This interview is well over a year old, in fact the band ain't even together no more, but ignore that fact and read on...
Who does what in the band?
Dee Soto - Bass, Vocals
T. Depression - Guitar, Vocals
The Fuhrer of the new Wave - Drums
Are there any diabetics in the Diabetics?
Yessir...Dee is a full-fledged Diabetic...shootin' up an' shit. The Fuhrer and I are working towards it, with our terrible eating/exercise habits and all.
When did the band start?
The Diabetics started (somewhat half-assed) at the beginning of 2002. The band got off to a really slow start, so Dee and I decided to do a radio show together while we were waiting for the band thing to get going. We did the radio show, which evolved into the zine...and somewhere along the line...The Diabetics started to come together too. Our first actual show was March 2003.
What are the band’s main influences besides PCP?
The Diabetics are a bit of a mixed bag...you take all the shit that we've listened to over the years and mix it up...then try to play that shit-mix with a minimal understanding of our instruments. What do you get? Punk-rock. We've got alot of 70's punk and 80's hardcore in there...some garage and power-pop undertones. We've been compared to The Gears, The Weirdos, The Angry Samoans, Zero Boys and even Supercharger...probably not very good comparisons though, 'cause people don't know shit!
Any releases coming soon?
We've got a buncha stuff planned for spring. We'll have a CDEP and an ultra limited 7" out in April...and we've got another 7" in the works, due out shortly after that.
How is the scene in Calgary?
The Calgary scene is pretty shitty...not many cities you CAN'T say that about. Lotsa bands jumping on the Rawk bandwagon five years too late, tons of indie rock garbage, and some juvenile, fashion punk shit. Things are looking up, but there's no where near enough variety in bands in this town. I mean, there's like a million people here...why can't we have ONE good garage band...or power-pop band...or ANYTHING interesting. That being said, there are some decent bands. The Von Zippers, The Forbidden Dimension, The Fake Cops, The Ex-Boyfriends, and the Anti-Social Club are some of my faves.
What are yer fave 3 Canadian punk records?
Top 3...shit..I dunno... I spin these the most though: Teenage Head - "S/T" Arson - "7" Demics - "Talk's Cheap" 12"
Better genre: powerpop or hardcore?
That's a toughie...I grew up on hardcore...and there are some great 80's hardcore records...but I fucking LOVE a good powerpop record. I'm split down the middle...I mean, at DJ nights, I play The Asexuals, Zero Boys, Agression, The Freeze and Negative Approach, beside The Zippers, The Beat, The Shivvers, The Tremors and 20/20. Great music is just GREAT music...regardless of genre, it's all punk-rock to me.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
The Fe Fi Fo Fums go BOOM BOOM
P-R-I-M-I-TIVE It's the way they are, it's the way they live
The Fe Fi Fo Fums are:
Melvin-guitar
Nick-bass
Johnny-guitar
What other bands influence the Fums besides the obvious SF budget rock scene?
M: I dunno. Can’t you tell?? You seem pretty tuned in to our sound.
M: I dunno. Can’t you tell?? You seem pretty tuned in to our sound.
You guys redid a Suicide Squad song, are you all fans of the whole 70s Aussie punk scene, if so which are your favorites
J: Suicide Squad....Duuhhhhhh!
Which female organist would you rather throw it in: The Duchess or Helene from the Okmoniks?
M: I’d rather throw UP on both of them. Can I do that, Johnny? That fuckin hamburger I ate in Hoodsport makes enough barf for EVERYBODY!!!!! BLECH!!! J: If we added organ, we would be Nu-New wave I think???
If you could do a tour with any band, which one would you choose?
J: Never tour with another band, they take all my money!
Pizza or hotdogs?
J: I want a Pizza this and a Pizza that! M: Are both aphrodisiacs for fatties. Throw either out in the street and you've met five new girls.
What is the most annoying aspect of these nu-new wave bands?
M: I'm too dumb to understand it. J: Yep, He is........Hey where is Nick the smartest out of all of us?????
Any new records coming out in the near future?
M: A lot, but most notably the new FE FI FO FUMS single " IN THE SUMMERTIME" from the BOOM BOOM CASTLE.
Who are Blackwell/Ladd....songwriting pseudonyms?
J: No comment
What do you think about the idea of smart bands pretending to be dumb?
N: I think they are dumb...gimme a hit of that Melvin....
Most hated band?
J:Briefs
Most loved band?
J:Green Apple Quick Step
If you could erase any person from existence, who would you choose?
J: George W of course!!!!
How exactly does one become "electrofized"?
M: Buy the record and find out.
Friday, December 1, 2006
Captain Kwik Trip: a McCarthyian anachronism in the era of new McCarthyist nationalist zenophobia
“J.F.K, Jackie O., Marilyn, and Me”
by RJ Zeman
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
John F. Kennedy wakes up in the second story his father's estate. He wakes up sweating from a nightmare about PT-109. The Japanese Destroyer pierces his back, his skull. His legs are paralyzed, his penis floats limp in the water. He dies in a waterfall of green and blue liquid, his body floating motionless in the ocean. His father is an eyeball in the sky. The eyeball opens up, looks down at the blood stained water, and laughs. He screams, someone comes into the room, wakes him up. A fire is going downstairs, the warmth coming in through metallic heat vents in the wall. Sweat drips down his stomach and onto his thighs. He reaches for his crutches, goes downstairs to eat Thanksgiving turkey. He winces in pain as he takes the first step on the wooden flight of stairs, then the next, then the next...
Jackie O. sleeps naked in a bedroom in Nantucket. Her legs are spread. Her feet and legs are curled up like a contortionist under a thick, warm blanket. Something is wrong. Her body twists in pain. Her brain is connected to her husband's via remote control. She has the same symbiotic nightmare he does. Their dreams unite, collide. This time, he fails to save his shipmate. The wounded man falls off the PT-109 into the ocean and drowns, slipping from J.F.K.'s firm, tan grip. The eyeball in the sky turns bright red. He swims on, leaving behind a wet corpse in the cold waters of the Pacific. The eyeball in the sky is slanting now, little yellow fingers shooting little guns at his swimming body. He reaches land, makes up a story about his shipmate being shot, has it classified, remains a hero and never talks about it again. She wakes up to the sound of the alarm buzzing on the wooden bureau, its shrill high wail piercing her eardrums like Japanese gunfire.
M.M. wakes up alone in a graveyard, searching for the ghost of her father. She never finds him, just the scars, the orphanage, a face in the mirror. One day she meets a photographer. They go back to a dirty apartment. He takes nude pictures of her, strangles her with her own stockings, and rapes her on a green couch in the living room. The flashbulbs go off. Tears stream down the cheeks of a million teenage boys jacking off forever in some warm closet.
Soldiers come back from Europe; they are buying television sets, hibernating in the suburbs after the close of the war. The war has left millions of dead Jews burning in ovens, screaming forever in one huge chorus of fear. They find all the lost European art in a bunker under Berlin, sell it on the black market, use the money they make to fund LSD and AIDS research for the next fifty years. The black veterans can't find jobs in Montgomery today because their bodies are attached to ropes hanging from trucks and tree stumps. They are buried in a shallow grave or just set out for display. Southern people drive by in new cars; they don't even bother to turn their heads. JFK eats his meal in silence, chewing the turkey, letting it collapse into the walls of his stomach. He clutches his chest in pain, reaches for an aspirin...
We are all jacking off to LIFE magazine and thinking about the possibility of the world exploding. Someone lights a match, it goes up in flames like a stick of dynamite. All of earth is on fire and nobody can stop it. A boy is masturbating to a picture of M.M. Her breasts hang out lewdly, her nipples pink and swollen. The magazine catches flame just as the final spray of his ejaculate hits the news print; the cum and the magazine die together as one. M.M. lives on in eternity as some twisted Hollywood nightmare. With no alarm clock to wake it up, the dream lives on forever, caught in some twisted inferno, a forest fire of our own collective American soul. The boy gasps for one last breath as he inhales the carbon monoxide that will strangle him, falls down dead in the third aisle of a small town supermarket. He is screaming for help as the building burns, the roof caves in, and people run wailing high mad into Atomic streets...
I am an anachronism in this story, yet I am still breathing down M.M.'s neck. I can feel the sweat and perspiration building on her skin, her plunging neckline revealing her opulent white breasts. I reach down to fondle them but she disappears. I am somewhere in a distant graveyard. I am standing over the deathbed of Jackie O. She is surrounded by famous graves. They are thick marble slabs with words written all over them. Some of the words don't make sense. I lift the covers up, smell her vagina, and taste the skin of her stomach with my tongue. Her flesh tastes like power and money. I am excited. The eyeball looks down at me from the sky. I turn my head up to it, smiling. It tries to scream at me, but has no mouth, no form. I raid the Kennedy vault. Men in uniforms chase me. I run through woods screaming wild at the top of my lungs, my hot red American blood running through me like a river. I run hand in hand with M.M. Her fingers are only skeletal, they shrivel up and decay in my hands.
The communists have weapons pointed at 3,000 American cities, huge bombs waiting to orgasm in death and terror over our suburbs. People build bomb shelters, huddle in corners. Men work eight hours a day, come home, beat their wives, and don’t talk to their children. THE WHOLE WORLD IS GOING TO GO UP IN SMOKE, THE REDS THE REDS THE REDS ARE COMING! M.M. gets a job in a factory, builds tanks, and stains her fingers with grease. Machines and smokestacks pump all night making more missiles. Women go to sleep with bruised faces. A million teenage boys masturbate to LIFE magazine: images of death, movie stars, violence. It makes them cum. It makes the blood in their hearts beat faster, blood vessels contracting in one big pulsating mess of nightmares and sex. As the Russians build the bombs, left ventricle beats into right ventricle, one big explosive heartbeat ready to blow up the entire black and white planet...
Close up of Marilyn on the set. Jackie O. cries in the corner. M.M. smiles, her tight pale skin tracing the faint outline of her skull. Her brain is decaying from too many pills. She cannot think straight. The light bulbs flash, explode. All the images are caught on film. Men dance behind her as she prances around set in a pink dress. She is given a box of chocolates. The candy melts, staining her dress. Men smile, pat her on the back. More light bulbs go off, more photographs explode. They are on fire; the negatives have all been swallowed up in a billowing cloud of black liquid smoke. Someone has to develop them. Hollywood sells her like a call girl; Hollywood the cheap hustler on a suburban street corner. The buyers line up in suits and cigars, a million dollar bills, each one scarred with a bullet hole or a bottle of pills.
We roll the film in a movie theatre: I am standing behind M.M. as she leans over a sewer grate. The wind blows her skirt up, I reach behind her to fondle her ass. I clutch her ass and realize that her skin is melting off. She is radioactive, planted by Hollywood and the Russians in some twisted Red Scare plot. Her skin melts the skin on my palms, her ass is napalm. "What the fuck, baby?" I say, pulling a cigar out of my mouth. Her legs melt, her body collapses. The only thing that survives the attack is a white dress, floating around in a pool of melted flesh. "We've got a defect here," I say. "Get this bitch off the lot and find me another girl, pronto!” Men nod their heads at me; I reach up for the cigar in my mouth with what's left of my right hand. I have a strange taste in my mouth like battery acid. All quiet on the set. I walk into a black limousine waiting for me on the corner.
Meanwhile, back at the Kennedy estate, bootleggers sit around a chart in an office, rigging the election. They smile as they sip from their glasses, whiskey burning their throats. Cheating the entire nation, they tell dirty jokes and look over at J.F.K. He sits crippled in a chair, smirking, holding onto a pair of crutches. The cushion on the chair dulls the aching pain in his spine. The eyeball in the sky looks over at him from the seat of the desk, emotionless. The pupil is dilated; the white yolk of the eye is turning blood red. It's built like a Russian tank. In his mind, he pierces it with a pencil, but he knows he can never do this. Without its retina feeding him information, he will never see again. They share the same optic nerve. The lights turn dim as the moon hovers over the estate; Jackie O. sleeps nude in a separate bedroom, a book laid over her chest. The men file out of the house slowly, driving off into the night in expensive cars.
August 5th, 1962: M.M. lies dead in her bedroom, covered in a white sheet. They find pills next to her on the table; her blank dead eyes stare up at the ceiling. The photographers arrive before the police; the light bulbs flash, explode. Someone drops a reel of film into the camera. They snatch away the sheet covering her body, revealing her naked flesh. They take a close up of her vagina, still wet with the moisture of life and fame. They leave quickly, wiping up all the fingerprints. The police arrive, an ambulance screams down a highway towards Hollywood. The Russians fine tune their atomic bombs, aiming one directly at Los Angeles, ready for the World War III. The photographers sell their negatives to Hush magazine, American men masturbate forever to the same floating blonde image on a million screens.
This is not how the film was shown. This is not how the negatives turned out. But someone has to develop them.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
by RJ Zeman
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
John F. Kennedy wakes up in the second story his father's estate. He wakes up sweating from a nightmare about PT-109. The Japanese Destroyer pierces his back, his skull. His legs are paralyzed, his penis floats limp in the water. He dies in a waterfall of green and blue liquid, his body floating motionless in the ocean. His father is an eyeball in the sky. The eyeball opens up, looks down at the blood stained water, and laughs. He screams, someone comes into the room, wakes him up. A fire is going downstairs, the warmth coming in through metallic heat vents in the wall. Sweat drips down his stomach and onto his thighs. He reaches for his crutches, goes downstairs to eat Thanksgiving turkey. He winces in pain as he takes the first step on the wooden flight of stairs, then the next, then the next...
Jackie O. sleeps naked in a bedroom in Nantucket. Her legs are spread. Her feet and legs are curled up like a contortionist under a thick, warm blanket. Something is wrong. Her body twists in pain. Her brain is connected to her husband's via remote control. She has the same symbiotic nightmare he does. Their dreams unite, collide. This time, he fails to save his shipmate. The wounded man falls off the PT-109 into the ocean and drowns, slipping from J.F.K.'s firm, tan grip. The eyeball in the sky turns bright red. He swims on, leaving behind a wet corpse in the cold waters of the Pacific. The eyeball in the sky is slanting now, little yellow fingers shooting little guns at his swimming body. He reaches land, makes up a story about his shipmate being shot, has it classified, remains a hero and never talks about it again. She wakes up to the sound of the alarm buzzing on the wooden bureau, its shrill high wail piercing her eardrums like Japanese gunfire.
M.M. wakes up alone in a graveyard, searching for the ghost of her father. She never finds him, just the scars, the orphanage, a face in the mirror. One day she meets a photographer. They go back to a dirty apartment. He takes nude pictures of her, strangles her with her own stockings, and rapes her on a green couch in the living room. The flashbulbs go off. Tears stream down the cheeks of a million teenage boys jacking off forever in some warm closet.
Soldiers come back from Europe; they are buying television sets, hibernating in the suburbs after the close of the war. The war has left millions of dead Jews burning in ovens, screaming forever in one huge chorus of fear. They find all the lost European art in a bunker under Berlin, sell it on the black market, use the money they make to fund LSD and AIDS research for the next fifty years. The black veterans can't find jobs in Montgomery today because their bodies are attached to ropes hanging from trucks and tree stumps. They are buried in a shallow grave or just set out for display. Southern people drive by in new cars; they don't even bother to turn their heads. JFK eats his meal in silence, chewing the turkey, letting it collapse into the walls of his stomach. He clutches his chest in pain, reaches for an aspirin...
We are all jacking off to LIFE magazine and thinking about the possibility of the world exploding. Someone lights a match, it goes up in flames like a stick of dynamite. All of earth is on fire and nobody can stop it. A boy is masturbating to a picture of M.M. Her breasts hang out lewdly, her nipples pink and swollen. The magazine catches flame just as the final spray of his ejaculate hits the news print; the cum and the magazine die together as one. M.M. lives on in eternity as some twisted Hollywood nightmare. With no alarm clock to wake it up, the dream lives on forever, caught in some twisted inferno, a forest fire of our own collective American soul. The boy gasps for one last breath as he inhales the carbon monoxide that will strangle him, falls down dead in the third aisle of a small town supermarket. He is screaming for help as the building burns, the roof caves in, and people run wailing high mad into Atomic streets...
I am an anachronism in this story, yet I am still breathing down M.M.'s neck. I can feel the sweat and perspiration building on her skin, her plunging neckline revealing her opulent white breasts. I reach down to fondle them but she disappears. I am somewhere in a distant graveyard. I am standing over the deathbed of Jackie O. She is surrounded by famous graves. They are thick marble slabs with words written all over them. Some of the words don't make sense. I lift the covers up, smell her vagina, and taste the skin of her stomach with my tongue. Her flesh tastes like power and money. I am excited. The eyeball looks down at me from the sky. I turn my head up to it, smiling. It tries to scream at me, but has no mouth, no form. I raid the Kennedy vault. Men in uniforms chase me. I run through woods screaming wild at the top of my lungs, my hot red American blood running through me like a river. I run hand in hand with M.M. Her fingers are only skeletal, they shrivel up and decay in my hands.
The communists have weapons pointed at 3,000 American cities, huge bombs waiting to orgasm in death and terror over our suburbs. People build bomb shelters, huddle in corners. Men work eight hours a day, come home, beat their wives, and don’t talk to their children. THE WHOLE WORLD IS GOING TO GO UP IN SMOKE, THE REDS THE REDS THE REDS ARE COMING! M.M. gets a job in a factory, builds tanks, and stains her fingers with grease. Machines and smokestacks pump all night making more missiles. Women go to sleep with bruised faces. A million teenage boys masturbate to LIFE magazine: images of death, movie stars, violence. It makes them cum. It makes the blood in their hearts beat faster, blood vessels contracting in one big pulsating mess of nightmares and sex. As the Russians build the bombs, left ventricle beats into right ventricle, one big explosive heartbeat ready to blow up the entire black and white planet...
Close up of Marilyn on the set. Jackie O. cries in the corner. M.M. smiles, her tight pale skin tracing the faint outline of her skull. Her brain is decaying from too many pills. She cannot think straight. The light bulbs flash, explode. All the images are caught on film. Men dance behind her as she prances around set in a pink dress. She is given a box of chocolates. The candy melts, staining her dress. Men smile, pat her on the back. More light bulbs go off, more photographs explode. They are on fire; the negatives have all been swallowed up in a billowing cloud of black liquid smoke. Someone has to develop them. Hollywood sells her like a call girl; Hollywood the cheap hustler on a suburban street corner. The buyers line up in suits and cigars, a million dollar bills, each one scarred with a bullet hole or a bottle of pills.
We roll the film in a movie theatre: I am standing behind M.M. as she leans over a sewer grate. The wind blows her skirt up, I reach behind her to fondle her ass. I clutch her ass and realize that her skin is melting off. She is radioactive, planted by Hollywood and the Russians in some twisted Red Scare plot. Her skin melts the skin on my palms, her ass is napalm. "What the fuck, baby?" I say, pulling a cigar out of my mouth. Her legs melt, her body collapses. The only thing that survives the attack is a white dress, floating around in a pool of melted flesh. "We've got a defect here," I say. "Get this bitch off the lot and find me another girl, pronto!” Men nod their heads at me; I reach up for the cigar in my mouth with what's left of my right hand. I have a strange taste in my mouth like battery acid. All quiet on the set. I walk into a black limousine waiting for me on the corner.
Meanwhile, back at the Kennedy estate, bootleggers sit around a chart in an office, rigging the election. They smile as they sip from their glasses, whiskey burning their throats. Cheating the entire nation, they tell dirty jokes and look over at J.F.K. He sits crippled in a chair, smirking, holding onto a pair of crutches. The cushion on the chair dulls the aching pain in his spine. The eyeball in the sky looks over at him from the seat of the desk, emotionless. The pupil is dilated; the white yolk of the eye is turning blood red. It's built like a Russian tank. In his mind, he pierces it with a pencil, but he knows he can never do this. Without its retina feeding him information, he will never see again. They share the same optic nerve. The lights turn dim as the moon hovers over the estate; Jackie O. sleeps nude in a separate bedroom, a book laid over her chest. The men file out of the house slowly, driving off into the night in expensive cars.
August 5th, 1962: M.M. lies dead in her bedroom, covered in a white sheet. They find pills next to her on the table; her blank dead eyes stare up at the ceiling. The photographers arrive before the police; the light bulbs flash, explode. Someone drops a reel of film into the camera. They snatch away the sheet covering her body, revealing her naked flesh. They take a close up of her vagina, still wet with the moisture of life and fame. They leave quickly, wiping up all the fingerprints. The police arrive, an ambulance screams down a highway towards Hollywood. The Russians fine tune their atomic bombs, aiming one directly at Los Angeles, ready for the World War III. The photographers sell their negatives to Hush magazine, American men masturbate forever to the same floating blonde image on a million screens.
This is not how the film was shown. This is not how the negatives turned out. But someone has to develop them.
BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG BANG.
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
An essay on eventual musical obsolesence
How to have a successful garage rock band in the 2000s
by Wendy Norton
We all know that garage rock is DEAD DEAD DEAD! Right? Well if you look hard enough you'll find out that it didn't really go away, it just got DUMBER and DUMBER. If you cant make your own clothes or play the half-step riffs to be in a new wave band or you cannot afford a synth, OR playing in a second-rate Exploding Hearts style power poop band is something you cannot fathom, don't get depressed. There's still a niche for you in a post 1997 world! All you gotta do is follow these 5 general rules. You might not be as rich and famous as THE SPITS, but even if you pick 2:5 of these to live by you'll still get plenty of street cred, dig?
RULE 1: Goofy stage outfits. Go to the thrift store and rifle through the old ladies section in search of some gaudy-sequined sweater. The rule of thumb is that is has to be IRONIC. Second-hand Halloween costumes, wrestler uniforms, unitards, ANYTHING FUCKING STUPID AND RIDICULOUS looking..Don't worry if your gut sticks out or your nature trail is showing. The more shocking the better.
RULE 2: HAIR Growing you hair (and facial hair) in the most hideous fashion possible. Mullets, chops, mustaches, anything Burt Reynolds would do.. It doesn't even matter if you look like a metal head. The main point is that you look fuckin stupid and pretend not to care about modern fashions.
RULE 3: RETARDED SONG LYRICS You want to write songs that your audience can relate to. Seeing as how most jaggoff garage rock kids are pretty fucking dumb you want to keep it to 2 verses TOPS!!!! Also the chorus should be a one-liner (Here's an example: Karen shit her pants /now she cant dance) feel free to use that very line)). The more you repeat the same lines the better! You want drunken kids chanting your lyrics at your shows and the funnier and simpler lyrics are the ones that get stuck in your head.
RULE 4: DON'T LET A FLAKY DRUMMER RUIN IT FOR YOU Drummers are bitches. They are in high demand so they always have other bands they need to tour with when its time for you to be recording your demo for your MORE IMPORTANT bands tour. Or, they never really wanted to be in your band in the first place but you needed a drummer REAL BAD so you tricked them with a case of Blatz. Whatever the case, fear not. Its now actually kind of COOL to have some songs with a drum machine on the recording (this is not my personal opinion, I'm just writing crap to fill up Troy's zine).
RULE 5: OBVIOUS COVERS Who cares if everyone including your grandmas band have covered the Kids or the Kinks or Little Richard or GG Allin or DEVO?????? That shits classic for a REASON. That's REALLY the shit that everyone wants to hear when they're out drinking in a bar. Not your stupid song that you wrote in your basement. They wanna hear fucking TODAY YOUR LOVE TOMORROW THE WORLD!!! But there is one rule: nothing from 85 or beyond. People do NOT wanna hear Supercharger covers, Billy Childish Covers, etc.etc.etc.etc.
by Wendy Norton
We all know that garage rock is DEAD DEAD DEAD! Right? Well if you look hard enough you'll find out that it didn't really go away, it just got DUMBER and DUMBER. If you cant make your own clothes or play the half-step riffs to be in a new wave band or you cannot afford a synth, OR playing in a second-rate Exploding Hearts style power poop band is something you cannot fathom, don't get depressed. There's still a niche for you in a post 1997 world! All you gotta do is follow these 5 general rules. You might not be as rich and famous as THE SPITS, but even if you pick 2:5 of these to live by you'll still get plenty of street cred, dig?
RULE 1: Goofy stage outfits. Go to the thrift store and rifle through the old ladies section in search of some gaudy-sequined sweater. The rule of thumb is that is has to be IRONIC. Second-hand Halloween costumes, wrestler uniforms, unitards, ANYTHING FUCKING STUPID AND RIDICULOUS looking..Don't worry if your gut sticks out or your nature trail is showing. The more shocking the better.
RULE 2: HAIR Growing you hair (and facial hair) in the most hideous fashion possible. Mullets, chops, mustaches, anything Burt Reynolds would do.. It doesn't even matter if you look like a metal head. The main point is that you look fuckin stupid and pretend not to care about modern fashions.
RULE 3: RETARDED SONG LYRICS You want to write songs that your audience can relate to. Seeing as how most jaggoff garage rock kids are pretty fucking dumb you want to keep it to 2 verses TOPS!!!! Also the chorus should be a one-liner (Here's an example: Karen shit her pants /now she cant dance) feel free to use that very line)). The more you repeat the same lines the better! You want drunken kids chanting your lyrics at your shows and the funnier and simpler lyrics are the ones that get stuck in your head.
RULE 4: DON'T LET A FLAKY DRUMMER RUIN IT FOR YOU Drummers are bitches. They are in high demand so they always have other bands they need to tour with when its time for you to be recording your demo for your MORE IMPORTANT bands tour. Or, they never really wanted to be in your band in the first place but you needed a drummer REAL BAD so you tricked them with a case of Blatz. Whatever the case, fear not. Its now actually kind of COOL to have some songs with a drum machine on the recording (this is not my personal opinion, I'm just writing crap to fill up Troy's zine).
RULE 5: OBVIOUS COVERS Who cares if everyone including your grandmas band have covered the Kids or the Kinks or Little Richard or GG Allin or DEVO?????? That shits classic for a REASON. That's REALLY the shit that everyone wants to hear when they're out drinking in a bar. Not your stupid song that you wrote in your basement. They wanna hear fucking TODAY YOUR LOVE TOMORROW THE WORLD!!! But there is one rule: nothing from 85 or beyond. People do NOT wanna hear Supercharger covers, Billy Childish Covers, etc.etc.etc.etc.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
PLASTIC PETS
I don't do intros so I let Wendy introduce the Plastic Pets....
The Plastic Pets started about a year ago when Ryan and I decided we wanted to do something a little more dumb than Monitors. I know that sounds stupid, but when you listen to the Monitors records, you realize that there's a lot of shit going on musically and it's hard playing all that fast crazy ass piano shit. Ryan's bass lines are like playing lead guitar, really fast and crazy, so that wasn't exactly easy either. Plus, we weren't playing all that many shows, because Chad had a really tight schedule. We were also sick of having to go through all the theatrics everytime we played a show, because we had costumes and lighting and all this bullshit... So we wanted to start this street punk band that was totally stupid and we could just rock out and shit.. Also, we kinda felt like there really was no other punk rock band in Milwaukee. Sure there's some street punk 77 mohawk kids, but no REAL punk. We also wanted to be super party time fun band so we did awesome covers by bands like Eater, Skrewdriver (we took some shit from PC twats for that one) Wayne County and The Electric Chairs, Creedence Clearwater Revival and other crap.
Wendy-Guitar/Ryan-Drums/Mark-Vocals/Mike-Bass
Wendy-Guitar/Ryan-Drums/Mark-Vocals/Mike-Bass
What's your take on street punk types?
Wendy: At least, they dance around and fuck shit up unlike the boring rocknroll/power-twat crowd.
Mike: They have crazy fucking hair, they're scary, and they should all be thrown in jail.
What covers do you do?
Ryan: Awesome ones, punk songs!!!
Mike: You'll have to come to a show to find out. We do one about Jesus, and one about some guy who jizzes in his pants all the time.
If you could set up a show, what 3 other bands (current or past) would you choose to play with?
Ryan: Kill-a-watts, Sagger, and uh, I can’t think of any one else!!!
Mark: Creedence Clearwater Revival, MC5, and AC/DC, just so I can see them.
Wendy: Love, Easybeats, and Sweeney Todd with Nick Gilder on vocals, probably.
Mike: 1. Creedence 2. Clearwater 3. motherfucking Revival
When you see people standin still at shows, how do you react?
Ryan: I know they are fags and pity them!!!
Wendy: I am the finest dancer in the land, so I can’t say as though I blame people for feeling stupid about dancing around me.
Ghetto Meltdown", "Papercut Infection"...Those are some strange song titles, what's the deal with some of em?
Ryan: We write songs that reflect out lives, we live the life, we are not fags!!!
Mark: Rockadoodle Dildos is a poignant commentary on the douchbaggery of so-called “Rockabily Fans” who seem to be more interested in having perfect sideburns than they are in actually listening to good music.
Wendy: Our songs are all really stupid ideas that are elaborated on way too much. "Ghetto Meltdown" is all about livin’ in the ghetto all winter and the shit that people throw on the ground coming to the surface when the snow thaws. In Milwaukee it’s fucking sick. You find crack pipes and dirty diapers and condoms and chicken bones and dead pets and aborted babies...just completely fucking disgusting.
Mike: "Drop Down" is about girls who likes sucking band dude’s cocks. Who are you anyways...Jerry Seinfeld? "What is the deal with these song titles??"
I assume the band took its name from the Elton Motello song, what's yer fave song of his?
Ryan: Pocket Calculator, its new wave gold!!!
Mark: Tutti Fruitti Alice maybe?
Wendy: Aritficial Insemination, or Ca Plan Pour Moi.
Mike: He's Crying...and that one where he's talking about sucking some guy's cock. That one's funny.
Who is the worst band/best band out right now?
Unanimous: Worst band: Busy Signals/Best band: Plexi 3 (Wendy and Ryan’s new band).
Wendy: At least, they dance around and fuck shit up unlike the boring rocknroll/power-twat crowd.
Mike: They have crazy fucking hair, they're scary, and they should all be thrown in jail.
What covers do you do?
Ryan: Awesome ones, punk songs!!!
Mike: You'll have to come to a show to find out. We do one about Jesus, and one about some guy who jizzes in his pants all the time.
If you could set up a show, what 3 other bands (current or past) would you choose to play with?
Ryan: Kill-a-watts, Sagger, and uh, I can’t think of any one else!!!
Mark: Creedence Clearwater Revival, MC5, and AC/DC, just so I can see them.
Wendy: Love, Easybeats, and Sweeney Todd with Nick Gilder on vocals, probably.
Mike: 1. Creedence 2. Clearwater 3. motherfucking Revival
When you see people standin still at shows, how do you react?
Ryan: I know they are fags and pity them!!!
Wendy: I am the finest dancer in the land, so I can’t say as though I blame people for feeling stupid about dancing around me.
Ghetto Meltdown", "Papercut Infection"...Those are some strange song titles, what's the deal with some of em?
Ryan: We write songs that reflect out lives, we live the life, we are not fags!!!
Mark: Rockadoodle Dildos is a poignant commentary on the douchbaggery of so-called “Rockabily Fans” who seem to be more interested in having perfect sideburns than they are in actually listening to good music.
Wendy: Our songs are all really stupid ideas that are elaborated on way too much. "Ghetto Meltdown" is all about livin’ in the ghetto all winter and the shit that people throw on the ground coming to the surface when the snow thaws. In Milwaukee it’s fucking sick. You find crack pipes and dirty diapers and condoms and chicken bones and dead pets and aborted babies...just completely fucking disgusting.
Mike: "Drop Down" is about girls who likes sucking band dude’s cocks. Who are you anyways...Jerry Seinfeld? "What is the deal with these song titles??"
I assume the band took its name from the Elton Motello song, what's yer fave song of his?
Ryan: Pocket Calculator, its new wave gold!!!
Mark: Tutti Fruitti Alice maybe?
Wendy: Aritficial Insemination, or Ca Plan Pour Moi.
Mike: He's Crying...and that one where he's talking about sucking some guy's cock. That one's funny.
Who is the worst band/best band out right now?
Unanimous: Worst band: Busy Signals/Best band: Plexi 3 (Wendy and Ryan’s new band).
What's the typical reaction at a P.Pets show?
Ryan: Uh we have fun, the audience watches us and realizes how boring and pointless they are and all go home and cut themselves!!!
Mike: Sleeplessness, nervousness, insomnia, dizziness, nausea, weight loss, abnormal ejaculation.
Are there any records coming out soon?
Ryan: No we are way too punk to release anything ever!!!
Wendy: Yeah we already have 6 45s out and an album on the way, but they’re only available in Zimbabwe. We’re really huge over there. Little starving children ask me to autograph their sticks all the time.
Mike: If we get around to it. We're too busy inventing awesome shit to solve the world's problems. Take our latest invention BONER WHIZ. It's a fucking funnel with a tube coming off the end, so when you wake up in the morning with a big fucking BONER, and you hafta take a WHIZ, you point yer dick into the funnel, point the fucking tube into the shitter, and voi-fucking-la, no more pissing on the walls or having to do headstands! It's fucking BRILLIANT!!!
Saturday, November 18, 2006
Rockin n peelin: Introducing THE TUFF BANANAS
ROCKIN N PEELIN: INTRODUCING THE TUFF BANANAS
I should probably write an intro for this, but I hate writing intros. So fuck it, read on, baby.
Tuff Bananas are:
Adam-vocals
Paul-guitar/vocals
Natalie-keyboards/vocals
Jon E-drums
Mark-bass/vocals
What is everyone's favorite candy?
Paul: Pop Rocks, Rock Candy, Fizz Candy!!! Candy Cigarettes & Lemon Heads too. And those huge Jawbreakers!!
Natalie: Sour Patch Kids, Shock Tarts, anything that fizzes or pops in your mouth, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans!!
Adam: I just bought a "Fear Factor"-brand Super Gummy Octopus (in Sour Ooze), so that'll probably be either my absolute favorite or absolute most hated. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups/Pieces are good too!!
Jon: I once knew this stripper named Candy. She was a huge bitch. Literally, she was like, 6' 4". She was sweet but fuck man, she kinda intimidated me. That’s not to say I wouldn't tap that but come on.... you know? It was just one of those things that could've worked out but you aren't too sure if it’s the right thing at the time. Besides, she had a lot of skinheadfriends and those motherfuckers probably wanted to tap that just to get to me.
Mark: It's way too hard to settle on just one, but I really do love Twizzlers Cherry Bites. I can eat a whole bag (1 lb.) of those delicious little fuckers in one sitting.
What do you all think of the Reese's Peanut Butter cups with caramel: blasphemy or deliciousness?
Paul: I personally don't think Peanut Butter belongs in ANY candy. Especially when mixed with Chocolate! Yuck!!
Natalie: Twix are better.
Adam: I'm a purist. Blasphemy.
Jon: Why the fuck would you ask this question? Are we a dumb joke band? Oh yeah, I forgot, you have something to offer society on the musical front...
Mark: I don't understand how it can be blasphemy. It's a new kind of candy! If it tastes good, that all I really give a fuck about. I mean, it's not like they replaced the ORIGINAL Reese's.
If you were going to be executed, what would your last meal be?
Paul: two charred foot long Hot Dogs from Ted's with cheese, four jumbo deep fried crab-stuffed shrimps & a lobster tail, chocolate chip pancakes with extra butter, a butter burger with bacon & jalapenos, a quesadilla with at least five different kinds of cheese! A Banana Split without nuts! A Monster Cookie! Ravioli dinner from Chef’s! And a huge glass of Lambrusco ...I know I am forgetting lots more, oh well.
Natalie: Strawberry milkshake, big glass of chocolate milk, cookie dough blizzard and chocolate Dilly Bar from Dairy Queen, ice cream sundae with that magic shell topping, cheese curds and a huge block of cheese...take that lactose intolerance!!!
Adam: A couple large Jake's Pizzas (in Green Bay, WI) w/ pepperoni and garlic.
Jon: Well, this interview feels like an execution so probably what I'm eating right now: Skrewdrivers
Mark: New York strip steak, deep fried Slim Jims with ranch dip, bag of corn chips and taco dip, Twizzlers Cherry Bites, bag of marshmallows, 5 White Castle chicken rings, jar of green olives, corn on the cob, Mom's tuna lasagna, black cherry Kool-Aid, Pizza Hut stuffed crust pizza with sausage, mushroom, and black olives, cherry cheese cake and beer
Adam-vocals
Paul-guitar/vocals
Natalie-keyboards/vocals
Jon E-drums
Mark-bass/vocals
What is everyone's favorite candy?
Paul: Pop Rocks, Rock Candy, Fizz Candy!!! Candy Cigarettes & Lemon Heads too. And those huge Jawbreakers!!
Natalie: Sour Patch Kids, Shock Tarts, anything that fizzes or pops in your mouth, Bertie Bott's Every Flavor Beans!!
Adam: I just bought a "Fear Factor"-brand Super Gummy Octopus (in Sour Ooze), so that'll probably be either my absolute favorite or absolute most hated. Reese's Peanut Butter Cups/Pieces are good too!!
Jon: I once knew this stripper named Candy. She was a huge bitch. Literally, she was like, 6' 4". She was sweet but fuck man, she kinda intimidated me. That’s not to say I wouldn't tap that but come on.... you know? It was just one of those things that could've worked out but you aren't too sure if it’s the right thing at the time. Besides, she had a lot of skinheadfriends and those motherfuckers probably wanted to tap that just to get to me.
Mark: It's way too hard to settle on just one, but I really do love Twizzlers Cherry Bites. I can eat a whole bag (1 lb.) of those delicious little fuckers in one sitting.
What do you all think of the Reese's Peanut Butter cups with caramel: blasphemy or deliciousness?
Paul: I personally don't think Peanut Butter belongs in ANY candy. Especially when mixed with Chocolate! Yuck!!
Natalie: Twix are better.
Adam: I'm a purist. Blasphemy.
Jon: Why the fuck would you ask this question? Are we a dumb joke band? Oh yeah, I forgot, you have something to offer society on the musical front...
Mark: I don't understand how it can be blasphemy. It's a new kind of candy! If it tastes good, that all I really give a fuck about. I mean, it's not like they replaced the ORIGINAL Reese's.
If you were going to be executed, what would your last meal be?
Paul: two charred foot long Hot Dogs from Ted's with cheese, four jumbo deep fried crab-stuffed shrimps & a lobster tail, chocolate chip pancakes with extra butter, a butter burger with bacon & jalapenos, a quesadilla with at least five different kinds of cheese! A Banana Split without nuts! A Monster Cookie! Ravioli dinner from Chef’s! And a huge glass of Lambrusco ...I know I am forgetting lots more, oh well.
Natalie: Strawberry milkshake, big glass of chocolate milk, cookie dough blizzard and chocolate Dilly Bar from Dairy Queen, ice cream sundae with that magic shell topping, cheese curds and a huge block of cheese...take that lactose intolerance!!!
Adam: A couple large Jake's Pizzas (in Green Bay, WI) w/ pepperoni and garlic.
Jon: Well, this interview feels like an execution so probably what I'm eating right now: Skrewdrivers
Mark: New York strip steak, deep fried Slim Jims with ranch dip, bag of corn chips and taco dip, Twizzlers Cherry Bites, bag of marshmallows, 5 White Castle chicken rings, jar of green olives, corn on the cob, Mom's tuna lasagna, black cherry Kool-Aid, Pizza Hut stuffed crust pizza with sausage, mushroom, and black olives, cherry cheese cake and beer
What is the most rock n roll friendly food?
Paul: PIZZA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Natalie: A sloppy slice of double cheese pizza
Adam: Hot Dogs, they have the most songs about 'em.
Jon: Fritos.
Mark: I guess it would have to be a giant 20 foot-long chocolate cake that is shaped like an electric guitar with sprinkles on top. And it magically plays the Dead Boys as you eat it.
Paul: PIZZA!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!
Natalie: A sloppy slice of double cheese pizza
Adam: Hot Dogs, they have the most songs about 'em.
Jon: Fritos.
Mark: I guess it would have to be a giant 20 foot-long chocolate cake that is shaped like an electric guitar with sprinkles on top. And it magically plays the Dead Boys as you eat it.
Anyone of you been to Great America at Gurnee IL?
Paul: YES! FUN! FUN! FUN!. I haven't been there in years though. Joke’s on me.
Natalie: Duh!! Spending the whole fucking day in line for the Batman ride while sweating yer ass off totally rules!!
Adam: I just went there like a month ago, and played a game where I ate a buncha cheese fries and tested how many times in a row I could go on the Superman ride (there were no lines!) until I puked it all up. The answer was four.
Jon: I have a stake in the company. You ever hear of a future? Well, I haveone...
Mark: Never heard of it. Is that one of those "fun-parks" that are gaining in popularity in these last few decades?
Bubble Yum or Dubble Bubble?
Paul: Dr. Pepper Gum. Or any of the Soda-Juicing variety. They need to re-issue those yummies.
Natalie: I think Bubble Yum. Isn't Double Bubble really hard? I don't have dental insurance...
Adam: Dubble Bubble. I don't think Bubble Yum has a soda, do they?
Jon: Gum is for faggots and christians.
Mark: Big League Chew!
What covers do you all do?
Paul: Whatever BUBBLEGUM/POP/ROCK/MAYBEEVENPUNK song we feel like doing that week.
Natalie: What those jerks said.
Adam: "Goody Goody Gumdrops" by 1910 Fruitgum Co., "Food Fight" by the Village People, & "Sweet Pea" by Tommy Roe. We're probably gonna learn a Bay City Rollers song next...
Jon: Feelers songs. But better.
What firework is the most fun?
Paul: You can always find something fun to do with firecrackers & sparklers! They all start on fire and/or blow up, so how can I pick? FUN!
Natalie: One that might blow up in your face.
Adam: Roman candles!
Jon: Abortions.
Mark: Again, very hard to name just one favorite, but I'm way into bottle rockets. They fly AND explode! You can launch them at your friends! They go underwater! I like breaking the stick off and lighting them for an element of unpredictability. Also fun is sticking them through a marshmallow and launching them skyward.
What kinds of dances should people do at Tuff Bananas shows?
Paul: Violent head shaking! Rapid pelvic thrusting, hip jerkin', & monkey jumpin'!
Natalie: Whatever might give the dude next to you a boner!
Adam: Anything but the "Standing Still".
Jon: Why would people dance? Throwing meat at a crowd of mindless, tastelessassholes doesn't really illicit a response, does it?
Mark: This is detailed in chapter 12 in the “Tuff Bananas Rulebook For Having A Good Time” which can be found at any major bookstore for the nominal sum of $36.
Who would win a fight: the Bananas or the Tuff Bananas?
Paul: Well we're TUFF, and they're just BANANAS. We'll peel 'em, then eat 'em.
Natalie: A food fight or a pillow fight? Tuff Bananas!!!
Adam: The TUFFEST one, naturally!
Jon: The Screamers. Why would you ask that? Starting shit isn't funny.
Mark: Well, obviously we would, because we're Tuff, and they're just regular!
Check the Tuff Bananas out at http://www.myspace.com/bananashalalalala
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