Been hidden in a pile of wife-beaters and musty copies of Hustler, but the Whiskey Bottle Blog is back.
Going to kick off the return by posting the top 10 songs listed by the Rock 'n' Roll Messiah, Eric, aka Butch Audacity, Evinczik. Buckle up, grab a bourbon and enjoy the ride.
10.) Surapon's "Ding Dong" Surapon, the hidden Thai master of Asian Pop has infected the world with this musical gem. Too bad nobody outside of Thailand knows what he's talking about.
9.)Brainbombs "Wishing a Slow Death" From the land that brought you ABBA, these plucky Swedes make music that would make Charles Manson shudder. 8.) Eddie Noack's "Psycho" This is a prime example of what we do out in Busti, NY for fun when the Stateline Speedway is closed.
7.) Fugs' "Group Grope" These hippies were too way out for the Crosby, Stills and Nash crowd. Tuli Kuperburg, the Yiddish hippy crooner, was over 40 when the first album was made, proving that you are never to old to rock. 6.) Flipper "Love Canal" Makes me proud I am from Western New York. 5.) Wendel Austin "LSD" Country music does go well with drugs and mayhem.
I took some knives and killed my wives I took off in the night The LSD wore off'ern me I did know what I'd done Until in court my case was heard The sentence I got was life
4.) Butthole Surfers "Jimi" The Sixties being remembered through the insanity of the Eighties. Batten down the hatches. 3.) Einsturzende Neubauten "Z.N.S" Krautrock meets Punk Rock in the junkyard. The video with the Japanese Mutant Kybuki theatre troupe is a sight to behold.
2.) Lydia Lunch "Snakepit Breakdown" Not for the weak! Ask Matthew LaChiusa even! 1.) Eyeball Skeleton "Eyeball Skeleton" The song is the same name as the band so developmentally challenged listeners, like you, can remember these preteen punkers and their ballad of monster alienation.
Blog Note: Couldn't find "Eyeball Skeleton" online so here's a healthier sample:
When I heard that Orange County old-school punkers, Social Distortion, were coming to Buffalo, got on the phone and called my old-school-punk-rocker-now-gone-lawyer-buddy to see if he was up for the concert.
A short response of "Hell, yeah", secured the deal.
So on a cold, rainy night two days before Thanksgiving, we made our way down to the Town Ballroom, fortified with Jim Beam, to carry on what us ex-punkers view as a right of continuing manhood.
Jumping into the mosh-pit.
After being proofed, not having it then going back to the car in a pissing cold rain to prove to the doorman I was well past the legal drinking age, we made our way into the bar and soon into the main hall.
My bud, Mike, begun to get this glazed look in his eyes as the opening folk-punk band ripped out their three-cord angst, so started to provokingly bump into other such glazed-eyed concert goers.
The mosh-pit was fermenting.
A few elbows up and the occasional collisions later, the opening act finished their set and made the way for Social D. Nothing too intense, much like a first-string offensive series in a first preseason NFL game.
Heading to the bar for one more boost of liquid painkillers, we downed the round and made our place to the balding spot on a packed floor where the mosh-pit was staked-out.
Lights went black and Social D hit the stage.
And so did we. Well, not the stage; we hit each other...hard.
Since I was 18, "slam-dancing" was a way of expressing angst so aptly reflected in the music played at the various shows I went to. The Ramones, Violent Femmes, Fishbone, all became the background driving force behind the violent two hours of smashing into fellow moshers.
More importantly, the same individuals who slammed into me felt the same way. Angry, spiteful and full of young men's "sturm and drang", we hit with elbows, kicked with army boots and grated with spiked wristbands. Bloodied, worn and exhausted, by concerts end, we were the walking wounded.
Yet, despite this ultra-violence, we shook hands, hugged each other in camaraderie. We knew this battle wasn't waged against each other; we accepted that the enemy was unseen.
And so we became therapeutic punching bags for one another.
Not to romanticize the mosh-pit because it could get mean and ugly. Some drunk crazy fuck would jump into the fray, throwing elbows and fists, or the stupid jocks at the edge of the pit pushing the backs of exhausted mosher's into the fracas and laughing at it.
By show's end, regardless of the random butthole's uncoolness, there was a sense of accomplishment among the participants. All the weight of the world's frustrations and our inability to do anything about it was absolved in those two-hours of moshing, and we felt a sense of relief and release.
It was our Fight Club and we wore our badges of battle proudly.
Several decades later on a cold, rainy November night, when the first chords of Social D's frontman, Mike Ness, rang in the Town Ballroom, the ritual of the mosh-pit "Fight Club" broke out.
I don't remember which song was played when, and only by the intensity of the mosh-pit singled did I recognized a more familiar tune by Mike Ness and bandmates.
What I remember was the bodies colliding, elbows slamming and boots kicking. I remembering finding myself on the beer-soaked barroom floor three times (receiving a nasty scrape on my elbow on the way down). I remember all the mosh-pit "etiquette" and the same drunk fool or dumb jock doing their idiotic duty.
When the show was done, I remember feeling exhausted.
I was bloodied, a mild-separated shoulder, a near-broken nose. My buddy, Mike, twisted his ankle, had a bloody lip, bit his tongue and both of us sucking wind at the end of the show.
Our "Fight Club" was over.
The next morning I was sore with a checked-board of bruises all-over my body. I called Mike and he felt the same way, but we were both fulfilled.
Sure it was great show by old-school punkers and the music was gritty and good, but more importantly, we got out there and slammed for two hours getting out all that angst and other mid-life crisis crap.
And all the while taking lumps and bruises, we were building on a uncommon way of building camaraderie, reenforcing a sense of manhood, and pounding on that great unseen enemy.
We rejoined the real Fight Club.
Matthew LaChiusa is the lead singer for Dick Whiskey and hopes to keep slammin' away until he is in his 60's. The Social Distortion show was amazing and the new material is outstanding. Long-live Mike Ness, the punk movement and venues who still provide that sound.
