Dead Town Cleveland

A Review: Coffinberry S/T... my first stab

2009-06-27T00:54:00.001-07:00

A new Coffinberry release is like an unexpected gift from a loved one: I don’t have any expectations but any time they show me how much they care is greatly appreciated. Needless to say I was swooning when I opened my mailbox to find their brand new self-released, self-titled record inside. I felt like making snow angels in a giant field of dandy lions (or lifting weights and pounding beers if that makes me more of a man.)

These guys have been the best of the strong hold bands in Cleveland for the better part of the past decade. What that means is that they have taken over the reigns from bands like the H-100s, TKOs and Cobra Verde. A workhorse to say the least, Coffinberry has probably amassed enough tunes to satisfy the local music nerds for generations to come. So why, oh why, has their tenacity and pure song writing genius not transferred outside of Cleveland? I have no conclusive answer to that question. America is asleep and it’s sad; maybe this new record can cure the collective coma the rest of the nation seems to be in.

After a brief stint with Morphius Records, Coffinberry has decided to go it alone releasing this LP (that means long-player…it’s a term used to describe 12” vinyl records which is how this album is being released) on their own imprint Central Command Center Records. CCC is best known for their uber awesome collection of cassette tapes (Dimeras, Death Sweats) and maybe it was their lack of knowledge in other more progressive musical formats that led them to co-release with the Collectible Escalators label (home to local favorites Machine Go Boom.) Label woes aside, it’s a great treat to hear the long awaited follow up to what may be a bona fide legendary record, God Damn Dogs.

The Cross brothers are a formable tag-team, Nick continues to hone his vocal prowess on the kicker ‘Lorena’ where he sounds like he is a non-goof King of Leon, one that could easily drink the amount of bourbon as the others claim. His older brother Tony continues to be the back-bone of the band as the one-two punch of his drum work along with his siblings song-writing are comparable to a Cleveland Oasis. Don’t throw your empty bottle of Straub at me for writing such a garbage comparison but what is simple is true.

‘New Color’ expands the bands work by adding a piano and harmonica into the mix, all together it’s like Crimpshrine and Neil Young doing a summer duet. The band is slowing things down in comparison to God Dam Dogs which was a record that almost dared the indie rock world to try and turn their backs on Coffinberry. Full of pop laden anthems and radio ready, reflective life lessons, GDD was an A&R reps wet dream. This record sounds like a defiant step forward and beyond, more country than pop and more the result of a night of bong rips than pints of British ale.

‘Glassy Shiny Sun’ is a beautiful reaction to what national music media calls alt-country; sweet guitar strumming and a young, excited tone from Nick comes together to rival most of the herald My Morning Jackets latest work. Coffinberry is easing their way into a world that few local Cle bands have ever set foot one into and they are doing it their way which is to say wonderfully.

‘Little Machine’ may be the hit that these guys have seemingly been avoiding for the past few years. It’s exciting and addictive, full of summer fun and maybe a little of autumn regrets. I don’t’ know, is this indie rock, college rock or just plain kick-ass rock and roll?
The answer avoids me as ‘The Vapors’ slowly drags my spirit away. With tokens of the aforementioned MMJ’s most depressing songs and Tom Waits circus world undertones, this song is a kick in the mouth at the end of a record that still makes me wonder: is this the best they have? If it is, that is a feat that deserves the utmost praise and respect and, if not, then I am finding God and repenting because I never saw something this good in Cleveland’s future.

Welcome to Cleveland Big Cactus!

2009-06-25T11:31:00.000-07:00

I’m thankful that I was not pre-mature in welcoming Shaq to the city of Cleveland. The news broke late last night, he is on his way for better or worse. I stand by my remarks that Shaquille O’Neil will make a fine Clevelander even if he disappoints on the court. Be it scandal or hilarity, Shaq will bring some much needed water cooler worthy antics to a city that has had only one real A-list celeb for far too long (no offense King, you’ll always be our favorite).

So break out the confetti and champagne; there’s a new neighbor that needs to be welcomed to Cleveland in style.

And no one has even mentioned all the Hip Hop cuts Joe Smith and Shaq can cut together. A new Cleveland Classic is on the cusp of being born in some fashion, I can feel it in the air.

See you soon, Shaquille.

World Wide Wonderful Episode I : My Friend Cleveland

2009-06-18T23:26:00.000-07:00

I have always wished that there was a community of cool Cleveland music webpage’s that I could drool over each morning and being in Los Angeles only magnifies how little access I have to the city. Of course there are the shinning stars: Clepunk for example has been a great resource for those wanting to know more about the Cleveland punk scene or to altogether reconnect with it. It hasn’t changed much over the years but the message board remains a place for old and young wastoids alike to come together to discuss old Starvation Army and Floyd Band shows. And no one here is afraid to get into catty internet name calling which is a huge plus.

Message boards are pretty much key to making a local website work. I know this blog is lacking without one; where is a guy supposed to talk shit and alter porn photos? That sort of stuff is really the drawing factor to My Friend Cleveland.

I will be the first to admit that I should have done my homework and found out who is behind this website and what their history is; but, let’s be honest, I am not going to go that far. I have, though, been a transient visitor for the past couple of years but I usually pass up the blog entries and head straight for the ‘board of all boards’.

There’s not a ton of people posting here but you have some key figures writing weekly and it’s an A-list of local wingnut musicians and more than a few professional barfly. It’s pretty rad that amid the flyers and let-you-in-on-it posts there are gems about the history of .10 cent beer night (complete with highlights from this years reenactment), photos from the Romantic Getaway fest and a thread posted by a dude in need of a tap for his keg of beer.

Unfortunately the main page acts primarily as a gateway to the board; it’s barely been touched since the new year and what few updates we've been given are more personal than anything. There are some high-techy bits though: it would be fool hardy of me not to mention the sweet Vietnam Werewolf video posted in March. This is another band I feel really angry about missing out on. Honestly I have heard very little of them and here I feel a strange Fifteen vibe coming from their stage show. There are beers being held high as they tear through a bouncy punk tune that brings to mind Berkeley punk, mid-90s. Is that way far off or totally right on? You tell me but don’t post any fucked up altered pics of me in a hot tub with rr (that’s an internet message board abbreviation, get used to it).

Enter the Shaq: future Cleveland celeb?

2009-06-16T23:31:00.000-07:00

So it was Superman that helped to shut us out of this years NBA Finals and now it is supposedly the OG Superman that can help lead us to the title next year. Sure it’s an ironic twist of fate and it’s probably not at all a sure thing in the eyes of realistic sports fans but getting Shaquille O’Neal to put on a Cavaliers jersey is certainly a fun prospect.

The bottom line is that Cleveland needs another superstar. The questions centering around whether or not Lebron can ‘single handedly’ carry us to a championship have traditionally been a little weak; he’s always had a little help be it the traded Damon Jones hitting clinch shots or Big Z being one of the most consistent big men in basketball (not to mention the influx of top-notch players over the past two years). But what we have in tenacity and vigor we lack in All-Star caliber basketball performers. Enter Shaq Fu, the Diesel, the Big Shaqtus. If anything ticket sales go through the roof and all eyes are again on us (plus the endless nicknames are a marketing dream come true.)

The city can’t loose. Worst case scenario is the old man decides to retire in a year and we only pay that big time $20 million dollar sum once (and hopefully LBJ gets his ring out of it). Best case scenario is something a little more interesting.

Cleveland is a town that absolutely thrives on its local celebrities. Sports heroes abound even when they would be bench warmers elsewhere (it was just two years ago we all rallied behind Larry Hughes as a Cavs starter), owners of furniture stores have their own cult following, midget jewelry hawkers are one step away from God status among a population that can barely afford frozen .99 cent spring rolls at the Dealz store in Steelyard Commons. So isn’t a guy with a laughable Hip Hop career, a history as a reserve member of the LAPD and a B-movie star with films in the bag where he plays a fucking genie worth all of Cleveland’s mocking and scrutinizing for years to come?

Yes. Yes he is worth our mockery. I truly believe that Shaq would make an extraordinary Clevelander. Think of the laughs and You Tube memories he can assist us with. He’s a walking punch line, he probably gets the joke if his bizarre dance-offs with Lebron at the All-Stare weekends are any sort of proof and he has four (god damn…four) NBA titles under his increasingly large belt.

Let me be the first, Mr. O’Neal, to prematurely welcome you to our fair city. And I truly hope that, in your stay here, you settle into a life of local commercials, auto show autograph sessions and a place in the Cleveland Hall of Fame; right between Mark Norton and Little John. After all, big man, you will deserve it if you get us past Superman next year.

P.S. In the midst of two blogs ago I call no curse. If we land another Shawn Kemp instead of the Big Galactus... it's not the Deadtown Curse: blame Mr. Ferry not Mr. Chernus (the same goes if Shaq disappoints; I'm not putting my neck on any line.)

One Song in Words II

2009-06-13T20:28:00.000-07:00

Four months ago I wrote a piece where I checked in on some of my favorite Cleveland bands via their myspace pages (a lame gen-now idea but it saved any real thinking on my part). One song was reviewed and it was a nice way for me to play check up on everyone since I have been a poor study of Cleveland rock for the past year. Now I am taking that idea and making it into a full fledged Deadtown Cleveland segment or reoccurring blog if you will (insert audio of Dusty Rhodes saying that last bit) topic much like Cle Food Fetish or the beloved Cleveland Classic.

This time around I decided to change the gimmick a little. Instead of checking on bands that I know and hold dear to my rotten heart I am going to be stopping by myspace pages of bands I have… (or dah, dah, dah!) NEVER HEARD! That’s right; it’s an honest to God fact that there are bands in Cleveland that I have never been privy to in an audio type of way. Now this is not to say that these bands are off my radar: far from it, the bands below are actually ones that I put into Google searches this afternoon because I have been meaning to listen to them for months and, in some cases, f’n years.

Well… let’s be off on this trademarked voyage.

Gunfire! Getdown!
Girl Pile

My first impression was simply, holy shit, these guys have a dumb name. And it’s undeniably true; it’s atrocious. I thought it would be ‘punk n roll’, dumb and plain. Oh well, it kind of is except that it owns pretty hard. How can that be Mr Chernus? Well dumb and plain is kind of what all rock and roll is when taken to its barest of elements, asshole. ‘Girl Pile’ reminds me of the early 2000’s when Cleveland was a greasy mess of drunk twenty-something’s getting into bad trouble. All those aforementioned kids are listening to indie rock now and living east of Lakewood but that doesn’t matter worth a fuck to G.G. This song drives all night with a catchy refrain, powerhouse riffing and a strange resemblance to those forgotten Vacancies gems (before that full length came out; you know, when all you knew was the live stuff). Good tune to play at parties where gunfire has no chance to happen and the only thing you’re getting down with is this LP and a twelve of Burning River. (For fans of getting drunk and Parma).

Lick the Blade
Sea of Apathy

My first impression was simply, holy shit, these guys have an amazing name. And it’s undeniably true; it’s fucking cool. Lick the Blade offer up a very commendable classic-metal track that conjures eighties Maiden as easily as the souls of ten witches and gypsy thieves; for real. So maybe it’s not anything new or even anything original, fuck me, this would barely sound new or original the year I was born but it’s still perfect for the jukebox at the Jigsaw (if someone would just resurrect that place). Ted Anderson spins a righteous tale here with ample shout outs given to those ever evil shores. I can imagine that this dude, uninhibited by instrument, is all over the place at a live gig; he better be or else Dio would tell that joke about wanting his voice back. (For fans of Maiden (I already said it), Soulless and Nunslaughter).

The Hot Rails
Ripper

These guys have been tearing it up in Cleveland pretty hard or so I’ve been told once or twice. I was hesitant to listen to them because, for the longest time, I thought it was a bunch of girls and, well you know, that would probably end up being bad. I was kind of surprised to see this is my old buddy Charlie Druesedow’s (lead drums and ex-everything) band and, even weirder, the easiest nomination for best Post-Sharkey, Ken Janssen is the singer (ex-Vista Cruisers). All put together it kind of sounds like Bad Wizard which is bitter sweet: it’s the perfect party band stuff but these guys could probably have done something a little better. But let’s be fair, ‘Ripper’ does just that; Janssen holds court with maybe the best drunken howl in Clevo and I know he can back that shit up on stage or in a bar fight. Druesedow remains a solid rock drummer, keeping this whole sinking ship of Straub and thin lines of blow together. ‘You want to go for a ride/you better give it up/I’m going to live it up.’ Good enough for a Cleveland summer but it might not keep you warm all winter. (For fans of Stepsister, Annihilation Time and beer).

Brian Straw
Veins

I’ve known Brian through dealing with the Beachland and general Cleveland this-and-that for a very long while but I have never gone to see the guy play and here I sit kinda kicking myself for it. Yeah, yeah—the dude plays soft, folk stuff and I am an unabashed lover of all things stupid and metallic—but there is a soft spot in this sarcastic soul… shit, I wrote the word soul just now with no intention of tying Satan or sacrifice into it. I tried out all four songs offered on his page which is against the rules I just now put upon myself (the other bands had to deal with the first thoughts I had on the first song I ever heard by them) and this was, admittedly the one that I liked most. Brian has a voice my man, it’s marketable to all the distressed girls that get forced into seeing Hot Rails by their drunk bfs (that means boyfriends); dark, melancholy and distressed in it’s on right. The drums plod along here with the soft strumming and eerie vocal melody making me think it’s like a Goth Fleet Foxes or maybe some other indie rock band that I’m too metal to reference. Brian Straw might be the perfect antidote to people who are sick of the type of bands I wrote about above or just another day at Arabica for the rest of you. (For fans of coffee, poetry, autumn and stuff like that).

Sports Illustrated Curse or the Cleveland Curse?

2009-06-06T21:59:00.000-07:00

The sports illustrated curse. Is it true? Well, a lot of Cleveland sports fans are probably holding on to this mystery as a way to cope with the horror of lasts week’s final defeat. I’ve had some time to think about it and I still don’t know how I feel. Surely it’s a weak excuse but there is simply no other town in America that has more reason to make excuse than Cleveland.

It took me a few days to even go online and look at what the Cle press was saying about the Cavaliers loss to Orlando in game six. I come from a devout Cavs family; my mother used to work for the organization during the miracle at Richfield era, I’ve spent countless nights at both the Coliseum and Q where I either cheered or stifled tears and many an obscenity. Maybe all of those years of heartbreak should have knolled the pain I would eventually feel time and time again. But, no, there is no way to express the disappointment.

I wanted to call my mom right away and hear her side of things but it took me days to do so. I just could not handle her inevitable response of pure heartbreak. When people in California gave me their deepest sympathies, I recoiled from them or offered weak rebuttals to the extent of “I’m trying not to think too much about it”, which was bullshit: it’s all I could think about.

The most powerful thing I could find to say to my Cleveland friends was/is “I am so sick of having a ‘there’s always next season’ season.”

The article in question was by an ex-Clevelander such as myself, Joe Posnanski. He seems like a genuine guy: I’ve been on his website and he has a true love for sports and Cleveland (he goes as far as to call it beautiful), he’s a fellow journalist and his name sounds Polish or German enough to be a regular at Slyman’s on Saint Claire. If you don’t own a copy I feel bad for you as it’s a collector’s item of Cleveland sports history. And that is what our Cavaliers season of 2008/2009 has sadly become, curse or not.

Time for an honest gut check: I had to stifle those familiar tears as I read the article. It was written from the point of view of a fan… a Cleveland sports fan that has seen and felt all the trials and tribulations that you and I have witnessed (even before that word became a trademark for our most impressive superstar). Throughout the piece local working man after local working man pleads their case for Posnanski to make sure that his work would not land on the cover of SI; it’s an omen, bad luck, KARMA MAN! It’s a plead he understands but ultimately uses to bookend his piece with an editors note to go ahead and put Cleveland on the cover of the legendary sports magazine because, as we all truly know, that is where these athletes have always deserved to be (the shot, the drive, the sweep and all).

Since the 5.25.09 issue hit the newsstands and was delivered to homes and business across the world the number one team in the National Basketball Association went on to lose four of six games to the third seated team in the eastern conference. Many in Cleveland have let the stifled tears fall, others lost hope altogether and, elsewhere, Posnanski has received an endless tirade of hate mail from the ever blood thirsty Cleveland sports fanatics. Can I blame them? Oh, absolutely not… as a once Cleveland native and an admitted admirer of the city, he should have known better.

Now that all is said and done, Lebrons magnificent finish in game two becoming a lost memory, it’s hard to really place blame on a writer who was only trying to let the rest of the world know how powerful a part of day-to-day life professional sports are to the average Clevelander. Maybe there is a curse but I don’t think it has anything to do with, arguably, the greatest athlete alive getting another cover in the most coveted sports rag of all time.

The curse may lie in our hands as we, the fans, have always been turncoats at best. It is true that no one has ever thrown bottles on the court after Lebron and company lost a game but the chorus of boo’s that I have heard after simply missed free-throws (and not game clinchers by any means) on our own home court are easily part of any long term ills that have befallen our franchise teams.

I’m not shedding any light or forecasting a brighter future. I’m simply upset and hopefully forgivably so. I wish the best for all Cleveland athletes and hopefully, one day, seeing one of our beloved stars on the cover of Sports Illustrated will be just another good omen of an appending championship won.

All Hail Breaks Loose: Midnight Comes to Town

2009-05-28T22:22:00.000-07:00

For the first time in over a year I got to leave my apartment and see some Cleveland rock and roll up close and personal. Try not to laugh at my child like excitement but it was like going to see Wrestlemania or Jewel Kilcher in concert (both things I have done on multiple occasions so I know what I am talking about.) Midnight, my favorite Cleveland metal maniacs, rolled through town for a two night stand of evil deeds last week… it was a breath of putrid, polluted air.

Midnight always puts on a great show in Cle; between the whip wielding broads, broken glass and drunken mosh pits you are bound to leave swimming in a pool of vomit and blood (hopefully not just your own). I was hoping for more of the same when I caught them in Long Beach but I was really just happy to imagine that I was at Now That’s Class for one night.

I started off in good Ohio fashion by quickly draining a forty of beer before I was picked up for the trip to Long Beach which is easily the closest assimilate to my beloved Lakewood that I have found near Los Angeles. Once I got there I was pleasantly pleased to see Midnights resident shredder Sean nursing a pint of beer with a big Parma grin on his face. Man, I miss the shitty things we all used to get into ‘back in the day’. The fact that he was driving across the country playing what may be the least accessible Metal coming out of Cleveland further drove some nostalgic giddiness through me.

What made the night better; it was a family affair as my good buddy Ryan Harkins was playing in his stellar stoner-black metal band Sumerian Axe. Harkins is a Cleveland legend in his own right if only in my head and history: he played bass in my first band See World, drums in my baby Amps II Eleven and put an ugly stamp on Cleveland garage rock while playing in the Death Sweats.

Sumerian Axe is the only band in LA that sounds like they are from Cleveland. It’s gritty, funny, riffing and kind of tongue-in-cheek. Harkins is a formidable front man in the effect that you never know if he’s going to hurt you or himself at any given moment. I like that sort of thing (even though, at this stage in the game, I find myself ever farther in the back of the room during these types of shows). The songs are full of stoner rock abandon and Venom-esque vocals; the only problem here is that they sound a little too much like Midnight to be a good opening act for Midnight.

That being said Midnight still held their own. The crowd was thick with Mexican metallists and questionable punk kids, all of them a little rowdy but not at all accomplished at making a real-deal Cleveland debacle. Dressed to the nines in trademarked bee keeper masks and ugly tattoos (speaking of Venom… how is it I never noticed Jaime’s tramp stamp that reads ‘I heart Venom’?) the dudes brought their rapid fire assault sans any creepy girls on stage and easily mowed over every ones minds. It was fascinating to find out how far reaching their music has become as the crowd literally went berserker during the opener ‘Black Rock and Roll’ which seems to be the rally cry for a new generation of bands.

‘All Hail Hell’ is my favorite Midnight cut and it may be their ultimate anthem as nearly everyone in the room raised their fists in the air, calling out the chorus in unison. It’s simple, it’s quirky and probably not really all that evil but it works on a level that reaches us metal heads from the north coast to the west coast. And it was really all I came for; after they played that song I wandered to the beer patio to chug Jim Beam out of a plastic bottle.

I hope Midnight curates an even greater army of fuckups all over the world. They are on the cusp of becoming something special; maybe not a Metallica but they could at least be an Armored Saint. In the meantime I am only too happy to watch Sumerian Axe build its own legion of non-Cle kids who have never seen something like Harkins crowd surfing during a show in a party bus (that was the week before this show).

I have a dream, a noble, selfless dream. A dream that one day Long Beach will be rechristened Parma II. This time I’ll just watch from the back of the room as it slowly gets burned down.

Cle Food Fetish Vol II

2009-05-17T00:46:00.000-07:00

Major League is an amazing movie. American Splendor painting an even prettier picture of our home. That said the entertainment industry does not always shine a light on Cleveland. Hell the two movies I mentioned are basically an outside joke on the town; we’re poor, talent less and we complain endlessly. But they also show that we have moxie and work ethic to spare.

Arguably the best television show or movie ever based on Cleveland is the No Reservations episode that aired two years ago. Anthony Bourdain is more than a chef, a writer or even my vote for sexiest man; he’s a vanguard, a traveling salesman and a witty motherfucker. His opinions and thoughts should not be just revered but worshiped and studied for generations to come. Maybe you think I’m over exaggerating or in love; maybe you are right on both accounts.

I’ve wanted to write about that episode for a long time but it’s just not timely anymore: like Rolling Stone finally getting around to that Bassholes review.

There was a lot in that episode that I did not know about Cleveland. For starters: who knew that mammoth bookstore was even around let alone that is housed Twinkie filling on draught? Maybe y’all did and I’m just not as great of a Clevelander as I though. And the surfing, casole, Marky Ramone confessing that he could eat “two whole pizzas”? But it’s a vicious cycle, you have to fit into your clothes and write random blogs.

I love No Reservations. I love it enough to actually stop drinking Christmas Ale and get into my brothers high school car (he’s 32) to drive down Memphis to visit the Sausage Shoppe. Remember this part of the show? Tony walks into a little mom and pop joint to sample all sorts of forced meats and pâté? It was awesome and looked delicious and sentimental at the same time.

I visited the shop in question just a few days before Christmas and it was packed. Packed for a small shop full of meat, anyway. There were delicious samples of the aforementioned pâté with crackers sitting on top of a deli case that housed a wet dream of dead animals. Little old ladies pushing me aside so they could purchase the tastes that they have, no doubt, been savoring since their parents first ushered them into this country.

I was in search of some summer sausage to remind me of the endless summer back in California and, more over, all the yuletides past in this great city. I was not disappointed. Every slice of meat I inquired about the men and women behind the meat oasis were proud to let me try. And it was good, my friends. Good to be surrounded by big, juicy meats and people that have spent their life and even generations of lifetimes submerged in this fatty, delicious environment.

Their website (www.sausageshoppe.com) has coupons to help you through these hard times without hindering your eastern-European tastes for such treats as head cheese and Slovenian sausage (all lean pork with a mild flavor. Call for availability).

While there my head was admittedly swimming; so many colors, flavors and words I had trouble pronouncing. Sadly, I only left with some smoked sausage and some refrigerated smokies which were the perfect gift for my duck hunting, meat loving old-man. He loved the gesture but, next year, Christmas dinner will be amazing if this shoppe has any say in it. Throw that turkey into the Salvation Army bag that has been sitting there for years, we have a loaf of head cheese and ten pounds of holiday kielbasa to get through.

4501 Memphis Avenue
Cleveland, OH 44144-1912
Phone: (216) 351-5213

A Review: Sun God : (S)PAIN

2009-05-10T01:27:00.001-07:00

It may be shocking, even orgasmic, to gain the knowledge that I don’t write exclusively for the Deadtown office; I’m actually a celebrated journalist if only in my own and my mothers mind. I’ve been published in weeklies, monthlies and in book form. Yeah, I know, I have impressed you but really I’m actually a struggling wingnut (as Mr. Erba once called me in a letter written in 1996-ish) who, from time to time, pitches a thing or two about local Cleveland music. That’s reason #1 as to why I don’t have a lot of timely reviews on this blog.

But, here and again, I do have a rare chance to wax ever so fucking poetic on something fresh and, well, refreshing. So when I called out to Cleveland in a not-so-overt fashion to send me free music, I was very excited that Sun God rose to the challenge and sent me their new(ish) 7”. I wanted to build a Cle distro and they liked that sentiment; of course I have NO intention on doing so but it shows a sort of local support that I did get free music by just taking the initiative to ask. So this, handful of readers, is my first exclusive.

Sun God
(S)pain
(Pizza Pants Records)

Holy crap, I feel seventeen again.

I dropped down a bunch because I wanted to drive that first sentence into your head. I do… I feel young and a little out of reach of the things I actually have within a hands grasp of now; money, sex, booze and stableness. But, don’t get me wrong, that’s a good feeling to relish in and I’ll tell you why: when I was seventeen I loved music, I loved its surrounding culture and I knew when something was good if not totally fucking killer.

Ever since I found money, sex and especially booze (stableness still avoids me) I have not been able to connect with music the way I had at that age. Sure, I went through a stoner rock phase where songs about drinking, drugging and fucking seemed appropriate. And I have run a gamut of stereotype: vegetarian, straight edge, hardcore, wigger, punk and metalhead. Fuck, I have a Jewel poster on my wall and a James Taylor greatest hits in my closet. But I grew up, or cut my teeth, or learned my way, through and on hardcore. DC, Post, Revelation, Very Distribution, Victory; I’ve got all those catalogs and I still relish how good all of it made me feel. Sun God are, to my ears, the first Cleveland band to rope it all together in an intelligent way without losing the most important part about contemporary music: those lovely hooks.

“(S)pain” is a burner and I know I have used that phrase to an almost freely extent in the past but, trust me, this song could be the start of the best record any old-school HC label put out. Complete with wicked little string slides, the guitar work is taken to over-drive making it a sort of riddle to how the drums even keep time. We have solo this and solo that, it’s always a welcome surprise but the main riff alone is leaving my computer speakers shaking in disbelief. I think I’m hearing this in the vocal: “I don’t need what I don’t see” and it’s nothing short of the truth; I don’t know what these guys are doing to their poor instruments but it’s all sort of all right. A pounding, it’s what both I and computer are taking at one am Pacific Time.

My roommate just left the apartment a while ago but, before he left his graveyard of Pabst cans behind, he summed it up by repeating, over and over, “This shit is awesome.”

Only three songs are humbly given to us here and I’m actually glad for it because it’s the best kind of tease: I’m almost on my proverbial knees begging for a full length with some shitty minimalist artwork. Something I can keep in my collection and pull out in a drunken stupor to happily surprise any record collecting nerd with this pearl out of the Cleveland oyster.

Maybe I’m giving too much credit but in a lake that’s too Erie for it’s own good, we have something that’s pretty special in a throwback that y’all missed kind of sort of way. “Homewrecker” may drive this point home to you with the way the word “time” is drawn out when in reference to it being such a waste. Yeah, you’re on to something, brother. If nothing else, we can all be witness to that, right? And, in context, it’s even more thrilling; post-punk guitar strutting, backup vocals riding a crest and the constant pounding of “what I did was wrong” making us remember the littlest mistake as if it was us getting injured midseason and not Derek Anderson (sorry).

I’ve already written about how much I revere the final song, “Bailin’Out”; reference a few blogs past to know for yourself. Or you can do yourself the favor of buying this record (or do like I did and ASK for it but be sure to return the favor the next time your at Melt by telling the hipster girl next to you how much it rips).

It’s been a while since I have had nothing bad to say about a record from Cleveland or elsewhere, maybe it’s a tribute to how great this release is or it could be a lesson many bands should learn: in this age of kitchen reality shows and three minute pro wrestling matches, just give them what they need, something killer, and then wait and rejoice.

Hastily Made Cleveland Blog

2009-04-30T02:57:00.000-07:00

I want to preface this diatribe with a note that I am NOT the type of guy who immediately hates on something that explodes into American pop-culture just because it’s the anti-hero type of thing to do. I really can appreciate good comedy or music made for the minds of the mass. It’s all good shit.

That being said: the faux Cleveland tourism video that is literally blowing up on the World Wide Web is shit. It’s the negative spin on the slang word shit: bad, stupid, and hideous; without charm or positive characteristic.

I was going to post the monstrosity in the middle of the rant; it would probably look very professional, even a little like a news clip on Yahoo or MSN. But I decided against it just so I could make sure not to tarnish an otherwise perfect blog. If you’re one of the lucky ones who never had this near minute of cheap shots and bad jokes forwarded to your email, Facebook or Ashley Madison account, it can be found on You Tube and the like but, I’m serious, it’s not worth the time to laugh at the lack of effort.

To sum it up: lame South Park/SNL musical parody voice sings really dumb jokes about visiting Cleveland to see poor people take the bus, someone use a pay phone and to view our ‘two’ buildings. I know it’s good to be able to laugh at yourself but I think, in a town as poor, fat and drunk as Cleveland, the punch lines would be heartier. Sub in Detroit, St. Louis, Pittsburgh, Buffalo, et al and the joke is just as foolish (except maybe for Pittsburgh... fucking shit hole).

Maybe the joke is on me and this is a great piece; it’s an ironic interpretation on the decline of Midwestern America. A biased and sad take on one mans home and those desperate souls that share it with him and haunt his dreams.

Or maybe it’s more hipster humor that went over my head and raised my blood pressure. There's not even a quip about the Brownies or the river catching on fire. But that's probably a biased take on my own haunted dream.

Good Work, Guys! Next Time it's Dread Zeppelin!

2009-04-22T21:40:00.000-07:00

It’s not too often that I get to offer up my deepest and hardiest congratulations to my friends on this amazing blog. I’m not knocking my dudes or anything but really who is kidding who? One time I got to give the nod to the Canadian Bad Boy when he ended up on WWE Raw a few years back but that was kind of a once in a lifetime thing that I could not ignore. Really it was a shock; I spent my early twenties training, traveling and feuding in the ring wars of Ohio with CBB and, honestly, I didn’t think either of us had anything other than the opening match at the Moonshine Festival in front of us. He proved me kind of wrong.

Finally (after nearly two years) I have another chance to tell people that I care about and respect that I am proud of them: so congrats and God speed Uncle Scratch’s Gospel Revival… it’s about time. The weirdest and most creative duo I have ever come across (musically or otherwise) just got home after three days in Vegas opening for Puscifer. Yeah dude, you heard me right, PUSCIFER! Okay, admittedly it’s not like they just got home from touring the UK with, say, Manowar or they cut a deal with some indie label in South Africa but it’s still an accomplishment.

They converted over 6,000 assholes; something only Lebron can accomplish every day.

I always knew that their low-fi garage punk, fifth hand gear and Jesus loving shtick was way too ahead of itself and utterly offensive to remain a Cleveland secret (even though the offensive part does endure it to Cle). It was only a matter of time before they were slugging it out in the parking lots of Warped Tour shows, playing Grammy after-parties or becoming the house band for Conan O’Brian. I know those things seem as unattainable of a dream as sharing a stage with Manowar but I have faith in these guys.

I remember other Cleveland bands getting quick bursts of fame opening for mid-tier acts (Disengage tagging along with Bam Margera is a bad memory) and it usually ends when the shows do. It is what it is: a band opening for a band that everyone is there to see. But I don’t think that’s the case with USGR; they are made from a different stock of sauerkraut and march to the beat of a different bible thumper. Too funny for the American masses, too creative to be restrained in a town like Cleveland and too fucking Cleveland to ever go anywhere else.

Anyway, nice work Brother Ant and Brother Ed. Whenever I’m at a gig, I miss hearing your sweet, sweet gospel when I buy beers in between bands. It always sounded really good to me.

This is a Coffinberry Promo Review

2009-04-19T21:01:00.000-07:00

Coffinberry
This is a Coffinberry Promo
(self released)

In lew of writing a regular album review for Coffinberry, a band whom I consider to be the most underrated in the state of Ohio (and possibly the Midwest as a whole), I am going to review (or sum up) this strange CD that has been sitting in front of my computer for the past month. It’s not a ‘Cleveland Classic’ or even a proper release; it looks to be meant for the ears of a booker or some wing nut at a label but it makes for a nice DIY ‘Best Of’.

The cover art is another stellar mind fuck by local genius Jeremy Jakstas, another underrated Clevelander and one of Clevelanders best flyer and album artists. My favorite part is the vending machine in the drawing which clearly says ‘Pop’ not soda like these western jerk offs insist it’s called.

NOTE: As I play this CD the cockroaches in my apartment are braving the heat and starting to congregate on my desk. The big ones too; there has to be some sort of rock and roll cliché hidden there.

‘Cruise Control Psycho’ is a pop-raucous of an opener, easily one of the most memorable songs from their debut From Now on Now. It’s a good time capsule for where the band stood in 2005: happy, maybe a little in love with each other and full of good faith for what the future was going to bring them. I love how the drum roll in the beginning could have been the start of a steamrolling metal song but, instead, it brings us into a world of indie rock bliss and mentions of a ballerina.

‘Your Comeback’ follows and this one was the best song on the 2006 Sleush cassette, no question. Death Sweats cover it, the dirt balls at NTC know the words and it does a bruising on your heart strings. The riff somehow bounces which typically makes the balls of my feet roll back and forth as the lyrics tell a great little story of a departed couple, the line ‘All of the things you’ll think of/I though them first’ being the snidest comment ever heard in such a sweet tune.

Then ‘Just like the Light through Trees Do’ takes away any of that happiness and love I was talking about. Now we find Coffinberry in a dark place and it sounds fucking nice, like nineties alt-rock could have if the checks had not been so big. Nick Cross’ breaking voice is followed by a lonely guitar as he lets the cripples know where they can stay with (with him).

God Damn Dogs is my favorite Coffinberry release. It’s the record I originally wanted to review for either Scene or Deadtown but I never had the guts (or the words) to pull it off. I understand I keep pressing the word ‘easily’ down your overstuffed throats but I really do think that it is ‘easily’ the coolest rock record to come out of Cleveland in an ‘easy’ decade. On this taste of their recording chops they offer two songs. ‘Bombs and Palm Trees’ is as skuzzy and as weirdly alt-metallic as Sun God but also a taste of what Nirvana might have been like had they been from Snowy Cleveland rather than that coffee stain north of me.

They leave us with ‘Little Child of Dementia’ EASILY the catchiest song you’ve heard in ages. EASILY way better than anything playing on the radio. EASILY a set closer for an opener for, let’s say, U2 or some such gnarly shit. Not that I’m comparing them to those rat bastards, I’m just saying this is the closet thing to break out music heard from Cleveland since the Choir.

I’m not jumping on any local band wagons; I’ve known these guys for years and have always been a big fan. After spending the last year or so working on the other end of the music business it really blows my mind that Coffinberry is not on a label, playing big venues and racking up a lot of mentions in shit rags like Spin or (god forbid) Filter. If that did happen I like to think that they would stay in the same house in the same part of the Cle west side and continue to write the type of music that only people from Cleveland could: music full of pain and heartbreak but created with hope and belief. This is believeland after all and I am pulling for these guys to bring us a title.

Goodbye and Goodluck To You Jigsaw

2009-03-25T22:03:00.000-07:00

I got a text the other day from my life-mate Tony Erba. He was just letting me know about some quotes he had in the current issue of Scene. ‘Ha’ I thought, ‘I wonder why the weekly is doing a piece on Beta tapes and/or the history of the beer can.’ So, naturally, I procrastinated and never really read the article. Then I ran across a link to it on a message board and fell face first into some interesting (if not totally foreseeable) news. If you live in Cleveland and read the rag in question, well, you probably know what I’m talking about. For those, like me, not in the Cleveland gossip scene any more I would ask you to sit down because this is not shocking, not amazing but, if nothing else, timely: Jigsaw Entertainment has died.

RIP. And thanks for a whole lot of nothing. I’d say something with a little more color but I don’t wish to upset the widow. I’m looking at you Parma.

D.X. Ferris was given the chance to break out of the confines of local music blurbs and deliver a big-time piece of relevant Cleveland rock journalism; deliver he did. Like SD Jones or Lebron James in the clinch; like I never did. I know this: you should all go out of your way to read it.

I’ve thrown in my long-distance minutes on this subject a few times. I never liked the idea of one little group running four Cle clubs that, love them or hate them, have had storied pasts be it as a favored pub (the Saw), legendary venue (Agora) and famous spots for the local scene (Peabody’s and Hi Fi/Blind Lemon). I can’t imagine the stress involved with maintaining one of these joints: the staffing, bills, food cost and booking alone makes me pine for a valium and bottle of Beam. The fact that this dude who, it’s hard to argue, was an outsider in a members only clubhouse, could think that playing monopoly was a good business move is hard to fathom. I, myself, feel like an outsider these days but I would know enough not to handle a ball covered in grease.

Making bands succumb to selling tickets or other every day antics is one thing that we have all made ourselves come to terms with but bouncing checks to loyal employees, major beer distributors and suppliers of all things electric and warm is another faux pas that any one opening a business knows to stay clear of. $8,000 in delinquent electric bills? There’s little to no excuse; Tower 2012 would never be so careless.

The future of these establishments seems in disrepair: Ferris notes that the Jigsaw is temporally closed which means dozens of regulars are sitting on unfamiliar bar stools in less inviting bars all across town. I can’t even begin to walk down my own memory lanes reserved for each of the places in question. Shit man, I used to practically live at the Hi Fi. It was the first place I thought of to book out of town bands that I was cool with. Amps II Eleven reserved that stage for big shows and Southern Trespass booked more than one reunion there. The Agora is where I saw Motorhead time and time again. Where my friend Chris threw a plastic cup of piss off the balcony during a Cradle of Filth show and I witnessed Spike Dudley dive from that exact seat onto a stack of tables. Peabody’s is synonymous with Metal and tall cans of High Life. And the Jigsaw… home away from home. The most inviting, welcoming and down right magical drinking establishment I have ever been a patron of. Now it may be gone. Gone, gone, gone.

But what was most poignant, heartbreaking and utterly inexcusable was this last paragraph written by Ferris:

“Most painful to her, it seems, was the emotional goodbye from Joe, a disillusioned 80-year-old longtime regular. Tears in his eyes, he took his mug and went home.”

I think I know the guy they are talking about. If I am mistaken then it’s of no real matter because that sentiment and those tears can be assigned to many past booze hounds and rock fans who went to all four clubs. An end of an era seems wrong; it’s the end of a quick and ugly run by a misinformed and misguided attempt at making a name for oneself. Making a name in an unforgiving town that was already surviving on it’s own through an intelligent and self motivated group of wonderful people, bands and clubs.

I hope that some of those affected personally by this charade can recoup and push the legacy of the Agora, Peabody’s, Hi Fi and Jigsaw forward. Cleveland is full of ghosts… no need to fill the graveyard further.

One Song In Words

2009-02-17T19:17:00.000-08:00

Sitting in front of the computer drinking beer and smoking cigarettes, alone again, with nothing to fill this blog with. I wish there was a good Cleveland distro that would send me free music every week to write about when I’m stuck in moments such as this. Of course there is nothing like that or, at least, anyone willing to give me things in return for my writing. Oh well. Not everyone can make a living doing what they love and I’m unluckier than most so it makes sense I can’t even get a few demos on CD-R.

Then it hits me, right? Yes, it does (or did). The internet is full of free shit and I owe my success in the blogging world to the internet. So we should work together and make a child. I stress that I am drinking and alone right now.

I’m deciding to spend this free time I have so much of to check in on some myspace pages and playing a weird little game of catch-up with some of my favorite Cle bands. It’s probably easier for me this way: I can only come up with so many clever things to say about one band alone and describing an entire record in biting, hip and irreverent fashion is akin to walking to the liquor store. Too much work, I’d rather take the short route or drive.

Coffinberry
Long Story Short
I had heard rumors that these guys were taking a different direction these days, something more Nashville influenced rather than the usual New York or wherever over and undertones. They remain to me the most intelligent and overtly catchy band in Cleveland and this song literally dares you not to move your feet with its stomping rhythm. At once a modern indie rock take on Johnny Cash and a lower-fi Black Lips garage sound. Nicks vocals are extra raw here, maybe taking cue from the great story tellers before him. Whatever they are doing, it works.

This Moment in Black History
Obama
Oh jeez, just what the world needed. I have to wonder if TMIBH was the first hardcore band to write an ode to Obama or did Municipal Waste and Spazz beat them to it. Maybe they’ll be the last to walk such a strange route too because this is pretty damn awful. I’m all for some experimentation and I voted Barack as well but I could go the rest of my life without ever hearing this song again. I will note that the guitars sound brutal. Bad Brains type of brutal but that ridiculous chant of ‘Obama! Barack Obama!’ is more than enough to make me vote Kucinich.

Nunslaughter
Pyre
Hail Satan! I don’t know what to write other than my head has been pummeled and my heart stolen with a few minutes of this most earth shaking Metal. Some of my fondest Cleveland metal memories have been sparked by these evil suburbanites and this, heathens, is proof that where there are bullet belts and pentagrams there is talent and the smell of burning meat on the grill. Excellent.

Sun God
Bailin’ Out
This tune not only plays host to a bitching song title but it lives up to it by busting open my brains like a baseball bat of pure adrenaline. Reeking of all of my favorite 90s punk, Sun God posses an unbelievable amount of ability to riff away while staying melodic and metallic without any notion of cheesy post-punk reminiscing. If this is post anything its post-shitty Cleveland bands (their respective past projects withstanding. I mean Nine Shocks is Cleveland music to me). For some reason I always knew they were good, if not great, but today I stand here to proclaim them fucking KILLER. Inspiring enough to make me actually start a distro just to stock pile all of their new shit.

Cle Food Fetish Vol1

2009-02-11T13:03:00.000-08:00

It’s almost been two years since I moved from my comfortable but stagnant life in Cleveland to a consistently strange and changing existence in Los Angeles. The first few weeks felt like I was just passing through; like neither the city or my heart wanted me to stay for long. Then came the new friends, the shit jobs, the long nights and boring days. Life had gotten normal and just recently I realized that I wasn’t home sick any more. I didn’t have the desire, late at night, to move back to Tremont or get the old band back together. I had gotten through the hard part like a junkie who finally ditches the spins and is only puking a few times a day.

It feels good that I no longer have that pinch in my chest when I see Lebron James throw resin in the air. Or a tear in my eye when I watch the opening montage in Major League. But there is one thing I cannot replace, cannot forget and will not turn my back on. The food.

I miss Cleveland food. Lake Erie Perch (deep fried), Walleye, perogies, corned beef and sauerkraut, beer, sausage, chili and meatloaf. I’m sure some of these foods can be found in southern California but not EVERYWHERE like back home.

Take in point Sokolowskis. Heaven. Pure European magic in all it's German, Polish and Irish glory. The gut busting portions, the overheard office gossip when standing in that long line, the polka, the beer in buckets, the PORTIONS.

Over my last four trips home, I have visited this gem at lest six times. That’s more than I ever did in 28 years of living in Cleveland. What was I thinking all of those years? The meat loaf is better than any of your mothers could ever make, the perogies a rite of passage as a Midwesterner, the Salisbury steak acting like insulation for your body: helping you survive the last few months of winter.

It’s no wonder the walls are lined with 8x10s of every Cleveland legend you can remember. It’s home within home. A stroll away from downtown, stones throw from Tremont, Ohio City and Lakewood. An institution and now, sadly, a memory for me and my empty stomach that has been holding on to a dream that Los Angeles could have something as greasy, homely and truly amazing as Sokolowskis. So far… no go. But it’s not enough to make me home sick, no, just really hungry and a little nostalgic. I could get off of this lap top and cook myself something instead of complaining and strolling down this beaten up memory lane. But there's always In N Out Burger or the taco truck parked down the street. I guess somethings change but my poor eating habits just find other places to get their fix.

Cleveland Book Club Part II

2009-01-15T17:04:00.000-08:00

The world never needed something the way it needed a biography from Cleveland hero Chuck Schodowski… you know, Big Chuck. If you’re from Cleveland, of course you know Big Chuck & Lil John. They’re as recognizable a tag team as Carson & McMahon or even Hulk Hogan & Mr. T. Their lame skits and Parma approved kitsch is strangely charming and more comforting than a plate full of sausage and a Brownies win on Sunday.

It’s too bad this book isn’t as funny as the skit where Lil John finds gas for twenty cents only to look up and see his car is parked in front of fantasy island not the full service island. That was a fucking gas… for real. The book, not so much. The best I can say is that Schodowski lived a charmed life and he is someone to look up to as a true icon in our city. He never left and he had ample opportunity to do so as Hollywood loomed in the distance (I wish I was as smart as him. But that’s personal).

His book would be better on tape (recorded at the Clark Bar) as it reads like a real proud old timer telling stories at the local VFW hall over dollar cans of Natural Ice. And there really are some great Cleveland tales between the name drops and TV8 rhetoric. His days drinking with Ghoulardi could be made into a movie and the more I read about Lil John, the more I wanted to buy him a drink at Shooters or maybe a lap dance at Christies. And who knew the latter got knocked down by Mike Tyson only to pinch the dudes ass post-prison stint?

I love that fact that Schodowski loves Cleveland. And he does it with a passion that is rarely seen in this era of hipster hideaways like Brooklyn, Chicago and LA. If Big Chuck had it his way he would have been just another working class bloke with a house and some kids and a shit load of memories. In a sense he did have it his way but with the house and the kids came the strange fascination of an entire city and the respect of millions of kids who grew up in front of a television.

I know Big Chuck is getting up there in age but I hold on to a hope that I will run into him some Friday evening in a tavern with something like Booker T & the M.G.’s playing on the juke. I will gladly spend all the money in my wallet keeping the drinks coming so that I can hear all of these stories again, from the mouth of Big Chuck and with all the dirty, drunk parts left in.

Classic Cleveland #2

2008-12-03T16:26:00.001-08:00

Over a year since the first installment, I am finally attempting another Classic Cleveland. I realize how totally self centered I am by choosing only records that really had an impact on me. No one probably gave a shit about the Stepsister record that I had as the almighty first Classic Cleveland but it was the whole world to me for six months or so when I was 22. So, it is with a tear in the eye that I walk down memory lane again in tune to the soundtrack of my mid twenties : Disengage.

Disengage
Obsessions Become Phobias
Man’s Ruin Records

Fuck me. This record was a total slayer. Top to bottom, front to back, Disengage made a record that fit the Cleveland landscape of the time like a fucking glove. The churning guitar parts tearing up the rust belt and spitting it out onto the floor of the old Grog. I’ll never forget watching Jason throw the microphone out to unsuspecting fans, often knocking them for a loop or busting their shit open in time with the drums. Sean pounding away at the bass like he was pummeling some wingnut from the east side.

Spine of Teeth opens up the record like a hit off of a passed pipe, the initial rolling rhythm leading a battalion of scummy Cleveland drunks into battle. Front-duder Jason Byers leads the charge with a motivational speech of strange descriptions of how he’s coiled and shit like that. Do you know what he means by that? I still don’t but it sounds like some heavy shit is going down and it’s all really strange.

Every Sunday was and is still the ultimate Disengage anthem. This was where the kids went ape shit and a lot of teeth probably got knocked onto the floor by that airborne microphone. It’s also the weirdest shit they ever wrote. ‘Sunday is now primate pride day!’ I’ve never seen another Cle band that was able to get hundreds of people to chant something as spacey as that. ‘Kiss me, I’m Spider Monkey.’???? What?

And don’t forget the amazing ‘Burn Detroit Down!’ chant in Angels Night Cleveland’s answer to all that is Midwestern.

The whole machine is well oiled but the mechanic at large has got to be drummer Jonathan Morgan. Good thing you can’t go to jail for rape when it’s the drums your giving it to. Just listen to the slow burning build up to Every Sunday. Wait for it. Yeah, there’s that crushing refrain, the one that used to make dozens and dozens of heads bang wherever they were playing… Rock Hall or busted basement.

Tyrants Blues continues the bizarre ape-man theme but forget it and listen to those gnarly riffs and the happy-go-lucky vocals. It’s a look at what stoner rock would evolve into years later with bands like Torche making metal positive and evil at the same time.
Unfortunately some of the songs take on a Headbangers/120 Minutes tone, like Exhaust which does nothing but slow down what was becoming the musical equivalent to a key bump of speed.

Nine Lives A Day and Tarantella continue to push the record further into a frenzy of rough guitar riffs and weirdo lyrics, cementing this CD as the frosted tundra of the Flats official soundtrack. Tarantella serves as the perfect ‘fuck you’ song to some broad that gave you the shaft. “Spider crawled across the bread, Could have bit me I would not know.” Somehow that is forever brutal to me and the following cry of ‘Not trying to please you this time’ is the proper fuck off to every relationship.

Promise Keeper begins with Morgan enticing us into their fucked up web with a throbbing drum beat followed by some eerie (or should I say Lake Erie??? What about it?) guitar strumming. Something about ‘gang rape’ in the lyrics. More brutal strumming and then we get pounded into the frozen sand with a vicious refrain. Grew A Tail brings more smiling vocals about fucked up shit and guitar work that comes at you like a repeated hit and run with barbed wire snow chains on all four tires.
The record ends with the ripper Girl From Emphysema where Disengage really show off their hardcore chops with a sped up gem that doesn’t even have the patience to make it past the two minute mark. And it leaves you wondering if that girl did, in fact, explode. If so… that rules.

"You Just Signed Your Death Warrant"-Ole Anderson

2008-10-01T19:51:00.000-07:00

My apartment smells like a rotten, molten, fucked twice and then stabbed to death brick of cheese. A half gallon of milk was poured into the sink, the sink that does not drain because it's clogged with our filth, and has been festering there for nearly 48 hours. The smell... the smell is most overwhelming. It's almost 90 degrees in the apartment and probably 65 outside. What hell is this? WHAT HELL IS THIS?

(Sweat drops from hero's brow)

I'm sure things are not all well and good in Cleveland but I would trade this cockroach infested pit for a stray cat infested dive in Tremont right now, with a cool lake breeze knocking down the leaves onto the dirt yard. No matter where I live it's a shit hole. I've had people actually tell me this to my face. Amazing luck or poor hygiene and life skills? I don’t know.

I read a couple of internet posts about the continuing saga of the Jigsaw monopoly. Man, I have to say it's nice to be away from this story because I don't have to really give it much thought. Yeah, one group owning so many venues can not be good for the business (wrestling term. I'm talking 'bout Cleveland though). I think contracts are bad as is and when I heard about the new ones that tie bands to a strict policy of not playing for a defined period of time before and after a gig at a 'Saw affiliated club is worse than the milk turning to cheese in the sink five feet away from me. It's too bad the Jigsaw is such a great BAR because it makes this hard for me to decide who is right and who is wrong. I mean, they have a tall of Blue Moon just waiting for me to return some distant Monday night. I'll meet you there at 7.

Honestly, I don't know the whole long and short of it but, from what I read on message boards (the only reliable link to the Cleveland scene from such a distance), certain promoters are taking to fucking bands with a dominate barbed wire taped fist by not letting them gig around their contracted responsibilities.

I used the term responsibilities because, ultimately, that is what each show is to any given band. Once you agree to show up, it's your responsibility to do so and, when all is said and done, draw people. Some clubs are in the business of making money and other are in it for music(or whatever the fuck) but you still need to make the money to pay the bills, to keep doors open, and the heat on. One problem with Cleveland music is the over saturation of shows. Bands in Cle tend to play whenever and wherever. In front of the Rock Hall? In a basement or at a shitty east bank club? Fuck it! Beer equals a band showing up and playing. I know from experience. Both of my old bands played all of the time regardless of what was around the bend. In the end it's the reason both Amps II Eleven and, the often overlooked, Southern Trespass ate it so early. How many times could you put up with seeing us in a given week? After a year or two the answer was zero... unless it was free or there was a keg involved.

Flipping the coin, I love the fact that I can look in the papers and see that This Moment or Nunslaughter (or the two together!) are playing on any given Wednesday. It's one of the stronger legs of the scene that bands can play anywhere and with anyone because it's all in the family. Some places 'get it': the Happy Dog probably doesn’t care if you played at Now That's Class two days before a show there, they just want your friends to buy four more rounds of High Life and Black Velvet. But someone is always looking at a picture beyond beer sales. Like it or not and, I know, it's real hard to like.

I don't know what I would do in this climate if I were so lucky to be in a band in Cleveland. I'd probably sign the contract and then play shows in Akron or under the radar in Cleveland. But maybe I'd be smart and avoid the Jigsaws cartel all together. What started as a fresh breath of air seems to be growing into another gnarly infection on what was becoming such a nicely tamed STD (I'm pretty sure I am talking about the music scene). Too much power and too much apathy turned into a little mess.

I know this is no ones fault, really. I'm not trying to be democratic but it's not like this type of stuff comes with EVERY show. It's only here and there. Still, it's something to think about if your in a band. Do you deal with it and sit out for a few weeks and bank on your gig being really killer because everyone in Cleveland has been sitting around with their dicks in their hands waiting for the show or do you look to bands past and do it your fucking self by booking a show at the local dive where your happy with the free beer and the local turn out? Man, don't ask me... I live in California.

What a weird situation y'all have gotten yourself into. Thank the dudes and babes at Now That's Class for saving things for now. Imagine what would happened if they made you sign a contract saying you wouldn’t have casual sex for 40 days after a black out hook up in their bar. Most of you could not handle that and then you would have to be prosecuted like so many bands and tramps before you.

I'm Doing Something Right Now -- Eat A Dick Man

2008-08-28T22:16:00.000-07:00

Um.

I’m going to keep on with this video idea. Visual art is a real medium, right? It’s something people do, a way people express emotion and shit. Posting videos online is just as artistic as anything else anyone is doing as far as I can tell.

Well fuck it, dude. The video below is a good one, even if it's not being shown in some West Hollywood shithole. If you read Deadtown you probably know that those weird, weird guys in This Moment in Black History stayed at my place in Los Angeles for a few days way back in the year 2007. Maybe it was for more than a few days or… maybe... it was only for a day or two that felt like a month or so.

While they were here they filled my heart with a lot of Cleveland awe. It’s true that when you see things through someone else’s eyes it is totally different. Alone, I may have not thought twice about the burrito choices in Silverlake and how they each differ in little ways. And there is NO way I would have asked Patricia Arquette for weed under ANY other circumstance.

Somehow, between cliché Los Angeles shit like that, they played a bunch of shows. It's sad but I only took video at the Spaceland gig. Man, that was awkward. TMIBH played first and real early. They were great but the crowd was busy waiting for the band in bell bottoms to play so they were, of course, real busy. Too busy to see that their heads were being beaten in by one of the most progressive punk bands to ever play that place on a Monday night.

This song was recorded either just before or just after Chris spilled a drink on some kid who was being a little too loud considering he wasn’t from a 216 or 440 area code. I don't remember who talked shit first but it ended up in a wall of Cleveland dudes standing by the stage as the non Clevelander tried to figure out what to do next. He ended up leaving during the next tune. Something special. A little us versus them and I wish it was all captured for prosperity or to use against the motor mouth as proof he’s a prick in case we run into each other again. I do have this funny rebutal from Chris:

A sign of a real good band (or one used to shit talking jobbers) is the ability to bounce back and rip it up. Proof:

Cle Tube or Something Smarter

2008-08-18T19:28:00.000-07:00

I have, indeed, ignored my duties here with Deadtown. Between work, games of golf, sunbathing and general California living it’s hard to write about your baby when she’s so far away. That’s right, I’m sleeping with Cleveland but it’s a long distance thing. My roommate is inside her right now (gross) and I don’t even want to text him. You don’t want a blow by blow of the keg party while you sit in rehab.

Not having anything poignant to write I chose to let movement and technology do the wording for me. So I started a You Tube account and added some Cleveland rock and roll to it that comes directly from my home video library. I’m starting it off accordingly: with my band Amps II Eleven. See below.

If you have some rad Cle videos you want to let me post, send them along dude. I might not post it but no one might be reading this to begin with so I’m taking a chance, now it’s your turn.

Dimeras (That's the Title)

2008-07-13T22:35:00.000-07:00

Man, the Tower is looking great. I mean that. I don’t know why I feel that way, maybe it’s all the bizarre shit drawn on the walls that make the barren room feel a little less like a squat and more like a drunken punk kids first apartment. Or maybe it was all the young tail that was there the night that the Dimeras were playing last week. Yup, probably the girls. I can't help wondering where they all parked, I rolled in with two other guys and we were all cracking jokes about how we were going to die to ease the tension from our real worries of getting stabbed in the beer store down the street.

No matter what the decor looked like or how many unapproachable were in attendance, the Dimeras still tore it down. I had caught them once before over the Christmas season at the Death Sweats show when they were playing under a different name and I’ve gotta say there’s been a progression. They provide nothing fancy but enough quickness and snot that they sound like The Stitches shit faced off a twelver of Commodore Perry. In good faith I slammed a beer per song and it just made the whole thing better. I don’t know a single song title or how many tunes they played but I can go on record by saying that none of that matters. It was Cleveland punk and that’s a welcome gift. Shades of the TKO’s and Pagans and scary enough to go head to head with any band coming through Now That’s Class. They’re playing with King Kahn and the Shrines which makes good sense but these guys could be the perfect opening match for a night with the Spits too.

Good shit for a hot summer night. That twelve pack of Budweiser that I shared with Brad Thrasher was gone before I knew it. I was swaggering in the back lot as people pissed on a yellow school bus. I always forget that this is what July is supposed to be built around; beer, broads and bands. Pardon me for being so jerky.

This is a bad show review but, forgive me, I was loaded and it was over a week ago. I’m finding the right places and the right bands in Los Angeles but nothing comes close to shows like this. Cleveland summers and the burn out bands that come with it are a delicacy that the tourism board needs to take heed of.

Some dude played afterward who wore a fucked up bunny mask, or so I kind of remember. Not bad but my head was spinning and it was time to leave before things got blurry. The next night I drank dollar beers at Johnny Malloy’s and I thanked God.

Cleveland Calls...

2008-07-08T20:55:00.001-07:00

Being back in Cleveland was like Back to the Future, only it wasn’t the future, man, it was the present. A time warp. Or, as my friends describe a black out, time traveling. I felt twenty three again. Full of piss and bourbon, confident and secure. Not that Los Angeles beats the piss out of me: it’s just that there’s no place like home.

While I was in town for the Amps II Eleven shows I learned to reconnect with friends. All it takes is beer and loud guitars. Maybe some dry ice in a plastic bottle creating an H-100 worthy bang. Or a BBQ… or whatever. I also learned that you don’t have to do everything to have fun. Lunch at Sokolowski’s and a beer at Johnny Malloy’s are worth the flight across the country. $1 draughts? Holy shit! Buy one get one burgers? Four please.

Why do you suck me in time and again, Miss Cleveland. I’m not worthy of your rusted touch but I always come back for another case of lock jaw.

I met a model from Shaker who was on my flights back. She used to work in New York City and now lives in Beverly Hills but she still comes home for the fourth of July. That’s like the article my mom cut out for me about how Drew Carey still goes to the same pizza place in Parma whenever he’s there to grab a pitcher and a pie. That’s her calling to them just like me.

This is the precursor to some live reviews I am going to spit at you and some general shit I might write in the next couple of days as I drink pricey beer in my pricey apartment that smells like rotten pricey turkey that I have had in the refrigerator since October.

Beware.

Start All the Downloading

2008-06-10T22:51:00.000-07:00

In a drunken blur Ryan Harkins and I downloaded a ton of music from our collective teenage past the other night. Crimpshrine, Sicko, Aus Rotten, Jamal… that’s just the tip of the mighty iceberg. It was pretty awesome, like having repeat sex with someone you haven’t seen in a really long time. Soulseek is a pleasant place to spend a night being warmed by a $12 jug of whiskey and a few twelvers of Pabst.

Along our journey we tried repeatedly to score that hot DJ E-V mix tape with ‘Bitch I’m From Cleveland’ on it. If you haven’t heard it yet, do yourself the honor of searching it out online. I can’t seem to download it but you can hear it on some sites buried deep into Google libraries. The big time ‘Cleveland, Cleveland, Cleveland’ shout part is worth you’re time alone and it will surely be shouted from your drunken lips when Browns season starts again. If any one reading this has it: send it to me, please.

We did end up copping a Ray Cash record that was mind blowing in its own 216 fashion. If Hip Hop was not a dying art, this guy would be popping off past Superior. Some of the beats were fluffy and main stream but anyone that reps Cleveland so hard is talented in my mind. I guess it’s Cleveland karma to be so good when no else is paying attention. But, Ray, we hear your rhymes and we like them. Keep finding ways to reference Cleveland and, one day, you will be signing posters at Tower City before Cavs just like Bone Thugs.

The internet is cooler than blogs, I guess. Finding new local music without leaving the house is great and so is reconnecting with the songs you had forgotten (which might be better than any of the songs you heard in the time that past).

And finding the Mormons 7” at two-thirty in the morning pacific time is a whole different story. The ending was a happy one, I didn’t have a hangover AND I can listen to ‘Your Shit’ any time I please.

Down in the Valley

2008-04-27T19:36:00.000-07:00

I went to Coachella this weekend but I don’t have much to say about it. Read into that what you may. It was not awful but it sure wasn’t all that good either, just hot. I do not understand the direction that the music industry is headed. All this dancing and lack of vital shit, like instruments. Too many keyboards and not enough everything else. But this isn’t about all that, it’s about being homesick.

I worked at a party over the weekend where I checked ID’s for an hour. It was during this time that I held another persons Ohio drivers license in my hand, some dude from Lakewood. We got stoked when we found out that we were both born in Fairview Hospital. A little thing like that and it made my night. After that I got on a shuttle bus that had puke all over the floor which reminded me of the bars in Lakewood.

The drive home today further pounded some homesick blues into me. I saw what looked like a grey cloud and I seriously pined for a little spring shower. Then I got the text messages about the Cavalier win, one after another, each asking if I had watched the game. This made me pine not for the showers but those Lakewood bars I mentioned.

I’m a rambling man today and this post means nothing of music but I just paced my apartment for an hour thinking about how if I was back in the Midwest it would be entirely appropriate for me to be real, real drunk at BW3 all day long. I don’t know what it is but even a supposed musical mecca can not take the Cleveland snide out of me. I think we own the right to feel above anything and everything. Oh and I really dislike Portishead and any and all DJs. I found this out the hard way by going to the valley of death.

Reunite the Dead and Let Them Walk Among Us

2008-04-13T19:36:00.000-07:00

It’s really hot in Los Angeles. April heat is something the people out here know about but how am I supposed to deal with it other than putting beer in the freezer and pressing their soft, wet glass bottles to my forehead? Well, that’s the only way to deal with it really, so it’s exactly what I’m doing. There's weird Mexican music playing as the little kids across the street play musical chairs and yell, scream and... growl. Ninety degrees? How do they function yet alone growl? Fuck me I’d rather be in Columbus for the Killed in Action reunion.

Speaking of reunions (there has to be a reason to write, right?) there are a slew of them coming together. The Spitfire is playing host to that band that used to be young, fashionable and good-looking, The A-10’s. In case you didn’t know, their hopelessly awesome guitar player Adam lives out here (I just got back from hanging out at a Muay Thai fight with him). Every year he finds the time to fly out to Cle and play a reunion show. Not that the world is begging for it but it’s cool all the same. So mark down the date, May 30th 2008. It’ll be soaked with booze and will remind you of the Five O’clock in 2002.

I already told you about the big Face Value reunion booked at Now That’s Class a few posts back. Well it just got radder. Upstab is on the bill now. In case you didn’t know, their hopelessly bad ass singer Chris lives in Arizona which is not too far from here. His big brother Tony is turning forty on July 5th 2008 and he’s doing the right thing by flying home and getting Upstab together to celebrate with blood shed and swear words. Upstab was one of the better hardcore bands to come out of the post Nine Shocks/Puncture Wound/H-100s world of Cleveland pummelage. Chris is a maniac and I can’t wait to see these guys again.

My old band Amps II Eleven is going to be there too. You’re friends only get old once and I want to be there for it, so I am boarding an airplane and we’re collectively getting the band back together. It’s the original lineup too. Not to discredit all the amazing people who joined Amps after Steve and Attila left but nothing could ever match the synergy that was there when the first five dudes were together. I don’t want to self promote too much but it’s going to be killer. A zombie band, maybe, but everyone loves the living dead if only for a night.

What other bands should (could) reunite? In Cleveland the answer is too many. The life span of a band in Cle is short and, usually, it’s only the people who live there that take any notice. Right now I know I can rattle off a laundry list of bands I’d like to see play again and I wouldn’t have to go back more than a year or two. Giant Eagle, GC5 (honorary Clevelanders), Stepsister, Disengage. That lineup alone would keep me in good spirits for the rest of the year.

The band I would most like to reanimate from the Cleveland underground is a strange one. It is not the Dead Boys, Rocket from the Tombs or Death of Samantha. Far from it, dude. I, in my great wisdom, would get the Mormons back together, in all of their snotty teenage selves, for one more show and one more stuffed animal. Weird choice, I admit, but I ask you, who would you choose?

Cleveland Book Club

2008-04-02T13:18:00.000-07:00

I dream of a lot of things that I want in this life. Another shot at becoming a professional wrestler, an active sex life with Jewel Kilcher, lots of money. None of that stuff is really reasonable anymore; I’m twenty-eight with weak knees… Jewel dates a cowboy. But I would also like some small stuff, like a big library of books about Cleveland. This I think I can afford and I can take time nurturing it and laughing at my friends who know little to nothing about the evolution of WMMS or the history of Brecksville. I started the library about a year ago with Cleveland Rock & Roll Memories by Carlo Wolff and I have been putting off writing a review of it ever since. I even wrote a very vulgar note telling myself to do so but it didn’t work. So, I’m doing it now, from Los Angeles.

The cover of this book alone should have your coffee table salivating, it’s yellow and kinda ugly with images of Stiv Bators, the Agora, and Daffy Dan. Throw in a few celebs like Big Chuck and Little John and this would have been worthy of framing. Speaking of that old man with a beard, Daffy Dan wrote the foreword recounting how rock and t-shirts changed his life and that’s a story of a true Cleveland miracle. The DD is synonymous with drug and rock culture in 1970s/1980s Cleveland so who better to start a book that walks us through a hazy couple of decades?

Memories starts at the beginning with WHK radio and gets us to the mushroom logo days of ‘MMS, Beatlemania and Springsteenia quickly. It’s done in the same style as Please Kill Me and American Hardcore; the book is arranged with clusters of quotes and memories from the people who lived the rock scene in Cleveland. Fans, musicians and journalists, everyone who can chip in does.

The logos and ticket stubs that Wolff unearthed are even more powerful than a lot of the stories; CCR and Booker T at Public Hall, James Taylor opening for the Who, T Rex at the Yorktown Theatre in scenic Parma. Cue Archie Bunker with his wise words about 'the days.'

The punk stuff is pretty great too. I can only image what it was like to walk into Melody Lane or the Drome to pick up a Pagans record but now I can at least look at the ads those places used to run. There are flyers from shows at places like The Mistake and a benefit for Cle magazine with Pere Ubu playing in a spot called Real World Nite Club on Detroit in 'Lako' (amazing). There could be more about the 70s punk scene but, more over, there could have been anything at all about the eighties scene, it’s all together forgotten. But I guess Wolff had to mention the Agora, Jane Scott and Wild Horses (which he does and that’s fine). The price of the book is almost paid in full by the ticket stub from a December 26, 1977 show at the Agora; Dead Boys and Devo.

Cleveland’s Christ child, Michael Stanley, gives his ten cents through out. Cyrus Erie are his 8th most fave northeast Ohio band. Did you know that? Michael Norman of the PD chimes in with a somewhat hipper opinion; in a list of his favorite songs from the area “It’s Cold Outside” by the Choir comes in at number three (right behind “Ain’t it Fun”).

You’re probably bound to learn something about Cleveland’s musical history here. If not, the pictures are fun and maybe you don’t even need to read the whole thing if that’s what brings you to the party. I'm just glad that my library has begun. I have six or seven other books about the city scattered around my apartment. Maybe some day I will get around to reading all of them but writing about them is probably a lost cause.

Cleveland Lotto

2008-02-13T14:43:00.001-08:00

It must be very cold and bleak in Cleveland; what else can explain the weird things the people of the city are up to in their spare time? 170 people, friends of us all, have put their names in a collective hat. Those names were picked, one by one, until groups were formed. Groups are also, sometimes, known as bands. 33 of these bands are made but with a snag, no one can share a group with a person, lady or fella, who they've been in a group with before. No sex jokes. Then these groups, or bands, have six weeks to get it all together enough to play shows all around town, creating a strange kind of Twilight Zone music scene.

What a great idea! Man, I miss not being able to go outside, it lets you be real, real creative. I hope the summer never comes to you, Ohio. Weirdness this good should last all year long.

For real information straight from those who thunk it, check out the Cleveland Lottery-League blog! Blogs are creative too.

http://lotteryleague.blogspot.com/

Old Timers

2008-01-28T13:28:00.000-08:00

"In the '60s, if you couldn't get laid at the Euclid Tavern, you couldn't get laid in a women's prison giving out pardons," recalls Cleveland Blues legend Mr. Stress.

That's from last weeks Scene. The Euclid Tavern is open again. I hope that means something, in the long run. There's a lot of rock bars in Cleveland. Dare I say too many? But there is that great east/west divide. Anyway, there's always room (and time) for another drink.

What else is coming back? Face Value. The last time these dudes did a reunion was the last time a decent show graced the Phantasy in Lakewood. I should have never typed the word 'decent' because that show totally fucking ruled. Killed In Action, Ringworm, Face Value. Oh man. This time around we are promised another night of pain as there will be TWO Erbas for the price of one; Upstab is on the bill along with a possible GC5 reunion. Maybe none of this sounds good to you but maybe you're memories are tied up in AP shows at the Grog.

Good times. Bad times. It's all the same and we love to rehash that shit.

The Cleveland Red Carpet

2008-01-18T14:21:00.000-08:00

Ah, it's award season in Cleveland again. The papers fight to give props to people who make music in a town which does not support local music. Great. At least there's a free drink ticket or two involved. And, yeah, I am a huge cock and a hypocrite to boot. I used to love going to these shows, getting smashed and feeling important. It makes staring at a half empty Grog Shop a little easier on the eyes.

The Free Times are pushing their faves right now. It's the same old list with one or two note able additions. If you wanted my two cents, it would be to vote for those note able additions. Namely rippers Cheap Tragedies in the category of 'Best Hardcore' and Bim from This Moment as the 'Best Drummer.' Why Erba has again been denied a nod for his bass playing is still a "Best Kept Secret' and a 'Best Metal' with no Insurrect or Skeleton Witch (they did live in Cle for a bit) is just not Metal at all.

It was nice to see Coffinberry again listed among the cities better Indie bands but it's in y'alls hands to make sure they win it this year. I voted. I did my part. This is democracy in it's most retarded and unneeded form. Take advantage. Make sure your musician friends get those coveted drink tickets!

dolphin rape

2008-01-14T11:47:00.000-08:00

I saw a fucking dolphin yesterday. Having spent nearly half of life in the Walleye Capitol of the World, this was a huge shock. Like finding out how small your penis really is for the first time. Willie the Walleye is big but that's a marketing ploy, this thing was alive. It could have killed me (or, as I have learned, raped me).

I'm going to see a whale some day soon, too. And I may kill a shark with my bare hands. Fuck it, why not?

The Deathers

2008-01-04T12:54:00.000-08:00

I never miss the Tower. I mean 'miss' like pine for or think about. I don't know why that is but I have actually sat at home by myself rather than drive ten minutes to see bands I really love. I think I just have a weird stigma about walking into places like that alone. And I mean 'like that'... well you know what I mean by 'like that'. And the irony (there had to be some) is that when I do get over myself and go to the Tower 2012, I ALWAYS have a fucking blast. Best night in awhile, kind of blast! This was most certainly the case the night after Christmas.

The holidays always bring out the best in rock and roll people. Acquaintances are best friends when you have a twelve pack and a lot of feedback. People hook up. No one regrets a thing until the new year and that's like a week away.

My Christmas gift from Cleveland was the Deathers. I am a big fan of both Jae and Bim. I have written extensively about Jae and his weirdo projects over the past year or so(well, kind of. two pieces for Scene which is one more than I have done about anyone else). And Bim... we got to know each other a little too well a few weeks back. So it needs not to be said that I was very intrigued when I found out over the summer that they were in bed together (musically) and I was very bummed out that I was moving away from such a an odd couple (musically).

Well the shit was not all that odd, really. Pummeling, maybe? Disruptive, for sure. A rollicking drum roll pushed all of us in front into a mess of beer and kicks to the shins and it pressed a wall of noisy hardcore down everyone else's throats. Jae has come to life as a singer within the open field that is the Deathers. Not that Self Destruct Button was not a candy store of creative freedom but here the Deathers give a little bit of rock for the dude to run with. They are really solid for a group of total fuck ups and the crowd reacts just like a group of fuck-up friends should: by taking to the air, giving piggy-back rides through a mist of Black Label and chanting their little hearts out.

"Mosh-Part! Mosh-Part!" being a true revelation.

Sometimes Cleveland creates music that makes me wonder if the old saying about us living a few decades in the past is true. I guess there's truth in everything but if you can forgive the kid on Detroit Road for still wearing his Korn shirt and tilt your ear toward The Deathers, you will discover that being stuck in some parts of history is fantastic. I'm talking about a mix of eighties heavy weights like Black Flag and Cleveland busters The Dark. Maybe some early ninties DC and a lot of mistakes put to bed. The whole potion is toxic and I feel like I could carve their name into my desk, (sigh) if only it was still a few decades ago.

Go see them, please. There's nothing better for you to be doing, anyway. And don't be so douchey, like me. Go to the Tower because those people know how to live.

LA Guns

2007-12-31T13:48:00.000-08:00

I found some real treasures today while picking through the boxes and piles of magazines in what used to be my bedroom in Rocky River. Flyers from old See World, Southern Trespass and Amps II Eleven shows. My old wrestling 8X10 photographs which have always been a superb gift to weirdo friends and touring bands who spend the night at my place. CDs that span my entire life as a music fan (rap, punk, straight edge hardcore and even a stack of pro wrestling theme song records!)

I need to throw some shit out but I only have the heart to get rid of little things. So when I found a piece of yellow scrap paper I was excited to rip it to shreds and toast my hard work with a Great Lakes. I'm glad I took the time to read the words on it first. It was the start of an article for what would have been the eleventh issue of Wroth! fanzine. It would have been an true-case account of an LA Guns show at the Cove in Geneva on the Lake. Too bad the zine never saw the light of day but not so much in the sake of this piece being published. I thought I would print it on Deadtown before I tore up the scrap paper and maybe while I enjoy that Great Lakes.

It's two pargraphs long but packs a punch for something writen by an idiot in 1999. Take it for what it is (awesome).

New Years Eve. The dawn of the new millennium. Place: New York City. Time: 11:58 PM. The air is crisp and the roar of the Manhattan crowd grows with anticipation. What's this? Broken glasses? These belong to john. I'd know them anywhere. It's a clue. Now it is a race against time. 11:59 PM.

Meanwhile in Geneva, Ohio on a different night, in a different year. A young man of nineteen sits at a table contemplating whether he will risk ordering a drink from the waitress with ample hair and ample breast. A door opens and a nineteen year old jaw drops. That jaw belonged to me, Matt Wroth. And this is the story of the night I met Tracii Guns.

Well... that's it isn't it? Pretty awful but somehow it sums up who I am perfectly. Also it's a slice of life from Cleveland circa the late-nineties. I went to this show with some friends who had no agenda other than getting out of the house. Little did they know they would see Jizzy Pearl live and in person. And on top of that I really did meet Tracii Guns. I walked right up to him and asked him I could get a photo taken together. I did this with an agenda. I wanted to get a letter printed in Metal Edge with a pic of me and my guitar god. And that's just what DID happen. I found that today too.

Metal Edge Magazine. December 1999. $3.99. Pages 80 & 81.

Here's the letter:

Recently I had the pleasure of checking out the Poison tour package. I even had VIP seats, which meant I could hang out by the tour buses like a rabid fan thirsty for rock 'n' roll blood. This is how my friend Ryan and I met LA Guns bassist Chuck Garric. This cat was totally down to earth. When Ryan bought a Turd CD (Chucks killer old band), he even ran around trying to get us change for $20! Then, a week later, LA Guns took time out of their hectic schedule to visit Geneva on the Lake, Ohio to put on another mind-blowing performance. This time it was in front of less than a hundred people, but it was even more incredible than a week before in front of 11,000 fans. And the most amazing part is that they choose to play, no one forced Guns to do what they do best that night. Here's a photo of me with Tracii Guns, the best dressed man in the music business today. It was the highlight of my utterly pathetic existence. And let us all praise Tracii Guns, king of thy rocketh and they rolleth.Matt Chernus
Cleveland, Ohio

Totally.

I made it into Metal Edge one more time with the help of being in Amps II Eleven (we were in their sister mag Metal Maniacs too!) Go to your local library and ask if they have a back catalog.

For further reference to me see the June 2000 issue of Wrestling Maniacs. It's got pictures of the Rock, Steve Austin, Sting and Mankind on the cover. A picture of me on the inside. I'm going to frame the copy I found today.

Teabagged for Christmas

2007-12-26T08:34:00.000-08:00

I don't want to be boring but I think that I am. I know that I have been writing about the same couple of bands whenever I try to steer the focus back to Cleveland music but I don't know what else to do. I only have a couple of good friends and they all happen to be musicians. So they call me and try to convince me to drive to a bar, get wasted, see them play and then drive home. It almost always works and I have a good time doing it. So then I want to write about it.

So I'm a-gonna write some words.

I got to see the Hollywood Blondes the other night at Spitfire. Man, these dudes have gotten so much better than the last time I saw them play their Pabst and Converse Punk; Cleveland has finally created our own Screeching Weasel... if Ben could wail like Stiv Bators.

I was happy enough to be drinking an Elliot Ness and smoking in doors but when these dudes turned in a long set of tunes, the night was more like a drunken yarn that some older punker told me about in American History class when I was fourteen. I can see how bloodshot that dudes eyes were and how his clothes smelled like Marlboro Reds. But, shit, it's not the mid-nineties (damn!) and I'm that old punker smelling of Great Lakes and Pall Mall smoke.

Tommy Teabagger, legend in my own mind, has honed his stage presence, finally living up to his nickname and local lore by being cocky, snotty and singing like an angel. A Hells Angel, of course. I don't have any song titles in my mind so let's just say that they were all winners and the crowd were champions too, throwing bricks of cheap fireworks into the Blondes' kick drum, creating the perfect Cle Christmas ambiance.

Go see these dudes if only to get your kicks without actually getting aggro and kicking someone. Be happy, be drunk and try not to get eaten by Tigers on Christmas.

CMZ (That's a play on TMZ. I meant it as cleveland then whatever m and z stand for).

2007-12-08T13:38:00.000-08:00

I think this blog has to go into a different direction. No one really wants to know what I'm up to (I don't care myself). For instance, I am writing this at the library I just walked to and I think I am still drunk from the night before. See? That's not that interesting.

So. I think, from now on now, this blog should be about my celebrity sightings. TMZ and Deadtown Cleveland can walk hand in hand.

First off this blog: This Moment in Black History. Bim, Buddy, Lawrence, Chris. Celebrities? Sure, in a sense of the word. I picked these dudes up at the airport yesterday morning and I was in about the same shape I find myself in now. The first thing Bim says to me is "Have you been drinking?" I had been. Twelve hours before. That set a tone, for sure. That tone escalated when we saw celeb two.

Bim asked Patrica Arquette is she had a joint. Lawrence then stressed that hash would be cool too. The whole story is long and hilarious but I think it's better left at that.

Celeb three and four were spotted later that night at Cha Cha Lounge. First I took a piss next to the bass player from Metallica. I don't know his name but I remember he had a depressing looking apartment in Some Kind of Monster and I respect that completely. Then the fat dude from Knocked Up and Superbad showed up. Everyone left at this point whispered.

This is what life has become and I am confused by it. And with a small apartment suddenly housing seven Clevelanders everything is weirder. Hopefully we will all see Britney Spears tonight and then we can all head back to Ohio.

Changes

2007-11-28T14:24:00.000-08:00

I heard the sad (or maybe just weird) news that the Jigsaw in Parma has been sold. I have been assured that the place will keep it's integrity and stay the same shit hole it has been for so many decades but the news still came as a shock. If nothing else, I wish I was still in town so I could have at least entertained the idea of buying the 'Saw myself. I can't even imagine how amazing life would be if it was spent between those wall on a daily basis. I'd even get the neon Parma sign tattooed on my arm. But now... I will not.

The Beachland being up for grabs is not as big of a shock to me. I, like everyone else, had heard the rumors of their financial distress for a while now so it was easier to digest even though losing that place would be another nail in the local music scenes coffin. I don't know of a cooler room to see some touring band you have never heard of play than the Tavern. Electric Eel Shock, Supagroup, Peelander-Z, Early Man, Cherry Valence; just some of the bands I stumbled upon while drinking Straub and looking at pale girls. New music in a familiar setting is a luxury I hope we as a town do not lose.

I am still thinking about the perfect Cleveland tattoo. Without the neon Parma I might be leaning toward a tattoo some friends out here in Los Angeles were thinking about getting: Kenny Lofton's face. With a matching Lebron, perhaps? It's something to think about.

Holiday Holocaust

2007-11-24T15:14:00.000-08:00

Is no news really supposed to be good news? I don't know about that one. It seems whenever something is happening then life is a little better. Action and reactions. More bullshit. But I am back at the library smelling my dirty jeans and trying to figure out something of note to post on this utterly awesome, but neglected, blog; it's all coming up blanks, man.

I miss Cleveland but that's a given. I just spent Thanksgiving in Encino, California with a house full of Ohio ex-patriots and a beer drinking dog. Take away the palm tree and the nice weather and I could have been in Parma or Strongsville. I kind of wish I had been. But there's a lot to be said about the west; I just seem to spend most of my time talking about the mid-west.

Yesterday, while strolling through a shopping plaza in China Town, I heard some standard Christmas song on the radio. It made me very sentimental. I almost starting to get sad but the store full of Hello Kitty merchandise made me far too confused to feel sorry for myself.

Oh yeah, I met Jesse Camp of MTV fame the other night. Remember him? He has my phone number now which is kind of stupid. I will tell you all the story over a Christmas Ale in Decemeber, okay?

What the fuck am I doing here?

The King Comes to LA

2007-11-12T13:35:00.000-08:00

Three of us Cleveland dudes went to the fabeled Staples Center to see the King. King James, King of Cleveland, King of the Buckeye, you know who I mean. From the moment we stepped on the train I saw a bunch of Lebron shirts. Cleveland Indian hats. Man, we are everywhere. Even the guy who took my ticket was from Cleveland. When I told him I grew up in Rocky River, he upped his ante by saying 'Oh! That's where Bernie Kosar used to live.' Live, indeed.

We won the game too. How nice is that? Fucking California, I refuse for you to take my heart and it's not just me. I'd trade the nice weather for a few more chances to see Damon Jones sink some 3's.

This entry is lame. I see that as I type it but, what the fuck, I'm a little homesick and I just saw my old friends. It's was nice to have them visit us. Oh and take advantage of those free bobble heads and shit, no one got a thing at the Clippers game. Just $8.75 beer and expensive 'downtown dogs.'

Six Feet Away

2007-11-06T11:34:00.000-08:00

Oh man, I just saw a bulletin on myspace that put me in a bad mood. I guess today is the day where the lovely state of Ohio votes on Bill 16: The Strip Club Bill. As I write this I hope with all of my heart that my friends (and maybe even family) are out at their local voting haunt, pushing against this horrible shit.

To sum it up quickly: six feet dance rule... six feet pre-dance rule (this means a hard working dancer can't even have a post dance cuddle!). ALL clubs AND adult stores must close by Midnight. A whole lot of people lose their jobs. Most strippers have kids too.

I guess I will know tomorrow what the fate of my beloved Crazy Horse will be. Will the name Bugsy's Speakeasy go down as legend along with such gems as Model Tease and Pinkies? Or will it stand, mighty, with crusty pant legs coming and going for decades to cum?

I know I spelled that last word in a really gross way. My mind is in the gutter; right next to the people of Ohio.

Ducking Bullets

2007-10-17T14:10:00.000-07:00

Fuck, I forgot to talk about the shooting.

Not the Cleveland shooting, thought that was something I never thought I would have to read about. I'm sure y'all in Cleveland have a better understanding of that situation than I do being in Los Angeles. I wanted to mention the shooting that happened on my friend Ben's street a few weeks back.

To start I wanted to point out that I don't know what was fired or at whom. I don't know if anyone was hurt or worse. I don't know anything other than we heard a big blast while watching something like 'Beauty and the Geek' and then helicopters were flying above us shinning spot lights into Ben's backyard. That's the second shooting I've been within harms way of. Two shootings, two cities, two states, one year. I am currently working on my hip-hop LP.

I guess that is it.

Herbie Fully Loaded Two

2007-10-15T11:34:00.001-07:00

I sat right by Lindsey Lohan on a flight from New York to Los Angeles on Saturday. That's how Hollywood I am. She even spoke to me. All this and the Indians won too.

It was amazing to be back east and feel a real deal Autumn air on my face. The leaves were starting to turn and people were breaking out their coats and scarves. I miss the fall like nothing else. The smells, the colors. Don't get me wrong, it's not warm in Los Angeles and the sky is not bright. In fact, it's a cool sixty today and the clouds in the sky make one believe they could be walking down Lorain Road instead of Sunset Boulevard.

The people were different too. Not better, not worse; different and in a refreshing way. The length of a country and the different seas really does change everything. Well, not everything. I think we can all agree that Lindsey Lohan is hot. I am a witness.

They Are All New in Town

2007-10-10T14:06:00.000-07:00

I had something kind of vital that I wanted to write about but I forgot what that was. It may have been the fact that I am a huge Indians fan now. Give me a playoff victory and I will repay you with my loyalty. But, aside from that, it might not have been what I wanted to get off my chest. It was probably the news that I am now a proud renter in the city of Los Angeles. I am also a certified asshole because I have dropped a shit ton of money on a new bed, furniture and celebratory booze. Oh well, my bedroom has a view of the LA skyline rather than a burned down house in Tremont (which, having been said, is a sight I kind of miss... arson aside).

This blog is not supposed to be a diary (I detest shit like diary land but now seem to have fallen into the trap of writing about my day-to-day. No one cares about my emotional state, unless I am on the verge of jumping off a bridge. That would make many interested enough to read) but an exploration of a mid-western dude living in a very western world. So, with that in mind, I will give the observation that everyone here IS also a mid-western dude (or dame) living in a western world. Or so it seems. Example: The bartender at the The Powerhouse (the choice bar for after school beers) is from Cleveland... a fact we found out while watching our beloved Indians beat the implorable Yankees. And where a bartender from Ohio roams, so does the Ohio drunkard.

It's a warm feeling to run into someone that you can discuss the pros and cons of life in Parma with. It's warmer still to know that Parma (as example) is still there living on with out you but still waiting to let you in her arms again. I know everyone escapes some sort of hold eventually, city or not, but you never lose the charm of what molded you. I was molded by the city of Cleveland and the wonderful people I loved within it.

Most Friday nights here become a radical BBQ, made up of misplaced Clevelanders who are eager to discuss old times and old friends, leaving the outsiders to look at their beers and wonder how it is that we can drink them so much faster than they can. The answer to that questions is an easy one: it's because we are better than you in every single way. Fuck yes.

Go Badboy Go!

2007-10-02T14:34:00.001-07:00

I need to express my true congratulations to my old friend the Canadian Bad Boy of Cleveland All-Pro Wrestling for his unprecedented appearance on the WWE's flagship television program Monday Night Raw. No, I did not see it but I've read about it on the internet and I am truly sad that I missed it. I heard it was pretty foolish. He was an OSU sumo champion or something just as confusing. But no house means no cable TV. I love knowing that someone from Clevo, who has worked so hard at one goofy thing his entire adult life, made a dream come true. God speed, brother.

It's getting fucking warm in California. I drove to the Santa Monica beach today as a way to escape my harsh reality. Fucking Baywatch, out there. Bikinis and bicycles. Someone get me a tan and help me lose twenty pounds. Then I'd be in the circle man. That's all it's going to take.

PS--Indians/Yankees. I'll be watching at a bar in the middle of the afternoon. Buy me a pitcher at Hooters, won't you?

"It's the First of the Month/Get Up! Get Up!"

2007-10-01T14:14:00.000-07:00

Bone Thugs N Harmony. Apartment less. I digress.

As I said in my last post, I love Lebron James but, man, Saturday Night Live was awful last week. With so much deserved attention on Cleveland's sport franchises, it was kind of a bummer to have to watch that display. Nothing against Bron, he's my favorite human being, but I felt bad for Americas late night television audience. A lot has been said about the writers coming up short but I don't think anyone was even trying with that shit. Hopefully you, my readers, were off being foolish and having premarital sexual encounters.

Ryan and I made our first appearance at a Browns backer bar this past Sunday. I almost cried out in joy every time they showed a shot of the Cleveland skyline. I've only been gone for three weeks but some big-time home sickness is beginning to appear. I made a new friend there though whom I shared some eerie ties with from back home. And I got drunk at eleven in the morning which seriously ruined my Sunday afternoon.

Between sighs of lust directed at the (216) area code, I have continued the search for a new home with less luck than ever before. I don't think Los Angeles wants us here. The proverbial dirt keeps getting kicked into our faces. Even the three or four pretty girls sitting throughout the Edendale library are not helping to lift my spirits today. Plus I have a huge amount of corned beef and reuben digesting inside of me. I thought people in California were obsessed with health... all I see are taco stands and burger joints.

Oh... I want to give a shout out to the dudes in Skeletonwitch. I saw their ugly mugs in a copy of Revolver today. Ohio death metal is about to have it's day.

Groundhog Day

2007-09-29T13:32:00.000-07:00

At the library again. I probably would not have even thought to write today if it was not for John G. Thank him for this, he's a direct influence on me and my blogging.

Everyday is the same. Groundhog day. Lame reference, yeah, but Mastodon made it in a DVD about Blood Mountain so I can then take it as my own here.

Not having an apartment after two weeks of searching... it's frustrating to say the least. Nine to five, every fucking day. Driving, interneting, whatever it takes. Fucking cocksucker California land lords. I had my last place in Ohio within minutes. A handshake and some bullshitting, that's all it took. Not here, my man. This is a whole other beast. A well fed one, at that; apartments are everywhere and, it seems, they are all being lived in.

Last night was a hell of a burger party. Cleveland people outnumbered the "other kind of people" by a healthy margin. It was nice to be full of dead cow and beer; talking about the same people and the same places but doing so about as far away from them as we could without leaving the country.

Tonight our trophy son is hosting the season premiere of Saturday Night Live. I heard through my mom that this is a HUGE deal back home. I bet. That's the cool thing about a town like Cleveland, no news is fucking big news. I saw the new banner that the city is going to put up outside of the Q. Is it sad to admit that it made me a little teary eyed? I'm not sorry, I just love Lebron James.

Week Two

2007-09-28T11:25:00.000-07:00

Week two in Los Angeles is almost over. Still we have no apartment. My head is kind of swimming from sleepless nights on the floor. The weather is up and down. One day will be nothing but sun and the next a perfect fall afternoon. Everyone here knows I am a stranger from the midwest. They are totally right.

I am at a library nursing a hangover and using valuable apartment searching time. There is no chance to write yet. No chance to explore or give a shit about anything other than finding our own shelter. I hope this headache does not find strength. I can't even afford a bottle of Asprin right now.

All of that aside... America is a pretty great country. The drive west was an eye opener. It is the perfect way to get outside of your life and see things through that greater perspective. Plus a beer tastes like heaven after stopping at night fresh from a twelve hour drive. Oh, and girls are way prettier once you get out of Ohio. I'm just saying.

I just wish I could have went fishing.

tick fucking tock

2007-08-28T09:22:00.000-07:00

My life is going to change radically in less than two weeks. It's one thing to move to Detroit on a romantic whim or roll from one neighborhood to the next like changing t-shirts; this is cross country and I don't know if I ever want to come back.

That was hard to write because I love Cleveland. It's a part of me and sometimes you don't recognize that fact until your about to sever the limb. I live in Rocky River right now and I love it too. Fuck me running, I may even go as far as to say I love Toledo and Columbus but that might be a sentimental feeling. Right now my heart is racing and my nose is running with allergies; the snot like one last bitter kiss goodbye.

A rather lovely episode of Anthony Bourdains Travel Channel show filmed in Clevo aired last night. A fun and informing sixty minutes (give or take) of some smart ass wing nuts walking around the city days after one of our more scenic (and BRUTAL) winter blasts. Harvey Pekar was along for the ride and Marky Ramone somehow became a resident without having to buy a run down double in Parma (he could always bunk with our own CJ and Aaron Ramone). Harkins suggested we tape this show for numerous re-watchings in Los Angeles. This morning, I think he is on to something.

Three more days in the strip club business and then I will devote my last week to loving my hometown. And I have to find a car too.

One Month

2007-08-04T10:11:00.000-07:00

I am moving to Los Angeles, California in about one month. It's no big surprise for some--I've been talking about it for years--but, for others, it might come as a shock. I've told almost no one. I guess I don't care for much hoopla about it. But then again, here I am telling the blog world.

Speaking of blogs. This one was originally supposed to be about the Cle music scene. The real agenda was to use this as a launching pad for a zine idea that Sebastian Wagner and I had been talking about doing for a long, long time. An alternative to the alternative (If Scene and Free Times can even be called that any longer). Or the anti-Pressure magazine... one that really gave a shit about what happens locally. Just like our band Southern Trespass, the zine became a causality of our drinking problems and general apathy. So I took it as my own and decided to use it, from time to time, as my own place to talk about how middle-age black women hit on me in the parking lots of super markets as they beg for change.

So what is to become of Deadtown Cleveland now that it's leader is off to have sex with movie starlets and take up a healthy heroin habit? Well, I thought that, in between orgies and lines of Colombian coke, I would keep up the writing habit (the only healthy one I have) and make this a sort of Clevelander vs. California blog. Us against the world, or better still, us trying to fit into the regular (ie non-Cleveland) world.

Wish me luck. If I am gone for more than one year... that will be a new record.

Stuck Inside of Clevo

2007-07-16T10:50:00.001-07:00

I spent the other night listening to a Bob Dylan show from across the Cuyahoga River. I’m out of my contacts for a week and my glasses were prescribed a decade ago so there was no way I could have made out the figure of old Bob even if I had spent a large sum of cash on a ticket. It was a weird experience but I guess I should have predicted that. Sitting on a bench with a couple of hippies and a few ex-hippie yuppies, sipping a tall can of cheap beer and watching (or trying to) a family of ducks swim by.

My only complaint was that I had to piss REALLY badly and I was not drunk enough to resort to doing the homeless lean against a wall. Also the set list was weird; slow pacing and a lot of newer or obscure numbers. Or so I thought. Admittedly, I am not a huge Bob Dylan fan. I guess the fact that I would rather listen to him from a half of a mile away than see the show in person might have given that fact away. Still, I couldn’t pick out a single number that I knew well.

Then I found the set list online… I’m either deaf or daft.

‘That’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’, ‘When the Levee Breaks’, ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile’, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and an encore that closed with ‘Blowing in the Wind.’ (Granted I left before the encore to find urinary relief at the Flat Iron where I also found relief from life within the warm embrace of a few pints of Guinness.)

Maybe the river messes with the acoustics. Or maybe I was too involved with listening to the random conversation floating around me (the best was a far too enthusiastic response to the news that the Moody Blues would be playing Nautica soon). No matter, I still think this is a great way to pass a summer night. The company is weird and the view is lovely (that red bridge brought back memories of a River Fest that my momma took me to so that I could see my first real rock show. The band I was there to raise a fist to? Local glam almost-heroes: ZAZA!).

I could wait awhile before visiting the Flat Iron again, however. Too many Irish blokes and not enough drunken Irish women. I feared for my Hungarian life

so, it's saturday afternoon

2007-07-14T11:36:00.000-07:00

My neighbor across the street, the one with the Red Dog sign in his window, is cranking Classic Metal as he works on his house. He’s been doing just that since about seven in the morning. It’s a Saturday but don’t ask me what year it is. When you have college radio and Mercyful Fate, everything kind of just stays the same; caught in some wonderful timeless drift. I hope it’s like this forever.

Side note: I got in my car to go to a doctors appointment before posting this entry. I found out that the last song heard before leaving my house was by our own Shok Paris. They may, in fact, have the GAYEST name in Cleveland rock history but don’t ignore the chops. I suggest you research them. The song was off a compilation brilliantly titled ‘Cleveland Metal’. I have to get myself a copy.

summer time blues (and reds)

2007-07-13T09:13:00.001-07:00

There’s something very interesting about living in a metropolitan town where only miles from the heart of the city lies a shit load of summer fun. I live a stone throw away from downtown and am a drinking, fucking, all around cancerous type of man. Yet, in the last few weeks, I have laid out in the sun at Edgewater staring at the skyline (and avoiding trolling gay guys), hiked in the woods and stood knee deep in the dark Rocky River waters catching Sheep Head. There are very few places like Cleveland where an ugly part of the music scene can transform himself in to a Huck Finn with such little effort.

But with this new found outdoorsmen attitude comes the harsh reality that God hates us all (also a Slayer song title). In the midst of my last solo fishing trip (there is nothing that takes the pain of being a loser away like fishing alone in a valley) some kind of organic garbage found its way into my right eye and gave it the gift of infection. If you have met me you probably know little more about me other than that I have beautiful eyes. No longer. The eye I speak of is an unholy red. Not the type of red that might come from a huge bong rip but rather it looks like it was penetrated by a rusty rail road spike. And a lot of discharge is involved.

Today is the first day of the past three that I can raise my head high enough to look around the house due to this bastard known as light. I have no intention of seeing the outdoors anytime soon except for the hundred foot walk to and from my Buick. The city and the country do not mix. Outdoor life is fine when looked at through a television screen or an Al Gore documentary. Listen to me. If you go in the wilderness of Cleveland this summer you will get stung, slapped, laughed at and then your eye will be infected.

I am getting a chance to read, though; a paragraph an hour. Currently it’s the Lemmy autobiography, White Line Fever. I think Lemmy and I could have been mates. I doubt he has any desire to ever fish in a filthy river again, either. Though he probably never did so to begin with. The speed might make you yearn for other things.

Great Balls of Fire

2007-06-30T01:21:00.000-07:00

There was just another fire on my street tonight. From what the whacked-out neighbors say, it’s the third in the past few months. I think each one was within a football field from my bedroom. From what I can gather, bare with me… it’s 4 am, a garage was caught on fire. I don’t mean to sound ignorant but how does a garage catch on fire at this point in the night? I will discount what the children who roam the sidewalk say tomorrow.

Those neighbors I spoke of spun me some pretty incredible conspiracy stories. A lot of nods to crack, name calling and the like. Look at me, I write the word CRACK and the phrase ‘the like’ in the same fucking sentence. Cleveland summers do this to a dude.

One guy said it was time to get the fuck out. I agree. I used to think I lived in some kind of bohemian utopia. Exposed brick streets, flowers growing on my fence, sex offenders living near by... I was ready to retire. No longer. Fire, crack and racial slurs… yeah, I think I am out.

I have never smoked crack. I, unfortunately, know people who have. One such asshole lived above me. This neighborhood seems to be soaked in it. Fuck, can you be soaked in rocks? It seems so.

Anyway. This all seems kind of great to me. What better a way to kill a Friday night, post-work? More stories to tell and more land bombs I have survived.

And another thing I LOVE about this… Weird neighborhood bickering. I’ve never been a home owner but I suspect this is kind of like a ghetto Desperate Housewives. Instead of complaining about a picket fence too close to my garden, I am stuck between white trash and crack addicts. All they can argue about is which one is worse and all I can think about is how awesome life is when caught in the middle with no loyalty… only concern for my wrestling DVD collection.

Oh, and the last story I heard tonight was about a young girl throwing a Mountain Dew bottle with a LIVE snake inside it into a pool… well, that’s just pure Cleveland legend.

Take my city... PLEASE! hahahaha

Are You a Star or something?

2007-06-05T17:43:00.000-07:00

On my way out of the parking lot of Dave’s Market this evening, I was approached by a heavy set black woman. She called me honey which I liked and she seemed to be stuck there. When she got to the window of my rusty Buick Lesabre, she said something to the effect of:

‘Ooooh you’re pretty! Are you a star or something? Whoooo.’

She took about forty cents from me after telling me the she knew I had a dollar bill somewhere.

Thought I’d share that.

CLEVE-LAND BASKETBALL!

2007-06-03T15:57:00.000-07:00

This past Saturday was a big night for Cleveland. Sports fan or not, we all must appreciate what this means for our city. The attention, the anticipation and the bond it gives us. I knew something huge was happening as soon as my phone started ringing. New York, Missouri, calls came from across the country (well…really just those two calls). Cleveland had proved itself.

I went down to the Gateway Plaza at halftime after sinking a ton of beers at the Garage. Nothing says Cleveland sports like a case of beer in your system. There was no way I could have been prepared for the sight I saw. Thousands of Cavs fans going nuts, the good kind of freak-the-fuck out and party nuts. To make things even stranger, there wasn’t any beer for sale and people didn’t seem to miss it (sans me, I searched and searched for booze, to no avail. I was too late, supply and demand). Weird.

You all know about the game. Who won, who lost. I won’t bore you. BUT I have to point out how amazing my chants were. I started a pretty healthy ‘Boobie’ chant in honor of Gibson (and was the first in my section to be smart enough to chant the title of this blog) but it was the ‘Fuck Rasheed!’ rally cry (sparked as he walked to the locker room after being ejected in the fourth) that I am most proud of. Getting large groups of people to follow along in bad behavior is a healthy hobby of mine. Sure there were children in attendance but innocence has to die sometime. They will never forget the first time they heard a grown man curse a professional athlete.

Ditching downtown after the game in favor of a little less claustrophobic Ohio City, I witnessed something better than a Lebron drunk: poor parenting. After a little boy ate shit on the Lorain/Carnegie bridge and fell toward traffic, his mother dropped him half way through picking him up to yell ‘yeaaah!’ at a convoy of basketball fans who decided it was proper to yell ‘Go Cavs!’ at a fallen child. This is what I love about our town.

Other notable shit: *Some dude rolling in the back of an SUV rocking a flashing red, white and blue grill. That needs to be sent to the troops in Iraqi. *A girl getting out of her car while in traffic on West 25th, jumping on the hood of her car and dancing while a guy from the following vehicle ran around with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. *A thirty-something year old man, ghost riding his truck down the street. Everyone on the sidewalk waved.

It’s a day latter. You can’t turn on the television or open up a newspaper with out seeing or hearing about the Cavaliers and how rad it is to live in Cleveland right now. I’m not sure winning the eastern finals makes property values rise but it’s pretty fucking cool anyway. I don’t care, I rent.

Everyone is happy and that’s a rare thing.

I’m proud; as a sports fan, a Cavaliers fan and, most importantly, as a Clevelander. Pop in that patriotic grill and smile for once. Cleveland is doing something other than killing people and making steel.

Classic Cleveland # 1

2007-05-20T19:58:00.001-07:00

I had an idea for something I would do on this blog called Classic Cleveland. Even as I start to write the first one, I still don’t know what it means. Reviews of classic records, classic shows or maybe a classic person. Probably just record reviews, though. So here’s the first attempt.

Stepsister
Autopilot Stuck on Get Down
Smog Veil Records

For a few years the band Stepsister totally ruled my social calendar. I’ve seen them play wild Parma drag-outs, shows at Peabody’s where there was barely another soul in the building; I was even hip to their last Cle performance. A new band called Bad Wizard was playing and, sorry dudes (and chick), our heshed stoner rock beat yours from New York. I loved this band so much that I actually ended up in the project that came from their ashes, Amps II Eleven, and it was like a rite of passage. So we enter my first attempt at the Cleveland Classic idea with a very biased look back on a killer record. Hey, I’m drunk on a Sunday and this is like going to church for me.

Autopilot was recorded with what is arguably the best 'Sister lineup if not only the last. The Eakin brothers (the late Scott on drums and singer Tom Dark) always knew how to win us all over: with utter relentlessness. The addition of Aaron Dowell and Attila Csapo on guitars and Tony Erba on bass cemented this band as a steamroller.

‘Her Name Was Knife’ kicks things off with the WORST song title in the cities’ history but also packs a charging riff and a screech so tone deaf that it could only come from Darks mouth. Amazing. This song chugs along and never really advances toward anything other than kicking your fucking teeth in; we see where things are going. ‘Wild Ride’ comes next with more of the same. At this point you’re drunk, your girlfriend has lost her panties and when Dark yells out, ‘taking a ride, yeah!’, your fist is in the air. This song was always brutal live. Where’s the denim, buddy?

‘Coming Down Hard’ provides a brutal end; full of speed, crashing solos and pierogi-stinking howls. The title holds weight; this is the type of song one creates when coming down and falling right onto skid row. ‘Blackout Man’ continues the trend of hardly living. ‘Yeah, I’m blacking out!’ Dark screams behind the first hint of the heavy eighties hardcore influence these guys had. It’s like Black Flag met the Hells Angels and a party just kinda ensued.

By the time you get to ‘Pay the Price’ your head better be swimming because mine sure does. The riff that starts it off is so right-on, if a circle pit doesn’t start off the bat, it must be one of those shows I spoke about where I was there alone (Steve Callahan was probably near by, though). The faint ‘Get Down!’ heard in the break down is further proof of how GREASY this record is.

Now we’re down to bare bones. ‘Long Time Gone’ is placed perfectly, second to last. The sleazy and almost inept attempt to do an epic intro is either a bit of an inside joke or just plain genius as it leads into another fucking rage of punk guitar-rock. If you don’t dig a solo in between verses then I suggest you retire to your Pixies records.

Last, but by no means least, is my personal live favorite, ‘Big Bad World’. I remember a group of us 'Sister fans falling over ourselves and onto the stage of the Revolution on Brookpark Road; arms laced around each other mouthing the chorus together. ‘It’s a big bad world/and it’s all mine!’ Life was fine, brother. On disc the song doesn’t seem to transfer the urgency I felt when they would close the set with this song. Fuck, I was twenty-one and really drunk, all of the time. Today it reminds me of a lot of the songs I hear other Cle bands playing. Makes sense that the band no one ever went to see would, in turn, influence a whole crop of bands in its wake. As I continue to listen, the goose bumps are beginning to return. Sorry, but this was a time in my life, man. Not much has changed. It’s still a big bad world but I’m no longer sure it’s even remotely mine.

There’s another weird scream from Erba before the song starts to leave us. Where was he when he did those? He sounds like a fan sitting on a stool at the back of the Jigsaw (before they had the room with the stage). The guitar work begins to shake and boogie, turns are being taken and it sounds like what it is: a barroom jam made by working class blokes.

I'm glad this record was made. I'm also glad to have had these dudes in my life for a year or two. No matter what was going on in my life, I KNEW that Stepsister would be playing somewhere that week. And they always were.

I’m not going to bother with rating a Cleveland Classic. I’m only reviewing records that meant something to me. I’m most important. Stepsister was most important. Then they broke up.

It was 'Another Perfect Day'

2007-05-19T15:29:00.000-07:00

I went to see the mighty, majestic and all around wonderful Lemmy Kilmister play with his band The Head Cat at Peabody’s with a headache. Of course this is the worst possible place to go for a show even if you have something as trivial as a hangnail. I guess what that means is that Peabody’s has a tendency to make me sick, make me angry and make my wallet fall light after way too many tall cans of cheap, shit beer. So when some thick neck security guy informed me that I had to give him the memory card from my camera while Mr. Kilmister was dazzling me with interpretations of Buddy Holly and Credence songs, I immediately started penning a vicious call to arms; asking all of my faithful Cleveland drunkards to stand up and ban this corporate trickery.

I was seething but I couldn’t help but smile at my hero who stood on stage brilliantly smoking a cigarette in a town that is trying to get it’s citizens on board with the idea of a smoke free Ohio. I love that man (No, I really do. I’m not jumping on any sort of band wagon. My roommates and I once named the house cat after him and those two big warts).

Post drink purchase, I happened across the guard who nabbed my memory card. He took me to the office and slipped a card off of a table and handed it to me. In all, there were only two there. Either no one else thought enough of Lemmy to bring their photo takinf devices or myself and someone else were made to be examples. No worry, it was nice that they gave me the card back.

Then I see that he had made a drastic mistake and given me someone else’s card. Was this merely an oversight or do they have piles of old cards lying about to replace ones from customers that may be holding important photos that they laughingly erase (I had photos from Wrestlemania 23 on mine for God’s sake)?

It was just a mistake.

In fact everyone was way nice in sorting it all out. The security guard even let me know that he didn’t give any sort of a fuck… all part of the job, you see. I put the card back into my camera and checked to see if they had invaded my personal space and erased my memories (something of which the beer was doing just fine at).

There was Mr. Kilmister.

It all ended well and everyone walked out smelling of roses and High Life. Aside from ruining the last half-hour of the show for me, I’d say everything went smoothly that night and I have to give my second least favorite venue in town (well, does the Phantasy even count as a venue anymore?) a deserved, if not reluctant, clap of the hands (only one!).

I’d be foolish not to mention the band that truly blew my mind (well, the Lemmy-less one), Slack-Jawed Yokels. Let me start by saying that they’re from somewhere around Medina. Their myspace page says Granger Township. I have no idea where that is. I don’t care frankly. There’s no way a kid from the city was going to write these ruckus numbers full of stupid lyrics about drinking and rocking. Their guitar player killed it, man. They all did. They also look a little nerdy which is bonus.

Sample Lyric (I know that I am butchering this but the show was almost a week ago): ‘We’re going down to Kentuck/There’s lots of liquor stores there/We’re gonna buy us some beer/Slack Jawed-Yokels going to the liquor store!’

Uncle Scratch was great too. Brother Ant shattered a bottle of beer toward the end of their last set (USGR often play between bands… in corners, in parking lots, wherever the spirit suggests). The glass fell down on Brother Ed like some sort of divine shower from the heavens. I hope more then the blood of Christ was shed.

the start of the end of summer

2007-05-15T14:53:00.000-07:00

The other day I was sitting at the light at Denison and 25th. I felt and saw nothing out of the ordinary except for the really nice weather and the fact that people were out and about with smiles on their faces. Then the gun shots go off. I’d say about eight of them.

It’s two in the afternoon and there is some fucking kid shooting at people in the middle of the McDonald’s parking lot. Two other dudes split. One runs toward the bridge over the zoo, the other wonders toward the line of cars on 25th. Traffic is heavy and people start screaming and freezing. It’s all surreal to me and I kind of don’t know if I should duck or take it all in. It’s two in the fucking afternoon and this awful fucking shithead is firing shots left and right. He didn’t hit his targets and thankfully anyone else from what I could tell.

Cleveland needs to implode and start over. It needs to tap out, submit. There is an awful mess here and no one is trying to clean it up or even lead us in a different direction. Cleveland is an awful place sometimes. Yet there’s so much that keeps us here.

Speaking of the small moments of terror that one is exposed to living in the metro area, I have to mention that Gordon Solie Mother Fuckers reunited this past weekend. I only caught the evening show at Now That’s Class but it quenched my thirst for Cle hardcore. Erba was fantastic; bleeding, yelling and jumping through tables. The band sounded great. They looked great too; street thugs from Parma (and Painesville), tons of time logged in at the arcade between them. I could probably go another six or more years until I need to see this sort of reunion again and that’s hopefully how long it will take. Gunshots are one thing but there’s only so much GSMF I can handle. Call me a pussy, I don’t care. Eventually we’ll all go back to what brought us to the dance. For me it’s hardcore. Cleveland hardcore. But it’s nice to take a break and smell the gunpowder.

It’s summer in the ‘best location in the nation’. If anything we have our beer and Drew Carey. Why can’t we be happy with that?

A Cleveland Tradition?

2007-03-24T11:19:00.001-07:00

Horriblefest 2006 was a fucking mess. I’m not referring to the mics being stolen from the Beachland or any in-scene shit talking; I mean it was a fucking mess. It was a mess of drunken idiots stumbling around in circles, no-good prankster bands and broken glass. In essence, exactly what Russ Romance and Ryan Horrible had in mind when they drank the idea into existence. Thanks, Dudes. We all had a blast.

Even though I remember very little, the highlights are brutal. Clockcleaner making a big splash in Cleveland as we all watched Sharky turn into a man. Human Eye making a mess of the evening afterward with a greasy-packed Black List getting lost in whatever the fuck that band was doing. Saturday starting hard with an electric eel lying dead on the floor of Moe’s as I first walked into the venue. This was early in the afternoon. Everyone was drunk, so drunk that I HAD to join in; pissed that I again missed a rare gig by the Mcshitz. From there it gets immediately sketchy. Columbus rippers, The Feelers sharing the same bill as Cuntpuppet and Functional Blackouts. Um, the Jabbers. I don’t know what to say, many apologies to hand out. But it’s been a year.

Memories don’t always last a lifetime when you live as most of us Clevelanders do. Therefore it is totally excusable if you don’t remember a fucking thing from this year’s fest either. Ryan has given us some nice material to look forward to as the show graces both the Tower and Now That’s Class. American Cheeseburger, Candy Snatchers, Shoot it Up, Southern Ohio rednecks Brody’s Militia and Detroit heroin addicts Bill Bondsmen are a few bands I expect to see and then forget all in the same moment. Don’t forget to bring your own beer in the afternoon and then tip your bartenders in the evening.
The flyer is pretty righteous too. --Chernus
Oh yeah, the shit goes down Thursday, April 19th-Saturday, April 21st at The Tower and Now That's Class.
www.myspace.com/horriblefest

old river road used to rule

2007-03-16T14:19:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how many of you read Michael Heaton’s Minister of Culture column in the 3/09 Plain Dealer (I don’t actually know if anyone is reading this blog at all. But most people in my life would agree that’s it’s ‘all about me anyway’ {it’s usually said after sex}. So I’ll digress and just continue the thought for myself). It was about the ‘revitalization’ of the east bank of the flats from the perspective of the baby boomer generation. The generation that, arguably, had the most fun on the river, saw the coolest shows there and then left it in the fucking dust.

Heaton spoke of a time when any young drunkard could catch live music up and down the bank, through the steel mills and along into Tremont, with ease. From the old Peabody’s to Pat’s. The Odeon in its heyday or the original Pirate’s Cove. It was a nice trip down a memory lane that I never got to publicly urinate onto. But I feel the pain. I miss the Euclid Tavern where my mother would drop me off so I could see a hardcore show. I miss Speak in Tongues; bushes ripped from the soil and then hurled in the air during the final Gordon Solie show. But the grit still remains where those places once stood. You can walk down Lorain and still see the damage being done, if only in your minds eye. Meanwhile, the memory of the east bank is going to die with the boomers and the few of us who got to catch shows there before it was too late.

Soon someone will sip on an iced coffee, in their six figure residence, and enjoy the lakes breeze. They’ll being doing this right where Pere Ubu played, where The Spudmonsters and Mushroomhead cut their teeth. Or maybe, down the street, some teenage girl will be buying a top at the Gap and the sale will take place inches from where Metallica played the ‘MMS Coffee Break gig. Where legend has it, Lemmy and Blackie Lawless once tangled. The joint that hosted the place I saw both Rollins and Keith Morris play Black Flag songs in the same night. And I bet her dad used to hold back her mothers hair as she puked her guts out right there on Old River Road. I guess it really does belong to them.

As more of us move on, the legend fades. My generation has different places to house the memories. Remember the Black Eye? Those were good times too.--Chernus

It's a Tragedy...not really

2007-03-04T13:52:00.000-08:00

It’s weird to stand in a sea of straight edge teenagers, tall can of beer in hand and many poor life choices behind you. Admittedly, it makes you think a little differently of yourself; uninvited soul searching comes into play. And, fuck, I hate thinking about myself. I’m a drunk; I smoke, eat shit and think too much about professional wrestling. It soon comes to me why I don’t attend more hardcore shows at a place like Peabody’s: I don’t like young kids and the ideals they carry.

Well, suck it up. I was there to see a little bit of Cleveland history. Hardcore Idol, Tony Erba was debuting his post-Nine Shocks Terror project, Cheap Tragedies. Erba has been pissing on the Cleveland musical landscape for a long time. If you’re reading this lame blog about our cum stain of a city, I would hope the name Face Value would hold great weight with you. If you’re memory is as wrecked as your looks, it might be easier if I reference Nine Shocks Terror and Gordon Solie Mother Fuckers. Three bands that are still talked about, from Parma to Tremont; stories of shitty behavior, fireworks and manic rants from Erba during song breaks abound.

Through this ugly lineage of thrash and hardcore bands, a little bit of legend and mystique has formed; surely enough to make Cheap Tragedies worth rubbing elbows with some serious suicide candidates.
The band kicked into to some solid youth-crewy riffs that were nothing more than expected, then a clash of cold steel made me jerk to my right; Erba was wiping several links of heavy chain like a fucking animal as he crept through the crowd, giving many kids in attendance their first whiff of Cleveland panache. Cue the black cats!

Tragedies play fast, they play few songs and it’s over before your mind begins to wander. That’s a backhanded compliment. It’s what I’ve come to expect from this style of music but with a little more Revelation Records to it and more rock and roll than punk hostility. Bassist Christopher Rager wasn’t afraid to get into your face while keeping up with the quick gunned drumming of Ian Thomas. Granted this is a scene I don’t often wander through, but I have never seen these fuckers and here they are inciting a circle pit (though it will be noted that this was a McDonalds circle pit, manufactured and friendly…until the end when some rad stage dives sent me ducking like a retard). Erba was his scary,
whipping his chain like a phallic symbol gone horribly wrong.

‘Going Going Gone’ left and impression; an eager look back on our city, referencing everything Cle, from Super Host to Chippewa Lake. The opening riff is simple, like something Fall Out Boy would write and then dismiss, then the shit kicks in giving Erba a couple of minutes to wonder what exactly happened to the Cleveland of his suburban youth. Yeah, I hear you man.

If I may, I’ll end with a lame device: let’s hope that Cheap Tragedies don’t end up a memory as many fondly remembered Clevo hardcore acts before them (Puncture Wound, anyone?). Yeah, I’m gonna say it. Let’s hope their run won’t be going, going…oh fuck it.--Chernus

check em out, if you'd like:
http://www.myspace.com/cheaptragedieshc

Book Some Metal and Cleveland Will Come

2007-02-19T17:51:00.000-08:00

Just like the snow, rust, poor employment options and general attitude prevalent in our city, Cleveland metal is a constant. Abrasive, humorous and incredibly exceptive, the scene has developed only in it’s company; shit still sounds like it did when Bill Peters created Auburn Records but the cast of characters continues to grow, making a cle metal show like a class reunion consisting of all of the drop outs.

WJCU hosted yet another killer benefit show at the Jigsaw the other night. I’ve had the pleasure of playing one of these Peters’ organized events and they rarely fail to make me fall back in love with our fucked up town. The crowd often looks like the hangers-on outside of a WASP show at the Cove in Geneva but you’re not going to a local metal show to get laid. No, you’re looking for booze and chops, both of which were in abdunce on said night.

These type of showcases have tight schedules; sadly I missed the first few bands but wandering into a packed bar while Wretch is on stage is a welcome sight. Colin Watson is Cleveland’s Ronnie James Dio; the man could easily be the darkest part of your nightmare or the highlight of your weird hobbit/Tolkien dream. As punishing as the music was, Watson scored major points with his power-metal vocals reaching the kind of heights that blew off long-thought-dead rounds in some dudes bullet belt.

The guys in Ground Zero surprised with an intense set of thrash; comparisons to early-nineties Megadeath were made through out the set. Ken Duggan could learn a thing or two watching the film Rockstar, his killer vocals and bass lines were only hampered by his lame and reserved plugs for the bands myspace page
(www.mypace.com/groundzerometal). Whatever, ‘T.K.O.’ alone sent me for a loop. A song about fighting with a full-on boxing promo playing over the PA before the song started? Not evil but tough enough to excuse any softer moments. ‘Crush, Kill, Destroy’ was an pulverizing end to the set that brought even the worst Cleveland drunks away from the bar and into a goat-horn frenzy (yours included). Even with a strong history in glam metal, I tend to dismiss any band that offers a call and respond session with their audience (this holds especially strong in local scenes) but Ground Zero made it work, or at least they had a bunch of dudes saying what they are always dreaming of doing….crushing, killing, destroying (again, yours included).

Fucking, Soulless. Wander into the Jigsaw on any given night and you will see these guys holding court over a sea of empty pint glasses and maybe an order of pierogies. If Colin Watson is our Dio, Jim Lippucci is our Henry Rollins, Ozzy Osbourne and Andrew Dice Clay. Drummer and Cleveland scene mainstay, Chris Dora spent as many moments handing out drum rolls as blast beats, but that’s not to say the band didn’t slay. Close your eyes at one moment and we could be witnessing the birth of hardcore in the early-eighties, the next would be the dawn of death metal in Florida. With a new record on its way, (‘Remember records? They were devices used to transport music’-Lippucci), Soulless lead us through an epic journey through the woods, past the crashing shores and into the belly of the beast, burning as bright as the flames of LTV past. The night ended with a heart-felt chant for more. It was over for the evening but the future is bright. Steel plants go out of business but pentagrams burn forever (as long as we’ve got the people to keep lighting shit on fire). --Chernus

We Don't Know What We're Doing But Neither Do You

2007-01-30T13:06:00.000-08:00

The purpose of this blog is two-fold: to promote the concept of a magazine born in Cleveland that is made for those of us who covet the local music scene and also to promote and discuss said scene through our own (free) forum. I don’t see much need to explain any of it further; even if you're halfway through a case of cheap beer (which is probably about right), I think the message is clear…what ever the fuck we are doing here.

Let's start off with a show review, shall we?
The Dwarves @ The Beachland Ballroom 1.29.07

Honestly, the twelve dollar door made me rethink ever leaving the house in the first place; typical Cle complaining which I am always capable of but I'm glad I broke through that initial cheapness. Walking into the Ballroom was kind of a shock, only a few kids loitered around the room; not so much of a shock was the discovery of a half-dozen more holding down the bar. I chose to follow their lead.

There I found Tommy Teabagger of openers The Hollywood Blondes; tall can of Pabst in hand, shit eating grin firmly on face. His band was about to play for a small group of friends in a room that holds five hundred and he didn’t give a shit. A welcomed attitude that is not ironic to find at a punk show, it makes you feel better about it all.

The Blondes cut through a set of passionate pop-punk brining back memories of hard-ons in study hall and drinking beer at the local park. The guys in the band are far too old to still take part in those past times but the mind never forgets those magic moments. The crowd responded with warm ovations between songs that were quickly drowned out by overblown band banter. I'd rather have heard 'Back & Forth' played one more time.

Sounder blew doors down a little later, upping the ante with big amps and big riffs made for small minds. Dude-rock, for sure; loud as a Motorhead set, drunk as a five-am steelyard crowd.

We are going to take the high road and resist mentioning the Turbo Ac's. Cleveland has a large history with 'punk and roll' (this term was introduced to me by a girl I knew while describing a Cleveland band that she thought was both Rock and Punk...also known as Pumpkin Roll), such as this. The singer of the almost-forgotten Crash of '59 did pelt the front-man between the eyes with a can of Schlitz, worth noting.

The Dwarves. I don’t know what to say here that fans would not instantly shit on me for. But it was exactly what I expected without even putting any thought into it. What stands out is the fight between two girls in red shirts, the agro security team that pushed every kid who came onstage to the floor without any regard to safety (the only time this ceased to happen was when singer Blag Dahlia, in a flash of genius, took the opportunity
to take off some girls top), and the police state at the end of the show.

Cocks hanging out of thongs on stage, tits being groped by an old punk legend, cops just waiting for some kid to give them a reason.

I do enjoy Cleveland winters.

--Matthew Chernus