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Drunk Drivers Against Mad Mothers
Drunk Drivers Against Mad Mothers
2011

Logan Lindsey, drums,
Justin Houston, guitar,
Ryan Pendleton, bass, vocals
John Fletcher, guitar on Confinskated

1. Confinsk8ed
2. Forming (Germs cover)
3. Getting Your Grandma Off
4. Tired of It

I met bassist/vocalist Ryan Pendleton through my appearance on the Stig Stench radio show. He was listening and, I believe, on the chat. He sent me a friend request a bit later. We get to talking, he is a skater and plays some great old style punk.

Drunk Drivers Against Mad Mothers steer away from the modern Pro Tools/cleaned-up sound. They play good solid old style punk. Flaws and all, which I love. I used to look forward to the old Black Flag recordings, the guitar turning on, the mic squeaking, DDAMM have all of that.

Hit up their Facebook page or give them a listen on You Tube.

If you don’t own it, give it a listen.

Rating: ** * two out of three stars

On with the story . . .

I tried a little fiction this week . . .

PART ONE

Walter lies on his bed, in his darkened living room.

Through some medical reports that were forged he was able to convince a doctor to set him up with a device the size of a large lunch box. When the red button on the top of a black cord connected to the device is pressed, two different liquids mix together and Walter will have a shortness of breath, and fall asleep and if the device works . . . not wake.

Walter isn’t dying. Walter is beat down and frankly through with life.

Twenty years ago, caught in a lay-off and feeling a bad case of mid-life crisis, Walter made a move on a twenty-year-old girl in the Mail Room.

Flattered by an older, “successful” man she moved in with Walter. What the Mail Girl didn’t know is that Walter was married, and had been married for more than twenty years. At home his wife and two children, a boy and a girl, had no idea that they were about to be a splintered family.

Over the years as the kids grew up and the wife pursued more interests and hobbies, Walter felt abandoned, alone and unloved. The teenagers no longer wanted to hang out, or watch an old “stupid” comedy.

They withdrew, Walter wished for a better life.

In April, a new girl was hired in the Mail Room. Walter thought she was cute, but was very aware that she was just a bit older than his kids. He was also aware of his thinning hair, crow’s feet and a slight paunch.

Walking into the lunchroom late one day, Walter noticed the entire place was empty except the Mail Girl in the corner reading a tattered paperback.

Walter hemmed and hawed for what felt like an hour before mustering up the courage to ask to join her. To his surprise, she said she’d love some company.

During his hour lunch the Mail Girl hung to his every word, and laughed at every clever play on words.

Within those sixty minutes Walter mapped out another life. They’d sail the seven seas, dine in Paris . . . run with the bulls. Then all at once Mail Girl stood and said, I’m sorry, but I have to get back, I’m still in my probationary period. Instantly Walter stood. His mind raced, he thought of ways he could have her excused from her department, and have her re-assigned to work on a “special project” for him, then reality kicked in. Maybe she was only being friendly, what would she want with an old married guy?

Again depressed, Mail Girl turned as she got to the door and said since I hate eating alone, meet here tomorrow at this time?

Like a ray of hope Walter said yes, of course, I’d love to join you. All said with just a bit too much enthusiasm.

That night Walter went home, went to his bedroom and started throwing out clothing; beat up shoes, everything that was unhip. Unhip for the new Walter. Next were his CD’s, nothing over twenty years old was kept, his books were tossed, would Mail Girl know Walt Whitman?

That night Walter stood in front of the mirror re-combing his hair, counting the grays, and thinking of topics for the next day’s lunch.

From the moment Walter arrived at work, he can only wait for his lunch. Hours crawl, until 1:45, he stands and shuffles off as nonchalantly as possible, inside he wanted to run.

Walter grabs a tray and starts to order his old favorite of meatloaf and potatoes, but stops, and instead orders a veggie-wrap. Maybe some juice or water?

As Walter walks into the cafeteria his heart sinks, no Mail Girl. His mind is racing, did she not really like him, and did she mean another day? Then he felt a soft nudge on his shoulder, and the voice that he re-played in his mind a hundred times in the last twenty-four hours, hey, you beat me here.

Walter turned around, cleared his throat, and said, I was going to start eating without you. To which Mail Girl smiled, and said, now, you wouldn’t do that would you.

Walter felt himself blush, no of course I wouldn’t.

Walter picked at what he would normally describe as rabbit food, and talked about Lady Gaga and the Kardashians and whatever else he thought was current, and then sat back and listened to Mail Girl’s voice.

Then as if possessed, Walter blurted out, have dinner with me in Paris!

Mail Girl laughed, and said, you’re silly. Again his heart sank, and then Mail Girl said, you were joking, right?

Walter looked up, and said, I’ve never been more serious.

LAST ONE TO DIE is officially out: A discount code was added, when you order at: https://www.createspace.com/3669330 type in FGACJX53 and receive 10% off.

Siouxsie & the Banshees
Once Upon a Time: The Singles
December 1981
Geffen/Warner Bros. (USA);Polydor (UK)
Producers: Siouxsie and the Banshees, Nigel Gray, Steve Lillywhite, Nils Stevenson, Mike Stavrou

Siouxsie Sioux – vocals
Steven Severin – bass
Budgie – drums
John McGeoch – guitar

1. Hong Kong Garden (Sioux/Severin/McKay/Morris)
2. Mirage (Sioux/Severin/McKay/Morris)
3. The Staircase (Mystery) (Sioux/Severin/McKay/Morris)
4. Playground Twist (Sioux/Severin/McKay/Morris)
5. Love in a Void (Sioux/Severin/Morris/Fenton)
6. Happy House (Sioux/Severin)
7. Christine (Sioux/Severin)
8. Israel (Siouxsie & the Banshees)
9. Spellbound (Siouxsie & the Banshees)
10. Arabian Knights (Siouxsie & the Banshees)

Christine is good, Spellbound is good, and they should have included their cover of 20th century boy. The rest is pretty much crap.

If you don’t own it, find the single for Christine, screw the album.

Rating: * ** one out of three stars

On to the story . . .

In 1986 my brother and I were involved in, what would be considered, a mini-gang war on our street in suburban Reseda. I was two years out of high school, working a late shift at a mall record shop; I came home at about 9:00 or 10:00 one Friday night to find my mom pacing the house, looking through every curtain in the place, generally freaking out. I immediately asked her what’s wrong, and my mom tells me the following:

My brother has a girfriend at school, due to some craziness, my brother transfers to another school, his girlfriend is still at the old school. A new guy starts digging her, so he tells her that my brother is basically honkin’ on every chick he sees at the new school (bet you didn’t see that coming).

So my brother calls this guy John, and tells him to keep his mouth shut or they are going to have a problem. All seems cool until one night John goes up to Skateland in Northridge (Parthenia and Lindley, it’s still there), gets to drinking and hatches a plan, he chats up every little Cholo he can find in the place and by the end of the night he has recruited three cars full of people to come attack. The last bit of business to take care of – the call. He called my brother and essentially tells him this is the last night of his life. That’s when I get home to a panicky mom.

I tell her that everything will be all right, I’d take care of whatever is happening. I went to the kitchen and retrieved a foot long fishing knife, it had ridges on the blade and a “U” shaped hook on the nose. My mom comes into my room, I already have the knife down my waist-band in the back of my pants, and says my brother received another call, and John said “gang-members from Pacoima” are on their way. Again I assure her no harm will come.

I sit in my room, at the front of the house, with the curtain pulled back, watching everything on out street.

After about twenty minutes three cars drive super slow down our street, pause in front of the house, then park in front the house next door. I slipped out the backdoor and went to the front yard through the back gate. There they were, fifteen to twenty wannbe vatos and losers recruited by John. All standing on the sidewalk across from our house, almost as if, now that they’re here, they’re not sure as to the next step.

So, I walk across the street and in the middle of all these “gangsters” is John, I ask him politely, what it is that he needs, exactly? His response was, “Fuck you, get your brother.” So I tell him, that was rude, and I am willing to handle this situation, either with him or the biggest guy in his “crew.”

Right as this is happening a neighbor of ours, Chuck, comes walking out. Chuck, kind of yells, What’s up Mike?” Chuck lived with his older brother, his older Brother’s Wife, Donna, and his younger Brother Dwayne – who we affictionatley called Brain-Dead Dwayne, for his love of Weed. Chuck and his family were basically white trash, but they were cool.

Chuck sees me talking to John, and the hesher blood in Chuck gets pumped, and he starts asking John, “What are you going to do now? You came all the way out here.” Then Chuck’s sister-in-law Donna comes walking out with a sprinkler-key as a cane. She asks John what the problem was, and he spouts off with a “Fuck you bitch!” Donna bangs him in the nuts with the sprinkler key, John doubles over.

As that’s happening my brother looks out the window and sees me and Chuck and Donna talking, so he comes out and says, “What’s up guys?,” then he sees John, and it becomes a slow-motion NFL clip, he comes running over to John and grabs him by the throat and crotch and slams him to the ground, sits on his chest and pummels his face.

Then all hell breaks loose, as I’m trying to get my brother back in the house this white guy in John’s crew who uses arm crutches to get around starts beating the hell out of me from behind, I turn to block the right crutch, and the knife I had forgotten about starts cut me in the back, so I take it out and as I do this guy, Chris, charges me wailing with the crutches, I turn around to push him and I end up cutting his shirt and chest open. Everybody screams and starts to scatter, “He’s got a knife.”

Twenty seconds from the time my brother got John on the ground, blood and screams were everywhere, both belonging to John. He was crying, “Get him off of me, get him off of me!” This attack of twenty guys-on-one hadn’t quite worked out his way.

I start to pull my brother away and he grabs my hand to push me back and he grabs the knife and cuts himself, I’m two for two here. Finally me and Chuck get my brother up, and towards the house.

Everybody runs to their cars, just then my mom walks out and starts yelling at the cars “Get the fuck off my street!” My brother and I laugh, this is a woman who is about five foot four inches, and up to that point had never said “Darn,” but now here she is a lioness trying to protect her cubs. Funny stuff.

As John is driving away he throws a few more threats, we throw whatever we can find in the gutter at their cars.

Chuck pulls me aside and says he heard one of them saying they were going back to Skateland, “Let’s get ‘em.” We hop into Chuck’s black truck, and go.

We tell the security at Skateland we are there to pick up our little brothers, they let us in, nothing. We hang out in the parking lot for a half an hour, nothing.

We pit-stop at the corner liquor store we buy some beer, and I buy a copy of Penthouse with Samantha Fox on the cover, outstanding.

I get home and my mom and brother are stressed because it appears that John has taken a bite out of my brother’s hand, I confess to the knife, he replies “I thought you were on my side, and you stab me.” The knife was stupid.

Some years later my brother is invited to a party and everybody who was in those cars that night are there, all of them want to make ammends, talk to my brother about this and that, everything thing is cool until midway through the party, Chris, the guy with the crutches starts getting drunk and approaches my brother (crutches are now gone) and says, “Your brother is a pussy for pulling a knife and cutting my chest open.” My brother basically tells him to take a hike, but he reaches out to push my brother, my brother shoves him, so hard in fact, that he goes through a huge tropical fish tank. My brother apologizes to the host and asks to have the bill for the tank sent to him.

It took hours to sleep that night in 1986, that kind of adreneline is hard to shake. This was one of many “wars” my brother and I went through, my brother, often times, did the most damage. 99% of the time, no cops were involved. Weird.

LAST ONE TO DIE is officially out: A discount code was added, when you order at: https://www.createspace.com/3669330 type in FGACJX53 and receive 10% off.

The Menzingers
On The Impossible Past
February 20, 2012
Epitaph Records

Tom May – Guitar, Vocals
Joe Godino – Drums
Greg Barnett – Guitar, Vocals
Eric Keen – Bass

1. Good Things 2:23
2. Burn After Writing 3:03
3. The Obituaries 3:17
4. Gates 4:04
5. Ava House 3:41
6. Sun Hotel 3:51
7. Sculptors and Vandals 2:10
8. Mexican Guitars 3:08
9. On The Impossible Past 1:33
10. Nice Things 3:28
11. Casey 3:42
12. I Can’t Seem To Tell 3:05
13. Freedom Bridge 4:12

There was so much buzz about this album I decided to pick it up (what you thought Epitaph sent me promos to review?!). Pretty good album. There is definite Against Me/Your Arsenal vibe. The pained vocals, the subtle folk influence, punk, but not too punk.

Decent album, Chris Wallace from Your Arsenal is still untouchable vocally.

If you don’t own it, give it a listen.

Rating: ** * two out of three stars

On with the story . . .

On Friday, February 17, 2012, I hopped in the car and spent damn near an hour to get downtown to the La Cita bar. Billy Caldwell of Million Kids and proprietor of the illustrious Spark Plug Magazine put together a very cool get together for staff and friends of the magazine. I’ve been fortunate enough to be able to bring my Mike Check column to their pages since the very first issue.

Anyway, after an hour and approximately eight acts of severe road rage, and the GPS re-mapping my directions at least four times, I get there.

Once inside, there are members of Million Kids, Brainspoon, and Gary 84 and (wait for it . . . ) me!

Here’s the thing the place has a great outdoor patio that plays great punk music until about 9:00 pm, then it changes into a Spanish dance club. Fun place.

So, shortly after 9:00 pm I walk two friends, Kathy and Sasheen, out to their car. We walk out of La Cita, and head down Hill St., when out of the corner of my eye I see a homeless man standing staring off into space.

Normally, when I’m walking female friends or women in my family I put myself in between them and the homeless guy, shaved head guy with his area code on his forehead, that kind of thing.

But the weirdest thing happened, just as we’re right to the homeless guy, my friend Kathy Fox, runs over calls the guy by his name, hugs him, stuffs some money in his hand, and starts talking to him about music, and different events around town.

Now, giving money to a homeless guy isn’t amazing, nor is it the point to the story, it was the physical change in the guy. He was staring into space, catatonic. What Kathy did was show some kindness and respect, not pity (married guys, remember years ago when you were single had were treated with kindness and respect? Yeah, me neither.)

Kathy treated this guy as a person. No one wants to be out there on a cold night hoping to grab a few bucks for a warm cup of coffee.

This is not my typical punk memory, it was more of an eye-opener. I try to help, I give money when I can, but Kathy went one step further, she made a connection, talked to him and made him feel human, even if it was only for a few minutes.

I was humbled. Cheers Kathy!

LAST ONE TO DIE is officially out: A discount code was added, when you order at: https://www.createspace.com/3669330 type in FGACJX53 and receive 10% off.

Dave Marsh, and Kevin Stein
The Book of Rock Lists
1981
A Dell/Rolling Stone Press Book

I book this book at a library sale about a year to a year and a half ago. I’d pack my four-year-old boy into the car and off we’d go. At this point everyone I know has been sent a book from one of these sales, my brother in San Diego has been sent a copy of A Million Little Pieces, and a few Hemmingway books, and my wife and son . . . I lost count. I have even sent my friend Jay a copy of Bukowski’s Post Office. At a buck a book, I can’t help myself.

Over the years I’ve, just about, bought every music book I’ve come across, from biographies on Ray Charles to Keith Moon, from Malcolm McLaren to Jimi Hendrix. So, when I was cruising the aisles at this book sale I came across this copy of The Book of Rock Lists by Dave Marsh, and Kevin Stein, I thought why not? A book like this fits into a category, that a guy named Brian that I used to work with termed bathroom reading. He was a bartender from the Bay Area, and we ended up working for a porn company, more on that another time. Anyway, we were talking about reading Bukowski, and he said Bukowski was perfect bathroom reading, meaning leave it on the toilet tank and pick it up every time you’re in there and you’re never lost as to where you left off and it’s simple fast reading.

So, in a nutshell The Book of Rock Lists is just that great bathroom reading. There were two punk related lists that I had to list here. The book was finished in 1980, but wasn’t published until 1981; with punk still in its infancy there wasn’t much to be written. The writer Dave Marsh was/is a writer for Rolling Stone and he’s best known for his many books on Springsteen, so his punk mentions are more tongue in cheek.

Here are the lists:

PUNK ROCK RECORDS THAT MADE THE BRITISH TOP 20 BEFORE IT WAS FASHIONABLE

The chart positions for each single follows the date on which it first hit that slot.

1. “God Save The Queen,” The Sex Pistols, June 4, 1977 (4)
2. “Pretty Vacant,” The Sex Pistols, July 9, 1977 (6)
3. “Do Anything You Wanna Do,” Eddie And The Hot Rods, August 13, 1977 (9)
4. “Gary Gilmore’s Eyes,” The Adverts, September 27, 1977 (18)
5. “Holidays In The Sun,” The Sex Pistols, October 22, 1977 (8)
6. “Angels With Dirty Faces,” Sham 69, May 13, 1978 (19)
7. “My Way”/”No One Is Innocent,” The Sex Pistols with Ronald Biggs, July 8, 1978 (7)
8. “If The Kids Are United,” Sham 69, July 29, 1978 (9)
9. “Top of The Pops,” The Rezillos, August 12, 1978 (17)
10. “Hong Kong Garden,” Siouxsie and The Banshees, August 26, 1978 (7)
11. “Ever Fallen In Love,” The Buzzcocks, September 23, 1978 (12)
12. “Hurry Up Harry,” Sham 69, October 14, 1978 (10)
13. “Public Image,” Public Image LTD., October 21, 1978 (9)
14. “Germ Free Adolescence,” X-Ray Spex, November 4, 1978 (19)
15. “Tommy Gun,” The Clash, December 2, 1978 (20)

And now the second list:

THE 10 BEST PUNK NAMES
Of Individuals – Bands Too Numerous to Mention

1. Stiv Bators (The Dead Boys)
2. Laura Logic (Essential Logic)
3. Tory Crimes (The Clash)
4. Lux Interior (The Cramps)
5. Johnny Rotten (The Sex Pistols)
6. Rat Scabies (The Damned)
7. Joe Strummer (The Clash)
8. Poly-Styrene (X-Ray Spex)
9. Ari Up (The Slits)
10. Sid Vicious (The Sex Pistols)

Now that I have given you the best parts, you may not need to pick the book up. Amazon lists was revised and re-published in 1994, so these early punk lists may have been removed. It was a fun book.

For all you “punk scholars,” these are not my lists, so before you start freaking “you don’t know shit, Dr. Know from Bad Brains has the best punk name in the fucking world.” I didn’t make these up. So, put on your helmet and stop licking the glass on your small bus and enjoy the article.

If you don’t own it, give it a read.

Rating: ** * two out of three stars

LAST ONE TO DIE is officially out: A discount code was added, when you order at: https://www.createspace.com/3669330 type in FGACJX53 and receive 10% off.