APPLE VS. THE MISFITS

For the second consecutive year, I'm pulling in a Psycho '78 show on Halloween weekend. They're so cool, they don't even need to update their web site. This cover band sounded so good last year; I floated stageward through a sea of hair and Wild Turkey (mine) and turned into a fist-pumping 13-year old hooligan watching this band salute the Misfits, in which Glenn Danzig proves he's Satan by singing like Elvis Presley. I love the Misfits music dearly; I've calculated that 40 minutes of live Misfits music can add a year to your life. 15 months, if like last year, you hear Attitude and Last Caress back to back. I'm pretty sure I'll sing the beautiful, tender Angelfuck as a lullaby to my kids at night until they can understand English.

In order to get to the 11pm show, I need the medheads at the Soho Apple Store Genius Bar to hurry the hell up so they can fix my Ipod. I've been without it for a week and it's killing me. I've tried exercise, vitamins, heroin...nothing's working.

That's me listed at 8:30 - 9:00. At 10:30, they were already 30 minutes behind schedule: as of 1:40 pm they're still toiling over Maralyn's 12:05 iCrap. This doesn't look good. Even if they pick up the pace, you just know that Eunice R. (8:25) and Crystal H. (8:10) are going to slow this line way down. (I wonder if J M. (7:05) is this guy.)

I will of course bail on the geniuses if I have to, but right now I want everything--the music, the misfits, all of it. gimme gimme gimme.

UPDATE @ 1:53 p.m. They're up to the 1:05 guys. Go geniuses!

UPDATE @ 2:39 p.m. Looks like the geniuses had meth salad sandwiches for lunch; they've caught up even more. They had Aviva O. (2:10) in 'n' out in a snap. Maybe someone's blasting Misfits in the Apple store to keep the pace lively.

UPDATE @ 3:55 p.m. Nosirudeen Q. (3:55) is second in line. Yessir, the Genius Bar is in full swing! Pass the beer nuts!

UPDATE @ 4:42 p.m. and they're definitely caught up, happily working with the 4:30 - 5:00 crowd. I underestimated the Genius Bar -- I've been watching them all day and they've really picked up the pace. I don't know if the customers are leaving happy, but I assume they are -- you don't even get to go into the Apple Store in Soho unless you're happy.

I feel like the Genius Bar's parents today -- proud from a distance. Maybe if any of them are orphans, I'll adopt.

iCry.

UPDATE @ 8:45 p.m. At 5:30 I left work and hopped in a cab. On a whim, I pulled out my iPod, and lo and behold, it works. The battery's very low but it works fine. The Genius Bar was able to fix my iPod *without even touching it.* Their genius is an immutable force which I have not begun to understand.

Eunice R., I never got to know ya. Bring on the Misfits!

I KILL EVERYTHING I FUCK (aka BAD BAND NAMES, PART 1 of 150)

Strikes Again! just played at the Trash Bar with World War IX, an old school hardcore punk band. Great show, mostly by WWIX (missed the Pills, who I heard were great).

I've been in NY for 11 years, but as a Midwestern kid, I go wide-eyed and Marvel anytime I run into someone whose backstory intersects with mine. This particular intersection was extremely tenuous, but it's a good story nonetheless.

Strikes enjoys playing at the Trash Bar, which features great sound, open bar for an hour, free food if you know when to ask for it, and a chance for our Billyburg friends to wander out in their afterhour pajamas from last night's Union Pool party to support us. The booker at Trash set us up with WWIX.

A few days before the show, Justin from WWIX sends us a very nice note, making sure we're all set. I notice that Justin works at the Daily Show; my good friend Chris Pace worked there for years, so I check it out. It turns out that Justin recorded with Chris awhile back.


Anyway, I let Justin know that we were both friends of Chris, and then went over to the WWIX site and found the GG Allin comic. Shitface! Drop lip! For those of you who aren't familiar with GG Allin, he's the most disgustingly intense performer of all time; he makes Iggy Pop look like Russell Hitchcock. I don't have a strong enough stomach to figure out exactly why GG did exactly what he did, but he certainly saved a lot of money on costuming, what with him going naked, covered in his own feces and blood...

From the comic I learn Justin was maybe the biggest GG Allin fan; he bought all his records, read all his interviews, corresponded with him while GG was in prison, started shooting a documentary before being upstaged by a hotshot NYU director. Read the comic here.

Why did I give a shit? (Wo-ho! pun intended!)
****************************************************************************
In college in West Philadelphia, I joined a fraternity. Our neighbors were fraternitys on both sides; on one side was Sigma Alpha Epsilon, who paid hundreds of stripper dollars to fashion gold-painted lions outside their front door. On the other side was another fraternity who ran their joint like a Bingo house for their stepmothers.

Our joint happened to be a W. Philly marketplace for illicit substances and one of the best music venues in Philadelphia. And, as my once-good friend Dan Shepelavy put it, "a halfway house for cool people." We were punk-rockers and Deadheads. We were lazy and dirty. But we loved the local music scene.

We won't get into the particulars on the drugs, but very early on, someone turned the living room of this hovel into a stage. Bands who cared nothing more than playing hardcore punk or ripping off the Butthole Surfers hung out in our living room where bands played, and kept us up until dawn, or weeks at a time. In 1987, the Dead Milkmen played there during the Human BBQ, the annual noon-til-dawn-the-next-day party, and broke the floor. And not like they put a hole in it, but the supports just vanished, and eyewitnesses saw it ripple like a snow cone. Fortunately, the living room backs up to a big set of windows that overlook Spruce Street, a major thoroughfare in Philadelphia, and we had a concrete porch as well. So the Milkmen just turned theirselves around, everyone went outside, and they finished their set playing through the living room window, out onto Spruce Street. God bless the Dead Milkmen.

Back to GG. I was in a band in college called the Bloated Goats, who got a gig at the Human BBQ. We had the uncoveted noon (first) slot, and played our hearts out, but our influences ran more Beatles and Stones. But the 1pm band! These guys were years older, formed just for the occasion, and were certainly woodsmen judging from the instruments they had - the guitar, bass and drum kit were all handmade from wood. I laughed off the first half of their set and wandered into an adjacent room. Then, I don't know what it was; maybe someone turned on the tv, or a Deadhead put Steely Dan on upstairs butust then, the music stopped, and they got really angry. *Really* angry. They'd been going to Human BBQs for years and were fucking *displeased* at what they saw. So they gave us a "fuck you all, we're going to kick your asses, this is our last song" attitude. Sure, we've all seen that, but they followed it up with a song called "I Kill Everything I Fuck, I Fuck Everything I Kill". I had no reason to believe it was anything but the truth--I hadn't seen Deliverance or Hellraiser yet, so I had no reference point for these guys--so I found a safe distance and watched. Maybe they played it for 30 seconds, maybe for 16 hours, but afterwards, they smashed everything within sight, homemade guitars into homemade drums. I had never seen anything like it.

I didn't find out until a few weeks later that it was a GG Allin song, or that bands routinely destroy their equipment. These were both firsts for me. And it all went down in my living room.
************************************
GG died at some point while I was in college, and his brother Merle took the band the Murder Junkies out on the road, and somehow ended up playing in our living room the following year. I couldn't make that show, but the next day there were feces on the drum rug. I told Justin this right after the World War IX set on Saturday, and he was in disbelief that Merle would do such a thing; he knew Merle pretty well. That leads me to the only obvious conclusion:


Ghost Feces.

CROATIA 3 of 150 (continued)

Ok, the internet has swallowed the John S. Hall tour diary I was leading up to in this post. I'm sure John himself is the culprit; I hear he's a lawyer. JoeDot played drums for King Missile at one point, he implied that John was a bit of a cudge, but I have no idea what that means, and with Joe's speech impediment, I'm pretty sure I'm misunderstanding him.

The premise was this: John S. Hall knew that nothing was going to happen, so he insisted that he be allowed to make stuff up in his tour diary. It was agreed, and he told some funny story about a hitchhiking wizard. Comedians say that explaining jokes ruins them, but that's because comedians think they're magicians, when in fact they're soulsuckers.

I'm a surface-dweller, so I apologize for pointing out obvious subtexts, but in the nascent stages of this blog, I'm discovering all my heroes are straw dogs.

CROATIA 3 of 150

This concept clearly isn't going to work. I need to find a few hours to get stages 3-150 out in a hurry. or maybe 3-50. or maybe 3-4. but not tonight. there just aren't any cliffhangers at 3.

It's times like this where I think about John S. Hall's legendary tour diary. John S. Hall is the lead singer, cheerleader and man-boob of King Missile, the geniuses who brought us Jesus Was Way Coool, and Sensitive Artist, and World War III is a giant ice cream cone. As expected, King Missile took their success to the rock 'n' roll roulette wheel and put all their money on Prog. The wheel came up 'Detachible Penis' and thousands were left dead.

But JSH never lost his writing skills. He started doing spoken-word/poetry reading tours, which are as mundane as those words look. Suppose you were marooned in Kansas and facing two A-frame peeling-paint houses overgrown with dead corn with Baptist refrigerator-magnet signs hung out front, and one said 'Bingo Hall' and the other said 'Spoken-Word/Poetry Reading.' You'd be in Bingoland before my Uncle Rat-tail could finish drawling "I-19!"

But John was smart. He milked the tour like a family goat, getting some tour money to keep a road diary, with one condition. He could make shit up.

(to be continued)

TODAY

is the day I'm getting my divorce proceeding under way. My ex and I have worked out all the particulars, and we'll be heading to We The People, maybe next week. We decided to do this thing without lawyers, and if We The People gets it done, I will be extremely happy and relieved to make it through what can be a very difficult process.

New York State happens to be one of only a handful in the U.S. that makes it very difficult for two consenting adults with no children to split peacefully. Although I pay a fair amount of money to the state in taxes, I'm terrified to have to put their outdated rusty machine to work on my behalf.

I of course wish all my married friends happy wonderful, fruitful relationships, but if things start to tank,I highly recommend moving to another state.

CROATIA, PART 2 of 150

My good friend Tim Bouman, my best friend in college, moved back to New York from Tanzania for three months this summer. While he was in Africa, he climbed Mt. Kiliminjaro.

I *love* the song Africa by Toto, which namechecks Mt. Kili. So does my good friend Kevin Horty.

On the day I was scheduled to fly over to Croatia, I found out Tim was moving to Chicago the next day, with his wife and two kids. I had a 6:30 pm flight and had taken the day off work, so I graciously accepted the invitation. Erin, Tim's lovely wife, made a delicious middle eastern lunch.

Tim fed his two-year old son a sip of beer!

MikeOAT


means Mike Of All Trades. At the time I signed up for AOL, Hang Time by Soul Asylum was my favorite album and contains a song called Jack of All Trades.

Lame, huh?

The title of this blog, refers to, of course, The Replacements Stink! ep of 1982. Did you know? The Replacements (the Twin Tone version) are my favorite band. There are certain times in life you never forget--the first time you kiss a girl, the first time you get married, the first time you wet your pants giving a book report in front of your classmates, the first time a close relative dies, the first time you kiss a boy, etc. The first time I heard Let it Be, which I bought for my good friend David Roman for his 16th birthday in the shiny plastic cassette format, is one of those times.

I could talk for hours about the Replacements--and maybe I will. I've got a pound of coffee beans in my freezer. The whiskey is in my veins. To wit...

Paul Westerberg is the greatest songwriter of my life.

ok, shut up. it's so easy to talk about the Replacements, because they had no fucking clue, no fucking idea. how refreshing!

It's so easy to point out my favorite thing about the Replacements. Their music makes tragedy feel so haphazard. Paul Westerberg snorts and chuckles at it on all those records. Bob Stinson got his little brother Tommy to play bass in the band so he wouldn't end up a waste-oid like Bob did. Jesus Christ! Bob was a fantastic guitarist, but he may be the shittiest older brother of all time. Replacements fans are all the richer for it, but man...every song has a little train wreck wrapped up in it. It's gory and fascinating.

One of my favorite Replacements songs is Treatment Bound, the last song on Hootenanny. The shit-eating grin that must've been on Paul's face as he sings "We're getting nowhere, fast as we can" makes me gag and giggle at the same time. The Replacements knew they were going to fail, and Paul wrote all his songs about failure. They notoriously tanked at shows. And marks like me still eat it up and call it the best shit ever. I just figured this out.

I didn't know any of this in 1999, when I borrowed a Tascam 4-track from my good friend Kevin Horty to work on demos for my then band Vote for Noah while my s.o. was out of town. I set up my amp in my living room, and proceeded to hack my way through some replacements songs for fun, before realizing the utter joy of multitracking Paul's part vs. Bob's part on 'Favorite Thing' from Let it Be. From there, I just started playing guitar riffs and within a couple hours I had rough ideas for 5 songs. Ragged, jagged, 'mats derivative, but it didn't matter--I was amped up. I called a local rehearsal studio, booked some time that afternoon, and dragged the 4-track in. setting up the vocal mics on the drums, I hammered through the songs, singing them in my head after writing them two hours before. In this case, there are no mistakes, every first take's a winner. Went home, tracked the bass and guitar in a few hours, and went out with a shit-eating grin on my face.

Stinkrock was born.

The lyrics took another few months to write; I wrote most of them when crashing in Dave Cavalier's basement a couple months later, so most of them are about insects and blow-up dolls. But that initial jag of guerilla songwriting was so damn fulfilling. my good friend danny blas blew up bob stinson's let it be chuck taylor for the cover of this little cd, and I gave out copies to my friends.

I did another one this year, and from original writing session to final mixdown, it was about 8 days. And it's ugly...it stinks.

A postscript:

a few years ago, moneyshot was playing its maiden and only show to date at northsix. meanwhile, my hero paul westerberg was on stage at the bowery ballroom. this was the tour where paul went without a band, decorated his set as a living room, and invited fans up on stage for a few songs, passing out plastic noisemakers and generally being a good host. my good friend john conroy was called up on stage and inherited a kazoo. Paul played a rousing number or two, then started playing the beautiful and sparse 'here comes a regular', a song paul couldn't even finish at the lone replacements show i saw. but he's got the legs this time, and makes it through to the solo, and john, not missing a beat, starts playing it on the kazoo while sitting on the couch behind paul westerberg at the bowery ballroom. the crowd goes *nuts*, and paul westerberg turns around and gives him the wtf look, but john keeps playing. he's a replacement. I'm a replacement. hell, we're all replacements.

after the show, paul's autographing postcards, and john (bless his heart) hands one to paul and says 'write something for my friend mike about treatment bound'.

John gave me the postcard a few days later. It reads:

Dear Mike,

Get help.

Paul

There are two reasons I started this blog. One was because my friend Chris Pace changed the commenting options on his blog so that anonymous posters could no longer post, and I was inclined to write the following:

"I'd make records at home if I could set a drum kit up in there. My refrigerator's a lot bigger, for starters."

People make decisions for the most mundane, insignificant reasons.

Also, I have a pretty entertaining story to tell about my trip to Croatia this June for my friend and Strikes Again! bandmate John van Atta's wedding. It's best told in person, late at night, with your undivided attention and some cheap bourbon, but a number of people have told me to write this story down. My father, who loved me from ages 0-14 and 19-33, loved my story, and compared it to a David Sedaris story. Coming from my father, that's a misguided, ugly, awful and awesome compliment, so I will oblige him.

There are definitely some advantages to writing crap down. One, I won't leave anything out, as I often do when I tell it in person. Two, there are pictures that come to play in this story, which I can share here.

I've sat down at least 800-2000 times since late June to start writing this story, but can't find the time or patience to work at it. So I'm going to break it up a bit and tell it over time. In order to keep interest piqued, I'll try and end each segment with cliffhangers, or at least exclamation points.



MY CROATIA STORY, PART 1 of 150

This past June, I went to Croatia, mostly to attend the wedding of my good friend and Strikes Again! bandmate John van Atta, but also to experience a new country - I've done little to no travelling abroad.

I was on the same flight as the wedding party -- John, Desiree, John's parents, and countless other passengers.

I hate airports!

--------------

Tonight I rehearsed with Microdot, one of the three bands I'm currently in (more on my multi-band experience later). Since Dave Cavalier and I found a new drummer, Joe Gorelick, in late July, we've slowly started gaining momentum as a new band, and we're finding our way musically and personally.

The main way we get comfortable with each other is to play covers at rehearsal. I am a human jukebox (my mom is the human) and Dave and Joe are the perfect complements in that regard. Off the top of my head, here are one hundred covers we've played or attempted to play in the 2 1/2 months we've been together, sorted by band:

Dinosaur Jr. - The Lung, Kracked, Sludgefeast, Little Fury Things, In a Jar
Husker Du - Pink Turns To Blue, Whatever, Divide and Conquer, Back from Somewhere, Diane, Something I Learned Today, Newest Industry, New Day Rising, The Girl Who Lives On Heaven Hill, Somewhere, What's Going On,
Replacements - Bastards of Young, Left of the Dial, Takin' A Ride,
The Who - A Quick One (While He's Away), Substitute, Happy Jack, Won't Get Fooled Again, Heinz Baked Beans
Led Zeppelin - The Immigrant Song, Rock and Roll
Kinks - Victoria
Queen - All Dead
Rush - Limelight, 2112 (overture), Red Barchetta
Neil Young - Powderfinger
Van Halen - Hot for Teacher
Police - Synchronicity II, Message in a Bottle
Def Leppard - Let it Go, Photograph
Pixies - Debaser
Pavement - Texas Never Whispers, Frontwards, Spit on A Stranger, Major Leagues, Stereo, Shady Lane, We Dance
Genesis - Supper's Ready (at least 6 or 7 minutes of it)
Guided by Voices - Motor Away
Yo La Tengo - Deeper Into Movies
The Muppets theme song
Rolling Stones - Honky Tonk Women
Kiss - Detroit Rock City
Beatles - Abbey Road Medley


That's somewhere around 50, and nowhere near 100. Let that be a lesson - I will never meet or exceed your expectations.

Tonight the St. Louis Cardinals were eliminated from the playoffs. The Cardinals are the only sports team I root for, and it's nights like this where I hate being a sports fan, where it feels like an utter waste of time. So I get my life back. What a relief.

Let's get it going...

wait for it.