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With a horn-blowing frontman and one whale of a rhythm section, Gorch Fock took me back to the days when Amphetamine Reptile roamed the land and the Cows were one of the record labels’ wildest weirdos. Their seasick visions stem from the imagination of bassist/painter, Wynn, whose previous band, Gong Li, was puny compared to the crew he commands now. Setting sail with seven men, they imposed themselves in front of a cluster of film projectors throwing images taken from the fields of whaling, dentistry and taxidermy. The band’s relatively elaborate live show and unpredictability have gained them a diverse local following over the past couple years, and the recent publicity hasn’t hurt either. Late into their set the house was still packed with Fockheads helping to deliver the beer and bratwurst, moans on what passed as the chorus of a drunken sea shanty with explosive drum fills.

The balls-out sonic pillaging given by Gorch Fock left many nonplussed by the UK’s Country Teasers. Rejecting every rule of music making, they’ve been releasing retarded records since 1986, sometimes with band line-ups that had never met. Founded by isolated misanthrope (and Scotsman), Ben Wallers, it’s the unlikeliest of bands. The newest release is called Full Moon Empty Sportsbag, and it’s the first album recorded with everyone together in the studio. Surrounded by his familiars on guitar, bass, drums and occasional mini-moog, Wallers crouched into the microphone and looked out through Coke bottle lenses with detached amusement speaking songs with titles like “Young Mums Up For Sex” and “Man V Cock.” The Country Teasers live sound was that of a XXX-rated Fall deconstructing Hank Williams’ songs. They’re as much valid artistic statement as therapeutic pastime, and they sent their proponents staggering home alone, but vindicated.

–Dave Roybal


I wanna rock. Can you help me rock? It’s a brand new year. Let’s clean the slate. I like to encourage that of my disgruntled bartenders anyway. You’re either with me or against me on this next comment, and if you’re against me, sorry, you picked up the wrong rag to read.

Life’s short. Life’s bittersweet. This year I don’t want to see any more fucking dead-eyed, sugarcoated, waif-like, girlie-boy bands. Come on, you know these bands. They’re moodier than a bitch in heat with dark lyrics that whine incessantly about some latest heartbreak. Here’s a painful refresher course: “I’m in a funk, so don’t bother me, but please come to my shows because you owe it to yourself to hear me sulk.” What? Are you kidding me? As my father used to lovingly tell my mother, “Shit or get off the pot.” Get off the stage, and make room for some unabashedly genuine rock ‘n’ roll. Get off the stage, and make room for the Sons of Hercules.

At the usual 1 a.m. on a Friday night, I pulled out of Casino (the bar, not the Sons bass player) and hit Emo’s where a cult-like group of Sons fans with shit-eating grins congregated in front of the stage. It looked like a biker convention. Maybe it was.

Scratch that comment I made earlier about life being short. Enter Frank Pugliese. To look at him you wouldn’t know that he’s actually 95 years old, or he should be considering that his rock resume spans decades upon decades. This lovely, tall, lanky rocker with pursed lips opened for the Sex Pistols in the late ‘70s for Christ’s sake. I should’ve known it was on when he held that Iggy stance, knelt down and licked my fingers in between a verse of “Gimme Some.”

Gimme some indeed. What I wouldn’t give to sit on his lap and swap punk rock war stories. Mix in a golden boy of a drummer (Cook), two veteran guitar players (Hollon and Bone), one regal bass player (Casino) and something magical happens, and it ain’t some girlie-boy excuse for rock ‘n’ roll.

–Marianna M.

What a bunch of bullshit this turned out to be. Lets see here, how ‘bout “Girls Gone Wild“ with a yeast infection? I swear to god when I approached these scantly clad, tattooed, and pierced dot COM hookers I smelled burnt pussy. These cunts are worthless and have the personalities of dick warts. I have seen better burlesque shows at old folks homes. I think I may have herpes now just from standing next to them but I’ll have to confirm that when I visit Pro-Med on Monday. The bar was filled with a plethora of pervs and gaggles of underage sluts in training, which I refer to as “SLITS”. The first ass-fucking was the ten dollar cover charge. In my opinion that ten bucks would have been better spent on a hand job down at the Landing Strip.

So any-hoo I get there early and immediately seek out the Suicide Girls, because one thing I’ve learned is that clearance at the door doesn’t mean shit when it comes to titties. I approach the ladies and talk to “Siren”? and tell her that I work for Red River’s infamous Rank and Revue. She tells me to go to the merch table and get a photo pass from the whore manager - oh I’m sorry, the “tour” manager. I start talking to homeboy and he tells me he has to O.K. it with the girls. I call this the “bullshit tag”. He comes back 30 minutes later and says “no problem” but does not physically have a photo pass, yet assures me he will remember me and not to worry. Cool.

The show starts and I bust out my cam and before I can take one fucking picture this assmuncher starts grabbing and screaming “NO CAMERAS!” The next thing ya know I’m being whisked away into the backstage area to be put on fucking trial for having a camera. So here we are in this room and this big tall leather fuck with spiky hair and a camera starts talking shit. He looked like a gay statue of liberty. He shouts at me that he is the only one that can take pictures. I think I see a lone tear drop from his eye, he is so upset that I also have a camera. Meanwhile, grabby calls me a liar and tells me there is no way in hell I could ever get permission to take pictures. Why did he even bring me in the room? FUCK. The tour manager is standing on top of the stairs behind him so I tell him “Stop being a dick and ask.” He reiterates that I’m wasting his time, but asks. Tour manager guy says “yea he’s cool, he is with the Rank and Revue.” So I am thinking in your face motherfucker. But guess what, ladies and gentlemen, the fact that I got approval pissed him off twice as much, and he told me “NO PICTURES”!!!! So I call him a dick, I call leather fuck a dick and tour manager a pussy, and I leave.

Bottom line is you can go to Emo's on any given night to see tats and tits for free and probably end up boning some slut in the can. So, why pay ten bucks for Tits and Ass you can never touch, much less photograph.

- Shutter Butt

Ok, here’s something new and different for the Red River rock-out zone, I thought. Good to see EMO’S making a big assload of money, especially when they give me the killer drink deals! But it shines a glaring bile-tinted light on the “state of the union” when some putty-twats showing their tits will pack a rock club better than a great local band will.

The first sign that this show sucked was the19 women in the pee line - that’s criminal neglect of the dickless. With nothing else to do in line but survey the ladies-in-waiting, I reached a quick consensus on what the Suicide Girls are all about. “Really hot girls who get naked, and they’re PUNK.” Punk: another word - like “freedom” - whose meaning has been shoved up its own ass.

Pee peed and drinks drank, I ventured into the burlesque room to find the place so jammed that there was no way I was getting near the stage. Rather than some innovative “punk” strip music, they were playing that old classic cliche, The Stripper. I did get a gander at a couple chicks making out with each other on stage… why did I think this was gonna be alternative erotica? Last I heard, “punk” meant something beyond tattoos and piercings, and being slightly more radical than the ol’ Playboy mentality. Seems to me that punk was once a close relative to the gender equality movement.

You have not come a long way, baby.

Other than all the dorky guys I’ve never seen at EMO’S before; there was nothing new to see here. I say, if it doesn’t rock, it ain’t worth fighting the crowd.

- Bek Sabbath


This panda-cute little cell of illegally foreign terrorists presents more evidence that the once great rock-n-roll-inventing country known as America is no more. The Japanese rock harder than we do. They have a better sense of humor. They dress cooler, and they have cooler haircuts.

Peelander-Z has a Giant Robot grip on the true meaning of rock. The crowd was freaking out, utterly slayed by Peelander’s fist-pumping, rock-you-to-death hysteria. Paparazzi! Wrestler masks and safety helmets! Dude in a yellow chemical-plant-meltdown jumpsuit, climbing the beams. The band held up a sign: “bass player wanted!” – a volunteer came up and replaced the bass player, who disappeared from the stage. More signs followed, until all band members were replaced with placebos. Through the chaos, the original Peelander was found on the floor, rolling and humping in sheets of beer swill – some kind of bowling-with-human-bodies game.

Meanwhile the rock never stopped. Eventually Peelander reformed on stage to pound out the rest of the show. In the end they were encored by the crowd clapping S-A-TUR-DAY – hey! Can we get extra cheese on that?

- Bek Sabbath

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