The Evil Eye

NWA & the Posse

2012-02-17T12:00:00.000-08:00

NWA & the Posse is not so much the first NWA album than it is a compilation that they happen to be part of. The Niggaz only contribute three of their own songs, while most of the other tracks are taken up by Eazy E’s solo raps and another group called the Fila Fresh Crew. You are probably familiar with the NWA tracks, as they were later used on Straight Outta Compton, but perhaps you might enjoy checking out the other groups too. If nothing else, it is interesting to get a taste of what was up and coming in Los Angeles before gangsta rap took over and seemingly pushed fun-loving rappers like the Fila Fresh Crew and Rappinstine to the wayside. This rip was sourced from the original album at perfect MP3 quality, featuring Rappinstine’s “Scream.” Subsequent pressings replaced “Scream” with NWA’s “A Bitch iz a Bitch,” so click here and pretend you’ve been down with the posse from the very beginning.

Proud to be Black

2012-02-10T12:00:00.000-08:00

Run-DMC was not the first rap group I ever heard, but they were the first that I actively listened to. To a little kid in a Pennsylvania redneck town like me, Run-DMC busted out the sickest jams around. Everyone else in my family had their own taste in pop music that was well represented in our household. My dad was in charge of supplying the records, but he would not bend to my requests to bring Metallica records into the fold. He did, however, come home with a handful of Run-DMC singles for me to listen to. Perhaps they would be the start of my establishing my own niche in the family music collection instead. At eight years old, I obviously knew nothing about rap music or its history. I just knew that I loved this new sound coming out of the radio speakers.

Hip-hop culture hit the mainstream like the atomic bomb in the mid ‘80s. Suddenly, redneck kids were attempting the Human Beat Box and walked around town with ghetto blasters like they were Radio Raheem in Do the Right Thing. Run-DMC and LL Cool J battled it out to be the kings of this transition, at least until a trio of smartass white kids called the Beastie Boys hit it huge with a single called “Fight for Your Right (to Party).”

When I first moved to California in the late ‘80s, I found out the hard way that Run-DMC were already passé amongst my fellow little kid rap fans. Little did they know that none of their favorites would be relevant past 1990, rendered obsolete by hardcore gangsta rap. Run-DMC has managed to stand the test of time. I still overhear people listening to them occasionally.

Raising Hell isn’t Run-DMC’s best album, but it is my favorite. The first four songs are classics, including the smash hit cover of Aerosmith’s “Walk This Way.” Sure, the middle section drags, but “You Be Illin’” picks it back up. Unfortunately, “Dumb Girl” slows it right back down. Songs about dumb girls can be funny, but this one is, well, dumb. Maybe that was the point. “Proud to Be Black” closes the album on a high note. The normally lighthearted Run-DMC get serious with this rap, lyrically rejecting the slave mentality in favor of standing up for oneself and looking past things like skin color. Hopefully the human race will be able to cure the cancer of racism someday.

Raise hell

Make the Leaders Fight

2012-02-03T12:00:00.000-08:00

Bands are often less remembered for their music than they are for everything else—be it onstage antics, violence, or simply the musicians themselves. From what I can tell, Special Forces are no exception. Most people would probably just write them off as another generic ‘80s hardcore band, but there is certainly more to them than just that. Special Forces issued their first demo in 1983 and continued as something of a Bay Area punk farm team for nearly ten years. The various local punk luminaries who have done tours of duty with Special Forces are too many to name, but the main cog was always a character by the name of Orlando Xavier. Affectionately known to most as Ox, Orlando was one of the first punks hanging out on Berkeley’s Telegraph Avenue back in the early ‘80s. Ever since then, he has been quite the visible fixture in the Bay Area punk scene, loudly holding court at the bar, working security at Gilman in the early ‘90s, or scaring shoplifters at Amoeba Records. Forget about Gimme Something Better; you could probably fill a book with bizarre Orlando stories alone. Not a man you would want to meet in a dark alley. Bet on that.

Local bands rule, right? Special Forces would have been a band that provided a soundtrack to many moments of your punk rock youth. “In South Africa” would have been stuck in your head while on a half-sheet of acid at the anti-apartheid protest. You would have gotten drunk in the alley and slam-danced your little heart out in some dingy warehouse as they played. Their patches would adorn your jacket. You ain’t gotta lie to kick it. We all know this, so don’t front. Try to keep all of this in mind when you listen to songs like “Death on Holiday, “Cockrocker,” “Make the Leaders Fight” (always my favorite), “Mulemeat Blues,” or “Berkeley Hardcore.” Perhaps then you will see why Special Forces is a name that brings a smile to the faces of older East Bay punks when brought up. They also had a song called “Generic Thrash,” so at least they knew what you thought of them the whole time.

Babalooooooooooo!

MegaRepost: Shit Gets Smashed

2012-01-31T12:00:00.000-08:00

Shit Gets Smashed was a compilation released by East Bay Menace during the local scene’s supposed “dead” period of the mid ‘90s. While Green Day and Rancid were blowing up big on MTV, a number of their peers formed new bands that mostly shifted towards a darker sound than their more melodic outfits of years past. Of course, I am referring to the “Oakland crust” sound, which has roots in older bands like Crucifix, Neurosis, and Christ on Parade. With a couple exceptions, Shit Gets Smashed documents all of the bands that played that style around here back then. Eldopa, Ojorojo, and Multi-Facet represent Oakland Satanic darkness, while Apeface were up to similar hijinks in San José. The Oakland bands have admittedly had better moments elsewhere, but the Apeface tracks are the best I have heard from them. Despite this being thought of as an Oakland crustcore compilation, that is hardly the case. Punk of a more straightforward nature gets its due with Hot Rod Shopping Cart, Squat, and Masterbaiter. Feel free to drench yourself in cheap beer to the rollicking drunken punk stylings of Strychnine, Mickey & the Big Mouths, and Loaded. Not all of the bands are from the East Bay either—San Francisco, San José, and Petaluma are also included.

I should admit that listening to Shit Gets Smashed does not always bring back pleasant memories. The mid ‘90s were both a fun and frustrating time in the East Bay, which is a subject that has been (and will continue to be) covered here numerous times. Tribalism was abounding, as people were much more rigid in their punk rock identities than they are now. New blood was not easily accepted, especially what with the amount of mainstream bozos flocking to Gilman Street after reading about the place in Rolling Stone. However, dealing with the bullshit was a good test of one’s resolve. Plenty of lessons were learned that later got applied in ways that made things better around here. With that in mind, I appreciate being able to have witnessed some of the things I saw as a teenager, both good and bad.

Whether anyone likes it or not, there were things happening in the Bay Area in the years between the first Neurosis album and the Ramen Days DVD—certainly more than just A.F.I. and Oppressed Logic. Shit Gets Smashed proves that, although it has faded into obscurity to some degree. Here is your second chance (actually third, considering this is a repost) to enjoy the evidence.

Sassy

2012-01-27T12:00:00.000-08:00

Reina Aveja may have hailed from Gainesville, but it would be foolish to believe that they had anything in common musically with bands like This Bike is a Pipe Bomb or Against Me. It would also be a bad idea to lower your expectations based on bassist Jessica Mills’ previous stint in the awful ska band Less Than Jake. These queen bees churned out toxic sludge that could have sent every folk punk, ska kid, and doubter running for their lives. Fortunately, their sentiments appeared to be a bit removed from the drug-addled self-pity that is typical of most bands of their ilk. Simply put, Reina Aveja was a band that sounded like they were legitimately having fun playing heavy music. Stranger things have happened.

Reina Aveja came out here on tour at the end of 1998, playing an ill-attended Gilman show with another Gainesville band called Panthro UK United 13. Apparently their drummer Becky had such a great time, she called home and told her husband Judd that their plans to move to New York had changed. They moved to the Bay Area instead, bringing Reina Aveja vocalist Jen Roberts with them. Upon their arrival, the trio started a new band called Brainbloodvolume with Robert Collins of Artimus Pyle. They didn’t last long, but Jen eventually lent her considerable vocal talents to I Love a Parade, which also boasted ex-members of His Hero is Gone, Econochrist, Grinch, and Eldopa in their ranks. Becky and Judd regrouped some time later with Laudanum, who is still with us after weathering a number of lineup changes.

Chances are you didn’t give a damn about Reina Aveja when they were around. Now you have a second chance to catch up with this criminally underrated stoner sludge unit, so it’s okay. Really.

Here

MegaRepost: Neurosis - Live at 924 Gilman Street 4/28/90

2012-01-24T12:00:00.000-08:00

One of our first posts was this soundboard recording of Neurosis playing at Gilman Street in April of 1990, which certainly warrants a second look. I mistakenly thought this was the same recording as the Short Wave Warfare bootleg, but you can still rest assured that this one is a million times better. If you are in the camp that enjoys their material up to The Word as Law, then you will appreciate the opportunity to add this set to your hard drive. Neurosis crushes the audience with twenty songs of Oakland punk darkness before taking off on tour or whatever this show was a benefit for. A few of these songs are still in instrumental form, but none came out as finished product on any future Neurosis records. Someday I will have to post the Econochrist and Filth sets from this same show, but it will be quite some time before that happens. Until then, get high and lose your mind with Part 1 and Part 2. Click on both of those links so you can get the whole set. If you are a moron, click on only one link and live a halfassed life.

Nobody's Wiping

2012-01-20T12:00:00.000-08:00

Despite what I said about State of Fear some months back, I think it goes without saying that Misery stands tall as the undisputed kings of Twin Cities crust. Perhaps someone else who is more active in the area’s punk scene than we are can tell us differently. Until that happens, their claim to royalty remains intact amongst the hygienically challenged masses. This record was recorded live in New York City and released by the famed Squat or Rot label in 1993. For a live recording, this isn’t bad at all. Misery sounds exactly as how one should expect them to in this setting—a godawful drunken racket. These three songs are staples in their set too, at least from what I have seen of them. One is a spirited cover of the Amebix favorite “Nobody’s Driving,” which sounds like your drunken loser friends in the garage after a couple of 40s. To me, this is another one of those records where you can smell the stench of stale malt liquor and other assorted aromas emanating from the grooves. Unfortunately, we do not provide the piss-yellow vinyl or the back cover photo of some dude’s crusty ass for the full effect. That might be quite all right in your book though. Just get wasted and enjoy the tunes, fuckhead.

Wipe

Medicine of Thieves

2012-01-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

Sixteen years ago, I was at Gilman waiting for the first night of the 1996 Slap a Ham Fiesta Grande to start when my friend Ben came running up to me in excitement. Totally stoked, he informed me that tonight’s show featured a surprise jump-on band—Copout, who had blown minds at the previous year’s Fiesta Grande. I really loved the Copout seven-inch and wanted my own copy, so I rushed over to their merch table to say hello. Unfortunately, Ben was a little too excited to get his info straight. Copout had broken up quite some time ago, so they would not be playing tonight after all. Instead, it was their new band with a weird name: His Hero is Gone. I think they caught the disappointed look on my face and reassured me that things hadn’t changed much between bands. Fine, I will keep an open mind and see what these guys are all about.

By the end of their set, those of us who were bummed about the Copout tease had been won over by His Hero is Gone and their blistering doom-and-gloom hardcore. With newfound looks of excitement on our faces, we flocked back to their merch table for anything they had for sale. Everyone bought their T-shirts except for me. I only had enough money to choose between a shirt and a demo. Judging by this post, I think you can guess which choice I made. Can’t say I have ever regretted that decision.

The die-hard His Hero is Gone fans might find it funny, but the Medicine of Thieves demo was always my favorite material of theirs. Most of their records never really grabbed my attention the way this demo did. Don’t ask me why; I have no idea. Maybe it is because they still managed to sound heavy and overpowering with an eight-track recording. Perhaps it was because Todd killed my enthusiasm by talking way too much between songs every other time I saw them live. Ultimately, it is more than likely due to my being there for that first Gilman show and how special that entire evening was to me. Too bad I didn’t think to tape them off the Gilman soundboard like I did with Charles Bronson, Spazz, and Phobia that night. Wouldn’t that have been a nice bonus to this tape?

I have seen copies of Medicine of Thieves with a different cover, but I don’t know what the story is with that version. Rest assured that this is the same tape that I purchased from His Hero is Gone themselves back on January 5, 1996. I have taken good care of that tape ever since then and I am happy to share it with all two or three of our readers today. Join Team Murder USA here.

Goat-Core

2012-01-06T12:00:00.000-08:00

During the 1990s, the grind/hardcore scene emanating out of the Lower Peninsula of San Mateo County was one that was looked down upon by the scenesters and tastemakers of the East Bay/Gilman scene. Personally, I cannot think of another band from that area that was more maligned by the Gilman clique of the time than Agents of Satan.

One of their first Gilman shows took place sixteen years ago at the second night of the 1996 Slap a Ham Fiesta Grande. I was not able to attend, but was told all about it the next day. From what I gathered, not very many people in the crowd understood what Agents of Satan were doing musically. One has to remember that black metal was only starting to get noticed amongst the local punks and crustys at this time. Agents of Satan proved that they were well ahead of the curve when they took the stage clad in Emperor T-shirts and corpse paint. At some point during their set, one of their friends busted a stagedive—which is a big no-no at Gilman Street—and was immediately thrown out by security. The tirade that followed from the stage was partially captured on the Fiesta Comes Alive! compilation, in which you can hear their bassist Frank Marchi yelling, “I bet if that dude had more fucking spikes and bullshit in his hair, he wouldn’t have gotten thrown out of this place!”

The next chapter in the Agents of Satan/Gilman beef unfolded in November of 1996 when Agents were scheduled to play there with Man is the Bastard and Excruciating Terror. Back then, Gilman Street relied on a guy named “Greg Grindcore” to book the occasional grind show. Greg was also the booking contact for Man is the Bastard and may still serve in that capacity for Bastard Noise today. Greg was setting up what was sure to be a great show, but was told by Gilman booking that there were too many bands on the bill. One of them would have to go, so Greg decided that Agents of Satan would be bumped off.

Problem was, Greg had apparently not informed anyone in the band of his decision. When Agents of Satan showed up at the club to find out that they were no longer playing, the shit hit the fan. I remember walking outside for a breather when I saw this one-armed guy in the faces of various Gilman security guards, SCREAMING at the top of his lungs about how he had driven down from Humboldt for this gig. That was, of course, Agents of Satan vocalist Jason Balsells, who was attending school in Humboldt at the time. Humboldt County and Berkeley aren’t exactly close to one another, so perhaps you can understand why he was so upset. Considering the rage he was in, I was not about to take my friend Nick up on his suggestion to go make fun of the guy for being an amputee.

I went back inside to see the bands, but the situation only got uglier from there. Apparently, Agents of Satan and other members of the West Bay Coalition (including Max Ward) got into several scraps with people outside, leading Gilman security to declare that they were no longer welcome at the club. Despite Max’s involvement in the fights, Spazz were still allowed to participate in shows they had been booked on. A few months later, Deadbodieseverywhere got the plug pulled when Jason got onstage to do a song with them. Apparently, the Gilman staff was under the impression that Agents of Satan were trying to pull a fast one by playing under a different name. It never occurred to them that maybe Jason was in another band that hadn’t been blackballed. Accusations of being a racist were hurled at Jason from certain club staffers as well. It was difficult to take that seriously, especially since the West Bay Coalition was quite the multiracial group—much more than the (mostly white) Gilman staff of the time, I might add. Of course, the reasons for that claim or its legitimacy were never substantiated by anyone at Gilman when I tried to get the club’s side of the story.

When I first got involved with Gilman booking in 1997, one of the things I wanted to do was try to build a more positive relationship between the club and the West Bay Coalition. Agents of Satan were actually the first band I wanted to work with, but the other bookers flat out refused to let it happen. After several years of heated discussion with both Gilman booking and Jason, the ban was lifted. Unfortunately, Agents of Satan had broken up by this point. However, Deadbodieseverywhere were still at it and played at Gilman with Eldopa and Ludicra in the spring of 2001. Agents of Satan did a reunion show two years later with Municipal Waste and Caustic Christ that brought my Gilman booking journey full circle.

This is, of course, Agents of Satan’s debut seven-inch on 625. Some people prefer their later material with Kindred from No Less playing guitar, but this record—as well as their demo and tracks on the El Guapo compilation—is a true snapshot of that time and place and the frustration that came with being part of it. Sick guitarless grind/hardcore that takes cues from Man is the Bastard and Black Flag, with a minor black metal influence that may or may not appeal to those of the grim/kvlt/nekro persuasion. Dig the grimy hardcore rap samples courtesy of 2D$ Network/The Factor, a Redwood City group that Kindred used to bust flows for back in the day. Lose your mind to Frank’s awesome bass playing, in which he takes Eric Wood’s fretboard mangling to different levels. Masturbate on the Book of Shit, avoid the red impulse, and don’t fuck with the Father of G-One.

666

Am I Going Insane?

2011-12-30T12:00:00.000-08:00

Of the six classic-era Black Sabbath albums, Sabotage is the one that I almost never hear anyone mention. Perhaps people forgot that they still had it in them to issue one more great album after the complex monstrosity that was Sabbath, Bloody Sabbath. By this point, the band’s excessive lifestyle had begun to catch up to them. The drug abuse and constant touring were slowly causing the band to unravel. Combined with Tony Iommi’s burgeoning obsession with studio production, Sabotage took considerably longer to record than the usual Sabbath fare. The result was well worth the time spent, although this is clearly an album by a band that won’t admit to one another that their time is up. At least not until the recording is finished, anyway. There are times when you can almost feel the band struggling to maintain what is left of their sanity after five hard years of recording, traveling, and doing copious amounts of drugs. On the near-ten-minute epic “Megalomania,” Ozzy begs everyone to get out of his life and leave him alone to wallow in his drug-induced isolation. “Am I Going Insane (Radio)” is self-explanatory. It is a descent into madness, punctuated by the cackles of psychotic laughter at the song’s conclusion. The laughter carries over into “The Writ,” which concludes Sabotage on a high note. While the lyrics apparently lash out at Sabbath’s old management team, there is more going on in the music itself. When Ozzy whimpers “I know” repeatedly, it is like an affirmation that the band is over. He sounds like he is shedding tears of relief with that knowledge. The beat marches the song to its bitter end. As it fades out, the creative flame that made Black Sabbath the kings of heavy music becomes extinguished.

If you don’t believe me, I only have two words for you: Technical Ecstasy. End of story.

Get sabotaged.

Nail Guns for Jesus

2011-12-23T12:00:00.000-08:00

More maxed-out crusty hardcore goodness, this time courtesy of young punkers from the Twin Cities. I actually reviewed this evil little platter for People Under No King zine over ten years ago and really enjoyed it. Admittedly, Baptize This has not actually seen that much turntable action since then. Yet, it has survived a couple purges of record collection filler, so I guess it managed to leave some kind of lasting impression on me despite the lack of play. Similar to what I said a couple weeks ago, I’m not nearly as enthusiastic about frantically paced crustcore as I used to be. That said, I still enjoy this record for the most part. Pontius Pilate incorporated a few more elements into their sound that made them sound different from previous bands in their area. It seemed like a new wrinkle in the ‘Minneapolis sound,’ giving hope that there would be more to come. The title track is still worth the price of admission all by itself. Naturally, a band called Pontius Pilate is going to take on the lord and savior in their lyrics and these guys certainly do that. Jesus doesn’t seem like such a bad person, but I’ll never not get a kick out of the line, “Jesus is dead and he’s not coming back. If he does, we’ve got NAIL GUNS!” I don’t know that this record “kills” like I said it did in my old review, but click here to upset your pastor anyway.

On Parole

2011-12-16T12:00:00.000-08:00

In 1975, Motörhead were merely a fuckup ex-members-of band whose label had low expectations of. Their attempt at a debut LP had its share of problems. Supposedly, producer Dave Edmunds fled the session while covering his ears. Fritz Fryer stepped in to take his place. After laying down the initial drum tracks, Lucas Fox was sacked in favor of Phil “Philthy Animal” Taylor. Motörhead managed to finish the recording, but United Artists saw no potential in them and ordered the album shelved. When their contract ran out two years later, Lemmy and the gang took their sturm und klang elsewhere and commenced dropping musical bombs on metalheads and punks everywhere. Somewhere between the release of Bomber and Ace of Spades, United Artists realized how much they fucked up by letting Motörhead go. Much to the band’s chagrin, the original tapes were dusted off and released as On Parole.

Although I have heard that Lemmy does not acknowledge On Parole as a legitimate part of their discography, this is your chance to hear Motörhead’s original lineup. If you thought they sounded like a punk band before, you ain’t heard nothing yet. On Parole is a stripped-down Motörhead with considerably less bombast and a lot more rock ‘n’ roll. To these ears, quite a few of these songs sound great with that approach. “Vibrator” is perfect playful sleaziness, executed with a smile. Musically, the Pink Fairies cover of “City Kids” is a straight up Oi song that is a notch or two above future Chiswick labelmates Skrewdriver. Even Lemmy’s vocals sound radically different here. He still had a few gallons of whiskey and cartons of fags to work on before attaining his signature strangled rasp that we are all familiar with. Most of these songs were re-recorded for the self-titled LP, while two others showed up on the Beer Drinkers and Hell Raisers EP. “Leaving Here” made it on the live Golden Years EP and I am not sure that “Fools” was recorded anywhere else at all.

Finding a copy of On Parole in a record store took longer than I care to admit, but I was happy when it finally happened. It has gone in and out of print over the past thirty-ish years, so perhaps some of you Motörheadbangers have missed out on what may very well be your most interesting experience listening to them.

Umlauts

Demo Alert: Your Enemy

2011-12-13T12:00:00.000-08:00

There is a war inside their heads and they are Your Enemy—an excellent new grindcore band from Oakland that has helped make me feel excited about the direction of our local music scene. Although they have not played very many shows, Your Enemy has already demonstrated that they are perfectly capable of generating a whole lot of energy on their behalf. Just this past weekend, they laid waste to a local basement venue called the Swamp and nearly rendered the other good local bands on the bill irrelevant. Our more faithful readers may recall that I am not particularly impressed with very many newer grind bands, but Your Enemy is clearly an exception. I like grind when it is delivered with instrumental power and sounds like a rabid pit bull. Your Enemy brings that in spades. The scariest thing about this demo is the fact that the band can only get better from here. I hope that you will die before these motherfuckers have a chance to kill you themselves.

Your Enemy

Reaping the Demos

2011-12-09T12:00:00.000-08:00

A while back, I was dismayed when I pulled out my copy of the classic Behind the Realms of Madness LP to find that I no longer enjoyed it as much as I used to. Even “Life Line” failed to grab me and pull me into what was such a wonderful metal/punk journey for so long. I hate to say it, but I actually found Sacrilege to be anything but the heavy and powerful crust unit they had always been to me. In fact, I actually found them quite boring. Sad but true. I have not listened to Behind the Realms of Madness since, out of fear that perhaps it was not just my mood that day. It is alarming when your old favorite bands don’t deliver the goods anymore. Maybe you have been there.

In fact, I have noticed this same trend occurring with many of my old crusty punk favorites. Truthfully, I have noticed a distinct shift in my musical tastes over the past four years or so. I find myself less impressed with overly heavy or fast music. Instead, I look for those who play with power while remembering the value of a good tune. In my opinion, this is not exactly common amongst much of what passes for today’s hardcore/crust/grind/doom/whatever bands. Still, I held out hope that I could still tolerate the older bands that I had known and loved before my musical priorities changed. After all, that Sacrilege album was so great, especially at this time of the year!

Fortunately, whatever enthusiasm was lost for Behind the Realms of Madness was found here. Reaping the Demo(n)s compiles a handful of Sacrilege demos recorded between 1984 and 1986, plus a live set at a venue called Adam and Eve in Northern England. You may have heard some of these before—the Stark Reality 1985 demo has made its rounds in the past—but they probably never sounded as good as they do here. This is a legitimate reissue, so time was taken to resolve whatever issues with sound quality there may have been. Most of these demos were recorded in the years following Behind the Realms of Madness, but it is great to hear those songs with more of a crusty edge and less production. The big treat for me is the 1984 demo, in which Sacrilege sounds much more like a metal-tinged punk band in a Varukers vein. Considering my aforementioned taste shift, that was certainly to my liking. Perhaps you remember their previous band Warwound, who also played in a similar style.

It will probably be a while before I feel like I can break out Behind the Realms of Madness for another chance. At least I have the comfort of knowing that I haven’t completely given up on my beloved Sacrilege, thanks to these demos. Consider that a relief. If you never gave up on them in the first place, you’re probably going to love listening to this collection. Reap what you sow here for disc 1 and here for disc 2.

I Think You're Shit

2011-12-02T12:00:00.000-08:00

Like Urban Assault, the Fuck Ups were another San Francisco punk band whose expressions of rage were born of the streets. They were most notorious for a song called “White Boy,” a ranting number about life in San Francisco’s Mission District from a drunken white trash punk’s perspective. Tim Yohannon and MRR used the song and specific incidents as fuel to brand the Fuck Ups as a racist band, a label that they were never quite able to shake over the years. To be honest, Fuck Ups vocalist Bob Noxious was not exactly known for doing much to change anybody’s opinion regarding his racial animosity, or lack thereof. Even if they had never written “White Boy,” their detractors only have to point to a particular T-shirt Bob was known for wearing back in the day—with a swastika on the front followed by the slogan “NIGGERS BEWARE” on the rear. Obviously, ambiguity is not the first word one thinks of in this regard. However, just as many people would say Bob Noxious was not legitimately racist as there are who would disagree.

It is true that back in the late ‘70s and early ‘80s, punk rock was considerably different before MRR’s politicized vision began to unfold. In particular, some early San Francisco bands explored lyrical themes having to do with being disaffected Caucasians of sorts. Sometimes the results were blackly satirical, such as Noh Mercy’s “Caucasian Guilt.” Other times, they were unfocused expressions of ignorance. To some extent, “White Boy” falls on the latter side of the fence. Although I wasn’t there in the early ‘80s, I personally never felt that the song itself was as racist as people claimed it was. It might be safe to say that critics like Tim Yohannon had not been to some of the places that might inspire a song like this one. I’ve never been the only “white boy” in the Mission, but I have been the only one in line at the welfare office before. Of course, that was the perspective I had when listening to the song. The problem was that Bob Noxious couldn’t really articulate those sentiments very well—and that Tim Yohannon had already made up his mind before the conversation was recorded for an early issue of MRR.

To be honest, “White Boy” isn’t worthy of all the hype it gets. Believe it or not, there are five other songs on here that are much better. The rest of the record may not be as controversial, but it is as good an example of raw, antisocial punk rock as any you will find circa 1982. “I Think You’re Shit” is a snarling expression of hatred that rates as one of my favorite punk songs, although others might cite the sentiments of “Once I Had a Brother.”

The Fuck Ups were ugly, violent, and obnoxious—everything that punk rock was before the more deeply political elements were introduced. For all the attempts to kill off that side of punk over time, it still manages to fester like a cancerous cell that just won’t go away. That’s not such a bad thing, in my opinion. Sometimes we (as in “…the punks”) need to be reminded of where we truly come from.

FU!

Never Mind Cosmic Hearse, Here's The Evil Eye

2011-11-25T12:00:00.000-08:00

Fuck you. I don’t care if the Sex Pistols are a “starter punk” band. It has been twenty years since my best friend in middle school came by one morning with a tape he thought I should hear. For the past few months, both of us had been curious about what exactly punk rock entailed. One of the skater punk kids we knew told us to check out Never Mind the Bollocks, Here’s the Sex Pistols. This was something we had to check out together, so we made a pact that whoever got their copy first would wait until he saw the other before listening to it.

Charlie didn’t live up to that part of the deal, but he was put off by the cover artwork at first. If I recall, he just wanted to be sure that the pink background was the only ‘faggot-y’ thing about this album before I heard it. I probably would have done the same thing. It didn’t really matter, since he had the tape in his hand and was able to confirm the music’s decidedly ‘heterosexual’ status. He put the tape in the stereo and turned up the volume. The sound that began exploding from the speakers was the musical realization of what was going on inside my head. Whatever lyrics I could pick out were a direct line to the truth. Maybe I didn’t know what the Pistols meant by “God Save the Queen” at the time, but I sure understood the ugly simplicity of a statement like “there’s no future for you.” That was heavier than any Metallica song. I was transfixed, from the sound of the jackboots at the beginning of “Holidays in the Sun” all the way to Johnny Rotten’s “goodbye, A&M!” at the end of “EMI.” At that moment, Never Mind the Bollocks was the greatest rock ‘n’ roll album of all-time. The pink background was the furthest thing from my mind.

Life had just drastically changed. I no longer had to spend each morning thinking of a new reason to stay alive one more day. Punk rock was a damn good reason to remain above ground. I didn’t drink as much before going to school. The nightmares began to dissipate. As long as I had the Sex Pistols, life was not that bad. Listening to them before and after school was a million times better than therapy. The Dead Kennedys and Black Flag were soon to follow.

For me, Never Mind the Bollocks was the beginning of a process towards finding myself (“…my beautiful self”), or at least a less mentally disturbed version. I’m not sure where I would have wound up without it. Click here if you are a kid in need of that kind of guidance, or if you simply have to re-affirm a few things.

I’m in Löve (with a Deåd Blog)

2011-11-18T12:00:00.000-08:00

According to the world I live in, every suburban punk and metalhead should have a special place in his or her hearts for GWAR. They are a band that I feel like people should have checked out early in their exploration of this music. GWAR has always been schlocky music for obnoxious teenagers. It’s not fair to say that you missed the boat otherwise, because everybody knows that it’s more about how old you feel internally. Saying that, there may still be a chance for you to properly enjoy GWAR if you still retain some aspect of shithead teenager to your overall being.

Most die-hard GWAR fans probably rate their second album, Scumdogs of the Universe, as the band’s best. For my money, it is all about the record preceding it. Hell-O! wasn’t the first GWAR album I heard, but it has remained a necessary part of my twenty-year-long musical journey. If I could only use one word to describe this album, it would be FUN. Goddamned right I said fun! From start to finish, Hell-O! exemplifies that word in the best of ways. Records like Damaged conjure up different feelings of sociopathic rage. Hell-O! is the record that makes me smile. I think there’s plenty of room in evil rock ‘n’ roll for bands that can legitimately do that. Fashionably depressed and/or angry music gets old sometimes. Save some room for the band of crack-smoking aliens stranded in Antarctica. Slayer never had the balls to write about necrobestiality as a love song, did they?

It may interest you to know that not only was this rip sourced from the original LP on Kramer’s Shimmy-Disc label, but we have also included the cassette-only bonus track “Black and Huge” for your listening pleasure. We are also happy to inform you that all of this is presented in perfect MP3 quality at a 320kbps bit rate. This is just one more example of why you are always in good hands with us here at The Evil Eye.

GWAR!

K.T.L.

2011-11-11T12:00:00.000-08:00

Fifteen years ago this week, Excruciating Terror played at Gilman Street for the second time. Also included on the bill were Man is the Bastard, No Less, Noothgrush, and Benumb. Many things happened at this show. Actually, it is probably more accurate to say that many things did NOT happen, such as Man is the Bastard no-showing yet another Gilman gig. A new chapter unfolded in the Agents of Satan/Gilman beef too, but that’s another story for another time. One thing that did happen was Excruciating Terror were as fuckin’ mind-blowing as the Napalm Death Peel sessions. Another thing that happened was Max Ward happened to record their set right off the Gilman Street soundboard. The tape came out sick as fuck, so Max released it as a seven-inch on his 625 label.

Correct me if I’m wrong, but I think Live at Gilman is the most sought-after item in Excruciating Terror’s discography. It is, after all, the best representation of their sonic intensity. I should know, since I was right up front while it was being recorded and all that jazz. The funny thing is that, live and in person, Excruciating Terror was twice as good as this record is. That’s right—twice as loud, powerful, and heavy. Supposedly, they smoked PCP before their sets. The stage lights would be turned off and you could feel the mood quickly change in the crowd. Bodies would begin flying to and fro, with little regard for personal safety. I don’t remember anyone being seriously injured at an Excruciating Terror show, but it is safe to say that those pits were violent.

It has been said that Excruciating Terror never had actual lyrics, but they were the real deal nonetheless. They weren’t a bunch of white suburban goofballs making noise to upset Mommy and Daddy. Grindcore in their hands sounded as violent and hateful as it ever could. Yet, Excruciating Terror had a groove and rhythm to their craft that most bands lacked. Maybe that’s why I continue to go back to this record while dropping something warm and brown on what passes for today’s grindcore and powerviolence. On the other hand, perhaps it is that I remember them and others too vividly to accept a newcomer’s attempt to ascend to their throne.

PCP

Concord's Most Wanted

2011-11-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

I’ve heard that there’s some bands out there who are (or were) attempting to make modern hardcore more interesting by affecting some kind of “sketchy” image, which is kinda funny to me. Instead of wasting time on bands who want you to think they’re sketchy and fucked up, let’s look at a band who really was and see if that still sounds appealing to you.

Six Weeks Records thought they were making an antagonistic statement towards the Gilman scene clique when they released their Straight Outta Concord comp in the early ‘90s. For better or worse, the Dead Smurfs seemed to antagonize people wherever they went. They had a reputation for getting thrown out of virtually every show or party they played or attended. Some kind of scene would be made in the process, if not an actual fight. Their demo insert consisted of newspaper clippings regarding fights they’d apparently gotten into where knives were involved. A few of my friends from Concord told stories of ridiculous fights outside of parties with these guys; then I witnessed it myself when members of the Dead Smurfs and their cohorts got into it with an understaffed Gilman security at a Dr. Know gig. Ironic, since bassist Sam McGuire now plays at the club without incident whenever his band Scheisse Minelli is on tour.

As you might guess, the Dead Smurfs’ music played second fiddle to their sordid reputation. Chances are they didn’t get to finish their set when they played live anyway. If you came here expecting nasty, shitty garage hardcore reeking of malt liquor and crystal meth (or crack, if you believe their thank-you list), you’re at the right place. There’s no respect for women, the elderly, city punks, AIDS patients, the obese, or the homeless to be found here. Unfortunately, they’re not a hilarious good time like the Meatmen were back in the day. Tweaked to the gills and saying nasty shit to the bitches, the Dead Smurfs appear to mean harm. Got a problem with that? Bring that shit here, faggot.

A live Alice Cooper video from 1971

2011-10-31T19:00:00.000-07:00

How appropriate that our friends at Kill That Cat Video decide to post their Alice Cooper video on Halloween. I watched this at Dan's house a month or two ago. Although the footage is a bit on the grainy side, it is still great to see the original Alice Cooper Band playing "Second Coming" and "The Ballad of Dwight Fry" from Love it to Death, which is probably my favorite album of theirs.

My parents used to tell me a story about seeing Alice Cooper at a small club in Pittsburgh back in the early '70s. I could be wrong, but to hear them tell the tale, I believed the venue was about the same size as Gilman Street. To me, that club is the perfect size for large-scale underground punk and metal shows, so that means my folks got to see Alice Cooper in a venue that was most conducive to a great rock 'n' roll experience.

As the story goes, neither of my parents were all that familiar with Alice Cooper, but they became fans after this particular show. The band was in fine form that evening, delivering the goods with badass proto-heavy metal and winning over the crowd. Midway through their set, they decided to take things to another level. One by one, every member of the band (except the drummer) climbed up to a rafter hanging above the stage. They took it upon themselves to hang upside down from said rafter for a portion of their set while swinging back and forth. Did they miss a beat? Hell no. This is Alice motherfucking Cooper we are talking about here!

If you were up front during this show, you probably got a good kick out of the fact that the band members' collective manes were so long that they were brushing the stage and leaving trails in the dust. Of course, this was one of those low-ceiling venues, but that's a rad visual if you ask me. Anyone at the show who wasn't already a fan was certainly converted by now.

As much as I would like to cross Alice Cooper off of my list of bands I need to see live before I (or they) die, I just don't think my experience could ever top a story like that.

Roll a dirt weed doober, enjoy the video, and have an awesome Halloween!

Let the Day Begin

2011-10-28T12:00:00.000-07:00

Samhain has occupied a special place in my heart for nearly twenty years. That all began when I bought a cassette compiling Initium and Unholy Passion for myself as a Christmas present. I got drunk in my room on Christmas Eve and proceeded to fall in love with this murky-sounding punk/death rock/metal hybrid. Metal didn’t exactly register with me then, but Samhain was different. Special, if you will. Maybe it was just the Misfits fan in me; I don’t know. When I stupidly sold most of my old punk tapes for reasons I cannot explain now, the Samhain tape was one of a few that stayed with me. There were times when I liked them more than I actually liked the Misfits. Bold statement, I know.

As much as I loved that Samhain tape, my favorite album of theirs is actually Samhain III: November-Coming-Fire. Apparently I am not alone in this sentiment, and rightfully so. Bridging the gap between the Misfits and Danzig perfectly, this record is Samhain’s most realized effort. The journey begins with the “Diablos ’88” intro going into “In My Grip,” which informed this first-time listener that things were going to be different this time. No more “ex-members of…” session musicians whose vision did not exactly jibe with that of the diminutive bandleader. The recording was bigger and louder. The songwriting had progressed far beyond the capabilities of either of Samhain’s previous records. No longer simply “Glenn Danzig from the Misfits’ new band,” Samhain had come into their own.

To me, this album’s centerpiece is “Let the Day Begin.” What a perfect title to such a wonderful song. Probably this record’s closest thing to a punk song overall, it starts with a slower tempo that actually evokes images of the sun rising. Then it kicks in to a very danceable beat that almost seems designed to inspire you to jump out of bed and kick ass on the world. You might as well cease to exist if you’re not ready to do exactly that after blasting this song about five times in a row. The lyrics appear to be along those same lines, asking pagans everywhere to rise up against the crusaders who desecrated their ancestors’ graves thousands of years before. These days, such sentiments are as much of a fashionable black metal pose as wearing a Thor’s Hammer necklace. Eh, whatever.

Don’t relegate Samhain to middle child status. They deserve better than that. November-Coming-Fire stands on its own as a great album and should be appreciated for being something different than the standard fare at the time it was released.

666

A Fine Day to Die

2011-10-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

By now, I’m sure that anyone who cares is well aware that Bathory managed to lay down the blueprint for modern black metal in just four albums. To us here at The Evil Eye, Blood Fire Death is Quorthon’s finest hour. I don’t pretend to know what the general reaction was when this album was released in the late ‘80s, but it was quite a shock to my system if nothing else. “The Golden Walls of Heaven” was the only song from Blood Fire Death that I was previously familiar with, having heard it on Jubileum Volume II. As much of a great song as it is, it actually did little to prepare me for the monstrosity that is the rest of the album. “Odens Ride Over Nordland” hit the stereo speakers, transitioned into “A Fine Day to Die,” and I was scooped up by the Valkyries to take part in their Wild Hunt. By the time the breakdown kicked in on “Dies Irae,” I was more than sold on the idea that Bathory (and black metal in general) couldn’t get much better than this. Maybe it’s true that Blood Fire Death is the most accessible of Bathory’s crucial first four albums. However, that’s not to discount the brutality or the fact that this is Bathory at their peak. After this, Bathory changed their approach considerably. Lyrically, Quorthon left Satanism behind to explore Norse mythological themes. This also came through in the music, in which the vocals were cleaned up while the songs themselves became longer and less metal-influenced. I do enjoy those records from time to time, but ultimately I come back to Blood Fire Death when I need my Bathory fix. R.I.P. Tomas Forsberg.

666

Demo Alert: Swamp Witch

2011-10-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

As I begin this post, I should probably mention two things. One, I am not nearly high enough to properly do Swamp Witch the justice they deserve. Two, modern doom metal bores the ever-loving shit out of me most of the time. I could go into further detail regarding my negative opinion of the music and its fans, but that would take away from the fact that Swamp Witch is one of the few doom bands that has managed to register with me. That is not to say that it didn’t take me a while to actually finish listening to this demo (goddamn nine-minute songs…), but an afternoon of resin hits and video games called for a necessary soundtrack that Swamp Witch was able to provide. With that out of the way, this demo has become something I listen to on a regular basis. The doom metal die-hards will eat this up regardless of what I have to say about it, which is all fine and good. However, there is also a little something for self-respecting crusty punks who may still have a ripped-up Damad shirt in their closets. Some of their guitar tones make me think that Swamp Witch would not have been out of place on the Prank Records roster ten to fifteen years ago. Perhaps Ken Sanderson should consider that before somebody like Southern Lord snaps them up, which would probably just reduce Swamp Witch to being another face in the crowd.

That said, the B-side of this demo makes it obvious that Swamp Witch intends to avoid being easily dismissed. Having stopped paying any attention to hip-hop ten years ago, I am certainly not one to offer an educated opinion on the recent “chopped and screwed” phenomenon that has spread throughout areas below the Mason-Dixon Line. Apparently, this new sub-genre is a product of DJs drinking copious amounts of cough syrup while cutting up random records. I believe the cough syrup inspires them to play their records at slower speeds, so it makes sense that Swamp Witch would send their recording to one of the top DJs of this variety (Houston’s DJ Dreemz) to put through the ringer. Dreemz does exactly that, providing quite the bizarre, psychedelic journey of sound. If you have been searching for something different from doom, you may have found it here. Take a bunch of bong hits and give it a chance.

Swamp Witch

Kevin Mahoney from Siege, RIP

2011-10-17T14:48:00.000-07:00

Kevin Mahoney
September 6, 1965 - October 14, 2011

Sons of Evil

2011-10-14T12:00:00.000-07:00

When I finally started checking out real metal bands after immersing myself in punk for a good five years, one of the bands I was always curious about was Kreator. I could never remember which side of the good metal/bad metal fence they resided on. It wasn’t like record stores made that distinction for you. Don’t know why it took so long; but eventually, a couple people set the record straight. First was a sketchy homeless metalhead named Shane. If you hung out in downtown Berkeley during the mid to late ‘90s, you would definitely remember the guy with the pentagram tattooed on his forehead. That was Shane, and he at least got it in my head that Kreator was not a shitty ‘80s glam band. Future Instant Asshole drummer Bill Jackson was the one who not only told me that Kreator was actually a BADASS ‘80s thrash metal band, but he also told me which albums to check out. Crucial info. Didn’t want to pick up a shitty record and get a bad impression of the band, after all. The irony of a skinhead schooling me on old school thrash metal has never been lost on me.

At some point, I was combing used metal tapes at one of the Telegraph Avenue record stores and came across a used copy of Kreator’s very first album. If memory serves me correctly, I may have even left the store and found Bill on the street to ask him if Endless Pain was a good record. Just to be sure, you know? Whether or not it happened the way I (think I) remember it isn’t important. I got the damn tape and that’s what matters. And like so many others before it, my new find was almost instantly deposited into my trusty Walkman. Can’t do that with vinyl, can you?

You don’t need retrospective liner notes to know that Kreator were excited to be recording their very first album, and for the same label that released both Hellhammer and Celtic Frost. The ferocity of the music tells that story all by itself. Clearly, the band felt like they needed to make an impression quickly, so there was no time to waste on something like a drawn-out intro to start things off like Slayer did on Show No Mercy. Instead, Kreator just got right down to business with the title track and continued their rampage through nine more songs. Their approach was so much more savage in nature than that of Tom Araya and company. Slayer would just slit your throat and leave you to bleed to death. Kreator would go the extra mile by cutting your head off completely.

Although I cannot conceivably place any of Kreator’s albums above a crushing monstrosity like Reign in Blood, I do rate the Germans above Slayer for one reason—longevity. After three years and four awesome records, Slayer began writing individual songs that I liked, but the albums themselves were lacking overall. Kreator managed to keep kicking ass for five years and SIX records. I realize that’s not the same as writing and releasing the last word on thrash metal, but I think there’s something to be said for having enough ideas to keep going for a few years longer.

It was inevitable that the renewed interest in ‘80s hardcore that started more than ten years ago would eventually give way to metal from the same era. For a while there, lots of younger kids started their own bands that were inspired by the likes of Municipal Waste and Toxic Holocaust. While I don’t actually care for any of the new thrash bands that I’ve seen, it is true that some of the kids playing in these bands are really talented musicians at an early age. That should not be surprising, but I think people forget that the members of Kreator and other bands like Possessed weren’t even eighteen years old when they first started releasing records. Evil rock ‘n’ roll music like thrash metal, punk rock, and other similar noise isn’t for kids…which is exactly why they love playing it so much. It is the depraved teenage fury that makes albums like Endless Pain great, not the technical prowess.

666

Goat Metal

2011-10-07T12:00:00.000-07:00

Black Goat is (probably) a reference to Shub-Niggurath, a deity in the Cthulu Mythos that may or may not have been Lovecraft’s take on the Greek god Pan. These horny bastards were part of San Francisco’s nascent black metal scene in the late ‘90s, sharing the stage with bands like Weakling, Ludicra, Sangre Amado, and Unholy Cadaver. Honestly, the first two bands mentioned cast quite a shadow for the others to reside in. Do not interpret that as saying Black Goat weren’t good jolly fun the few times I saw them live though. One of those occasions actually took place at Gilman Street in the winter of 1998. Legit metal shows were infrequent at the club then, so it was a special occasion when Black Goat took the stage with Exhumed and Weakling to try raising money to help out Epicenter in their dying days. It was strange to see metal bands playing a benefit show for the MRR-operated record store, but I later gathered that they were actually rather open-minded about stocking choice black metal vinyl. The one thing I remember about Black Goat that evening was being quite impressed with their drummer. He went for it so hard that he duct-taped his drumsticks to his hands so he could finish the set. His dedication to evil rock ‘n’ roll was admirable. Unfortunately, Black Goat seemed to fade away a year or two later.

This was recorded live on UC Davis’ KDVS station in 1997. Not a bad recording for what it is. Sure, you could say that putting in actual studio time would have made for a fuller sound. Personally, I usually judge bands based on their live sets and this is pretty much how I vaguely remember them sounding. With that in mind, I’m not complaining. Nor should you. Black Goat was raw and ugly and so is this CD. They are a piece of the Bay Area black metal puzzle. How necessary of a piece they are remains to be seen.

666

Swankers

2011-09-30T12:00:00.000-07:00

Swankers PMS first came to my attention in the mid ‘90s when I saw them listed in ads for Distortion Records’ Varning! För Punk comp CD. I knew absolutely nothing about Swedish hardcore at the time, but their name jumped out at me due to the Sex Pistols reference. Sending money to Sweden sounded sketchy to me (let alone Distortion’s horrible reputation), so I never bought the comp. However, Swankers PMS were filed away in my memory bank for later use.

Educated followers of Swedish hardcore can tell you that it isn’t always about bands like Anti-Cimex or Skitsystem. Sometimes it is about bands that have considerably less doomsday riffage in their repertoire. They may have hated skinheads enough to write a song called “Anti-Oi,” but Swankers PMS definitely resembled a cranked-up street punk band more than anything else. That discovery was a pleasant surprise to these ears. I was expecting a raw Discharge-style massacre like most Scandi-core bands I am familiar with. However, I think my current taste in music appreciates Swankers’ catchy Oi-on-amphetamines approach more.

Amongst the collector scum set, Swankers PMS are apparently known for releasing what is supposedly one of Sweden’s hardest-to-find punk records. Of course, that means next to nothing here at The Evil Eye. All that matters to us is whether the record is good. Fortunately, Swankers PMS were fucking great. You’re gonna dig this shit too, so quit being a wanker and get with the Swankers here.

Demo Alert: Bird

2011-09-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

More ‘90s-style hardcore from the Bay Area, this time courtesy of a band hailing from the often-ignored city of San José. Regular attendees of local hardcore and grind shows will probably recognize these folks from the amount of weed they burn each time they show up, which is fairly often. Bird didn’t really do much for me when I saw them play last year’s UGZ Speed Trials at Gilman Street, sorry to say. However, an entire calendar’s worth of practice (and maybe a lineup change, I am not sure) has resulted in their rapid improvement. If nothing else, this demo is a fine example of how properly sequencing the tracks can be quite effective. Songs one and two were all fine and good, but then “Rainbow Colors in Wrong Order” blasted out of my speakers and got me hooked. Although the clean guitar part in the middle threw me off, the rest of the song embodies everything I enjoy about ‘90s hardcore to a T. From there, the rest of the songs seem get faster and more intense. Bird is probably seen as a grindcore band by most—which is accurate—but they deserve better than to be lumped in with what typically passes for today’s interpretation of grind. From what I can tell, they are interested in spreading their wings a bit further than that. No plans to fly south with their music seem to be afoot, so do yourself a favor by keeping a close observation of this flock and what flight patterns they will take in the future. Hell, you don’t even need binoculars to do so.

Bird

Society & Other Bad Habits

2011-09-23T12:00:00.000-07:00

By this point, 2.5 Children Inc. reside on the side of ‘90s punk that a lot of today’s remaining participants would prefer to forget. If you read Slug & Lettuce regularly, you probably remember photos and glowing reviews of these guys in practically every issue. Although 2.5 Children fit the dreadlocked crusty punk description, their music was influenced by anything but the likes of Antisect or Deviated Instinct. You could compare them to Avail in that they espoused anarcho politics while playing a similarly melodic, friendlier style of punk rock. It has also been said that this comparison can be extended to their great live shows versus lackluster recordings, but I don’t know anything about that. What I do know is that I have always enjoyed 2.5 Children’s first seven-inch, titled Society & Other Bad Habits much more than any later material I have heard from them.

Back when I was a wide-eyed teenage punker, this was one of the first records I got in an effort to catch up with bands that actually existed within my own generation. I was under the (incorrect) impression that 2.5 Children Inc. hailed from Pittsburgh—where I’m originally from—so that had something to do with it too. During this time, I was working on starting my own crappy punk band, so this record was something of an inspiration to me. The whole vibe gave me the impression that they didn’t give a damn if their recording sucked and people didn’t know who they were. They were just gonna go for it, press this damn record, and maybe somebody out there would like it. If not…fuck it, at least their shitty punk band had something to show for all that time wasted, right? I love that attitude.

Throughout the 1990s, tons of bands existed with that same attitude and their records flood record store clearance bins everywhere. These are the bands that remind me of how spoiled many musicians are here in the Bay Area. Perhaps the next time you want to complain about not profiting from touring the underground punk circuit, you will stop and realize how lucky you are to even have that opportunity in the first place. 2.5 Children Inc. didn’t hail from a hip and happening scene like the Bay Area. Instead, they were from the bullshit borough of West Chester, PA and weren’t trying to “get noticed” like your stupid band. One can imagine that this one seven-inch would have allowed them to die happy punks while you expect people to pay for your band’s recording and cater to your every need en route to the pressing plant. Wanna know which one I think is more worthy of being called a “punk band”? Click here and find out.

Demo Alert: Connoisseur

2011-09-20T16:20:00.000-07:00

Years ago, I was smoking a huge bowl and talking to a friend online when I came to the realization that hardcore was the best music to listen to during a good smoking session. For the record, the Urban Waste seven-inch was the soundtrack at that moment, with the volume turned up as high as I had gotten upon making that observation. Connoisseur is a band that is of a similar opinion, taking much of their musical influence from the kind of ‘90s hardcore that is definitely the antithesis to their pro-pot philosophy. Instead of beating down the drunks, Connoisseur seeks to fuck up those who hand you a cashed bowl. Their version of the firestorm is intended to produce a mushroom cloud of marijuana smoke over the city of Oakland, which is certainly more positive than what Earth Crisis had in mind. However, you will have to ask them about their stance on burrito consumption and the effect it will have on the future of humankind.

Despite what some people would have you believe, much of the Bay Area hardcore scene revolves around a “get stoned, play fast” mentality. This is nothing new by any means, but I am hard-pressed to name very many good newer bands that espouse marijuana’s virtues in their lyrics. Connoisseur is a band that has stepped up to the stage with blunt in hand. Go to their shows and get baked with them. If you are local, there is a good chance you already have. Roll a joint and practice your floorpunching here, which also features The Evil Eye’s exclusive bonus track “Midgets.”

My Blog's Your Poison

2011-09-16T12:00:00.000-07:00

Everyone who likes Japanese hardcore has their favorite compilation, right? Great Punk Hits, anyone? How about Thrash ‘Til Death? Farewell to Arms, perhaps? My Meat’s Your Poison happens to be the choice favorite here at The Evil Eye. Released in 1986, this record compiles the style of Japanese hardcore we always liked the most—out of control, frantically fast thrash that still manages to remember the value of a good tune. Not only does My Meat’s Your Poison feature some of the best material from both Outo and S.O.B., but it also served as our introduction to Chicken Bowels and the amazing Gudon. Systematic Death and Lip Cream have had better outings elsewhere, but that isn’t to say that their contributions are inferior by any means. On a different day and a different compilation, either of those bands are certainly capable of delivering boss tuneage worthy of the main course. Today it’s My Meat’s Your Poison and there’s other bands stepping up to the plate of Kobe steak.

Enough ranting, it’s time to dig in! What’s that? You don’t eat meat? Do not fret. The Evil Eye’s personal chef was thoughtful enough to set aside some room for our vegan friends, so let us all step up to this platter of tasty tunes and feast to our collective heart’s content here. Happy eating!

T.V. Casualties

2011-09-09T12:00:00.000-07:00

You might not remember when every stupid shitpunk poser kid wore a Social Outcast patch on their hoodie without actually hearing the band, but I sure do. A couple years before all those patches materialized, this record was part of a pile that I had acquired at some Gilman show. I cannot remember why I had such high expectations for this particular seven-inch, but it was such a huge letdown that I filed it away for eons and never listened to it again. My music collection was actually in storage by the time all the dumb kids started wearing those patches, so I couldn’t even sell it to one of them. Yet, I could have sworn that I managed to get rid of it somehow.

Fifteen years after I bought that damn record—and a good ten since I saw or heard a mention of them—somebody on the scenester board mentions a new band out of Detroit called Final Assault. Damned if they don’t have at least one ex-member of Social Outcast in the lineup. Everything I just wrote previously came to mind, so I checked my seven-inches…and there it was. Social Outcast managed to survive multiple collection purges by virtue of the fact that I had legitimately forgotten that I still owned their record. I couldn’t help but laugh. Out of all the records I have unloaded, THIS one stuck around?

Perspective is a funny thing. I hated this record like the cancer in 1996. Even to my ears at the time, this was just boring and generic in comparison to the other records I bought that evening. I am even more of a music Nazi in 2011, complete with a lesser enthusiasm for anarcho crusty stylings. That said, this record isn’t nearly as bad as I remember it being. Had I been the punk in Detroit that I was in the East Bay back then, it is safe to say that Social Outcast probably would have been “my” band that I followed and tried to hang out with. I would have known whom the song “R.S.A.” was about and sang along to the lyrics about Dee-troyt skinhead thuggery. Perhaps I would have bugged them for a ride to NYC to take part in the Squat or Rot scene too. Of course, this record would have seen constant turntable action throughout it all.

Maybe that’s why TV Casualties has been so elusive of the dreaded to-sell pile all this time. Perhaps the record gods sprinkled some magic fairy dust on it for protection, knowing that I would come to appreciate this record for what it is. We at The Evil Eye are not sure if you’ll see it the same way, but you’re welcome to give it your best shot here.

Ballad of a Broken Home

2011-09-02T12:00:00.000-07:00

What was it like to be a punk rocker in the bullshit burgh of Fresno, CA in the early ‘80s? Probably not that much fun, but at least you had a hometown hero band to get behind in the great Capitol Punishment. It’s safe to say that they are one of the most underrated bands in the Northern California hardcore lexicon. Capitol Punishment may come off as a typical 1-2-fuck-you thrash band at first glance, but there is a superior intelligence at work here. By the time they released When Putsch Comes to Shove in 1985, these Central Valley punks were well-versed in their craft to where you could conceivably put this album up against other classic hardcore records released that same year, like Raw Power’s Screams from the Gutter. The songwriting has a good amount going on as different elements are introduced for effect. I hear a little bit of LA creepy crawl here, some Euro thunder there, and even a sprinkling of Discharge doomsday riffage in the mix. Vocalist Ralph Lotspeich typically has a throat full of gravel in the best way possible, but it’s great when he cleans it up on “Elephant Man.” That’s just one of a number of memorable songs on this album. Lyrically and musically, “Racism is Ignorance” is quite possibly the best condemnation of racism that I have ever heard. The song breaks down. “Stand upon your pedestal…your pedestal of fear…” Muted guitar chords. “All’s not well…I can tell…you’re so fucked up…” The pace begins to build. “You declare supremacy, but you’re NOT THE MASTER RACE!” The song kicks back in and if you’re not ready to single-handedly take on the entire Ku Klux Klan, you have no fucking soul. When Putsch Comes to Shove is, without a doubt, one of The Evil Eye’s all-time favorite Northern California punk records. If you’re a fan of the Fix, Poison Idea, Discharge, or Battalion of Saints, you may want to click here and get ready to stagedive.

Rock You Like a Hurricane

2011-08-26T12:00:00.000-07:00

More maxed-out Teutonic thrash brutality, this time courtesy of an obscure band who named themselves after the werewolf character pursuing Atreyu in The NeverEnding Story. Little is known about them, but I do know that their “extreme earslaughter core” tag is quite the fitting description. Once you get past the all-too-long sample intro (which is in German), Gmork is a raw, violent blastcore blitzkrieg fronted by inhuman eruptions of psychotic, shrieking fury. I get the impression that there’s a black metal influence at work here, although they never actually go in that direction. It’s just a feeling I get from different aspects of their approach, including the drumming. My attempts at turning people on to this record didn’t really work when I first got it. Ten years and a few technological advancements later allows for a second chance. I think the grind fanatics might dig this, so take a shot and get your hurricane rocked here.

Demo Alert: Permanent Ruin

2011-08-21T12:00:00.000-07:00

As I write this, I have only seen Permanent Ruin once and do not recall much about that show. However, I did try to redeem myself by picking up this demo at another gig where I managed to show up just after they had finished playing. I lose for missing their set the other night, but goddamn, am I ever on the winning team now! Permanent Ruin might just become my new favorite local band if they keep up this pace. Explosive, heavy hardcore that fortunately doesn’t just stick to one style. Their influences are all over the place. If it fits under the “hardcore” banner, chances are that Permanent Ruin employs an aspect of it somewhere in their tuneage. Personally, I am happy that there are new bands popping up in THIS vein. You’ll have to get your own copy of this demo to fully appreciate the secret weapon these ragers have in their arsenal—read the lyrics and take heed. Their previous bands—In Disgust and Hostile Takeover—were some of the better outfits terrorizing the San José area, so definitely jump on this bandwagon and enjoy the ride now that it has begun.

Get ruined.

Abuso Sonoro vs. Autoritär

2011-08-19T12:00:00.000-07:00

Bear witness as Brazil battles it out with Germany for worldwide crusty hardcore supremacy. I’m sure a lot of you reading this are already familiar with Abuso Sonoro, since they managed to do a better job getting themselves out there. Perhaps you enjoyed their Herencia LP, or maybe you still have their great split seven-inch with Detestation gathering dust somewhere in your collection. This actually isn’t as immediately impactful as either of those records are, but the Brazilians still do a good, solid job nonetheless. As for Autoritär, this is probably my favorite material that I’ve heard from them. They shove the recording levels into the red zone and go for your throat with their brutal crusty thrash attack. Politically, they are as loud and uncompromising as Abuso Sonoro…but then they come out of left field with “Extreme Dry Humping,” a goofy ditty about getting your leg fucked by an overly horny dog. Germans aren’t known for having a sense of humor, so it’s nice to see that these guys manage to retain theirs while criticizing everything gone wrong on this planet. My allegiances lie with Deutschland on this one, but don’t let me influence your opinion. Pick a winner here.

24 Hours of American Hardcore

2011-08-12T12:00:00.000-07:00

You can say what you will about Stephen Blush and American Hardcore, his book on the early ‘80s North American hardcore scene. Whether you like the book or not, you gotta admit that it sure was cool of him to upload over nine hundred songs as kind of a soundtrack to the era he was documenting. The only drawback was that you had to download each song one at a time, which takes quite a while. Considering that a lot of the songs required more than one download attempt, that can wear on one’s patience after a while. We at The Evil Eye know this all too well—we actually wasted an entire evening downloading all 911 songs. To save you a substantial amount of time, we decided to put all of those MP3s into ten different folders, alphabetically arranged by band order, and uploaded them here. Enjoy!…or don’t. It’s not like 99.9% of you ever let us know what you think of these posts anyway. Assholes.

Click here for the A-B folder.
Click here for the C-D folder.
Click here for the E-G folder.
Click here for the H-K folder.
Click here for the L-M folder.
Click here for the N-P folder.
Click here for the P-R folder.
Click here for the S folder.
Click here for the T-U folder.
Click here for the V-Z folder.

No Reward

2011-08-05T12:00:00.000-07:00

Dude, do you remember that band No Reward? You don’t? Man, that’s crazy. No Reward were the SHIT. That one-arm dude from Agents of Satan was singing for them. Yup, shit was tight. A couple guys from A Death Between Seasons were doing guitar and drums and that beardo guy from that Thousandswilldie band was also on guitar. You weren’t at that one show they played? With those bands? At that one place? Aw, man…you SO missed out. No Reward tore shit up. For a second there, I thought hardcore was gonna get real again. I heard they broke up after that one show because they were so good that night, they just knew there would be no way they could ever top it. It’s best to go out while you’re still on top, know what I mean? I was THERE, man. You weren’t. So there.

Click here and get the fuck out of my face, bitch-ass poser.

Just a Statistic

2011-07-29T12:00:00.001-07:00

In the mid to late ‘90s, State of Fear stood tall and proud as the best crusty hardcore band to come out of the Twin Cities punk scene. Their self-titled debut was very good, but it turned out to be a mere walk in the park compared to their second release, the Wallow in Squalor EP on Profane Existence. Holy shit! With their musical phasers set to kill, State of Fear produced a powerful musical statement that effectively told older bands like Misery and Destroy! to stand aside. Their “ex-members of” pedigree was rendered irrelevant. State of Fear took the best elements of Disrupt and Hail of Rage to then completely blow both bands out of the water. Your band wished you could pull off even one song that was as raging as “Just a Statistic” or “Violation.” Too bad you didn’t know how to, but it was occasionally nice to hear you try.

State of Fear were not new millenium “d-beat” posers making their records sound raw through the ironic use of expensive computer programs. This was angry music for angry people. Each song was tailored to serve as the soundtrack to a full-scale riot. It still gets me when I listen to “Just a Statistic” and I hear that quick pause at the beginning before exploding into song. I can still feel it in my bloodstream. The seething rage that comes with the territory of knowing that you are trapped in an unfair world that you never made. Feeling the need to destroy what is legitimately offensive to your sense of being. Wanting to elevate yourself and all disadvantaged people to a level where we can focus on taking back what belongs to us and living better lives.

I hope that Wallow in Squalor makes a few top ten lists when folks decide to look closer at the best US punk records of the 1990s. Although I haven’t actually made my list yet, I think State of Fear will hold their own against the competition when I get around to it. Maybe you need a reminder of just how great this record was, and still is.

Click here and kill the fascist pig that resides inside of you.

Destroy Capitalism

2011-07-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

Although Crude Society System were not highly appreciated in their home country of Sweden, it is true that they rated just behind Anti-Cimex and Mob 47 from an outsider’s perspective for quite some time. Their popularity abroad was in some part due to Uproar Records being aggressive in the distribution of their Who’ll Survive 7-inch, attracting Pushead’s attention when he included them on his classic Cleanse the Bacteria compilation. Their 100 Dead Cops demo from 1982 was also a permanent fixture on many a tape trade list back when people still did that sort of thing. I was personally introduced to Crude SS via their inclusion on Lost & Found’s In Crust We Trust sampler back in the mid ‘90s. “Blue Eyed Devils” and “Bullying a Nation” were great songs and Crude SS became the first band on that comp to really hold my interest.

The past decade saw an increased interest in Swedish hardcore, in which I heard very little to no mention of Crude SS at all. Instead, I saw the Shitlickers take their spot in the ranks when they should have replaced Mob 47 instead. Further exploration into more accurate Swedish hardcore history has seen other bands like Avskum and Moderat Likvidation rise closer to the forefront, while Crude SS fades evermore into the background. In fact, none of the younger punks I knew who got all obsessed with this stuff circa 2003 had any idea who they were. Sad but true.

Crude SS may not have had the same out-of-control urgency as Anti-Cimex or the Shitlickers did, but they did have a more solid, driving pace than either band. The guitar is so loud and heavy that you can hear the levels are maxed out at times. A couple songs do something I really wish more modern hardcore bands would try—they slow down. In fact, my favorite moments on this record are when Crude SS drag things to a relative crawl before building back up to a quicker pace. The title cut is the best example of this, nicely shifting back and forth between slow and fast for three and a half minutes.

Maybe it’s not the historically accurate thing to do, but we at The Evil Eye would like to do our part to put Crude SS and the classic Who’ll Survive EP back into their onetime place in the Scandi-obsessed American punk consciousness. Hopefully somebody like Havoc Records does a good 12-inch reissue of their discography to finally placate the vinyl snobs. Until then, you can be satisfied with this post.

Click here to create your own life.

Demo Alert: Vulvalard

2011-07-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

Here comes the latest entry in the annals of Oakland’s heavy punk/crust scene, courtesy of a couple people who helped define what that sound meant to a bunch of us during the mid to late ‘90s. One half of Vulvalard did time in some of the East Bay’s best bands throughout the 1990s—Econochrist, Ojorojo, and Eldopa. The other half formed one of the most underrated local bands of the early 2000s in the Scurvy Dogs. Although they have only played a few shows so far (that I have not attended because I suck sometimes), this demo is proof that Vulvalard already has what it takes to fly the Oakland crustcore flag with pride. Lots of you who are attempting to write new chapters in this book should sit down and pay attention. Personally, my main complaint about bands in general these days is the lack of variety in what they play. I wish the punk bands would slow down occasionally and feel the power. The heavy bands could stand to speed up now and then to let me know that they still have blood pumping through their veins. Vulvalard answers the call by doing both, which is much appreciated. I hope that they stick around to give the mediocre crap offending my ears at shows the swift kick in the ass that it deserves. Get baked and pretend it’s 1995 all over again.

Vulvalard!

We're the Garbage Rats

2011-07-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Holland has produced some of my favorite punk bands over the period of time I’ve been listening to this stuff. I don’t know what it is, but I’ve noticed that Dutch bands have a funny way of getting under my skin and staying there until I finally realize how much I love listening to them. Neuroot is well on their way to joining the ranks of BGK, Agent Orange, and Seein’ Red based on the strength of their vinyl debut, the Right is Might seven-inch from 1985. By the time they released this record, Neuroot had been honing their craft for four years. After two rough demos, these Dutch punkers were ready to issue a sonic statement resounding with anger and intensity.

There’s a fair amount of Discharge influence in these four songs, but please don’t get the wrong idea. Unlike the legions of Dis-clones, Neuroot actually had enough of their own musical personality to where Discharge was really more of a jumping-off point. That’s how it’s SUPPOSED to be, boys and girls. I don’t mean squalling white-noise guitars either. These are real songs with tempos that build to something else. Each one means something on its own. The songs are longer than average (that’s what SHE said), with the shortest clocking in at 2:45. Personally, I’m a sucker for overly distorted bass, which Neuroot brings in spades.

When I thumb through my old issues of MRR and Profane Existence, I wish I had been more adventurous when perusing the mailorder ads in the mid ‘90s. Neuroot was actually a name that jumped out at me in some of those ads, but I never put any money into an envelope for their record. I think rabid-mad followers of European hardcore actually pay a decent amount for this record now, but you were able to get it for standard punk seven-inch prices for close to fifteen years at one point. It’s funny how that happens.

Subsequent recordings never really captured the elements that made Right is Might so good, but you’re certainly welcome to track down those attempts to hear for yourself. But if you’re going to get infected with the Neuroot brand of Dutch courage, you should probably start here.

Demo Alert: Shitty Fucker

2011-07-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

I can’t say that I’ve ever thought that the Bay Area music scene needed a scat-obsessed grindcore band, but Shitty Fucker is here to fill that void whether anyone likes it or not. Although I am usually tempted to drop a stinky, mushy stool on most of today’s grindcore bands, Shitty Fucker manages to slip through the cracks and meet my approval. It’s not just blast beats and poo-flinging with these freaks. More often than not, they remember to write catchy riffs and change things up for variety. After all, your morning bowel movement isn’t always the same thing. Sometimes it is solid and clean; leaving you feeling refreshed afterward. On other occasions, it is explosive and messy. It’s the same thing with creating grindcore that is good and worth listening to. I don’t know what that was supposed to mean, but I do know that Shitty Fucker ain’t no diarrhea grind. You’ll feel like you have lost weight after hearing these seven movements. Make sure there is plenty of toilet paper and don’t forget to flush here.

Re-Ups

2011-07-09T12:00:00.001-07:00

The following cassettes have been re-uploaded with much better sound:

* The Masked Men - 1995 Demo
* Reivers - 2010 Demo
* Negative Standards - s/t Cassette EP
* Badr Vogu - 2011 Tour demo
* Cancer Alley - 1995 Demo

If you have downloaded these before, please go back and replace those old MP3s with these new ones. Trust me, there is a world of difference. The Evil Eye is still new to converting tapes to digital form, but I think we have ironed out most of the bugs and are ready to proceed. Some of our earliest posts need to be re-upped as well. We will let you know when that happens.

For the record, all of our vinyl and cassette rips are done at a bit rate of 320kbps, which is as good of quality as MP3s get. This doesn't mean much to most people, but it does matter to us. Sure, it's free music and people shouldn't complain about getting killer tunes with a simple point and click. That said, why take all that time to convert a record or tape to MP3, only to produce a result of poor quality? It makes no sense to me.

The Evil Eye may not be as well-known as some of these other blogs who have more friends in high places, but we try to make up for our lack of social grace with dedication towards expressing our enthusiasm for our escapist interests. We appreciate you stopping by and leaving the occasional comment. Keep coming back and looking at life through The Evil Eye!

Atomic Menace

2011-07-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

Once upon a time, Oi Polloi was a band of Scottish skinheads whose songs covered topics that were quite a bit different than the normal bovver boy fare. They were more concerned with US intervention in the Sandinista revolution or Britain’s role in apartheid than they were with warring in the terraces alongside their mates. As the title of this record might suggest, Oi Polloi was also worried about the increased use of nuclear power. More traditional skinheads would probably sneer at lyrical topics such as these, but Oi Polloi made a point to espouse skin/punk unity early on in their tenure. Later on, they ate too much anarcho pie and disassociated themselves from the skinhead movement altogether. I guess if you’re Oi Polloi, it’s true that if you’re not now, you never were.

Resist the Atomic Menace was part of a mix tape that also included the Disaffect/Sedition split, Health Hazard’s ten-inch, and a Deprived seven-inch that I listened to a whole lot in my late teens. That tape is long gone, but I still remember listening to it in my room after a Blanks 77 show some fifteen years ago. “Reach for the Light” streamed out of my little speakers as the morning sun crept through my Venetian blinds, informing me that I’d been up all night long. Despite having a lot to do that day and needing the sleep, I felt a kind of peace that I haven’t felt often in this life. Then I got a double espresso just to make sure that the peaceful feeling didn’t result in my falling asleep on the way to band practice.

No skinhead I’ve ever met agreed with me, but I rated Oi Polloi right up there with the Cockney Rejects at one point. It still gets me when the braindrill guitar kicks in at the beginning of “Hands Off Nicaragua” and I can’t help but want to sing along to its chorus. I don’t really follow what Oi Polloi is up to currently, but their early records like this one are all I need anyway.

Oi!

Pro Wrestling Primer: Ringmasters

2011-07-06T10:00:00.000-07:00

Back when I first started paying closer attention to the True Sport of Kings via wrestling magazines, one ad that always jumped out at me was one for a video titled Ringmasters: The Great American Bash. The cover boasted epic battles featuring the likes of NWA World Heavyweight Champion Ric Flair, the Road Warriors, and what was sure to be a brutal cage match between Tully Blanchard and “The American Dream” Dusty Rhodes. Unfortunately, I could not afford the $44.95 price tag and never added the tape to a budding wrestling video collection. By the way, what was with the price of videos back then? Did anyone ever actually pay that much to own any movie, much less a 60-minute wrestling video?

Ringmasters was released by Pro Wrestling Illustrated magazine, bringing the inaugural Great American Bash into homes and video stores above the Mason-Dixon Line. Produced by the NWA’s Jim Crockett Promotions for Mid-Atlantic Wrestling, the Bash was intended to capitalize on the patriotism surrounding Independence Day. What better way to do that than a double main event in which the Nature Boy defends his title against Russian badass Nikita Koloff, plus the American Dream himself in a steel cage?

Gordon Solie (aka “the Dean of Wrestling Announcers”) and PWI senior editor Bill Apter are your hosts, taking the time to explain any backstory behind each match. The intro rules. Unfortunately, you will never see a serious intro presenting wrestling as an important competitive sport ever again. Although there are five championships being defended on tonight’s card, there are also bouts that are about standing up for one’s personal pride. Our opening contest, pitting Cowboy Ron Bass against “Nature Boy” Buddy Landell, is all about pride and bruised egos. Apparently, the Cowboy was miffed when his manager J.J. Dillon began focusing more on the career of his new protégé. Fisticuffs ensued and the challenge was made. Let’s go to the American Legion Memorial Stadium in Charlotte, NC and see if big Ron Bass can gain a measure of revenge.

Bass is already in the ring as Landell enters wearing the budget version of one of Ric Flair’s sequined robes. Tony Schiavone is on commentary, pointing out the differences between our combatants as the footage jumps to the Nature Boy and J.J. Dillon working over the tough Cowboy. Every match on this tape is edited for commercial release, by the way. For whatever reason, nobody had the foresight to recognize that wrestling fans with VCRs might want to collect videos with matches in their entirety. Anyway, Buddy Landell is kicking ass on Bass outside of the ring, even choking him with a microphone cord. *CLIP* and the big Cowboy begins to rebound and take the fight back into the ring. Landell begs off, but Bass will have none of it. A right hand puts Buddy on his back and *CLIP* to Ron Bass taking him back down to the canvas with a knee to the gut. An elbow drop gets a two-count and Bass begins the GNP on a hapless Buddy Landell. J.J. Dillon is beside himself as his charge exits the ring, choosing to provide enough distraction to swing the tide back in Landell’s favor. The bell rings as Bass begins to make his comeback, signifying a time limit draw. Not done fighting, the big Cowboy takes out Landell and applies his dreaded claw hold to Dillon’s cranium before the Nature Boy drags him back to the locker room. A fine opening match for this crowd. Ron Bass was well known in various Southern wrestling territories, most notably for his bloody wars with the Yellow Dog in Florida. Buddy Landell was a new kid on the block, clearly aiming for Ric Flair’s throne but never quite getting there. J.J. Dillon would upgrade about a year later when he began managing the Four Horsemen. Speaking of which…

The Mid-Atlantic National tag team titles are on the line in this next match, in which the Minnesota Wrecking Crew of Ole & Arn Anderson defend the titles against “Mad Dog” Buzz Sawyer and the unpredictable Dick Slater. With contestants like these, it is sure to be quite the Pier 6 brawl. The challengers storm the ring and the proverbial shit is on. Slater tosses Arn Anderson to the floor as the Mad Dog takes Ole into the corner. Ole swings his championship belt at Sawyer’s head and misses. Things do not look good for the champions as we *CLIP* to Arn Anderson in a test of strength and will against a tough SOB named Buzz Sawyer. It doesn’t work. The referee is having a hard time keeping this match in order as we *CLIP* to Ole Anderson taking over with an arm bar on Dick Slater. Mr. Unpredictable fights his way out, but is cut off in classic double-team fashion by the Andersons.

They go for their finisher where Arn holds the opponent’s arm so Ole can try to break it with a flying knee, but Slater thwarts the attempt and makes the hot tag to the Mad Dog. Sawyer puts down Arn with a powerslam that would have been good for a three-count had referee Sonny Fargo been in position. After nailing Arn with a flying clothesline, Sawyer goes for the cover again. Unfortunately, Fargo is preoccupied with trying to get Dick Slater out of the ring and misses Ole come in with an elbow drop on the Mad Dog. The Andersons pull a switch and Ole covers Sawyer for the 1-2-3. The Minnesota Wrecking Crew retains again through their usual chicanery.

In 1977, Superstar Billy Graham was the WWWF Champion and the top dog in New York. Eight years later, he is working his evil martial artist gimmick in the Great American Bash lower card. Tonight, the Superstar is teamed up with legendary gorehound Abdullah the Butcher and newcomer Konga the Barbarian against “Ragin’ Bull” Manny Fernandez, rookie Sam Houston, and “Avalanche” Buzz Tyler. The story being told in this match is that the more experienced heel team doesn’t take the young babyface tag team as a serious threat. We join the match in progress as the Barbarian is being battered around by the babyfaces. Manny Fernandez displays athleticism that the Southern crowd isn’t used to seeing very often. *CLIP* to Sam Houston taking a beating courtesy of the heel team, which is to be expected since he is a scrawny bastard. Abdullah takes Houston down with a shoulder block that flips him around in a near 360-degree turn. Poor Sam Houston gets the ever-loving shit kicked out of him as the Butcher throws him from the ring and over the guardrail. Konga drops him with a press slam and a vicious clothesline. However, the scrawny rookie is able to rebound against Superstar Graham, reversing his body slam into a pin attempt that causes the other combatants to enter the ring. The fight is on and the camera misses Houston cover the Barbarian for the upset victory, instead choosing to focus on Avalanche Tyler peppering Abdullah with punches.

Our next match concerns the never-ending feud between “Boogie Woogie Man” Jimmy Valiant and Paul Jones’ Army. This rivalry had been going on for at least two years in other territories, in which Paul Jones (aka Manager #1) and the Assassins attacked the Boogie Woogie Man and shaved off his prized beard. A year later, Jones and his henchmen would claim Valiant’s hair as well, but that’s another story for another time. This most recent wrinkle in the Valiant/Jones feud saw Billy Graham and Konga the Barbarian attack the Boogie Woogie Man with Jones’ walking stick, causing a serious throat injury. Fed up with Paul Jones’ antics, Jimmy Valiant challenged him to a one-on-one match at the Great American Bash. Jones accepted, but was upset at the discovery that the NWA had sanctioned the bout as a dog collar match. Both combatants would fight wearing dog collars around their necks—with a length of chain attached.

Jimmy Valiant has his collar already attached and is ready to fight. Naturally, Paul Jones is stalling and doesn’t want to lower himself to this level of combat. Instead, he tries to put the collar on Abdullah the Butcher, who he insisted on having in his corner. “Avalanche” Buzz Tyler is seconding Jimmy Valiant, so he grabs the chain and goes after Paul Jones, attempting to put the collar around his neck. Abdullah jumps the Boogie Woogie Man in the fracas and we *CLIP* to Paul Jones taking advantage of a stunned and bleeding Jimmy Valiant. Jones uses the chain as a weapon, punching and beating Valiant about the head. He drags Valiant around the ring by his neck as we *CLIP* to the Boogie Woogie Man rebounding by yanking the chain into Jones’ balls as he straddles the second rope. *CLIP* as we see Valiant use the chain to his advantage again by pulling Jones into the steel ringpost from the outside. Manager #1 Jones is running scared and nearly falls victim to Valiant’s sleeper hold. Abdullah and Tyler both come in for the save, but referee Earl Hebner preoccupies himself with the Avalanche. Valiant goes after Abby, enabling Paul Jones to attempt a blindside attack that fails. The Boogie Woogie Man hits his patented elbow drop for the 1-2-3. Abdullah attacks again after the bell, but Buzz Tyler grabs a chair and clears the ring. No way was this all-out war going to end tonight.

Next up is the first of two “America vs. Soviet commie scum” matches that is sure to make every patriot’s blood boil. It is champions versus champions as the Road Warriors travel from the AWA to take on former WWWF champion Ivan Koloff and Krusher Kruschev, the NWA World Tag Team titleholders. Gordon Solie does a fine job comparing this bout to the inevitable destruction of a third World War when introducing this match. However, he saves his best Commie-baiting rhetoric for later.

“Iron Man” may not be on the PA, but the Road Warriors charge in and clear the ring of any Russian opposition anyway. *CLIP* and Ivan is coming up short in his exchange with Hawk. After a powerslam, the magic of editing enables Koloff to briefly take back control of the match. The tide goes back in the LOD’s favor as Hawk slams his Russian foe from the top rope and smashes him face first into the mat. Ivan Koloff is being battered from pillar to post as the Roadies pound him, press-slam him, and even sink their teeth into his scarred forehead for good measure. The Road Warriors are still working as a heel team, goading Kruschev into the ring to distract the referee as they double-team Uncle Ivan. I’m sure the crowd doesn’t mind this time, since those sneaky Russians are getting a taste of their own medicine. However, this distraction enables Ivan to tag in his fresh partner to beat on Animal. Suddenly, the crowd isn’t so happy. The Soviet team takes over on the Animal, working over the midsection and tagging in and out. *CLIP* to Animal nearly making the tag, but getting smashed back into the canvas by a Kruschev forearm. A double clothesline puts both combatants down as LOD manager Paul Ellering pounds his copy of the Wall Street Journal on the mat, encouraging Animal to get to his feet. Krusher tags in Koloff while Animal finally makes the hot tag to Hawk. Hawk is a house on fire, battering the evil Russians by himself. Kruschev breaks up a pin attempt, bringing in Animal to run him out. The Road Warriors position Ivan for a powerslam from the second rope, but Krusher nails Animal from behind with a chair. Hawk grabs the chair and begins kicking Russian ass before the referee throws the match out and disqualifies both teams. The ring is cleared of any Soviet menace and the Road Warriors stand tall. I’m sure fans were unhappy that the Road Warriors didn’t win, but this rivalry would be renewed once the Legion of Doom returned to the Mid-Atlantic area.

Modern wrestling fans probably have no idea who Magnum T.A. is, but back in 1985, the Tom Selleck knockoff was an up-and-comer being groomed to chase Ric Flair for the NWA world title. Had his career not been cut short by a car accident in 1986, I’m sure that would have been a legendary series of matches. His belly-to-belly suplex (stubbornly pronounced “su-play” by Solie) finisher put away many a great wrestler, but could Magnum execute it on a 400-pound giant like Kamala, the savage from the Ugandan jungles? Would he be able to retain his United States heavyweight championship?

We join the match in progress as Kamala is putting a Uganda-style ass-kicking on our US champion. It is in his interests to end this match quickly, as he is the bigger man and does not have stamina on his side. Magnum rebounds with a high-cross body and begins taking control. Kamala exits the ring and editing allows the tide to shift back into his favor. The Ugandan warrior powers Magnum down to the mat with his primitive jungle offense, slipping from nerve holds to blatant chokes as manager Skandor Akbar distracts the referee. *CLIP* as Kamala nails Magnum with the big splash. He actually gets a decent amount of distance on it too. We’re sure to have a new United States heavyweight champion, but NO! Magnum kicks out! Kamala goes back on the attack, flipping Magnum onto his stomach and going for another big splash. *CLIP* and Kamala is pummeling the champion. However, you can clearly see that Magnum is still in this fight, even after taking the big splash and every other bit of Kamala offense. The challenger misses a charge into the corner and the champ is FIRED UP! Kamala is frightened half to death! Three dropkicks put the mighty headhunter on his ass, but Skandor Akbar runs in for the save and the disqualification. Kamala misses another charge and sends Akbar sailing from the ring. Magnum scoops up the 400-pounder and puts him back down on his fat ass with a bodyslam! Kamala gets up and attacks again…and is put right back down with Magnum’s belly-to-belly suplex! Despite the match being over, Magnum makes his own three-count as the crowd goes wild.

Great match, even with the editing. Magnum T.A. proves that he can hang with different challengers, even super heavyweights like Kamala. Boy, do I miss watching him wrestle!

Wrestling fans; it is now time for our DOUBLE MAIN EVENT! Our first of two matches pits NWA World Heavyweight Champion “Nature Boy” Ric Flair against newcomer Nikita Koloff. Trained by his legendary Uncle Ivan, Nikita was nicknamed “the Russian Nightmare” for a reason. Koloff dispatched opponents left and right with his lethal Russian Sickle clothesline, bringing the Cold War to American shores and TV sets. Gordon Solie and Bill Apter’s introduction to this match is ‘80s wrestling xenophobia at its finest. Apter claims that Nikita is Russia’s most lethal export while Gordon speaks of the Red Menace and their desire for world supremacy in the field of athletics. Under orders by the Kremlin itself, Ivan Koloff showed Nikita’s training video on NWA television, intoning that their road back to Moscow was going to be paved in gold…the gold of Ric Flair’s NWA title. To add to the fury, Nikita attacked announcer David Crockett with the dreaded Russian Sickle during an interview. These damned Russians were bullies and cowards!

The NWA was prepared to suspend the Koloffs for their actions, but Ric Flair stepped up to the plate and demanded that the Board of Directors allow him to extract some in-ring justice on the dastardly Soviets. After a wild brawl on television, the stage was set for the Great American Bash. David Crockett would be the special referee as the Nature Boy seemingly took on the entire USSR single-handedly.

Nikita and Uncle Ivan enter ringside to the Soviet national anthem blaring over the PA. Nikita looks focused and ready as Ric Flair flies into the stadium via helicopter. I gotta say, that is a fantastic way for the world champion to make his entrance. It is similar to the Rolling Stones arriving at Altamont in Gimme Shelter. Actually, this may have been the first time a helicopter was used as a wrestler’s entrance. Flair would repeat this at subsequent Bashes too. The Nature Boy does his patented strut for the USA and he’s ready to go as the bell rings. Nikita powers his way out of several collar-and-elbow tie-ups, demonstrating that Flair stands no chance at matching him in strength. *CLIP* to further proof of Koloff’s superior power, but Flair takes over in the corner with a flurry of chops. *CLIP* to the Nature Boy fighting out of a bear hug before falling victim to the Russian Hammer. The Hammer is different from the Sickle in that there is more of a fist involved with this deadly blow. Anyway, Nikita re-applies the bear hug and *CLIP* to Flair fighting back out of it with an atomic drop. The Nature Boy attempts to chop down this big Russian redwood, but Koloff takes him down with a forearm and *CLIP* to Flair dropping Nikita with a back suplex. The champion goes for the figure-four, much to the crowd’s approval. Nikita is able to get out of the hold by raking Flair’s eyes. *CLIP* and the Russian Nightmare is back in control with a big bodyslam.

Nikita whips Flair into the corner, causing the Nature Boy to do his usual flip over the turnbuckles to the ground. *CLIP* to Nikita sending Flair’s cranium into the corner post. *CLIP* and the bloody champion is in BIG trouble as Koloff covers him for a pair of two-counts. The Russian Sickle connects, but Koloff becomes overconfident and takes too long to make the cover. Flair kicks out at two and Uncle Ivan is beside himself. The Nature Boy begins to rebound, barely able to stand while fighting on instinct. A rollup gets a two-count. A knife-edge chop sends sweat flying off Nikita’s burly chest. Flair is ready to take this bald-headed Commie to school as he pounds away at his head with a flurry of punches. Ivan breaks up Flair’s serving of chops in the corner by tripping him off-camera. Nikita gets back in control, pounding away at Flair’s bloody forehead. David Crockett is knocked down by Nikita, compelling Uncle Ivan to scale the top turnbuckle to lay down some damage on the Nature Boy. The camera doesn’t quite pick up how Flair manages to break Nikita’s grasp, but Ivan’s forearm comes crashing down on referee Crockett instead and everyone goes down in a heap. As Nikita gets to his feet, a fan actually jumps into the ring and tries to tackle him from behind! This was actually something of a regular occurrence in the Southern wrestling circuit back then. The cops and security take the guy out as Nikita powers Flair into the corner by biting a chunk out of his bloody forehead. An Irish whip into the opposing corner sends Flair on his other flip over the buckles, in which he runs down the apron and attempts to scale the top rope. His high-cross body causes Nikita to trip over Ivan, who is still laid out on the canvas. Flair covers for two and Tony Schiavone is not far off the mark when he says this is an incredible match on commentary.

Ric Flair fires away at Nikita, but the big Russian remains on his feet. The Nature Boy goes to the ring apron and drapes Nikita backwards over the top rope for an elbow to the jaw. Koloff picks up Flair and carries him over the ropes and into the ring for a bodyslam, but the Nature Boy holds onto the top rope and causes him to lose balance. They go tumbling to the mat with Flair in position to make a three-count. David Crockett makes somewhat of a fast count and the match is over. Your winner and still NWA World Heavyweight Champion, “Nature Boy” Ric Flair!

*CLIP* and Uncle Ivan has knocked down David Crockett in disgust. The Russians team up on the Nature Boy as a riot begins to break out in the crowd. The ring announcer actually gets on the microphone and begs the fans to stay clear of the ring! If you look at the crowd, you can clearly see the cops struggling to hold fans back from jumping the guardrails. Tony Schiavone thinks the fans are excited that Flair is still champion. No, Tony—they are pissed that Flair’s being beaten up and want to kill the Russians! This is awesome! Southern wrestling RULES! Scrawny Sam Houston runs in but is no match for Nikita Koloff. Other wrestlers try to break it up, but they are taken out as well. The Russian Sickle sends Flair over the top rope to the ground where he lies in a crumpled heap. This ain’t no Cold War and it is definitely not over. Great match, though. Nikita was new in the main event scene and barely knew a wristlock from a wristwatch, but looked like quite the formidable threat to the NWA title. Ric Flair did a great job in the hero role without any sort of cheesy “God bless America” sort of sentiment.

Insider fans may believe that our main event of Dusty Rhodes vs. Tully Blanchard headlining over a world championship match was the product of the American Dream’s egotistical booking mind. Virtually no wrestling fan back then was aware that Dusty was Mid-Atlantic’s booker and that the Great American Bash was, in fact, his concept. The critics can say what they want, but the truth is that cage matches often took place last due to the amount of time it took to set up the cage itself. Ric Flair was still the traveling NWA champion then and I think the rivalry between Dusty and Tully Blanchard was the focus of Crockett television otherwise.

Tully Blanchard was making waves as the newest asshole heel in Mid-Atlantic Wrestling. The son of Texas wrestling legend Joe Blanchard also had a valet by the name of Baby Doll, who was his “perfect 10,” at least by wrestling standards back then. Baby Doll had come in from WCCW, where she had been the bodyguard for Tully’s onetime tag team partner Gino Hernandez. As she had with Gino, Baby Doll demonstrated a propensity for interfering in Blanchard’s matches. In fact, her interference brought us to this cage match in the first place. During a TV match, Baby Doll played a vital role in an incident that saw Tully Blanchard attempt to blind the American Dream by throwing a fireball into his face. Like Ric Flair did when challenging the Russians, Dusty demanded that the NWA allow him to play the role of judge, jury, and hangman in the in-ring trial of one Tully Blanchard. Blanchard’s NWA World Television Championship was on the line, but he was so confident that he would retain that he added a month-long contract for Baby Doll’s services as an extra stipulation. Gordon Solie labels this match as the ultimate poker game—Tully Blanchard, the Dealer, versus the Riverboat Gambler, Dusty Rhodes playing for the gold and the girl in the steel cage. A great way to sell the story of the match. Ego booking or not, I’d say this deserves to be in the main event.

We join the match in progress, as Dusty Rhodes is busy working over Tully Blanchard’s leg. Blanchard fights back and sends Rhodes crashing headfirst into the steel, opening a cut just over his eye. Baby Doll is outside; talking shit at the top of her lungs as her man makes the Dream bleed red. Rhodes comes back with a series of bionic elbows and runs Tully into the cage. Referee Tommy Young goes to check on Dusty’s cut and is shoved to the canvas for his troubles. No way will the American Dream allow for a wimpy ol’ blood stoppage. Dusty rams Tully’s head into the steel repeatedly and *CLIP* to Blanchard in serious trouble. He reverses out of a suplex, but eats a Dusty flying clothesline for a two-count. Baby Doll is on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

Both combatants are battered and bloody as Rhodes applies his version of the figure-four leglock. Tully tries shortcuts to break the hold, but ultimately is forced to roll over and reverse it instead. *CLIP* to a shot of Tully’s bloody face as he attempts to work on Dusty’s injured leg. Not registering that he felt the blows, the American Dream nails a pair of elbows and backdrops Blanchard into the cage. Tully attempts to climb out of the cage, but there goes Dusty with a series of headbutts. Another bionic elbow sends Blanchard to the canvas. Rhodes goes for a flying elbow from the top rope that doesn’t quite connect, giving Tully some breathing room. While the referee checks on Rhodes, Tully climbs the cage to get his loaded elbow pad from Baby Doll. Unfortunately, he doesn’t get a chance to use it as Dusty nails him with a piledriver for the 1-2-3…the NWA World Television title…and Baby Doll for thirty days!

Baby Doll is in tears at the result and the fact that this stipulation does absolutely nothing for the women’s liberation movement. It’s kinda funny how blatantly sexist stipulations like this was accepted fare, but I guess you have to consider the fan base. Still, think about the implications! What exactly did the American Dream have in mind for the Perfect 10 over the next month? Who knows, but Baby Doll did align herself with the Dream for a little bit before turning on him to reunite with Tully Blanchard. She would do this yet again during Dusty’s war with Ric Flair, proving that the American Dream was a real sucker for the horse-faced punk rock valet.

We’re back with Gordon Solie and Bill Apter to sign off with some sporty outro music and there you have it. It took over twenty-five years, but I finally got to check out this video for myself thanks to some dude on YouTube. The clipped matches don’t really bother me much, as I know that this was standard practice for most of these early wrestling videos. Sure, it would have been better to have the complete matches, but I have definitely seen way worse editing jobs on other tapes from this period. I think Pro Wrestling Illustrated probably saw this as being a good, solid introduction to hard-hitting NWA action and they certainly accomplished that if you were willing to spend nearly fifty bucks on the video.

For Gordon Solie and Bill Apter, this is The Evil Eye saying so long from ringside…

The Daily War

2011-07-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

During the spring and summer of 1995, Cancer Alley was the new Oakland band to watch out for, and rightfully so. Ex-Econochrist guitarist Jon Sumrall had teamed up with Grimple’s rhythm section and they had been playing at house parties around North Oakland. As far as I know, Cancer Alley’s only club gig was opening for Neurosis at Gilman Street that summer. One could make some lofty musical comparison if they wanted to, but the truth is that Cancer Alley’s dark hardcore was a progression of where their previous bands left off. As a fan of both bands, that was just fine with me, so I bought a demo from them at the show. Wow! I was shocked that this demo wasn’t actually being released on vinyl instead. The recording was really good by any hardcore band’s standards, certainly better than either debut seven-inch from Grimple or Econochrist. Cancer Alley was here and they were gonna kick some serious ass.

I think it was several weeks after the Neurosis show when I was told that Cancer Alley had broken up when their vocalist Adam—future investigative reporter A.C. Thompson—left the band. Already? Damn, that was quick. I was bummed to hear the news, but got over it quickly when Eldopa started playing shows later that month and took over as Oakland’s sickest crusty hardcore band. That’s another story for another time though.

In the fall of 1995, word on the street was that Cancer Alley had regrouped without Adam and was changing their name to Ojorojo. I was never quite sure what a cancer alley was, but calling your band “Red Eye” in Spanish was even stranger to me. One would figure that it was some kind of silly weed-related reference, but you never know. Ojorojo played a couple gigs as an instrumental band before making the good decision to go with Jenean, who had been singing for Multi-Facet not even six months before. After getting a second guitarist in Grant from Demise and Animal Farm, Ojorojo seemed to be on their way to giving Eldopa a run for their money. Unfortunately, they crashed and burned about a year or so later. That’s just how it often was in the Oakland punk scene of the mid to late ‘90s. For one reason or another, most of the bands were not built to last. However, Ojorojo did record a great LP for East Bay Menace, as well as a split LP with Inflicted during that time. If I recall, they also did a US tour in the summer of 1997.

After Ojorojo’s demise, Jon played guitar for local bands Pig Iron, Hell After Dark, and I Love a Parade. Currently, he has a new band called Vulvalard with members of Eldopa, Scurvy Dogs, and Fix My Head. Grant played with Fields of Shit and Talk is Poison and is now in Warcry with members of Tragedy. Ira reunited with some of his other ex-Grimple cohorts to form Watch Them Die for a few years and highlights his badass drum talents in Brainoil. From what I have heard, Jenean is living the good life raising a family. Will there ever be an Ojorojo reunion? Probably not.

This post is a two-for-one deal, in which you get both Cancer Alley’s demo and Ojorojo’s Can You Keep Your Sanity LP from 1997. All but two Cancer Alley songs were re-recorded by Ojorojo, so listen to both versions and see what you think here.

Don’t Wanna Know You or Be Sober Enough to Try

2011-06-24T12:00:00.000-07:00

Our ‘90s spiky punk binge concludes this week with Public Nuisance and their trashy Cheap Sex & Booze seven-inch. If you followed Profane Existence circa 1997, you might recall their ads for this record claiming that they would never release another band like this again. How pious of them. As if the PE Klan’s anarchist politics were sufficient enough to elevate them to a level above that of some rowdy NYC drunk punks or something. The ads did the band no favors, because most people who hadn’t heard them before probably just thought that Public Nuisance were a knockoff of the Casualties. In fact, it would be the other way around.

This merry band of drunk punks came out of the Lower East Side in 1987, standing against the rising tide of youth crew jock bullshit by describing their music as “crooked edge” hardcore. If you were a self-respecting punk rocker in the late ‘80s New York scene, you probably took part in shows organized by a group called Squat or Rot. As you might guess, these were a bunch of crusty squatters making the most of their existence by putting on shows and pressing records. Public Nuisance took part as well, and also helped organize the annual Beer Olympics, which was an infamous punk fest (and drinking contest) taking place at the end of the summer. If anything, members of the Casualties were more than likely inspired by seeing Public Nuisance play. It just so happens that the Casualties were able to get their records released first. That’s life.

I’ve never checked out any of the other Public Nuisance records, but Cheap Sex & Booze is dirtier and meaner-spirited than anything the Casualties ever released. There’s more mold on the guitar. You can almost smell the stale alcohol and the decay of pre-Giuliani New York emanating from the grooves. Get fucked here.

Bored & Glued

2011-06-17T12:00:00.000-07:00

We opened a Pandora’s box of sorts when we unearthed the EPs of Defiance last week. Now I’m failing miserably at charging my long-ass hair into four-foot-tall liberty spikes and I’m on a mid ‘90s punk kick. With that in mind, where else to go but the first Casualties EP?

Yeah, I know what a lot of you are probably thinking—these jokers played the Warped Tour, attempting to break into the mainstream by pandering to a bunch of neutered suburbanites. Like I said about Defiance last week, things were much different back in 1994 when the Casualties first unleashed 40 Oz. Casualty upon the world. Punk had gone mainstream once and for all when Green Day and the Offspring hit it big that year. Meanwhile, there was a movement within the still-existing underground scene to redefine just what this punk rock thing meant to the world. Punks like the Casualties wouldn’t stand for any of this. To them, Green Day were a bunch of poser fags and these new punks who wanted to write a bunch of rules on how to live were nothing more than hippies in disguise. The Casualties said, “fuck that noise.” They were the fucking PUNKS, with Doc Martens and huge fluorescent spiky hair and plaid pants and studded leather jackets galore. They HATED hippies and posers and they were going to proudly stand against that shit. Punk rock needed its identity (and wardrobe) back, and the Casualties saw themselves as a band that would fly that flag.

For that, I admired them. Although I also enjoyed bands with a more modern take, there will always be a need to remind the world that this punk rock shit is supposed to be for the fuckups, rejects, and malcontents of the world. The kind of people who didn’t fit in because they were too ugly, stupid, angry, or violent for normal standards. For better or worse, the Casualties did a fine job representing that mindset back then. I’m not sure who I can count on to do that in the here and now, but hopefully they’re out there somewhere. Get drunk and stay punk here.

Fucking Rich Scumbag Brickface

2011-06-10T12:00:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure how much regard Defiance gets from today’s spiky-topped youth, but when Rancid and Total Chaos went about reinforcing the punk rock cartoon image in the mid ‘90s, this Portland punk corps was one of a few who kept the flame burning. Of course, I’ve met a few people who have said that Defiance are just as bad as Total Chaos (impossible), but their association with Profane Existence suggested that they were at least a step above that mentally. Then again, Profane used to give props to Total Chaos too, so I really have no idea what I’m talking about anymore. I was a naïve teenage punker…give me a break. Talk shit about Defiance if you want to, but members of this lineup went on to bands that you probably do like…Detestation, Severed Head of State, and Blood Spit Nights, to name a few. At one point, this band was doing SOMETHING right, dammit.

Anyway, the first two Defiance seven-inches were always the main records I’d recommend to people whenever they were brought up. Their first LP, No Future, No Hope, was also very good, but maybe a little on the long side. Played back to back, the earlier seven-inches are a perfect length (that’s what SHE said). I don’t care what anybody says; these records were fucking great in 1995 and they still are today. Perfectly solid UK82-influenced punk rock that knew when to slam, when to pogo, and when to rally the spiky troops to the stage for a most rousing anthem. What set a distinction between Defiance and other bands of their ilk was Kelly Halliburton’s nifty bass playing. He just gave them a groove that was missing in other bands that I really liked. Once he left the band, so did my interest. After that, Defiance sounded less inspired; like just another band of punk rock fashion victims.

To be honest, I have no idea if Defiance is even still around in the here and now. It doesn’t really matter to me anyway. Those early seven-inches are all I need. Profane Existence Far East must have realized that back in the mid ‘90s, because they re-released those records together on a three-inch CD. In the hopes of reintroducing you to Defiance when they were at their best, we at The Evil Eye have brought that CD to you. Won’t you satisfy your inner punk here?

Straight Outta Concord

2011-06-03T12:00:00.000-07:00

Places like Concord are a breeding ground for young punk rock malcontents. In fact, I think I’ve met more punks from this town than anywhere else in the East Bay. Located thirty-ish miles away from San Francisco, Concord is generally thought of as another East Bay suburban tweaker shithole. The recent redevelopment in the area may have pushed some of those elements further east to towns like Antioch, but it will be a while before Concord’s reputation is erased from the minds of many.

Straight Outta Concord was the second release on Six Weeks Records, documenting a few bands from there that managed to make some kind of impression on the greater East Bay punk scene. Whether those impressions were good or not is a different story, though. Concord punk rock and the East Bay/Gilman scene have had an “interesting” relationship over the years. If I may hazard a guess as to why, I’d say that Concord was probably considered lower on the totem pole, despite most of the early ‘90s Gilman punks being from similarly trashy suburbs like Pinole and El Sobrante. Even society’s rejects need somebody to shit on occasionally.

The back cover makes a note of that with a message reading “this record is dedicated to every other band that’s been unappreciated, unsupported, or banned by their own scene.” They’re not kidding. Anal Mucus were tagged as “sexist” for having a band logo in the shape of people having sex (insert Spinal Tap joke here) and banned from playing at Gilman Street. People from Spitboy and Econochrist accused Total Fucked of being Nazis and caused them to be attacked on the Gilman stage by members of a local ARA group. The Dread didn’t get along with the early ‘90s Gilman clique either, despite bassist Athena hosting Blatz at one of her numerous house parties. Brady from the Aborted moved to Oakland a few years after this compilation was released and began playing guitar for the Criminals and Black Cat Music, so his band might be the only one that got off easy.

I realize that I haven’t said anything about the music itself, but I think educated readers of The Evil Eye already know what it sounds like. Although this compilation was intended to be Gilman-unfriendly, all four of these bands sound like they should have been regularly opening for Green Day, Blatz, and Filth circa 1992. I wonder if that irony is some consolation for any resentment that may still exist after twenty years. None of that shit matters to you, so click here.

Shöüt at the Demös

2011-05-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

Let’s get an 8-ball and gö back tö the days in the lives öf Mötley Crüe beföre members öf the band were förced tö mainline whiskey because they ran öut öf döpe. Mötley Crüe had tö find time tö wörk ön Töö Fast för Löve and Shöüt at the Devil in between anal sex with strippers and snörting enöügh cöke tö finance the Bölivian army. This böötleg compiles prödücts öf that time, which was well spent if yöü’re a fan. These demös are like an afternöön at a strip clüb, whereas the albüms are a füll-blöwn evening öüt. A bit röügh aröünd the edges and lacking the pölish öf the albüms, büt nöt cöming üp shört in the dirty and sleazy vibe. I imagine that this is clöse tö höw they might have söünded in the envirönment öf a small clüb ör dive bar back then. Nöt bad tö these ears, büt Girls, Girls, Girls was the first tape I ever böüght back in 1987, sö there’s söme histöry there.

If yöu’d like tö have sex with wömen like Heather Löcklear and Pamela Andersön in their prime, click here for möre infö.

Demo Alert: Decay

2011-05-25T12:00:00.000-07:00

While catching up with my friend Jeff before his band Catheter played at Hazmat in Oakland last week, he handed me a CD-R compiling two demos of a side band he has going on back in Denver. Having heard some of Catheter’s other bands, I was expecting some sort of variation on grindcore when I put it on. However, I was pleasantly surprised to discover that there is not a single blast beat to be heard in either of these demos. The guitars are tuned down and the vocals sound carcinogenic, but that is as far as their grind influence extends. Decay covers some interesting ground in the process. Their more metal moments remind me of an old Necropolis band called Deathwitch, who I vaguely remember doing a modernized take on mid ‘80s thrash. Other times, they get real catchy and punk it up. I dig that the most. Check out the song “Mad at the World.” Tell me that is not street punk filtered through a metal lens. Decay probably won’t blow your mind or anything, but some of these songs are growing on me. Perhaps they will grow on you too.

Decay

"Macho Man" Randy Savage R.I.P.

2011-05-20T13:24:00.000-07:00

Personal Affair

2011-05-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

For a long time, Japanese hardcore of the late ‘80s variety came dangerously close to eclipsing my love for dirty Bay Area punk. That’s not so much the case now due to shifts in my musical tastes, but one record that still stands out is Brain Death’s Personal Affair seven-inch from 1987. While Nintendo set up their corporate headquarters in their hometown of Kyoto, Brain Death kicked up a racket loud enough for Selfish Records to hear. Personal Affair was their only offering to the world, showing that they were more than capable of delivering high-octane thrash in a vein similar to that of S.O.B. or Gudon. Unfortunately, they never issued a follow-up and faded away into obscurity.

Personal Affair was bootlegged some years back to reintroduce it to the modern generation of Japanese hardcore fans. Not sure how much it caught on, but one can hope that at least a few people out there threw this in with their Effigy records. If not, you have another chance to crank up the volume and enjoy Brain Death cutting a frantic pace fronted by the high pitch of a lady named Sachi. Get into your own personal affair here.

Demo Alert: Badr Vogu

2011-05-18T12:00:00.000-07:00

For the past six months or so, Badr Vogu have been playing shows around the East Bay and even completed a tour up the West Coast in January. Of all the bands I have heard these guys play in—World Eater, Strains of the Apocalypse, and Hotblack Desiato, to name a few—Badr Vogu is certainly their best effort thus far. Their “West Oakland blues crust” tag line isn’t the most accurate one to these ears, though. When I think of the term “crust,” bands like Amebix, Deviated Instinct, and Hellbastard are a few that come to mind. I don’t hear much of that when I listen to Badr Vogu. What I do hear is some potentially toxic sludge influenced by early ‘90s bands from below the Mason-Dixon Line. Of course, I am referring to the likes of Eyehategod and Buzzov-en here. Maybe I’m just nit picking, since anyone who has spent a substantial amount of time in Oakland’s heavy punk/metal scene knows that the lines between crust and sludge have always been blurry in this neck of the woods. It will be some time before Badr Vogu can comfortably lump themselves in with older Oakland bands like Eldopa, Skaven, or even Stormcrow. Personally, I don’t particularly care for the outright stealing of riffs from bands that are still around, which Badr Vogu does to Brainoil on their song “S.O.B.” Other bits and pieces also sound familiar. “S.O.B.” just happens to be the one that stands out in its appropriation/thievery. Mind you, this isn’t to say that there is no potential for Badr Vogu to get better. The potential is there and they will certainly improve on their craft. For now, their ideas are still in the formation stage. When Badr Vogu gets to where they want and need to be, you will pretend you were on the home team from the beginning. Get off to a running start here.

No Grounds for Pity

2011-05-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

If there ever was a hardcore band that captured hatred in their music the same way Negative Approach did in the early ‘80s, Sheer Terror would probably be that band. Along with fellow tough guys Breakdown, these urban rednecks stood against the rising tide of posi-core douchebaggery in the late ‘80s NYHC scene. Somebody had to, after all. Sheer Terror weathered that storm and became a NYHC institution in the process. To some degree, every hatecore or tough-guy hardcore band owes them a debt of gratitude.

I remember when the new milennium hardcore kids dropped loads in their Jncos over Blood for Blood—who were, of course, heavily influenced by Sheer Terror. Eh, whatever. Maybe I’ve got the wrong impression, but I always felt that Blood for Blood tried too hard to let everyone know what ultra-negative white trash losers they were. Their hatred seemed so exaggerated that it actually came off more comical than legitimate. Sheer Terror vocalist Paul Bearer didn’t need a gimmick when he lived the existence he wrote about in his lyrics. If you go by appearances, Paul was the construction worker who walked into a hardcore show after putting down a few cold ones at the local tavern. After he liked what he saw, he decided to sing about how shitty his life was too. No way could some clean-cut youth crew pipsqueak relate to that vibe.

Released in Europe shortly after debuting on MCA with Love Songs for the Unloved, No Grounds for Pity compiles Sheer Terror demos recorded between 1985 and 1988. It’s hard to argue with people who say that this is their best work. These demos find Sheer Terror’s blue-collar hardcore at its most raw and guttural, with a LOT of Celtic Frost in the overall sound. Hell, you’d almost swear that their guitarist broke into Tom G. Warrior’s house and made off with his gear.

A year after recording “Twisting and Turning,” Sheer Terror went back into the studio and issued their classic Just Can’t Hate Enough LP, but that’s a story for another time. Listen to the first chapter here.

Demo Alert: Negative Standards

2011-05-11T12:00:00.000-07:00

Apparently, this is NOT a demo, but a “cassette EP” release. Excuse me. Anyway, this special demo post is the third in a row regarding an Acts of Sedition-related side band. That is pure coincidence, by the way. The third time is indeed the charm, as Negative Standards have proven to be the best of the trio. Little did I know that they have been at it for a couple of years now, which shows you just how much I have been paying attention. Negative Standards is about as generic of a hardcore band name as it gets, but there is more to them than their moniker. Threaded together by various sound bites, one could say that their sludgy doom-and-gloom hardcore picks up where Artimus Pyle left off. War is the sole lyrical topic here, but it is examined in a more introspective fashion than standard practice. Instead of “bombs fall from the sky, shit explodes and people die,” these five songs are about being forced to scrutinize and re-examine one’s views on the military. It is one thing to call yourself “punk” and claim strict political beliefs, regardless of your affiliation. It’s another thing when your black-and-white worldview is put to the test by real-life circumstances. Life is not that simple. The author of these lyrics is coming to terms with examples of that fact. Most excellent.

War is a bad.

Trust in Technology

2011-05-06T12:00:00.000-07:00

I admittedly know very little about this early San Francisco artpunk outfit. One thing I do know is that I enjoy this record a whole lot. “Trust in Technology” is a demented synth-driven ditty that might be even more relevant now than it was in 1979. Modern punk bands like Tragedy have expressed similar sentiments about the rapid speed at which technology advances, just in a more sternly serious manner. Something tells me that “In the Slot” was written from personal experience. It’s an ode to San Francisco’s seedy side; namely the various peepshow booths and strip clubs of the city’s North Beach district. Regardless of how you feel about the subject matter, the song does a fine job capturing the spirit of “old” San Francisco—freaky, sexy, dirty, and with a bit of a sinister underbelly. I wish I knew more about the Adaptors, because both of these songs are fantastic. Trust in technology and put another quarter in the slot here.

Demo Alert: Pills

2011-05-04T12:00:00.000-07:00

You know something? I am sick and tired of hearing you complain about the eight million kinds of medication that you have to take just to get through a normal day. All day long, you’re popping these fucking things like they’re in a goddamned Pez dispenser. If your doctors knew half of what they were talking about, they’d prescribe this brand new wonder drug out of the Bay Area: Pills. There are only three of them in the bottle. Take them as needed.

Pills.

Back to Bataan

2011-04-29T12:00:00.000-07:00

The Maids were formed in a Berkeley co-op house by a group of college anarchists who wanted to unself-consciously rock like so many people did back in the late ‘70s punk era. Unfortunately, their one and only gig at the Mabuhay was a total disaster. They broke up shortly afterward, but left us with this two-song 45. “Back to Bataan” is a revved-up number that pokes at the subject of Japanese soldiers continuing to fight WWII on deserted islands years after the war was lost. “I Do I Do” is somewhat poppier in its approach. If you really want to, you can hear different aspects of this song in the pop punk bands who started out at Gilman Street some ten years later. Not that the Maids are a lost artifact of East Bay pop punk or anything. Despite being anarchists outside of the practice pad, the Maids had no political agenda as a band. They were simply out to have fun playing rock ‘n’ roll crud and had no idea that their 300-press single would eventually fetch a tidy sum of money on the eBay machine. It’s funny how things work sometimes. If you wanna see that Japanese man, click here.

Demo Alert: Reivers

2011-04-27T12:00:00.000-07:00

I don’t know if they had this on their minds, but “reive” is an early English word that means, “to rob.” During the late Middle Ages, reivers lived along the England/Scotland border under their own set of laws. Loyal to none, they plundered both sides at will. There’s certainly more to it than that, but this isn’t history class, right? Fast forward to 2011 and Reivers is a relatively new hardcore band from Oakland. Musically and politically, they have things in common with some of the heavier punk bands that have originated from both the Bay Area and Portland in the past decade. Should I name names? Nah. Live, Reivers is actually much louder and heavier than this demo. Sometimes they are TOO loud for the spaces they play in. With that in mind, perhaps this demo is your first chance to properly hear what they are playing underneath all that racket. If you haven’t seen them live, then consider this tape a primer for the pounding your eardrums will eventually take. See? Everybody wins!

Reivers

Little Billy's Burning

2011-04-22T12:00:00.000-07:00

I first came across the Nubs while researching bands for a Bay Area archive I’ve been working on. Figuring they’d be one of a whole bunch of obscure local garage bands, I checked them out…and wouldn’t you know it, they’re probably my favorite out of the batch of random Killed by Death-style singles I’ve added to my hard drive. From what I’ve read, “Job” is the favorite amongst the KBD set. I can see why; it’s good, retarded rock ‘n’ roll with a shitty attitude. Other bands can open up a song with a line like “Hey, Mom! I just quit my job!” and sound completely stupid. When the Nubs say it, you don’t just SEE the middle finger—you FEEL it. For this song’s 110-second duration, you wish you had the guts to quit your job and throw all caution to the wind doing stupid-ass shit that could get you thrown in jail. Why? Because it sounded like fun.

For my money, however, the favorite is a nasty little number titled “Little Billy’s Burning.” It doesn’t deliver on the same visceral level as “Job,” but it brings a different sort of antisocial attitude that should be appreciated. I don’t know about you, but I love a good mean-spirited punk song and this one is right up my alley. There’s something about a tune regarding a little kid burning down his house that appeals to me. Maybe it’s because playing with fire can be fun in both a literal and figurative sense. Or maybe it’s that the basic nature of “Little Billy’s Burning” reaffirms that punk rock—and rock ‘n’ roll music in general—was always supposed to be for bad kids.

Everything about these two songs reminds me of being a teenager, throwing rocks through the windows of abandoned buildings and running away laughing. Not many records have evoked that specific feeling in me. Click here, grab your own rock, and get to work!

Demo Alert: Lie Still

2011-04-18T16:20:00.000-07:00

Not too long ago, I saw a Lie Still show that had the dubious distinction of being one of the worst sets that I have seen in nearly twenty years, hands down. That said, any band featuring ex-Benumb vocalist Pete Ponitkoff would pique our interest, so it is good to hear that they have rebounded nicely with this demo. Lie Still does a modernized take on early ‘90s hardcore of the “powerviolence” persuasion with plenty of nods to Infest, Crossed Out, and No Comment. Check out the song “Corrosive” if you enjoy those good old-fashioned Ponitkoff screams of anguish. “Compelled” closes out the demo by allowing room to slow down, catch your breath, and grind your teeth. It isn’t fair to expect them to be as blisteringly intense as Benumb once was, but there is certainly some potential here. Once the rhythm section beefs up, they will be on their way. Retain your molecular balance here.

Dehumanization

2011-04-15T12:00:00.000-07:00

Forget about long personal reflections, we’ve got business to discuss. It was recently brought to my attention that Havoc Records reissued this crucial ‘80s punk classic. Personally, I was never aware that it was ever out of print, but apparently that was not the case. Although I’m sure that Dehumanization has been posted on a million billion blogs at a million billion bit rates, a world without Crucifix and this record is not the kind of world I want to live in. Click here if you agree.

Bummer Bitch

2011-04-08T12:00:00.000-07:00

There wasn’t much about punk rock that could be construed as “serious” in the early days, so it probably shouldn’t come as any great surprise that one of the most sought-after San Francisco punk singles is a 45 that was originally recorded as a joke. As the story goes, Freestone was a punk-inspired power pop band who had gone into the studio to record their pop gems and wound up making better use of the leftover studio time than they expected. Both “Church” and “Bummer Bitch” were intended to be joke songs making fun of the nascent punk movement, recorded in one take. Unfortunately, when Freestone decided to release a 45, the label picked the last-minute jokes over material meant to be taken seriously enough for vinyl. I don’t know what that really says about Freestone as songwriters, but this is a fun little platter, joke or not.

From what I’ve noticed, most of the Killed by Death crowd who loves this record hates “Church.” I hate church as much as the next guy, but totally disagree on the song. Fortunately, this is America, where we have a god-given right to be totally wrong about things like taste in music. “Church” is a fucking great song. I don’t know what those people are talking about. It’s more like stupid prog rock played badly on purpose. I don’t know how else to describe it right now, but it’s a two-song single…listening to both songs won’t kill you. “Bummer Bitch” is, of course, the Killed by Death classic that is completely poking fun at everything punk appeared to be about back in 1978. It’s fast, simple, and stupid with lyrics to match. When the singer whines, “Bummer bitch, suck my dick! Eat my ass! LICK! MY! BAAAALLLLSSSS!” you kinda find yourself yearning for the days when things weren’t so complicated.

Whether anybody likes it or not, these are two songs that have managed to wedge themselves into the history of early San Francisco punk rock. Maybe you were too busy buying stupid Wolves in the Throne Room or Fucked Up records and missed the repress of this stupid 45. How’s about you quit being a bummer bitch and click here ‘cause you’ve got nothing to lose.

Punk Jacket

2011-04-01T12:00:00.000-07:00

Mary Monday was a lesbian stripper who moved to San Francisco from Vancouver in the mid ‘70s intending to make a name for herself. Choosing rock ‘n’ roll as her way to fame, Mary supposedly took BART to every high school in the East Bay until she found enough like-minded people to start a band. After writing some songs and putting together a stage show, Mary Monday & the Bitches began playing live at a Filipino dinner club in San Francisco called the Mabuhay Gardens. Mary and her Bitches became popular quickly, which inspired similarly out-of-place rock ‘n’ roll bands like the Nuns to seek bookings at this bizarre club located in the middle of San Francisco’s red-light district. From there, a new music scene sprouted that has gone through various twists and turns over a number of generations to this very day.

Mary never achieved the commercial success she was looking for, but sometimes people make an impact in other ways than originally intended. Some obscurist cockbag will probably claim otherwise, but as far as anybody else knows, “I Gave My Punk Jacket to Rickie”/“Popgun” is the first true San Francisco punk rock single. This record might come off as more of a novelty record in this day and age, which it probably should. Being what it is, it kind of is a novelty. Give it a listen and fill a necessary piece of the San Francisco punk puzzle here.

Pro Wrestling Primer: WWF Championship Wrestling 3/10/84

2011-03-10T10:00:00.000-08:00

Where were you on Saturday, March 10, 1984? If you followed politics, you might have been listening to President Reagan’s radio address on the economic recovery program. Actress June Marlowe died at the age of eighty, while Sharon Stone celebrated her twenty-sixth birthday. If you were a pro wrestling fan at this time, perhaps you were watching this telecast of “WWF Championship Wrestling.” Let’s venture down to ringside and join our hosts, Vince McMahon and Mean Gene Okerlund, as well as ring announcer Joe McHule…

The intro is funny because it still features Bob Backlund as the WWF champion, when Hulk Hogan had defeated the Iron Sheik for the title nearly three months ago. In fact, there isn’t a single shot of the Hulkster to be found. McMahon and Mean Gene let us know what we can expect from today’s program: some tag team matches, including one featuring midget wrestlers. Tony Garea and Brian Blair will be on hand (exciting), and new Intercontinental champion Tito Santana will be in the ring and a guest on “Piper’s Pit.” Greg “The Hammer” Valentine will also take on José Luis Rivera. The tape cuts off before they finish running down the card.

Back from commercial break, and we’re about to see Rocco Verona take on “Mr. Wonderful” Paul Orndorff. But before we get to proceedings, Joe McHule’s gotta do his own “Jooooooooe McHule, your ring announcer” introduction, complete with rolling R’s. Orndorff is managed by Rowdy Roddy Piper, but McHule misses an opportunity to roll a couple more R’s by not acknowledging the Hot Rod’s presence. Rocco Verona provides no competition at all for Orndorff’s superior wrestling skills in this basic squash match. The fans hate Orndorff, chanting “Paula” throughout the match, which only makes him get angrier and take it out on the hapless Rocco Verona. After a couple minutes, Mr. Wonderful deposits Verona with a piledriver for an arrogant cover and the 1-2-3. Orndorff’s piledriver always looked the most devastating back in the day. He seemed to jump up higher in the air before driving his opponent’s skull into the mat.

New Intercontinental champion Tito Santana hits the ring for a non-title bout against Israel Matia. Matia knows that if he can pull off the upset, he’ll have earned a title match in the near future. With that in mind, he attacks Santana right off the bat, but it’s not long before Tito turns the tide back in his favor. The champion outwrestles Matia with style and grace, working over the left arm as Vince McMahon talks about how hard Santana worked to win the title. McMahon barely has enough time to list the WWF’s copyright obligations before Tito flattens Matia with his patented “flying burrito” forearm from the second rope for the pinfall and an “Arriba!” for the crowd.

Just four months before this match, Greg “The Hammer” Valentine took part in the legendary dog collar match at the inaugural Starrcade against Roddy Piper. Now he’s back in the WWF and managed by Captain Lou Albano. Today, his task is to see if he can end the undefeated streak of José Luis Rivera, a name that mid ‘80s WWF fans might recognize from Saturday morning telecasts like this one. Back in 1984, the outcome of this match might not have been so obvious to WWF fans who might have forgotten about Valentine’s run against former WWWF champion Bob Backlund a few years prior. But in retrospect, it is plainly obvious that Rivera’s streak is about to come to an end. Howard Finkel chimes in with a voice-over promoting next Sunday’s event at a high school gym in Portsmouth, NH. My, how times have changed. For all of the talk about José Luis Rivera’s unblemished record, he sure doesn’t get in much offense during this match. Valentine knocks him around before tossing him out of the ring like a piece of garbage. Albano, who was just yelling at Valentine to “HURT HIM! HURT HIM!” does his good deed for the day by tossing Rivera back onto the ring apron. Valentine follows his manager’s instructions by bending Rivera backwards over the ring ropes and TAGGING him with his clubbing forearm. Albano to the cameraman: “Did you HEAR that? DID YOU HEAR THAT?!?!” José Luis Rivera finally starts to show some fire with some punches and a pair of dropkicks, but misses a charge into the corner and hurts his knee. Like the proverbial shark smelling blood, the Hammer goes in for the kill, working over the knee to set up the figure-four leglock and the submission win. Valentine continues to work over Rivera’s leg well after the bell, not letting up until he feels his point has been made. Captain Lou loves it, but José Luis is a defeated mess, screaming in pain. A terrible way for this kid to encounter his first defeat.

We go to commercial and return with Mean Gene conducting interviews promoting next Saturday’s card at the Boston Garden, taking place on St. Patrick’s Day. The devious Japanese stereotype Mr. Fuji comes in to talk about his match with American hero Sgt. Slaughter, telling a story of how his father recovered a watch from a dead Marine during World War II. The soldier’s name was even engraved on the back with his Harvard graduation date. “This watch is your loved one’s? I’m very sorry, is now Mr. Fuji’s watch!” Considering WWE’s current devotion to the troops in the Middle East, I doubt Fuji would be allowed to get away with this kind of promo today. Mean Gene is disgusted, but brings in Paul Orndorff to discuss his upcoming bout against Tony Garea. Orndorff chooses to talk about himself instead, committing a faux pas when he mentions all the men that want to touch his hair and his beautiful body. Gene: “MEN?!” Apparently everybody wants Mr. Wonderful, so bring on Tony Garea and Tito Santana and everyone else as Orndorff takes them all down.

Andre the Giant will also be in Boston next Saturday night. Despite being a Frenchman, Andre is not above celebrating St. Patrick’s Day with everyone else. Lord knows he’ll be able to put away more beer than Boston’s entire Irish community. He’ll be wrestling the Masked Superstar, promising to unmask him after beating him in the middle of the ring. Andre says some other stuff about being undefeated, but his thick French accent coupled with stretched vocal chords make it only slightly less difficult to decipher than his standard interview. Andre the Giant promos are really less about what he has to say than they are about being awestruck in the presence of the 7’4”, 492-pound behemoth. Enter the Masked Superstar, who informs us that the last time Andre said he’d take off the mask, he found that it wasn’t as easy as he initially thought. Sure, Andre is undefeated…but nobody’s ever been able to unmask the Superstar. And by nobody, that also includes Andre the Giant. Good point. We then go to commercial break.

We’re back and it’s time for a midget tag team match pitting Tiger Jackson and the Haiti Kid against Pancho Boy (a white guy from Canada, go figure) and Dana Carpenter. Haiti Kid and Pancho Boy start things off executing basic maneuvers at a quick pace. Jackson and Carpenter tag in. Dana Carpenter breaks Jackson’s Greco-Roman knuckle lock and sends him head over heels with a nice standing dropkick before tagging Pancho Boy back into the match. Jackson takes over on Pancho Boy, attempting a hurricanrana from the second rope that would have looked awesome if Pancho had done a better job taking the move. Not to be deterred, Tiger Jackson springs back up to the second rope and nails Pancho Boy with a flying bodypress for the pinfall victory. Tiger’s so stoked, he does a backflip and a funny little dance to celebrate. Pretty good match with a brief display of technical wrestling knowledge that surprised me, as well as Tiger Jackson’s athleticism. Not as farcical as most midget wrestling matches I’ve seen either.

Next up is “Piper’s Pit,” complete with a disclaimer from Vince McMahon. Good thing, because Rowdy Roddy Piper is in racist dickhead mode today, hurling anti-Latin insults at Tito Santana regarding his recent Intercontinental title win. Santana’s fiery Latin temper flares as he stands up for his people, offering to take on all comers, including the Hot Rod. On that note, Tito isn’t going to take this crap, so he issues an “Arriba!” before leaving. Piper, of course, gets in the last word, calling the champion a coward who is unable to carry on an intelligent conversation and is obviously not a gentleman.

Oh, sweet! The next match pits perennial jobber Steve Lombardi against “Doctor D” David Schultz, one of my favorites. Led to the ring by Roddy Piper, the good Doctor opens up a can of whup-ass and feeds it to Lombardi with gusto.

Steve Lombardi tries to mount some offense, but Schultz will have none of it. He appears to have Lombardi positioned for a tombstone piledriver, but Piper orders Dave to hold him there and let him think about it for a second before dropping him into a less-impactful bodyslam. Another slam to the canvas, and Schultz drops a pair of flying elbows from the second turnbuckle for the pinfall. Doctor D starts trashing Hulk Hogan in the ring, before continuing to do so in a post-match interview with Mean Gene Okerlund. According to Schultz, Hogan possesses “a 16-pound head and a size 17 foot” (whatever that means) and is only the champion because he has yet to face the Doctor. He demands that Mean Gene bring Hogan to the ring to meet his challenge, calling him a coward and a yellow dog. We then go to commercial break as Huey Lewis & the News’ “I Want a New Drug” plays in the background. I had to laugh out loud at their ironic choice of music.

We’re back for the six-man tag team encounter, in which WWF tag team champions “Mr. USA” Tony Atlas and Rocky “Soulman” Johnson team up with the late S.D. “Special Delivery” Jones to take on the imposing trio of (Joe McHule: “What’s your first name?”) Goldie Rogers, Ron Butler, and Charlie Fulton. Don’t bet on the white guys in this match, buddy. The champs and their partner are in top physical shape, overpowering their foes with power wrestling. Butler, Fulton, and Rogers will have to put in a lot more gym time to keep up and are at a loss for what to do. Things get a little creepy when Tony Atlas puts Goldie Rogers in a wishbone-like stretch and produces some pelvic thrusts to add insult to injury.

Rogers manages to tag in Ron Butler, who takes a gorilla press slam and a big splash for his troubles and a pinfall loss. Oh, and did you know you can correspond with the WWF at: Wrestling; PO Box 1538; Greenwich, CT. 06836? Well, you do now!

We’ve still got a St. Patrick’s Day card at the Boston Garden to promote, so we’re back with Mean Gene for that express purpose. He’s announcing more matches, including appearances by Rocky Johnson and Tony Atlas, Tito Santana defending the IC title against Iron Mike Sharpe, Tony Garea vs. Paul Orndorff, Salvatore Bellomo vs. the Iron Sheik, Sgt. Slaughter vs. Mr. Fuji, Andre the Giant vs. the Masked Superstar, and Hulk Hogan defending the WWF Championship against “Doctor D” David Schultz. In comes the Doctor to run down Hogan some more. He’s done some checking up on the Hulkster. Apparently there were a whole lot of Irish people on the boat that Hogan’s mom came over here on, which why the champion wants to be in Boston on St. Patty’s Day. Okay. But Schultz is gonna kick his ass in front of all the Irish women in town and throw the biggest party that Boston’s ever had. He’s gonna wear the WWF title around his waist while dragging Hogan down the street by that thin hair of his. Hahahahahaha! Not too many wrestlers got to rip on Hogan’s receding hairline, so Doctor D is the man. Schultz continues to insult the Hulkster as we go to commercial.

Back with Mean Gene and now it’s time to promote tomorrow night’s event at the Meadowlands Arena in East Rutherford, NJ. There’s going to be a battle royal with $15,000 going to the winner, but more importantly, Hulk Hogan is here to discuss his title defense against Dave Schultz. The basic gist is that Hulkamania has been running wild since becoming the champion and Hogan is not sure if he can control himself in the ring against the Doctor.

Up next is the tag team match with Tony Garea and B. Brian Blair taking on Bill Dixon and Frankie Williams. Garea and Blair bring decent technical wrestling and effective teamwork, while Dixon and Williams don’t bring much at all. It’s not the most exciting match, so Vince McMahon informs us that René Goulet will be here next week against Sgt. Slaughter. Before long, Tony Garea cinches up Frankie Williams in an abdominal stretch to gain the submission victory. I think that’s probably the first time I’ve ever seen someone win a match with that hold. The show is over, but there’s still just enough time to let us know that Jimmy “Superfly” Snuka will also be in action next week. And that’s it for this week’s edition of “Championship Wrestling.” Thanks for joining us!

Today in Punk Rock History...

2010-12-02T18:00:00.000-08:00

Screams Behind the Shadows

2010-10-15T00:00:00.000-07:00

We’re back on the metal tip this week with one of our absolute favorite records, by cracky! Schizophrenia was Sepultura’s third record and the first of theirs that I really got into. Since I didn’t go through much of a “metal phase” when I was younger, bands like Sepultura didn’t really register with me until much later. I think Chaos A.D. might have been my initial exposure to Sepultura, but I was pretty hung up on punk rock and didn’t care for them at the time. Of course, I started checking out good metal bands like Celtic Frost and Venom about a year or two later and liked them a lot. Eventually, this path led back to Sepultura. The difference was that this time, I had a much better album of theirs in my grubby little hands.

Amoeba Records in Berkeley used to have a killer selection of used cassettes. Whenever I felt like I had a couple extra bucks, I’d comb those sections and get something new for my Walkman. Sometimes cassettes are just the best way to hear certain kinds of music, or even specific bands. I’ve got most of the good Judas Priest albums on cassette, as well as all of the Diamond Dave-era Van Halen albums. All of my late ‘80s and early ‘90s hardcore rap favorites are on tape as well. One day, I had a few more extra dollars in my pocket than usual, so it was okay for me to finally grab that Sepultura tape. Out of all the Sepultura tapes that Amoeba had that day, Schizophrenia was the oldest and therefore, probably the best. Into the Walkman it went.

Death metal has never really been my thing for whatever reason. I’ve tried to give it a chance before, but only a few bands have ever piqued my interest. Instead, I gravitated towards grindcore as the more raw, less produced, punk-influenced answer to most of the straight up death metal bands I’ve heard in my life. But Schizophrenia wasn’t just a mere death metal record. It was a violent, destructive force. Listening to the album for the first time (and many times since) was like being held against a wall and pummeled repeatedly. I was a bloody mess long before the tape ended.

During my series of beatings, I forgot that I’d read about Sepultura’s then-current problems in the pages of Kerrang! and Metal Hammer. That Max Cavalera’s wife had somehow been something of a “Yoko Ono” for Sepultura. That Max had left the band and started some abomination called Soulfly with Nausea’s old drummer. Instead, I remembered that back in the summer of 1987, the members of Sepultura were young hessians dedicated to playing in Brazil’s most badass death metal band. Soon enough, I also realized that this record was special, meaning that it could only be played on special occasions. Listening to it with great frequency would be akin to cutting open the golden goose. The record would undeservedly lose its impact, no longer laying those golden eggs or evoking that sense of being beaten to a bloody pulp. No, Schizophrenia would serve the same purpose as the Secret Weapon. Some records are better that way.

Escape to the void here.

AIDS, Toxic Shock, PMS & More

2010-10-08T00:00:00.000-07:00

We were going to post another metal record to keep with the spirit of the Halloween season…but last weekend, we learned of the unfortunate passing of Mark Sheehan, vocalist for suburban Boston hardcore band Out Cold. Mark was forty-one years old. We didn’t know Mark personally, but Out Cold has always rated highly in our household. The metal records can wait until next week.

Sometime, people are going to wake up and accept that hardcore punk completely lost steam in the mid ‘80s. By the decade’s end, it was definitely a sad shell of its former self. Punk needed to reinvent itself to survive and stay relevant, so the ‘90s was more about injecting new ideas into the music than it was about sticking to the established formula. This isn’t to say that there were absolutely no bands playing straight-up hardcore punk during the ‘90s. It’s just that it was difficult to find new bands that actually did it right—with no metal influence, blast beats, mosh breakdowns, or a vocalist with a throat full of broken glass. There was usually something unlikable about bands that did manage to fit the bill. Maybe their members (or their crowd) were macho assholes. Perhaps they were fond of using racial, sexist, or homophobic slurs to assert themselves as “politically incorrect.” Usually, their take on hardcore was just plain boring.

Out Cold was one of the only bands that played true old-school hardcore punk with conviction during the ‘90s. I’d like to say that they rose from the ashes like the Phoenix, but that would entail people in their hometown scene paying attention to them in the first place. If anything, they were practically the Boston hardcore scene’s best-kept secret. It always struck me as funny that Out Cold wasn’t held in higher regard in their local scene. I was never really able to get an answer from any of my Boston friends as to why that was, but Out Cold interviews suggested that the members were maybe too antisocial to be immediately considered for shows that would have established them as one of the area’s best bands. That’s one of numerous things that sucks about playing in a band. You just want to be able to play some good shows and enjoy yourself, but all the hobnobbing you have to do to get there can really take the fun right out of it.

In the fall of 2002, I was overjoyed when Born/Dead guitarist Will Kinser emailed me asking me to reserve a date at Gilman Street for Out Cold, who were finally touring the West Coast. On November 8th, the final bill was Capitalist Casualties (their last show with Max Ward on drums, I believe), the Futures from Japan, Out Cold, Born/Dead, and a band from Portland called the Stivs. Although I don’t recall the show drawing a particularly large crowd, it was definitely one of the better hardcore shows at Gilman that year. Every band kicked ass that night. We had something to be thankful for as Out Cold blasted through a near-perfect set, reminding us of why hardcore punk is the best music in the world. Unfortunately, “bandana thrash” was still in amongst most of the younger kids at the show, who opted to hit the distro tables while waiting for the 625 Thrashcore-approved Japanese band to hit the stage. Fuck those kids. It’s their loss. We ignored them…and then made fun of them afterwards when they realized that they didn’t like the Futures as much as Max Ward did. If you were really down, you probably also saw Out Cold play in the basement/practice pad at Born/Dead’s house in West Oakland a couple days before the Gilman show.

Permanent Twilight World is my personal favorite Out Cold album, thanks to songs like “Pull the Trigger,” “Watch You Die a Sick Death,” “Faster to Nowhere,” and “Days are Numbered.” But I was beaten to the punch last weekend by Nate Wilson’s True Punk & Metal blog, so go there and get it. Instead, we’re gonna go a little further back in Out Cold’s history and check out their demo from 1992, originally posted by Al Quint of Suburban Voice zine to the HRPS board (aka “the scenester board”). This is actually Out Cold’s original lineup with Kevin Mertens on vocals and Mark Sheehan playing bass. Those of you who are used to Out Cold’s typically all-out hardcore assault may be taken aback by this demo somewhat. While there are plenty of expressions of hardcore rage, the band alternates between that and some killer raunchy rock ‘n’ roll that betrays their love of the Ramones and the New York Dolls. It’s in those moments when Out Cold often reminds me of a less Southern-fried version of Antiseen. The Iggy Pop squeals might take some getting used to, but this really is a great demo that ought to be reissued on vinyl sometime.

I realize that an Out Cold recording featuring Mark’s vocals would be a more appropriate tribute, but I figured posting something that most people probably haven’t heard would be the next best idea. Hopefully that works for you. Curl up and die here.

Evil Warriors

2010-10-01T00:00:00.000-07:00

Possessed is a band that I’ve always had a bit of a soft spot for. During my onetime quest to check out records by “legitimately Satanic, dude” metal bands, their Seven Churches album was at the top of my list. It’s doubtful that they actually fit the bill of what I was looking for philosophically, but they sure sounded like they did. That was good enough for me in the end. Possessed resonates with me not because they lived out their lyrical convictions, but because their take on Bay Area thrash metal was so raw and menacing. Bonded by Blood by Exodus is my favorite for sentimental reasons, but Possessed certainly makes a good challenge to that mantle.

A year or two ago, I went with a friend to see the latest incarnation of Possessed at the DNA Lounge in San Francisco. The lineup was Jeff Becerra backed by a longtime death metal band called Sadistic Intent. Despite my mixed feelings about the show overall, it was nice to see Jeff Becerra enjoying himself. I think most people know that Jeff is paralyzed from the chest down after being shot in a robbery at a gas station in 1990, dealing a huge blow to the local metal scene. There was an attempt by former Possessed members to carry on the name without him that had little to no impact. Various metal writers claimed that Jeff was born again, blaming his old band’s lyrical content for the shooting that put him in a wheelchair. Whether that was true or not didn’t seem to matter when I saw Jeff belting out classic Possessed songs though. I reminded myself that he’d been through a lot to get to that show and enjoyed it for what it was.

I think I was twenty years old when I finally picked up a copy of Seven Churches. During that same time, I was also delving (not too deeply) into black metal and Possessed certainly had elements in their sound that were influential on the somewhat newer Norwegian bands I was listening to. Ultimately, they won out over bands like Darkthrone or Emperor because Possessed was a lot more fun to listen to.

Twenty-five years ago this month, Possessed released Seven Churches on an unsuspecting public. Most of you probably already have it, but we also went ahead and included their Death Metal demo from 1984 as a little bonus. Give it a listen.

666

Last Intoxication of Senses

2010-09-24T00:00:00.000-07:00

I realize that if I want to fit in with today’s punks, I’m supposed to have this attitude that there were no good bands during the 1990s. Fortunately, I don’t believe that at all. In fact, sometimes I actually miss the punk scene of the ‘90s. I don’t mean to keep hammering this point into the ground, but it’s true: back then, most punk bands weren’t about slavishly imitating their 1980s idols. The past was there to be learned from and to be used as a jump-off point to keep the punk rock flame burning…and evolving. Today’s by-the-numbers hardcore bands have completely missed that point. But they will break up someday and start new bands. When that happens, one can hope that they check out bands like Neurosis, Buzzov-en, His Hero is Gone, Born Against, In/Humanity, and Rorschach to hear what it’s like to play punk rock with the same intensity as Black Flag while advancing the genre at the same time. It’ll be interesting to see what new ideas they come up with.

Another band that should be listened to in that same regard is Germany’s A Band Called Diabolo. They’re generally overlooked in 2010, but the relative few people who have their records know that ABC Diabolo was one SICK fucking band in their day. Seriously. Go ahead and ask knowledgeable crusty punks who were around back then. I don’t know this for a fact, but they may very well have been the precursor to German metalcore bands like Systral. Whether they know it or not, today’s “emo-screamo” bands also owe a debt of gratitude to the musical monster that was ABC Diabolo.

Back in 1995, I was blown away when I added “The Power of a Lyric Sheet” to the end of a mix tape. I remember this album providing the soundtrack to quite a few drunken evenings, in which we would fantasize about how utterly amazing it would be if ABC Diabolo managed to make it over here on tour. They’d already broken up by that point, but we didn’t know that anyway. I got my own copy a year later when I stole it from some Oakland crusty house during a party in which I was none too thrilled with the way most of the douchebag partygoers were acting towards me. I know that’s a bit immature and lame, but what do you want for being eighteen years old? Nobody wanted to share their beer with me, man! (This is the part where you’re supposed to laugh at my youthful stupidity.) Don’t worry, I don’t pull impromptu shopping sprees like that anymore.

Last Intoxication of Senses is one of those albums that I keep in reserve. I try to not play it very often so I can continue to appreciate it for the great record that it is. On the occasions that I do listen to it, I find that like fine wine, it gets better with age. I like it when records do that and so should you. I’d like nothing more than to see punk bands who take their cues from ABC Diabolo. Sew on their patches. Rock the T-shirts. Cover their songs. Keep the flame burning.

Get intoxicated here.

Pro Wrestling Primer: Muraco's Donut Regimen

2010-09-20T12:00:00.000-07:00

I don't remember seeing this on TV back in the day, but this was originally broadcast in 1985 just after the inaugural WrestleMania. Led to the ring by the devious Mr. Fuji, the Magnificent Muraco was a staple on WWF television every Sunday afternoon. Although I missed his epic rivalries with Jimmy "Superfly" Snuka, Pedro Morales, and Ricky "The Dragon" Steamboat, I always enjoyed watching him dispatch jobbers with his tombstone piledriver. Despite being a heel, the stoned-out beach bum from Hawaii was okay in my book.

Anyway, this promo is one more reason why I'm a Don Muraco fan. Mean Gene Okerlund is questioning the Magnificent One regarding his training regimen when Muraco breaks out a bunch of powdered donuts and starts chomping away. It's important to watch your diet, and Muraco's diet consist of goddamned lard biscuits. Like pro wrestling's answer to Bluto Blutarsky, Muraco shoves donut after donut down his gullet while explaining the benefits of basing your diet around them. He repeatedly tries to push donuts on Mean Gene, but he'll have none of it. Finally uttering a muffled "ah, the hell with you," Muraco and his box of Dunkin' Donuts walks off. Note the hangover shades.

Bobby "The Brain" Heenan and his charge Ken Patera are up next. It's not often that the Brain is at a loss for words, but he's clearly having a hard time keeping a straight face after witnessing Muraco's antics. When Patera edges into frame and kisses his own bicep, that's enough to send Heenan off camera in which he's clearly busting a gut laughing. His interview itself is phoned in, but he and Okerlund save it at the end with the last two lines.

This wasn't a particularly significant find or anything. Just a silly day at WWF headquarters that made me laugh. Enjoy!

No Rock Stars, No Ripoff

2010-09-17T00:00:00.000-07:00

Hellkrusher formed in the late ‘80s as a side band with members of UK stenchcore legends Hellbastard and Energetic Krusher. Since then, their logo has adorned more studded vests than either of their main bands, mostly because Hellkrusher records were a bit easier to come by. This has probably changed in recent years due to the rise of “D-beat” hipster punks with record collections purchased from the eBay machine, but we at The Evil Eye couldn’t care less about those people anyway.

This is Hellkrusher’s first album, released in 1990. It’s a bit different than the rest of their records that I’ve heard. In fact, it’s the only Hellkrusher record that I actually enjoy listening to. The Doomsday Hour LP—their most common record—was essentially a boring Discharge imitation to these ears, but Wasteland flies the mid ‘80s metal flag with pride. Although there’s a decent amount of Slayer riffs employed in their songwriting, you’d better believe that Hellkrusher intended to leave the rock star metal attitude in the trash where it belongs. Instead, it would appear that they and other late ‘80s crust bands used thrash metal as a way to add some power to the political convictions of their lyrics…and to spice up a hardcore punk scene that had gone stale several years prior. Crust is supposed to be punk rock that uses heavy metal as a reference, which is a point that is generally lost on most bands who play the style today.

Apparently, there is an earlier version of Wasteland that is a bit rawer in sound, but the record label ordered it shelved due to the sound quality. That recording probably hasn’t been made available to any ears outside of the Hellkrusher camp, but there has been talk of releasing it with the original artwork. Until that happens, you’ll just have to make do with this one for the time being. Soap your hair, stud your jacket, pop a squat, and smash the trash here.

Pro Wrestling Primer: The way it used to be

2010-09-13T12:00:00.000-07:00

This is what professional wrestling is all about: doing things to convince viewers that the wrestlers themselves were for real, even if the sport itself wasn't. You forgot about your smug "wrestling is fake" comments when Roddy Piper smashed himself in the forehead with an unopened beer bottle to make a point to his rivals. You saw the blood pouring and instantly made plans to be at the local arena to see Piper and Rick Martel in the steel cage against the Sheepherders in a couple weeks. It would be a bloodbath. And you also believed that Roddy Piper was serious when he spoke of that bloodbath, even though he didn't make much sense after cracking himself with that bottle of Michelob.

Before ECW, this was hardcore wrestling. In fact, lots of local regional promotions would push the envelope in similar ways to sell tickets to the arena event next week. You can bet that Piper's little stunt with the beer bottle sold a LOT of tickets to that cage match a couple weeks later.

Who won the cage match? Damned if I can remember, but remember when the Sheepherders came out the next week with beer bottles of their own? They teased breaking them over their heads, but drank the beer instead...

Don't Forget Your Roots?

2010-09-10T00:00:00.000-07:00

In 1989, NYHC legends Warzone forgot the struggle and forgot the streets. They forgot their roots. I don’t think they managed to sell out, but it’s safe to say that this record was probably an attempt to do just that. After all, Raybeez did try to change his stage name to “Ray James” on this album. If that’s not a sellout move, I don’t know what is. I’m not one to agree with the old schoolers that the metal crossover of the mid to late ‘80s ruined hardcore punk, but it’s hard to argue that point when this album is used as one of their examples. Just listen to the butt rock rewrites of “Wound Up” and “Under 18,” or the blatant ripoff of Sabbath’s “Symptom of the Universe” that is the song “Judgement Day II (Your Time Will Come).” Today’s retro metal kids may actually be dumb enough to think that this is a great record, but I assure you that this is Warzone’s Cold Lake. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that this is their Into the Unknown, since Raybeez and company eventually saw the error of their ways and reverted back to playing standard hardcore.

If you’re a fan of records like Cold Lake, New Wind, Grave New World, Massacre Divine, Beast on My Back, or Break It Up, maybe you’re capable of listening to this one and formulating an opinion on whatever merits this record might have. Maybe you already have. If not, I’d like to see if everyone reading this can download it and listen to it for as long as you can. Then let me know via the comments section how far you managed to make it before turning it off in disgust. I dare you, motherfucker. The experiment starts here.