebs of the day (our very own R. Kanaan of Political Asylum was a popular choice) and condemnations of any band that charged more than 50p to get into their gigs, you were alright. Screeds of poorly photocopied, cataract-inducing miniscule type were produced condemning so-called anarchist activists for putting milk in their tea. Debate raged over whether or not Colin Conflict was seen patronizing the local McDonalds. Hundreds of dour, insipid metallic thrash bands without a tune between them were celebrated in crudely stapled zines that appeared to be printed on the same paper used as toilet paper in Soviet gulags.
This was the environment that Bristol's Skate Muties attempted to liven up with their mean-spirited, irreverent humor. Although they themselves were skateboarders and punk rockers, they made no bones about pointing out and ridiculing the more embarrassing elements in those scenes. Students, crusties, shit bands, skate posers, BMXers, foreigners of all stripes, Welshmen, northerners, and southerners all came in for a well-deserved slagging, but it was all done in such a unique, funny way that even if you were the object of humiliation, you had to laugh anyway. I think there are issues of this on the internet to be downloaded if you want to see what I'm talking about, although I don't know if it would have the same impact today. I think someone should compile all the issues into a book though. After SM5D some of the Muties went on to start a magazine in a similar vein called Bugs And Drugs that was just as funny but less about punk or skating and more about British culture in general if I remember. I think they tried to capitalize on the popularity of the adult comic Viz but maybe they were a bit too clever to be that successful.
Naturally, SM5D wasn't the only zine that tried to inject a sense of humor into an otherwise tedious and boringly self-referential world. Some others that came up during my chat with Tim included the infamous Have A Good Laugh (even if you didn't always agree with him, Trev HAGL wasn't afraid to ruffle a few punk purist feathers), Raising Hell, and 666 1/2. One of Glasgow's three straight-edgers (though none of the three of us can claim it any more) Adam Johnston put out a funny zine focused on international hardcore called Go!
By the early 90s (with a few exceptions) most of these zines had called it quits, having been replaced by Riot Grrrl zines. The zines that weren't done by Riot Grrrls were very much influenced by that scene, so while there were many (no doubt worthwhile) articles on how to string together a couple of guitar chords, put on your own gigs, and take back the pit from macho white men (all while having a herbal abortion), there was a distinct lack of humor. After that the zine scene seemed to pretty much spiral into an abyss of introspective, naval-gazing 'personal' writing and I lost interest in it, bar the odd issue of Cometbus.
It might seem (yet again) that I'm just being an old man griping about the good old days, but I do think that there's nothing going on these days that has the element of wicked humor that was so good about Skate Muties, HAGL, etc. If there is, I'm just not aware of it. I think people are reluctant to say anything negative about each other, even in jest, for fear of offending the wrong person. Everyone takes themselves so seriously. Are people are all nicey-nicey in their record reviews and blogs because they don't want the free records to stop coming, or because they don't want to piss off their famous(!) friends? Come on, let's all have a laugh while having our say, eh?

PS I should point out that Trev HAGL continues to publish zines under the names Savage Amusement and Negative Reaction, so hats off to him. He must be the UK's longest-running zinester. Cheers!

Everything Turns Gray... (MRR #305)

2008-09-06T14:37:00.002-07:00

Except for the singer for Agent Orange's hair. Do you think he dyes it? He must be getting on a bit. Agent Orange was my favorite band for a while. They were among the first American punk bands I was exposed to, thanks to their skate-rock credentials. I had a skater friend called Campbell who subscribed to Thrasher and had an auntie that lived in America and would send him records and tapes of bands he read about in the Pus Zone. Thanks to this relative, Campbell was also one of the few people I knew who wore actual Vans shoes, not just the copy ones that only cost a fiver from the cheap shop and fell apart after one attempted ollie.
I'd lie on my bunk bed with the rain battering the window, blasting my Agent Orange tapes and reading Campbell's old Thrashers or well-thumbed copies of Freestylin' (the BMX magazine that Spike Jonze worked on before becoming a famous film and music video director). Agent Orange's beach-baked surf-punk sound promised the perfect, endless bitchin' summer that I was sure existed on the other side of the world. Sunset pool carving sessions with the Bones Brigade, Miami hoppers on Venice Beach with Woody Itson and Martin Aparijo, or airing out of the huge bowl at Pipeline Skatepark with Eddie Fiola and Brian Blyther. Agent Orange were my imagined soundtrack for all my teenage California dreams, as well as appearing on the soundtrack of many 80s bike and skate videos. They were also my introduction to surf music, leading me to seek out such surf classics as Dick Dale's version of 'Miserlou' long before it became a dorm-room staple thanks to the Pulp Fiction soundtrack.
Agent Orange released two albums in the 80s, several years apart and sounding quite different, trading in the buzzing SoCal punk sound of 'Living In Darkness' (Posh Boy) for a glossier 80s pop sheen on 'This Is The Voice'. When I first heard that album I thought it sounded like U2. It grew on me though and wimpy as it is, some of those songs are still favorites to this day. After that they seemed to disappear and I suppose I forgot about them. Their albums were squeezed onto the shelf and only occasionally got pulled out for nostalgia's sake.
When I moved to America I didn't meet many people who had shared my childhood love for Agent Orange. I got the impression they were considered a joke amongst too-cool-for-school hardcore hipsters. Admittedly, the early 90s was a time of us-vs-them, and admitting to enjoying a band with such brazen pop sensibilities could be considered a crime on a par with enjoying Green Day's major-label output. From time to time I'd see ads for Agent Orange shows in or around San Francisco, usually in weird venues that punk bands never usually played. I'd heard that it was just Mike Palm (singer/guitarist) and a couple of hired guns. People who had caught this later incarnation of the band hadn't exactly given them rave reviews. That, coupled with my reticence for reunion tours and nostalgia, prevented me from ever going to see them, although I always had a little voice in the back of my head telling me that I ought to at least get to see this band, my one-time favorite, at least once in my life.
So, a couple of weeks ago, Agent Orange was playing at the Uptown in Oakland, about five minutes from where I live, on a Saturday night. There was pretty much no excuse for not finally taking the plunge and seeing them.
The wife and I got to the Uptown (an unremarkable but decent-sounding black box of a rock club) too late to catch the opening band but in time to catch local streetpunx The Sore Thumbs. They were great, if somewhat derivative; some good guitar playing and catchy melodies. They played for too long for an opening band though. It seriously felt like an hour. I was a little bit confused by the crowd. Looking around at the amassed handful of skater bros, Burning Man hacky-sack types, and Hot Topic punk chicks, I felt like I was at a midweek bar show in a Northern California hick town, not seeing a legendary American punk band in a major metropolitan area.
Agent Orange took the stage and performed to a half-empty venue. I felt a pang of sympathy for Mike Palm that at this point in his career, after being a major part of one of the most influential scenes in American music, he can't fill a small venue in the San Francisco Bay Area. He didn't seem to care though; the band soundchecked with surf instrumental 'Mr. Moto', then launched straight into the classic 'Everything Turns Gray', and from there ploughed through a swathe of greatest hits from both albums, their EPs, and pre-'Darkness' demos, as well as a couple of tracks from their (unknown to me) 1990s self-released CD. Every song was tighter and faster than on record (sometimes to their slight detriment, especially on some of the poppier stuff from 'This Is The Voice', which could have benefited with a softer touch). The bass player bobbed up and down energetically like a Muppet the entire time, but was pretty harmless, except for screwing up the intro to 'Living In Darkness', which is the one time the bass has to take a really prominent role. The drummer stole the show though. Mike Palm is unquestionably the captain of the ship but the drummer was at the rudder that night. For all that it was small and somewhat unusual, the audience met the band's energy with boundless enthusiasm. The 'pit' was made up of computer-programmer types in Birkenstocks and glasses.
At their core, Agent Orange is a solid, tight live act with a repertoire bursting with timeless, classic punk tunes. So where were all the punks? I think Agent Orange just isn't cool enough for some people. I admit, the on-stage banter verged on the corny. I think that if the band had broken up just after 'Living In Darkness', or maybe even before releasing it, and then got back together right now for a reunion tour, punk scenesters would be wetting themselves at the thought of seeing them. They could have broken up after appearing on the Rodney On The Roq compilation, and they might have become another Middle Class or Rhino 39: ghostly touchstones that had faded into punk lore only to be resurrected by a future generation of hardcore historians.
So instead of stoking the loins of eBay-scouring message-board punk enthusiasts, with their sophisticated palates refined by copious obscure kbd rarities, Agent Orange play the Warped Tour or half-empty places like the Uptown, serving up 80s nostalgia to knock-kneed ageing skaters and a dose of what poppy punk could have sounded like before all those NoFX clones got hold of it to neophyte mall-punks. I'm not sure who's missing out more.
I'm not trying to make a case for Agent Orange's relevance in 2008. 90% of MRR's readership will think I'm lame for liking them or for writing this column about them, but too bad. I may never see them again, but I'm glad I went to see them this once, and that it wasn't a total bummer. Now that little voice in the back of my head has finally been appeased.

Seven Inches of pure pleasure (MRR #304)

2008-09-06T14:37:00.001-07:00

I know it's a far from controversial opinion, even in the era of the digital download, but the seven-inch single is by far the superior format for recorded music ever invented. That's not to say that all seven-inch singles are great, but done correctly, e.g. one perfect, two-and-a-half minute pop nugget on the A-side, and a carefully chosen B-side (especially an equally great non-album track), it cannot be beaten. (Due to the comparative shortness of most hardcore songs, the EP naturally becomes the preferred format, but still on a 7" please).
That said, I came to this realization pretty late in the game. My introduction to collecting music came via cassettes, as we didn't have a record player in the house. I went through a succession of cassette players that my dad bought off some guy in the pub. The first one came with a Johnny Cash tape, the first piece of music I ever owned. My wee brother and I played it over and over again. I don't know if it occurred to us that we could go out and get more tapes. Those songs are embedded in my memory, never to be forgotten. It could have been worse I suppose. The mind boggles at the thought of the utter garbage that could have been on a tape deck bought off some random boozer in the Pine Lodge. (Later, in a moment of desperation for blank tapes, I recorded The Stupids' Peel Session over the Johnny Cash tape. Still got it though). Eventually I got a cassette player that also had a radio, exponentially expanding my musical exposure. I spent the summer listening to BBC Radio 1 all day, and taping the hits off the Top 40 rundown on Sunday afternoons. Inevitably, I ended up listening to the radio into the late evenings, when the pop DJs went home and the night shift came on–Tommy Vance with his metal, Janice Long with her weird indie stuff, and of course John Peel. I'd hear all sorts of stuff that I didn't understand or thought was too weird (or, in the case of 'White Riot' by The Clash, too fast. Too fast? Have you listened to that song lately? It plods along).
At some point a record player turned up in our house. It was a behemoth of a thing. It probably weighed fifty pounds and came equipped with a non-functioning 8-track player, which were already completely out of vogue by then. So much for taping records for friends.
I had started buying albums on tape, but now I could finally purchase vinyl. I continued to buy LPs though. For a while, I was especially fond of singles collections, greatest hits albums, and 'Now That's What I Call Music' compilations. I viewed these releases as offering the best value for money. All hits, with minimum filler. Given that I was spending my hard-earned paper round money, that was a huge consideration. Singles just didn't cut it. Two songs for a quid, when you could get a whole album for a fiver, or sometimes less? Do I look thick? It took several years of buying albums with two or three good songs (the singles, naturally) and a bunch of tossed-off piss takes for me to realize the error of my ways. I still couldn't bring myself to spend a lot of money on records though. Luckily, I discovered the joys of the Woolworth's 50p record box. The slightly out-of-date hits of the 80s at 1970s prices! I snapped up singles by Madness, The Jam, and Adam & The Ants, as well as a few guilty secrets I won't mention. And while you were in there you could help yourself to as many Kola Kubes and Strawberry Bon-Bons as you could stuff in your mouth from the Pick'n'Mix (or Pick'n'Nick) aisle. (After a considerable dry spell in the mid-80s, Woolies' cheapo box later yielded scores along the lines of Public Enemy and Run DMC singles).
Once I started getting into harder-to-find punk and hardcore, my main sources were taping stuff off the John Peel show, and trading tapes with friends, both locally and through the post. Amongst the few of us in our area that shared similar tastes, it was unheard of for all of us to buy the same record. One person would buy an LP and at least five of us would get a tape of it. There are some albums that I consider among my favorites to this day that I still only have on the tape someone made me in 1985. It still throws me off to hear some of those records played somewhere and not hear the extra tracks tacked on by Sandy at the end to fill the space on the C90.
This process of acquiring music led to many disappointing purchases, and the discovery of second album syndrome. Someone would tape me a copy of some band's blistering first LP, and then I'd see a later record by said band in the shop. Since I liked the album I had on tape, I'd dutifully purchase this later release, only to get home and discover that the band 'crossed over' in between the two records. Suicidal Tendencies' 'Join The Army' and 'You Got It' by Gang Green are two purchases that particularly smarted at the time.
I was still passing up any singles that weren't in the bargain bin at this time, on the grounds of value for money. I did eventually start gravitating towards singles and EPs later, but only when they were fairly cheap. I've never really been much of a record collector. For most of my music-loving life, I've been pretty happy to just have the music, in whatever format. Nowadays, that's become easier than ever. For a while, I found myself 'sharing' (ahem) the complete discographies of bands I already liked, filling my hard-drive with album after album I already possessed in some form or another, whether on a cassette dub, CD, or LP. I also downloaded records I'd always wanted to own but had never seen available for a price I could (or would) pay. Once the novelty wore off, and I got over my excitement at finally getting my (digital) ears on some of those long-lost or forgotten gems, it really felt kind of empty. I could listen to 3000 songs in a row on shuffle on my iPod, but most of the time I'd really rather just listen to one perfect single on my record player. So nowadays, if you're looking for me, you can find me in the 7" racks, indiscriminately picking up any old shit on 45 that I passed up first time around when I was skint. Most of what I pick up is still under $3 and I rarely go over a tenner though.
If you've got 70s/early 80s punk and post-punk for sale/trade, send me your list: PO Box 22971, Oakland, CA 94609, www.allanmcnaughton.com

Chaos In Tejas 2008 (MRR#303)

2008-09-06T14:35:00.000-07:00

Sandy and I sat up until 4am, out in the shed in the garden of his Austin home. We chinwagged long into the night to a soundtrack of John Peel Session tapes recorded many years ago on a cheap ghetto blaster in a Newmains bedroom. The Prong peel session was they best thing they ever did, and that night it sounded like some kind of sonic bulletin from the distant days of the mid-80s. Yeah that's right, I said Prong. Blistering, is how I'd describe the guitar sound. We also jammed the HDQ Peel Session. HDQ were a funny band: starting off as spiky-topped Discharge noiseniks and turning into Sunderland's answer to Dag Nasty. It wasn't until Dickie Hammond twinned those Brian Baker guitar riffs with Frankie Stubbs' dreary, rain-and-gin soaked Coronation Street songwriting that melodic hardcore finally reached its true potential. Listening to that HDQ session in the shed was definitely a heavy nostalgia trip, but it was ultimately more satisfying than watching Dickie (in full Eric Bristow darts regalia) back on stage with Frankie and turning in a greatest hits set. Leatherface weren't bad at all, in fact both sets I saw at the Texas fest were solid, but it's not 1988 any more, for us or for them. The nostalgia just felt empty. Memories; ghosts of passions first stirred in the bloom of youth.
The next evening we set out on bikes. A twenty mile party on wheels, through the hills above Austin with a messenger bag of beer. The circuit ended with a swim in the creek amongst ducks and turtles. Two little kids asked us to keep an eye on their fishing poles - bent safety pins tied to two tree branches and a slice of Wonder Bread for bait. You should have seen the one that got away. Huck Finn was hiding in the bushes.
At sunset we dodged sightseers and rode past clouds of leathery bats as they began their blind riot charge into the warm Texas evening. Secret samosas were consumed before stopping at a bar called the Hole In The Wall. It's unlike the Hole In The Wall in San Francisco: different dicks hang out in this one. The bartender stood Sandy and I to free whisky beverages, which we enjoyed just before local alt-country act Lonesome Heroes took the stage. I can't stand the term 'alt-country' but the band was really good. They call themselves psychedelic country but I couldn't tell if any of them were actually tripping. In a town whose musical legacy includes the Thirteenth Floor Elevators and the Butthole Surfers, everyone has to be a little psychedelic, right?
We spilled onto the street after the show and went for more tasty samosas at the secret samosa spot. There wasn't anything that secret about them, they were right there in the counter display. I suppose it's the fact that you don't expect to be able buy a samosa in a donut shop at 2am.
Maybe I should backtrack a bit, to the actual fest itself? Do you really want to hear about the bands and who played what? Roky Erickson was basically the same as the first time I saw him last year in San Francisco. It's still amazing to get to see him play those old songs. People were stoked that Billy Gibbons from ZZ Top joined him onstage for the last two numbers. I have to say, although I'm aware of ZZ Top having a respectable body of work prior to their 80s MTV video fame, I basically only know them from that era. Sorry, but that stuff is shit. All of it sounds like it was programmed by a sleazy, bourbon-drinking robot. Which, now I actually type that, sounds like a recipe for the best music ever. Maybe they got the wrong software for the robot or something.
Anyway, I didn't mean to go on about ZZ Top. Let's move on to London's answer to ZZ Top, minus the beards, Hard Skin. Blistering set of classics on the Thursday night, straight off the bus after another short tour bringing the sounds of fake Oi to spoiled Yanks. Best line from Fat Bob: "I liked Los Crudos when they were just Mexican, but I like them even more now they're gay." The next day they played on a party boat out in some Texas lake to a 100 unhealthy, sunburned miscreants. It was like a recovery program for people with regrettable tattoos. Tall Dan from punk HQ (eg the MRR house) took a tumble on the kiddie chute, sliced his arm, and stirred up some chum for the freshwater sharks. Later that night he was all stitched up and putting on a brave face. After Hard Skin played on the barge the coast guard had to come out and spirit Johnny Takeaway back to shore so he could jet back to jellied-eel land. Genius can't hang about getting a suntan. Criminal Damage just about managed to get through an impromptu set as a three-piece with the drummer throwing up into her mouth all the way through. As soon as they were done she heaved her ring over the side, only to hit some poor unsuspecting punk swimmers. Oops!
Back on dry land there was more punk nonsense to take in. I managed to miss a bunch of bands I'd wanted to see but what can you do? There's too much to take in. At my advanced age I can't see ten bands a day any more. Afternoon shows. After-parties. Inside shows. Outside shows. Bloody hell.
Once things calmed down a bit and most people had gone home, there was a wee gig at a pizza parlor with The Young and Social Circkle, who were both brilliant. It turned into a mini-fest of its own, with just about every band still left in Austin jumping on the bill. Crude and Fy Fan played two of the best sets of the fest, and even Los Crudos turned in a few songs. It ended up being one of the most fun parts of the weekend, because it was so much like a normal show.
That's when my real holiday started, and where we came in at the start of the column. Thanks to Timmy for organizing the fest, and to Sandy & Jen for putting me and the missus up for all that time.

Cut The Crap: The Clash on PBS (MRR # 302)

2008-09-06T14:34:00.000-07:00

I suppose it should come as no surprise to me at this point that whatever small element of danger or revolutionary potential that punk ever had is long gone, but every TV commercial or Hollywood soundtrack featuring the incendiary music of the late seventies serves as a fresh reminder that it has more or less become the classic rock for my generation. It was par for the course then when I was flicking through the TV channels the other night and came across a PBS fundraiser centered around the broadcasting of some recently released compilation of Clash performances called "The Clash Live: Revolution Rock." For those readers outside of the USA (or without a TV), PBS is public television, funded by subscriptions and donations from the viewing public (as well as, increasingly, from corporate sponsorship). The channel usually features the kind of programming (documentaries, BBC costume dramas, etc) that let smug middle-class people feel smarter and better than the kind of people who watch American Idol and Survivor. Their pledge drives are usually built around four-hour specials of the protest music of the sixties and shit like that. PBS is all about the sixties–most of their donations probably come from millionaire ex-hippies. At least, they were all about the sixties.
Picture the PBS studio, with its rows of phone banks for accepting donations, decorated for the evening with flashing police lights, camouflage webbing, and blown up Clash album covers. In between songs, the hosts encourage viewers to call in or go online to make donations of anywhere from $75 to $250. Guest 'experts' have been called in to expound on how important the Clash were to rock history: hippie DJ Pierre Robert, and "rock critic" Alan Light (of Spin, Rolling Stone, Vibe, etc). The PBS host comes on to give us the hard sell. "As an intelligent person, you appreciate and enjoy all different kinds of music, and we're happy to bring it to you." In other words, the Clash are just one more group that can fit on the PBS viewer's CD shelf alongside other PBS-approved fare like Bob Dylan, Joni Mitchell, or Buena Vista Social Club.
The film itself is a mixed bag. Documentary sequences pair a clueless, sensationalist voiceover ("taking their name from the headlines of the day" ... "they changed the musical landscape forever") with the same hoary old recycled Don Letts footage you've seen a hundred times. Cue the banner being unfurled at Bond's in New York, then Joe Strummer with his ridiculous 80s Mohican taking a photograph from the back of a convertible. Repeat ad nauseam. There are some cool performances though: what looks like a promo video from 1976, shot on a soundstage with amateurish lighting. Mick's out of tune, and the band perform intensely for the cameramen and probably a couple of mates. You can imagine Bernie Rhodes behind the scenes, exhorting his boys to give it all they've got; The band performing "Radio Clash" on the Tom Snyder show with a genuine NY graffiti artist getting up on the corrugated iron backdrop.
Don't get me wrong. I like much of the Clash's music and I think that Joe Strummer was a genuine and thoughtful man. But they were the first punk band to really milk the revolutionary posturing and political rhetoric of the early punk scene and turn it into a massive cash-generating industry. I'm not saying they didn't mean it, maaan... Just that whatever they may have "meant" was probably lost on the crowds at Shea Stadium.
I'm sure that the smiling happy TV presenters were or are fans of The Clash, as are probably a lot of PBS viewers, and obviously The Clash don't represent the be-all and end-all of punk rock in any way whatsoever. It's just that the fact that someone at PBS thought that this was a good way to try and raise money is another nail in the coffin for punk as a movement, for punk as something that stands apart from the rest of society. I've spent a large chunk of my advancing years feeling like an outsider, so it's weird when I hear the music that gave me something to believe in used to sell cars, cruises, retirement plans, or PBS subscriptions.
***
To contradict myself in the first part of this column, I'll go on record here as saying that the new 'reality' TV show following NOFX on their recent world tour is one of the best shows currently on the box. The best part of the program is their manager Kent. He gets totally plastered all the time but still manages to hold it together enough to string together a sketchy tour that takes in places around the world that bands rarely get to. I doubt these guys could make it to the corner liquor store without Kent holding their hands. Well, actually, I think Fat Mike seems to have his shit together, but watching this I can't help thinking that the two guitarists are lucky they ended up getting into a successful band, because it definitely seems like their alternative would be flipping burgers. I mean, they've been playing for over twenty years but in the first episode one of the guitarists has a problem with a pedal and basically just gives up, like he's helpless. I think what warms me to the show is that despite all their success, for the most part they come across as pretty average normal punk guys that any of us might know. They seem to have their hearts in the right place and for the most part appreciate that they are pretty lucky to be in the situation they're in. The show might be more for readers of Punk Rock Confidential than MRR, though. TiVo it yourself and see what you think.
***
By the time you read this, Chaos In Tejas 2008 will have come and gone. I don't usually do 'fests' but I'm making an exception. Actually I've wanted to try and get to this one for the past few years but other commitments have always gotten in the way. There are always good bands and Austin is one of my favorite places in the US. Mostly I'm looking forward to hanging out with friends I haven't seen in a while, going swimming, and eating some good food. The main musical attractions for me this year are Hard Skin, Leatherface (with Dickie Hammond back on guitar!), the Marked Men, and especially Roky Erickson. Can't wait.

Wire: Read & Burn 03 (MRR #300, May 2008)

2008-09-06T14:26:00.000-07:00

WIRE - "Read And Burn 03" (Pinkflag)
It will come as no surprise to anyone who knows me when I say that I am a huge fan of Wire. It started, for me, with the song "12XU", which appeared on some punk compilation a friend of mine had and was my first exposure to the band. The record that song came from, Pink Flag, is a perfect album, and still my favorite of theirs. In fact, I put off listening to anything after that record for years. I would pass on Chairs Missing and 154 as they turned up in the record bins, suspicious that they originated from the 'lost years' I'd heard about, when Wire got derailed a bit. I think this worked to my advantage. By the time I got around to picking up those albums, not only had my tastes widened (mellowed?) a little, but I feel like I'd absorbed so much of the band's earlier music that I could pick out the essential Wire-ness of even the least Pink Flag-like of their tracks on the two subsequent records. So there I stayed, for a long time. I adhered steadfastly to those first three albums, eschewing all later output. Sure, I dabbled in bootleg issues of 77-79 stuff like their demos and the Live At The Roxy tracks, but no Wire sounds from those dark detested 80s every graced my ears. Since then, I have grown to appreciate some later stuff: if you can get beyond the slick production of A Bell Is A Cup Until It Is Struck you can detect the strain of controlled tension that run through all their work.
Which brings me to the controversial subject of Wire's production. I think Harvest knobsman Mike Thorne did a great job with the first three records, although the earlier, live, stripped-down versions of the Chairs/154 songs as they were performed on German TV and released on the Wire On The Box DVD/CD package (highly recommended by the way), I can't help wondering if maybe he wasn't a bit heavy-handed with the synths etc.
Wire broke up and then got back together again a couple of times, at one stage with only three of them so they called themselves Wir, which I remember thinking was a bit strange at the time. Then in 2000 they reformed once again and have been a band ever since, although they don't seem to play or release records on a very aggressive schedule. Their post-reunion recordings, for the first two "Read & Burn" EPs and the "Send" album, were hailed as something of a return to form, and while they did mark a renewed and welcome readoption of both velocity and volume, something about the production was still a bit off. They (or at least Colin Newman, who appears to handle most of the post-production these days) seem fascinated with processing sounds digitally, so that guitars sound not so much like individual instruments played by humans, but like some robot supercomputer's nano-engineered idea of what the perfect guitar should sound like without any messy interference from pathetic inhabitants of meatspace. It's almost the opposite of the too-lush production of the 1980s but it serves the same purpose: it dilutes the band's core strengths, which are to be found in its superior songwriting, structure, minimalism, and kinetic energy.
Which brings me to their latest release, something of an appetizer for their upcoming eleventh(! - really?) studio recording. I don't recall seeing it in our review section since it came out, but then the chances of me actually making it all the way to the "W" section of any issue of MRR are pretty slim. I've found myself listening to at least the first track of the EP on the way to work almost every day, so I thought I'd talk about it here. Coming in at roughly the same length as Pink Flag even though it's only got four songs, Read & Burn 03 could almost count as an album in its own right. The first track, "23 Years Too Late" nips under the wire at just under ten minutes long. The remarkable thing is that once it's over I want to listen to it again right away (and have), and I usually get bored if a song goes over two minutes. It's almost a spoken-word piece set to music (usually the use of the term 'spoken word' is a massive red flag, I know): bassist and lyricist Graham Lewis reads a long piece describing a decadent continental scene as a three-note guitar and synth figure builds tension behind, exploding into a propulsive, angry Colin Newman-sung chorus and a squall of bass, guitars and drums. Lewis's terse, pointed delivery could earn him a spot doing voiceovers for documentaries about serial killers, while Newman, quite simply, is still the second best vocalist to come out of the '77 punk era (Rotten of course, since you asked) and is possibly the only one still putting out interesting, exciting music. Of course, the record's not perfect: the processed production makes Robert (Gotobed) Grey's already robotic, metronomic drumming sound like a drum machine most of the time. In fact, I think there might be a drum machine in there as well at times. Still, for a band that's been around for as long as they have to still be producing music this good, skirting the edges of pop with the vitality of much younger men and no small dose of intelligence and wit, is quite a feat. Especially while contemporaries seem content to mine the revival circuit.
***
It has to be added that as a group Wire seem to be a little far up their own arses much of the time. Don't get me wrong, I think they come pretty close to genius but in interviews it sometimes seems like they do as well. There was an amusing snippet of an interview with Colin Newman in the Minutemen documentary We Jam Econo (Mike Watt has often cited Wire, along with The Pop Group, as one of the biggest musical influences on the Minutemen, especially for their short songs) where it looks as if the producers have collared him on the street unawares. His body language resembles someone trying to extricate himself from a pair of Jehova's Witnesses. On apparently being asked about Wire's influence on the Minutemen he expounds on how much Wire influenced American hardcore bands, saying something along the lines of "especially the way we would do a whole song of just one note." It's here that he demonstrates how out of touch he is with how Wire actually affected people. I'm going out on a limb but I'd guess pretty much the only Wire song that influenced US hardcore was the aforementioned "12XU", and even then probably more because Minor Threat covered it than anything else. That "one note" quote shows that he probably hasn't even listened to very much hardcore, since I can't think of many hardcore songs that stay on one note for very long. Hardcore is about fast riffs, not exploring the sonic possibilities of deconstructing a chord down to its essential spatial coordinates or something. The American bands who really owe a debt to Wire are the 'post-punk', artier bands like Mission Of Burma. In fact, Burma have said that it was only after seeing Wire reform as older men and not look stupid up there that they decided that they might be able to get back together as well. So there's that to thank Wire for too.

April fool...

2008-06-01T17:39:00.001-07:00

So yeah, that last post/column about the iPhone was an April Fool.

iPhone Punks are real though:

Maximumrocknroll #299 April 2008

2008-04-01T07:35:00.000-07:00

I have seen the future and it is now. Technology has changed DIY punk rock forever. One single technological breakthrough has revolutionized punk, bringing it into the 21st Century with a bang. Not since Iggy stepped from behind the drums in '67, or since Dee Dee learned to count to four in '76, or since Discharge popularized the d-beat in the early 80s, has there been a development that promises to affect punk rock so profoundly.
What is this groundbreaking advance in punk technology I hear you ask? Is it online radio? Is it the mp3? Is it the availability of cheap home recording on PCs? No, it's not any of those things, but you're getting warm.
The single most important event for the future of DIY punk rock as we know it was the introduction last year of the Apple iPhone.
"He's lost his mind", I hear you say. "The iPhone costs four hundred dollars, how can anything that expensive be punk?" Well, punks have been known to buy guitars (and records!) that cost several times that amount, and an iPhone is five times more punk than a Flying V with a GBH sticker, and ten times more hardcore than a Fix 'Jan's Room' with insert. Bear with me.
Apple's iPhone allows you to go about all your punk rocker business, anywhere you want, any time you want. You're on the bus home from work and you want to check on the status of your eBay auctions? No problem! You can also surf message boards to keep up on the latest punk and hardcore news. No longer do you have to wait until you're home in front of your computer to enjoy the benefits of Terminal Boredom, Shit-Fi, or even Maximumrocknroll.com! You can stream your favorite punk podcasts, or download the latest hardcore hits right from iTunes.
No self-respecting punk rocker is without a MySpace page these days. Keep track of your friend requests and comment wars 'round the clock via the iPhone's wireless Internet access.
Going on tour with your band? Touring will never be the same again. From your iPhone, you can connect with other bands on MySpace to book the tour itself. Keep up with the bookings as you travel, and alert fans to any changes via MySpace bulletins–again, sent from your phone. Getting lost on the way to the show is a thing of the past: some hippy bands may prefer to 'wing it'... not so the modern iPhone-equipped touring unit. You've got maps and directions right there in the palm of your hand. And when you're onstage, don't worry about going out of tune - you can download an application that turns your iPhone into a guitar tuner. That saves you $100 on a regular guitar tuner right there. The iPhone just became an even better deal. (I realize that many punks regard tuning your guitar to be an unnecessarily frivolous show of rock-star like 'chops', so if you fall into this category, feel free to ignore that last part). Using the iPhone's 2-megapixel digital camera, you can document the tour as you go, and post the best pics to your blog. And speaking of blogs, let's face it–zines are a relic of the past. Rather than writing a zine about sitting in the 24-hour diner drinking muddy coffee all night, then wasting hours of your time at Kinko's trying to scam copies, wouldn't you rather just publish your thoughts and feelings directly to thousands of readers AS THEY HAPPEN from the diner itself? Talk about revolutionary.
I haven't even gotten to the mp3 player part yet. Your iPhone can carry thousands of songs. That's way more songs than anyone but the most pretentious of record collectors could ever need. (In fact, according to a list on Amazon.com, there are only ten essential punk albums. Those are:
1. RANCID - "And Out Come The Wolves"
2. NOFX - "Pump Up The Valium"
3. FUGAZI - "Repeater"
4. PENNYWISE - "Land Of The Free"
5. BOUNCING SOULS - "How I Spent My Summer Vacation"
6. RX BANDITS - "The Resignation"
7. BLACK FLAG - "Damaged"
8. GREEN DAY - "Dookie"
9. BOX CAR RACER - "Box Car Racer"
10. OFFSPRING - "Smash"
Shit, I'm only 2 for 10. But fire up the iPhone, and I could download the ones I'm missing from iTunes and complete my punk collection! See how easy and convenient Apple has made it to be punk? CRASS said pay no more than 2.99. Apple says pay no more than 99 cents (per song)!)
I don't think there's any aspect of the life of your average punk rocker that couldn't be improved by the use of an iPhone. In fact, I'd go so far as to say that if it's not already, in very short order an iPhone will be essential for any truly DIY punk. With the technology of the iPhone at our fingertips, there's nothing we can't do. We can finally and instantly mobilize to make a punk takeover of the online airwaves a reality. We've been waiting for this a long time. The struggle has been long and many have been lost along the way. But with the introduction of the iPhone, we have finally won.

Technorati Tags: iPhone, iPhone Punks

Top Ten Punk Records of 2007

2008-02-07T18:33:00.001-08:00

My very first attempt at podcasting: I decided to make an audio addendum to my year-end top ten that appears in the latest issue of Maximumrocknroll. You can listen or download by clicking this link.
The playlist includes The Tranzmitors, Criminal Damage, Loser Life, and the Young Offenders. It was fun making it so I might do more of them, but I'm not going to get on a regular schedule or anything.

Overrunning Of The Orifice Region

2008-01-29T16:28:00.000-08:00

Browsing YouTube late the other night, as you do, I luckily happened across a hitherto unviewed (by this writer) promotional video for Stretchheads. One of my favourite bands of all time, I was luckily enough to see this band many times in Glasgow. You know those local bands in your town that you like a lot, but you know that you don't have to go to every gig, because there'll be another one round the corner? With the Stretchheads, you made it to every one you could. Every one was different and every one was a total multimedia experience. 'Singer' P6 had a flair for the dramatic and a barely suppressed desire to be confrontational. He brought the concert to the audience one at a time and at close range. It felt moderately uncomfortable for this particular 18-year-old to be screamed at by a large, bald man in a tinfoil suit less than an inch from my face, but it was an experience I went back for time and time again. Musically, they were like nothing I'd ever heard. As time went on I became aware of the groups the were an influence on the Stretchheads but at the time I had been subsisting on a pretty strict diet of American hardcore and punk. The Stretchheads were hardcore alright, but in a completely different, twisted way. After the first LP, when they started to get even more experimental and incorporated samples, loops, and dubby effects, they just got better and better.
I remember going in to Rat Records on Buchanan Street and buying Five Fingers, Four Thingers, A Thumb, A Facelift, and a New Identity off of drummer Richie, without realizing he was in the band. When my friend Sandy and I drew up the list of must-have interviews for our new punk zine, Stretchheads were top of the list. Bassist Mofungo answered just about every question with references to The Ramones or The Sweeney, as I recall.
At any rate, thanks to the wonders of 21st Century technology, rather than just tell you about this amazing band, I can also direct you to sites where you can see and hear them for yourself. Enjoy!

Stretchheads on YouTube:
Overrunning Of The Orifice Region - Part 1
Overrunning Of The Orifice Region - Part 2
Live In Stockwell, 1990

Stretchheads on MySpace

Vocalist P6 and drummer Richie have a new(ish) act called DeSalvo that continues their fascination with brutal sounds and theatricality. DeSalvo on MySpace

Technorati Tags: Stretchheads, Stretch Heads, DeSalvo

Maximumrocknroll #297 February 2008

2008-01-22T17:54:00.002-08:00

The other night I went out to see Naked Raygun with a few friends. I would have missed it because I forgot to get a ticket but luckily Timmy Brooks from SF's finest over-30s pub rock act the Young Offenders phoned me up cos he had an extra. The doors were set to open at 7, with Chicago's Shot Baker and legendary 90s Frisco street-punx the Swingin' Utters set to open. No mention of Johnny Peebucks in any of the advertising literature unfortunately. At any rate, we got to the Elbo Room in the fashionable Mission District at about half eight, thinking the gig would be well under way, to be met by a queue that reached almost to the end of the block. Long story short, in the end NR didn't take the stage until about quarter to twelve. On a Tuesday night? I know at least one person who had to leave before they even played and two more left during the set. Doors at 7, three bands, you're expecting to be tucked up in your scratcher and sawing logs by half eleven. Instead I was dragging my carcass up the stairs about 1:30 am and trying not to wake the missus. Did I mention I was up at 7 for work the next day? Christ, I'm not going to maintain my youthful good looks for long at this rate.
Anyway, performance-wise, Naked Raygun were a mixed bag, but I enjoyed their set immensely. As I understand it, singer Jeff Pezzati apparently has some kind of chronic illness and he certainly seemed to be in pain at times, or at least very uncomfortable, and his voice was kind of weak. I got the impression that he was trying really hard to perform in less-than-ideal circumstances, and I was rooting for him the whole set. Naked Raygun were one of my favorite bands at one time, but I never got to see them live - they toured the UK, but never made it to Scotland. For a long time, it was pretty common for American bands to come over and tour England, while completely ignoring Scotland and Ireland. They might make it to one or the other, but rarely both. The excuse was often distance, which I used to think was fair enough. However, now I live in the US and I know that bands routinely drive ten hours to get to a gig. Typically, the longest drive a band might have to make in the UK is about four hours. Worst-case scenario would be driving from London to Glasgow, about six hours. I think the real reason is that the English tour promoters didn't think their bands would make much money in Scotland. Still, we were always grateful for the bands that did come, despite the lack of huge guarantees.
Back to the Naked Raygun show. It was a surprisingly social affair, which made for a nice change. I'm picky about the gigs I go to these days and usually if I go, I decide on the night and shoot out the door. Turn up by myself, maybe chat to a few folk, leave right after the band plays. This time, I actually planned to go with people in advance. At the gig, we met up with more people, including out-of-town visitors and MRR coordinators-du-jour. In between sets we nipped out to a quieter pub down the street for a swifty and I attempted to enlist a new columnist to our roster. Hopefully it will pan out. He or she will have probably forgotten all about it by the next morning.
Swingin' Utters played and all their old fans had come out of the woodwork (with the exception of one Mr. Bruce Roehrs, conspicuous by his absence). Every coiffed Fonzie with a swallow on his neck (tails as long as you like) for miles around had got suited up and cruised down to Valencia for the occasion. After they finished, there was a skunx exodus. Post- shift change the crowd looked very different: Naked Raygun's fans were mostly clean-cut late 30s software engineers. Some tech dudes with ponytails came on stage, set up their gear, and tuned up, so we all moved towards the front, thinking it was about to start. Half an hour later (seriously) the band actually came on. They didn't display much energy on stage (I don't think they ever really did) and the sound wasn't the greatest, but from the first 'whoa-oh' the crowd were singing along and the room was buzzing. They played a lot of their hits but the highlight for me was the encore of 'Rat Patrol', even though I had to help break up a bit of a handbag fight during it. As mentioned earlier, the show went on a bit late for a school night but I'm glad I went and I'm glad I stayed for the whole thing.
***
Naked Raygun were known to play Stiff Little Fingers' 'Alternative Ulster' as part of their live set. They didn't play it the other night, but as coincidence would have it, young Brooksy (mentioned above) happened to furnish me with a much-anticipated DVD copy of the Irish TV documentary 'Shellshock Rock', which features SLF performing said tune. I'd been hearing about this doc for years, but had never managed to lay my hands on a copy. I finally got to see it and it's been worth the wait. Not as polished as I would have expected from something that was actually on TV, it's actually pretty random. There's footage of some of Ulster's finest acts, including Rudi, The Outcasts, Protex, and of course The Undertones, as well as interviews with some interesting Belfast characters. They touch on the unique situation of how punk rock in Northern Ireland managed to bridge the sectarian divide, which definitely seems to have added a different edge to the proceedings there. It obviously meant a lot to these kids to have a place to go where the only thing that mattered was their shared music taste, not where you were from or how you pronounced the letter 'H'. I don't think this film is readily available for sale but I'm sure if you do a bit of digging on t'internet you can track it down. If you're a fan of melodic Northern Irish powerpop/punk rock it's a must see.

Technorati Tags: Naked Raygun, Shellshock Rock, belfast punks

Maximumrocknroll #296 January 2008 Lance Hahn RIP

2008-01-22T17:54:00.001-08:00

Back in the early 90s I played guitar in a band in Glasgow. We wrote some songs and played some gigs and did some demos, and as is the way these things happen we got around to recording and self-releasing an LP. We'd been writing and working on our songs over the course of about two years. Besides our regular weekly practices, the bassist Angus and I met up several times a week just to play our parts together, over and over. Finally it came time to record the album. We booked two consecutive weekends at a new studio that some friends of ours had just opened. Our friend Richie (local hero and drummer in Dawson, the Stretch Heads, Fenn, and now DeSalvo) was at the mixing desk. We worked long into the night, recording and mixing fourteen songs with minimal overdubbing. Listening back to it now it's not the greatest album in the world but I think we were pretty proud of it at the time. An artist friend, Tim Goldie, designed the cover art, and we had the record cut at Porky's in London.
When we got the records back I don't think we could quite believe we'd made an album (I also don't think Angus could quite believe he'd got himself into so much debt, either). Naturally, we send copies to MRR for review. Around the time I thought the issue with the review would come out, I would go down to Tower Records (the only place in Glasgow still stocking Maximumrocknroll regularly at the time, I don't think anywhere does now) to see if it had come in yet.
After a couple of weeks of checking there was finally a new issue on the rack. I flicked furiously to the review section, scanning for our band name... nope. Not in this issue. I waited another agonizing month until it was time to start obsessively checking the newsstands again. At last, the new issue arrived, and there it was: our review. Surely this masterpiece we'd created would take MRR by storm, earning us rave reviews and coveted top-ten placings, skyrocketing us to the stardom we so obviously deserved? I skimmed the review: "sorta like FUEL, but sped up to hardcore and without the melody... "; "like straight edge kids grown up and gone to art school..." The reviewer didn't say he hated the record, but it didn't sound like he liked it, either. Who was this cloth-eared critic, who obviously had no taste and probably hated music, or at least didn't understand it? At the end of the review, those telltale initials: (LH)
***
Later when I moved to San Francisco and knew Lance personally I gave him shit about the review. Of course, he didn't remember it, but he did remember a time around MRR where the culture was such that there was almost a competition between reviewers to see who could write the meanest reviews. In that context I suppose Glue got off lightly. Lance's review certainly wasn't the worst one we ever received. Coincidentally, he also later introduced me to his roommate Jim, a member of Fuel with whom I ended up trying to start a band. We never really got it going but whenever I would go round to their apartment Lance would be in his room with the door closed, playing guitar. I remember hearing him play along to Queen and being impressed. For a guy in a punk band, he could actually play guitar.
***
Despite Lance's long-term health problems, the news that he had fallen into a coma and subsequently passed away seemed to take everyone by surprise. You just felt like he'd always be around, you know? There'd always be another J Church split 7" coming down the line, or another article about some long forgotten anarcho band. Even though I'd been following his regular email updates about his medical travails, I just figured he'd get better. He was only 40 for crying out loud. I can't help thinking he'd still be here if the American healthcare system wasn't so fucked.
***
Although Lance was obviously poor, had no health insurance, and had to work a shitty video store job to support himself, over the course of his short life he released dozens (hundreds?) of records, performed countless shows all over the world, made friends in every city and country he went to, and had made serious headway on what was shaping up to be a great book. He lived his life the way he wanted to. He was still taking his band out on tour and making records in the midst of his debilitating health problems. It's safe to say he didn't die thinking "I wish I'd worked that 9-to-5 office job instead." It's just criminal that his life was cut so tragically short.
***
The day after Lance died the word went out about a possible gathering of his old friends somewhere in the Mission. In a flurry of emails, message board posts, text messages and phone calls it was finally deduced that yes, the gathering was happening. 9pm at the top of Dolores Park, near where the J Church streetcar passes by. A few old Epicenter and former (and current) MRR workers hung out at a bench, drank a beer or two, and traded Lance stories. It was pretty low key. No one could figure out who instigated the event and no one took responsibility. It was decided that Tim Yohannan probably organized it. After I said goodbye to everyone I walked down the hill to my car and got in. I turned the key and the radio burst into life with a KUSF DJ playing a J Church song.

Technorati Tags: Lance Hahn

Maximumrocknroll #295 December 2007

2008-01-22T17:50:00.000-08:00

Bedtime for Mediocrity

Does punk rock inherently breed mediocrity? Looking at the glut of shit-looking, shit-sounding records that we manage to churn out year on year, I'd have to say it does. Obviously, not all punk records look or sound shit, and there are vast differences in aesthetic tastes. Personally I appreciate rawness in a recording and a certain rough and ready graphic style. But as a whole, I think we have learned to tolerate an unacceptable level of shittiness. Unintelligible flyers. Boring zines. Unimaginative (or simply stolen) record art. Shoddy musicianship. "It's cool, it's punk, right?" When did "punk" become an excuse for doing something half-assed?
There are, of course, often very valid financial reasons for doing things low- (or no-) budget. One of the best things about punk is that you don't need a lot of money or a lot of musical skill to get started, but just because something is cheap doesn't mean it has to look or sound that way. I know you've got a shitty guitar and borrowed amp because it's all you can afford. It costs nothing at all to figure out (or ask someone) how to get a good sound out of what you've got. "Nah dude, it's punk." Turn up two minutes before your band is supposed to play, ask to borrow someone's amp, plug in a crappy Metal Zone pedal, and you're good to go.
This attitude is crippling us. No wonder attendance at punk shows is dwindling. People are reluctant to spend even a nominal fee of $5 because let's face it, the chances are three out of the five bands on any given night are probably going to be mediocre. The preferred venue for punk is now the basement or house party, because while the crappy bands howl and squawk away to their five friends, everyone else can drink their 40s in the backyard or kitchen and talk about single-track bikes or some new trust-fund art-gallery-slash-clothing-store that their friend opened or something.
And that five dollar thing. People complain that $5 is too low these days, what with the price of petrol and everything. I couldn't agree more, but bands are lucky if they can even get that much now. The best they can hope for is that someone at the filthy punkhouse they're playing at has the wherewithal to aggressively hit up the crowd for a "donation for the touring band." People's expectations for punk bands are so low now that bands play not for a guarantee, not for a cut of the door, but in the eager hope that they will please a group of jaded underage drinkers enough that they will spill a few coins from their beer fund into a hat at the end of the night. That's not touring, that's busking.
For other styles of music, people queue up to buy tickets in advance. They get excited about going to shows. They don't toss the bands a couple of crumbs as an afterthought.
I dunno what the answer is. In the long run the good bands seem to do all right and the bad ones either break up or keep plugging away without really going anywhere. Again, they're not really harming anyone but they are diluting the gene pool, know what I mean?
I feel like I get quite curmudgeonly in this column. One could get the impression that I don't like punks or punk rock. Far from it, I just think we should hold ourselves to a higher standard. I judge myself the harshest. I've come to realize that I have accepted mediocrity in my own life for far too long. All my life I felt different, and then punk came along and showed me there was another way. I didn't have to follow the established path. I successfully avoided the pitfalls of a normal life but along the way I defined myself by what I didn't want to be. So I never became a square, so what? Now what? Everything I learned I taught myself. Never went to school, never had a career. I'm approaching middle age with little to show for my years than a woefully inadequate record collection. "What did you do with your life?" "I was a punk". What does that mean? Am I an idiot for wanting it to be something to be proud of, instead of feeling like I'm (we're) selling myself (ourselves) short?
It's confusing when you devote so much of your energy to something that most people get into, pass through, and get out of in the space of a few years, graduating to hipster bar DJ nights. Those punk tattoos used to keep you out of the corporate workplace but now coolhunting ad agencies, design studios. etc fall over themselves to show how edgy they are.
I never picked punk up like a new outfit to try on and throw away when fashion changed. It was already well out of fashion by the time I found it (or rather, it found me). Punk was there when I had nothing else so it's not something I can easily forget about. I don't know what brought on this crisis of confidence. I'm trying to start speaking up for myself. When (non punk) people ask what I do, rather than mumble something about whatever dead-end job is currently paying the bills, I'll say I'm a musician, and a writer. Eagerly, they'll ask about the music or the writing. "What's your band called? I'll look for the records in the shops!" "You're a writer? Where have you been published?" "Ermm, well, the records are all out of print because we only pressed 300 but it might be available either through the post from some distro in the Midwest or maybe on a stall at a twelve-band thrash festival in someone's shed. The writing, well, all fifty copies of the last issue of my zine are sold out but I've still got the originals somewhere so I can photocopy it for you if my mate is still working at Kinko's..."
I'm being negative, I know. On the positive side, I'm extremely lucky that I've even managed to put out records at all, and been in bands that have toured the US and Europe. I guess right now it just doesn't feel like it's adding up to much. I'm not sure what's missing but stick around with me while I try to find out. And above all don't accept mediocrity, from yourself or from those around you.
Technorati Tags: DIY punk

Maximumrocknroll #291 August 2007

2008-01-22T17:48:00.000-08:00

Is this what winning looks like?
We know what it's like to be a small-town punk. The cool kids spat on us. The cops moved us along and poured out our beers. We're not going to forget. We've paid our dues. We've been run out of dive bars by rip-off promoters and greedy owners. We've played to empty clubs and had to call home for gas money to get to the next show. We deserve this opportunity. If we sign to this label, we can get our message out to a wider audience. Man, isn't it totally subversive that our song was used on that car commercial? And anyway, it was for a hybrid. I know our ticket prices are expensive now, but those tour buses don't run on air.
The platitudes come down like a spring rain. This time it'll be different. But time and time again, bands build a following and grow up in the DIY, underground punk community, only to leave when the money starts to come in. All of a sudden, the horrible corporate venues that you wouldn't go to unless you could sneak in for free become the only game in town. "We hate this place, but where else can we play? It's the only place big enough." Warped Tour, media whore, sadly this has become your life. All that crap about getting the message out there, it was all bullshit, wasn't it? Or when does it start? Is there a dollar amount, once you get to a certain point, then you start giving back to the community that spawned you? Or was it all just a ruse, a pose, saying the right things to climb that ladder? Because it just looks like business as usual. You said you were punks, but now you're no different. You play the same rock biz games, play the same high-door-price venues, hide behind the same violent bouncers. You've got a street team spreading the word about your gigs when you used to have street cred.
Punk rock is on MTV and in the shopping malls. Mainstream punk is getting bigger but the infrastructure is shrinking. Why is it that after all this time, there are still only a handful of reliable punk-operated music venues in the world (Gilman Street in Berkeley, The Smell in LA, ABC No Rio in NYC, Mr. Roboto in Pittsburgh, and the 1 in 12 in Bradford, England are the ones that spring to mind)? OK, I know that there are tons of punk-run squat venues throughout Europe but that's a slightly different situation. Either you're big enough to play the huge, corporate, beer-company sponsored venues, or you have to rely on people who are having shows in their living rooms and basements. Don't get me wrong, house shows are almost always more fun than bar shows or other regular venues. But it's hard to build a scene around a venue that could get shut down any minute by angry neighbors or disgruntled roommates. Also, sometimes it's nice to actually be able to hear the vocals.
I guess what I'm getting at is that if we had our shit together, there would be a network of punk rock venues/community centers, one in every medium-to-large size town. Bigger bands would play there and that would subsidize the smaller shows with less of a turnout. The bigger bands would have local bands on the bill, so that those bands could build a following and grow the scene, so that more people would come out of the woodwork and help keep the venue going. I realize it's a pipe dream - just about all the venues I mentioned earlier exist by the skin of their teeth. The kids are mostly just users who take a lot of stuff for granted, and even most of the people who do want to get involved and do more end up getting burned out, either by in-fighting and status-jockeying, or by the constant uphill struggle to keep things going in the face of apathy.
***
I got to thinking about this stuff when a local art space/venue, Balazo Gallery, was shut down by the city for permit issues. It was one of the few places in San Francisco that was available to rent for all-ages shows. I'd had a show booked there for months (in fact, the final show for my band, Giant Haystacks. I've never mentioned the band in my column before, but since we've broken up, I suppose it's OK), and when they had to close down I had to find a new venue, for a Friday night, at extremely short notice. In the end we split the show between two smaller places: an early show at a bar on Mission Street called The Knockout, and a later, all-ages show in the basement of Thrillhouse Records across the street. Both venues came through in a pinch, although unfortunately many unlucky people got turned away from the second show. I couldn't help daydreaming that if SF had a decent, reliable all-ages venue, we'd never have had the problem in the first place.
***
In the Mailbox: Along with my long-awaited copy of the Down & Outs "Minneapolis" EP on Rat Patrol Records (Reviewed in this mag by Andy Darling a few months ago), I received a four-track EP compiling some of the output of Randy 'Biscuit' Turner, to benefit the Health Alliance for Austin Musicians. The record has two Big Boys songs performed by the Slurpees/Texas Biscuit Bombs, as well as a Cargo Cult tune and a live version of "Identity Crisis" performed by the Big Boys in 1981. The cool little package is rounded out by some of Biscuit's artwork. Not sure how many were pressed, but check www.ratpatrolrecords.com for details. While you're online, take a look at www.austinmusicianshealth.com.
My fairy godmother was really looking out for me, because she also saw fit to guide a copy of the Fucked Up/Hard Skin split 7" my way. On the Hard Skin side, genius Johnny Takeaway gets to do his best Jonesy impression on a note-perfect cover of the Professionals' 1-2-3. Someone from Fucked Up did a bit of digging and unearthed a candid snap of Fat Bob with a Neil-from-the-Young-Ones barnet on some hippie peace march. Can't tell when it was taken but it looks to be from back in the sixties or something. The Fucked Up song, "Toronto FC", is another work of genius on their part. Don't know if I'm picking up the theme but it makes me think of those American skinheads who bend over backwards to be as authentically close to their imaginary ideas of working class British life as possible - right down to forming little hooligan gangs and following their favorite Major League Sawkir teams. It's quite cute really.

Technorati Tags: Hard Skin, fucked up

Maximumrocknroll #288 May 2007

2007-05-20T11:59:00.001-07:00

Claws.
There's a cat living in my house just now. She's not allowed out, she's an indoor cat. She's been de-clawed, so even if she did go out she doesn't have the tools to defend herself. She is always trying to make a break for it though. You have to be careful not to leave the door open too long when you're coming or going. It's a terrible shame. She sits at the window and looks at the exciting world outside. Birds, squirrels, dogs, other cats. It's almost cruel to show her the freedom she's missing. She retains some of her natural instincts though. She paws at the furniture¬–in her imagination I'm sure she's shredding it with phantom claws. At night she goes on the prowl, padding from room to room on the trail of imaginary prey.
I watch her and I feel a common bond. We're all a little like de-clawed cats. We sense there is something better out there, but at some point along the line someone closed the door on us and took away our ability to defend ourselves. Or maybe we willingly gave it up in exchange for the comforts of domesticity.
Heroes.
From an early age I wanted to be a cartoonist. I read the comics in the paper every day, and used to check out collections of cartoons from the library. I used to draw all the time, copying popular characters and trying to come up with my own. I managed to get a couple of cartoons in school newspapers and such but my own efforts were always unoriginal and derivative. Still, I could adequately recreate all the greats and was always getting requests for Popeye, Snoopy, etc. As a youngster, the Peanuts cartoons were far and away my favorite. I would get completely swept up in their world, devouring collection after collection of Charlie Brown strips. Naturally, I related to Charlie Brown: the morose, awkward, and unpopular, but reliable, down-to-earth, nice-guy hero of the comics. The funny thing is, I think everyone relates to Charlie Brown in some way. Isn't that the key to the strip's massive and enduring popularity?
The point of all this is to somehow illustrate what a hero Charles M. Schulz was to the youthful McNaughton. As time went by and I got older other interests took over. As you can probably tell, I never became a cartoonist. But I remained a fan of Peanuts all along. One time after I had moved to California, I read in the paper that he actually lived just an hour or two North of here. The article talked about the ice rink he built so that the kids in his adopted hometown of Santa Rosa would have the opportunity to enjoy skating and hockey as much as he had as a boy in Minnesota. Apparently he often ate breakfast in the cafe attached to the ice rink. I always told myself that one of these days I was going to go up there and meet my childhood hero face to face. I'd read that he was a fairly private person, but all I wanted to do was shake his hand and thank him for the years of pleasure.
Of course, you've probably guessed where this was going. I never did get around to going up to Santa Rosa and trying to meet the great man, and in February 2000, he passed away. I was too late.
Today I finally did make that trip, to visit the Schulz Museum that was built to celebrate his life and work. There were some great original cartoons on display, as well as Peanuts-inspired works from many other famous artists. One of the highlights for me was the recreation of his studio. The room had his desks laid out with work on them, as if he'd just stepped out moments before. The shelves are lined with what I imagine were his books. On one shelf sits a nice turntable with a Brahms LP on it, ready to play (or just finished). I couldn't help but check out the small selection from Sparky's record collection that sat next to the turntable. Among the jazz and classical sat two Buck Owens LPs and the Best Of ABBA. I couldn't picture Charles Schulz sitting there sketching away to the strains of "Knowing me, knowing you", but it probably happened.
Demons.
I never thought I'd see the day. But when Empress Carolyn informed me that the one and only Roky Erickson was going to be performing at this year's Noise Pop festival in San Francisco, I knew I had to secure a ticket as soon as they went on sale. In the 12 years I've lived in the Bay Area, I think this is the first time I've actually attended a Noise Pop event. It's just never appealed to me - usually the headliners are big time indie rock acts that I don't care about. If, by some bizarre instance of mate-rock nepotism actually coinciding with decent musical taste and a band I like makes it into the lineup, I would generally prefer to see them the next time they play, when the ticket price isn't $25 and the venue isn't full to bursting with 'industry' bottom-feeder laminate monkeys.
Anyway, I digress... Roky Erickson. I was not cool enough to be rocking out to the 13th Floor Elevators in my nappies. I first heard Roky after my mate Angus (as mentioned a few columns ago) heard me listening to the Minutemen's cover of "Bermuda" (as recorded over the telephone) and told me what it was. I dispatched myself to his record collection forthwith and taped all the Roky records he had. I've been a fan ever since, but after reading up on a bit of Roky's bizarre history, I'd long given up on the possibility of ever seeing him live. Even after I started hearing about his sporadic performances in his hometown of Austin, it seemed unlikely that he'd get a full-time band together again and go out on tour. Well, he did, and am I glad. Roky Erickson brought the house down at San Francisco's Great American Music Hall the other night, and while the set list wasn't my dream collection of hits from his back catalogue, I was in no way disappointed. When he and the band kicked in to "Starry Eyes", the smile on my face was splitting me in half. He didn't say much up there; he looked a little bewildered by the adulation at times, but he managed some decent guitar shredding and his singular voice was in strong, if not perfect, form.
I saw many familiar faces in the audience that night, as well as many more I'd never seen before, but by the end of the show they all shared the same elated expression. It almost felt like we'd all witnessed a miracle. In a way maybe we had. From the sounds of things, Roky Erickson has all but recovered from decades of mental illness, and is back to share his music with us for good. Let's hope.
***
"Bermuda/The Interpreter" singles and signed, original Peanuts strips to: PO Box 22971, Oakland, CA 94609. Email me at allan@dropout.cc. Columns are archived on my blog at www.dropout.cc (now RSS-enabled!).
(For more background on the strange tale of Roky Erickson you can visit some of the many excellent websites that exist, or you can wait for the release of the new documentary on his life, "You're Gonna Miss Me.")
For the record, I am against de-clawing cats. But at least she won't kill any songbirds...

Maximumrocknroll #287 April 2007

2007-05-20T11:56:00.000-07:00

My Rules.
Flip-flops should not be worn unless you're at the beach or pool. Girls have a bit more leeway but not much. I don't have too many rules but that's one of them. I know that in warmer climes even the punks wear flip-flops. In New Mexico I've seen punk bands rock living room concerts in footwear that is ordinarily only appropriate for sand-bound applications. I'm not a haberdasher or tailor but some things just have to be said. Enough with the flip-flops. Israeli combat boots, Goodwill penny-loafers, topsiders, sweatshop-free Adbusters gutties, box fresh ltd. ed. kicks etc, I don't care. Just put some proper shoes on. And no sweatpants either. OK the more I think about this the more rules I apparently have. I suppose it's about being casual. Casual=hippy and not in a good way. I'm not talking about football casuals, obviously they are far from being hippies. Not a lifestyle I'd recommend emulating either.
I realize I'm talking about fashion here and punks are supposed to be anti-fashion. Of course, that's total bullshit and everyone knows punks are as into fashion as anyone else, if not more so. I don't think it's a bad thing at all. Style is hugely important. Would the Ramones have been as iconic without the leather jackets? Would Discharge have been as enduring without the charged hair and bullet belts? The Misfits without the devil lock? Even the supposed 'non-style' of the flannel shirt around the waist suburban skatepunk hardcore vanguard became a fashion pretty quickly.
I suppose I equate loose, casual clothing with loose, casual thinking. As Joe Strummer allegedly had it, "like trousers, like brain" although you could read that to imply that narrow trousers equals a narrow mind, which is the opposite of what he was getting at I'd guess.
To me, looking like you think about what you are wearing demonstrates that you actually think about things. I don't mean that you scour the pages of fashion magazines looking for the latest craze, but the way you dress says something about you whether you like it or not.
Years ago my mate Colin suggested I dye my hair bright red. He had some leftover dye. At the time I thought of myself as a serious political activist punk rocker and wouldn't consider anything so frivolous. He called me out on this. "Of course, you can't be constantly thinking of the problems of the oppressed peoples of the world and have dyed hair" or words to that effect. He was right, I took myself way too seriously. Since then my hair has been a few different colors but now it's back to its normal mousy brown with bits of grey. I'm 36 now and I'm through with dying my hair.
What the fuck is a 36-year-old man doing writing in a punk fanzine about clothes? I know it's ridiculous but it is something I think about. I've been through some embarrassing stages. Someone sent me a photo recently of me from about fifteen years ago with a short Travis Bickle mohican and baggy chinos. What a combination. Baggy trousers will be to nineties punks what flares are to anyone who grew up in the seventies. I wish I'd had the foresight or self-possession to forego that fashion disaster but we all make mistakes. Unfortunately both flares and baggy jeans are still with us. "Like trousers like brain," remember it. Live by it.
The Correct Use Of Soap is the title of an album by Magazine, the band started by Buzzcocks founder member Howard Devoto when he left the band after recording the Spiral Scratch EP. It is also the name of an instructional pamphlet that may or may not exist, but which ought to be handed out with the membership cards at Gilman and maybe slipped into mailers with crusty distro orders. You're not too busy thinking about the world's problems to take an occasional bath or shower. Or to shave, while we're at it.
What's with the beards? I've been boycotting Gillette since before I was old enough to shave. Got some leaflet about them testing on animals off some crusty at a gig once and never looked back. All my post-pubescent life I've used the crappy shop brand of razors and my poor beautiful mug has suffered as a result. As if whatever faceless Taiwanese manufacturer Superdrug gets their blades from doesn't test on animals anyway! I tried tracking down the PETA-approved razor blades and while they might be okay for hippies who hack their beards off once a year to visit mummy and daddy and ask for another loan they don't stand up to the rigorous frequent shavings of the manly McNaughton beard. On a recent trip to Los Angeles I forgot my shaving kit and was forced to purchase the predominant brand for once. The scales fell from my eyes! It was a revelation. Gillette really IS the best a man can get. The smoothest, most comfortable shave I've experienced. Over twenty years of inferior shaving products. Well I've learned my lesson.
I've just re-read this column and it's ridiculous. All 20 readers are now nodding their heads in unison, in agreement with the previous statement. However, it's deadline day and I've been late a few times lately. I'm determined to get this one in under the wire. I know it seems frivolous but what we wear is part of who we are, it's part of our culture and it's something we have in common, whether we're serious political punks or crusties or bike punks or garage punks or bandana thrash skate punks or ageing bmx riders with a knack for tracking down discount mod clothes or whoever. Maybe I'll write about something serious next month. Or maybe I'll dye my hair and write about that, who knows?
***
If you've got any green size M Paul Weller limited edition Fred Perry shirts you don't want you can send them to PO Box 22971, Oakland, CA 94609. For fashion advice or shaving tips email allan@dropout.cc or check www.dropout.cc. I know what's what. Or you could make it easy on yourself and just go to www.maximumrocknroll.com and click on 'merch' to buy a Maximumrocknroll t-shirt. P.S. This column goes out to MRR's consistently most stylish shitworker, Sean Dougan, with Shane White a close runner up.

Maximumrocknroll #286 March 2007

2007-05-20T11:55:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it was seventeen years ago now but it was. I'd gone to King Tut's Wah Wah Hut in Glasgow to see Snuff, who were probably the best band around at the time, if not in the world, then certainly in the UK. Their first EP, with all the coppers on the sea front, had been getting constant play at home since I'd heard them on John Peel and picked it up. The support band for the night had a familiar name but I'd never heard them before. Leatherface they were called. Seemed like a pretty stupid name and a guy I knew told me they weren't that good. Still, I decided to check them out. One guy had a dodgy spiky-topped mullet and the drummer looked like a bit of a bruiser. Visually not very arresting, but when the first guitar kicked in it was instantly familiar. Then it registered that the mullet guitarist was out of HDQ, who I really liked. This was something else again though. I was instantly swept up in the power and melody of Leatherface, and was blown away by the gruff intensity of Frankie Stubbs' voice. Snuff were also great that night, but it was the surprise discovery of a new favorite band that marks the night as special in my memory.
I'd borrowed a clunky VHS video camera from college to shoot Snuff that night, and I managed to get a few Leatherface songs as well. At some point I think I lent the tape (the original!) to a guy from Preston called Frosty and I've never seen it since. There's one other copy that my friend Sandy's got somewhere. After the gig Sandy and I interviewed Snuff (with the members of Leatherface present) for the second issue of our zine that never actually appeared. How many zines never make it past issue one? That first issue was like a cry for help from a small town–there were about four punks in our village so we started a zine, doing through-the-mail interviews with bands we liked (Doom, Cowboy Killers, and Stretch Heads) and a star-struck in-person interview with Joe Lally from Fugazi (he was star-struck by the way, not us). Once we'd put the zine together (nicking layout ideas liberally from the Skate Muties, who had nicked their ideas from Sic Teen) and photocopied it at our mate's mum's office after hours, we brought it to gigs in Glasgow to sell. In hindsight the zine was crap, but through trying to sell it we met a few other zinesters and people in bands–in other words, it had the desired effect of putting us in touch with the wider punk scene around us. Once we had established those acquaintances and friendships, the zine had lost its raison d'etre. We did a bunch of interviews for #2, including DOA, UK Subs, and Snuff, but we were too busy going to gigs, socializing with our newfound punk scene friends, and communicating with other punks around the world via flyer-stuffed re-used envelopes and glued stamps.
I don't really know where I'm going with this. I suppose I'm just writing this down so I don't forget it, so we don't forget. It's pretty unlikely these days that I'll randomly see a band and they'll become a lifelong favorite. Not because there aren't great bands playing today, but that my tastes are pretty developed by this point, and also because I tend to find out about bands long before there's any chance to see them live. Some of us still find out about bands via the radio and through mags like MRR and The Big Takeover, but I think we're increasingly in the minority. I confess I hear a lot of bands for the first time now via the Internet, and it's usually less than a few clicks, if that, from reading a mention of a band on someone's blog or on a message board to listening to their music on their MySpace page. Convenience-wise, this is just unbelievable, but I really hope that one day I'll be pleasantly surprised again at some random show.
Similarly, with all these online communities and such, will isolated kids in small towns feel the need to start zines to reach out to the world at large? Should they? Should I care? I dunno, there's just something endearing and romantic about it. It would be a shame to see that sort of thing disappear for good.
***
Writing this stuff got me nostalgic so I went on YouTube to look for footage of Snuff and Leatherface. It's amazing how that site just sucks you in. It's a fucking goldmine. I never even knew that Leatherface had made a video, yet here they are, messing about in a scrapyard to the strains of their track 'Peasant In Paradise'. Quaint and wonderful.
If you live in an isolated small town and do a zine, good for you, but don't send it to me.

Top Ten Punk Rock Records of 2006

2007-02-21T15:42:00.000-08:00

It might seem a bit late but the issue of MRR with the year-end top tens has hit the newsstands. Here are mine, with the non-print benefits of hyperlinks. To read what I actually wrote about each record, as well as to learn the top records of 2006 for many other MRR contributors, you'll have to actually buy the magazine, which you can do here.

FUCKED UP - Hidden World 2XLP (Jade Tree/Deranged)
THIS IS MY FIST - A History Of Rats LP (No Idea)
CRIMINAL DAMAGE - s/t LP (Feral Ward)
NIGHTINGALES - Out Of True CD (Iron Man)
LOVE SONGS - Behind Enemy Lines In G# Major CD (625/Wajlemac)
TRANZMITORS - Bigger Houses, Broken Homes 7" (Deranged)
THE VATICANS - Little Jimmy/Digital World 7" (Pure Filth)
HARD SKIN - We Are The Wankers 7" (Rudeness)
LOSER LIFE - Things Will Never Change 7" (Bakersfield)
DECONDITIONED - Big Act/Compartment K3 (Beginning Era)

Technorati Tags: fucked up, this is my fist, criminal damage, the nightingales, love songs, tranzmitors, the vaticans, hard skin, loser life, deconditioned

Disillusioned Youth

2007-02-19T18:45:00.000-08:00

This band have been around for a while (since the 80s I think) but for some reason, apart from a demo I first heard in the early 90s, they've never had any vinyl. They seem to be happy enough with that and are content to just poke fun at the punk scene while writing some of the funniest hardcore lyrics ever. They have a few songs on a MySpace page now.
I recommend 'Bad Feedback', a mid-paced later-BLACK FLAG rager. Check out the lyrics:

BAD FEEDBACK
Took you for your money, now you're gonna cry
Postman never came, I wonder why
I never sent the records, but I got your check
Cashed it when I got it, I got fuckin' wrecked

Bad Feedback
See if I give a fuck
Bad Feedback
You're shit out of luck
Bad Feedback
I just don't care
Bad Feedback (x2)

I don't know what happened, they got lost in the mail
Send me some more money, scam never fails
I'm not your paypal ,so don't bid on my past
Stick to what you know, Chemical People and Blast

{Monday! Tuesday! etc, everyday!}

Poseur wants to bid, I'll take the money
You say it's criminal? I say it's funny
I'll do it again and I'll do it some more
Someone should've told you, you can't bid on hardcore!

Maximumrocknroll #285 February 2007

2007-02-19T18:42:00.000-08:00

Killer.
Paul and Jason shared a flat on South Van Ness. It was an old Victorian and in a bit of a state but the landlord was never about so they could do what they liked. They'd painted the walls some decent colors and there was loads of Jason's art lying about so it looked OK. They worked at a yuppie health food store so money was pretty tight. They always seemed to know someone who was DJing somewhere but hanging out in bars required buying drinks. They spent a lot of time on the couch, drinking 40s of malt liquor, watching afternoon TV meant for old people and stay-at-home mums. Columbo was their favorite programme.
There was this one guy they'd always see around the Mission. Tall and skinny but with these dark, serious eyes. He frequented the same thrift stores. Everyone was looking for the same shit. Velvet paintings, kitsch ashtrays, 70s McDonalds glasses. This guy was always hunched over the stacks of used vinyl. What was he looking for? Everyone knew there was nothing good in those stacks. If someone had something good to sell they went over to Berkeley and sold it at Amoeba. (This was before they opened up the massive Amoeba in an old bowling alley on Haight Street). The other thing about him was he looked exactly like the murderer on an episode of Columbo that seemed to come around on TV every other month or so. It got to the point where Paul and Jason were calling him 'Killer' to just about everyone except the man himself. "Saw Killer at the corner store today, he was buying Anchor Steam. Must have dough." It got so that just about every white, gay hipster in the Mission knew him as Killer, although he was none the wiser.
Well back then the neighborhood was like a tiny desert island. People hardly ever left. The beach? That was miles away, the streetcar took like an hour, are you crazy? Especially for artists and musicians, and the people who dressed like artists and musicians. Rent was still cheap and you could work in a pizza place and hang around the rest of the time trying to look like an artist or a musician. No one remembered how it happened but one night Jason went home from the Uptown with Killer and soon after that they began dating. Eventually the rest of us got to know him too and he turned out to be not that scary. The name Killer became ironic as it couldn't be further from the truth. I forget what his real name was actually.
One night everyone went back to Killer's apartment on 18th Street after the bars closed and he played records 'til 4am. We found out what he'd been looking for all this time in the thrift stores - absolutely anything. He had wall after wall stacked with albums, the kind of stuff you find for 25 cents in any thrift store in America. You know, some of it was good and some of it was shit but it was all there. Genesis "Invisible Touch" - check. Herb Alpert and the Tijuana Brass - check. Michael Jackson "Bad" - Check. Plus the obligatory marching band, gospel, and classical Christmas themed compilations. He wasn't a discerning record collector, like I was used to, he just collected anything, so long as it was cheap and he couldn't recall having it already. Fair play to him. Statistically, there had to be something amazing in those stacks, but I wasn’t going to spend hours inhaling dust-borne germs trying to find it.
Not long after that people started drifting away. Paul moved back to Boston and Jason moved to New York. Last I heard he was making music videos. I still see Killer around from time to time. Word must have got to him about the nickname because now he has it tattooed on the back of his neck.

Technorati Tags: mission district, record collecting

Maximumrocknroll #284 January 2006

2007-02-19T18:40:00.000-08:00

How old is old?

The other day someone asked myself and a few other (over 30) friends what it felt like to be the older person at shows. He was thinking about the shows he used to go to when he was 16 and there would always be a couple of weird older guys there (probably in their 30s, which must have seemed ancient at the time). He remarked that he thought to himself back then, "I don't want to still be doing this at their age."
I don't want to turn this into another rant about "the kids"... it's true that I have a hard time relating to teenagers these days, and that's only right. If I'm old enough to be your father, I shouldn't be able to relate to you. It's like those 'cool' parents that try to be their kids' best friends - the kid doesn't need another friend, he needs a parent. However, there are plenty of people in their 20s that I can relate to on a number of levels. Working at MRR brings me into contact with plenty of cool folk, both younger and older, that are an inspiration. So yeah, I often feel a bit out of place at a house show with a bunch of underage punks, or at Gilman. The alternatives for people my age seem to be to either stop going to shows altogether, to only go to reunion concerts of old bands, or to only go to bar shows, where everyone will be over-21 and you can drink overpriced beer or cans of Pabst Blue Ribbon. And to be honest, those over-21 shows are starting to be a lot more attractive. Some of my absolute favorite shows of 2006 (Fucked Up and Hard Skin) were at the Hemlock Tavern, a cool bar/venue in the Tenderloin. I'm not ready to give up on the DIY all-ages shows yet though, especially because I believe in principle that all shows should be all-ages. In practice though, either can be fun.
When our first band Teenagers From Mars broke up because the bassist and drummer didn't want to ever play shows, Sandy and I put an advert up in Rat Records in Glasgow looking for new people to start a band with. The only person to respond was this guy Angus. He was pushing 30, about ten years older than us, and the first cool older person we'd ever met. He had as much energy as anyone else we knew. He was an amazing bass player, he loved skateboarding, and he was one of the few people we knew with a full-time job (which he put to good use, eventually using his savings to put out our records). He also had a large record collection, through which I was exposed to loads of great stuff I am still into to this day. He dedicated himself to booking tours, putting on gigs in Glasgow, having bands stay at his house, etc. Eventually, he even bought a van and used it to drive other bands around on tour. Angus is a father now and I don't think he's in a band any more, but I think he can still be spotted occasionally at the new skatepark in Kelvingrove Park. He was the first person to demonstrate to me that there was an alternative to conforming to expectations as one gets older. I know he felt frustrated that many of his friends abandoned their youthful passions once they hit their thirties. I can certainly relate. I think he also felt a certain amount of frustration that we (the younger kids) were squandering our time and energy, not realizing how finite it was.
In the years since then I've encountered countless other older people who have been an inspiration, many of whom still inspire. Tons of people from MRR's 'Punks Over 30' issue (from 1992!) are still active, maybe not in punk music, but in some kind of creative pursuit. So let's hear it for the OAPs. If Mike Watt, Nomeansno, The Stooges, The Ex, Mission Of Burma, Bruce Roehrs, Al Quint, etc are still going strong, I've got a few good years in me yet. I also draw inspiration from the many people close to my own age who show no signs of slowing down. This doesn't necessarily only mean those who are 'lifers' in the punk scene, but also people who have grown up as punks and are taking the lessons of independence into other realms, whether it's art, journalism, education, whatever... just not turning their backs on their options. Cheers!

Technorati Tags: aging punks

Maximumrocknroll #283 December 2006

2007-02-19T18:39:00.000-08:00

Common Sense Ain't That Common

Thursday night, 11:30, somewhere on the edge of West Oakland. Someone took it upon himself to push a drum kit out into the middle of the intersection on a trolley. He began to play, to the amusement of the punks gathered in front of a nearby house, where a show was taking place. Like most punk shows, the excitement all took place outside. Not all the punks were into it, some people asked him to stop and were laughed off. Eventually a woman appeared and berated the drummer for waking up half the neighborhood on a work night. "You wouldn't try that in a white part of town!" What the fuck was he thinking? The answer: he wasn't. Maybe he was rushing on the excitement, the freedom that comes from being away from home for the first time, living in a punk house in "the ghetto", being a fucking punk, man, and fuck the rules. Fuck the squares that have to get up for work in the morning. They need to hear these drums, need to be woken up from their materialist stupor! Of course, I'm projecting. He was probably just drunk on Old English and thought it would be funny.
It's glamorous, in a way, to emphasize the shitty nature of your surroundings. A badge of honor, to proclaim that you live in a crime-ridden, violence-prone part of town. I understand the allure of cheap rent, tons of space, a place to have shows. Hell, punks and artists and musicians (and people who just like to dress like punks and artists and musicians) need places to live too. At least make friends with your neighbors, be respectful of them, keep the noise to a minimum on work nights. What is merely slumming it for you is matter of fact for them. Do I sound like your Grandpa talking? It seems like it should be common sense.
By now, for all intents and purposes, the gentrification debate is done and dusted. Everyone knows the cycle: the stormtrooper brigade of low-income artists, musicians, students, etc move into an historically working-class, immigrant, or poor community for the cheap housing and gritty, ghetto-chic appeal, then create a culture there that makes the area attractive to more affluent middle-class types, who then move in, buy up property, and push out both the original inhabitants and the very people who created the culture that made the place attractive to them in the first place. I've seen it happen (or rather, been part of it) in the West End of Glasgow (resulting in the cycle starting all over again on the South Side) and the Mission in San Francisco, but punks and artist types have set up camp in Oakland for years without much in the way of gentrification taking hold. Recently, though, the Oakland art scene (predominantly, but not exclusively, that created by twenty-something white hipsters) along with the city's vibrant culture of underground music venues has started to garner some mainstream attention. Not to mention, the thousands of high-rise 'loft apartments' being built all over the place. To be honest, it would be great to see some positive economic development coming to Oakland, but it looks like it's going to be more of the same: gated communities separating the haves and the have-nots, and the only opportunities for most of the original inhabitants will be minimum-wage service industry jobs catering to the newcomers. You can't fight progress.
***
I was moved by fellow resident alien Timmy Brooks' review a couple of issues back (along with gutter-minded long-time shitworker Shane White's enthusiastic recommendations) to pick up 'Cockney Reject - My Life of Music, Football, and Blood' by Jeff Turner (better known to fans as Stinky). This won't be a proper review as that would be redundant after Tim's comprehensive appraisal, but I have to say I did find it a rollicking good read. Could hardly put it down as they say. One thing that I thought was particularly funny was that through all the stories of getting thrown out of studios for stealing, getting in fights, brushes with the law, etc, it's always someone else's fault! Stinky Turner must be the unluckiest bloke in the world; he's always in the wrong place at the wrong time with the wrong guy. Also, while it was entertaining to hear about some of the more spectacular rucks the Rejects and their entourage got involved in, a lot of the violence made me pretty uncomfortable. Basically, if you so much as looked at Stinky or his brother, guitarist Mick Geggus, the wrong way, you were on to a kicking. Turner puts this down to some mythical East End 'code', but I've known people all my life who were on a similar hair trigger. The kind of people it's hard to be around because you know they could snap any minute and you'll have to deal with the repercussions of their actions. It's a quandary – to enjoy the Cockney Rejects' music, do you have to accept the glorification of a violent, football hooligan lifestyle?
***
Recently, the West Coast was graced by a tour by those redheaded (sorry, bald-headed) stepchildren of the Medway sound, the Armitage Shanks. I managed to catch them in the salubrious, genteel surroundings of John Patrick's, a cinderblock haven of cheap beer sandwiched between car dealerships on the Oakland side of Alameda Island that was previously the location of Maggotfest 2004, when the rumblings of the music shook live maggots (the remnants of years of BBQ leftovers tossed onto the roof) down from the ceiling and into unsuspecting revelers' hair and pints. Luckily there were no maggots this time, only a rousing evening's entertainment, whereby two actual Shanks (ably backed by San Jose's The Runs) plodded through an hours worth of original material and classic covers, including songs by The 101ers, Television Personalities, The Mekons, and more. In fact, I think the Cockney Rejects were one of the few bands left out. After the show I picked up the band's cracking new four-song 7" on Cock Energy, which includes a tasty parody of my new best mate's band, The Fall. Get it at www.cockenergy.com.
***
(A Google search attributes the title phrase to the folksy Oklahoman cowboy wisdom of Will Rogers.)

Technorati Tags: gentrification, cockney rejects, armitage shanks

Maximumrocknroll #282 November 2006

2007-02-19T18:33:00.000-08:00

Where are the ideas?
I was indulging in my latest hobby, browsing the YouTube website, when I came across a trailer for Made In Sheffield - The Birth Of Electronic Pop. This film deals with the influential music scene that blossomed in the northern English steel town immediately following the explosion of punk rock. For the most part, the punks of Sheffield took the influences of punk and applied them in unorthodox ways, forming synth-pop bands like The Human League and Heaven 17 or avant-garde groups like Cabaret Voltaire and DAF. It's a side of post-punk that I'd never paid too much attention to – I hated those new wave bands when they appeared on Top Of The Pops. If you'd told me they had come out of the punk scene I'd never have believed it. Later on I was vaguely aware that those bands had put out their earliest records on punk labels etc but it was only when I read Simon Reynolds' book Rip It Up And Start Again - Postpunk 1978-1984 that I became fully aware of those bands and their members' connection to punk. Of course, like a lot of punks, post-punks, and new-wavers, they saw the opening of the floodgates of independently released music as simply a new way to get on the first rung of the ladder of success. The Sheffield contingent also believed, with their synths, drum machines, and lack of guitars, that they were destroying rock'n'roll. For those who actually liked rock'n'roll, this didn't go over very well.
At any rate, the trailer excited me enough to send off for the documentary. It came out last year and was produced and directed by Eve Wood, a Dutch immigrant to Sheffield. She uses archive footage along with current interviews with scene participants and band members as well as journalists and notably, with veteran BBC broadcaster John Peel (RIP), who gave most of the bands their first exposure.
As in provincial towns the length and breadth of the UK, Sheffield saw its share of bands starting up after the infamous Sex Pistols vs. Bill Grundy incident on television. It seems that because of some unexplained experimental, artsy strain that was running through the outsider kids of the town, though, they expressed themselves in different ways, rather than just aping what the Pistols, Damned, Clash etc were doing. One could argue that the musical fruits of this labor might leave something to be desired when compared with, say, what was happening in Manchester or Leeds at the same time, but questions of musical taste aside, watching this film I was struck by the way the bands all seemed to be striving to do something new. They were competing with each other to be the first to come up with a certain sound, to play something that no one had ever heard before. Now, I should add the caveat that I don't necessarily enjoy all the sounds they did come up with, but I can't help being impressed by the commitment to innovation and creativity.
It makes me wonder what happened to that creativity within the punk scene. I'm not saying that everyone should be trying to come up with sounds that nobody's ever heard. I like songs, and rhythm, and hooks, and structure. I've listened to noise music and frankly I can do without it. But it seems like these days, people are happy to just pick an already-popular or overdone style, ape it, and sit back and watch the records fly off the shelves. I'm not talking about mainstream pop music here. I mean in just about every genre of punk, from pop punk to power violence, the focus seems to be on how authentically a band can recreate a style from yesteryear, rather than add something new to that style. Again, I'm not saying that people should give up on punk or hardcore or whatever and devote themselves to inventing some kind of space music from the future. I'd just like to see bands express themselves through their music a little more, lend their own voices and creativity to the massive collective output of the punk scene month after month, rather than trying to make their records look and sound as if they came out in 1982.
I can't tell you how many times I've had a conversation with someone who was getting a new band going. "What kind of stuff are you playing?" - "Just generic early 80s thrash." Fair enough, but why? Why would you sell yourself short? It's the generic part that particularly bothers me. I mean, you can only play the music you want to play - if it's early 80s thrash that makes the hairs on the back of your neck stand up, then go for it. But don't be generic about it. It seems like a lot of people are starting bands not out of a compulsion to create something, but because it's so easy to put together a set, shit out a poorly recorded 7" with a xerox sleeve, and go on tour all summer with your friends. It might be fun, but it contributes to the glut of crappy punk records coming out every month, and makes for some packed and boring bills at gigs.
***
One band that I think is an example of someone doing it right is Fucked Up. They take the basic ingredients that go into making a good hardcore or punk song, and somehow manage to come up with something that sounds totally classic yet amazingly current at the same time. You know how when people try and 'challenge the boundaries of punk rock' they end up watering it down, or becoming too (nu-)metal? Fucked Up have managed to expand upon punk and hardcore without losing any of the bite, anger, or power. Listening to them, you get the feeling that they have really thought about their songs, actually sat down together and talked about ideas. Why is that refreshing? Why isn't that the norm?
In case you haven't figured it out yet I can't say enough good things about this band. I just wish I could make it to Toronto for their three-day record release extravaganza. If anyone who goes wants to pick up the limited records for me, it would certainly be appreciated!
***
For more information on the Made In Sheffield DVD you can go to sheffieldvision.com.

Technorati Tags: fucked up, postpunk, sheffield

Mark E. Smith interview, MRR #279

2006-10-23T00:24:00.000-07:00

I was going to post the Mark E. Smith interview I did earlier this year, but someone has gone and scanned it, so you might as well go over there and look at it. The interview was an enjoyable experience and I found Mark to be a very pleasant chap.