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Electric
Cock
Room 710, Saturday 1.17.04
I
had an Uncle Clayton when I was a kid. He wasn’t really
my uncle. He was this drunken goofball, but he was a nice
guy nonetheless who just happened to booze with my dad on
the weekends. He used to like to throw the football with me—after
about thirty Budweisers or so. The game usually consisted
of me throwing the football to this drunken man who had only
one hand to catch it with. The other hand always had a beer
glued to it.
It
was the seventies, and all the men were wearing those really
tight shorts with the wacky slits on the sides. Uncle Clayton
had a pair in every color. One summer afternoon we were throwing
the ball. He had on those lovely tight shorts, was completely
smashed, and could barely stand much less be capable of catching
a pass. Point of story, he fell on his ass as he tried to
catch the ball, and his hairy nutsack popped out of his shorts.
Being that I was barely the ripe old age of seven, I ran into
the house crying like a baby. I’m 32 years old now,
and I still can’t shake the nightmares from that day.
Enter
Electric Cock. This band is Uncle Clayton times five. Their
tunes are a reflection of good breeding, because they give
the word “stupid” an almost aristocratic definition.
With Jason and Jimmy’s ridiculous, dueling guitar solos
and Woody’s drunken stage antics—it’s as
fun as going to the circus. And somehow it all works as they
play songs like “Sex is Better with a Partner,”
“I’m All Fucked Up,” and let’s not
forget the awe-inspiring “Stick Pony.” They’re
my guilty pleasure, because as my Uncle Clayton would say,
“Stupid is as stupid does.” And lemme tell you
something, Electric Cock does stupid well.
But
there’s one stipulation: Kids don’t try this at
home. Only really good fucking musicians can pull off this
sort of shit without risking permanent injuries. I bet you
thought I was knocking the Cock. I would never knock the Cock.
I loved them almost as much as my Uncle Daddy—I mean—Uncle
Clayton.
–Marianna
M.
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|  Sniffy
/ Sexy Finger Champs
Room 710, Friday 1.23.04
Friday nights and reunion shows go together like homemade
biscuits and cream gravy when you’re at Room 710. It
was incredibly surreal, plain and simple, and all because
Rebekah decided to slum it for a week to party with her Austin
pals once again. Since she left us in September, I have yet
another reason to dislike New Yorkers. They snagged one of
the best female bass players this town has ever heard, not
to mention the prettiest. That girl doesn’t fuck around;
she’s all about the entertainment factor. To watch her
work is a thing of beauty to say the least. Throw in Gene
and Jimmy, and it’s undoubtedly a party in your pants.
Sniffy put on an interactive love fest, and everyone was invited
to join in. And we did. Jimmy was like a Trekkie at Paramount
Park—pleased as pie to have Rebekah at his side, kicking
the shit out of him with those black boots once again. Man,
we’ve missed their antics—not to mention their
fucking poppy, jacking-off-in-your-face rock ‘n’
roll. We all reached a new level of intimacy (whether we wanted
to or not) when Jimmy told us the story of mistaking Rebekah’s
crusty scabs for weed, and then smoking them. You’ll
have to ask Jimmy about that one.
Sexy
Finger Champs
I still have a Pearl Drops smile plastered on my face, and
I suspect it will stay intact for a few more days. “Mmm…What
a great feeling.” The Sexy Finger Champs were on fire—the
kind of forest fire that only reunion shows can ignite. The
stage was glittery and happy with the smiles and sweet interactions
that only Kerri Beets can provide. I love her. She has undoubtedly
the most amazing, energetic, powerful female voice and presence
I’ve ever had the pleasure of experiencing. Her antics
will demand your attention and massage out the kinks from
all the mediocre rock shows that you’ve ever had to
endure. She’ll restore your hope in humanity. Rebekah
took us to another level of adoration once again. I think
Snoopy had that lovely smile on his face through the whole
show, but I’m not sure because I couldn’t see
past Kerri or Rebekah. I was pretty drunk, but I think that
Chepo smashed his amp, which is why the show ended early.
Thanks for letting me grab your boobies, Kerri. Everyone needs
a hero. You’re mine.
–Marianna
M.
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Hit
By A Car / Fuck Work
Room 710, Thursday, 1-15-04
Hit By A Car is a sort of weird, gooney-looking trio that
kicks punk butt, with goofy time-changes and such. Maybe I
should do like their drummer and wear a freakin’ helmet
on the 710 stage. Good, interesting music with a sometimes
Talking Heads sound, or Pong-like but not as heavy. A sloppy
band with a pretty crappy guitar sound, they don’t seem
to give a flying fart, and they noodle around too much, but
then they’ll throw out a cool punk song. The guitarist
started wanking on Devo’s “Uncontrollable Urge”
but then stopped – fucking teaser! I hate that. Do not
besmirch the name of Devo. I WAS feeling bitchy, so, although
the band didn’t annoy me, I wasn’t in the mood
to form an elaborate opinion. So I mooched one off the guy
next to me at the bar, one new-in-town Ben Dabi, who happens
to like the Pink Swords. Ben says: “The bass is too
heavy, no personality or balls, just this store-bought bass
sound… and he’s turned down to make up for it,
which just makes it worse.” Thank you, Ben, and welcome
to Austin, where there are more opinions than assholes. Oh,
and you might find that the sound is better on the stage-side
of the bar.
Fuck Work is a band name to admire. It’s punk, blunt,
catchy, and it represents my general ethic in life since wandering
into Austin one year ago this month.
The line-up is guitarists Ryan and Kip (ex Mass Grave for
Pigs and Snitches), bassist Zack, singer Mike and drummer
Nathan who also drums for Hit By a Car. They got on stage
so-many-hours after beer-o’clock on this regular dollar-Lone-Star
night, that all I remember is, they ripped, they pummeled,
and they rocked. This is an on-going peeve of mine: the good
bands go on so late that I can’t remember them…
or the good bands go on so early that nobody is there to see
them.
Tired of my own opinions, I opted to survey the crowd. “They
ought to be called Fuck Practice,” says Larry the Leper
(a stunning chap with leopard-skin-tattooed face). Jeff Slime
offered his two cents: “They could be called the Nest
Shitters – all these motherfuckers are my friends.”
Meanwhile, FW tore it up with their energetic frankenfart
of sludgey hardcore punk & thrashy old metal (influences
cited: Napalm Death, Accused).
Ah, this band rips ass, I thought for a moment. Then it was
over. I tried to interview the band, but they were obnoxious
(as in drunk, not snotty): “Fuck the façade,
we’re all drunkards, kind of, to an extent… but
we rock! Bunch of broke dick fucks… nothing to be proud
of, but a novelty concept, to an extent,” guitarist
Ryan Atom asserted, to an extent.
Look
for them on a compilation of Austin bands, being put out by
C-Vok.
- Bek Sabbath
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