I  not only enjoy  making music and listening to music, I like to write about it. My main outlet for writing is Outsider Magazine of Newburgh, NY. I've contributed many articles to their fine pages. Below are a few of them.

SEEING NIRVANA IN A SMALL CLUB (5/19/23)

        (the video I shot can be found here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=a-0sr5k6jPw&t=1300s)

OUTSIDER 's Connecticut bureau chief Cholly Bursitis interviews legendary Danbury scenester Malcolm Tent about the night he saw Nirvana in a small New Haven nightclub.

C: So what possessed you to go see a band like Nirvana?
MT: It was a Thursday night and I needed something to do! My band (The Bunnybrains) had just finished recording a full length album. My birthday was a few days after that. I was in the mood to celebrate.

CB: Why Nirvana?

MT: I loved "Bleach". I'm a child of the 70's and I grew up on a steady diet of Grand Funk and Black Sabbath. Nobody but nobody played music like that in the 80's or 90's except the Melvins and a couple of others. Soundgarden, for example. And I honestly never cared for Soundgarden. "Bleach" came out of nowhere with that sludgy, heavy sound. I latched right on to it.

The funny thing is Nirvana released a 7" single after that called "Sliver". I didn't like "Sliver" at all. I thought it was lightweight and irrelevant.

CB: So you went to see them anyway?
MT: Strictly on the strength of "Bleach". Plus I had to correct a mistake I made.

CB: What was that?
MT: I could have seen them twice on the "Bleach" tour!

CB: Why didn't you?
MT: It was before I'd heard "Bleach". A friend of mine discovered them early on and invited me to see them at the Pyramid in NYC and at Maxwell's in Hoboken. I didn't go because it was a long drive and I didn't know the band.

CB: Ouch!
MT: Yeah, I know!

CB: Did you have any sense that you were about to witness history?
MT: None whatsoever. It was just a gig in New Haven on a Thursday night. I was almost more excited that my friends' band was opening.

CB: Who was that?
MT: Hed, from Danbury. They should have ruled the Earth.

CB: If it was no big deal, why did you videotape Nirvana's performance?
MT: I tape everything! Funny thing is, my preferred medium is audio. I don't have enough patience to stand around with a video camera and watch the show from a viewfinder (Remember, this was 1991. The technology was way different). Plus I don't want to just sit around afterward and watch the whole thing. With audio I can set it and forget it.

CB: Why didn't you audio tape?
MT: Nirvana has so much gear on stage that I couldn't find a spot to set up my recorder. And they hogged all the electrical outlets. (I was using a home cassette deck at the time. That's how you got the best results back then.)

But a friend of mine brought his video camera. Those things were big and cumbersome back then. Also very expensive, so not everyone had one. It recorded onto VHS. He wanted to tape Hed's set. He wasn't interested in Nirvana at all. I figured that since I couldn't audio tape and a video camera was close at hand, why not?
CB: What do you remember most about the show?
MT: Watching it through the viewfinder! Which was kind of annoying because it was really small. And I didn't know how to zoom in or do anything other than just point and shoot. My favorite memory is when the battery ran out on the video recorder, I ditched it and went right up to the front of the stage. I stood in front of Chris (as he was called then) Novoselic and let the bass sludge wash over me.

The dude was tall! His guitar strap was too short so he used a white sock to lengthen it. And he chatted a little with us between songs.

CB: How was the crowd?
MT: About what you would expect at an indie rock show in 1991. There were a lot of people there but it didn't sell out.

CB: Did you enjoy the show?
MT: I thought it was pretty decent. The best part was the two opening songs: a Vaselines song and a Velvet Undergroud song.

CB: A week or so later they started to explode.

MT: Right. "Teen Spirit" was getting some college radio airplay but the video hadn't aired yet. The album had come out a few days before and it was the same deal. Some college play but not much else. No one really thought it was going to be huge. Indie bands who signed to majors typically didn't go too far.

CB: The video you shot has over a million views on Youtube. What do you think about that?
MT: If I had a nickel for every view, OUTSIDER's Hawaii correspondent would be interviewing me now!

It was just an average night out for a bunch of Danbury scenesters. Nobody thought they were about to partake in a history making event. We had a couple of things to celebrate. What better way than to catch a show?

My band, The Bunnybrains, had just finished recording a full length album. My birthday had been few days prior. Nirvana, one of the groups favored by us in the underground scene, was playing at the Moon in New Haven. The Moon was one of our favorite venues in one of our favorite towns. Danbury legends Hed were opening.

It was a Thursday night. I was sporting a brand new Kiss baseball cap I'd gotten for my birthday (Kiss in 1991 were not even close to being cool. But I liked their old stuff and a gift is a gift so I wore it proudly). I was excited to finally get a chance to see Nirvana. I'd had a couple of opportunites to catch them in 1989 but I didn't go. I'd only heard of them and didn't feel like driving all the way to NYC area on a couple of weeknights.

Then I heard "Bleach" and my mind was blown. It was one heavy, sludge feast of rock and roll. The Melvins, who I loved, were the only band playing anything similar. "Bleach" quickly became a heavy rotation favorite in my station wagon's cassette player. After "Belach" they released a single called "Sliver". I didn't like it. Too poppy. But I still wanted to see this band and New Haven was a lot closer than either NYC.

Music was really happening in 1991. For whatever reason, everything to make a healthy scene fell into place. There were places to play, good radio stations, lots of zines, and tons of bands all playing original underground music. It was cool to be in a band, go see bands, write about bands, or buy records. Everything was happening in the right places at the right time. Something was definitely in the air.

Nirvana were good, but nothing special. They were just one of the many many touring bands making the rounds at the time. They were on Sub Pop, which carried some weight, but lots of bands were on Sub Pop. It was interesting that they had signed to a major, but it wasn't a big deal. Plenty of indy bands had signed to majors and not much had happened with any of them. Usually they'd release an album or 2 on the major and get dropped because they didn't sell that well. (One notable exception was Sonic Youth. They actually enjoyed some success after their major label album came out. And they were allowed to keep their integrity, which was rare indeed.)

THAT TIME I BOOKED GG ALLIN AT AN ART SCHOOL  (12/4/16)

(listen (and maybe order the cd/ dvd package here)): ggallin.bandcamp.com/album/its-not-the-money-its-the-mission-3

So, how did GG Allin and the Disappointments come to play an art college in New York State? Pretty much by accident, as so many great moments in history occur.

They were originally booked to play at an underground nightclub in Danbury, CT. Or, I should say, GG was booked to play a solo acoustic show at an underground nightclub in Danbury. Then it morphed into GG playing with a Connecticut all star backing band featuring Malcolm Tent (that's me) on guitar, Bobby Bunny (of Ultrabunny) on bass, and Paul Ledney (of Profanatica) on drums.

Then the people at the club heard a little about GG's stage show. They canceled the gig and fired the guy who booked it... two days before the show. This was kind of a problem in the pre- internet days. It was a little more difficult for touring bands to stay in touch with promoters when they were on the road- especially when you were GG Allin and you were partying in New York City. He and the Disappointments spent a few days there before the Danbury show "drinking and whoring", as they put it.

Which meant that staying in touch with the promoter in Danbury wasn't much of a priority. Which meant that I didn't know where they were, when they would arrive, or where I would put them when/ if they showed up.

Meanwhile, I had to find a new venue for the gig. There were no other nightclubs in Danbury and none of the other places I was friendly with would touch a GG Allin show. But luckily, Bobby Bunny was a student at SUNY Purchase (for you out of towners, that's the State University of New York located in the town of Purchase). Luckier still, SUNY Purchase was an art school and fairly liberal about what the students could get away with on campus. Bobby said we could have the show in one of the basement rehearsal rooms under the dorms. Awesome! The show was on.

Still meanwhile, I hadn't heard from GG. It was now the day before the show and... nothing. It wasn't until about 1:00 in the morning that I heard a truck pull up and disgorge its contents- GG Allin and the Disappointments.

At first, as far as I was concerned, The Disappointments lived up to their name. I wasn't expecting for GG to bring a band. I really really really wanted to play backup for GG. Our group had rehearsed a lot and I thought we sounded good and tight. It was indeed a mighty disappointment to realize that I wouldn't be on stage the next night.

GG and the boys had nowhere to stay and I had nowhere to put them other than the empty space where my record store used to be (said record store would be Trash American Style, which I was moving to a new location. I lived upstairs.) I wasn't paying rent there but I still had a key to the front door so I was able to furnish band hospitality.

The night passed uneventfully other than GG knocking at my door sometime around 5:00 AM to say he was thirsty. I offered him the pitcher of grape Kool Aid that was in the fridge and he accepted. (The next day, after everybody left, I found the pitcher rinsed and sitting in the sink.)

A few hours later I was awakened to the sounds of bumping, thumping, and yelling. GG and The Disappointments were awake and rambunctious; arm wrestling and horsing around. I walked to the corner convenience store and bought a dozen eggs, a bag of bagels, and a pound of coffee. My (at the time) wife cooked it all up and we fed the GG and crew. It turned out they hadn't eaten the whole time they were in New York City. I have never seen plates cleaned so thoroughly so quickly. After a little breakfast they were one happy band.

We spent the rest of the morning hanging out watching GG Allin videos. The Disappointments had never seen GG in his early phase and were quite surprised that the pretty young thing on the cover of "Always Was, Is, And Always Shall Be" was the same unwashed degenerate they were sharing the front cab of a pickup truck with. (Side note: some of The Disappointments happily took advantage of our hot shower. GG said that showering was for pussies.)

Later we went to a friend's basement to pick up the PA. GG jammed a bit on the drums and a Vox 12 string guitar. He was good at both. The Disappointments were visibly relieved when GG said he wanted to ride to the gig with me. I guess that cramming 5 dudes and all the gear into a pickup truck with a shell led to a few tensions.

On our way to the show we talked mostly about the Stones. GG loved Brian Jones because he was beautiful and yet demonic. GG said that "Their Satanic Majesties Request" was his favorite Stones album and we bonded a little bit over that because it's probably my favorite as well. (Most people hate it.)

Upon arriving on campus, GG tried to score some drugs, but with no luck. The problem was that none of the students could supply him with anything hard enough. We did score some food, though, which made everybody happy. Each of The Disappointments enjoyed a nice meal courtesy of SUNY's food services department. GG ate a big hunk of bologna. According to the dudes in the band, if GG ever ate, it was meat. Nothing else.  After a run to the local liquor store, GG started drinking and getting himself psyched for the show, which meant working himself into a very, very foul mood. By gig time GG was drunk and pissed off.

Through word of mouth and a couple of hand made flyers, Bobby was able to get a decent sized crowd out to the show. The problem was that everybody was broke (or at least claimed to be) and couldn't/ wouldn't pay anything to see the show.

GG was already blind with whiskey and rage, but this put him over the top. During the first song he attacked the audience and cleared the place out. GG and The Disappointments then proceeded to play the most intense set of rocknroll I have ever seen. To an empty room. Hell.... their soundcheck was more intense than most gigs I've been to and that was played to an empty room. Every bit of tension that had been bottled up in that pickup truck came exploding out of the band when it was time to hit the stage. The audience was irrelevant.

That's when I was no longer disappointed that The Disappointments were there. They were tight, road tested, and ferocious. And it was a damn good thing that GG showed up with them because the little group that I put together (except for Bobby Bunny) completely no- showed. They were the real disappointments.

GG used the microphone as a weapon and over the course a few songs it was destroyed. Then someone pulled the fire alarm and the cops showed up. We successfully smuggled GG out of there and the gig was officially over. On the ride back home GG was ecstatic because he'd gotten away with it again.

The next day I was again awakened at an ungodly early hour by the sounds of GG and The Disappointments roughhousing it.  They weren't going at it as hard because GG had twisted his ankle at the gig, but they were still loud enough for one of my neighbors to call the cops and tell them to clear out of the storefront.

They didn't really care, though, because GG was anxious to start the drive to his next gig, which was a few hours away in Albany. They weren't due to play there until a couple of days later, but once GG was done with a town, he was done with it. So off they went, never to be seen in Western Connecticut again. As a parting gift, GG gave me an autographed copy of the "Banned In Boston" CD. It was inscribed to David Peel, but far be it from me to look a gift horse in the mouth.

A friend of Bobby Bunny's videotaped the show, and I audio taped it with a 4 track recorder.  I was hesitant to release it because I wasn't sure if the quality was good enough. The music sounds great, but GG was waging war with the microphone and you can hear it dying a violent death during the performance. But since it was such a great show, I played it for a few other GG fans. They gave it the thumbs up, so here I put it out. The complete concert and one song from the soundcheck fit on a 7".

Big props to The Disappointments for being a killer band and for being true road warriors. They paved the way for the Murder Junkies and enabled GG to take his mission to the masses for real.  Hopefully the recording will give you a taste of what life on tour was like for these guys and will put a little danger into your rocknroll.

RANDOM SIGHTINGS WHILE TOURING (6/28/24)

I have been a DIY touring musician since 2011. My travels have taken me all over the United States several times, Mexico on a couple of occasions, England and Northern Europe twice, and Canada once. 

Being DIY means exactly what the initials stand for: doing it yourself (or, as the case may be, myself). I book all the shows, do all the driving, run the merch table, and play the music. 39 times out of 40 I couch surf, sleeping in the homes of the promoters or friendly fans.

I have done some touring on a larger scale. This means traveling on a bus, staying in hotels, and having agents and managers to do the grunt work. That sort of touring is definitely not bad. It has real advantages, such as being a lot less labor intensive! Also, the amenities are typically nicer and more likely to be supplied by the promoter. 

On the other hand, DIY touring offers something that big time touring cannot. And that is getting to see the world from the street level and on your own schedule. On a big time* tour, you typically wake up every morning in a hotel room that looks like every other hotel room you've ever stayed in. When you look out the window, you will most likely see a freeway entrance ramp, an ugly cluster of chain restaurants, or other scenes of suburban blight.

When touring DIY, you typically wake up in a place which has personality and a style all its own. When you look out the window, you never know what you will see. One time in England it was a flock of sheep in the back yard. In Ypsilanti it was the three huge smokestacks that dominate the cityscape. In San Francisco it was a breathtaking view of the entire city and the bay. Quite often it's a pleasant spot where you can go outside and eat breakfast while enjoying the scenery. 

In short, DIY touring is more work, but the scenery is usually a lot better. And, since I do all the driving, and I love to take scenic routes, I end up seeing some really amazing sights that you don't get by interstate travel. 

Tallulah Gorge is one. It's reputedly the deepest canyon east of the Mississippi. I came upon it quite by accident while driving through rural Georgia. I just happened to see a small, easy to miss sign for it. There were no billboards, directional signs, or any obvious indications that it was there. I was able to park right by very edge of the Gorge. I was the only person there. The Gorge is not very wide, but holy smoke! It is DEEP. I got some pretty bad vertigo when I looked down into it and could not see the bottom.

Once I played on a boat on the Thames River in London. It was moored by the Westminster section of the city, which is very old and chock full of scenery. Yes, you will see the touristy places, such as the houses of Parliament (which really are a sight to behold), but I most enjoyed the weird sights that lurked unexpectedly. Like the graves that are embedded in old walls that border the streets and sidewalks. 

You're walking down the sidewalk, and you look over at the wall next to you, and there are headstones built into the wall! They're fully engraved with names, dates of birth and death, and typical headstone inscriptions. They just happen to be in the middle of a very busy city, embedded in a wall.

Some of them are in traffic circles with traffic so heavy that you can't even get close enough to look at them. They're practically abandoned graves, but surrounded by the tumult of the city.

One place I will never forget, that no major Interstate goes anywhere near, is the Salton Sea. Located in the the low desert of California, it's an artificial lake that at one time was promoted as an inland water paradise.

But over time, runoff from the heavy agricultural surrounding it (combined with other factors) turned it into a stagnant, foul smelling ecological disaster. On a bad day you smell it before you see it, no lie. Long stretches of the beach were inches deep with what seems like very coarse sand. In reality, it's bones from all the washed up dead fish, who were killed by the pesticides in the agricultural runoff. The shoreline is littered with the mummified corpses of birds who have eaten the dead fish. It is the most apocalyptic place I've ever been.

There are numerous old towns dotting the shore, most of them in varying stages of abandonment and decay. A few hardy people still live there. All I can say is they are made of much sterner stuff than I am. Still, the place has a surreal, desolate beauty to it. If you love the macabre, I recommend the Salton Sea.

Very close to the Salton Sea is Slab City. Slab City was once a military base, which was abandoned sometime in the 1950s. When the military left, they removed all of the portable buildings, leaving behind only the concrete slabs that the buildings rested on. Exactly who owns the land that Slab City occupies is apparently a matter of debate. The one thing that everybody seems to agree on is that nobody wants it - not the state of California, none of the nearby towns, nor Imperial County.

Because of it's complete lack of jurisdiction, squatters have been attracted to the place for decades. It's billed as the last free place on earth. Anybody can go and live there as long as they want, rent free. Of course, there's no running water, no electricity, no sanitation facilities, and no services. But hey... if you are the rough and rugged type and you think you have what it takes to live in the middle of the scorching California desert, Slab City is the place for you.

Slab City actually has a venue, called The Range. I've played there a few times and it'ss always a very bizarre and fantastic scene. Slab City denizens are, as you might imagine, a unique breed. When the music is hot and the vibe is right, magic can result. I've experienced it, and it's a wonderful thing. Pretty sure I couldn't live there, though.

Next to Slab City is Salvation Mountain. It was built single-handedly by a religiously obsessed recluse out of plaster and bales of hay. It's an endless struggle to keep the place from crumbling back into the desert. Luckily, Salvation Mountain has a dedicated staff of caretakers who work on it constantly to keep it intact. It's a beautiful and unique place of naive religious art that attracts people from all over the world. Like everything else in the vicinity, it's not in any of the official tour books. You really have to know what you're looking for to find it. Which are reasons why I love it so much.

Whatever your political bent, you've got to admit that it's cool to find important historical spots- especially by accident in random places. That's what happened one afternoon while I was playing a gig in Jackson, Michigan.

Jackson is a small city and rather depressed; kind of like a miniature Detroit. Formerly vibrant neighborhoods are now pockmarked with vacant lots and burned out houses. The remaining residents of Jackson live side by side with the vacant lots where their neighbors once dwelled. 

Ironically, I was playing a house show there and had some time to kill before things began. While walking around the semi-urban wasteland of Jackson, I (almost literally) bumped into a historical marker. It was on the very spot where the Republican Party was born. The spot itself was undistinguished and a little run down. One would think that the site of such an historically important event would have a little more pizzazz to it. You know... tour buses, a visitor center, maybe a gift shop. But there it was, forlornly stuck out in the middle of nowhere, all by itself in the ruins of Jackson, Michigan. And I just happened to stumble across it. 

On a similar note, in a cemetery in Troy, New York, is Uncle Sam's grave. Yes, there really was an Uncle Sam. He is very dead and buried in Troy. Make of that what you will.

*term used loosely.

OBSESSED WITH DEVO SINCE 1978. WHY?? (6/15/25)

In 1978, there was a whole set of terms which did not exist. Cosplay, virtual reality, genetic engineering, computer generated music, corporate owned life forms, music videos... these were ideas that your average Joe and Josephine couldn't even imagine. 

But a bunch of very non-average spuds from the post-  industrial wilderness of Akron, Ohio were not only conceptualizing these ideas, but basing an entire body of work around them. And unleashing them without explanation on a world that was not ready.

The first salvo was delivered in 1978, which was a pivotal year for yours truly. Until then, I was a proud member of the Kiss generation. From 1975 when I heard "Rock and Roll All Night" on the local top 40 radio station up until the 1978 release of "Double Platinum", Kiss was the be all and the end all.

But by the time 1978 rolled around, Kiss seemed like kid stuff. And I no longer consider myself a kid. (I was, after all, 13 going on 14.) I no longer want to be associated with what my little brothers were into. And both of mine were still way into Kiss.

In the summer of that year I discovered the Rolling Stones. I didn't understand how or why, but there was something sinister and forbidden about them. Something mature. This seemed like music for grown ups. That same summer I became aware of punk rock. This punk rock stuff made Kiss look and sound silly. I was starting to become a musical adult.

My source of information about was cool in music was Creem Magazine. Creem was truly subversive. Their covers always featured the latest popular, easy to digest rock stars. But inside were articles about all kinds of obscure, arcane, and genuinely cool bands. Ever issue provided an education in what good music was. I never missed an issue.

In that crucial summer of 1978 I saw an advertisement in Creem that blew my mind. The ad was full page and full color- predominantly green, yellow, and purple. The centerpiece was a bizarre looking guy wearing a golf hat, a sneer on his strangely shaped face. He was superimposed over a large golf ball. The ad read "the important sound of things falling apart." Crooked cartoon letters in multiple colors spelled out the letters D E V O. It was the weirdest looking thing I had ever seen. I had no idea what it was, but I knew I had to find out.

Soon thereafter, my family took its usual weekend trip to the local mall. I, as always, made a beeline to the record store, which was chock full of the hits of the day: Lynyrd Skynyrd, AC/DC, Molly Hatchet, the Bee Gees, Village People, and whatever else was in rotation on top 40 radio. Hidden away amongst that musical detritus was a very small punk rock section. It was stocked with 25 or 30 albums, tops. And wouldn't you believe it, but that very same album I had seen in Creem Magazine was on a display over that bin. I did not hesitate in plunking down the $5.99 needed to take it home.

The album packaging was just as enigmatic as the advertisement. Both the front and the back cover sported the sneering dude on the golf ball. The inner sleeve was scattered with low resolution photos of odd looking people posed strangely and dressed in weird masks and costumes,. The lyrics were printed, but condensed and abbreviated. There was one photo of the band, all dressed in baggy yellow industrial coveralls. They were identified by first name only. 

The music didn't sound like anything that I had ever heard before. It certainly had nothing in common with "Disco Inferno", "Fool For The City", or "Shake Your Booty". No, this album had song titles like "Space Junk", "Shrivel Up", "Slap Yer Mammy", and "Too Much Paranoias". The song titles were very appropriate, considering how the music sounded- jagged, disjointed, jerky, and harsh. Enough to give my father a headache when I played it for him. It took some getting used to, but I liked it. A lot.

None of it made any sense. The images and lyrics didn't seem to have anything to do with each other. And the music emanated from another planet. But somehow the whole presentation was consistent. It had a logic to it. I just could not decipher what that logic was.

Devo were no help. Every once in a while there would be an article about them in one the rock magazines. None of the questions asked of them were answered in regulation rock star fashion. The band spoke in alien jargon. There were no tales of groupies or destroyed hotel rooms or "getting down" on stage. Instead they waxed about "recombo DNA", "hologram concerts", "Chinese computer rock and roll", "corporate life forms", and the cast of characters who populated the Devo universe. All without any background or context.

On the occasion that they or their films appeared on television, it was more of the same. A band who looked like no other, sounded like no one else, and explained nothing in easy to digest terms. A huge puzzle, if you will. I was confused but I was hooked. I really wanted to figure out what that puzzle meant.

That was 47 years ago and I am still deciphering the total package that is Devo. Their concept is complete, carefully thought out, and perfectly executed. But it is expressed in a language and imagery all of its own. None of which the members of Devo ever explained in terms that casual record buyer could understand.

In short, they created an alternate reality. A reality populated by genetically modified organisms who work for multinational corporations. Devo's function in that reality is to entertain. Their audience is other genetically modified organisms who work for multinational corporations and who serve very specific purposes. 

These creatures are completely disconnected from nature and all things natural. Their uniforms are not designed to look cool. They are protective gear, necessary for survival in the toxic, polluted, synthetic environment that Devo and their audience live in.

Their stage movements are also not meant to be cool. They are the movements of heavily tampered with mutants who don't know how to move any other way. They never smile when they perform. They don't engage the audience in standard rock and roll banter. They're not programmed to. They are designed to do their job as quickly and efficiently as possible, and then return to their quarters.

Like professional wrestlers in the days before WWE, Devo never broke character. Every interview, every photo shoot, every television appearance was performed as the GMO's of Devo, Inc. That, combined with the band's hostility toward the music industry and its minions, made it difficult to understand where they were coming from. But they were absolutely consistent in coming from the same place every time.

Each album had a different presentation. No two albums looked or sounded alike.  Each feature new costumes, new ideas, new rhetoric, and new sounds. None of which was explained in the language of middle America.

Now we know that what Devo called "recombo DNA" are GMO's. "Chinese computer rock and roll" turned out to be sampling and AI. A "hologram concert" is now commonly referred to as an "avatar performance". "Promotional film clips" predated music videos. Selling replicas of their stage costumes via order forms in their albums helped invent cosplay. "Corporate life form" is self explanatory, even though it had no context or antecedent in 1978.

Many rank and file music consumers were turned off by such obliqueness. But some of us were completely drawn in and enchanted by the secret world of Devo- a world far removed from the mudane dreariness of our suburban existences. Even now, decades later, the riddle of Devo captivates, intrigues, and baffles. Enough to keep me entertained and intrigued for years yet to come.

SEEING DEVO IN 1980 AND THEN PLAYING WITH THEIR RHYTHM SECTION IN 2017 (8/21/17)

(audio recording of the 1980 concert is here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=EDmQVcu8EMU

video of the 2017 performance is here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=uudOk3-zeXw&list=PLzp4wNZt2B3DAqRGVPUWkhmiCre8iI_8m&index=37)

Sometime around 6th grade I became an alien. I could not relate to flannel shirts, football games, or pickup trucks like all the other dudes. I didn't understand their language. My every attempt to speak it failed. Of course, everyone in the 6th grade noticed and made it clear that I was not welcome in their company.

The language I could understand was music. At first it was the regulation stuff. Anything you could hear on the radio in the 1970's- disco, pop, AOR rock.... whatever was in the top 40. That was enough to get me through the night, but then this thing called punk rock came along. Punk rock was better. Punk rockers spoke a slightly different language from all the normal people. I didn't know that was possible! And their music was better, too.

Fast forward a couple of years and new wave came along. This was better still! I could tell that these new wavers were aliens just like me. They too were nerds, geeks, and freaks. But unlike me, they reveled in their outsiderness. They flew the freak flag proudly. They looked cool and sounded cool, almost in spite of themselves. And they weren't afraid to be funny and smart.

Who was the nerdiest, geekiest, freakiest, smartest, funniest band of them all? Devo. They were homely, weird, intelligent, and unapologetic. Plus they rocked hard. Devo spoke directly to me and I was prepared to listen. I had no idea what they were saying most of the time, but I was willing to find out.

Fast forward to 1980. I had to attend summer school after 9th grade because I failed gym class. Here I was, already a complete reject, and now I'm in summer school with a real herd, none of whom were as smart as I was. The lines between me and them were never more clearly drawn. It was hell.

But a little ray of heaven beamed down on me the day that Devo tickets went on sale. Devo? The band who belonged to me? In Miami, the most reactionary city on Earth? Unthinkable! But it was going to happen. And I was going to be there. In the same room as Devo.

S-l-o-w forward to the day of the big event. August 1, 1980. My first concert. DEVO. Me and my only friend (Big Santo, who was possibly even more of a reject than I was) riding with his mom and older brother to the show. We get to the venue and it's filled with people like us. Or more accurately, people we wished we could be. Older, smarter, more together versions of who we were. People who survived public school and were living proof that maybe there was hope for us. It felt good.

So exciting to be in a concert venue! The seats... the lights.... the noise.... everything. And then the moment the lights go down. Holy smoke! I almost couldn't take it! DEVO ARE GOING TO BE HERE. NOW. And sure enough, there they are, walking onto the stage in the dark; red flowerpot hats shining in the murk.

Then the lights go up. The first song explodes. They are LOUD. And NASTY. Not polite at all! The sound is like a huge wave at the beach knocking me over. I connect.

Church means nothing. School means nothing. The mall means nothing. The idiot kids in my neighborhood mean nothing. This means EVERYTHING. I don't know what it is yet, but it shakes me to the core. I'm dancing without thinking. Almost against my will. I'm sweating and shaking. These ugly nerds are my heroes and they are here and they ROCK. I don't realize it yet, but the path is clear and I am on it, never to turn back.The show is over too quickly. My ears are ringing. My head is pounding. I feel like I might pass out. I stumble out to the lobby where the merch table is. I fight through the mob and pay $6 for an energy dome. Big Santo is right behind me. He wants a Devo tee shirt, but the official design is too sedate and too expensive. So he buys a garish, gaudy bootleg tee from some guy on the sidewalk outside. It was less expensive and better looking than the ones Devo were selling inside. Last time I spoke to Big Santo, he still had it.

Fast forward 37 years. I am still an alien. Devo are still my favorite band. I've played hundreds of shows and attended thousands, including a bunch by Devo. I'm still a nerdy fanboy. I fly my freak flag proudly.

Imagine my shock when I get a call: the tribute band who play the annual Devo fan gathering need a guitarist. They want geeky me. To back two members of Devo on a song.

Did it happen? Yes. Was it thrilling? Yes. As thrilling as seeing Devo for the first time? Yes and no.

"No" because I was older. More "mature". My emotions were less raw. Not raging as close to the surface as when I was a kid.

"Yes" because  I had to be on the top of my game. I was. I held my own. It felt good, not least because I wasn't watching from a mile away in the audience. I was watching Jerry Casale, the man who invented Devo, from a few feet away. On stage. Playing music that was LOUD and NASTY.  Playing WITH him while he strummed the same Steinberger bass I watched him strum so many times over the years.

Behind us was David Kendrick. A world class drummer and writer. He and Jerry are heavy dudes. They accepted me as a peer. That's pretty cool for a 15 year old reject doing time in summer school because he failed gym class.

DISCHARGE DEBACLE (12/12/23)

(listen to some astounding Discharge audio from the tour in question here: www.youtube.com/watch?v=fp6vJEsX9YQ)

It wasn't as bad as the other shows on tour. Nobody dumped garbage on the stage. No chairs were thrown. There were only a couple of hecklers. But still, the end was abrupt and undignified.

The year was 1986, when a lot of the classic punk/ hardcore bands went hard rock/ heavy metal. Some made the transition successfully; others did not. This is the story of my encounter with one who did not.

I was introduced to Discharge earlier that year. I heard a mix cassette that had their monumental album "See Nothing Hear Nothing Say Nothing". It was ferocious. The band really did sound like a discharge. Like a bomb going off. Lead singer Cal's voice was a shredded bark, shouting out the minimal lyrics like he was enraged and in a total panic. The music was super simple, driven by a relentless galloping drumbeat. The guitar sounded like a flamethrower.

They captured the spirit of the age perfectly. Nuclear holocaust, outrage at the government, and a constant feeling of anger and despair were the order of the day. Discharge had all that in their words and music, times ten.

Their album covers were as intense as the music. Stark black and white imagery that seared your eyeballs. The lyrics, always included, were stripped right down to the very core. There was not a single excess syllable. They hit like a punch in the gut. The band members had spiky hair, spiky vests, and spiky attitudes. This was powerful stuff.

Their records were hard to find in the US, especially in my home of South Florida. But all the punks knew Discharge. They were monumental, legendary. So, it seemed like big news when it was announced that they were playing Fort Lauderdale in the summer of 1986.

South Florida was a cultural wasteland. Some cool bands did play there, but a far greater number did not. Atlanta was as far south as most tours went. The fact that Discharge was breaking the Atlanta barrier and heading our way was exciting indeed! Especially since they rarely toured the US and word had it that they were a ferocious live band.

They had a new album out, their first in four years. I had seen one copy at Underground Records of Fort Lauderdale, who were a dedicated punk rock shop. But that was it. Neither I, nor anyone I knew, had heard it. They had no US record label. There were no articles about the upcoming tour. No reviews of the new album. No photos of the band. No interviews. No radio play. And it should go without saying that there was no internet. Discharge were touring their new release in a vacuum of information about it. Nobody knew what to expect, but they were certainly thinking they would hear some classic D- beat from the band who invented it.

Maybe the cover to the album, called "Grave New World", could have offered some clues. Instead of eye gouging black and white photos of war and devastation, this new album's main image was a faint, indistinct pencil portrait in grey of.... a pirate? Somebody's grandfather? A 1900's circus strong man? It was hard to tell. And certainly not hard hitting.

Regardless, when the big day rolled around, Kathy (my soon to be partner in Trash, and the one who made the Discharge mix tape), her sister, and I made the trek to Fort Lauderdale. The show was a Sunday matinee. Tickets were $8 each. That was kind of steep for a punk rock show at a small club, but we all happily paid. Because this was a rare US appearance by the mighty Discharge, in South Florida of all places!

The venue was the Button South, a strip bar that sometimes hosted live music but really wasn't a proper club. Surprisingly few people were there for what I thought for sure was going to be a big event. In fact, none of the usual South Florida punk stalwarts were in attendance. There might have been 15 or 20 people at the show, tops. That included our party of 3 and a few drinkers at the bar. It was pretty quiet in there. Definitely no buzz in the room at all.

The opening act was The Drills, one of Broward County's top metalcore bands. They were tight, loud, and fast. Great as usual. The small crowd was appreciative.

Then came the big moment. Discharge was in the house! Or were they? The 4 dudes who walked on the small stage of the strip club didn't look at all like the gritty English punks on those classic album covers. Three of them had regulation rock and roll hairdos, long and coiffed. The bassist had an absurd frizzy mop of dyed black fibers spraying out from his scalp in every direction. I guess it was supposed to be hair. This was years before Kiss made it respectable to wear obviously bad wigs so it looked pretty weird. He also sported a “sleazy” tee shirt with strategically placed rips and tears, straight off the rack. The guitarist's 6-stringer was pink and I'd swear it was made of plastic. Their look was decidedly underwhelming.

They began playing. The music was mid tempo hard rock. Lots and lots of dive bomb lead guitar and heavy leaning on the whammy bar. It was radically different what I'd heard on that cassette a few months prior. Still, it wasn't terrible. Its worst crime was being inoffensive.

The first 30 seconds of the show were decent enough. Then the singer opened his mouth and started to.... squeal. And I mean that. He squealed. Or maybe he mewled like a giant kitten. Or perhaps he was whining and crying. It's hard to describe. Whatever he was doing, it sounded bizarre. And very, very bad. He was able to force his voice all the way up to this one ridiculous high note. And he made sure to hit it every time. The same painfully high note, over and over again. It grated hard and it was impossible to make out what, if anything, he was saying. His intense posing, pouting, and strutting didn't help, either. He looked like he was in love with himself and completely oblivious to the audience.

If there had been more of a crowd it might have ended badly, like it did their opening night in New York. (That show was stopped when HR, of the Bad Brains, emptied a big garbage can on stage. He got the biggest applause of the night.) Plenty of abuse came from the back of the room, courtesy of Kathy and her sister who yelled insults at the band all night. But that was it. The bar patrons (who it seemed to me did not pay to get in) ignored Discharge. The few concertgoers applauded politely, and a couple of headbangers banged away at the front (I was one of them. Why not? I paid the money to get in; might as well have a good time).

The highlight of the whole show came when the singer got tangled up in the mic cable and couldn't free himself. He kept flexing and pouting and meowing while trying to extricate his undulating body from its trap. The band's roadie just sat there offstage, watching with mild interest. It took a while, but he did get free. It was pretty funny.

I could not believe that this was the same band who had blown my mind such a short time ago. I figured it had to be four punx for hire, assembled by some sleazy promoter and just using the name “Discharge”. But then I spotted a Discharge tattoo on the drummer's arm. Then it seemed like it had to be one of those common occurrences in the rock and roll business, where one original (or semi original) member of a band goes on tour with a bunch of new guys using the old name. In that context, the whole fiasco kind of made sense.

It wasn't until much later when I learned that the dude whooping and sniveling into the mic was indeed the once mighty Cal, singer on all those immortal Discharge records. The same guy. And the drummer was Garry, who played on quite a few of them. I was dumbfounded.

I've been told that Discharge in 1982 was the most intense live band ever seen. But not Discharge in 1986. These dudes looked uncommitted at best; bored at worst. Maybe by then they had given up trying. After the receptions they'd gotten so far, I don't think I could blame them if they had. Cal kept rocking on, though, preening and writhing, lost in his own world, whining his one high note over and over again.

The show limped along for about 30 minutes. Then it was announced that the band had to stop. Why? Not because the crowd bottled them off the stage like they did in San Francisco. Nor because they had furniture hurled at them like on tour back in England. Neither had Cal herniated himself while shrieking. No, it was so the Button South could resume their regular program of nude dancers. Apparently nobody was spending any money at the bar, so the band had to go.

And that was that. The gig ended with a literal whimper as Cal bleated out a few closing vocal sounds (I won't say “words” because it was impossible to tell if he actually sang any), Kathy yelled out a couple of final insults (with far more gusto than the band could muster), and the attendees applauded (politely). Normally I would have been upset at spending $8 (that's 1986 dollars, mind you) for a 30 minute show. But it was so lousy I was glad I went. I knew I had witnessed something special. Any aficionado of bad music will know what I mean.

Check out “Grave New World” by Discharge for a truly unique listening experience. I've never made it through the whole thing once. Not even one side of it, for that matter. But whether you end up enjoying it or not, I can guarantee you will never again hear anything like it. No, no. Never again.