Brian and I began the evening with some hellishly hot chicken wings (for which Points East is justifiably famous), and that seemed to set the standard for the demonic evening. I marveled as they brought in the Totem -- the crap hung on it has changed over the years, but the totem itself -- while a bit bare -- is still intact.
our bartender to fix me one of several diet pepsis I sucked down during the evening.
Miss Laid Modeling the latest in formal trash wear
Originally uploaded by V'ron.
all that crap on the floor was for their use -- to hurl at the band, to augment any insults you should hurl at the band, and to hurl into if you so chose.
Mr. Shiny Pants on guitar was back (I think he brings out those shiny pants every year.) I didn't even take a picture of the shiny, wrinkle-proof pants because I had a perfectly good shot from last year, and lighting on stage this year was making it difficult for the available light specialist I claim to be. Dan "Miles" Mullen on bass to the rescue, who preened and posed himself into the only rock and roll light on the stage. Mark Shurilla's assholic glow comes through in any media, and they were wonderfully tasteless all night. Bob Jorin, the only guy to get my map reference, stayed safely anonymous behind the Great State of Missouri.
Mirmamar proprietor Bill Stace grew little devil horns and sat behind the drums -- a place I'd like to see him more often these days, what an overlooked terrific drummer. And Frank Chandek could make a living growling out death metal tunes, he was so convincing. The "normal" people started warming up to the concept. This is what I love about Trash Fest: it's a place where death metal bands playing Devo get normal people to start tapping their feet.
what was so great about X-Ray Spex. Dissonant, early-80s style grrlpunk, sounding like it came straight from the bowels of London, 1981. Every now and then Fly will book a band that plays other venues besides Trash Fest, and Pillowfight were this year's entry. Took 'em a song or two to get comfortable amongst the crap all over the stage and being hurled at them, but you could tell they got it by the time they pulled off a cover of the Cramps' "Human Fly" in honor of out host. Guitarist Karen Ernsting is fiddling around with chord changes and melody licks that remind me of early Gang of Four, but with a Gina Birch attitude. The rest of the band have attitudes that remind me of L7. It’s the kind of music that needs a touch more tightness (but not too much more polish) and they'll be formidable. I need to see them in a regular club on a regular night before I judge their apparent timidity -- if you're not used to Trash Fest it can overwhelm you with the strangeness, and you have to make a snap decision to either play your regular style or try to joke it up.
jagermeister and irish whiskey mixed like a martini. This concoction had some generic name like "Foul mixture of death" but I'm thinking "The Allies vs. The Axis in some Dive North of Sicily" might be appropriate. It went down like trash, like I expected, like this entire night, like all trash fests. We were all too trashed out to even do the traditional onstage jam that has closed out Trash Fest in recent years. Maybe like the totem, we were just a little too bare this year, and just bringing ourselves and it out -- stripped down to the basics -- was enough to keep it alive.