Tuesday, November 12, 2013

Vintage Punk and New Wave clothing ads

It's 1978, where oh where can one get some transparent jeans or a Vice Squad army shirt?

Saturday, April 6, 2013

Ollie Stench's Finest Moment

Here's how I remember it:  A few years back, on the weekend of the opening of football season, myself, Patti, and Leon decided to take a long weekend and follow Jeff Dahl and The Trash Brats around. Patti was going to film the bands for a documentary she was making, and Leon and I thought that was a good enough excuse to go to Chicago/Green Bay/Milwaukee. I had met the Trash Brats in Detroit a few years earlier, and had been corresponding with Mr. Dahl for some time as well.

We piled into Leon's car and headed to the Windy City. Taking our time to stop at some key truck stops along the way (the last great American institution!) we made it to Chicago with plenty of time to find the club, meet the up with bands and get some dinner before the rock started.

The Chicago show was at a bar called The Olympic, which I had never patronized before. We all helped load in the band gear and the film gear. Rock was performed and filmed, and after the show Leon and I found someone to crash with whilst Patti, Dahl, and Dahl's band mates and the Trash Brats crashed somewhere else.

Leon and I arose the next morning (afternoon?) and headed out on the highway in search of Green Bay and The Concert Cafe. We made very good time and bummed around Madison for a few hours. This was opening day of the NFL season and the Vikings were playing the Packers. Needless to say we got a lot of glare from the natives when they spied our MN plates. We then went to the Concert Cafe only to realize that they didn't serve hooch there. Luckily for us there was a bar called The Speakeasy not dissimilar to the Triple Rock adjoining the venue, along with a strip club a mere block down. Obviously with time to kill (it was about 4:30 pm) we hit the strip club and looked at some of Green Bay's best female college students in various states of undress. While in the club a pair of bikers came up and started shooting the shit with us, and after awhile offered up a business card with the clubhouse address on it and an invitation to come party with The Pagans whenever we were in town. Half an hour later one of The Pagans came and asked for the card back, saying it probably wasn't a good idea for us to party at the clubhouse. With that Leon and I went back to the Concert Cafe to see if Patti and the bands had arrived yet. No sign of the bands meant that the two of us planted ourselves in the Speakeasy and waited.

Inside the bar there were 4 people not including my travel companion and the cute bartender and her room mate. The bartender was wearing a Vikings sweatshirt, so we told her we were from Minneapolis, and the she offered us up a free round. I put in an order for a bottle of Hardcore, Leon a bottle of Bud. We were sitting there talking to each other and the bartender, sporadically checking next door to see if the bands had shown up. By 8:30 there were still no rock stars, but there was a throng of people waiting to get in to see the show. The promoter kept coming in and asking Leon where the band was, assuming somehow that we were with the band. He just shrugged his shoulders and turned back to his Budweiser.
When I put in an order for another Hardcore the cute bartender informed me that she had only had half of a case, and I had drunk it all. She asked if there was anything else I wanted, to which I replied that about the only other thing I drank was Jagermeister. She dug around in the cooler and pulled out a half-empty 750mL bottle and poured me a shot. I offered up some cash and she said "For $8.00 I'll just leave the bottle there." The last thing I clearly remember is handing her a $10 bill and telling her to keep the change.

There are very hazy recollections of the night; sitting in the alley for 10 minutes puking (it was really almost an hour from what I was told), I vaguely remember seeing some rock bands play. Most of all, though, I remembered seeing flashing lights thru my closed eyelids. I assumed that I had gone into the show and blacked out, but oh was I wrong...

I awoke the next afternoon with cat hair in my mouth and completely unaware of where I was. I was laying on a floor fully dressed, using my jacket as a pillow. Leon was a few feet away from me, and was the only thing I recognized. I kicked him in the gut and told him to get the fuck up, that we were totally fucked. He begrudgingly got up, looked around and told me that we were at the bartenders' house. We then went out looking for some caffeine. It was a nice crisp fall day, made even nicer by the 4 foot long skid mark from Leon's tire, and the fact that his rear passenger tire was up on the curb. When we got caffeinated and started our walk back to the bartender's house Leon explained what the flashing was that I vaguely remembered. Evidently after the bottle of Jag was drained I decided that I had to "take care of some business" in the bathroom of the Speakeasy. After I had been in there for about 1/2 hour Leon came looking for me. He found me passed out on the toilet, pants around ankles. Stall door open. Bathroom door open. Like the true friend he was he called to anyone in the bar who had a camera to come and capture this Kodak moment for posterity. Then he woke me up and told me to pull my pants up and go back to the bar.

I still haven't seen any pictures, but I'm told that on the wall of the Speakeasy in Green Bay, Wisconsin there hangs a picture of some crazy Minnesotan who came in and drank a case of cider and a full bottle of Jagermeister, and then passed out on the shitter.

Oh yeah, Milwaukee rocked and I got to see Wanda Chrome and the Leather Pharaohs as well.

Tuesday, March 12, 2013

Dogs of Love

Here's how I remember it: I was singing in a punk band called Iron Fist in 1989. After rehearsal one night Nikki, the guitarist told me that he and Erick, the bass player ran into some English glam guy at the record store earlier in the day. The guy had "Dogs D'Amour" spray painted in pink on the back of his leather jacket, and with promotion like that how could they pass up the show.

We all piled into Nik's Cadillac and trundled down to the 7th Street Entry (a side room to First Ave. in Minneapolis) to see the show by this unknown band. First song into the set and the 3 of us are hooked completely. However, our drummer Crash (a more die-hard punk you'll never meet) kept egging the band on, calling them a "bunch of Glam Fags" between songs. The Dogs didn't take too lightly to this abuse (and my band-mates and I didn't like it too much either) and started spitting beer on Crash. Crash tells them all to "fuck off" and proceeds to drink himself into a stupor.

After the gig we find Crash passed out drunk outside of the venue. Just as we stumble accross him who comes out but Tyla and Bam. I, in the interest of band unity, duly point out that Crash was the one hurling all the abuse to them during the show. Tyla, looking at the inebriated Crash, asks me if he can kick him a few times. I gladly give my consent, just requesting that Tyla not hurt Crash's arms or legs as we had a gig the next day. Tyla, the gentleman that he is then declined the physical abuse. Bam looked at me pleadingly and asked if they could spit on him. I said that wouldn't hurt anything, to which Tyla and Bam both let fly a few rounds into Crash's hair. They then thanked me for coming to the show and found their way to the van that was taking them back to their hotel.

From that moment on I knew I was a Dogs fan for life. 

Sunday, March 10, 2013


Here's how I remember it: PWEI played a gig at First Ave when that song about ethnic cleansing (I forget the title, but there was a line that went 'When they come to ethnically cleanse me/Will you stand up/Will you defend me) was a hit. I went there with a friend who was a big fan, I thought they were OK but nothing to get excited about. Anyway, I'm wearing a home-made Abrasive Wheels t-shirt (turned out pretty good considering the ghetto screening system I had set up) and in the middle of The Hit Song the singer starts cracking up and pointing at me. He blows the rest of the song and the other band members give him dirty looks. I think nothing of it because, after all, I AM Ollie Stench and things like this happen to me all the time. So they finish their set with a great cover of SSS's "Love Missile F-111" and I go up to the upstairs bar. The smaller bar by the office is roped off for the band and entourage only. Fucking rock star cock suckers. I turn to walk back to the main upstairs bar when I feel a tap on my shoulder. I spin around only to find that I am face to face with the singer of PWEI. He invites me back into the roped off area, feeds me a few drinks and says "I'll bet you're wondering why I was laughing and pointing at you." I mumble a few things about how I'm Ollie Stench and things like that happen all the time. Anyway, turns out he was laughing at my shirt because he used to be a huge Abrasive Wheels fan and hung out with those guys in Leeds in the early 80s. He said he never thought anyone outside of The Midlands knew who ABW were, and he thought it was really cool that I spent the time and effort to make my own t-shirt.

Saturday, March 9, 2013

It's Burger Time with Jesus!

Here's how I remember it: About 1999 we played our first out-of-town show. Thanks to Pete from The Chickenhawks, a true Hostages fan if there ever was one (he once called up the reviews editor of a very prominent punk rock fanzine and bitched said reviews editor out for trashing The Hostages one-and-only vinyl platter) we were booked to play at the VFW in Sioux City Iowa with the band Clowns For Progress.

Now for those of you who are unfamiliar with The Hostages let me give the briefest of backgrounds. I wanted to start the ultimate Rock and Roll band, combining the best elements of The Stooges, Motorhead, The Ramones, and Zodiac Mindwarp and the Love Reaction. Full-blown, OTT ("over the top" for you non-Anglophiles) take-no-prisoners fun time get drunk try to get laid nasty snotty gross "what the fuck was THAT?!?" rock and roll. We succeeded on a small scale with most shows ending with me bleeding, naked, and concussed hanging upside down off the edge of the stage. We (actually I, because the rest of the band were fairly innocent) forfeited our pay on more than one occasion to cover the damages sustained to the host club's equipment. And I was well into my 30's at this point, which is when I really realized that I'll never live the "normal" life.

So back to the tale at hand… Pete from The Chickenhawks had become a big fan of the band and completely understood what we were doing and how firmly our tongues were permanently implanted in our cheeks. We left for the gig and drove the 5 hours southwest stopping only at the sleaziest truck stops in search of toilets and souvenirs.
When we finally reached the VFW Pete was there grinning ear to ear in anticipation of our chaotic set. We dumped our gear in the hall of the VFW and got directions to the nearest tavern.

Inside the Red Door there were no more than 5 people including the 174 year old woman behind the bar. Drinks were ordered and quaffed in copious amounts, until 30 minutes before our set time when it was decided that we had probably get back to the show. Our total bill was about $13 for 4 pitchers of beer and 4 screwdrivers. I told the other members of the band to each kick in $5.00 for a tip, explaining that we would have spent more than that drinking back home, and that if we gave the old lady a $25 tip she'd talk about it the rest of her life.

Strolling back to the VFW we passed a walk-up hamburger stand called "It's Burger Time". Since none of us had really eaten anything that day we detoured to the counter and scanned the menu. Dez, who rarely ate anyway, satiated his hunger with some "Good Fries". I guess any day was a "Good Fry Day" according to the owners of "It's Burger Time". Let me take this opportunity to point out that the apostrophe in "It's" was actually a small cross. Finally it's my turn to order so I step up to the counter. Facing me is a pimply faced kid with thick glasses and greasy hair. Straight out of The Simpsons, his voice cracked about 17 times when he asked if he could take my order. I got some kind of sloppy burger and a large Coke, or at least Northeast Iowa's generic equivalent of Coke. As The Simpsons Kid handed over the grub and the half-gallon of Northeast Iowa's generic equivelant of Coke he noticed the Motorhead shirt I was wearing.

"I used to really like Motorhead" he said, "but I had to stop listening to them when I became a Christian".

It took a minute for the gears in my thinking sponge to turn and process just what The Simpsons Kid had verbal led. When it finally registered I threw my half-gallon of Northeast Iowa's generic equivalent of Coke on the ground and calmly told the kid "God can suck my ass if He makes you give up Motorhead."

At that The Simpsons Kid looked at me like I had just shot his puppy, and, fighting back a tear, said "God bless you, and please come to It's Burger Time again."

When we got back to the VFW we related the story to Pete who said he was going to warn us about the Jesus Burger joint, but figured it would make for a better story if we discovered it on our own.

He was right. 

We rocked the 40 Iowa kids like they had never been rocked before, Clown For Progress were in top form, and The Chickenhawks closed the night on a very high note.
After the show was over one of our Super Fans (aka a ‘mentally challenged’ young man) came up to talk to me.
“Hey, Duuuuuude” he labored to get out, “y-y-y-y-you guys were………. Great!”
“Thanks a lot, man I really appreciate hearing that” I replied.
We made small talk as much as was possible, and I found out that the Super Fan’s name was Gary. Gary said he was starting a band and wanted to be just like us.
“Cool Gary! What’s the name of your band gonna be?” I queried
“Gary’s Band!” was his immediate reply.

About a year later The Hostages returned to Sioux City (the only other out-of-town show The Hostages ever played) and Gary was there. Before we played I cornered Gary and asked him why his band wasn’t playing with us.
“We’re not ready yet” he said.
“Well, let me know when you are ready, ‘cause I’ve been telling everyone in Minneapolis about ‘Gary’s Band’ and how awesome you’re gonna be.”
“We’re not called ‘Gary’s Band’ anymore, the other guys didn’t like it.”
And so dashed my expectations for the greatest band to ever come out of Sioux City.
And when I went back to Jesus Burger The Simpsons Kid wasn’t working.
And the old lady wasn’t at The Red Door.
All in all our return to SCI was kind of a let-down, although there were 100 kids there to see us.