Columns - "Friday Night at the Death Club" 08.01.01

Friday Night At The Death Club #10
By: Kenny On Broadway (A.K.A.- The Polar Bear Hunter).

All right, I’m sending out an APB to anyone in the San Francisco area who plays, or knows someone who plays the drums and wants to be in the new line up of DETOX POLICE. More importantly though, KILL THE HIPPIES is on their first tour West of the Mississippi. Please go out and support them if they roll through your town. Here’s the schedule:

(All Dates are in August)
Wed 1st- Bloomington IN @ Secret Sailor Books
Thurs 2nd - Milwaukee, WS @ Quarters
Fri 3rd  -Carbondale, IL @ Lost Cross House
Sat 4th - Wichita, KS @ Kirby’s Beer store
Sun 5th - Denver, CO
Mon 6th - Salt Lake City, UT
Tue 7th - Elko, NV @ Some Skate Park
Wed 8th - Twin Falls, ID @ 1300 Kimberly Rd
Thur 9th - Portland, OR @ Robot Steak House
Fri 10th - Olympia, WA
Sat 11th - Seattle, WA @ Gibson’s Bar
Sun 12th - Eugene, OR
Mon 13th - Eureka, OR
Tue 14th - San Francisco, CA @ Kimo’s
Wed 15th - Vegas, NV
Thur 16th - Coolidge, AZ @ The Bat Cave
Fri 17th - Albuquerque, NM @ Insurgo
Sat 18th - Lubbock, TX
Sun 19th - Dallas, TX
Mon 20th - Getting drunk in New Orleans, LA
Tue 21st - Montevallo, AL @ Barnstormers Pizza
Wed 22nd - Gainesville, FL @ A Record Store
Thur 23rd - Athens, GA @ 1090 Baxter St (above bookstore)
Fri 24th - Greenville, NC
Sat 25th - Asheville, NC

And with that listed, let’s get on with it.

Get on with what? Well, I guess the continuous hurling of our lives through space and time. The world moves under our feet as, like a record, we spin around the fucking sun. And we barely notice except for taking note of when it’s time to go to bed and to get out of bed. Why do we do all of this? We don’t know. Sure, theories abound, but I’m not one of those booky people. I really can’t base my life and happiness on any book, albeit it Jibran, Dostoevsky, God, Rollins, or any of that (or those), shit(s). I am a human being. Human beings are selfish. Human beings don’t listen. Yes- I am human. I just need to figure it out or not, and listen to my friends and stuff. Like I said, I am selfish and self absorbed. I think my friends know me better than dead people do, so there! As my Dad always said, "You are your friends." Fine, then I’m my friends. They’re a reflection of me too then, and that can’t be all bad sweet cheeks. Fuck it- I’m a human animal, and you people all think too much, or too little. Things don’t get done by thinking, they get done by doing (things).

So now it’s time to hurt. People- I hurt people. It’s because I hurt. That’s on the selfish side of town. Why? Cause they don’t listen to rappers- people don’t keep it real. They’re assholes, people are. They make me cry. If I was alone, fighting wildcats and sinning, psychotic wild dogs on this globe, I wouldn’t hate. I would live, then. I would survive. That’s what some human beings have in them that I find to be their greatest attribute- when it comes down to just you and me, there’s no more you- sorry. That’s the fucking eye of the tiger. My best friends have the eye of the tiger. I really don’t lately- I’ve become a big city, what can these people do for me if I can only find a way to break into their hot set, sissy. That’s over. Our generation here in the United States doesn’t have to survive very much. That statement will draw a lot of flak from people at me, but most people I’ve met in such situations picked drugs over regular life, and not the other way around. I quit doing drugs and drinking for a week recently just to make sure I could- I can. I’m not soft. I’ve dedicated my life to this mic of steel. Don’t feel sorry for me.

So now we get to punk rock. God, I fucking love punk rock. A lot of people like to use it for their own purposes, and then they use garage rock when that fits, or this, new wave, metal, mod, that and the other. I don’t do that. I love punk rock. End of story. Perfect night for me- a quick (sic) talk with the Shark (aka Power Animal Polar Bear Shaun Riverboat Surfing By Night CPL. Motherfucker, the Viking), tons of beer, and all night Pack. Sorry- that’s my life. Replace Pack with Pagans- fine. Replace your judgments with what you fucking do that’s dirty, wild, beer soaked, and threatening to destroy or kill itself trying. That’s me. That’s my life. I’m not bragging- It’s half embarrassing. I can’t even get in with skins or bristles punks or whatever- they hate me. I hate Special Duties. I don’t wear leather jackets unless it’s really cold. But I never wear shorts. That ain’t punk rock.

Maybe punk rock isn’t always the freshest head of lettuce. Maybe sometimes, that’s your own fault. I don’t like the underground being the new residing place for rock and blues and dreck. Please, will you people make it back into a mind-fucked trash net for me to latch onto when I fall in my darkest hours? Please. Or at least just make it aggressive again, at least. I’m--- living in the ‘80’s.

Class One Head Cases.

Class one attitude. Outside… Had to go to work-- frenzy. The apocalypse of toxic waste nightmares crushes the life out of talk and walk and concrete and pavement streets. I looked up into the sun and stared hard and long until I began seeing spots. Suddenly, a ripple a pain shot through my head, all of my thoughts melted and began pouring out of my ear onto my jean jacket, then the ground. A dog wearing a sweater and a beret sauntered up to me, and began lapping up my brain off of the sidewalk. I shoed it away, kneeled down, and began trying to lick up some of the goo myself—I didn’t want to be stupid. All my brainpower though soaked into my lower portions. Suddenly, all I could think about was pizza, beer, and masturbation. As I looked at the dog, I realized that he had just stolen all of my good ideas. Still wearing the beret, he took off down an alley.

Sprinting with all I had, I chased the mutt. The dog stopped running. I walked up to it.

"You have some pretty tasty thoughts," the dog said.

"What’s your name?" I asked.

The dog explained that his name was Larry, and that he was sorry- he thought I’d dropped food. Now though, he was cursed with the thoughts that constantly plagued me. I on the other hand felt free in my ignorance. I still had some thoughts though, as I’d shoved a chunk of an UGLY KID JOE flyer in my ear to stop the flow of brain from the right ear orifice. So we talked for a while. Larry told me all about myself—stuff I didn’t know anymore. I was shocked to learn how complicated I made things for myself in the past. I suggested we go get pizza and beer, so we did, and then went back to my pad. Larry played a bunch of my records for me—my favorites. I now had a new appreciation for them. Larry seemed to really like them too, and we stayed up all night drinking and smoking cigarettes.

I woke up the next morning. Was it all a dream? But sure enough, there was Larry running up my long d. bill talking to his bitches. It was ok with me though. Larry taught me a lot that previous night, and continued to teach me. We now wear matching berets and have switched to cigars. We ended up catching that UGLY KID JOE reunion show, too. It wasn’t very good. Meeting him was great. We now make tons of money from donations running an amnesty for Gary Busey web site. Gary Busey is totally fucking awesome.

Turntable Of Despair- The High Decibel Killers.

Ten columns into my stint here at Blank Generation, I still like to end with a quote from Lemmy Kilmeister. A lot of people might not understand what it is--- it’s not a joke.

The year was 1975. A child was being born- me. Another point of interest, was the firing of one Mr. Lemmy (Why doncha’ lemme a fiver) Kilmeister from the psychedelic band HAWKWIND. Rumor is that they left him in Canada. Lemmy decides to start a band called BASTARD, by design, the loudest, rudest, lewdest, crudest band ever. Lemmy on bass, Larry Wallace on guitar, and Lucus Fox on drums. By the end of the year, Phil "Filthy Animal" Taylor was in the drum seat. "Fast" Eddie Clarke was then added, and during a "scrutinizing" audition, Larry Wallace was then gone- not enough heart I suspect. By 1977, the self titled LP was finished.

So now you have "Fast" Eddie and "Filthy," but then it always comes back to Lemmy. I feel that a better name for MOTORHEAD would’ve been MOTHERFUCKER. Take the music. Until that time, no one played the bass like Lemmy. I play the bass. That’s why. Lemmy plays the bass like a guitar. He plays it louder than everything else. He plays it like a motherfucker. He plays it through a Marshall stack. He plays it to kill you. He plays it to save his life. But maybe he’s playing it to save all of our lives. Do you ever wonder why he still plays it? Well, hanging out with bikers, drinking whiskey, doing coke, and writing songs like "Ace Of Spades" and "Iron Fist" doesn’t come with a retirement plan. Actually, it does- death.

Vocally, Lemmy sounds like a real motherfucker, that growling, gnarled, horse belt of passion- "That’s the way I like it baby I don’t wanna’ live forever!" If that’s not a "fuck you" to everyone, what is? He’s gonna’ live out his curse on this planet the way he wants, but he doesn’t want to have to deal with you fucks any longer than necessary. If you don’t believe it, check out his mic stand when he plays. It’s seven feet in the air- he can only look down at all of you. That’s nothing else but Rock and Roll. Lemmy is a motherfucking Rock and Roller. Look at him.

Physically, Lemmy looks like a motherfucker. Who else could make a fashion statement out of giant moles? No one- just Lemmy. Jean jackets, iron crosses, and tit bar t-shirts. Do you ever wonder if that bullet belt, forever around his waist, is filled with live ammunition? I do. I bet it is. Did you ever look into his eyes? He’s gone. Rock and Roll.

And that’s what MOTORHEAD means to me. MOTORHEAD isn’t a punk rock band, and they’re not a thrash metal band or whatever else- they’re a Rock and Roll band. MOTORHEAD smokes cigarettes. MOTERHEAD does speed, and MOTORHEAD drinks whisky all day long. And it doesn’t kill them. You know why? Because they don’t care if it does or not. When they die, they will only be Killed By Death. White Line Fever!

So here it is. It’s my pleasure to tell you about this 7". This is an officially licensed (From Skydog) version of the "Leavin’ Here"/ "White Line Fever" 7", complete with heavy cardboard jacket and silver on black MOTORHEAD poster for your living room, kitchen, boudoir. MOTORHEAD/ ENGLAND--- get one.

But what do we have here? Mr. Kenny has a few more records for all you fucks this month, and hopefully I’ll have my new radio show done pretty soon and then you can hear some stuff off of them. This ain’t gonna’ be too long though- this time.

Golden Zombies "The 24 Kilate Sound" 10"
This is weird Munster business. I’m in. Spanish I believe, and would you believe, instrumental. Not surf really- just zombie mask, Brady Bunch on acid, organ, guitar party time stuff. Back in the salad days of Morris Rd. in Kent, Ohio, we had one of those refrigerators with a keg in it. The CHEATIN’ HUSSIES were just getting going at the time, and there were always people around. Once a week or so, we’d have dance parties, and by dance parties I mean just that. We’d toss the tables and shit in one of the bedrooms, turn on everything from Elvis to TEENGENERATE, and shake white ass(except Freed) until people would literally be on the tables throwing up while dancing. And we were mostly all spikes and studs certified punk rockers. That’s what you do when you legitimately don’t give any sort of fuck about anything. Cops would come and actually find it funny. Eventually, the living room floor caved in. Seriously. As a metaphor, I guess that would also work. Fuck, I wish we had this record then. The floor would’ve caved in months earlier. My dream was always to be the one to make it into the basement first, fucking fibrous carpet- too strong. Did I mention that this has an instrumental of my favorite old song "Stay" on it? Although my Mommy did mind when she would come over and there’d be 20 discarded bottles of Robotussin laying all over the house. Sorry, I like synthetic Morphine, and will take it any way it’s dished out.(Munster)

In Control "Breaking The Curse" CD
Total Nardcore attack! I’ve always been a big fan of AGGRESSION and stuff like that, so this pumps me up! STALAG 13 cover, and "We ain’t down with emo shit/ Give me a fast snare beat and a circle pit" lyrics. Need I say more? Fine. Give me this and hand drawn flyers for shows that depict people thrashing pools. Give me the energy I need and needed. This has two of the old 7 inches on it too, including the "Nard Curse EP."(Six Weeks)

Pagans "Shit Street" LP/ Pagans "Pink Album" LP
Won’t condescend to give much of an explanation. Best band from Ohio ever- ever! (Crypt)

V/A "Viva La Vinyl Vol. #4" LP
COCKSPANIELS and BONECRUSHER on one record? You got it. Now go get it. (Dead Beat)

X "Aspirations" LP
Aussie punk rock rules. Buy this, then buy all the old Aberrant Records compilations. What a hard fucking record this is. It’s funny-- I had a friend that moved to Austrailia, and had to move home. You’re aloud to drink wherever and whatever you want, and possess up to an ounce of grass on your person. He thought he was having out of body experiences in too big of a way cause of the being so fucked up all the time, came home, and became a high school teacher. No lie. (Rocknroll Blitzkrieg)

Rod Stewart "1964- 1969" 2LP
I’m fucking sick and tired of people dissing Rod Stewart. Rod the Mod, whatever- never listen to you faggots precious JAM and Powerpearls records again if you can’t back Rod. Rod Stewart is one of the closest things white folks have ever gotten to a soul man besides Burdon and Mitch Rider. My Dad when to see MITCH RIDER AND THE DETROIT WHEELS in Kent, Ohio in ’68- ’69. Packed the municipal gym to the guts, stoned hippies and shit, all pumped up. Well, Mitch was sick that evening, and couldn’t come on. The crowd was getting pissed, and trouble was a brewing. So like the Midwest Missile he was, Mr. Mitch came out, wrapped in a blanket, sick as a dog, and approached the microphone to calm the frantic crowd-- to offer a personal apology. He then threw the blanket off, and did a front flip into the mass of people in front of the stage-- all of this as the band tore into "Devil With A Blue Dress." (Get Back)

Putting out a bunch of new records, getting’ ill, listening to NERVOUS GENDER, and I am done- until next time. Keep your eyes peeled for Shaun Abnoxious, Joe "Frenchy" Domino and my new label On/On Switch. Our first release is slated for September. Drum roll—THE PIRANHAS 12" and 7" will now be available on CD. Keep on the look out for the new Rocknroll Blitzkrieg PIRANHAS 7" too, which is everything but officially out. On/On Switch has a bunch more on the plate after that-- in an effort to inject aggressiveness and psychotic dynamics back into punk rock, we will be spending the next year searching out bands outside of the loop that are disgusting, different, and willing to play tons of shows all over the place. Get in touch. Email me if you need a mailing address—the PO box will be ready Friday. Like Dr. King said we shall overcome.

Don’t Forget The Joker,

© 2003