Tampa Calling

Restless again. My band stops playing and a smattering of applause fills the void of sound as the barkeep kicks on the punk jukebox. Love Comes in Spurts pipes through the shitty speakers as Richard Hell’s whiney voice affirms the nihilistic undertones of modern living. I look down at my sweat-stained shirt and a tiny button of Hell’s vacant stare pinned above my left breast pocket catches my eye. For a second, its blank straight-mouthed expression curls into a shit eating grin and he whispers up at me, “I know punk sounds better through the filter of a canned, thought-out and planned recording” as I rub my eyes, pick up my amplifier and carry it hastily out the back door.

Fresh air stings my lungs, billowing smoke escaping through the closing door behind me. I drop my keys, set the amp down on the pavement and pick them up. After throwing the amp in the back seat of my car, I reluctantly re-enter the bar from the back to finish cleaning up.

Unexpectedly, the door leads directly into my parents’ house three towns over. The sun burns through the large windows as my hands begin to shake uncontrollably. I must have really shaken something up in my head last night with that show, I tell myself in a panic. I can hear my parents arguing in the next room:

“Why can’t you use your gift of music to serve the Lord?”

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Screeching guitars over a rapid backbeat pierce 50 ears trying to hear 25 stilted conversations. A foot-long needle shoots directly through the beckoning orifices, winds around the ear canals and connects directly with the center of each half of the brain. A throbbing begins at the base of the skull as imaginary brain fluid leaks out of each ear. Each face contorts into wrinkled disgust and the faces move closer together.

“Music is my life!” screams one bearded-with-glasses 20-something into the ear of a young girl with hair framing her face, brown tank top, cut-off jean shorts and several colored tattoos spattered across each arm. Clouds of cigarette smoke linger between them and slowly rise to the tar-stained ceiling. From the other end of the bar, the shapes and cartoons on her arms aren’t distinguishable, but I’m convinced they’re more than just blobs of ink. ”Have you ever heard the first Bad Brains album?” he continues to yell, ”It’s so raw, I can’t get enough of it!”

The band falls into a repetitive pattern of chunky chords, fast, pounding, tribal drums and hollering vocals. A few words sneak out of the mix, “MAKE…APPOINTMENT…TIME…MIND…EXCUSE!” Fuzzed mumbling fills the spaces between the recognizable words.

“I’m so glad you like them, too! Did you go see them at State a few months ago? They were great. I was there for Propaghandi, though!” the girl hollers back.

“What!? I can’t hear a fucking thing with this shit music!” Read the rest of this entry »

The Cramps crapped the punk of The Sonics/Ramones continuum and Hasil Adkins/Link Wray rockabilly together in the late ’70s, extolling the virtues of simple, high-velocity distorted music and inescapable, in-your-face attitude, and naming their new subgenre “psychobilly.” Best described as a psychotic crooner, Lux Interior sang and contorted for The Cramps for the last 30-something years. Poetry about death, alienation, revenge and caustic self-affirmation littered their first EP, Gravest Hits, and LP, Songs the Lord Taught Us, (my two favorites), and rang true for me and countless others across the world over the years. “The way I walk is just the way I walk” and other such declarations paired with science fiction/horror references defined their early records. Early live shows were characterized by Lux literally going crazy and falling apart onstage, including vomiting all over himself and other antics. Here’s some footage of The Cramps playing a mental hospital in 1978:

Delayed, choking/massively stuttering vocals filled spaces between two or three chords heavily drenched in reverb and distortion punk. Mesmerizing, inspiring simplicity speaks toward the minimalism of the amateur (doing something for the love of it).

Rest in peace, Lux, and thanks for the music/inspiration/thoughts and references to an underground culture of rollicking rock ‘n’ roll fun.