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GAGGING ON THE DUST IN THE WIND
The alternanothing revolution fizzles. Elite consumers bicker over terms of surrender and sell-out over coffee in cheap apartments, sitting on second-hand furniture. Fanzine editors try again to balance the books, pulling occasionally off the bottle, and sign. Indie labels prepare to re-release a guaranteed seller, hoping the nostalgia will cover the cost of new bands that'll never see the millennium. Bands form and distribute demos in hopes of getting signed like everyone else. The rich, the shrewd, and the intelligent have already gone home for the evening. They sleep well with a clear conscience, dreaming of who else they'll bang in the copy room.
Scott Hefflon, "Prelude to a Lick"
The mission statement, if you will; the subject of drunk-at-3:00 AM conversations, stoned reflections, and the knowledge that I had my mind blown at the age of fourteen by Black Flag and thereafter have seen music as more than a way to fill silent spots in the day, more than a means to stimulate foreplay, more than a socialization aide, more than something to cover up the sound of a knocking engine. Not a means to an end, but the end itself.
Jon Sarre, "Sarre-Chasm"
I paid for my personal box of Nicorette with a crisp one hundred dollar bill. This was quite disconcerting for the CVS pharmacist, which came as a surprise to me. You'd think someone who sells 96 little squares of gum for sixty bucks would be fairly familiar with Ben Franklin, both the little and the new, improved Big Ben versions. But no, she had to hold the C-Note up to the light, frown at Ben for a few seconds, and check out his backside. She accepted my legal tender at last, although it was much tougher than it would've been with your average marijuana dealer, legal drug dealers being a lot more cynical than the illegal variety these days.
Kerry Joyce, "Nicotine Achievers"
Other high points (include) "Cut Off Your Head," in which Jim gives us a primer of the five natures of Buddha, so, y'know, we aren't confused or anything. I know it would've been helpful to me back when I actually encountered the Buddha on the road. Come to find out, "killing him" was a metaphor. A metaphor. Thanks.
Ryk McIntyre, Jim's Big Ego
Like a Raymond Chandler detective epic with pop-up illustrations by Robert Williams as interpreted by the chromosomes that Syd Barrett left behind when he effervesced into living oblivion. But different.
Nik Rainey, Chevy Heston
Cast yer memories back, kids, to those days of yesteryear when your idea of punk rock was "I Got You" by Split Enz, when everyone wore little round badges on their lapels, and spent hours selecting the perfect skinny tie at that cheesy store in the mall. This was a time when you actually considered buying a Wreckless Eric record (but, like everybody else, decided against it), when your adolescent fantasies involved a case of whipped cream and several of the Go-Go's (until the Bangles came along), and when you thought wrapping a tiger-stripe handkerchief around your combat-boot-shod ankle looked rad. Even then, EVEN THEN, you thought Devo were geeks... the kinda guys who would spend hours in front of the Atari figuring out massively complex equations that would raise their Space Invaders score by ten points.
Chris Adams, Devo
The a-side takes a typical approach to their burst-bladder grindcore dirge-pop - Spectoresque production, fuzzed-out Mellotron, and vocalist Byrne Skarr gargling with sulfuric acid and regurgitating blood and vital organs all over Donovan's brocade coat. The flip offers more of the same, albeit with a crisper sound that allows the percussive samples (recorded live in a TB ward) to be heard much more clearly. Watch for their forthcoming Remixes EP (with mixes by Moby, the Scottsboro Boys, Elijah Howe, and technEuro-whiz Kjziildrfrt) very soon.
Nik Rainey, Banana Split Infinitives
Sometimes it's hard to believe the adventures I have by myself. Adventure is what music should be all about and Face to Face is like fucking the Valkyries on a pillage to Valhalla or shooting down an Albatross with farts.
Austin Nash, Face to Face
Johnny Violent is back at it again, programming 200+ BPM songs about sex, violence, and... well, sex and violence mainly. Two songs dip slightly below the 200 mark... perhaps they're ballads.
Scott Hefflon, Johnny Violent
I would like to take this opportunity to personally thank all of you who attended the benefit concert at the Culture Bunker Compound last month... I am happy to say the show raised over two thousand dollars, sixty-three cans of puréed imitation-banana skin cream and pheromone substitute, and innumerable welts on the heads of those unfortunate enough to stand too close to Prosthetic Handjob frontman Chthulu Rhys-Jones when his ego spun out of control, taking several hostages and the last of the coldcuts.
William Ham,"The Culture Bunker: If The Benefits, Wear It"