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Rock-n-Roll Q & A with Eddie Lynch (guitar) Bad Wizard

Who are our favorite bands / greatest influences?
Eddie Lynch - When I was a little kid my parents played Sgt. Pepper’s by the Beatles and Madman Across the Water by Elton John, and it blew me away. That was rock-n-roll when I was 5 years old. But other than that all the standards, like Led Zeppelin, Black Sabbath, Kiss, The Who, the Rolling Stones. All that.

What is your definition of success in rock-n-roll?
What we’re doing right now is really cool. But to make a living…that would be cooler.

Wendy's WWADThe Dixie Witch Tour Chronicles – Part IX

Monday / June 30th – Day 8
Well we didn’t wake up feeling like shit because we had stayed up all night. Supposedly Einstein only slept four hours a day…or so I think I remember hearing somewhere. Flea and I caught a cab back to the-place-where-she’s-couch-surfing-this-month so we could shower and pack our shit for the beach (I had convinced Will and Flea to go to Santa Cruz with us…our newest hostages, having lost Graves at Sea Roger in L.A.), with visions of vampires-comic-books-cotton-candy-multi-colored-rollercoaster-merry-go-round-bedecked-boardwalks-with-lots-of-ordinary-motherfucking-people-to-make-fun-of-and-lots-of-necks-to-bite. Before splitting the city, however, I had to make a visit to the best fucking Chinese food restaurant in all-of-San-Francisco (and probably the best in all of motherfucking China)…a-not-to-be-missed-ever-site-when-in-the-Bay-Area, the House of Nan King. The place has all of six tables and, if you try to go there for dinner, you better be prepared to get at the end of a line that goes around the block. When you finally make it into the joint, you need to eat fast, and then get the fuck out. You might even have to share a table with total strangers. But they have the best sesame shrimp on the entire planet. Flea and I, being the only ones wise enough to take advantage of this rare opportunity, totally pigged out while everyone else missed out. Except for Claytallica, that is, who was smart enough to make me get him some to go.
After all of our plans to split early to make it in time to go to the boardwalk where they filmed The Lost Boys (plans made when we were totally fucked up, of course), we couldn’t locate Trinidad…and he wasn’t trying to get in touch with us. After killing a bunch of time and brain cells, we found him around 4 in the afternoon. As we made our way towards the beach, leaving the beautiful/volatile island, we passed through Colma, a city that has the bizarre distinction of having more dead people than live people. Colma is the place where the dead people in the Bay Area go, because there’s just no space in San Francisco to bury them. Instead, there’s a population of around 3 million people packed into a 7 by 11 mile area. A city full of dead people…kind of a cool concept except for the fact that zombie movies generally turn out to be the least scary of all horror movies because the brain eaters can’t move fast at all, have no special powers, and are only capable of saying “Brains” or “More Brains”. But we had Will Chewbacca Harold and Felicia Fleatardo Montalban Cox to entertain us with comments like “Dixie Witch…they’re just a bunch of shitrockers!”, “I ate a cock in the morning”, “we’re Santa Cruzin’ for a bruisen’”, and “Think hard retard!”

Hostages An hour later we descended upon the coastal scenic hippie town and went straight to the liquor store (being informed that we were already too late for the boardwalk). Cliff (the guy who booked the show and bore a striking resemblance to Sammy Hagar), told us to come by his pad and chill out until show time. He lived two blocks from the beach, and was headed that way with his board when we arrived. Supposedly, Santa Cruz is one of the premier beaches to learn the sport of surfing, and there were tons of wannabes every where. But in spite of the fact that this was early July, it was not sun tanning weather…or even warm. We had to wear fucking jackets to hang out on this killer Northern California coast, and quickly came to the conclusion that Cliff had to be totally fucking insane, as he was the only surfer not wearing a wet suit…in what had to be 50 degree water. Too cold for my Texan blood and innards to handle.

Rock-n-Rollers, Dixie Witch, go to the beach fully clothed The venue that night was a tiny little bar called the Mediterranean, that was packed to the gills with surfer-skater-dreadlocks-down-to-their-ass-having-healthy-lack-of-rock-looking-guys who were banging their heads (even though they had never seen the likes of Flea, me, or the Witch in their peaceful-potsmoking-I’m-so-content-I’m-bored-to-tears-surf’s-up lives). There was no stage so the Witch was eye level with the audience (actually lower than the audience since they’re a bunch of short motherfuckers with the exception of Trinidad, who was seated behind the drum kit), and I had to sell merch seated on top of the pool table. Cliff’s band, Gargantula, turned out to be pretty fucking metal. I was surprised that such a peace-loving surfer dude could morph into such a pissed off rocker. Well we stuck to routine and got loaded like a bunch of tackle boxes. Then Flea and Claytallica entertained me with the robot and all other kinds of kooky dances. Trinidad (who has the hots for Flea, and has yet to understand that it’ll never happen…at least in this lifetime) dedicated Drifting Lady to her.
After the show, we went back to Cliff’s place to crash and hang out with a bunch of way-too-happy-and-satisfied-with-life-locals. One crazy chick was running around with a bloody hand, and refusing to go to the hospital…opting instead to rub her bloody paw-paws on whoever was closest, while hitting on every guy in the room. Sexy (in Fat Bastard voice). I can’t remember what the fuck her deal was. Besides the killer weed, this scene was too fucking weird…even for me, so I took off down to beach, sat on the rocks, and listened to the surf crash, while stargazing and pretending that I was spiritual...for all of about 2 minutes. I ended up crashing in the van that night.

Tuesday / July 1st – Day 9
“Don’t kill us, kill the deer!” Felicia yelled, as we narrowly escaped hitting Bambi, while the three of us in the back almost flew straight into the fucking front of the van. After walking around on the beach and eating some pizza, we took off back to Frisco, dropped Will off, and waited on Flea to pack her shit. I had convinced her to jump aboard the hell van with us, go all the way to Seattle and find a ride home. It didn’t take too much arm twisting before I had a crazy chick to hang with for the next few days. Now we found ourselves riding through Northern California, having recently passed the vineyards of Mendocino and Willits, the gateway to the redwood forest. Trees trees and more trees. As we passed yet another “Carving for Christ” souvenir stand, Curt observed, “I’m sure Jesus appreciates that”. We rode down windy ass roads through the mountains all day, with me holding on for dear life so I didn’t go flying through the fucking window or on top of Flea and Trini.
After a lengthy ride which led us past by the Legend of Bigfoot shop, we finally made it to the city of Arcata and Humboldt County (the land of legendary medicinal marijuana). We were starting to get worried about the venue because our ride through the redwoods didn’t seem very promising. With the lack of electricity-civilization-people coupled with the large # of trailer parks, we were beginning to think it was some sort of Deliverance deathtrap, where we were on our way to end up in a double wide and meet our inevitable ends. We finally arrived at the venue, a club meets bar meets bowling alley where a bunch of long-haired mountain people were hanging out.
We had heard all about the Humboldt county weed, and didn’t have time to begin to think it was a myth because this guy just came up and gave me and CC a nice beautiful organically grown bud each. Mega buds for free from almost the second we walked in the door. The kick ass thing was that we could smoke this soy smoke while standing right at the entrance to the club. While I was observing how fucking cool this was a local told me, ““Girl, you’re in Humboldt.” Well no shit. The opener, Que’ la Chinga’, was pretty cool, with a kind of Weary Boys thing going on. Meanwhile, Trinidad was being served Gentleman Jack by the bartender, and was downing them hand over fist. I could tell tonight was going to be a real fun one. The Witch played the middle slot, to all of eight or so weirdoes, and were followed by a crazy metal band called Manic, that was reminiscent of Sacred Reich. Towards the end of their set, Trinidad started getting rowdy, and talking a bunch of shit to their singer…getting right in his face and talking shit.
After the set Trinidad threw a big huge temper tantrum (bordering on a psychotic episode), managing to piss off not only the last band, but everyone in the club as well. He threw his drums around with such force you could hear him outside. We almost lost our place to stay, with Kyle warning, “You guys are welcome to stay at my place, but if Trinidad thrashes anything, I’m going to drop him.” I was kind of hoping he would.
When the tantrum ended, I jumped in the back of Kyle’s van (refusing to ride with Trinidad), and was handed a bottle of Evan Williams and a Pabst Blue Ribbon. We headed back to Kyle’s place in Eureka, which ended up being this crazy garage with some kind of barn door, where we drank more and smoked more and acted totally retarded…cracking each other up, although what was so funny I have no idea…until the cops came knocking. Kyle accidentally broke his pipe that he’d had for 4 years, as all of us scattered. Actually we maintained our positions and let Kyle deal with the barn door and the cops. In spite of the overall reeking of marijuana and our obvious drunkenness, the pigs were cool and just told us to simmer down. At that point we all went to our separate crash spots, me being the one lucky enough to land in the house instead of the barn.

Wednesday / July 2nd – Day 10
As we were driving up the coast and down the Redwood Highway towards Oregon, Claytallica inquired, “Did Wendy tell you my thing with toes, Felicia? I like to cut em’ off and keep em’.” I added, “Yeah he’s got a toe necklace.” To which Clay added, “So Flea, which toe do you not want?” Her reply, “I don’t want any of them.” We passed a city called Trinidad and it’s so appropriate, considering this is the land of the Sasquatch. I could easily live up here in the woods with the fucking potheads, hippies (you know there are some fucking communes up in here), bikers (home of the Hell’s Angels), and fucking mountain weirdoes. I can see why serial killers might gravitate towards these parts, as there are plenty of places to bury the dead. There are lots of holes in the desert, and definitely in the fucking forest. It’s a serial killer haven. We get to Crescent City and have to cut up Grant’s pass over a mountain range whose elevation goes up to 9,000 feet. The miraculous part is that the van keeps chugging along (at least uphill…when going downhill it always seems as if Curt is deliberately trying to drive us off of a cliff). We pass a king-sized Paul Bunyan and an assload of hatcheries. There’s so much salmon, they sell the shit in every form…they even have salmon jerky.
We encounter huge cliffs and jagged rock islands jutting out of what appears to be an angry limitless and freezing cold Pacific ocean, overshadowed by the hugest and oldest motherfucking pine trees I’ve ever seen. As we make our way through the forest I am overwhelmed by its awesomeness…not to sound like a fucking hippie but I almost felt healthy for half a second, while listening to lots of Led Zeppelin (which seemed like the perfect soundtrack for the drive. But then again, when is Zeppelin inappropriate? I know there are some Zeppelin haters out there but you know what? There is definitely something wrong with you. The destination was the Samurai Duck, a sushi serving venue in Eugene, and a perfect example of a lame-motherfucking-birkenstock-wearing-hippified-tree-hugging-west-cost-of-Oregon-town. Once again we met up with the Unida and the legendary John Garcia from Kyuss (If you don’t know about Kyuss…do your fucking rock-n-roll homework. For those of you too lazy to do your homework- which includes most of our readership no doubt…Kyuss includes Josh from Queens of the Stoneage, as well as Nick Oliveri of the Queens and Mondo Generator. Nick also did some time with the motherfucking asskicking short set havingest pissed off band from San Francisco known as the Dwarves. However, at that point in Nick’s career he was known as Rex Everything. Any fucking ways, the club was small and hot but the stoned ass crowd was into it. Unida sounded pretty fucking tight by this point and Paul (Slipknot bass player and newest member of Unida) bought me lots and lots of drinks. I think he was on his tenth Guinness.
Then the sound guy got us super high with some killer weed, and I ended up mad at Trinidad and rode to our Portland place to stay in a truck belonging to Mark from Stonerrock.com, rather than riding with the Witch. En route he was playing Mermaid, this heavy and almost cool band from Spain. Mermaid has two singers; one that sounds like crap, and another that sounds like OZZY. We also listened to Acid Bath, whose singer sounded strangely like Peter Murphy from Bauhaus (maybe it has something to do with the fact that they’re from the ghoulishly-vampire-addled-urine-soaked-booze-filled-voodoo-practicing- swamp that is New Orleans). I had heard that Portland was super cool, although the only bands that I could remember coming from there were punk rockers All Out and the junkified destructive rockers that are probably broke up by now, the Riffs.

Thursday / July 3rd – Day 11
Woke up at stonerrock.com headquarters, remembering one of the last things Trini said to me, being “Get the hell out of the truck. There’s a bed in the house for you to sleep in. If you wake up with a guy next to you, that’s because it’s his bed, and he lives here, and he’s our brother”. So I woke up in an $1800 comfortable as fuck bed feeling like a distillery and reeking of cigs. Flea and I hit Taco Smell early, and then made a feeble attempt to walk to the only close body of water…the nearest public pool. Instead my feet started hurting like motherfuckers (I think they were in shock due to wearing platforms every day for two months). So I turned the fuck around, Pissing Flea off in the process, and headed back to the Black Magic Circle (Mark’s band), Dixie Witch, Unida bar-b-que and Jim Beam at 4:00 pm. We offed one bottle of Beam and started on another, along with an assload of Pabst Blue Ribbon while watching an awesome stoner rock DVD comp featuring High on Fire, Drunk Horse, Lost Goat, and lots of other bands I need to learn about really fucking fast. Mike (drummer for Unida) manned the grill the entire time. I was really embarrassed that the Texans let the Californians take over. What the fuck?
Insert 2509 “The Witch & John Garcia” , insert 2530 “The Californians Man the Grill”
I was already wasted way before the show even started, and could tell it was going to be one of those nights. The gig was at the Ash Street Saloon in downtown Portland. The crowd was rocking the fuck out until the vocals went out on the very last song. If you haven’t been to Portland, it’s a mini-Austin in the making. I couldn’t help but notice that the Witch was gaining the unanimous respect of the crowd, and the other rockers as well. And now it looks like it’s not really John Garcia’s b-day, he’s just pulling a road trick for free shots. The Witch and Unida have gotten their collective grooves on. They were totally in sync and rocking out together. We’ve been partying our collective asses off with the band that seems like family now. I partied with Arthur (guitar / Unida) and Paul in this really weird room upstairs that you got into by climbing under this brick Alice in Wonderland style mini-archway. Once you managed that, you found yourself in a small room with one low couch, hip hop blasting, and illuminated only by blacklight. It was definitely the room where you went to get your freak on.
Paul – You know what Ace would do? When they told him to quit drinking…he would drink some more and get in his car and wreck it.
W – No that’s what you would do.

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