It’s a nice way to kick off the year, nice and easy:
Playing the local shed on a Friday night, the bill packed with chums.
But it’s freaking cold out! …wearing the overcoats inside the club, yo!
Yes, we are talking about the weather, what do ya expect?
We’re old folk now, and the major topics of conversation around here are weather, sensible footwear and good local deals on vitamins…
…forget about the Black Flag reunion–this is real news!!
Oh, you smug Mid-westerners and East Coasters laugh at our frail tolerance to the chill…fuck ya’ll—I’m talking into the 40’s out there!!
Listen, it’s all relative, am I right?
So we aren’t used to seeing our dialogue telegraphed in puffs of white fog.
And just the odd millimeter of frost on the morning windshield is enough to launch a thousand breathless Facebook updates.
But do we giggle at your antics, hmm, when the 2.1 temblor hits the Eastern Seaboard and sends ya’ll scurrying underneath the door sill?
Do we laugh at yer awkward erections when the girls bare three inches of ankle come Summer time?
Yeah. Yer right.
We do.
..we will rebuild!
It was only a few weeks back we played the Observatory, but when we heard old chums Lower Class Brats were coming through town we begged for a slot.
Besides, with our pal Ronnie now manning the bass duties, we had to take advantage of the opportunity to heckle him from side stage–finally!
That’s my boy!
It’s nice, the subtle renovations of the joint, as the old Galaxy was looking a little worn those last few times.
Just a bit of tweaking to the sound system, a new space in the lobby and a drink station front of club, and the place is feeling fresh again.
Our favorite though, has to be the bar and lounge upstairs, relatively empty as the groms haven’t figured out how to get up there yet!
..and this is before soundcheck.
We are billed third out of five…..and we like!
Oh, in the old days bands would fight over who gets to play last…..eh-kids!
We are getting used to this middle spot, quite befitting for us older statesmen.
On a regular Friday we’d already be in Pajamas and waiting for the milk to warm at this ungodly hour of 10pm, having already done three pushups and composed an angry letter to those wiseacres at Levi’s:
Dear Sirs:
In what way are these jeans actually a relaxed fit?
Perhaps you need a brief lesson on the mature male anatomy–
I bid you good day!
It’s always one of those late November afternoons-those nasty gray days-that I’m up in the attic, searching for those goddamn holiday decorations.
Bloated from the gluttony of a long Thanksgiving weekend, reeling from far too many birthday toasts launched and sank, I inevitably find myself dizzy and set back on my haunches in that dusty crawlspace clutching a hopelessly tangled ball of Christmas lights:
a Medusa’s head tipped in green and red.
Along with the lights, hastily ripped down and thrown in a garbage bag at the start of this year, I find a short note I wrote at the bottom of the bag.
It is a note that starts out as simple instructions for putting the lights up again (start with female end-duh!– on northwest awning. Don’t use the extension ladder, you’ll kill yourself!) —but the scrawl soon turns introspective, a letter to my future self.
I write these notes on a morning just after the new year, time to pack away the holidays and get on with the business at hand.
These little messages tend to be as much a plea for moderation-Let’s keep away from the Jager this season-remember the Christmas party and the duck pond, hmm? – as a wishlist of sorts for the coming year.
The gentle admonishments soon turn to snarky commentary: Yer not still working at that hellhole I hope? Sheesh, this year was a bitch!
….and howsabout laying off the pasta tubby?!
And that band, ya still playing gramps?
And then the note ends, as always, with an order to get those lights up and adjourn to K.C. Branigan’s for four Imperial pints and a fatty corned beef sandwich: Mercy at the last.
Heh.
And so goes another year past with your old pals.
So before we rip down the tinsel and get ready for Lent, let’s look back at the thing we shall know as 2012:
The year started off slow and easy, a couple local gigs and then the gala OC Music Awards.
Finally! –they’re gonna reward our genius, is that what yer saying?
Sadly, no, but they saw fit to recognize our dear friend Rodney Bingenheimer with a deserved award, and we were lucky enough to play a song in his honor.
A one song set and free beer & sausages backstage?
Known in the busness as a win-win!
The vernal equinox comes and goes, and we are surrounded by dozens of raw eggs standing on tiptoe as Record Store day arrives in Seal Beach!
It’s at the dear departed Left of the Dial that we set up shop, and although they no longer grace our sterile community they have found new, far more hospitable digs at the Santana location–go see em, ya nuts!
Record stores became a recurring theme to our year, and we are now veterans at playing to disinterested bums under fluorescent lighting and sneaking booze around in Gatorade bottles.
Many thanks to our pals at TKO Rcords in the Valley of Fountain, as well as Fingerprints in the LB!
Speaking of records, guess what? We made one!
Yeah, I know by now you are sick of seeing our shameless self promotion,
proud as a newly toilet-trained toddler stumbling through the cocktail party with a freshly birthed poo in the bucket….. but c’mon!
We don’t do this often, let us have our fun!
Many thanks to scrappy Hostage Records for working with us on the new release, and putting up with our outrageous demands for fresh cut lillies in the studio each day as well as a nacho cheese fountain for Alf…!
The touring was easy, simple 4 or 5 nighters that left nerves shattered by their concentrated intensity.
Texas, Louisiana, Washington, Oregon, British Columbia, etc– these are the places that put up with our hijinks for the agreed upon hours, and then rightfully kicked our ass across border, someone else’s problem now.
Good times…!
Weekend of the year award, though, must go to a nutty little jaunt we took midsummer up to the wilds of Winnipeg.
Long had it been sice we visited that hearty outpost, and our return found the place to be in fine spirits indeed!
Great to catch up with Mark Stretcher and Matt the groupie, and although we had to help them up the stairs a few times and cut their food for them, they seemed to be holding up fine….. for gentlemen of that age!
Our tour of the finer Injun drinking establishments made for a busy weekend, let me tell ya!
Alright then, let’s crunch some numbers, shall we?
In terms of the ol blog that lights up the smudgy ipad yer holding in your grimy paws at the moment, we had a wacky 21 thousand visitors to the page.
And –again!- not one of you could be bothered with clicking through and buying a shirt or even a sticker for Mom’s minivan—c’mon now!
The most poplular entry for the year was our in depth look at the religion of of Ramen, again showing that the CH3 audience is ironic or cheap, probably both when it comes down to their food porn.
In other statistics, we played a measly 27 shows for the year, traveled 12 thousand miles, drank 510 gallons of shitty domestic pilsner and ate the sodium and fat equivalent of half a herd of wild swine.
Whew!
…finally! Rest my monkeys…!
And now we stand at the edge of a new year, a year full of hope and promise.
Fresh as a clean PeeChee in September, graffiti-ed not yet by the scribbled diagram of peni nor mammary that will surely befoul it by graduation day.
It’s time to drag that pine needled cactus out to curb and unplug the lights.
And this year, we’ll take down the decorations with care and package them gently as a favor to our older, wiser selves of December 2013.
…..nah, fuck that, lets get this shit down and hit the bar, got me?
And when we jot down our note to be thrown in with the lights, thoughts and hopes to be sealed away in that dark triangle upstairs for another 4 seasons, we’ll write a hopeful p.s. at the bottom:
–and that band — Ya still doing it or did ya finally grow up?
“…now, this next one,” I tell what’s left of the crowd, maybe a dozen drunks left in the place,
“……this next one, I don’t know–Kimm, do we have anything left?”
Kimm shrugs and turns his attention back to his 24 ouncer of Pabst, as if there is a magic set list in its wheaty goodness.
*burp*
There’s really no need to talk through the microphone at this point anyway, not really.
All through the last unrequested encore–our third–people have filed past us and out the door, sheepishly waving goodbye, some pointing at imaginary wristwatches with a guilty shrug, some holding thumb and pinky to ear and mouth: I’ll call you tomorrow.
Anthony takes off his bass and leaves the band stand, and heads to the pisser without a word. “Do we have anyone here that would like to play the bass? While Anthony is taking a shit? Anyone?”
Alf yells out 1-2-3-faw!, we roll nto a bass-less Blitzkrieg Bop, and this will make twice we’ve played the song for the night.
Assorted drunks take turns at the mic. Nobody knows the words.
The bartender rolls her eyes and gives us the old finger across the throat sign, same as she’s done the last 4 songs: Cut it!
We’re going on hour 2 of the set, have played all our own rehearsed songs, and have already massacred: Police on my Back
Can’t Hardly Wait
Blister in the Sun
GooGoo Muck
California
WIld Thing
Louie Louie
Wild Louie!
Heh…and the evening started off with such promise….!
Stitches getting all Christmasy on our asses!
Ah, it is a Holiday crowd that rolls early into the Hut, and we meet up with pals in a festive mood!
There is a tinge of the melancholy, as we are saying goodbye to the Doll Hut for the last time, but nothing a hefty 24 oz of cheap beer won’t fix, yeah?
..Smith wins the ugly sweater award again, 4 years running yo!
Anthony has brought his new band to play on this night, and they play with terrifying force.
Jesus Christ!
Punk rocking old school, the tempos make us dizzy…. and thirsty!
Ant switches instruments, wears same shirt.
Afterwards we hug Anthony, ask him if everything is alright. What are you kids so angry about, hmmm?
Anyway, go see them when they play, they’re called Snooki or Scoleosis, something like that……!
The bands are all sharing backline tonight, so the changeovers are quick.
Just enough time to wade into the soggy crowd and say a million hellos and how do ya do’s!
Kat Legal Weapon in the ol CH3 sandwich!
I’m telling you, it’s a grand evening.
Giant cans of Pabst, the coin of the realm on this night, appear in everyone’s paws.
There is hardly time to consider the strange symbolism of so many flag-colored phallic symbols thrust into so many open maws before our old pals The Stitches do the thing:
Taking pictures of taking pictures
The fellas are rockin’, and when Lohrman jumps up and prowls atop the Hut bar for the last time I can only swear at him for pulling such a great move before anyone else got the chance….
Dammit!
There’s still plenty of night left, so what say we go visit those legendary bathrooms one last time, yes? Yes!
Alfie breaks the no dumping in the club rule…it’s alright, we’ll never be back!
The crew is tuned and ready when legends The Crowd take to the stage.
As usual, Decker shows up onstage dressed for action, lookin like he’s ready to brave a punk riot or a nasty Nor’easter off the starboard bow!
…expecting a little rough weather, are we?
And then it’s our turn.
We start off well enough.
We play the songs we’ve been playing, marvel at the times we’ve had on this creaky platform.
But we wrap up all the usual songs- and then some!–and we just don’t feel finished.
Not with this joint, not yet anyway.
We plug back in and run through a few more numbers, and as the crowd gets inevitably smaller, we laugh a bit longer, sharing the same lame inside jokes, and order up another round to the bandstand.
And then come the cover songs and the guest musicians.
We try to hang guitars around the necks of innocent people trying to escape, insist they play Strutter and Living after Midnight for our own twisted entertainment!
KAt and Maria share a mic
It has become a drunken mess, a sloppy jam session that would make the 8th graders in the garage next door embarassed. And we’re having a blast!
On that tiny little stage in that tiny little club, we’re reconnected with those kids that first picked up those guitars and navigated the A to the D to the E, and wondered at the timeless magic of making three simple chords into a Ramones song!
And that’s why we don’t want to stop.
We don’t want to say goodbye.
We’ve been reminded of this rare favor, of a place that let you play music in front of your friends.
We try to start another song, it’s either Jet Boy Jet Girl or He’s a Whore maybe, each of us playing a different note, and we spit out our beers with laughter as the last of the people exit the club, leaving only the four of us on stage.
They cut the PA and turn on the overheads, and our career at the World Famous Doll Hut has come, mercifully, to an end.
You remember, don’t ya, that first time you walked into the Doll Hut?
You went through the creaky front door, and your eyes slowly adjusted to the dim light provided by the beer signs and that goddamn jukebox that seemed to only play Social D or the Misfits.
The worn bar to your front, stage area to the right, and as you walked around back past the flooded bathrooms and the skid-stained pooltable, only to end up at your starting point, you had that first same reaction everyone has: Is that it?
…the crowd so close you can smell ’em…!
Yeah, approximately the size of one of the backstage rooms at the House of Blues,
the Doll Hut is charming in its wee footprint, especially when considering the bands that have graced that tiny stage:
Back in the day, when Linda Jemison was the unofficial fairy godmother to OC live music, the club became much more than just another OC shed.
The stuff of legend, expecially when the OC roots rock thang was really going strong and that Punk Rock Revival was gearing up for its inevitable payday.
It was a must-do, of course, for any self respecting OC band to play a couple times a year at the Hut, even when the evil Disney Empire down the way almost shut the joint down for good with that wacky road construction!
What the fuck was that all about?
It seemed like a couple years when there was no way to get there from here!
The 5 freeway was a goddamned mess as they scrambled to put up a monolithic parking structure.
And they scacrificed our dear old Disney parking lot, home of a thousand shotgunned beers and hotboxed joints of mersh…. for what? California Adventure?! And ya call that progress?
But, yeah, ya still booked the gigs there and out of towners did too….
It was always the best to see the touring bands take their first peep inside the door, only to back up, look around as if to make sure they were in the correct joint. This is the place Offsring started off?
And No Doubt? Where did Gwen put on her makeup?!
Heh—damn right bub.
In fact, it was Linda’s annual Christmas benefits for the Orangewood Children’s Center that kept CH3 alive during those lean years in the mid nineties.
Burnt out from the riots and music business bullshit, we were grumpy old burnouts at age 30.
But we could always rouse ourselves when Linda called for the Christmas gig: the Hut provided the band a trickling life support system, pulse measured in faint beeps and seismic peaks, blood to the heart and oxygen to the brain.
This is even before the hair dyeing!
Back then, we would start rehearsing for the Christmas gig, oh, somewhere just before Halloween—-heh, God, what happened to that dedication and energy, huh?
Nowdays yer lucky if we listen to the Skinhead Years cd on the way to the gig to refresh our battered memories.
We are seriously just this far away from using teleprompters like Frankie did in the final years……
Ah, but what fun it was, to dust off the setlist, and celebrate the Season at the Doll Hut.
To rage within that jaunty roadhouse, the soggy floorboards and dusty uprights shaking with the music, the whole joint rocking and leaking like that other historic OC hovel, the Haunted Shack at Knott’s.
Fabulous Disaster rockin the Hut~
There’s nothing like a night at the Doll Hut, especially if you have to play a set that night.
Setting up and breaking down, negotiating the chatty drunks and the heavy gear going always! in the opposite direction.
It was like moving furniture on a storm swept tugboat, but you finally got everything in place and counted off the downbeat.
Your face mere inches from the crowd, guitars knocked out of tune every other song.
The constant mist of beer and spit from the drunks that yelled the lyrics right back at you.
God, we’re gonna miss this joint!
…..friggin clowns!Linda and Setzer!
For now they tell us that the Hut will be no more after the start of the year?
Plans have been made to rebrand, something about a Latino theme and traditional music…which is alright I guess.
But as often is the case whenever someone takes over one of our lovely little clubs, the first rule of new management: No More Punk!
..see? We got ya covered!
So one more time, we thought, we’d give it a go.
We made a few calls and got together a crazy lineup to kick off the Holiday Season, and once again made it a benefit in honor of those great nights before:
So come out, won’t ya?
We’ll toast the shack one more time, and play one more song with barely tuned guitars as the beer drips from the ceiling: Tears from the very building itself.
But apparently the building and neon sign have been declared a historical landmark, at least, so that’s something.
We’ll still be able to see it as we drive past on our way to a gig at some corporate club in a theme park.
And on a night we’ll soon be buying fourteen dollar cocktails and trying to see the band around shoulders and shitty sightlines, we’ll look up at that buzzing neon and remember a place of another time.
It satisfies the savage soul, to attack a singular piece of flesh, enhanced only by flame and the most basic of spice.
To eat a steak is to reconnect with our fanged ancestors, and to let the warmed red juices awaken the instincts dulled by conference calls and baby showers.
Is there any other food that evokes such strong memories, fond memories, of glorious meals past, yet time and again disappoints when made at home in the old kitchen?
You salivate at the recollection of that one night dining out with your Dad, he letting the Business expense go wild at Morton’s and allowing you to get the Bone-in Ribeye as well as the crab cocktail.
Maybe you were both three deep in the Maker’s doubles, and Pop loosened his tie and told stories of his own wild days just after college.
And you both sat there across from each other, stuffing dripping pink pieces of cowflesh into your already full mouths.
You relished the fact he was finally talking to you as an adult as much as he was enjoying a dialogue with no apparent sarcasm and eye rolling–good stuff!
So savory and orgasmic was the meal, you didn’t even notice that he just set you up on your own payment plan for that tremendous student loan.
So what happens, on that chilly Fall evening, when you think you’ll treat yourself to a steak dinner once again?
You take that styrofoam and shrink wrapped thing home from Pavillions and put it to flame, only to end up with a barely edible piece of gray matter:
ick.
And then what?
You trim around the gristle and white fat, determined to relive some of your past beef glories:
You sullenly hack at this piece of crap, desperately searching for some sort of grain and color that will honor those dear nights.
And, then, there ya sit, chewing and chewing away, less the cow and cud and more the crack whore absentmindedly soothing her gums on the last used condom of the night.
And as the stringy meat slowly dissolves into a swallowable paste, so too go all the ideals and honor of youth.
Ingredients:
New York Strip Steak, 12 Oz
Kosher Salt
Ground Black Pepper
Olive Oil
..the walk of shame…
Well, here’s your first goddamn mistake!
You bought your meat at the corporate grocery store down the street, am I right?
It’s a well known fact that the beef sold in the majors these days is laden with hormone and corn by-product, and government standard and code has been loosely translated and diluted enough that most of the beef you are buying here is actually jackal or coyote meat.
Step away, son!
Yeah, yeah–I know: but it’s a third off, and you’ll be cooking it right up, and it might not be so bad with some dry rub and, gee, maybe that girl you met on the internet will turn out to be an actual female this time, and… Wake Up dummy!
Come with us to a real beef slinger, yeah?
You got it, a cathedral of all things recently deceased and delicious, Huntington’s own Beef Palace!
Maybe you’ve seen it, as you rolled down Warner on your way to Johnny’s for the ink-n-drink Pabst rally, eh?
You pull into the parking lot and go past the odd bovine sentries standing guard….
How many HB drunks have humped these gals, hmmm?
…and you pull the door open to enter the magical land of protein!
The paneled walls shimmer with the Aurora Borealic glow that comes from the pristine glass displays.
You walk along the hallways of flesh, your mouth barely containing the drool as you see–yes, yes–now you understand! how an animal is respectfully dismantled and displayed for its ultimate glory!
Choose yer meat:
Oh, I know the Ribeye, that drunken slut of the slaughterhouse is all the rage these days, but forget it.
Most homes simply don’t have the proper heat to sear and caramelize the ridiculous rivulets of fat running thorough that bitch.
And don’t get us started on that goddamn Filet Mignon!
Flavorless and superior, these useless cuts are the Queensryche of the meat world.
No, the true measure of a quality butcher shop is revealed in the humble New York Strip! Genius in its simplicity
Be cool to the fellas, as in any drug deal, and let them know you know the score.
Hesitate at the glass for a few minutes before asking if there might be something, you know, special going on in the back?
And if you didn’t blow it like a high school narc with nose hairs they’ll bring out a properly aged hunk of meat, all concentrated flavors and blue sheen, and hack a slice off the end:
Approximating the space between thumb and forefinger you hold up, a bold gang sign of appetite and belief.
…yo, that’s Crip with a capital C cuz!
Preparation:
From Bukowski’s Ham on Rye (Harper Collins, 1982):
“Now the way you fry a porterhouse steak,” he told the class, “you get the pan red hot, you drink a shot of whiskey and then you pour a thin layer of salt in the pan. You drop the steak in and sear it but not for too long. Then you flip it, sear the other side, drink another shot of whiskey, take the steak out and eat it immediately.”
Heh–fuckin Chuck.
But you know what? He’s not far off.
We’re gonna be using a cast iron pan, lots of heat, and yeah-there might be a snort or two……!
Oh, I know you’re tempted to fire up the ol’ Weber and grill this treasure outside, but don’t do it!
First off, that thing is disgusting, dripping black stalactites of Bratwurst fat, and the carbonized bits of Mahi Mahi from last June’s wicky wacky luau will only contaminate this honorable meat.
Ooooh, what if Alton Brown saw this mess?
Besides, you know how it always happens out at the grill, admit it:
You start out vigilant over the flame, beer in hand, but pretty soon it’s Jack and Cokes over round three of fooseball, and dinner has suddenly become a chunk of coal on the flaming kettle as you hit the speed dial for fuckin Domino’s! Yeah, we see ya!
No, cast iron and some finish up in the oven is all we’re looking for here brother.
And even though this is just for a single steak, let’s still use the big pan so as to let the meat sizzle, not steam!
I’m thinking any pan approximately the size of a live vinyl recorded with a drunken German pickup band will do just fine:
…I knew those imports were good for something!
Preheat the oven to 375, and put that pan to flame pal!
Now, your old pals at the CH3 Test Kitchen would never recommend you leaving the oven on and a glowing red pan on the range as you skipped out for a cocktail, but let’s go ahead and do just that:
Maybe just one Sazerac and a pilsner and we’ll be right back, yeah?
…drinking? How dare you–I’m cooking dinner!
We’re back!
House still standing?
Alright, things go fast at this point, so pay attention and turn off the TV set, will ya?
Don’t worry, your beloved Sons of Anarchy will still be there when we’re done cooking, bad acting and atrocious dialogue intact!
…ok, so HellBoy is King Lear, Peg Bundy gets raped by Henry Rollins, and the kid wears white shoes on a Harley…….ya lost me!
Our pal needs nothing more than a massage with olive oil, some coarse salt and black pepper. That’s it!!
And now, meat to pan!
This pan is fucking hot, so only cook each side as long as you can hold your breath or as long as it takes to text your boss and let him know what’s really wrong with his precious company, ya hear me, your majesty?!
Don’t forget to sear off the sides and render that delicious fat!
Who’s a good baby? You are, yes you are!
And now we just pop the whole thing in the oven and step back, letting the convection heat finish this project, 297 seconds, tops!
In the meantime, all we need to do is steam some asparagus in the micro and poach an egg.
Wha?
We haven’t covered these basics yet?
Well, yer on your own, this goddamn posting is already too long—we’re supposed to be a punk rock band site, remember?! sheesh!
Make sure the water is rolling clockwise (counter for our Aussie readers!)
Take out our jewel and let rest for 8 minutes, roll out the asparagus in the delicious pan drippings, and plate!
Look at it, it’s a thing of beauty!
And as you sit down with a rascally Zin and Apocolypse Now, Redux on the flat screen, you sigh the contented exhalation of a man who has honored his carnivorous ghosts and mastered the meat……..!
Enjoy!
Patience, she thinks. I’ve seen this guy pass out mid-meal a thousand times…patience…
To live on the dark side of fifty, we now put on the reading glasses when haunting the grocery aisle.
Sodium count is noted and discretely added to the end count abacus that constantly clicks in our heads.
Cans of luxurious fatty corned beef, just the thing for that hungover breakfast on Sunday, are inspected and regretfully placed back on the shelf.
Maybe those rice cakes will be okay, and, whoa! dipped in plain yogurt if we’re feeling crazy, huh?
……bleh.
But it’s a different story out on the weekend road, brother, when we briefly escape the earthly bounds of mortality and sensible footwear.
For a glorious 3 or 4 days it is perfectly fine to hydrate with Mountain Dew and oil cans of warm PBR, and that late night cheese covered snack, calorie count fifteen times the local speed limit, is not only logical but necessary.
Olympia: Tot-chos! Oh, yes we did….
Goopy bar snacks, gas station sausages, strip club breakfasts, tamales sold out of plastic hefty bags by the one eyed midget in Portland: all fair game.
We order not only the Tonkatsu ramen at Biwa, more than enough for any man, but also every skewer of gizzard and organ that can fit on the glowing robata grill.
..the right atrium were a tad chewy, but the left ventricle divine!Gay bar hot dog. Too easy.Oh right, Canada. Poutine please.Pepper jack burger, Jake’s, Olympia
We start each day in the same way, different motel bathrooms. Vitamin C, Sam-E, Prilosec, Lipitor, Immodium.
These are the backstage drugs now.
We line the pills up like vintage Soviet tanks awaiting their turn in a North Korean military parade.
And when they are finally waved through, after their presentation before the tiny uvula dictator, we are ready to start another day, with all its glorious nutrition, anew.
Shows:
We show up at the club and drop the guest list, its size depending on how badly we burned bridges last time through.
Some towns, we know enough people for a good sized Tupperware party.
Others, not so much.
Those nights, we scan the crowd for the one dude with the homemade CH3 T shirt, ply him with drinks and get him to sit behind the merch booth while we inspect the equipment we are borrowing tonight.
Slingin the platter, Vancouver.El Corazon, Seattle
For we travel light, only guitars in hand, and have to rely on the kindness of the local bands for backline.
We will say this: The quality of the gear, amps and drums, is unquestionably better these days.
Gone are the days of plugging straight into the board or the homemade toaster head sitting atop a plywood 3 x 12 cabinet.
Oh, those nights of dodgy input jacks and tricky amps, that have to be turned on just so……
No, the stuff is pretty good, and most nights better than the poor abused boxes that wait for us back home.
Ron Reyes and Piggy!
But our lips still hold the subtle callous of the constantly electrocuted.
Ah. those sweet nights of being kissed with visible blue spark, our human heads completing the circuit between guitar string, microphone and faulty ground.
And if only our loved ones can detect the slight scar of lower lip, and feel the still buzzing electricity that has altered our internal pulse by just a click, they mercifully accept us, and put a gentle fingertip up to the wound, as if to soothe us and say shhhh.
Places:
Last call, Victory Lounge, SeattleBiwa, Portland
They say we have no change of Seasons in Southern California….pffft.
What do you call that subtle change in late September, when the germinated Queen Palms along Ocean Boulevard suddenly sprout with snowy seed?
Or hoho, when the temperature dips below 75 that first time of the year, and sends us scurrying for the Winter wardrobe of closed toed shoes and sturdy Pendleton?
Or what about….ah fuck it, yer right.
I got nothing here.
Fall colors of Washington
It’s the same familiar unfamiliarity, when we hit the tarmac and and that first blast of cool Fall air hits us.
Oh, so this is what it feels like, weather.
We fall to knee right there on the moving walkway and pull out thermals and drinking sweaters, giggling at the goosebumps upon our tan forearms.
We arrive at the car rental counter bundled and fuzzy warm as preschoolers ready to assemble the first snowman of the year.
Vancouver BC
It is the grand treat to come back to these places, and we measure ourselves against the glowing memories of the last time through.
In the cramped rental car, with head lodged between anvil case and box of merch, it is more than enough to just gaze out the window at the world going by.
In these quiet times you take a quick survey of the day, how the voice is holding up with a discete hmmmm, and how many miles it is til the next city appears on the horizon.
You look out and see a sudden, outrageous burst of color above tree trunk, a fiery final protest of life before the bleak Winter to come.
People:
Halloween party, Iron Road Studios Vancouver
It’s that same sensation, every night.
You pull open the door to the club, and are met with that first exhalation of smoke and sweat, the sound of people drinking, maybe clank and tang of a kitchen being closed up for the night.
You try to detect in a sniff which way the night will go, before taking a peek inside to see the headcount and making the quick calculations if the promoter will be jolly or tearfull at night’s end.
A dozen eyes glow out from the darkness, canine and hungry, and you can just make out the comic caption clouds floating above the twinned fireflies:
The band is here. Alright fuckers, show us what ya got!
We see dear and familiar faces from other adventures, re connect with heroes from our past:
And without fail, we end up with new friends by night’s end.
Chavo!Interview with Andy:
Seattle, we meet up with Andy Nystrom for a quick interview post-set. He does an admirable job getting his story, as we’re all obsessed with last call and missing guitar cords.
Ant stocking up on duty free snacks!
Maybe you remember a Sunday afternoon when you were pulled out of treehouse and made to put on shoes, only to be swept into the station wagon, soon lulled into a carbon monoxide slumber on some interminable cross town jaunt.
Then you reached your destination, and your parents only set you loose in a different backyard, sometimes kid free, other times jealously guarded over by your snot nosed doppelganger.
And when you cupped your tiny paws around your eyes to peer through the screen door, you could see your parents in there, with another couple or maybe two: Dad with legs crossed in a jaunty way, conducting some ribald tale with his miniature cigarette baton.
There is a peal of laughter and then Mom punches Pop in the arm, good natured, her eyes shiny with laughter and love.
For God sake, they’re just in there…..talking!
Visiting, is what they’d call it….. old people.
And then you’d roll your eyes to the heavens and slap your thighs once again as you turned back to the yard in search of a toy to break or insect to torture. They’re just in there talking!
And besides those brief minutes, when we strap on the guitars and roam around the stage, that’s all we’re really doing: visiting.
So our beloved Long Beach Airport is going through a messy renovation eh?
Here’s to hoping they don’t fuck up yet another charming local institution.
Sure, gone is the dark hallway bar that we used to squeeze into to nurse hideous Bloody Mary’s at 6am, replaced by the fab new Legends bar upstairs.
We’ll take it.
But the real plus of this little ‘port has always been the ability to wake one hour before your cross-continent flight, race around the traffic circle in your pajamas and still make it onto the Jet Blue #204 for JFK.
You park just across from the art deco terminal, get waved through the sleepy Security trailer and are handed cheap headphones before climbing the old-school flight steps.
And just 50 minutes from your hungover awakening, you are sitting there, heart rate finally slowing, watching a black and white Andy Griffith Show episode while your jet taxis down the runway toward the sunrise.
Try that trick at goddamned LAX and you’ll make it as far as the Avalon offramp before you break down in tears and admit to yourself you’ll be waiting standby for the next six hours.
Planned retail plaza for LGB……wtf? Bring back the seaplanes to Avalon if ya wanna improve the joint!
Good to be back in Phoenix and a show at Rip’s for the record release.
We pick up guitars at the gate and grab a sensible rental car (29.00 standard, return it full please) drop backpacks at a Residence Inn (free internet in the room, coffee always a-brewing) and wolf down some smouldering platters from Thai Elephant(this will hurt you far worse tomorrow, round eye!)
Playing with us again are Scorpion-vs-Tarantula , truly one of the rockingest bands out there–anywhere!
The crowd is in a nutty mood, and we are baptized with can after can of Pabst by the rowdy locals!
I haven’t washed the Land o’ Free shirt yet, and it has come to take on a life of its own…..ripe, brother!
..smell the fury!
We get up and do the thing one more time!
Alfie takes a quick pre set nappy…
…don”t ask me, you’re the one who forgot the setlists!
Played a few songs, shilled a few platters, and our work here is done.
It is time for a fantastically disappointing chow down at Waffle House of all places.
There is not a hint of irony, not a wool cap or beard to be seen, no post-clubbing hipsters here–we like!
And you’d think they would know their breakfasts, but the food is gray and cold, takes forever to make….and, by God, hits the spot!!!!
…eeesh.
Saturday: Van Nuys
The crew is grumpy as we drive out to the Valley, but we are consoled when we find Henry Rollins chattering away on KCRW, always a calming soundtrack on a Saturday evening.
That familiar, raspy voice and a wide selection of world music, just the thing before all hell- inevitable as the approaching last call— breaks loose.
Tonight Hank is spinning some good acoustic blues, of all things, naturally.
Oh, it’s not like you’d think he’d be playing non-stop SOA or Minor Threat, but sometimes the show is a long one-sided conversation that only teaches us how little we really know about music outside our little world…jesus!
…and that was Bad Brains…next up, Eedris Abdulkareem!!
But Henry on the radio, he’s become the Garrison Keillor for the black T shirt crowd.
A warm familiar entity just on the other side of the speaker grill, he guides us along the 405 until we hit the Burbank offramp.
Tonight’s assignment is the gala 15th Anniversary party for our chums at Big Wheel Magazine:
15? Why, I have underwear older than that!
Hard to believe it’s been fifteen years since the birth of Team Goon, but God bless ’em!
I mean, who wants to take over, you?
To become the masthead leader of the punk yellow pages, a job as thankless as lighthouse attendant to Stannard Rock– is that what yer gonna do?
Didn’t think so.
So do a solid and support Big Wheel as soon as you can, won’t ya?
Was it really before Labor Day that we last ran into these road warriors from Tokyo?
Since then they’ve criss crossed this wide continent on a relentless quest to play each and every burg that would have em.
Oh, we like to think we’re veterans of the road, hard working touring punk band and all that don’t ya know….
But god help us if there’s no terrycloth robe hanging in Anthony’s suite and better hide if we don’t have Alf home by 10pm on Sunday night to catch up with his Real Housewives of Atlanta!
Nah, these ladies toughed it out for two months + in a rather questionable looking van, rockin’ it out in any room that had working electricity and a microphone–check em!
..and the crowd goes wild…or is that just rude?
And then we climb up there and do our little act yet again.
The crowd is kind and applauds politely, patronizing as greedy grandkids hovering over their dying rich Grammy……bless em!
Bringing the houndstooth sport coat look back to punk rock, yo!
Wednesday: Long Beach
We’re sitting upstairs at swanky Fingerprints Records deep –deep!– in the heart of the LBC.
We take another peek over the rail at the empty store below, downbeat in 15 minutes, and there’s maybe ten people in the joint–goddamnit!
We’re here to do another shameless promotion for the new record, an in-store performance at Fingerprints’ cool digs on 4th st.
Record Store performances, they’re a funny thing, we’ve learned.
Absent is the self absorbed chatter of the drunken twit, as familiar and soothing to a musician as the white noise of an offline television is to the night shift alcoholic.
No, the people that show up to these gigs tend to be sober, respectful, and –worst of all!-they actually listen to the music!
It is nerve racking, I tell ya, to play under the harsh fluorescent lights and face the respectful silence between each song—
give me the heckling Nazis at the Observatory any day brother!!
We console ourselves by screwing around with the awesome merchandise while setting up……
Alfie warms up backstage….Now that’s a backline: Combo amps and Ayn Rand hardcovers!…yeh right–you wrote the fuckin’ book!
But our fears are eased when staff comes up and tells us that a nice crowd is waiting out on the sidewalk—whew!
So we go on down and do a few songs for family and friends.
We try to make the old ones sound like they used to, we try to play the new ones without peeking down at our cheat sheets:
Thank God that the attached Berlin bistro now sells beer and wine, for the crowd is loose and having fun.
And we thought it was going to be just another Comic Con Q&A session!
We tell a few stories behind the songs like we’re goddamned Def Leppard on VH1 Storytellers, we stick to the new ones and obscure oldies.
Done!
..and then me Father died and Mum, well, she went soon after…… And that’s how I came up with Pour Some Sugar on Me!
And then it’s meet and greet time before adjourning to The Pike!
We still got it! Signing boobs after the show!
We wrap up another extended weekend:
It’s with a wary eye that we glance down at the calendar.
We see the days circled coming up, count the ones past and canceled out with an X.
How much longer they-them! will put up with us, I don’t know.
But we leave the bags packed, as we leave for Portland on Thursday.
And we now know how the carny feels as he rolls up the tent before first light, its garish stripes slick with morning dew:
Ready to slink away from this provoked town and onto the next one, one blessedly unaware of the old tricks they’ll soon enough be sold.
We warned ya, didn’t we?– that you’d be soon sick of our shameless self promoting and grandstand pandering!
As you read this, the new release is finally available on the Hostage Records website, the radio shows have been called in. Facebook is properly bombarded with breathless updates every 3 minutes, cheesy videos are hastily thrown together and slapped on the web….
The supermarkets have been christened properly, large novelty scissors in hand as we drop yet another satin ribbon to the the ground, soon to be trampled under the wobbly wheels of the herd of new shoppers.
Our work here is done!
Shame? There is none.
We stand at the ready for any opportunity to sell just that much more of our dignity, like Bob Denver hovering by the kitchen phone just prior to boat show season.
Kimm signs one for the sick kids…the sick kids on Ebay!
Heh.
Hey, it’s not like we do this every year, so indulge us for being a little obnoxious, will ya?
So when the release weekend coincided with mighty TKO Fifth Year Anniversary weekend, we jumped at the chance to congratulate Mark and company by crashing his party and eating all the goddamn pizza!
After a grueling week of actually practicing and figuring out how to play these bizarre (and by bizarre, meaning less than 30 years old!) compositions, we descend upon the unwitting Brookhurst Ave strip mall and roll out the banjos!
..oh look, Andrew WK made it after all!
We set up under the fluorescent lights, amongst the import bargain bins and Poison Idea codpieces: Downbeat!
…obviously posed shot of the fellas getting down!..Eugene fills in for Maria!
The crowd is in a strange mood, and several times we have to stop mid song and wake them up!
Putting ’em to sleep!
….I’m telling ya, this crowd was wacky!Jim Kaa auditions for background vocals
And then it’s back behind the counter to shill yet again.
Copies are signed whether they want it or not.
Hands are shook, babies kissed.
We load out sweaty and tired at night’s end,
but it’s all empty pizza boxes and dried out Sharpies now.
And it feels good, to have something new in hand, and we’re getting back in the swing of this promotion thing.
So we take another stack of records, and unable to let a sale get away, we stand at the freeway off ramp:
Offering bags of oranges and 7″ vinyl cookies, we’re selling way more than just songs.
…just buy one and I swear we’ll shut up and leave!
We’ve had several complaints directed toward the CH3 Entertainment staff about our lack of TV coverage this year, so let’s get right to it:
Yer right, of course.
Television has become nothing more than an appliance:
We check into yet another moldy motel room in yet another grouchy city, and we flick on each light, harsh yet supposedly green in its twisty fluorescent garishness.
We toss the guitars on the beds, their spreads decorated beyond their original paisley swirls with suspect biological stain.
And, with a sigh, it’s TV on, as the soul yearns for the glow of the hearth, yeh?
Then it’s an meandering journey the unfamiliar channels, looking for Sportcenter , which has become the soothing common thread that unites this wide continent.
But surely, with this discriminating American intellect there must be tonnes of worthy programming on the ‘ol box these days, am I right?
Let’s take a quick look, shall we:
Note to Editor: No caption necessary
Ah, reality television: Just what is this shit?
People like to blame the Europeans for the Big Brother template and the Japanese for their grotesque game shows, but the finger always comes back to us for the The Real World and Cops, two shows that are probably still on the air for all I know.
…..how come this show never went to Fullerton, hmmm?
But you’d be hard pressed to find them,as it seems every other show is a reality these days……
Reality?
Kim Kardashian shaving her Persian bush?
A Father and Son living a fake feud while building the fucking ugliest motorcycles ever?
….oooh, bitchen!
This is Television?
To what do we owe this stream of excrement?
The high production cost of the scripted show?
The lack of any new ideas from the sea of young writers raised on a steady diet of music videos and Playstation?
No, it’s the proliferation of cable networks–and the need to fill those hours with cheap and mindless fluff: No snooty writers necessary here, brother!
Now this is scripted television!
Oh sure, there probably is some quality stuff out there—we couldn’t make it through the week without our Good Eats or Top Chef, and yeah, a lot of you wags out there like to hold us up to Anthony Bourdain as a reference point.
Yeah yeah, boozy snide comments and fatty snacks–we get ya!
Sadly, Ant B has lost a lot of credibility in our eyes this new season–
I mean, how can you go from the smoking, boozing cook that hangs out with fucking David Johasen, Bill Murray, and-seriously!-Jim Harrison!– to barbecuing at SXSW with the hideous Sleighbells?!
…now yer talking!……soul sold.
But the number one badass pimp out there in the reality landscape has got to be our man Les Stroud:
Have you seen the show?
No no, not Survivor, where the whiny contestants merely try to outlast each other as if they were annoying people sharing adjoining cubicles, ratting each other out to HR and pissing in the coffee pot.
No, this is motherfuckin’ Survivorman, where Les heads out to a harsh landscape by himself for a week, armed only with a backpack full of cameras and a stick of beef jerky.
Yeah, the easy comparison is to Man vs Wild, but we now know about camera crews and luxury hotels employed by that show, as well as the suspicious manscaping
…obviously stayed at the Radisson last night…
Nah, ol Bear (Bear!) Grylls is far too dapper for us, with his rock climbing shoes and jaunty way of crawling into a planted moose carcass to spend the night—yeah right, like that’s how I’m gonna get through a night after I’ve lost my car keys- again! in Jumbo’s Clown Room.
No, not some sexy ex British Special Forces, our man Les is just yer ordinanry Canuck shlub.
He always looks hungover and ill-prepared for the task at hand, which is perfect when ya think about it.
….awww–he brought his pet along this time!
I mean, are you really gonna be wearing your Columbia outer wear and packin’ 200 ft. of five strand nylon braid when you get caught off guard?
No, probably like us, you’ll be wandering around the woods outside a Jersey rest area in your Converse high tops and a Hawaiian shirt, nothing more than a Starbucks card and 2 Xanax in your pocket, an orange House of Blues all access around your neck.
But Les shows us how it’s done, how to rip the stuffing out of your car seat to make ear muffs and how to kill a badger to extract your own personal lubricant.
And when he inevitably makes a fire by any of a dozen different wacky methods, the money shot on any episode, the joy in his eyes is contagious.
Look, fire! And just using moose dung and pubic hair!
But most notable is no camera crew!
What many of the idiotic viewers of these so called reality shows forget, is these people dealing with their solitary struggles are actually surrounded by 5 camera guys, 2 lighting men, a grip, sound man and assorted Israeli makeup guys—-come on!
Ah, but Les is on his own, man:
And he has to set up the goddamn cameras, walk away from them for that artsy man in the wilderness shot, then come back and pack it up!
How very punk rock in his diy ethic is our boy, humping the gear up and down hills, setting it up and then breaking it down.
It’s like nothing so much as loading a Marshall half stack up and down the stairs at Cathay de Grande when ya think about it!
But the show is falling into the common rut, so I’d propose to shake things up on the next season’s adventures:
Maybe Les has to live in Silverlake for a month without wearing Ray Ban Aviators or a lame beard, and has to keep on schedule with his Student Loan payments.
Or maybe we set Les loose into the wilds of Manhattan, seeing if can survive the week on nothing more than 200 dollars a day!
And he has to not only eat decently, but also get passable seats to Book of Mormon and fuck a mid-level runway model.
Les eats a forty dollar truffle outside Les Bernardin
In fact, it would be a great episode if they put Les on the ultimate survival adventure: a Summer on the road with an aging punk rock band….
We’d see if Les has what it takes to travel hundreds of miles a day in a poorly air conditioned SUV with spotty cell reception, surviving on only greasy corporate fast food and poorly attended shows.
He’ll have to sit behind the merch table while the rest of the band eats burritos and drinks shots of Jameson on the patio, and we’ll make him deal with the sad promoter at the end of the night.
And then we’ll see who really is Survivorman !
Watch Survivorman on the Discovery Channel, 4pm Wednesdays PDT
We gather on a blistering September evening for the haul out to LA.
The weather has been brutal lately, and the heat shimmering above the city does not dissipate with the fading light: it’s gonna be a hot one, motherfuckers!
You see all kinds of characters on these mean streets!
Tonight’s assignment is a mid level billing at the Sunset House of Blues with Dead Kennedys, JFA, Killroy and Union 13.
Oh, I know,it’s not very punk rock and it certainly ain’t the fuckin’ blues, but hey! where else do we get to play at a corporate shack with decent backstage chow?
Besides, it’s a rare night: a big bill with an amazing lack of dicks in the bands—all good people involved!
Getting off the packin’ 101 early at Silverlake gives us the perfect excuse to stop in to Tiki-Ti’s for that goddamn Zombie we’ve been dreaming about!
..now yer talkin, brother!..if you make it through the menu in one sitting you get a free hat! (…and alcohol poisoning, but hey! a hat!)
Has it really been 6 years since we said farewell to Ant’s big brother Fred?
Freddy was a good one, a musical mentor and man about town, and he tossed back a few Uga Boogas in this room, don’t you worry!
So we toast his memory with another glass of potent 151 camouflaged in syrupy sweet goodness, and watch as the gaudy decor comes to life….so this is what kids see at the Tiki Room in Disneyland, eh?!
….weeee!
We get to the House o Blues just in time to unload on the curb and hump the gear up a maze of staircases. Goddamn it’s still hot!
It doesn’t matter how many times we play at this shack, we always get lost in the catacombs backstage, and somehow end up opening a random door only to witness some poor soul giving or rececivng an unwanted blowjob……whoops! Carry on fellas!
Heh, but soon enough we tuck into the backstage spread and watch the proceedings from side stage.
…the shameful secret of old school punk bands–dessert!Ant and Eric….let’s keep the pants on this time boys!
The run a tight ship at HOB, but we’re all sharing backline gear so turnovers are quick. Between bands we adjourn to the sultry patio on Sunset and let the swampy night air cool the hard earned sweat on our brows…..
Anthony gives us his best get-off-my porch look!
It’s a welcome early set time for us, and we take advantage of our 30 minutes onstage by playing out of tune and forgetting lyrics. Now that’s punk rock, baby!
Oh, I know all the talk about how this isn’t the real band, since Jello’s not involved, etc.
But this has always been a band made up of unique and really, well–fucking good! -musicians regardless of who’s up front singing–I mean these three guys, I’m thinking of like, The Who here, yeah?
And when they rip into Police Truck, Skip singing his heart out and the whole damn room is singing along, you can’t help but be caught up in the excitment and energy that is music!
The DK’s!DH and Alfie-drummers getting all kissy-poo!
We load out drenched in sweat, the night still boiling around us.
We briefly consider pissing on each other’s carotid arteries to keep from boiling over.
And that’s how it ends, another night on the Sunset Strip, on the fatal side of another Summer.
Another night in the sweet city heat, surrounded by pals and hearing music that makes you happy.
Soon enough we’ll be huddled in the chill, nothing more than cavemen peering out into the unknown darkness.
And this unrelenting heat? It will be nothing more than a desperate but welcome memory.
We’ll sit in the dark and hear the snap of twig and wonder if that noise is food or death.
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