Well cause we got jobs and families and record labels to tend to these days. Deal with it.  But that doesn’t mean we aren’t still thinking about music all damn day. Want proof? What follows is a transcript of texts between the Brothers Frankenstein culled over the first half of 2011. MMS texts inserted where relevant.  Real reviews to follow at some point.

T:
P: My next tattoo.
T: Where u puttin it?
P: On meh taint

T: I just read that no doubt and blink 182 are both back in the studio. What Fucking year is this?!?
P: (no response)

P: Cat ahead of me is listening to that peaches song by presidents of the usa.
T: Ahead of you where? 1994???
P: Yup. He’s sitting having a zima with kennedy.
T: Seriously where are you?
P: On the train to south orange.
T: You know they come in a can.
P: What?
T: Peaches. They were put there by a man.
P: In a factory downtoooowwwwn. Fuck Seattle.
T: Those assholes were from Seattle? I thought like Idaho or west Virginia or something
P: Nope. Seattle i think. Friends wit mixalot.
T: Are you thinking of mudhoney?
P: Nope

T: Colder than a pimps heart.
P: Awwww im prison bound.

P: Wild one by thin lizzy done as rocksteady. The guitar lines changed to organ. Think about it.
T: I’m thinkining.

T: Me and E are starting an accapella skinhead band. It’ll be oi! but with no instruments. You in???
P: Yus.
T: Start thinking of names then. Oi!cappella is my suggestion.
P: The fredperrytones.

P: Liquor store down here was playing bastards of young when i walked in drunken lullabies as i walked out.
T: Most awesome liquor store ever?
P: I bought a scratch off. Thought mebbe it was a sign.

T: Have u seen the Chrysler commercial w thursday by morphine in the background?
P: Nope…isn’t he dead.
T: As dillinger.

T: My question to you is how izzit that I have an entire Skavoovie and the epitones album on my ipod? I gotta purge some of this shit.
P: Better than bowling for soup.
T: Just barely.

(3 days later)

T: Just read this headline on punknews “bowling for soup announce new album”. You willed it dude.
P: Fuckin goddamnit.
T: While yer at it can you get save ferris back together for me.
P: Remember dc cabs?
T: Checkered cabs?
P: Yah whatever. Isn’t dc cabs a christian rap group.
T: DC talk is the christian group. Dc Cab was a Mr. T movie.
P: Eat my suck fuckface.
T: Suck my fuck stick.
P Suck my ass it smells.
T: I’m sucking this right now.
P: I’m sharing a dirty rice crispie treat with a kid with shit in his pants.

P: A reggae version of dancing in the moonlight. Think about it.
T: I’ll start thinking these things when you start a reggae band.

T: Yo La Tengo just walked into the bar.
P: Challenge them to a flute solo duel.
T: Guitarist and drummer only.
P: Tell them ur a one man band then fart and clap simultaneously

T: I like watching businessmen lose their balance on trains
P: Me too

P: Lissen u know any misfits songs that have the lyric 52 ways to kill someone? that can’t be danzig era…
T: all i got is 40 eyes and psycho 78 coming to mind.
T: err 20 eyes? 40 is jus too many eyes.
P: Nah it was a song i never heard before… can’t be danzig era.
T: 59 times the pain also comes to mind even tho it’s the huskers. now i’m gonna be thinking of songs with #s all day
P: No the lyric was 52 ways to kill someone…kinda 60ish kinda dark morrissey.
T: Just googled it. It’s saturday night off famous monsters. oh google. so smart. I fucking hate that album by the way. even tho i secretly love american psycho.
P: that was a good song tho… i’m sure the rest of the album sux.
T: it’s abysmal.

P: Ricardooooooo
T: The songs are short and your hem is short too
P: Nate’s pissing off the 10th floor. Ricardooooo.
T: Record companies want us cause they know we’re writin hits
P: They’re buyin us drinks and they’re givin us winks…ohhh ricardoooo
T: Some people were born to ri car do

T: an omlette of disease awaits your noontime meal.
P: A mouth of germicide sedition of ur class?
T: I thought it was “seducin all your glands”. Although i’m not sure what germicide is anyway

T: I fuckin hate greasers man. Hate em hard.
P: But they’re sick boys oh way oh.
T: Fuck those guys oh way oh.

P: Backstreet billys got a gun in is aaaaaaannnnnnnd.
T: What business song izzat?
P: I forget the name.
T: Me too

T: Whatchu thinkin bout? Razzle?
P: Were you texting vince neil?
T: I wouldn’t txt that murderer if you paid me. Hey so Razzle only has 7 fans on fb. 8 Including me. Vince has 13,254.
P: Ok i’ll friend the dead hair rocker tmrw. R U drunk?
T:

P: You got a big mouth sucka.
T: Badump bump!

T: We should start a crust band called fecal spray.
P: We cud rig an inflatable ass to blast dinty moore stew into the crowd as we played.

P: I’m standing here in the train station and u know what? I like that song wrapped round ur finger by the police.
T: Barf.
P: Barf you.
T: Zenyatta barf datta.

T: Coulda been a good dancer.
P: Cud never get the shit off my shoes.

P: Samhain’s archangel. Husker Dus divide and conquer. Alot of melodic similarity. Evidence of a danzig/mould affair? I think the answer is yes.
T: Unfortunately I only have zen arcade on me or I’d research that further. Mould has a tell all book out now. You should see if Glenn is mentioned.
P: Hank’s gonna be so pissed.
T: They have an open relationship.
P. Yeah that’s what glenn says. That dog.
T: You mean he lied to me? Scamp.

P: You know what? I like john cougar melancamp. Way more of his songs are good than bad. So suck it.
T: Even “hurts so good”?
P: Weird you should mention it. It’s stuck in my head and I hate it. Going thru the other songs by him I had this epiphany.
T: Cmon man. Paper and fire! Suck. Wild nights cover! Suck. P Frankenstein! Suck
P: I like paper and fire. Wild nights wud have been aight cept for michele ndegejablonsky. And P Frankenstein is one of the top 10 hits of the century.
T: You’re wrong about everything. You went out on a limb and blew it.
P: I have made a horrible mistake.
T: It was a momentary lapse in judgement. We all have em. I saw U2 live…twice.
P: No I was talkin bout the amount of sauce I put on my thai food. The mellancamp I stand by.

T: I could make $ playin corporate rokk.
P: But stead I got hit by a bus. This songs about Cleveland.

P: Ahm the one that said Jus grab em in the biscuit.
T: So now u gonna do yo dance?
P: First ima eat up all ur crackers. Possibly also ur licorice.
T: Meet u in the uptown burger king bathroom later.
P: Oh man. Humpty was such a foul scoundrel.

P: U ever hear this sage fancis character?
T: Not a fan. You ever hear your mom’s greatest shits?
P: Once. I was very young.
T: That’s the sort of thing that sticks with you into adulthood.

T: The new radiohead sounds even better when yer drunk on sweet sunset wine. For your limbs.
P: I dreamed last nite I was in joan jett’s latest band. For your erections.
T: Joan Jett now or Joan Jett 25 years ago?
P: Now. I’m still down.

T: I’m listening to Vol 1-11 of dope guns and fucking in the streets in a row.
P: I’m listening to an autistic kid yell in my face for 2 more hours.
T: Hahahahahahaha. Loser.

P: C o n s t a P a t i o n a word I can not understand. Constipation is a word that I cant understand.
T: Backed up and singin op ivy. Weird.
P: I’m saying i’m not backed. Never am. Cannot undertand.
T: Oh. Gross.
P: Cant unnerstaaaaannnnnnn

P: It aw ready started in the city.
T: You can go DIE.
P: Sorry no. The correct answer was suburbia will be just as easy. Yes. Close. Your lovely consoluation prize is RIDE A DICK.
T: I wasn’t finishing your quote. I was telling you to fucking DIE.
P: Aiiiiiieeeeee.

P: Cmmmmoooooonnnnnn itz satahday night.
T: Or afternoon or whatever it is.
P: Nah man remember that lordz of brklyn song?
T: Nope. Thought you were quoting Dulli from that French bootleg.
P: Nope. Good call tho.
T: Ned’s atomic dustbin woulda bin my next guess.
P: Which was a cover of a bay city rollers song.
T: Which was on the soundtrack for so I married n axe murderer.

P: U know whats a good song despite sum 41s wretchedness? Little know it all.
T: You make me sick.
P: The one they did with iggy pop. It’s mostly an iggy tune. Check it out. I’m serious.
T: I’m serious. No.
P: Ride a dick.

T: I was thinking of transcribing some of our choice txts about music as an FSS piece. U ok wit dat?
P: Yus

I’m gonna try and leave the bitching to a minimum cause I don’t think anyone wants to listen to me complain for the entirety of this piece. And if you enjoy me bitching, then this paragraph goes out to you. We missed Sharks for which i was bummed. I was actually looking forward to seeing them as I dig their new album. Instead we got there as Hot Water Music’s Chuck Ragan was going on. I like HWM and I like Chuck. I dug his set and for at least a moment thought maybe I was in for a good time. Let me back up a little. The crowd mostly sucked. I hate greasers. If you’re a greaser and you’re reading this, I’m sorry but your scene is lame. I don’t care about cars and you dress like idiots. The 50s are over. Move on. Aside from all greasers as a race tho, if I had to pick one single human being I despise (and I’m being entirely serious here)… if i had to pick one person, just one… one person out of all of musicdom that I cannot stand… will not stand for… fucking hate…. it’d be ex-MTV VJ and current NYC radio show stooge Matt Pinfield. Guess who introduced Social Distortion? Yeah, so that soured my mood substantially. By the time The D took the stage I was at the point where I was afraid to stay and ruin my memory of all the things I love about them. Made it through the first four songs and tapped out when they kicked into the afore mentioned Machine Gun Blues. I feel like a shit for bailing on a show. I’m not saying I did it to be cool or to say that the people that stayed are dumb for doing so. I just wasn’t having fun so what was the point for me? I hope everyone that stayed had fun. Cept of course for Matt Pinfield. I hope he choked on one of the overpriced hot dogs the Stone Pony was selling. And speaking of things for sale (and this will be the last part of my bitch session)… Social Distortion were selling their shirts for $30. Their jackets for $125. Their buttons for $10. Fuck. That.

So what did I do after leaving? Listen, I didn’t want the night to end that way. That would be me being a defeatist. And Uncle T is not to be defeated. So instead, I headed three blocks over to Asbury Lanes for The Queers show. When we got there there were maybe 20 people hanging out. The rest of the town was undoubtedly over at Social Distortion. But after an hour or two many of the SD crowd began filtering over and before you knew it the place was packed. Openers Dear Landlord (who quoted Ness banter from “Live at the Roxy” to perfection) and The Front (who closed with a killer cover of Fear’s I Don’t Care About You) were both great. Also great were the $3 Yuenglings and BBQ Tofu & Avacado sammich I enjoyed while there. The lanes is a great place to see a show. The second I walked in I felt at home and glad to be there. By the time The Queers took the stage my mood was completely turned around. I had such a good time flipping out to songs like Kicked Out of the Webelos, Ursula, Hi Mom It’s Me, Cindi’s on Methadone, I Spent The Rent, Monster Zero, and You’re Tripping. I was even able to trade up and get a new Queers “Fuck You” Converse Logo shirt to replace the one I bought when I first saw them back in ’93. And it only cost me half of what Social Distortion was charging. All in all a good night.

But anyway, because “The Fucking Man” is once again being a douche and downpressing us, I gave a moments thought to bike riding when I was supposed to be doing my job.

The thing of it is: You a grown-up now, cuz. Think for a minute, how much of your day is yours? I’m not talking about a Nescafe-horseshit-5-minute-stare-at-the-wall. I mean time that you can do what you want. Yer a grown up and time is precious now. It beez like that man, time to make the donuts ALL the time.

I ride a bike because I still can, still need to. I ride a bike ’cause I have no choice. I ride a bike ’cause flipping people off, up close and personal-like still makes me laugh. I ride a bike ’cause I’m so broke I rattle. I ride a bike with headphones on and no helmet on purpose ’cause I’m a jerk off. I ride a bike through stop signs, past red lights, against traffic in front of the police ’cause I’m still mentally 13 years old. I ride a bike ’cause about a half hour twice a day of Punk Rawk is all I can pencil in. I ride a bike ’cause I can’t be sure how much time I got left. And neither can you.

T’s Take: One of the best things about riding a bike is the flipping out. If you ride around the city you will flip on pedestrians, cabs, buses, cars with Pennslyvania plates, dogs, cops, pigeons, babies and the occasional recreational hovercraft. It’s your right. You’re on a bike dammit. Not a fucking Humvee. You’re single handedly saving the environment, putting an end to wars for oil, fighting obesity, and most importantly being rad. So flip ye bikers. Flip hard. Mount up and flip with the FSS now.

Spin recently did an article on “bike punk”. Maybe it was Rolling Stone… It dont matter though, I don’t believe such a genre exists. But I do believe bikes are punk. Don’t believe me? Ask Paint It Black or the Bouncing Souls. Riding a bike can be like navigating a pit. Kinda dangerous. Kinda stupid. Totally fun. And like going to shows the amount of time you have to be stupid and have fun gets shorter and shorter the older you get. So I repeat. I emplore. mount up FSSers. Take the streets back. 4 tha punx.

Screeching Weasel for those that don’t know hate Led Zeppelin. They abhor dingbats. They think drug use is kewl as long as you use your own needle. They’re not fond of people named Jughead. They watch The Brady Bunch and listen to The Cranberries. They like to let people know when it’s the first day of summer. And they don’t care that your shitty band dropped off Weaselfest 2011 cause Chris Brown and the ghosts of Ike Turner and GG Allin took your opening slots.

Lead singer Ben Weasel? How to describe him? Well he’s an asshole. He’s a jerk. He don’t like Nirvana or Prong. He’s Ben Weasel… he’s so cool.

You might think I’m taking the piss here. Maybe I am a little but in all earnestness I’m telling you with Joe Queer as my witness the FSS was at the show. Here’s my account.

As we filter into the club I turn to P. “Man I’m so pumped! I can’t believe were finally seeing these guys after all these years. How long you think these guys have been around? I know they started before The Ramones so its gotta be like 50 years at least.”

Some time passes. Weasel takes the stage and Ben starts ranting and raving. P turns to me, “Jeez Ben’s really pissed he’s only getting paid the standard $250 SXSW pays all their bands. Exposure? You don’t need exposure when you have as many platinum records as this dude. Wait. They have a new LP out? You don’t say.”

Ben says “From the new one” and kicks into a killer track. “Man P, they still got it. Ben’s so smart too. He writes songs that sound like all his others because he knows that’s what gets the kids going. Artistic development? Pssshaw.”

A dude with a Screeching Weasel tatt sidles up next to us with a big ol glass of Bud Light. I turn back to P. “That’s it, when this show is over were both getting weasel tatted.” P nods in obvious agreement.

“Be right back man I gotta take a duker”, I say as I head for the restrooms. Halfway there I’m already jealous that I’m missing some of the weasel magic being perpetrated on stage. “Fuck me. This line is about 80 people deep. Hey bro. Yeah you. How long you been waiting on the kamode?”. The man ahead of me went on to explain that lines at weasel gigs take longer than lines at other punk shows because weasel music makes yee constipated. I later looked this up when me and p got back to our room at the luxurious Four Seasons and according to Wikipedia “weasel constipation” as it’s commonly known was first discovered by renowned scientist and fellow weasel fan Dr. Cornelius Krunkus. So yah FSSers, I waited a half hour to use the shitter and couldn’t even pinch one out when I finally had my turn. Defeated I headed back to find P.

The dance floor and stage looked like a ghost town. A couple people were still milling about. “Hey, where’d everyone go? Did I miss the encore? Did they play anything off “Emo”? Why are those two chicks crying? Why’s weasel tatt dude crying? P? Why are you crying…Exactly what happened here?”

Now I’ll let P fill ya in on what I failed to catch. But I trust him and so should you.

P’s Take: So yah as Uncle T said, the Almighty FSS took a field trip to SXSW this year, a much needed break from nagging wives and mouthy daughters. Personally, I’ve been wanting to get to Austin for awhile and it did not disappoint; good food, excellent overpriced facilities and plentiful black frame glasses and beardwork. On one point though SXSW and Austin generally needs some correction, and Ben Weasel was there thankfully to provide it. I think you know the point I mean: Bitches.

Uppity, uppity women straight walking around, proudly, heads up, mamaries a’joggle, meeting my gaze, not letting me go ahead in line, speaking when I haven’t spoken to them and generally acting like they got the vote before the 20th century. What the fuck IS this shit? But, whatever, Austin is close to the equator and God knows what heat does to the female of the species.

Anyway, we were taking in a truly groundbreaking set by Screaching Weasel, discussing our tats when Uncle Diablo T had to grump. I took my leave to the bar to get me my 3rd SXSW trademark beverage, a Blue Barlow, half Jaeger, half Zima when it all jumped off. The bar offered me a good view of the stage and as I’m sipping my drink I notice a she-beast giving Ben the business. Never one to back down from any hag, Ben used his rapier wit to try and silence her. This lagoon crotch then had the audacity to launch a very dangerous bit of ice at my main man Weasel. Thankfully the projectile bounced harmlessly off Ben’s massively muscled torso and they were about to launch into another number when it happened.

Aforementioned pussrag then proceeded to spit high-quality bud all over Mr. Ben. Fuck, fuck fuck. The pure cunttastedness. I immediately sprouted a raging hard-on and Ben Weasel went directly into XY correction mode. With a grace that belies his 68 years, he planted his lead foot, pivoted his back and laid a right haymaker into that miserable she-devils left tit. I could feel the jelly quake from where I stood. He followed it up with a flurry that hit mostly Manic Panicked hair and air, but his left cross hit the chick squarely in the uterus. The crowd groaned. I cheered while weeping.

I thought that the night was over, that justice had been done, but from nowhere lept a crazed Amazon to the first tarts defense. I put down my drink and attempted to get to the stage to aid my comrade-in-testicles, but it wasn’t necessary. Like a bullfighter, Ben olayed his second attacker and turning, cracked her a good one. Right in the vaginerus. Two women, one Weasel. One hero.

All in all SXSW was a victory, for music, for Blue Barlow’s and for men’s rights.

Happy St. April Fools Day FSSers!!!!

Last week Fear bassist Derf Scratch died and it’s been a little while since we rapped at cha bout the FSS’s undying love of the band so here is a quasi rant/review of “The Record” and “More Beer” courtesy of P ‘n’ T (we’re dynomite). T feels strongly about “The Record”.  While P feels the same about “More Beer”. And you know what? They’re both right.

This picture needs no caption.

T’s Take: I’m writing this on a train home from NY to NJ which really is the perfect place to start talking bout Fear. Right now “The Record” is blasting in my phones. Some old codger is busting serious old man ass in the seat next to me and a woman has just given me shit for my bike taking up two seats. I fucking hate these people. I hate New York, trains, farts that aren’t my own, and lugging around a bike and then getting lip service from a stranger who shoulda got to the train on time to get a seat. Fear hates all these things too. And look.. I try to be positive most days.  When I’m not rockin’ the Bad Brains PMA though, Fear is my soundtrack.  Cause sometimes you just have to give up and hate on shit.  And listen, a lot of bands hate a lot of things. War. Fascism. Racism. Poverty. The police state. Actual things. Ya know? Fear takes it a step past all that. They straight hate humanity. They hate the idea of family. They hate New York. They hate saxophones. They laugh at old men dying on the streets. Ironically, they don’t hate war. In fact they encourage it, cause well…there’s too many of us mother fuckers. I understand this. I can get behind this. Right now… on this train. As punk records go it’s not called “The Record” for nothing. It is THE record. The only one you need. I’m serious. It’s angry. Immediate. Raw. Loud. Crass. Obnoxious. Arty music snobs need not apply.  Pitchfork suck my balls. Fear is for the kids in the stree-aht (and the men on the trains). Oh yeah they sing about beef bologna too. So rest in peace Derf. I’m sure even you’d agree one less person isn’t all bad at the end of the day.

P’s Take: I was thinking yesterday, only briefly, and it occurred to me that Fear sounded like a butterfly knife. You remember butterfly knives? Those badly-made blades you used to be able to get in Chinese stores back in the day for like five bucks? You could flip them around, they folded up into their handles. Don’t act like you don’t know… yeah them. They were cheap and nasty. Fear sounded like that. I mean that as a compliment.

Fear “The Album” is exceptional. A fucking awesome piece of work, I listen to it probably once every two weeks. But “More Beer”…I dunno. It’s is so much more Fear-ish.

Lemme explain. From what I can piece together Fear was basically just a vehicle for Lee Vings asshattery. The guy essentially made a living out of being a dick. Again I mean this as a compliment. “The Album” is a cohesive bit of early ‘80’s hardcore punk rock, although played with suspiciously better chops than 99 percent of the rest of bands of that time, or since for that matter. “More Beer” is a well-produced, shiny train wreck. It sounds like a caricature of a punk band. If an episode of C.H.I.P.S. had featured a punk show, and I think they may have (ed. They did.), Fear would have been on playing a cut from “More Beer”. Probably The Mouth Don’t Stop. And in between filming Lee would have spit at Erik Estrada… Cuz fuck that guy.

The whole album is a fucking farce, the first song advises women to shut the fuck up once in a while, the third expresses Fear’s desire for more beverages, and track eight is of the opinion that the Cold War could have been brought to an instant conclusion by vaporizing most of Eastern Europe. Fucking, fucking awesome.

That’s really it. “More Beer” is everything stupid about the 80’s, everything cheap and nasty and awesome given an 8/8 beat and overproduced. Like cheap butterfly knives. Like Married With Children on amphetamine. I mean that as a compliment.

And, as a post script, the CD re-issue has demos of Living In The City and my personal favorite Fear song Now Your Dead. This review is for the late Derf Scratch, who died recently after a long illness. What illness? I dunnno but as Lee sang:

Must’a been bad
Now you’re dead

(As a side note, today a Jet Blue employee called a plane full of people mother fuckers, grabbed a beer, and escaped out of an emergency hatch.  Fear would approve of this.  In fact, whether the employee knew it or not, Fear was his soundtrack)

Brown bagged and ready for the stree-aht.

T’s Take: These days there’s something for everybody. Whatever yer into, just type that shit into Google and you’re sure to find it and at least a couple few creepy people also into it. Punks, it would seem, are into beer. Sorry Ian MacKaye. So it was to no surprise of my own that there would then be a beer made for Punks. Scottish brewery brew dog and its ridiculously high ABVs (alcohol by volume) stake the claim “beer for punks”.

So recently The FSS got together for a BBQ to celebrate our forcing of Chief Mag to call it quits (Pitchfork we’re looking at you and you’re fucking next!). From Double Dead Guy to Sierra Nevada Bigfoot to Brother Thelonius to Leffe Blonde to some disgusting ass watermelon wheat bullshit we drank a lot of beer. Thrown into the mix was one bottle of Brew Dog’s Sink The Bismarck (wrapped in a brown paper bag for old times sake). At a whopping 41% ABV Sink The Bismarck was such a beer that we needed to split the bottle between the three of us and chase it down with (of course) other beer.

By the end of the night I was nodding off by our backyard fire pit whilst blissfully looking up at the stars and contemplating exactly why “Songs for the Deaf” is one of the greatest rock albums of the last 20 years.  P on the other hand was laid flat out on my kitchen floor creeping out my dogs.

So “punk” beer… it gets you drunk.

D’s Take: Brew Dog, future Nobel laureates without a doubt, have found a way to make whiskey OUT OF BEER.   If you don’t like this, we can’t be friends.

P’s Take: I love beer. Like for reals. It has always been there for me and it is just socially acceptable enough for me to claim that my drinking it at odd times, times when hard alcohol would be inappropriate, like during baptisms or at work, is perfectly okay. Not problematic at all.

Sink the Bismarck fucks that premise all up. Now, don’t get me wrong, it is good. It is basically whiskey with bubbles. It tastes good and gives a real mellow, almost philosophical drunk (I have a theory that different types of booze give different type drunks. I have no, and need no, proof for this to be so.). Where it fucks up is here: It is bottled in a standard beer bottle. Granted, it comes with a stopper, because the theory is you are going to use it responsibly, have a whack of it, contemplate the fireplace and leave the rest for another day. Maybe some people, maybe even most people are going to. I however am not. I am going to crack one of these, once I shell out the 50 bucks it costs (editors note:  P hasn’t ever had $50) and slam it like it was Heineken and my shoes were steady wood as fuck. And then I’m gonna babble some horseshit, fall into the bathtub and go to sleep. So fair play to BrewDog, they made a great beer-whiskey bastard. But fuck them for not taking responsibility for my shenanigans.

(after successful lift)

Me: Yo, Ju see that? Yo, I am STRONG.

Exit gym

(after unsuccessful lift)

Me: Yo, Ju see that? Yo, these weights are BROKEN.

Exit gym.

I recently signed up for a competition this September that may end badly. Badly for my face and general everything. And I have been told that I have to put in real hours in the gym and at the track if I’m not gonna end up doing the paraplegic mambo come autumn. Mostly though I’m concerned bout my soundtrack.

See, cuz the music they play at the gym; your gym, my gym, everybody’s gym, is designed for assholes. Loud-ass, bass thump douche face asshole music. This works out though cuz 80 percent of the world population and 99.9 percent of the gym going public are douche heads. Research has proven this. So what do you do if you (and I am going to assume this is true for you) are not in fact a suckish douche bomb? You are going to have to formulate a playlist for your MP3 player that will aide your workout. Allow me to help. ALLOW IT.

You got to play something mid-tempo to warm up with. You just do. I like to get started with some folk country business. Lately I have been listening to songs from “Working Man’s Dead” by the Dead during this period, I but I have had success with some slower Rockabilly too. Gene Vincent was on the rotation not long ago, though his music makes me wanna get several dozen drinks and walk with a cool limp rather than do push-ups. “Gentlemen” by Afghan Whigs works. Anything to ease you into the realization that you are in the gym now for at least an hour.

Now that you got your heart rates up, it’s time to get down. It is time to blast your glutes, son. Now is no time for subtlety or progressive jazz. Pick the fastest nastiest songs by your stupidest favorite groups. Anything by the Cro-Mags is gonna get it done here, “Age of Quarrel” would be best. Any Oi! is going to carry you also.  I like a live 4-Skins album cuz you can actually feel yourself getting stupider as you get stronger listening to it. Basically what I am getting at is you need stuff with a quick beat and lyrics that don’t provoke anything approaching rational thought. What is needed here is strictly fight or flight music. To make it simple, ask you self two questions about any selection you’re in doubt about:

1) Is it about the Struggle?

2) Is it about the Streets?

If yes, then lift to it. If no, keep looking.

Finally is the cool down period. This period, being the last, I consider least important. Instead of stretching I usually wind down a workout session by either lying flat on my back and groaning, or lying flat on my back and farting, sometimes both. Either way you need something suitably soothing. I like Side A of Dinosaur Jr.’s “Your Living All Over Me”, but you get the vibe I’m driving at. Something loud enough to drown out your whimpers but soft enough that you can hear yourself rip ass. That’s important.

The following is a sample of a typical workout mix for me, feel free to take notes:

Billy Bragg, “Life’s a Riot With Spy Vs. Spy” – Pretty much the whole thing. Socialism helps my chin-ups.

Bob Dylan, “The Ballad of Hollis Brown” – Good for running.

Warzone, “United Worldwide” – What did I say earlier? It’s about the streets and the struggle. Do squats to it.

Misfits, “We Are 138″ – I have no fuckin’ idea what this is about. Robots I think. Robots are strong.

Hookers, “Kiss My Fuckin Ass” – Hell yeah. Not about the streets, or a struggle. But hell yeah.

Olivia Newton John, “Let’s Get Physical” – What? No, this..what?

Motorhead, “Ace Of Spades” – Yeah, cuz I don’t listen to that previous song. MOTORHEAD!!

So that be about it. Hope that has helped. And if you are interested in further listening, send me a dollar and a self-addressed envelope and I will keep your dollar and throw out your envelope.

Act I ( D.O.A. Talk – Action = 0): I had low expectations for this one. D.O.A. were without doubt a great punk band. Shit they even invented the term “Hardcore” way the hell back in 1981. Joey Shithead has one of the better monikers in punk lore. And the one time I saw them they had a chainsaw on stage and threatened the audience with it during some song about Canadian lumberjacks. But more recently they put out an album mostly about Hockey that was pretty lame (Kings of Punk, Hockey, and Beer), and they put out a documentary that me and Brother P were able to get through about 5 minutes of. So with a sour taste in my mouth I threw on my advance copy of “Talk – Action = 0″ (The album hits stores on June 8th,and yes I said “hits”, I refuse to use the term “drops”). As for longevity, this is their 13th full-length release. Honestly, this one isn’t half bad. In fact parts of it are really pretty good. Opening track That’s Why I’m An Atheist kicks things off with a hardcore bang. Rebel Kind will be pleasing to your ears if you’re a Cobra Skulls fan. I Live In A Car is not as good as the UK Subs song of the same name but it’s still awright. The bands cover of Bob Dylan’s The Times They Are A Changin’ is pretty damn good too, even if it reminds me of the four and a half hours I wasted watching that exhausting Scorsese documentary “No Direction Home”. Seriously if you have close to five hours to kill and don’t really like yourself check that one out. But back to D.O.A. Look , they’re not all winners. There are some downright stupid tracks on this album, like one about Star Trek and an annoying ass cover of Amore. But overall I’d actually say this one is worth checking out. It doesn’t reinvent the wheel or chart any undiscovered territory… but it’s better than listening to Lady Gaga or what ever the hell it is people listen to these days.

Act II (The Business – Doing The Business): Whoah boy. Avoid this one. I’m sorry. It’s terrible. I feel bad saying this but “Doing The Business” does nothing to further an already legendary band’s status. It’s funny too cause for about 10 seconds or so it had some promise. The opening feedback and guitar riff built me up before the song kicked in and knocked me the fuck down. The lyrics are whack and contrived. The songwriting formulaic and boring. And it just overall bummed me out because I like the band so much otherwise. 1997’s “The Truth, The Whole Truth And Nothing But The Truth” was a damn good album. The band embraced what was going on in Hardcore, injected their Oi! leanings and with the help of Lars Frederiksen put out a damn good album. “Doing the Business” is just lame though. The four new songs are all bad and the six bonus live tracks of old songs sound like shit even if they’re classics. It’s like they put the old anthems on here to apologize for the new ones or at least to give people an excuse to buy the damn thing. But buy anything by this band cept this one. Might be time to throw in the towel. And one last thing of note, the cover art is a cartoon of two attractive Chelsea Girls. I haven’t seen a Chelsea Girl since the late nineties and attractive ones were usually tough to come by even then. I’m guessing that’s why these two are a cartoon. Would’ve been impossible to find the real thing in captivity. You’d have a better chance of snapping a shot of Bigfoot or Nessie.

Act III (G.B.H. – Perfume & Piss): I saved the best for last here. G.B.H. have quite simply blown me away with this one. Thanks to my boy Dylan for burning this for me. Next time I’m out I’ll buy a copy of my own. From start to finish G.B.H. don’t let up. Seriously this one just floored me. Like D.O.A. and The Business, G.B.H. are damn pioneers of the genre. Unlike D.O.A. and The Business they are still at the very top of their fucking game. G.B.H. continue to prove why their simple three lettered name deserves to be emblazoned on the backs of leather and denim jackets the world over. “Perfume & Piss” is anthem after anthem after anthem. You’d never know this band was around for 30 damn years. They’ve still got the edge, the energy, and the ability to write some damn good songs. Like the a fore mentioned last great Business album, the even better “Perfume & Piss” is also produced by Lars Frederiksen. And it’s on Lars’ bandmate Tim Armstrong’s Hellcat imprint. Rancid’s involvement creates this weird effect where at times you’re not sure if G.B.H. is sounding a little Rancid-y or if you’re just hearing one of Rancid’s more prevalent influences. But either way it doesn’t matter. What you get here is an extremely solid album by an extremely solid punk band.  Buy it without hesitation.

Conclusion: Punk Rock is here to stay. It never died despite what some have said. And Punk Rockers are a stubborn bunch that refuse to throw in the towel even when some of them probably should. But as long as bands like G.B.H. continue to churn out amazing albums I can look past a few near-misses and duds by some other bands. No one likes to be told they can’t do something anymore. And a big part of punk is telling people that tell you you can’t do something to fuck off. So fuck me I guess.

In many ways Punk Rockers have a punk version of gaydar whereby you can usually smell your own a mile away. Have you ever been in a crowd of strangers and picked out the punk? I do this all the time. And no I don’t look for Mohawks and studs. That shit is played out. You can also sense punk rock poser bullshit in a likewise manner. Raunch’s ad definitely set my punkdar off and I was sure it was gonna be a good spot to hit up before leaving for home.

Raunch was, as I expected, a pretty killer record store. It wasn’t the largest store. It didn’t have a huge surplus either. But everything they sold there was the real deal. There were more imports than you could shake a pogo stick at and most of them I didn’t even know existed. I rushed my way through their vinyl section as the place was about to close and chatted up the owner, an older dude with orange hair who introduced himself as Brad. We told him we were from Jersey and talked a bit about music and the FSS and he gave us the lowdown on Raunch. He’d been running the store since the early days of Hardcore (a little more than 20 years ago at this point) and the store had been in three different locations over the years. For a while it was situated near some fucked up park that was run by local bums and drunks (the kids loved the danger of visiting the store back then according to Brad). At some point the store was shut down entirely and Brad had to work a straight job. But he’s been back since the winter at the stores current location.

A good owner will always make for a good record shop and Brad didn’t disappoint. He repped the local scene every chance he got. From advertising local shows at the bottom of his receipts, to giving me a free local Oi! Demo, to giving my wife a free Raunch shirt designed by Pushead. (Incidentally the shirt glows in the dark and scared the shit out of me a couple weeks ago when I saw an odd glow coming from underneath the bed sheets only to pull them away and see a zombie staring me in the face.) Brad told us that the design on the front of this shirt was stolen from a rival Record Store that used it to lampoon Raunch’s early sign language shirts. How great is that!?! Someone straight mocks your shit and you steal it and slap it on shirts of your own. Punk rock. Before we left Brad asked us if it was worth it to check out The Bronx when they came through Salt Lake the following week. We gave him a hearty “yes” and I hope he made it out.

While I was there I bought, a Fear demos 12”, a live Jon Spencer Blues Explosion 12”, a 12” of early Adam and the Ants demos, and a copy of the Minutemen’s “Double Nickels On The Dime” on double 12”. I also bought a Raunch shirt with the FUCK YOU sign language that I’m wearing now as I write this.

So, yeah, the next time you’re in Salt Lake check out Raunch and feel free to chat up Brad, he’s got some great stories. And really the next time you are anywhere that isn’t home, search out the local scene and support it anyway you can before leaving. For example the next time you’re in Jersey you can take the FSS out for some beers and we’ll throw you a shirt and tell you about the time we kicked Iggy Pop down a flight of stairs at Irving Plaza before housing the entire DMS crew in a nearby alley.

T’s Take: Man if you’ve been following these guys since their first EP “Hesher” which came out in 1996 like I have, it’s no surprise then that they’re now the biggest band in the world. Bigger than U2, Pearl Jam, and The Rolling Stones rolled into one and shit out Metallica’s ass. There must be something in the water in Alberta Canada. I’ve actually considered moving there a few times just to be closer to “the back” (that’s what we fans call them… roflz!).

You know the FSS is a punk site and it’s my day job and primary source of income so I don’t often get the chance to write about the stuff I really listen to on a daily basis. Instead I have to be all “Black Flag this, Iggy Pop that” and so forth. It kinda sucks but recently I was inspired by Brother P’s brother Brother E to profess my love for this band. Brother E is a hardcore fan of “the back”. He even owns the 12” picture disc of the track Chad Kroeger did for the Spiderman 2 Soundtrack. It’s a really sweet picture disc with an image of Spidey and Chad swinging through the city on golden webs. Sometimes at night when I’m alone I think of that image and paint the ceiling the hard way. But I digress.

So listen… next time you’re out record shopping at a local indie shop like FYE buy something by The Back. I implore you. The next time they hit your local stadium get tickets even if it means sleeping on the street in the rain for days. And just know that whenever you read the FSS waxing philosophical about bullshit bands like The Clash we’re really at home listening and masturbating to Nickelback.

P’s Take: Really there are only like 7 bands in existence that I would stab an old lady for. Maybe 8, 9 at the outside. But there is only one band that I actually did end up stabbing an old lady for. And, boy howdy, was it worth it. And I’d do it again. Though obviously not to the same old lady. Cuz she dead as hell.

It was Christmastime 2003 and I had just been released from a minimum security prison for a misunderstanding involving the laws stance on self-pleasure in public libraries. I was nearly broke, beaten depressed and in bad need of a Nickleback fix.

The Wallmart was crowded with last-minute shoppers but I found what I was looking for, one last copy of N.B.’s astounding “The Long Road”.   TLR, lay there on the shelf like a shiny, shiny rock and roll apple. This was going to save my season, my day and my life. As I reach for it, this vile Baba Yaga tries to wrestle it from me, babbling something about “her grandson” and “leukemia” and I think something about “beef stroganoff” for some reason. This vicious crone also had a grip of steel, likely due to years of Yete pleasuring, so she easily wrested my prize from my grasp. So in that moment of defeat I looked inside, went quiet and meditated at the speed of light. And in a flash N.B.’s sainted singer appeared before me, wreathed in flame, leaning against the bargain rack and sipping a Coors light and he said these words. He said”stab that old bitch and snap up my CD bro, it is SICK.” So that’s what I did. And lo it was mine as the Christmas bells chimed. And it only cost 16.50. And it was SICK. Amen.

Special FSS Thanks to Dano for the graphic and Brother E for the inspiration!!!

Happy April 1st Fuckers!!!