The last few weeks of my life have been absolute shit. Literally. I found out on monday I've got a serious ecoli infection in my upper intestine. I've been sick with this since the big heat dome/ heat wave fell over Portland, Oregon a few weeks ago. Fuckin blows.
I'll spare the details, I only hope you're never in a position where you need to give a stool sample. It's rough work. Also, never eat on the Oregon coast. Why can't they get it right on the coast? What the fuck? I've been shitting blood all week. This experience has put a sharper focus on mortality for me. I was starting to wonder how much longer I've got? Oh, the years I've wasted!
If anything good happened as a result of this shitstorm it's that I got to finish the new radio show I've been working up. I've had the alter ego DJ Single for some time now, broadcasting in Portland, Oregon on KFFP-LP 90.3 FM Freefrom Portland. Nobody listens.
It's equal parts triumphant artistic excellence and cringingly embarassing lows. I'm the king of revealing too much, and in the past my show was called Seven Inches of Love. Clever, huh? I would spin only seven inch records, or 45's as the kids used to call 'em. I toyed with the idea of having themes for each broadcast but more often I just randomly picked jams out of my bag of tricks to set the mood and have something to do. I posted a few episodes on my mixcloud account, if you give a shit feel free to listen.
I've always wanted to do a vaguely politically charged, positive reinforcement of my values, superimposed over catchy pop bangers. Here it is: The Moment of Truth! Catchy name, eh?
I'm hung up on the concept of TRUTH. Not sure why. It doesn't seem to bother most people, so why it haunts me so much is a bit of a mystery. Maybe it's because comedy relies so much on TRUTH. I love getting laughs. Most of my comedic sensibility relies heavily on leaning on the truth as i see it. Fearless pursuit of the truth is shocking to a lot of people, which pisses me the fuck off, but it also make me the funniest guy in the room half the time. That's little consolation when shitloads of people are happy, nay ecstatic, living a lie. I run the whole gamut of emotions when I think about the beating that TRUTH has taken these last few years. The internet is an engine generating obfuscation and it will never go away. Bummer.
This is my mild attempt at trying to do something, even if it's as shallow as a radio broadcast. I am psyched to share two of my favorite obsessions, dedication to truth, and POP!
The songs I'm sharing are slices of the perfect ideal that encompasses truth, beauty, justice, love, and whatever bullshit you want to include in that sort of list, trapped in the amber of harmony and rhythm that makes me want to cum all over your back. I probably could have used a better metaphor, but you get the point. It almost feels that good. It's an irresistable impulse and I'm glad to marry these two elements.
Truth is the thrust of the show, so inevitably politics are front and center. The self righteous, pretentious, and preachy make me sick. I've tried hard not to come across like such. Instead I try to keep an even keel and keep the focus on the obvious nature of today's dysfunction: Nazis are fucking garbage! It feels like the nazis are right around the corner ready to start up the concentration camps again! Doesn't it?
Fuckin sick of hearing about the shadowy organization Antifa. If there was a well funded cabal of socialists ready to destroy America, then why can't I find their presence on the internet to put in an application? I'd work hard at a job where I'm destroying American hypocrisy. I'm fairly confident I'd be a good candidate, even without references. Strangely those jobs don't seem to exist. Go figure.
Meanwhile there doesn't seem to be any shortage of racist dickweeds who are highly organized, funded, and trained. Am I telling you something you don't already know?
People are trying to say anti-fascists are the enemy?! Talk about clouding the issue. There are clouds on the horizon. Authoritarians are on the rise, not just in America but worldwide. I'm not over reacting when I say that I can hear them at the door. As unreal and unlikely as it seems, it's pretty clear it's a threat. I'm concerned. I want you to be concerned.
What to do? What to do? Stand up. Shut them down. Don't get caught up in their games. The Nazis in 1920's Germany played the victim and it gave them the upper hand. Don't fall in to that trap. But do stand up. We have to.
Anyway, no point in over thinking it. This radio show is my attempt at positivity in a shit world. Made me feel good making it, hope it makes you feel good listening to it.
I expect I'm too obscure and poppy to be discovered by the fascists. But maybe let's keep this between us and keep it from going viral so I don't get put on a hit list by cracker barrel losers.
Aside from that I'll just beg for unity. Please. If these bullshit widgets don't work go here to listen: https://www.mixcloud.com/chad-simmons3/moment-of-truth-episode-one/
Wednesday, May 19, 2021
Cash for chaos (Real fucking idiots)
I feel like a dipshit writing so often about my youth. I will say at this age at least I’m not alone in looking back. However I feel like I ‘m largely alone in looking back in disappointment more than pride. Maybe it’s a self defeating gene in my brain that I foster? I write about frivolous shit like the aesthetics of punk rock or even more disastrous and disappointing the politics of punk rock because it’s a simple subject to take on unlike more important issues like Israel/Palestine, or how to rid the world of plastic. I’m concerned about both things but I’ll never find the cure. Instead I find solace in something so masturbatory only a teenager should give a shit, but here I am pushing 50 writing about punk junk yet again.
To be fair to my own self image I must admit the story I’m about to share fell in to my lap this weekend and I’m compelled to write it down because it’s funny and pathetic in equal measure. If nothing else there’s the potential for laughter to be had, by me if no one else.
I have a collection of records so vast it could choke a music snob and leave her gasping for air while drowning in a sea of 7” singles by Siouxsie and the Banshees. I wonder if I’ve done much more than waste time these past 20 or so years smoking incredible amounts of hash and flipping through stacks of vinyl in search of happiness. Not sure I found it, but I’ve been able to get a glance at it briefly in the search for gems and other minerals in the form of shit like this amazing record by the New Toys. This small record has brought me an incredible amount of happiness.
This record has also made my life better. My fave long player by King Tee.
Or this incredible record by the Superheroines. So unusual it doesn’t seem to fit into a genre.
I might have spent a lot of time by myself at the record store, but I don’t think it’s been a complete waste. It’s been fun for the most part. Recently however I’ve been less obsessed with finding contentment in collecting platters, and I’ve become more invested in trying to better myself. I’m working on becoming a better man and I still have pretentions for changing the world. Maybe that impetus will never leave me. Hopefully it won’t. Fuck this world. A better one is coming and I want to be a party to that!
With more time on my hands the pandemic led me to discover the wonders of Discogs where I found the boundless financial joys of selling my musical taste to other misguided searchers who have money.
To the uninitiated I’ll clue you in to Discogs glory and shame. It’s an internet site that helps you gauge the value of records of all different genres and pressings, as well as being a marketplace for you to sell your wares.
I’ve made some serious scratch by peddling my finds on this site. The capriciousness by which people are willing to part with their money is a sight to behold. I’ve been surprised but not entirely shocked by the amount of money some are willing to throw at a bid for temporary happiness. I’ve played that game myself. Salivating over a recent obsession, wanting, desiring, fiending over it. Then pulling the trigger, shelling out the cash, and reveling in the knowledge it is mine! That joy is fleeting, and it’s often replaced by newer obsessions as time goes on. And yet just as often that joy is palpable.
I learned from experience that almost every time I’ve gone off the deep end and spent more than I should have on a beloved record, I get bit in the ass by finding the same record months later, sometimes in better condition, for pennies. It’s pretty rare for me to do that shit anymore.
If you ever find this record I’ll pay upwards of $50 for a clean copy.
In any event, I sold a Beyonce record I bought on a lark for $100. I sold a Janelle Monáe record for $100 too. These records aren’t the old, and don’t seem especially rare, but there’s no explaining the yearnings of the human heart. For some time now I’ve been considering liquidating my whole punk and metal collection. With everyone coming back to the fold in terms of vinyl worship I think I could make a killing with the hunks of slab I’ve acquired. But there are weird mental ticks that are a part of record collecting.
Let’s face it, music can exert a powerful charm over our lives. It can be timeless. It can put you back in time. It provides tears, laughter, possibly even wisdom?
Then there’s the satisfaction of ownership. Which is a mixed blessing. I hate capitalism. Along with everyone else I’ve navigated the rough waters of capitalist America and somehow not shit the bed, which I achieved through skill and no short amount of luck. The thing I liked the most about Jesus was when he up ended the money changers tables. He did other cool shit too but that was probably my favorite bit. Anyway, as an anti-capitalist I have a hard time stomaching people speculating on something I treasure so much as my youth, of which punk rock played it’s role. There was a time not long ago when you needed physical copies of recorded music to be able to hear them. Technology has gone a long way to make music more accessible to everyone with an internet connection. So now ownership of rare recordings has become a niche world that brings it’s own issues.
Why would someone pay hundreds of dollars for a rare punk record? I can only answer with my own experience. The fleeting joy of completing mt collection of early Discharge singles. They look so cute in my house. Which speaks to a desire to turn my living room into a museum.
Are you buying street credibility when you purchase a rare piece of punker history? Who could say. It’s good to know the artifacts still exist. But maybe they should be in a museum? That was part of my motivation with archiving the Vegas punk scene. It felt like it was slipping away into obscurity. Now I hope it does slip away into obscurity as it seems to have eclipsed it’s own mythos in the minds of many.
That’s one slice of punk rock dynamics that will forever be pathetic to me and yet it’s the inevitable for punk rock adherents. This being that the scene you belong to is the only one that matters. As an outcast, I never even fit in with the other outcasts in punk rock world. But I was there to be a witness. When I assed out I could’t ever be compelled to give a shit about the generations that came later and in fact loathed them and gave zero credence to their expression. I think most people have that experience. Fuck the new generation and fuck everyone who missed the boat the first time around. Are those rare records the tickets to that boat?
Who knows what, why, or how? The fact is there are people with money to burn. When are we gonna burn those people and get back our freedom stolen on the daily from us? I suppose we will all need to be backed into some serious corners before the revolution can free us temporarily. If we aren’t backed into a corner in 2021 what the fuck, right?
I’ve broken down a few times and started selling and chipping away at the hardcore punk hold outs I’ve amassed in my collection. Got serious money for some old Swans records, got some good money for a Dark Angel record. I could go on. It started getting ridiculous. And then I started playing games and making jokes just for kicks. One of these jokes just became a whole lot funnier.
I sold one of the first records I ever bought this week. I’ll start at the beginning.
My first job was at Little Caesar’s Pizza in the Kmart shopping center on Bonanza and Nellis. It fuckin sucked but I finally had some cash to buy smokes, go to shows, get adults to buy me beer, and buy records. This stoner kid Marty at Eldorado had a few rare punk records he was trying to sell and since I was king shit of the east side punkers he worked hard to get me to come by his house to look at some records his brother had. Turns out his bro joined the navy and was shoving off for parts unknown but he left behind a few 7”s that Marty wanted to liquidate. Even back then people were hip to the fact that punk records were rare and therefore valuable. It was a sellers market then and probably always will be.
I don’t remember what all records he was trying to pawn off on me. There were three 7” records. The only one I bought was this strange CRASS record that wasn’t even on the CRASS label. I thought I was getting the shaft because he wanted $5 for this 7”. But I relented and coughed up the dough.
The record was Rival Tribal Rebel Revel. But as mentioned it wasn’t on the CRASS label which always seemed strange to me. It felt like it was a special record and somehow I managed to hang on to it until this week.
I’ll give some background on who the band CRASS were and how much they meant to me which will heighten the absurdity of what follows.
CRASS were among the first in the original punk scene in England, if not the first, to dive head first into far left idealism featuring many of the trappings of the 60’s “hippie” vision. Conflicts that were relevant to the 60’s, didn’t go away with the coming of the 70’s. Or the 80’s, or the 90’s or the 00’s, or… you get the idea. Feminism, environmentalism, anti-nuclear, anti-war, anti-fascist, anti-capitalist, animal rights, anti-racist, and every other similar causes which would fall under that umbrella. CRASS were admittedly genius to graft these same issues onto the blank slate of punk rock, especially since the first punks, and virtually every generation since has been a breeding ground for fascist recruiters. At the onset of the first wave of punk many punks were quite vocal about hating hippies, thankfully CRASS and other like minded scene participants saw how important it was to continue the struggle that the hippies identified, the alternative being the continuation of capitalist exploitation of the scene, which would eventually happen, or the acquiesce of the scene into fascism, which would come to haunt “punk” to this day, and as we know it’s knocking on American society’s door currently. CRASS set the standard for carrying that banner which is a continuation of the tradition of resistance.
Also, beginning with their first drunken shambles of a gig they inspired a spirited, sloppy, thrown together aesthetic, which has (sadly) also been a continuing tradition in the realm of punk rock activism. It involves passion against the oppressive system, obnoxious “punk” theatre, and a serious desperation that was always two steps from the bottomless pit of depression considering the subject matter. Stakes were high, (they still are) CRASS weren’t fucking around, but they liked to party too.
Their aesthetics were brilliant. Stark black and white graphics, collage, stencil art, focusing on the all important message. Part of their urgency stems from the sheer amount of things they had to say. They had so much trouble on their mind (refuse to lose) it was like the singers had to spew it out at top speed to fit it all in the song.
They inspired one of the first sub genres that would be a force for good and bad in the underground for decades afterwards, the Anarcho Punk scene. It would dictate much of the undergrounds politics through the 80’s, somehow that thrust fell by the wayside in the 90’s and seemed to disappear all together with the dawn of the new millennium. Things have returned into sharper focus in the last few years. Would you agree?
I remember my own initiation into the world of CRASS. Even as a teenager I was skeptical of Anarchist thought. Get rid of all government? Even at that point in my life I’d met plenty of garbage bag people to see the fallacy of letting us as a community take care of ourselves. We may hope for the best from our community and sometimes the community delivers, but you can’t count on the community to be there to make the buses run on time. The Vegas scene of which I was a part went from Peace punk CRASS inspired lunacy, to straight up fascist nazi skinheads over the course of a few months. Even punks are trendy sheep by and large. I didn’t see a future in the fronting that anarchists inspired. It’s akin to Libertarians, another teenage daydream unworthy of serious consideration. Libertarians and anarchists may have seemed viable when we were an agrarian society, but we are well past that place as a society. As an industrialized society with urbanization that reflects a population of millions, I don’t trust my brother to be there for me.
Regardless of the breadth of their beliefs CRASS is an institution worthy of celebrating for helping to carry the weight of the left on their drunken backs. I’m sure they would hate to be labeled as such. Which makes them all the more beloved.
The truth and it’s consequences were heartbreakingly spelled out over the life of the band. I recall lofty highs of hearing these people speak the truth to the power structure. It was inspiring and it made me take what action I could as a young man and it made me take what actions I can as a grown man. It was equally distressing to feel the full pressure of capitalist society so large and untouchable. Too big to fail. I remember tears from listening to CRASS, but just as often they inspired resolve. It seems silly to put so much emphasis on CRASS as an impetus, they are merely a continuation of the struggle of which all nonconformists find themselves as we face down injustice and try to find a way to survive and still retain our morality and dignity. I think I’ve found a balance which makes sense to me. That’s enough, for now. At least that’s what I’ve continued to tell myself so that I can go on with my life without completely losing my shit.
CRASS has it’s share of detractors to be sure. I’d hazard a guess that I know more people who hate rather than admire them and I understand why. First off for being a music group the music tends to be really bad. I feel like being musical was like 5th or 6th on their list of things to do. Secondly, they’re British, so they already work to a disadvantage in my book. Especially since they’re EXTREMELY British in terms of the hard to follow accents and the fact that they appear educated. Among my most favorite of their graphics is the following words blown up big in a fold out poster: “The nature of your oppression is the aesthetic of our anger.” I had to look up some of those words in the dictionary but I felt confident, and smarter when I did. Still, it’s that kind of pretentious bullshit that can only be viewed as heavy-handed. Nobody likes a know it all and CRASS were nothing if not sure of themselves. Somehow I never heard CRASS as preachy, they just seemed determined and desperate, perhaps because I agreed with their anger? Of course I was happy to throw my lot in with anyone screaming at the top of their lungs back then, it made the anger valid.
The Nevada Test site was an hour drive north of Las Vegas. The end seemed nigh. It was rapturous righteousness. CRASS was what the hippies were crying about on steroids.
It’s hard to chose a favorite album, each one is so different. But my top two have to be Penis Envy, and Yes Sir I Will. Penis Envy is CRASS at their most musical, but it’s still CRASS, so the bar is low. I love that Eve Libertine does all the vocals on that album. I saw her play an unplugged show in 1990 in downtown LV, and there was a drive-by shooting, which was a very 1990 Las Vegas thing to do.
Yes Sir I Will is CRASS at complete meltdown. It’s not even broken into songs. It’s just continuous music through both sides. Sure, that sounds about as overblown as a Yes album but CRASS somehow pulls it off and knocks it out of the park. It gets pretty unhinged at points but never loses focus. Eve Libertine steals the show on this album too, vehemently breaking down monumental truths with a poetry of the oppressed. Maybe that’s why they chose her to sing every song on Penis Envy? She fuckin nails it. Listening to every album now it’s hard not to see her as the best vocalist and mouthpiece for CRASS. I was moved to tears from this album as a teenager, and it still holds up well. It’s breathtaking even as I listen to it as an old man. Especially when Eve said “Maybe our lives don’t matter that much?” Also when she shook with rage screaming how nuclear weapons could destroy all life on planet earth! She wasn’t bullshiting. There’s a lot of brilliant lyrics on display in this album but perhaps the most relevant piece is a simple two sentence phrase:
It is up to us all as responsible citizens of Earth
To work towards the downfall of the powerful elite
Today’s current crop of fascist have angled themselves as victims and somehow the left is the elite to be brought down. This is the same tactic the original nazis used in the 1930’s. If nothing else the fascists have gotten smarter by learning history, or the masses have gotten dumber to forget it. Which story do you want to believe? Who do they think they’re fooling? You?
Yes Sir I Will is CRASS at their most didactic and it’s thrilling. Nuclear war will destroy all life on Earth! Utter contempt! Fuck Thatcher! There is no authority but your self. Even the fold out poster is a mockery of conformity and the sad irony of kowtowing to authority at all costs. It’s a photo of an airman from the royal air force. His face mutilated from a battle involving the Falkland islands. He is being given a medal from Prince Charles in this photo. The prince tells the airman to “Get Well soon!” To which the airmen replies, “Yes Sir, I will.” Devastating.
There are many CRASS haters, which is par for the punk rock course. I once had a long conversation with a douchy rock star musician I knew from Vegas, who ended up moving to Portland to become a douchy rock star here. The Clash became a topic of conversation for some reason, likely because he brought it up. I mentioned I wasn’t as aware of the Clash’s music because Crass and Rudimentary Peni talked shit about them which made me avoid their music for the most part. This rock star dumbshit was dismissive of CRASS and Peni, and wouldn’t stop talking up the Clash. Which of course made me dislike the Clash even more and double down on my love of CRASS. “The name is CRASS, not Clash, they can stuff their punk credentials cause it’s them that takes the cash!” I've since come around and appreciate the Clash more now, but I'll never ever respect them as much as I do CRASS.
Punk rock, as a general rule, and CRASS specifically, survives and becomes more popular every year for one simple reason: a new generation find their rage in the same trough from which CRASS drank. No one is more confident in their convictions than CRASS. It will hold appeal forever to each new generation looking up from the gutter. And each older generation looks to pop that enthusiastic bubble of self righteousness by downplaying it as naiveté, or shitting on the perspective of youth just because that’s what old people do. As an old man myself I have mixed feelings in this regard. Of course I’m annoyed by 15 year olds shouting slogans in my face especially when I shouted those same slogans and they were two generations removed from my own generation to start with. But there’s a morality and an urgency at play here which has never really left my purview. CRASS is not the bedrock of my moral worldview, they helped to inform it in a way but that train was already moving by the time I discovered CRASS. However I still respect their perspective and passion. As a seeker of truth I strongly believe the youth are smarter than given credit. I hope they get their shit together faster than mine did. Too many of my generation are clearly establishment. Even the ones who are still junkies which is too pitiful if it wasn't so disgustingly ignorant at first blush. FIGHT WARS NOT WAR is a sentiment I will take to the grave.
Here’s the funny part...
I sold a CRASS one sided 7” for $280 on discogs.com. I listed it originally for $400 as a joke not thinking someone would bite. It was a bit of a shock when someone offered $280. I took it.
In some ways I expected to have a reckoning with my younger self in relation to this moral quandary. But is it a moral quandary? The kind of person who would clutch pearls over the decision to make bank on a CRASS record is the kind of person who would probably steal it to sell themselves if given the chance. I understand that bands, specifically these types of anarchy punk bands would put labels on their records reading Pay No More Than, in an attempt to discourage the collector marketplace which inflates the price to outrageous fortunes due to rarity.
Surely I must mention the unseemliness of how our culture goes on to commodify everything, and eventually co-op even movements designed to be counter to capitalist bullshit. And the disgusting reality of "comic book" collector nerd douche bags who don't even give a shit about the sentiments and are just out to make a buck or consume "the product" no matter how noble that product may claim to be.
Still I think I deserve something for keeping this thing looking good after 30 years.
Anyway. Fuck Authority!
There is no authority but yourself.
Wednesday, April 7, 2021
Would you like to collaborate?
Z for Zenith from Chad Simmons on Vimeo.
Do you remember quiggly line drawings? It's when someone
draws a random quiggly line and pases it on to someone else to create a
drawing inspired from said squiggle. Would you like to participate in a similar
experiment?
I built an animation studio in my basement. I've got a
couple of ideas, but I haven't really started yet. I'm asking you to send me
squiggle material which I will use to jumpstart some animations.
I’m inspired, but mostly I’m inspired to read books
all day, prepare for spring gardening, listen to the radio, volunteer,
shoot baskets, watch the rain from inside, feel sorry for myself since my
girlfriend left me over a year ago, pretty much anything but try to open
the studio up and use it.
I’ve got few ideas I’ve been kicking around, but
mostly I’ve been making excuses instead of going into the basement. I
would love to encounter the unexpected to get me
motivated. Send me something.
Would you please collaborate with me? I am quite
lonesome and would like to have someone give me a gentle push to start
the ball rolling so I can make the most of this time I’ve been blessed
with. I don’t expect to go back to work for several more months. I
would love to never go back to work and I think I’ll be able to drag
another year out of this situation but I’m sure the unemployment
faucet will eventually run dry. In the mean time I’d like to dedicate
myself to something that will stabilize my negativity and turn it into
something more akin to cynicism instead of straight up nihilism.
Won’t you please get involved?
I’m asking you to reach out to me to provide inspiration
to make use of this time. I’d like to make some animated short
films with material you provide as the basis and springboard. Does
that interest you?
I’m looking for script ideas, story ideas, anecdotes, poetry, prose, dreams, fantasies, fears, doubts, hopes, disappointments, or any other imaginative notion you can think up which you’d like to see created for the screen. It doesn’t have to make sense. It doesn’t have to be a story. It can be a written letter to yourself, to your mum, to your kitty, the cat food, the little bits of crayon. It can be avant grade. It can be a bad joke. A good joke. It can be a haunting memory.
If it's easier to be inspired on a smaller
scale take note that I’ve made over 30 short films which are no
longer than 30 seconds in length. If it helps to get you to
conjure a concept for me I suggest you think up something that
can be summed up in roughly 30 seconds. However if you have an
idea that is longer I welcome that too. I’m including examples
of animations I’ve made in the past to give you an idea of my
abilities. Please join me.
If the idea of writing seizes you up maybe
you will enjoy the following idea more?
I’m not limiting my requests for
collaborations to written ideas. Please, please,please, my
musician friends, and audio or video geeks, please send me
recorded songs, jams, noodlings, false starts, recitals
you’ve recorded from the past, rehearsal recordings, audio
or video of you making noise, strange sound effects,
terrifying screams, endless recorded laughter, atmosphere
recordings of street noises, recordings of water dripping,
witty dialogue, bad dialogue between fools, good dialogue
between lovers, electronic music, acoustic music, bottles
breaking, babies crying, dogs barking, sing a song, life being lived. Do
you have a smart phone? Then you can record something
interesting for me to match with a visual component. Nothing
is too weird! No length, no matter how short our long will
be unused. I promise.
After the short is finished I'll send you the finished product and I’ll give
you half ownership of the film. For whatever that is
worth. I suspect it may be worth as much to you, as it will
be to me. If you have read this far then please take the
next few days, weeks, months, to consider submitting
something to me. Please submit as many things as you can
imagine or share this request for collaboration to others
who you think would be interested. I need someone to
bounce off of and I want that person to be you.
Have fun, don't feel the need to "say something" just send me a slice of your life for a few seconds.
Please email me anything you would like to throw against the wall to become realized on screen at: chadarad@hotmail.com. Put collaborate in the subject line.
Sunday, March 21, 2021
Revisiting Songs About Nuclear Annihilation
I made this mix with multi-generational songs about Nuclear War about ten years ago and put them on this blog so people could download them. Technology is always marching forward so now out of convenience we stream shit. For that reason I’ve uploaded these mixes to Mixcloud to allow you to listen to them without having to go through the bullshit of downloading them and finding space to fit them on your phone or whatever.
Hard to believe it’s been 10 plus years since I made these mixes but it’s even more incredible that we’ve all lived under a cloud of imminent nuclear threat for damn near three quarters of a century without serious incident. It still feels like borrowed time. I don’t want to ruin your day unless I make you laugh somewhere along the way. Perhaps this mix tape will elicit a few nervous chuckles?
If the above link isn't working click here.
Somehow these mixes became the most downloaded thing I ever put up on this blog. I'm proud of the work that went into creating them, even if there are a few technical issues. I hope they continue to find an audience. Making them available to stream will hopefully give them a new life.
Humanity has done a good job coping with nuclear anxiety in the form of music and art which has helped to navigate a way of life and create hope under the ever present shadow of “The Bomb.” While the concept of creating a mix like this is indeed dark I hope you see this collection as a continuation of that tradition and a celebration of the human spirit under fire.
If the above link isn't working click here: here.
If you feel so inclined you can still download these mixes at the original post. In that post I explain why I made these mixes and how they came about. It's a rambling, semi-coherant text that accompanys that post but I still stand by those words when I look back at it. This nuclear situation has been a contained form of insanity since it started at the end of World War II. I'm sure you'd agree it's only gotten worse and more terrifying to consider in the last decade. Click here to see the original post.
If the above link isn't working click here.
This is three different mixes which add up to nearly three hours of apocalyptic song. Be sure to fit them all in to your schedule.
Have a nice day.
Tuesday, March 2, 2021
fuckin around with Jesse's vision for wont of a better thing to do.
Here's a short film I made from footage produced by Jesse Michaels. This is a collaboration I did with him for which he is certainly unaware.
I couldn't get enough of the band Operation Ivy at age 17. I bought their Hectic 7” EP in 1988 with money I earned making pizzas at Little Caesars in the Kmart shopping center on Nellis and Bonanza. Loved them again in 1989. Also 1990. I pretty much never stopped loving Op Ivy. Their music was pure joy, but it didn’t skimp on the rage and rebellion. For my money they were the most inspiring national “punk” band of my generation. I say that because they seemed to break out from their own regional scene and became as big as stalwarts like the Dead Kennedys, who ceased being relevant years before at that point.
Op Ivy were smart enough to call it quits right as they were on the precipice of complete crossover stardom. It’s my guess that the singer, Jesse Michaels, was the one who had the brains enough to make the band throw in the towel. I’m basing this on circumstantial evidence considering after they broke up the rest of the band, without Jesse, limped along with a lesser quality incarnation known as Downfall, who came across as a lot more roots Ska in nature and didn’t show a lot of “punk” trappings. They were a pale imitation of Op Ivy and I think they realized that too since they only recorded a few songs and then splitsville.
I didn’t learn about Op Ivy’s full length “Energy” until I found a beat up casette copy of it in Greg Telles’ car one night when we were out being stupid. He forgot he had it. The tape had been smashed and had a huge chunk of the top corner missing. It somehow still played in the tape deck of his car so we played it over and over that night before getting busted drinking beers in the parking lot of Circus Circus. Duh.
The music they recorded was classic, and I forgive them for giving flight to, or at the very least being a big part of the turd wave of Ska music that stunk up the joint in the early 90’s. They were of it, but way above it. Both the EP and the LP were blazing hardcore first and foremost, with tiny elements of hyper paced pseudo Ska thrown in. It sounded very little like the Specials or Selector, the only other Ska I was familiar with as a punk chump in the desert southwest circa 1989.
I loved all their music but the Hectic EP was something I worshipped. Mostly because it was one of the only records I had back then. I listened to it over and over, pouring over the lyrics looking for a meaning to the screaming, and it was there in spades. These guys were not putting on a show, they had heart, they fucking meant it and it made sense.
The thing that blew my mind was the intensity of the lyrics. Jesse Michaels lyrics are genius. Even more importantly he wrote explanations of the lyrics! What?! How fucking brilliant is that? Lyrics have no choice but to be lyrical. Poetry written to fit the music, finds the beat, produces a cadence, many might even be shoehorned into a song to make it fit. In that way the message can be open to interpretation. It could be misunderstood, maybe even twisted to mean the opposite of the authors intention. This made my young mind wonder: why would you not write an explanation for any song you wrote? Why didn’t everyone write an explanation, given the chance. I understood a lot of Bob Dylan, but couldn’t alway wrap my head around all his bullshit. As brilliant as it could be. Why didn’t he write an explanation? It seemed obvious.
Some will say the author was amateur and couldn’t express himself completely within the song, so having to explain it is a little like cheating. There may be some truth to that but if you got something to say wouldn't you want it to be understood? I want to know what you're saying. And I sure the fuck want to be understood. To me it was a stroke of genius, perhaps Jesse got the idea from someone else but being able to decipher his meaning changed me. It’s the approach I took when I eventually got a band together and wrote my own lyrics. Every song on our LP had an explanation for it. I’m exceedingly proud of that huge amount of pretentiousness.
Funny thing is OP IVY offended the fuck out of me with what they were saying. Well, one song on that record did and it pissed me off to no end, haunting me as a young man rushing into adulthood. I’m so very glad it did, it made a world of difference in what I came to expect from the world and what I wanted to give the world of myself.
Junkies Running Dry was the song the bothered me, it's the first song on the first side of the Hectic EP. Here’s the lyric sheet with the offending material:
The lyrics are a tad illegible so here's the lyrics posted below:
I always looked up to the ones who walked away
Choosing themselves over preset
Ways of looking at a future that had no room for the
Questions they lived for
Always knew i never could have walked away myself
My self worth was beyond any help
And i didnt care to test it against the rejection i had seen before
But those i loved so much they underwent a change
They're working fourty hours they got caught in the game
Like junkies running dry, the vulnerability
They're always there on time
We're never satisfied like junkies running dry
This wonderful generosity
A third of our lives to do what we please
Doesn't look that great to me
In fact it doesnt even look fair
They call it youthful idealism
And even I would have to agree with them
Except some of us grow up and its still there
I grow up too slow I don't wanna go
But now i'm working just like everyone else
But ill get out of here
Keep in mind I bought this record with money I earned from my first job as a lackey for the Little Caesars Pizza corporation. I fit the profile of what Jesse was describing as I was a high profile punk rocking fool on the East Side of Las Vegas. I was one of the only decked out “punkers” at my school (Eldorado High) and got a lot of grief for that. And yet for all my defiance and rebellious nature I jumped through their fucking hoops slinging pepperoni.
I had earned enough to buy this record. And yet this record dared scold me for tempering my angst, for daring to do what everyone else seemed to be doing? What choice did I have? They had a lot of nerve to tell me I was cheesing out. I got threatened on the daily because of how I looked and who I was. What choice was I being given? How am I supposed to figure this shit out?
Damn good questions that never occurred to me prior to listening and reading the lyrics printed above. It was a ballsy inquiry and pretty heady stuff for a ska/punk band. For years after I kept wondering and asking myself, and everyone else what choice we have? What choice do any of us have? There are more choices than we’re led to believe as it turns out. It made me ask questions that pissed other people off. I’m not fearful of pissing people off from asking questions. No one should be. Are you ready to ask yourself those questions? Do you dare? Or maybe you want to play it safe and look for the easy way out? Why should your life be filled with upheaval? Why should you have to work for more than just money? All valid questions.
I’ve tried to live my life as a persistent question to that staus quo, I don't think I've always had the courage it takes to follow through every time. I’ve played it safe plenty of times. I kick myself when I think about my cowardice. But I’ve gotten in to plenty of faces and asked questions no one wanted to know the answers to. I'm still trying to do just that, I hope you are asking those same questions in your life. I don’t place it all on Jesse Michael’s incisive lyrical bent, but he had a hand in stirring the pot. This song struck a chord that I keep hearing ringing in my ears. For that I am thankful, inspired, and better person for it.
Which brings us to this little project. I was visiting my folks in sunny Las Vegas, Nevada (January 2016 I think?) when I got a call from Drew Livingood informing me that Jesse Michaels had reached out to him, out of the blue, to get some people together to shoot an informal music video in the desert outside of town that very weekend. Of course I said an emphatic yes. All my friends said yes and we ended up waking up earlier than noon on a Sunday to go fuck around with Jesse Michaels.
An enthusiastic group of us, including provocateur Checko Salgado, set out to some impressive locations to help Jesse film b-roll for a music video he was producing for the band Leftover Crack. I will say no more about Leftover Crack as I am not their target audience. As it turns out Jesse recorded vocals for this song for which he was to be making a video.
He had costumes and a vision for the production. We weren't actors, barely technically proficient as a crew, and probably didn’t take direction from him as good as we should have. But we got some cool images.
I was crestfallen when months later I saw the video and noticed he barely used a quarter of the images we shot for him. I vowed to one day return to the scraps that landed on the cutting room floor just to fuck around. The images are pretty surreal and worthy of shaping into something. Jesse once again inspired me with the residue of his vision begging to be turned in to something. Well, here’s something. It’s not nothing. It’s something.
I made a rudimentary soundtrack using multiple synth keyboard emulators. Normally I’d write an explanation of the film, similar to what Jesse did on that first Hectic EP. But I think you can come up with a better story for what these images and edits mean?
Thanks to Jesse Michaels and what few friends I have for continuing to inspire.
Here’s the final cut for the video that Jesse produced for Leftover Crack.
I'd be remiss if I didn't include what amounts to my favorite song by Operation Ivy. Some think it's a lesser track in their canon but it sure means a lot to me.
Turns out Jesse Michaels isn't the only member of Operation Ivy with pretensions towards film making, or in this case TV. I discovered this clip of the guitar player from OP IVY when he acted on the X-Files. Something tells me he might've even written some of his own dialogue. This is almost as bad as watching me act. Although my fake NYC accent is more convincing.
Sunday, February 28, 2021
barf
I’ve always been a cynical, critical, lyrical, fucked up mess. I’ve largely got no complaints about that, I don’t know what choice I’ve got. I’ve shared with past girlfriends how I don’t know what happiness is and how it’s not something I strive for. This horrified one of them and made another one scoff because she was much darker in her outlook. Personally I think that’s the issue with many people, they pursue happiness too forcefully. I don’t give a shit. Happiness comes around when you’re not looking for it. To seek it out makes it elusive. I don’t mind trying to set myself up for it but I refuse to beat myself up chasing it as it runs out the door. I don’t fret bad days, they are many, they will happen, and must happen to make the good days what they are. If everyday was good I’d take it for granted and not give a shit. I treasure the bad days in equal measure.
And yet in the face of disaster after disaster I still laugh at my own jokes. Since I’m mostly alone I’m the only one who gets them. It could be worse. It seems like it could always be worse. I’ve grown sick of that phrase. Still, I’m content. I have a short list of regrets, most of which eat me alive so I do my best to make the most of what’s in front of me.
I’d been seeing a psycho therapist these last few months. He’s blind. I thought that was good symbolism. It was nice to have someone to talk to. Turns out he’s an idiot. When the nazis stormed the Capital building he started talking about the dangers of Antifa. I didn’t even bring that shit up which makes it seem even more insulting for him to start talking about it. I wanted to punch him in the face. He would’ve never seen it coming. It would have been funny, and a great story, but it wouldn’t have solved much in the long run so I merely broke it off with him instead. I should have stolen something from his office, but he didn’t have anything that interested me. I’m looking for a new therapist now. I’m only interested in seeing female therapists after listening to that pseudo intellectual macho shitbag. However I do agree with him that I need to stop smoking pot and maybe start trying to be an artist again.
I’m trying to figure out how to stay positive without being delusional. I’ve been volunteering and that helps a lot. And yet I still find myself looking for new avenues of escape. Without smoking doobies. I was never much of a drinker. I just hate having to piss all the time.
Sleep has become harder to slip into. Turning off my mind doesn’t come easy. Getting out of bed in the morning has become harder to do. I find myself unable to open my eyes, to motivate. I push myself back into dreams which I don’t remember. I think I need a dog.
I find new daydreams in which to escape. Many of these dreams aren’t new. For decades now I’ve wanted a hole to open up under humanity to drop us all into the magma core. I lull myself to sleep with visions of it burning to the ground. I want the engines to be gummed up and sputter to a halt. The buildings crack and crumble to the ground. I want everyone to weep the same tears that are falling onto my face. Only silence and screams as a fever pitch of humanity drowns together in the inevitable coming flood. Burning hand in hand in the same remorseless pangs of contagious anger that can not be withheld as we choke and die alone in the smoke filled terror of our own consumption. Til there is nothing left to mourn. A flowing river of pain, and resentment, and fear, and disgust as humanity is torn asunder and chaos smashes the safety and security of the wicked as all hope is left to decay in the flotsam leftover from the tragic illusion that we can stem the tide.
I don’t want to be alone in my anguish. I want to get some of it on you. I wanted you to sneeze it into your hand as you press the button to get you to the ground floor to spread it to the next. On and on in a cycle of emotional pestilence. I want the bombs to go off one by one by one by one until no more darkness exists, only light illuminated by a destruction without end.
If you’re in a shitty metal band please feel free to use these as lyrics, just give me credit. Then please do heroin until you can’t anymore.
I thought I was unique. It’s been a surprise and a disappointment to find that more people feel that way then I could have imagined. It makes me not want to have those thoughts again. But how am I supposed to get any sleep without the dreams of the conclusion dancing in my head? Knowing there will be finality is one of the only ways I relax at night. The latest wrinkle in my fantasies harkens back to the first Indiana Jones film. I imagine the Conservative movement opening the Lost Ark as their faces melt off of their skulls. Those thoughts put me to sleep like a baby.
Lately I hide in memories of space ship rides away from disappoint. That’s some really defeatist bullshit and I’ve always hated when others hide their heads in the sand. I guess I’m surprised in myself for now considering that to be an option. But it’s fleeting. I think this daydream stems from my recent attempts to catch up on Star Trek the Next Generation. I missed that shit the first time around. It’s better than Star Wars anyway, but I still find myself falling asleep on the Millennium Falcon every other night. More often I find myself falling asleep to the standard American prayer mantra: one million dollars, two million dollars, three million dollars- falls in my lap, falls in my lap, falls in my lap. Man that’s fucking pathetic.
I’ve run out of hope and regained it enough times to recognize the cycle. I thought by now I’d run out of things to be afraid of, I tried to make a point of finding more things to make me scared, to make me shaken to my core. Come to find most of the shit that strikes fear in heart is already inside of me. Maybe tomorrow I’ll be a man and become a better person for making inroads to figure myself out instead of trying to figure the world out?
I didn’t have kids. Sometimes I think that may be the problem. Maybe I’d care more. Maybe I missed the boat. Now I have no reason to worry about staying afloat? I’m gonna say it’s too late for that now. Also, why would I subject a new life to such distresses, the worst of which we have yet to glimpse. Humanity isn’t nearly bottomed out yet. Just imagine how much further we have left to fall?
The truth is February wasn’t so bad. Maybe March will live up to the promise of Spring?
Wednesday, February 17, 2021
Eazier said than done
I like to write about pop culture. I like to read pop culture. I like to live in pop culture. It’s fluff for which I can have a definitive opinion about without feeling defensive. Although it’s impossible not to step on toes, I feel most people aren’t petty enough to be offended by my opinions on fluff. Haters are always gonna hate haters. But I must insist most of my output isn’t based on hate, it’s cynicism which is only slightly less attractive.
Examining pop culture allows me to stretch out writing muscles in the search for truth with low stakes. All I care about is truth. In all that I do. Which I consider a noble pursuit, however I’ve come to realize the truth sets no one free it mostly just pisses people off, which makes me think I’m doing something… I was going to say doing something right, but that’s not the right word. I’m doing something worthy of consideration. If for no other reason than giggles. However I realize most of my efforts in seeking truth through critiquing and examining pop culture are masturbatory. However there are worse things to be. Just look on social media.
Disclaimer: There is liberal use of the N word and B word in the following essay. As a white man I apologize in advance for using these derogatory epithets. I abhor these word but critique of the works examined below require me to include these word as any analysis of Ni**as With Attitudes (NWA) and Eazy E must reckon with questionable language front and center to their expression. Obviously. The least I can do is not spell them out.
I knew this n****r… back in uh, back since the n****r was little…
NWA has a great deal of cultural gravitas on it’s shoulders which is well deserved, along with being comedy, and tragedy. It’s been said they may be the most “punk” of any group in hip hop history. That may be true.
It’s hard to deny the explosive power of a song like Fuck the Police. A statement so iconic it’s basically textbook at this point. Even at it’s inception it was universal and fully formed, overwhelmingly confident in tone and unapologetic in nature. The song was impossible to ignore and yet it was so boldly profound it could be, and largely was, viewed comically from many audiences who couldn’t fathom the reality the song was trying to address.
The brutal urgency of the message sent up flares. That’s all art can do. The situation didn’t change. I shouldn’t have to explain to you how it means the same thing today that it did 30 plus years ago. Sadly the song’s relevancy bears out not as a rebellion but as a shameful stain on America’s conscience. It was truth set to a beat. But in 2021 what is the legacy of the world’s most dangerous group?
The consensus among historians and even the group itself, points to a combination of genius wordsmith (Ice Cube writes the rhymes that I say), genius musicianship (Dr. Dre…) and the injection of capital and nefarious show biz wrangling (Eazy E and that jewish guy) which sparked a wad of dynamite leading to a complete overhaul of hip hop as a genre and a cultural force for good and ill. (Bad meaning bad not bad meaning good)
As much as NWA blew the doors off shit they certainly come across as amateurish in some ways that are hard to reckon with in hindsight and that’s part of why they eventually fell off.
The movie Straight Out of Compton was a mildly entertaining way to spend an hour and a half but being a superfan I left the theatre feeling like I’d been cheated. It was well crafted, but I wanted to see something new, something I didn’t already know about NWA. As soon as I came into their orbit I was obsessive about these guys, pouring over every detail which was often hard to come by since they were still vaguely underground but rapidly coming to the surface. As a result the movie played out like my own memories. (Aside from MC Ren getting the shaft.) Not sure what I was expecting but I knew what was going to happen almost every minute throughout the film. I will say the film made me think about how it’s sort of embarrassing to admit they were favorites back in the day.
He once was a thug from around the way.
Eazy, but you should-
B*tch, Shut the fuck up. Get the fuck out of here.
Being a lightning rod for controversy makes the groups legacy as hard to narrow down as their oftentimes questionable taste. When I look at their catalog now I gotta say most, if not all of their output is downright ignorant. I’m reminded of the fictional group the MauMaus in the amazing Spike Lee film “Bamboozled.” One character remarked how the MauMaus aren’t just ignorant they’re “ignant.” Would I go so far as to call NWA ignant? Uhhhhh. Yes and no.
Their presence in hip hop and American pop culture is so towering it’s astonishing. But maybe that’s just my perspective. The conceit of hiphop is such that it’s ever evolving, or getting worse depending upon how you look at it. But I’d be surprised if anyone under 35 would even give a fuck about NWA.
There were other artists mining the same territory of criminal bravado prior to NWA blasting off. But no one is as hyper linked to the creation of Gangsta Rap than NWA. Feature length films satirized them (CB4), the media portrayed them as demons selling terror, other artists aped their style. In a push to capitalize on their success, record companies altered the course of hip hop and made Gangsta leanings almost a prerequisite for major label release. I grew up loving hip hop but even my last nerve was worked around the mid 90’s when you couldn’t escape a gangsta groove in hip hop, no matter how you tried. Soon it was all “wanna be gangsta fascination” and it lost it’s reputation in the process. It lost my interest, momentarily anyway. In certain circles there’s talk of conspiracy about record companies reinforcing stereotypes and pushing negative bullshit to keep the black community down and record sales up. The glut of gangsta records ad infinitum during the mid 90’s does nothing to squash that theory.
Was this NWA’s fault? Of course not. But that doesn’t absolve them of certain “crimes.”
Even at the height of my obsession with these guys there were still some things about them which I found unsavory to say the least. Much off this disillusionment came with the release of their third and in many ways most anticipated album “Efilforzzaggin.” It’s also the biggest disappointment of their career.
To this day I’m still convinced NWA only released one album which is a stone cold classic. When I say this I’m including the later solo stuff as well. Their sole entry into the world of flawless long players is the first album by Eazy E: Eazy Duz It.
I think most heads might agree, but for people who only know NWA from the blinding sheen of Fuck the Police that statements is blasphemy.
Considering the splash they made in hip hop history it’s surprising to remember that NWA and the Boyz didn’t put out a whole lot of music. Just three LP’s under the NWA moniker, stunning solo work by Cube (at least those first two albums) and Dre (you’ve heard of him right?) and Eazy’s solo work. MC Ren later put out a solo LP as well, it’s under appreciated. But Eazy Duz It trumps them all.
Maybe I treasure Eazy’s first album because it was my first experience hearing anything by NWA? Make no mistake it was also my first experience hearing so many fucking curse words in music outside the punk scene. In fact, it far surpassed the amount of fuck words you would normally hear in a punk song by a huge margin, plus you could hear every FUCK, SHIT, BI*CH, etc. as it was enunciated clearly and enthusiastically. It was a symphony of profanity that elicited squeals of delight from dumb ass kids like me who didn’t know any better. Even now I’d imagine the profanity quotient is abnormally high for this album.
It was a novel mix that struck gold with solid beats, disrespectful obnoxious gangster fantasies, and humor. It painted a hilarious picture of life as a gangsta in “da hood.” Which had the effect of glamorizing something better left in the gutter. Regardless the shit was entertaining. While Eazy was clearly the baddest motherfucker on the block (nay, planet) he was also down to earth and not above self deprecating cracks about his age and how fucking short he was, but make no mistake he would stomp your motherfucking ass. Or pay someone to do it.
Songs played out on this album were unique and creative, more so than on subsequent releases. Some were full on narratives (Nobody Move), some were comical commentary on daily life as a criminal (No More Questions) , but most were tales of bravado pumped up to 11 taking hip hop to a place it hadn’t been yet (2 Hard Muthas). It was groundbreaking, but again we have to ask, was it a good thing?
Get used to the crew bi**h…
Who the fuck were these mother fuckers? They were my new heroes. And therein lies the rub. As entertaining, and incendiary as these characters presented themselves, are these really the types of people we want to see as heroes? Eazy made it clear when he rapped “I’m not a role model or a Dr. Suess.” But without the context I can’t help but admit these scumbags became champions for me and I know I’m not the only one.
Prior to “Efil4zaggin” the world chomping at the bit to hear something, anything from NWA. They were the pinnacle of underground and yet they were on a higher plane than almost any mainstream shit at the time. The anticipation was palpable. When the album finally dropped it was an atom bomb on first blush. Repeated listenings found many fans disappointed. I was anyway. It starts off strong, and the beats, as usual, were impeccable. But the words and concepts didn’t have the bite we came to expect from the villains.
Say goodbye to the bad guy.
When you’re a teenager being bad is being alive. It’s really the only thing worth looking forward to. So it came as no surprise that NWA would blow up, and blow up fucking big.
I lost my shit the first time I saw the video for Night of the Living Baseheads by Public Enemy which had happened a year and a half prior to discovering Eazy-E. Coming to love hip hop in the same way most others were discovering it, I knew it was only a matter of time before a hip hop group would eventually meld a punk sensibility to their aesthetic with politics as an inevitable centerpiece. Using a battering ram of beats to smash racism, implicate the wealthy in a class war, teach the bourgeoisie, and rock the boulevard. It finally happened. I specifically remember crying tears of joy that someone found that sweet spot which appeared to be out in the open. The music called for it. The message needed it’s muse. Someone connected the dots. It was powerful. Cathartic. It finally meant something.
Hearing Eazy-E for the first time did not have that same feel. But the impact was no less engaging. While I could relate to the words and rage that Chuck D spit, the world that Eazy-E brought into the open was alien. It was funny and yet disorienting. I had zero point of reference for the gangster world, and while profanity was a sure bet to win over dumb ass adolescents, it also opened a gateway to misogynist expression that must have fucked up a whole generation of young men who already didn’t know dick about women. While it came across as clownish, the constant demeaning of women became normalized once you played the same tape over and over for months to years on end.
History is a motherfucker. And that motherfucker has gone a long way to making NWA a strange and singular creation that is hard to reconcile with woke 2021 perceptions. That’s a good thing. No scratch that, it’s a great thing. Politics, while not front and center, were implicit in their exposing the dark underbelly of America’s dream, and that is commendable. And yet we have to reconcile the medium and the message. They glorified bullshit.
The shock, joy, and power I feel listening to these songs all these years is still present. But there’s no denying the edge is blunted as any knife’s edge would be after years of stabbing motherfuckers. But it’s also an embarrassing demise similar to the shock and awful mediocrity that was the end result of the aesthetics of punk and hardcore. Something that continues to swallow itself in the world that is no longer blazing a trail but prodding well worn highways of rote memorization and fetishization of one note. There’s just no way to keep that intensity of constant shock still seem germane. Instead it becomes spectacle that encourages life to imitate art. Sure, there’s always going to be a new crew of 15 year old punk kids for whom shock is a thrill pill that fits tightly inside quivering rectums, but for the rest of us this shit sucks if it’s the only note you can hit.
This is where history really screws NWA. But it’s also the logical conclusion to where they we're headed anyway. They were just fucking around and they knew it. But the proof is in the pudding.
They were smart ass kids initially, but as we all know once Ice Cube bailed they lost direction and largely became a satire of themselves. Any examination of their output shows them to be comedians first and social commentators somewhere further down the list. It’s clear they claimed to be spitting commentary on society mostly in order to get away with being assholes.
So what is their legacy? It’s a mixed bag. Listening to them today I still hear what I heard all those years ago. A bunch of smart ass punks loudly telling the truth. It’s funny because it’s true. But it’s also depressing as fuck. The beats are there. The sentiment is there. And yet all that misogynist, homophobic bullshit only adds to an ignant heritage that begat an aftermath of stupidity and continues to spawn more idiocy. Just labeling it as entertainment belies just how incendiary it was and how much it changed the game forever.
They were truth tellers holding up a mirror. Teachers explaining to us what not to do. They were fucking great. They were fucking terrible. Sometimes I hate their fucking guts. Sometimes this gets stuck in my head:
People talk shit about cancel culture. Some shit needs to be canceled. Shit like racism. Sexism. Homophobia. Billionaires. Class War. Gangsters and the culture that celebrates these leaches. If you don't agree maybe you should be canceled?
Thursday, February 4, 2021
Interview with Danny Breeden- singer for FUCK SHIT PISS.
I look to the past for inspiration. I revere history because you can’t know where you’re at unless you know where you’ve been. I’m up front about my fears of being perceived as nostalgic. Wistfulness is a pathetic refuge from the real, a place to hide from the now. Only a coward or a fool would insist that the best of all times happened in the past and nothing that could happen in the present or future could compare. I’d rather be dead than to believe some stupid shit like that. But if I’m being honest I also don’t want to be perceived as a nostalgia hog because I don’t want to believe that my best years are behind me and I have nothing left to contribute. Fuck that shit.
I aspire to be relevant, in some way shape or form. Otherwise what’s the point? Why not try heroin? It feels good I’ve been told. These are fleeting concerns as I’m sure you’re aware if you’ve followed any of my tangents. I’m thankful to have figured out how important it is to be relevant, pertinent, apropos… true, only to myself. Which makes me cocky, arrogant, I’d go so far as to say annoying. But I like make myself laugh. I’m equally thankful to have learned that my own laughter is enough for me since I usually laugh at the truth. We could all use a bit of both right now.
My opinions are merely that. If you don’t agree, I won’t be staying up late to argue with you, and I don’t give a shit about bringing you over to my side. Some truths are self evident. If you can’t see that then there’s something wrong with you.
I’ve written with a jaundiced eye, ever critical about the triviality of the Las Vegas Hardcore scene. Maybe I’m embittered because I’m disappointed in the shortcomings of a childhood where I was told I could make a difference and yet I feel I haven’t made enough of a difference? I’m still working towards that. Maybe I’m motivated by a love of music and the excitement and passion to be found in pushing boundaries to forge a new path? I’ve found most people are afraid of the new, and I’ve met too many people who are tightly bound to the orthodoxy of hard edged music. It’s not just weepy nostalgia that brings about that attitude, I’ve met teenagers who are still fighting "punk rock" culture wars which were pertinent in the 70’s. (It's comical to think how close I was to strangling this punk ass kid wearing a Vibrators t-shirt who wouldn't shut up about how much he hated Fleetwood Mac. Morons.) That’s why I often think those who worship inane shit like punk rock are reactionary d-bags unworthy of respect. It’s funny to think how an iconoclastic style such as hardcore could foster a rabid devotion that clings to tropes and sounds that stopped being clever, let alone cutting edge, 30 years on.
After all this shit talking I admit I don’t mind thinking back and finding memories and drawing inspiration from that time in my life, but I draw the line at invoking rose colored glasses to paint a picture of something which was more than it was. I’ve been guilty of adding to that facade I confess.
The old days sucked. It was not as good as you or I remember and the business of making the world, and ourselves, better never ended. Doesn’t that sound self righteous as fuck? Borderline straight edge preaching. That’s my current mood, so I’m running with it.
With these lofty concerns addressed by flowery bullshit I submit the following interview with a man who was quite the inspiration to me as a young man. I was lucky to convince Danny Breeden to do an interview with me a month and a half before the pandemic kicked in and ended civility as we know it. Danny was the lead singer of the influential and pitifully obscure LV hardcore band Fuck Shit Piss. For my money (actually I never paid them a red cent in all this time) Fuck Shit Piss was the best musical group to be founded in Southern Nevada and a clear archetype of what hardcore punk was as a sound and a “movement.”
Their history is fraught with turmoil, angst, hilarity, and tears. Bent to nuances of history and fate, they were the last nail in the coffin of what can be known as hardcore punk. Sure there were shitty bands similar in tone in their wake, but Fuck Shit Piss was the ass shaking, graffiti writing, conscionable, reflection of violence and desperation that summed up the 80’s and gave way to the mediocre 90’s. Music in the LV underground sucked after they broke up, and while I commend them for getting back together to try it again in the 90’s I think they would agree it was a lost cause. Pun intended.
I remember them as I first encountered them. The life of the party at a packed show at the Elks Lodge in North Las Vegas. While they were popular they were also intimidating which added to their charm and myth. The schism created by half the band come under the spell of fascism ripped apart the Las Vegas underground, a scar from which the Las Vegas underground never fully recovered. As devastating as that was it’s not something I hold in contempt for them. They were bellwethers as the national hardcore scene became increasingly under attack from the forces of right wing manipulation. And while it sucked to see it fall apart it was just another ripple in the history of a country divided by powers thought to be beyond our control. But if anything can be learned it’s that UNITY is more than just a catch phrase. Something we as a nation need to come to grips with. I’ve never been patriotic but I keep saying shit like that with more frequency as of late. Go figure.
I wanted to interview Danny because I thought it would be fun. It was fun. He provided insight and laughs for me. I hope you might get the same way if you listen. I thank Danny for participating and I thank Checko Salgado for helping to facilitate the interview and for making it that much more entertaining by being involved. We’ve discussed the possibility of more interviews, and I won’t shirk from the opportunity if it presents itself again in the future. I’d love to interview Johnny Bangs, if you read this Johnny holler! I guess the future will reveal itself eventually.
I’m remain skeptical of people who celebrate the old times too forcefully. There’s still life left to be lived, Danny has been a good example of that ideal put into practice. I continue to be inspired.
There are two clips for this interview, be sure to listen to them both. About 2 and 1/2 hours.
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- Chad Simmons
- portland, oregon, United States
- I grew up in Vegas. East side by El Dog. It will always be my hometown for better or worse. Currently living as a labor activist in Portland, Oregon. For better or worse.
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