The Trashy Kids are Allright
Except for those years when I was dealing with postpartum lack of sleep, I have never missed a Trash Fest and I wasn't about to start now. Last year I was even *in* Trash Fest as "Giannis and the Koumpos" (yes, we did a ten minute whyte girl wail of "Basketball Jones").
Now, if you really want to make us feel old, book Trash Fest at the Cactus Club. It was our haunt that our contemporary Eric Uecke transformed from an old-man-shot-and-a-beer joint into the now-legendary alternative music spot. But, we got old, and Warwick Seay catered to us by opening a club in Riverwest where the bands start at 8 pm and they're done by 10. Perfect for us: we can jam out and still get home in time to get a good night's sleep. Uecke passed the torch to Kelsey Kaufman -- and they've carried that torch lovingly and well -- despite the pandemic shutting them down shortly after the ink dried on the sales transaction.
I know, I know. You probably got linked here because your band got mentioned in this post like it was some recipe for the perfect meatloaf but you have to wade through the author's fucking life story before you get to the part where she actually tells you how much ground beef you're going to need for this "best meatloaf EVER" but you know what?
I know you just want to read about you but now you're going to have to hear about how I'd been going to the Cactus Club long before you were old enough to wipe your own ass and how we had the baby shower for our now-24 year old in the backroom right underneath that giant fan blower which made life a living hell for the drummer in your band by blowing hot air right near their toms but that 1974 red shag carpet that lined the stage, walls and (surprisingly enough) floor at least soaked up the high-end frequency of your amp where you still had to crank up the treble in order to be able to hear any note higher than an F# on the low E string and the out of town band didn't understand why you have to wait until the Packer game was over to start playing its 1030 for cryin out loud but we had to deal with some obnoxious guy from Scotland who didn't know how to pronounce "Favre" correctly and that one chick who's doing her makeup in the single use women's restroom was taking forEVER and you really had to piss and yes, I was there the night the White Stripes played just like everybody who claims they saw Nirvana at the Unicorn not really but who's gonna know I wasn't?
Deep breath.
And, honestly, people bitching about having to pay cover was kind of comforting, in a "some things never change" sort of way: like the woman who balked at paying $10 cover "just for some trash." Brian schooled her: "OK... so you came to the Cactus Club where it was clearly advertised that it would be 'Trash Fest' and there would be several bands and there would be $10 cover and the sign said TRASH Fest and so did every single article in the media about this and you're surprised? What exactly did you expect?"
Trash. That's what I expected. Trashy music, trashy people, trashy beer (the beer of choice was Hamm's, replacing PBR as the hipster cheap shit since PBR is embroiled in a labor dispute), and just plain ol' trash strewn about the floor and environs, ready to be wadded up and thrown at the acts. And between generations of old fucks and new kids on the block, Trash Fest delivered.
Alright already, the recipe roundup:
So, as usual, and comfortingly so, the Nervous Virgins kicked off the night with their standard set. The actual composition of the band changes every year, but Eric Griswold has always been the front and center constant, and after all these years still brings a lyric sheet.
And you can always count on Blaine Schultz coming up with yet another reason to jam on Velvet Underground tunes for 20 minutes and this year was no exception. "The Ray Sisters" played "Sister Ray" (oh duh now I get it!) for 20 minutes.
20 minutes of C, F and G never sounded so right. It's right up there with with time Blaine paid a trashy tribute to another of his heroes by playing Neil Young's "Hurricaine" for 20 minutes at the old Globe East. In a forshadowing of this very post's theme of passing the torch, about halfway through the set (which in this case could also be phrased "halfway through the song") Blaine swapped his stratocaster copy with Jim Richardson junior (yes, Richardson senior was on drums) and let the youngun go to town while the crowd happily tranced along to the driving beat.
Is that Stoney? Naw, too short to be Stoney....and she's playing a bass WHOA THAT'S JANNA! A Janna Blackwell sighting at Trash Fest as "Loving Lolli" powering through a set of classic punk, setting the tone by opening with a Spinal Tap cover. From there they kept everybody happy with a selection of songs that ran from punk to rock to metal and back again, all kept steady by Janna's bass which hung on her as comfortably as her all-black (as in punk, not necessarily goth) ensemble. Voice and attitude were crystal clear as ever.
Which is more than you could say for DB Fox, a recent addition to the seemingly perennial TrashFest lineup. I still wonder if this guy even gets that you're supposed to be in on the cringe factor. He gets up on stage, and earnestly sings out some acoustic versions of the punk and new wave songbook, but I can't tell if he's self-aware or not. But since some bands were late (and as usual, there were no-shows) the lineup got jumbled and nobody was kicking ol' DB off the state until he got his full 20 minutes. Twenty years ago, people would panic if a band didn't show up on time (or at all), but Paulette D'Amour ("The Fly" to all you old folks) wasn't fazed at all. Paulette runs the loosest tight ship ever when it comes to Trash Fest.
The first switch came to accommodate the a band that's actually a band and not just a thrown together act for TrashFest, Atheists and Airplanes. Been a fan of their unapologetic aggressive punk for a few years now, and while the rhythm section has shifted around, its Emily and Jen cavorting around (and off) the stage while making it absolutely clear who's in charge of the crowd, working off an all-covers set list that nevertheless was all A&A: opening with an anthemic "Cherry Bomb," working their way toward a chillingly downtuned "Hit Me Baby One More Time," and closing with a "I Wanna Be Your Dog" that thumped in a monstrous 2/2 time instead of Iggy's oozing pickup. A few years back, the complaints against this band were that they were "unprofessional" and "could barely play their instruments" but hel-LO, they were always punk rockers, and as such, Attitude was Priority One from the get-go. They've since augmented that attitude with a tight rhythm section, sharp songwriting, and arresting vocals without losing the intensity and danger that's made them go from "potential" to great. They haven't lost a bit of their charisma and that's why their set at Trash Fest is always in front of a packed room. Oh, and they can play the hell out of their instruments, thank you.
Up next was one of the more compelling fresh acts I've seen in awhile, Dick Taste (Like Frito), the nom de stage for Maggie Dahlberg, who explained (not apologized) that she didn't apply makeup this evening because she looked like "... I was in a bar fight last night." And this woman had stories to tell, all in songs filtered through a few guitar pedals that protracted the overall fierceness of her delivery. She closed her set with a loud-quiet-loud tome where the loud part was a definitive "FUCK YOU JACK SMITH" that had the crowd begging more information about this Jack Smith guy that inspired such a song. Paulette told me later he discovered her in Kenosha at a Die Monster Die show, and that she knows our mutual friend, Voot Warnings. Now it all makes sense: definitely heard that Voot influence in her music and words and I'll want to see more of Dick Taste (Like Frito). 
Time, then for a band that existed solely for the purpose of Trash Fest, the Supremes Court, who took the stage in judicial robes made appropriately of contractor-grade black trash bags that were appropriate garb on a number of justifiable levels. (The Notorious RBG was present on an angelic level.) Reaching deep into the catalog with tambourines for all of 'em, they did Diana Ross as dirty as the actual SCOTUS did women: Baby, where did our rights go? Come see about us, while "Brent Kavanaugh" went seeing about his next beer. And I particularly liked their take on "You Keep Me Hanging On" which was more Vanilla Fudge blueswailing than Motown (courtesy of Jessica "Sonia" Knurr), and particularly impressive because it was clear that if these guys had more than the Trash Fest limit of 2 rehearsals, you couldn't tell. Now that's a TF band!
And then, back to the actual bands that exist outside of Trash Fest, this time an up and coming band out of Riverwest by way of Waukesha: Anson Obvious and the Uncomfortable Moment, fronted by an equally charismatic Ariel Berberbaby, another find by Paulette: "my new favorite band," Paulette gushes, and they've made my list as well. They start out folky/acoustic (with an arsenal of washboards and harmonicas) and then Jesus pops in for a song, and then Ariel pops into the audience for a song or two. All this time, you're enchanted by rocking songs with titles like "Glory Hole" (the chorus goes "It's a Hole That's Filled With Love") that summarizes how I feel about this band.
And then High Wizzard took the stage, those Jorin boys decided to skewer stoner death metal this year (previous targets have included Ska, Bluegrass, last years victim was 80s techno) and for about the first ten minutes it was thumping a single chord on the bass and putting some kind of wizardry jedi mind trick on the audience but halfway through the song I broke free and went outside to catch a breath of fresh air. I glanced at the schedule, which indicated that last band, Trash Deco would be heading for the stage, but TF closers have tended to be noise bands whose raison d'etre is to chase people the fuck out of the place, so I decided to not make it hard for them to get rid of me, and left. But I left feeling good. The old folks in my generation still have it, and the younguns are picking it up. Trash Fest may have gotten rid of me early early this year, but this city will never get rid of all this trash.
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