three-story flight of stairs. Get to nap in the air conditioning though, and the tiny bar has this
Sinatra vibe to it, with that red-curtained lounge singer stage.
There are three shows going on here tonight, all of which are lame screamo bands with
tight-pants & quaffed hair. Once again, no one has come for us. Weren’t expecting much really,
but SMB seem disappointed even though they are the lucky winners, having one kid with a
spiked bi-hawk show up.
His name is Zach Ameeko, and he heads up the industrial act Din Glorious: “I go to NYU
for film. Last year I came out with ‘Schizoid Sluts From Planet Fucktard,’ which is my sci-fi
sexploitation piece. I’m currently in the middle of ‘Schizoid Sluts II: Frankensluts.’ We’re
shooting in a couple weeks with people receiving training from Tom Savini.”
“Din Glorious is a New York industrial synth punk band. We started as tribal industrial,
very avant-gadre. A very Aus Gang sound, a lot of Native American imagery and performance
art. Now we’re definitely in the style of late 70’s LA synth punk bands like Nervous Gender or
The Screamers. We actually bring scrap metal onstage with us.”
“Do you go to the junkyard and pick up scrap metal and bang the fuck out of them?”
Zach Ameeko: “Absolutely. Our main drum piece is a 20 gallon oil drum. We will not
bring that out with us on tour, so we’ll drive around whatever city it is we’re playing until we find
a junkyard of construction site. We’ll get lucky and have people bring us stuff. As far as New
York industrial, it’s a lot of kids in bondage pants trying to speak German. Goth clubs are the
most boring thing in the world.”
“Tell me all about New York.”
“The New York music scene is highly overrated by people who are not from here. You
would expect a ton to be going on, but every venue seems to be closing up. Rent gets higher, the
venues keep closing, and you need more and more of a draw. To start a band right now is
incredibly difficult to get booked anywhere where people can see you. It’s very hard to get people
to leave their borough. But it’s absolutely a joy to live here. Sometimes you feel like Bob Hoskins
walking around ‘Toon Town.’ It’s insane all the time, and I love every second of it.”
“Are there any ultra-sleazy BDSM freak bars?”
“They all suck and the music is like The Genitorturers and a bunch of bullshit that makes
you want to blow your brains out. There was a club called Albion where there was always people
with fangs biting each other, all that shit. Drinks were way too expensive, and nobody liked the
crazy punk people coming in and slam dancing. Bands weren’t really playing anyway, it was all
drum machine bullshit... If I have to meet one more fat girl who comes up to me with colored
contacts and fangs I’m just gonna kick her in the cunt. Vampires and all that bullshit. That’s what
people think of when they think of goth music when its actually just really fun punk. We got a
bad name from all these kids AND their shit is boring.”
“What is something remarkably bizarre that happened to you ad when you tell people
they think you’re a pathological liar?”
“Washington DC was our first road gig. It was a total hipster fest -- tight pants and black
rimmed glasses all around. I had a backpack full of PBR for liquid rehearsal, and we wound up
doing this really bizarre, avant-garde set. Halfway through the second song – I play keytar – I
shatter my knuckle and it moved to another part of my hand. I play the set, we walk off stage, and
I’m completely naked for some reason. I have this massive ham with just nub fingers. I got $15
dollars, I’m not going to the hospital. So the owner of the bar is like ‘well, can I get you drunk
then?’ So this bottle of Jack Daniels comes off the shelf… I passed out in the kitchen of this club
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in DC and woke up in China Town with no recollection. I was completely covered in black dirt
makeup, a broken hand, huge fist marks all over me ‘cause apparently I’d been challenging
people to punch me in the chest. And my dick was out. I don’t know why. Apparently I’d chased
a Chinese food delivery guy down the street trying to tackle him. And I apparently was exposing
myself to strangers…”
WILMINGTON (9/10)
We’d spent the night in Jersey with one of Hairy Bob’s high school buddies, who is a now an
accomplished jazz musician. Once upon a time he was the drummer of HAPPINESS, a “so
obscure their not even kvlt” weirdo slap-bass grind band. On that old demo the vocals could go
head to head with Landfermann in their pained quality. Not because of aesthetic, but because the
16 year vocalist didn’t know how to scream and was obviously murdering himself.
Somewhere in Delaware now, just as grim & industrial as Jersey. Their state motto is
“Liberty and Independence.” Tagged with a magnetic-strip ticket from the highway state line,
they digitally know every mile you’ve crossed when you approach the rather frequent
checkpoints which nickel and dime you.
Similarly, any time you exit the freeway from here until the end of Pennsylvania you
have to pay a scalping road charge. If you pretend to have lost the ticket, you may be ticketed
$100 by the state police with drug dogs standing guard at every check posts. By law, losing the
onramp pass gives them probable cause to search you. In result, this unforeseen scam will
ultimately cost us an unfactored $200 just to cross the state.
Not good -- we’re running low on everything, and all we have to eat are shrink-wrapped
granola bars. I’m down to a $50 personally, but my multi-talented uses award me a $5 a day food
budget out of the band fund (depending).
We overshoot the freeway for miles, and the dreary little bar is another Nascar crowd
plus a few old women with big 80’s hair. At the liquor store the desk-jockey cons me out of a $5
“slip up” I’d waited too long to call out. When redneck Ali Baba asks where we’re playing, we
answer The Good Shot. “It’s a little dark in there, don’t you think?”
“I don’t know, I thought it had adequate lighting.” I say, oblivious to the sarcasm. In 2
hours we find out what he meant. The promoters are three black guys that only book hip hop
shows and were hustled into this one by the lame DTB bookie Neil paid way too much for
nothing in return. Douschebag had passed them off as a funk act, and in 45 minutes the grim
watering hole is blacker then South Compton.
No openers, no guarantee. SMB stands no chance but they roll through their set anyway,
not bothering to slap on the old color-coded uniforms. DTB goes into a huddle, brainstorming.
Out of the genius playbook, they pull out the rarely used tactic -- “BLACK HOUR.” Only the
funk-laced tunes, the widely known covers plus allowing the promoters to come onstage and
freestyle… Crowd loves it, DTB are all smiles, and a female Baptist choir singer belted out some
Motown soul. SMB went away empty handed, and we walk out with $80 in merch…
PITTSBURG (9/11)
TUESDAY, 9/11 2007, six years after the desolation. The headline of USA Today is “HIGHEST
GENERAL DEMANDS TROOP WITHDRAWALS.”
I’ve been driving 5 straight hours through mountains in the rain, KROHM the overriding
soundtrack. Everyone is passed out, but I don’t bother waking them to take wheel duties no
matter how exhausted I am. We started at exit 360, and we don’t change course until #57. For
some reason I felt the need to drive all the way there.
As we approach the off-ramp, I see the billboard – MONROEVILLE MALL, EXIT 57.
Ho ho ho. Of course Downtown Brown had no idea why I was driving like a fanatic to get to an
indoor mall, and I didn’t bother to explain until we were a few blocks away. That’s where my
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favorite horror film of all time was shot – the 1978 epic gargantuan of underground filmmaking
Dawn of the Dead.
This has been a checklist item since I was 11. Every twist of the shopping center is like
Deja Vu. Its way smaller then I’d expected, and the only store that remains is JC Penny, but you
can still see the metal grating that’s long been painted over where the glass doors used to swing
shut.
The goldfish pond and little bridge were still there, the “don’t lead ‘em up there” hallway
with the same wavy-metal payphones -- the boiler room corridor, the Flyboy death elevator, the
escalator that Roger slides down yelping “whoo-whee!” It’s so surreal, even though there are no
Hare Krishnas…
The giant orange clock is gone, the fountain has disappeared, but you can still cruise
through the ex-ice skating rink area which has been turned into a corporate food court. There isn’t
a single plaque or movie poster encased on the wall. I guess they have enough problems with
stoned gore-hounds showing up and causing trouble as it is. But that giant billboard was
definitely a wink-wink tourist attraction for sure.
We are in Pittsburg for 15 minutes before getting attacked. Not by zombies, but by 20 black guys
because we’d interrupted their street football game. They were kicking the van and calling us
“white pigs.”
The venue is an artsy co-op in the middle of the ghetto called Garfield Artworks. The
owner won’t let us inside the building for an hour after the show has already supposed to have
begun. He comes out like a bolt of unfriendly lightning. He’s a short, rude little Jewish guy with
red hair that looks and talks like Woody Allen. He tells us not to even bother unpacking ‘cause no
one will be there, then when he changes his mind and has us unload, the other band shows up
who are 3 fat guys with banjos.
It’s obviously an uppity indie kid collective, amateurish surrealistic paintings line the
interior walls. They won’t come out to support our sort of thing -- another great move by the shit
bookie. The fate of all hangs on SMB, but that shot is ruined because Mindless Self Indulgence is
playing down the street, consuming whatever crowd they’d possibly have. Woody tells them
“Well, if you’re friends with them, why don’t you go play that show? Why would you think to book
a gig with us on the same night?” We don’t even tell him we’re leaving.
Heading back to Cincinnati to grab those forgotten cymbals, the tire blows out at 70 MPH
as we’re in-between two semi trucks. Bob braces the wheel, and Neil freezes cold, because he’s
in the Top Shelf bed. If we hit anything he’s going to torpedo out the front windshield…
Bob makes it to the shoulder like a pro, grinding the rim. We were bad on money before,
but now we’re fucked. To make matters worse I can feel the dragon of a viral infection creeping
up. Everyone in DTB is coughing & we all have sore throats…
COLUMBUS (9/12)
Back to Ohio, whose motto is “With God, All Things Are Possible.” No, only with Moranis…
Cleveland, definitely Fall now, another band rehearsal complex with Rick himself. We’d
spent an hour trying to get what little of the tire remained from the rim, but it just wouldn’t
budge. We had to call AAA for a tow truck driver who got out, took a gander, spit, then came
back with a 4X4. One mighty caveman whack and it came plopping off.
Man we felt stupid. The driver saw Glover and I splitting a Bugler and said “Man, I’d
keep that down if I were you.” “Ah it’s just a rolly.” “Shit man, I’m a tow truck driver, not a cop.
I was kinda hopin’ to hit that, har har har.” We parted ways as he drove off smiling with a
bundle of CD’s, bumper stickers and complimentary t-shirt. He didn’t even bother to bill us.
Rick Moranis has been aiding us with van maintenance all morning, and is full of ancient
Buddhist wisdom: “Cleveland is a lot of faggy death metal and I hate it -- bunch of kids that
watch too much cookie monster. I like the riffs, but the vocals don’t do it for me. It’s either that or
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fuckin’ emo. Emo makes you want to make love to a man, and death metal makes you want to
hate-fuck a guy... The mission of my band is to be sweet and try to get laid. Try to not ever have a
job. I’m 26, I live at home, it rules… We were tongue in cheek when we started, now we’re taking
ourselves seriously. Songs like ‘Barfight,’ ‘Gay Stripper,’ ‘Hot Chick Police.’ We really had to
look within ourselves to find our musical voice…”
“What are some crazy experiences you’ve had playing biker bars?”
Rick Moranis: “Fucking a chick in a bathroom somewhere like Peabodies. That’s pretty
much the jist of rock ‘n roll. It’s lying to people, telling them that you’re cool. They start
believing it and you get sex and drugs out of it…”
“What’s the best way to get sex out of people?”
“You say, ‘Hey I’m in a band.’ It sounds cheesy, but it works. You almost look at ‘em
like you’re lying and you know you’re lying but they’re not sure you’re lying but you are lying.
And you start believing your own bullshit… I prefer always to fuck a fat chick over a skinny
chick. They’re easier and they’ll lick your butt… My buddy was in town and we went to heavy
metal karaoke. He takes this chick -- this huge, huge chick -- takes her out to the car and gets a
blowjob and makes her lick his butt. He tells her to start making out with me, then I went in the
bathroom and fucked her. She was on the rag too, which was awesome… Then I fuck her, it’s a
real small bathroom. Like putting her face near the toilet seat, she wouldn’t put it in there. So I
banged her and came on her clothes then I went back outside. That was cool. She was huge, like
if Neil P and Hairy Bob combined bodies. She did have upper lip hair…”
“Ever get hot chicks?”
“We played an after-party for Sebastian Bach when he came through with Guns ‘N
Roses. Sebastian never showed up. He signed a contract and they were paying him a couple
grand. We promoted the shit out of it so it was packed, and we were supposed to go on at
midnight. Axel Rose was being a dick and they went on late, so he never made it. I just went up
to this retardedly hot blonde. In 5 minutes we went back to the motel room, there’s a couple
fucking next to us. She’s doing a bunch of drugs, then she’s like, ‘I came up there to fuck a real
rock star.’ And I just lied and was like, ‘yeah, I’m in this sweet band.’ She didn’t know. She takes
a bottle vodka and is like ‘come in the bathroom and watch me shit.’ So she’s shitting, and she
starts sucking my dick, drinking vodka and shit. I fucked her like a chump too cause I was drunk
and on all sorts of shit. It was the hottest chick ever and I’m talking to my limp dick like ‘why