HRW ’04 AND EAST COAST TOUR NOTES

ELVISFEST 2003

It was the best of times as we left Oklahoma. Our friend and #1 fan Justin was along for the ride. A Tulsa boy, he distinguished himself early on by showing up at our shows with BJW shirts he had made at home with a Sharpie. He and his sweetie Amber have driven to all our OKC shows of late as well, and are just part of the family. They were planning on flying out for Elvisfest but couldn’t afford it, so Amber allowed Justin to come out by himself in the van with us because it was his birthday or because he was dying of cystic fibrosis or some shit like that. Anyway, we occasionally like to bring an Okie out to these shindigs because we describe it to them and it’s like we’re telling them we saw Bigfoot so we gotta bring along an occasional witness to corroborate the story. Anyway, he came. He drove some, too. Most guests are all like, "oh, I can drive and I don’t eat much and I have a charge card" and then they don’t do shit. Justin was cool though. He drove. But I’m sick of talking about him.

We got to Atlanta for our Friday show, and went straight to East Atlanta Tattoo, Dirk’s shop. Dirk was out for a couple of hours doing something, so we went to former Star Bar owners Marty and Laura’s home to rest for a moment. They have lots of velvet paintings and 2 chihuahuas, one of whom can’t keep his tongue in his mouth when he closes it so he looks like a cross between Ren and Stimpy. Well, we’re watching that movie with the giant killer mexican earthworms when Dirk comes a-knockin’ on the door and we find out what he was out doin’ that afternoon….he was out gettin' married!!! His pick’m’up truck with three PBR cans on the bumper and a "JUST HITCHED" sign in masking tape, I haven’t seen anything that cute since I took that one shit that looked just like Jimmy Brad. Congrats to Dirk and Laura, lower taxes and strong man-children to you both!!!

Anyhoo, we had done eaten at Vortex and so we really couldn’t eat a lot of fancy Thai food at their reception, so we went to the club. Echo Lounge, big place. One of the bands playing was the Creeps, a Social D tribute thing fronted by Jay Bakker, son of Jim & Tammy Faye and the minister who had just joined Dirk and Laura. They were really good, it was fun to hear a minister on stage talking about curb-fucking someone at band practice, Beau did a cool video interview with him that will surely appear on Duct Tape Drummer and Dan got to tell him that an old high school buddy of his played piano on the parent’s old show. He was a good singer and had lots o’ that "star quality", so I’d be interested to see what he’d do beyond the Social D-tribute thing. Mind you, I’ve seen more than a few bands that ate the peanuts out of Social D’s shit but did "originals", so doing a tribute band is honest and like I said it sounded great. Our show was good, not as empty as it could have been in a place that huge.

We slept at Dirk’s and left as early as we could get up. Steve bought a cappacino and a breakfast someshit and a Code Red and an ice cream something and another unidentified beverage and was trying to light a cigar while eating the someshit and holding the cappucino between his legs while driving real fast and the cappicino exploded on his balls and he got mad, real mad like how Donald Duck gets mad when those two goddamn chipmunks fuck up his garden. We made it to Chapel Hill anyway.

We missed Jimmy and the Teasers and Dex and Buzzsawer and TCB since they played Friday so I’m not going to write about their shows since I didn’t see them since I wasn’t there and all. The bands I did see that rocked my world were The Pits, who are nothing but trouble, The Crank County Daredevils, who AC/DC the fuck out, and Psychocharger, who spray a strange nerve gas in the venue before they start that makes you think that fat guys wrapped in saran wrap are sexy. It was late and Psychocharger was tearing it up and everyone was drunk and I figured we’d loose a lot of people but god bless you you stayed. It was another stone ass gass at Local 506. Tony and Carol didn’t show up because they just had their baby the day before. Epiphany Serindipity Ashby. 3:35 AM January 10^th. 7 pounds. Babies are so cool. Every teenager should have one.

All the Teasers were too drunk to drive and Val was about to sleep in their van at the club in the fucking freezing cold so their gear didn’t get stolen so we drove their van and our van to Thern’s apartment complex and said goodbye to the collection of drunks in the parking lot and hit the highway. A great show, a great weekend. What could possibly go wrong? I ask you, WHAT COULD POSSIBLY GO WRONG?

By the time we made it past Nashville were having to keep feeding transmission fluid into the van to keep it from slipping, it was becoming apparent that it was the worst of times. The transmission bid us adieu going up a hill, slipping badly so the motor raced a lot and died, and we had to sit for a while and let the smoke clear and the transmission cool down enough to let us limp to the North 40 Truck Stop in Holladay, Tennessee, to try to find an auto mechanic who would fix our van on a Sunday. Turns out that at the Shell station across the highway there’s a mechanic on call, and he came out and got the van and started working on it that day. Needed to wait until Monday when the boneyards opened to get our new transmission, so the Days Inn was to be our home for the next day or so. Wasn’t so bad, there was an adult bookstore next door and a topless club across the street-both of which were closed on Sunday. We ate at the North 40’s diner which was always full of evil-looking Tennessee troopers and county cops but had a friendly waitress, watched cartoons, Maury Povitch, and Full Metal Challenge on the TV, and waited all day Monday for the only Dodge transmission in the tri-state area to make it in from Kentucky.

Check out time the motel before the van was ready, so the boys minus Manson and Stevo went to the diner to see if they could talk the waitress into showing them her tits while Manson and Stevo went with the mechanic’s wife to the "garage"-a prefab metal building behind the Holladay grade school with a wood-burning stove made of 2 oil drums for heat, and the mechanic’s kid riding around on a mini bike like he was training to be a dirt racer. The mechanic’s wife said their daughter had dyslexia but was studying to be a forensic pathologist, and that it had been a challenge for her getting through high school. She gave us numbers about how few people wound up making it all the way through high school in that town. Stevo asked if there was a local factory or industry the kids went to work for instead, and she said yes-meth labs.

I drove from Holladay all the way back to OKC-about 10 hours. I was scared-scared the van would blow up again, just scared. I had gotten stuck and didn’t know who was going to get my ten-year-old to school and missed work and had been so used to things going off without a hitch that the breakdown was unsettling. Things are good, we have the album coming out and a lot of cool shows coming up. Now we just have to figure out how to get to them…

Good God, what a weekend. What a load of great bands. What a good crowd. This event was a blast the inaugural year, and this year would seem to be the acid test to make it an institution. Look for the photo proof on the photo page. On with our story.

Dantone’s new job didn’t allow him to come out for Friday, so the band minus Dan plus Leala and Sally took off Thursday evening. Lula had an unfortunate bout with stomach flu that kept her home, and was missed by all. While negotiating the I-40 bridge detour, Beau pulled over at a closed gas station to piss or something and while stretching his legs Manson was approached by a friendly chap with a big blue belly under his t-shirt and began asking Manson where they were going and what towns in the Carolinas they had both visited and when Manson bid the gentleman good evening the guy just went to the front of the closed gas station and struck a fuck-me pose against a column, and Sally began giggling because Manson was unaware he had been getting cruised. He wasn’t even wearing his bear shirt that Dustin gave him at Bubbapalooza. Go figure.

The rest of the drive melted away, and the white van found the Millenium Center with a minimum of trouble. Beau and Leala booked a room at the Adam’s Mark just across the street, and Steve and Sally dropped them and Manson off while they went to the Whatisfuck a few miles away where Dale was also holed up. Friday night’s band impressions are as follow:

The Blind Pharoahs- Kicked off the main stage, had a rockin’ honky tonk set.

The Brimstones- My favorite new discovery of the weekend. Organ-driven sci-fi garage surf coolness. From Jersey, met one of them at the Daddys show in New Brunswick.

Polyplush Cats- Arena rock in a garage? Garage rock in an arena? Fuck it, it’s rock, they rock and that’s that.

The Pits- Fucked up and missed most of their set dumping my stuff at the hotel, when I got there the drums were scattered all over the stage and they were righteously mangling a Cramps tune. A clusterfuck I shoulda caught more of.

The Needles- Sharp. Damn sharp.

Straight 8’s- Had the rockabilly crowd jumpin’ in the basement.

Poonhounds- FUCKIN’ MATCHIN’ EVEL KNIEVEL GITARZ!!!!

Jimmy and The Teasers- The basement filled up so full you couldn’t move and they started tearin’ it up.

Dexter Romweber- His new album is genius, his new drummer is up to speed, and he is still the king of the world.

The Candysnatchers- Well, like the day before or something they were booked at the Knitting Factory and got too drunk to play and showed up anyway and got in a fight and got thrown out but said they’d be at HRW for sure but had van trouble or getting a van trouble(gee-I can't imagine anyone not wanting to loan Larry their vehicle)so they cancelled for Friday but someone else cancelled on Saturday so they picked up that show.

Tombstone Daddies- Finally got to see these guys. Tight as hell.

Dragstrip Syndicate- On fucking fire. Always.

Jack Black- Well, why Syrup would opt off on this party is beyond me, but a Jack Black reunion was twice as nice and a great reminder that impresario Dave Quick is as bad a rocker as they make, and that sweet-ass little Johnny would be a swell cellmate…

Day two found Manson waking up in the rollaway bed at Beau and Leala’s suite and hooking up with D and Steve to borrow D’s car to drive to Raleigh-Durham to pick up Dantone. In hooking up the trailer, the chains were positioned in a fashion so that the safety padlocks drug the pavement for the entire trip out, freezing them shut and making the trailer difficult to unhook from the van without a pair of bolt cutters. D offered his car to simplify the airport parking scenario, and Manson took off to get Dantone, missing the burnout competition and pudding rasslin’ competition in the process. Wander over to duct tape drummer or the photo page to catch the lowdown on those events. By the time we made it in, Gravy Boat had finished their first set the rest of the evening went something like this:

Tijuana Bibles- Cool stuff, Johnny from Jack Black and a skinny girl who rocks up front.

Wet Wifebeater Contest- I averted my eyes. Erect nipples under wet cotton make me nauseous.

5-4 Black and White- Dave and yet another crew tear it up again. I think they were a trio last time I saw them, this yer it was like deulin’ banjos…

The Candysnatchers- They were gonna fill Buzzsawers’ slot, but they cancelled again. We were all perplexed and disappointed. I have yet to see Larry outside of Stevie & The Secrets. I hunger for his unadulterated essence.

Gargantua- AAARRRGGHH!!!

These guys are so big…

Leadfoot-

Carl just makes me quiver all over. Big rock Saturday was swell!!

Stinky Sonobuoni- Malcolm Tex, Johnny from Jack Black, I don’t know what his name was from The Trash Mavericks on guitar, and it was the shit. If the Sopranos were a band, Stinky would have you all whacked…

Billy Joe Winghead- I was afraid we’d have a light show in the Jailhouse, but all our friends came back and pelted us with empty and full PBR cans. I don’t know when we’ve had so much fun.

Bitch- Atlanta’s supergroup was a swell capoff for the large stage.

We milled about, said our goodbyes and drove off into the sunrise behind us. We won’t see you at Sleazefest, but we’ll see you around!

Egos are popping and tempers are flaring in the winghead camp over who’s beef jerky reigns supreme. Steve "Mr. Bombastic" Jones’ jerky has been a staple of Winghead life for years, but John "King Kielbasa" Manson has tossed his hat in the ring with his slim-jim style beef jerky sticks that are now a minor sensation at Manson’s place of employment, Bill Kamp’s Meat Market. Steve’s is a classic dried brisket cut, while John’s is from ground beef extruded through a sausage stuffer. Steve received a generous article and photo spread in the Tulsa World, while John’s was praised in Nichols Hills magazine’s Fourth of July party and food guide as "addictive for all ages" and a must for the kids’ table. Rumors have it that Jones and Manson are no longer speaking, and that a only special episode of Iron Chef filmed at the Bud Hoback Pavilion on the Turner Turnpike will settle the issue.

BJW arrived, half by air and half by van on various temporal degrees of Friday. Linda, Leala and Mike Haynes accompanied Beau on the plane, and Sally came with Stevo, Manson, Dantone, and the gear in the van. The van contingent went straight to Local 506, where Manson had to do some quick parking-lot soldering on some loose wires discovered while loading the newly(and swankily) painted theremin. As usual, yours truly was too wound up to do much reviewing of the bands that went before us, but from my backstage vantage I can report that The Immortal Lee County Killers rocked, Bob Log lll rocked AND puked, and The Three Bad Jacks may be the baddest rockabilly band I’ve heard. Ordinarily, you hate to have to follow a band like that but at Sleazefest:

1. There isn’t really a big sense of competition, everybody wants to see everybody do well, and
2. Since almost all the bands kick ass, the "Jesus, I hate to follow those guys" syndrome is kinda inevitable…we had to follow Twin Six twice one year.

We went on about 8PM, and opted to do an axehandle smash on the bologna this year. It was skewed on spikes affixed to the top of the theremin, and while the meat was bashed to atoms the theremin was not harmed in the least. We had fun. Steve dressed funny. Beau kept his pants on. Dan shook his hair a lot.

With the formality of our show dispensed, it was time to get down to the real business at hand, 3 days of watching America’s finest and eating George’s Roast pig. In no particular order, this is what stuck out in my mind.

Buzzsawyer- Saw ‘em at Heavy Rebel, and thought they were good. On the 506 PA, they tore it up. Great band.

The Last Vegas- Soulful guitar rock, good Leslie-cab organ sound & vox harmonies.

Adam West- I had not seen these scary faggots since ex-Twin Sixer Kevin had joined the ranks. Now they are REALLY scary faggots. Best Of Breed in the black-clad fistrock category.

The 45’s- Man! Stompin’ go-go party rock!

SCOTS- full of more twang and funk than little sister’s pussy after two weeks at church camp…

The Ghost Of Rock- Two-piece guitar-drums punk, hit raw and hard.

Geraldine- Build-tempo blues-tinged hard rock, love these guys.

Leadfoot- Leadfoot. Oh, Leadfoot. Leadfoot, Leadfoot, Leadfoot. You see, we spent Heavy Rebel with singer Carl, watching him make Dave Robertson look like a temperate man. We liked his crazy ass. We were looking forward to seeing his crazy-ass band. Well, dear friends, Crazy Carl and Cute Doorguy John and their cohorts delivered. Songs. Soaked in stolen vodka, wrapped in glam and tossed at you like Freddie Mercury’s dirty underwear, but the key word is songs. They know what they’re doing. Go see Leadfoot.

Jimmy And The Teasers- New Teaser. Jimmy’s sexy as ever.

Big Lazy- Still smoky.

Nine Pound Hammer- First time I’d seen ‘em. Not as many tits as Nashville Pussy, but a lot more songs.

The BellRays- Still sassy!

Blind Pharos- Thumpin’ countrock from the New York area.

9^th Wave- Those guys and gals were born to play The Cave. A surfin’ gas!

Stevie And The Secrets- The best I’ve seen them. Larry was a little underwhelmed by the crowd, but they all stood and delivered.

The Clones- Punk rock with a theremin, the guy plays a PAIA and has great tone.

Dexterville- The show is good, the new album, Chased By Martians, is fantastic.

Ultrabait- Sluts.

The Needle and The Damage Done, Part ll- Our friend Dirk from Atlanta made good on his threat to show up at Sleazefest after doing the Heavy Rebel Weekender in July, and Manson got his dream tattoo- the Beverly’s Chicken In The Rough logo, big as shit on his calf. Unbeknownst to Manson, he was getting an image and placement that was classic tattoo joke fodder-"Hey, I’ve got a cock that goes all the way past my knee, wanna see?". Stevo got his wrestling babes recolored, and all involved began planning their next pieces-Steve an alien religion series, and Manson a Jonny Quest series.

Heavy D- those who did not motel it(Manson, Steve, Sally, and Haynes, to be exact) got to spend the weekend in Dale’s swanky backwoods retreat. Haynes, in an alcohol-induced hunger frenzy, opened something in the fridge that he thought was food that turned out to be dead rats for Dale’s boa. We all appreciated the comfort and hospitality.

Poolside- This year BJW managed to make it by 9^th Wave’s Sunday pool party at the Holiday Inn, and were blown away by the mass of blue cocktails and pasty rockers in attendance. Cheers to the Connecticut contingent for putting on such a swell shindig!

HEAVY REBEL WEEKENDER 2001

When Dave Quick first asked us to play The Heavy Rebel Weekender, we had to pass. Our man in California was working on a slot at Hootenanny for the post-July 4^th weekend, and we had already committed to a string of dates out west. Fortunately, the Hootenanny honchos proved as unhelpful as they did last year, giving us an excuse to beg Dave to put us on. He did, and we set out for Winston-Salem after work on Thursday the 5^th, the van loaded down with Winghead wives and beef jerky, arriving at the venue Friday afternoon.

The Millenium Center, an old post office/municipal building in downtown Winston-Salem, was an enormous venue, but with 3 stages and lots of vendors and piercers and tattoers and what-have-you-ers the space was put to good use. It will be very difficult to put the bands I saw in any order of who-played-whendom or who-was-bestdom, but here’s my list of what stuck out in my mind.

Go Fast!- I don’t think they spell their name with an exclamation point, but they fucking need to. Take Skynyrd and 38 Special, soak ‘em in paint thinner to remove any residual tired jamminess, cook it down(low temp, now, don’t want nothin’ to explode), scrape it into your lucky crackpipe and hang on. They was in the basement both times I saw them, and I’m glad our neighbors in Arkansas still breed ‘em loud and crazy.

Gargantua- I knew Shane(which rhymes with "they be somethin’ the matta with that fucker’s brain")from playing with Lust, the Atlanta 3-piece sex-o-rama revue he drums for. He’s on the bass and way the fuck out front with this one, and it was the funnest over-the-top leather cock-rock I’ve seen in a good long spell.

The Needles- Good ol’ hard edged rock, live they had the farfisa thing going that I missed on the album.

Dragstrip Syndicate- Furious live show. Hair and guitars flying. More smash than flash.

Lords Of The Highway- Yeah, so she’s layin’ on her back and her stand-up bass is fucking her. SHE’S GOT GREAT TONE!!! These guys and gals were full of tricks AND licks, went over great with the crowd(and me).

Mystery Addicts- These pallid black-clad lads played a couple of kickass songs, then the pa blew up. They did a superb job of controlling their anger/disappointment, stood around for 15 minutes or so while people desperately poured Fresca on the power amps, then played a few more kickass songs. It happens.

The Merle- I’d seen these guys at the Jack Black farewell to the Big Apple show at the Continental. They smoked. I went down to see some of their set, knowing I couldn’t stay down very long because I had to set up for our show. They’re playing this tune with this weird walkdown in it that just has me stymied, and ol’ boy’s amp blows up. I haven’t got an amp to loan him(Dave’s using it now, then I’m using it), and I haven’t got time to watch the situation resolve itsself. I curse, then go upstairs.

Syrup- Man, these guys are pimps. Big pimps. Big, tall, rock-your-ass pimps.

TCB- Beau said American Trilogy gave him the shivers. Hot backup singers. Awesome sunglasses.

Bitch- Plays everything we listen to on the way to the gig.

Psycho Charger- Fat guys in underwear and blood make me HORNY AS HELL!!!!

Unholy Trio- I saw about 11 seconds of these guys. Ernest Tubb meets Lux Interior. Gawd Damn!!!

X-Impossibles- Were playing downstairs as we were saying goodbye to everyone. Sounded good.

The Days of Wine And Jello- The much-anticipated jello wrestling tournament seemed to be getting off to a slow start. Blonde Stacy was having trouble finding someone to join her in the pool. Fortunately, our man BEAU TURKEY was not about to let this party wither on the vine. He upheld the honor of Winghead and the collective male species by jumping in and letting Stacey win. HEAR THAT, DEVIL DOLL? HE LET YOU WIN!! HE WAS HOLDIN’ BACK!! HE’S A PROFESSIONAL!!

Lotsa Burnouts…And Tire Smoke, Too!- After the judging of the cars at the HRW Car Show, the participants with as much go as show took advantage of the street being closed off to have a burnout competition. The winner in my book(but certainly not the judges)was Dolinger’s P.O.S. Volkswagen. He took off for the bleach with 3 greasers on his running boards looking like some kinda reject from the Shriner’s parade. They held on to doors and bumpers, he revved and popped the clutch and BY GOD HE DID A BURNOUT!! FOREWARDS AND REVERSE!!

The Needle And The Damage Done- Steve Jones(our illustrious bass player) had always wanted a big backpiece tattoo of Dan Grilley’s(our illustrious guitar player) wrestling angel/devil girls artwork. When he found a Tulsa tattooist who was willing to do it for free, it seemed like a dream come true. When it got done but needed a few details fixed, it seemed like a work in progress. When the artist died, it seemed like a fucked up situation. Well, Dirk from Atlanta who was slingin’ ink in the back room at HRW seemed like a nice fella, and put Steve’s ink so right that Winghead wives Bettie and Lula both had to go in and get themselves worked on, too. Manson discussed getting the Beverly’s "Chicken In The Rough" logo done(an idea he’s been cherishing for years), and come Sleazefest all the dreams may come true.

JUNE 2^ND, 2001: WOODSHOCK ’01

When Jeff Hickoid invited us to play Woodshock in Austin, we were honored and happy. I remember hearing about Woodshock from the Poison 13 guys back in the Bowery days. Big annual evil-band festival in the 80’s in Austin, acid and rattlesnakes, punks getting sunburns, general mayhem, sometimes cancelled. Jeff told us the Bellrays would be playing, that it was going to be a big multi-sponsored thing out in Waterloo Park instead of the out-in-a-field-drugfest it had been a decade ago. We got emails from the publicist about radio and press contacts, and contacted them all. When we got back from Bubbapalooza, we heard that the event had been moved to Emo’s due to an inability to get liquor insurance. Still honored, still happy. We played with the Bellrays at the 66, all of us still reeling from the pulmonary virus we’d all contracted on the Atlanta trip, and shared our excitement with the Bellrays. In Atlanta, Rick from Gravy Boat had expressed some concerns about things going on smoothly, but the change of venues seemed like it would simplify things.

We left OKC around noon on Sat, June 2nd, got to the venue around seven. It was hot and empty, a really cool band from Baltimore-Love Life, I believe-was doing some wailing angst-rock with keyboards that took the coveted Most Incongruous For Daylight Performance Award. I mean, they was pale of skin, black of wardrobe, and dark of sound. Good set!

Next up was Dumptruck, who’s whole set built in a nice crescendo of Dream Syndicated pools of guitar. Clumsy had their energy ON for such an early gig, good hard pop hooks and smiles despite the light attendance. The Free Range Bastards had a good crowd, and a well-received set. Members requested a rematch of our Hole double-bill of a year or two ago.

The Bastard’s friends filed out, and we took the stage. Before going on, I asked the stage manager how long we should play, and he said forty minutes. I told him to give us a 1-more sign if needed, and he said cool. We played, Jeff and Eric had a blast, and about 20 minutes into the set a guy we knew from Bigfoot Chester who was assisting on stage told us to do one more. Surprised, we picked a final song, did it and got our gear off as fast as we could. While loading out, I saw the stage manager and commented that our set breezed by so pluckily we could not imagine that we’d spent forty minutes. He said we had not spent forty minutes, that he had just come back in to see how things were going and found us loading off. I asked the guy from Bigfoot, and he said the soundman had told him to tell us one more, and he had assumed it came from the stage manager. Our friends in the room said that all they could hear was drums and bass, and that the soundman had not been at the board during our set. I got pissed, I was gonna do a Burn In Hell piece, I…fuck it. Everyone’s talking about what went wrong that weekend. Fie on thee, Naughty Soundman.  Back to the bands.

The Sir Finks, who’s name I’ve heard for years and years but never seen, put on a Sleaze-worthy set of pure surf. The Punkaroos were awesome snot-punk with a gol-durned peppy singer-imagine Texas Terry & The Stiff Ones doing a set on Hee-Haw. Into the home stretch.

We played the Pocket Fishrmen’s last CD release show at Holefest ’98. The CD logged extensive time in the van’s stereo, and we loved every idiotic minute of it. I had seen them at a non-conference show at one of the first SXSW’s, back when Gravy Boat’s bassist still played for them. They were, for me the quintessential Woodshock band on the Saturday bill. They took the stage in their matching white lit up V-thingies, silver lame skirts and hose, and flat TORE IT UP like they were not a band on hiatus. The Pocket Fishrmen’s set was a breath of what I imagined old Woodshocks to be like, what I remembered about theMob and the Hickoids and Cargo Cult and Poison 13. Their set was the peak of the evening, and everyone in attendance seemed to be having a good time.

The Bellrays turned in a fine, unrelenting set. I love them, and they kept the focus of the crowd. After the show, Jeff promised to pay us, then asked if he’d payed us, then asked if he’d payed us more than once, then gave us a number to call him at on Sunday when he’d have our money. We went to Dustin’s, slept, got up, left messages at the number, went to Guero’s, Jeff called us, we went to his house, and he paid us.

I used to be the resident fucked-up promoter in Oklahoma City. Mike Stewart, Doctor’s Mob, Brent Grulke, Alejandro Escovedo, Wayne Coyne, The Meat Puppets, The Swans, The Chainsaw Kittens and The Dead Milkmen can all attest to strings of well-intentioned, poorly executed attempts at concert promotion. When a crowd shows up and everyone gets paid, you’re everyone’s best buddy. When the PA sucks and you didn’t get enough flyers up and you’re caught in between a road manager who hates you and a club owner who hates you, you take your lumps and congratulate yourself on the decision to take all your guns to the pawn shop the day before the show. When Jeff said he was reviving Woodshock, he was everyone’s hero. The Chronicle ran several stories. Trouble came up with the original venue. It got moved. Emo’s tried to sound all statesmanlike in their post-concert email, only after trying to beat Jeff down for money he didn’t make after what people did show up spent their bar dollars at Emos. I was ready not to get paid at Woodshock. It would not have bothered me. In retrospect, I’m embarrassed that I got pissed when our set got shortened. I was really excited about playing Woodshock, and think that far too much time will be spent analyzing what went wrong. BJW was unable to stay for Sunday, since Steve had to get his family to work and daycare Monday morning and if we were going to be unable to see The Hickoids we wanted to get home at a reasonable hour. All I’ve heard about Sunday are the promoter nightmare stories. I hope someone tells me something about the bands.

SXSW 2001

For the second year, the boys of BJW had arranged to play the Hole in the Wall’s prestigious Blow A Townie show, a series of afternoon shows during SXSW. Once again, the Gods on Olympus had sent Winghead’s showcase application to that netherworld known as the standby list, but last year’s Blow A Townie gig had been better than most of the hind-tit showcases bands in BJW’s rank(unsigned, unrepresented, unloved)get offered anyway. The guys went down to Austin on Friday night, March 16^th, to be exact, and caught up with Limey Eddie and Linda "Lula" Grilley at Ego’s where a fine honky tonk band was playing. Manson was recognized by and had an introductory chat with the fellow from Oklahoma City who did the Fat Possum documentary, and was out celebrating his new film’s success at the SXSW Film Festival. It’s called Okie Noodling, is about those lovely guys who catch catfish without hooks, bait or billy clubs, and is scored by The Flaming Lips. We reminisced about shows at The Blue Note, then caravaned over to original BJW drummer Dustin "Austinite Powers" Reynolds’ palatial home, where he and his lovely partner in crime Amber had gassed up the air mattress, stocked up the fridge with Mont Dieu, and located enough coffee machines to hold a fucking 12-step regional conference.

The members and friends of BJW were happy for Dustin when he found a neon-bending opportunity in Austin, but were also concerned that he was relocating from the cozy support of his friends in Sherman to the den of sin that is A-Town. Well, dear friends, let me report that DT is happy, healthy, a gracious host, and is doing a fine job banging skins for our old friends Gravy Boat. Waking up Saturday morning, DT ran over to a taqueria that had three-dollar-make-you-holler migas, and followed us from north Guadalupe to South Congress, where Mojo Nixon’s Pancake Breakfast and Kustom Kar Show and Shine at the Continental Club was already underway. Our buddies Truckadelic were rolling in from last night’s Houston gig where they were paid in jello shots and brisket, and Herman the German was making good noise on stage.

A good crowd was already amassed when Truckadelic took the stage for their noon show. They ripped as usual, despite the early hour and splitting hangovers. We shared pleasantries with them out behind the club, then Manson split for the Hole to watch the Townie lineup and perchance to see some of The Toadies’ in-store at Tower.

Horse Wreck was doing their dynamic duo thing when Manson arrived(the song about raising pigs was the highlight for me), and the highlight of the Haymakers’ set was Ricky finding his stolen guitar sitting on stage. Some band took 45 minutes to set up, Tortilla Flats did Doug Sahm with love, and then it was time for Winghead.

Before the show, a number of OKC and Austin friends started trickling in, so we had hopes of at least an OK show in front of 5 friends. When we went on, the room was mostly full with people we couldn’t figure-were they here for the show, or just killing time and beer on St. Patty’s day? Billy Rat’s sweet wife Heather had skipped Truckadelic’s Continental gig to come see us, so we went on stage knowing we at least had to put up some facsimile of rocking.

We did Caravan and Runaway, our new theremin numbers, and the crowd approved. Manson climbed onto a group of rowdy’s table during Branson, gave himself a beer shower at their expense, and they threw him around the room so convincingly that Steve "King Of Concentration" Jones became worried about Manson’s safety, lost the progression, AND TOTALLY FUCKED UP THE SONG!!! GOD, IMAGINE MY HUMILIATION!!! (I don’t care, it was all good, Steve rocked, etc, etc.)

Texacala, Kyle and Alexi, and Chad all had a good time, and Dan and his entourage left to see Gravy Boat while Manson and Steve stayed to mind the blocked-in van full of gear and see Texas Terry and The Stiff Ones. Manson did not initially remember Texas Terry by name, but when she took the stage Manson remembered her pink-hair-havin’ black-tape-wearin’ self from her presence at Makeup in LA. She was modeling then, but tonight she was fronting her KICKASS Stooges-stylee punk band. The crowd was in a frenzy start to finish, and Manson got to meet TT as well as her mom and assorted family members(she’s TEXAS Terry, after all), most of whom had very nice things to say about BJW. After they moved their van…excuse me while I rant…HEY, TEXAS TERRY!! YOU OUT THERE?? REMEMBER WHEN YOUR VAN WAS IN THE ALLEY BY THE HOLE AND YOUR BASS PLAYER HAD THE SIDE DOOR OPEN COMPLETELY BLOCKING MY PATH TO MY VAN, AND THEN HE SAW ME AND WE STARTED TALKING AND YOU WERE ALL, "SHUT THE DOOR AND LETS GO" ACTING LIKE I WAS SOME FANBOY STALKER?? I WAS TRYING TO GET TO MY GODDAMN VAN!!!!! Loved your show, you were swell people, blah blah bullshit bullshit…oh yes, after the ever genial Texas Terry and Her Stiff Ones moved their van that I could have easily moved around if I weren’t so fucking lazy, Jones and Manson headed to The Black Cat on Sixth Street, and caught about eleven seconds of James Intveld. Next up was Dale Watson, who was the living personification of Texas honky-tonk. Steve and Sally started to fade about halfway through his show, so they and Manson headed back to Chez Dust. Linda, Dan and Beau were going to catch the Bellrays, but showed up at Dustin’s shortly after the others did, SXSW fatigue taking over. We slept, woke up, and drove back to OKC. As of this date, we are still unsigned and still suck.

Last summer at Sleazefest, Southern Culture on the Skids’ band and bar-b-q blowout in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, Dave Quick from NYC/Chapel Hill rockers Jack Black told me he wanted Billy Joe Winghead to headline Elvisfest 2001, a sleazy shindig he puts on every year on the early January weekend closest to The King’s birthday. It’s at the same two bars as Sleazefest, and is a one-day event as opposed to the 3-day Sleazefest. I told him I wanted to play but that I didn’t want to headline, as a bunch of bands with more direct Elvis influences would be playing and that would probably be more appropriate. He said that’s why he wanted us, that we’d do something weird and fucked up with the whole thing. People often come to us when they want to add something weird and fucked up to the event they are planning, be it a Bar Mitzvah or a local music awards ceremony. I said sure, and figured that in the five months between festivals he’d choose someone else to fill the last slot.

Come late December when all the confirmation messages started showing up it became apparent that Mr. Quick was a man of his word, ‘cause we were still playing last. All our favorite repeat sleaze offenders were showing up: Baltimore’s Twin Six, Atlanta’s Truckadelic, Alamance County, NC’s Jimmy and the Teasers, plus a few we hadn’t heard yet. We had a show on the way out booked in Asheville, NC with our über-buds Jimmy and the Teasers, who were missing one Teaser and needed our bassist Steve to fill in. Manson was especially glad to be stopping in Asheville, home to Big Briar, Bob Moog’s electronic widget company. Manson had seen their theremin, the Etherwave, but had never had the opportunity to play one and compare it to his Oklahoma-made PAIA Theremax.

Pulling into the Asheville Renaissance Hotel Friday afternoon(swanky digs thanks to Emmanuelle’s Marriott employee discount), the boys took showers and marveled at the opulence while Steve, Manson, and Manue went to Big Briar. Having visited PAIA in Edmond, Manson assumed that Big Briar would be similar, a mail-order business warehouse peopled by solderheads. His assumption was essentially correct, and Chris, the employee Manson had arranged the etherwave test with, was as friendly and helpful as his busy workload allowed him to be.

Playing the Etherwave, Manson was struck with the far wider dynamic range at the high-pitch end when compared to the Theremax. In contemplation of the upcoming Theremondo project, Manson decided it was a piece of hardware he could not live without. The PAIA circuitry will be incorporated into a top-secret theremin design Manson and Steve have been scheming on, and the Etherwave board will be installed in the recently unveiled Blue Flame body. This is top-secret stuff, kiddies, so don’t tell anyone or you might be assassinated!!

Gig time rolled around at Vincent’s Ear, and Steve acquitted himself admirably playing bass for Jimmy and The Teasers, especially considering that he had never had a chance to practice with them. Winghead was way too loud for the rumpled-suit-wearing soundman(imagine that!!), but we’d always rather be loud than understood. Steve went to some hash-and-cheesedip party with Jimmy Brad and Val, and the rest of the Wingheads opted for sleep.

We rolled into Chapel Hill after chilling at the Courtyard Inn for the afternoon, and made it in time to catch Rocket 350’s set at the Carolina Sports Bar. I seem to remember a lotta tattoos and guys who played their instruments real well. Next up at the 506 was one of the event’s most precious moments, Hillbilly Werewolf and Elvis.

Hillbilly Werewolf was all done up in a bigass black wig, a lab coat with about a gallon on stage blood on it, a hangman’s noose for a tie, and a mask that looked like it was made of scabs and snot. He played with only a drummer behind him and led us through a ham-fisted psychobilly bitchslap as only a true believer can. Pieces of Dex, Lux, and Hasil, all through an amp that kept crapping out but it seemed to make the show even better.

Before and after the Werewolf was Elvis. Elvis was an Elvis impersonator of the classic style: he was fiftyish, heavyish, lipsynced to a track he didn’t manage to stay in sync with, and had two outfits, the comeback leathers and the Hawaii jumpsuit. His fly was open during the leather sequence. I once booked a similar act at OKC’s Blue Note for a Halloween show, it got a lot of press, a buncha yuppies showed up and were pissed when the guy did his thing. Fuck you assholes. Being an Elvis impersonator has nothing to do with age, talent, or physical fitness. It’s a calling, and if you have the calling, the hair or a reasonable prosthetic facsimile thereof, the shades, and at least one gaudy outfit, then you ARE an Elvis impersonator and deserve to be treated with love, respect, and worship while in uniform. There are no bad Elvis impersonators, only bad audiences.

Next were The Pits, who rocked just fine, and the Needles, who I missed but was informed by Jeff Vegas that they rocked like The Humpers-from Jeff, that's one of them bigass compliments.

I have spent a lot of my life saying bad things about cover bands. I guess it’s because most cover bands are playing whatever music is going to fetch the biggest guarantee, and that while doing that may require more technique than your average garage-indie dirtbag band has, it doesn’t require much of that elusive stuff they call creativity or inspiration or soul. Well, friends, Atlanta’s band known as Bitch is primarily (if not exclusively)a cover band, they cover the material that logs most of the time in the BJW van CD player-AC/DC, Motorhead, and the like-and managed to pull off one of the more creative and dramatic musical moments of the fest. They started with Suspicious Minds, and as it whirled to its crescendo they morphed it into the guitar battle of Freebird. Well done, guys. Oh, and Dave Quick said that one of your guitarists was complaining about our treatment of Freebird. You can all blow me. Or not, it’s up to you.

Car Bomb, Inc.’s power rock was followed by the full on Elvis-lushness of TCB(The Cover Band), Mr. Quick’s entry into the fray. More King per pound than anyone, they was all that with backup singerettes and everything, serving up nothing but hot Elvis with love and respect.

I’ve said it all about Truckadelic on this page before, and those guys always deliver. Listening to Ted try and speak French was Trays In-Terr-Ass-Ant!! I had to spend most of Twin Six’s kickass set unloading our van, and all of Jimmy and The Teasers set setting up our gear.

Well, here it was, our big moment. We had listened to great bands all night and heard all the Elvis tunes we were going to do at least twice. The local paper had characterized us as the headliner instead of just the last band, and I was just generally uncomfortable about the whole scenario. I’m used to being hated, the underdog, the band that few people know of and fewer like. A few scenes like Chapel Hill have been very good to us, and some times I don’t know how to take it.

We kicked off with King Creole, blew the turnaround, but didn’t loose the audience. A few originals, then Treat Me Like a Fool with theremin harmony, which sounded cool. It looked like the guy I clotheslined when I dived into the crowd during Branson was gonna clobber me at first, but after they threw me back on stage he was all friendly-like down front. We were going to blow up the bologna with a big powder charge this time, but last-minute lack of planning along with some reluctance to transport what might be misconstrued as bomb-making materials put that idea on hold. We jammed our three Tennessee-bought bigass smoke bombs into the bologna, and had George light them during the finish of Branson. We had done smoke bombs at Sleazefest, and the exhaust fans sucked the excess smoke out and it was just hazy and cool. Well, dear readers, Noel the usual stage manager had taken the night off, the exhaust fans were inadvertently turned off, and by the time George had finished waving around that 3-food chunk of smoking salami the gas was thicker on stage than in a shower stall in Belsen. About half way through Freebird the smoke cleared and the faint of heart came back to the front of the club. We finished with Rubberneckin’ and Sleepwalk, and called it a night despite Tony and Carol’s protestations. Steve spoke at some length with Mary Huff after the show, who had been down front for the whole set and said she was going to make it her priority to get some SCOTS/BJW co-bills set up in 2001. Dave Robertson was his charming self(that is, his charming, busy-as-hell behind the bar self)after the show, and told us we would meet again in August if not before. After squishy goodbyes with Jimmy, Val, Ted, Carol, Tony, and the bevy of women lined up in hopes of having sex with Jeff Vegas(one of whom he said looked like a Fraggle with big ol’ titties), it was time to push off on that 20-hour-right-after-the-gig drive you’ve heard us whine about so much before.

True to Winghead form, the Fall 2000 West Coast Tour was born of chance acquaintances and went downhill from there. A friend of our screenprinter’s devil James(the guy on the far right in the Freebird pic)named Gentleman Jonny contacted James from Seattle. Jonny was a transplanted Tulsan who dabbled in the black arts of necromancy and club bookings. He had had some luck getting work for Tulsa oddballs the Jakob Fred Jazz Odyssey, and rather than quit while he was ahead he thought he’d drag BJW up to latte land. He felt confident that he could deliver four dates in the Seattle-Portland area. We contacted our bloke in LA, Mr. Eddie Morris, and told him to get hopping on some California action for the weekend. Four Seattle dates turned into one date, but our friends at KFJC in San Jose came across with a live-in-the-studio-on-air gig and Gus and Lucky from the Double Wide Hayride Show in San Diego came up with a show at the Casbah. Eddie filled in the rest of the gaps at all of LA’s finer venues, and another trek to the Golden State was ready to hit the fan.

DAY ONE: ANAHEIM

The boys left OKC on Thursday, October 2^nd, driving straight to Cali since the pick-up gigs on the way out last time were not without their charm but didn’t justify taking extra days off work this time. After getting lost in and about the Magic Kingdom, we found Linda’s Doll Hut, a venerated punk rock venue about a third of the size of the average airport pay toilet. Small is good where we come from, so we sat around watching the booking guy practice with the Bowie-esque combo All The Madmen that he was managing and spanking bass for, and whose singer boy was in the running for the coveted LA Times’ Most Petulantly Sexy Bachelor Pop Star About Town award. The booking guy informed us we were playing Nazi night, with endogamy-rockers The Smut Peddlers headlining the bill. We played before the Oi-boy dipshits showed up, and sold a lot of CDs considering the fact that there wasn’t that many people there. I think Nazis are kinda pathetic. I mean, if when you wake up in the morning all you can think of to be proud of is that you’re white, then I think you should hurry up and kill yourself just like Adolf did. I hate myself and all others equally, regardless of race, creed, color, gender, or sexual disposition. Except for stupid people(NOT challenged people, there is a difference), in which case I hate you just a little more. Anyway, the good thing about Nazi bands is that they are real loud and sing too fast so you can’t understand the stupid shit they’re spouting and they sound like any other crappy punk band. So we stayed as long as it took too get paid, told the booking guy we’d be back for our Monday night gig and left. Eddie had actually booked us into the fabled Whisky A Go-Go on that night, and was going to break the news to booking guy gently. Steve, Dan, and Manson went to Eddie(our booking agent)and Cin’s(his lovely wife), and Vegas and new drummer Beau Turkey went to stay with Clint, Vegas’ old partner from the Demon Seeds who was now living in LA.

DAY 2: BOWL-A-RAMA REVISITED

Saturday night was back to the Bowl-A-Rama, where we had played on our last tour out west. This time we were playing with rock bands instead of rockabilly bands, and our first California treat of the evening was getting to meet François, one of the members of the headlining act, Motorcycle Boy. Motorcycle Boy looks like The Sons of Hercules and sounds like shit, if the soundcheck was any indication. They wear too goddamn much eyeliner and spend too much time trying to decide who’s gonna be Keith and who’s gonna be Ronnie tonight. Anyway, Franz-Wa comes up to me and says some shit like, hi I’m Frunts-Wa and I’m in the headlining act, Motorcycle Boy, and what’s your band called and when are you playing, all in the most transparently insincere rock guy esprit de corps faux buddy-buddy bullshit tone I’ve ever encountered, and I tell him we’re BJW from Oklahoma and we’re playing first, and he says, oh, good, well, then you’ll be able to watch us blow you off the stage, haha-just kidding. IMPORTANT NOTE: The next time someone tells you they’re going to blow you off the stage, smile at them and say, "better yet, why don’t you BLOW ME ON THE STAGE???" I thought of this retort a couple of hours later, and cursed my slowness at the time but now am glad that I didn’t waste such a brilliant line on a hairdresser named Fritz-Wa who wears too goddamn much eyeliner. They soundchecked, and sounded like the Rolling Stones in desperate need of methadone. Franco asked the soundman to make sure that there were ample lights on the little cute guy….okay, the little comparatively cute guy…in the band, since he was the one all the girls liked to look at.

We played and it was loud and shitty, and I noticed this fat guy in the audience with a G. G. Allin shirt on. He was the singer/guitarist for the next band, Luck Of The Draw. Everyone was in a hurry to get to Makeup, which was doing its big Rocky Horror 25^th anniversary party, but we stuck around to see Luck Of The Draw because fat guys in G. G. Allin shirts are cool no matter how bad their band sucks. Oh yeah, he was old, too. Not Billy Rat old, but old enough. They started playing, and damned if they didn’t rock like hell. Their merch guy bought(not traded for, bought!) a couple of our CDs, and we apologized for leaving early, but Steve "RifRaff" Jones was damned if he was going to miss this Makeup.

DAY 2.5: MAKEUP REVISITED

Again, due to Cin’s generosity of spirit, we were on the list for Makeup. Again, we showed up and breezed past the made-up unfortunates waiting in line outside the El Rey. This was the Rocky Horror Picture Show’s 25^th anniversary celebration, and the wackos were out in full force, but then again they had been at the Makeup First Anniversary party last time we were in town, so it was hard to gauge an intensity spike or dip between the two events. The band did an excellent medley of Rocky Horror tunes featuring a Toilet Boy and a Lunachick as Brad and Janet. The fashion show featured some cool modern dance/martial arts interludes as well as a Cop Shoot Cop song. Beau walked up to everyone he could and introduced himself, including the guy who played the boyfriend guy on Roseanne, who Beau belittled for the stagnation in his film career. Someone in the band saw David Spade creepily hitting on some chick who looked like she wished she had her pepper spray, and we actually saw girls kissing girls. EEEWWW! GROSS!!!!

DAY 3: SAN DIEGO

Last time we played San Diego, it was a case of right-place-wrong-night that had left us more disappointed than usual since our dear friends at the Double Wide had done so much to make the evening work. This time we were booked into The Casbah, a larger room more able to acoustically deal with our sonic assault, with Denton Texas’ Slobberbone and San Diego’s sexabilly rockers Forty-Four Double-D. Pulling into town early enough to snag some of SD’s trademark fish tacos and wander the beach, Dan met some guy surfing who had been in a loser metal band that Dan actually had owned a tape of. Upon getting to the Casbah, we saw that yes indeed it was big, but big and sprawled out into different rooms so you could watch the band or escape the noise in the pool room or smoke on the enclosed patio. It was very close to the airport, and the jets came in so low on their approach you just knew one would take the top of the club off.

Forty-Four Double-D was playing their first gig, which also happened to be their CD release party, and no one could accuse them of being underprepared. They had bondage nurse dancers, a big lit up sex show sign, fog, lights, cool outfits, and they sounded good. I’d have liked the music to be a little grindier, but this was SD and they shore like their rockabilly clean down there, even if the lyrics are dirty.

Gus and Lucky from the Double Wide Hayride showed up, as did a bunch of the waitresses and barmaids from Tio Leo’s, where we played our last infamous San Diego show. The room was big enough that we could turn up, and we all had a blast. We wound up at some taco stand, then to Gus’ for the night.

DAY FOUR: LA-DE-FUCKING-DA…

When Eddie told us that we were playing The Whisky A Go-Go, I was excited. I mean, it was one of those old-time landmark rock and roll clubs, one of the first places to kick Jim Morrison off stage for being a foul-mouthed, talentless sack of shit. Guys from the sticks are impressed by stuff like that. It makes the rubes back home think you’re actually out there doin’ something.

Some guy called Custom Made Charlie allegedly promoted Monday nights at the Whisky, putting together punk rock bills. We were on a three band bill with Up Syndrome and Bullets And Octane, whoever they were. Arriving at the club and looking at the marquee, the three band bill looked more like a six band bill, with a band called Red Team Go playing first. Red Team Go. God why does that sound familiar? Hmm….

As we got our gear in the room, I saw a familiar face. It was the little cute guy from Motorcycle Boy, the guy Frizz-Waah wanted sufficiently illuminated. He was the ticket taker, sitting behind a thick plexiglass window taking cover charges and insults from LA’s beautiful rock and roll people. He looked bored. Not fashionably bored, just bored. The construction of the window did not seem like it would allow much conversation with the desirable members of the public, not that it seemed like there were that many in that category on the strip that night. So what do you do but sit there and take money and think that this may suck but it’s a landmark rock club and I just know that when the Spanish distributor picks up our 7-inch we’ll do great in Europe.

Red Team Go was set up and ready to play at something like 8:15. They were a Beach Boys meets Hanson wannabe teen heartthrob prettyboy band, with cheerleaders on stage and real 9 and 10 year olds screaming in the audience and…wait…the drummer….it’s all coming back to me…OH MY GOD!!!…..THE GODDAMN DRUMMER!!!!!

Flash back with me, if you will, two months, to a little bar-b-q party at my home in sunny Oklahoma. Dantone and Linda, Beau and Liah, and Mike Haynes and NOBODY!! are having brisket, ribs, and potato salad, when Dantone pulls out an amusing business card he found at Makeup on the bathroom floor when we went to LA last winter. It was a picture of this young cute boy with a Chess King haircut holding a snare drum next to his face and it had his name and phone number. As the party wore on and we kept laughing about it, we decided to call this guy and tell him we were big shot music industry moguls ready to take him to the next level. His answering machine message says hi this is Splurf from Red Means No, be sure to come out and see us this Saturday at Universal Studios Amusement Park, be sure to wear your team colors, leave a message & stuff. First Dan said he was Mike Haynes from the 66 Bowl and that he was really interested in his stuff, then a few days later the guy called the Bowl and Mike told him he really needed to talk to John Manson and gave him my number, and fortunately I wasn’t home when he called. So two months later I’m at the ever-luvvin Whisky and here’s this guy sitting in front of me smacking skins in this teeny-bopper band that would be good if they didn’t suck so bad. Guitars sounded like they were in another county and that even in that county they sounded bad, singers couldn’t sing, if they were all really fifteen it woulda been cool but they looked twenty-three and like they just wanted to be on Eggo boxes. Ain’t it a stupid world.

Up Syndrome was unmemorable, Bullets and Octane were nice guys who played good and loud but leaned on the Ness-dressup thing a little to hard(but what do I know, I’m a dumb Okie), and by the time they were done it clearing out and this band whose name I shall never remember went on and they played pretty good hard emotionally-tortured-singer pop. Towards the end of the show, though, the singer and one of the axe players had a breakdown, like maybe they had expected something wonderful to happen in this big empty shitbox of a club on a fucking Monday night, and all their rock and roll hopes and dreams were crashing about their ears and the singer actually said something like he was sorry, but he couldn’t go on. God, I love watching other bands suffer.

After a lot of sitting around and watching all these bands do their 27-minute sets, it was finally our turn. Our friend from New Brunswick Reggie and a man-pal were there, as was Miss Kiera, and a few stragglers. I found myself wishing I was in Anaheim at the Doll Hut instead of reaching for the brass ring that turned out to be Mickey Mouse’s asshole. The Whisky was just that, a bad ride at rock and roll Disneyland. Play your thirty minutes, get your shit off stage, take a picture of your name on the marquee along with the other five suckers. And come back for Slash’s Snakepit on Wednesday. Custom Made Charlie never showed his face and Motorcycle Faggot was no longer in the booth, so the chances of getting the percentage our contract indicated seemed slim. Charlie was also the promoter for our Thursday show at the Garage, so rather than set fire to the Whisky we figured we’d settle on both gigs on Thursday.

TO BE CONTINUED…

The boys spent Friday and Saturday, Aug. 24^th and 25^th, barricaded in Bell Labs in the final blur of shrieking and tweaking on their forthcoming album, Big Junk Day. The faithful can expect studio versions of Miles Quade Motherfucker, Branson On My Mind, and Judy’s Gettin' Bigger, as well as a few surprises that have not been performed on any stage yet. Look for a release date well in time to make that perfect Christmas stocking stuffer.

7.14.00 SUMMER UPDATE

Winghead World has been too busy to write much lately, so here’s what’s happened of late and what’s gonna happen pretty soon:

BUBBAPALOOZA: Over the Memorial Day weekend the boys took a Southern trek to play Atlanta’s greasy twangfest known as Bubbapalooza. Dates in New Orleans and Chapel Hill were thrown in the mix as well. The boys had fun watching old friends Truckadelic in their hometown of Atlanta and nasty friends Jimmy and The Teasers tear shit up in their own sexy way at Local 506.

FREE BIRD EP: The newest BJW CD is now available for your listening pleasure! The latest offering contains the studio version of Free Bird and a really crappy set recorded live at the 666 Bowl. As usual, the Dantone GT artwork makes it a must-have for any and all discriminating collectors.

DRUMMA DRAMA: Dustin "Heart Of Glass" Reynolds, BJW’s original drummer(unless you count Manson’s Alesis SR-16)has succumbed to the temptation that sucks so many good Okies into a life of ruin: He’s moving to Austin! We wish him well at his new neon-bending job down there, and hope he doesn’t find out we sold his drum kit to winos.

Our long-standing fill-in drummer Charles Davis will be filling the chair(he’s the one on the back cover of Free Bird with his pants around his ankles), and we hope you all will shower him with love and warm, sticky emotion.

SLEAZEFEST 2000: August 4-6 will be BJW’s third time to be invited to play America’s greatest party: SLEAZEFEST!!! We will play Fri, Aug. 4^th at The Cave Club, and Sun, Aug 6^th (Manson’s Birthday!) on the main stage at Local 506. Oh yeah, it’s in Chapel Hill, NC so start driving NOW!! Look for reviews of all your Sleazy favorites-The Mad Daddys, Dexterville, SCOTS, Quintron, Twin 6, and New Orleans R&B legend Ernie K. Doe-in our Sleazefest 2000 wrapup article in a month or so!

2.27.00 WEST COAST 2000 MEMORIES

Before talking about the dates, drives, and assholes we survived on our West Coast Winter 2000 tour, it would be most elucidating to turn back the hands of time to Halloween ’99, when the unhappy coincidences that would ultimately cause WCW2KT to occur. Dan "Etoufee" Grilley, having a weakness for Cajun food and drunk chicks in plastic beads screaming "Look at my breasts!!!" had made plans to spend Halloween ’99 in New Orleans. Steve "Shutterbug" Jones decided to do the same, as his wedding anniversary was also on that hallowed date. A pissed off John "Bad Gigs Beat Good Practices" Manson gathered together the remaining Wingheads and some chump named Paco, learned a handful of Fuckemos and Mad Daddys covers, and performed a set at the 66 Bowl as The Miles Quade All-Stars. Upon returning, Steve and Dan told the others that they had met some weird English guy in skull makeup who claimed to be a booking agent in LA who was getting married in the bar that they all happened to be hanging out in that most-evil-of nights. Being his and Sally’s anniversary, Steve "Too Fucking Friendly" Jones and his blushing bride renewed their vows along side the quirky Brit who called himself Eddie and his bride, Cin/Sin/who the fuck really knows. Eddie wrote in the following weeks, saying he enjoyed the CD the boys had foisted upon him.

John "Broadway Danny Rose" Manson was in the midst of trying to set up a weekend-plus jaunt out to San Diego to play at the Casbah, where the boys at the Double Wide Hayride Show had been putting in good words for BJW for quite some time. In subsequent communications, this Eddie fellow had made the offer to help the boys out if they decided to come out west. John called him and told him they planned a late January-early February trip, maybe 3 dates around the San Diego date. Eddie informed Manson that they would be playing no less than ten(10) dates and to get their shit together. In the following weeks Eddie proved he was the high-powered flesh peddler he claimed to be, booking a solid line of dates for the relatively unknown BJW, including a show at LA’s glitzy Viper Room. Bosses placated, contracts executed, and a swanky bon voyage show booked at Tulsa’s Eclipse club, all that was left was for BJW to load the van and follow the trail laid for them by their dust bowl predecessors out to the Golden State.

Nature, of course, would have to throw the boys a few curve balls or it would not be a proper BJW tour. The 2 days before the Thurs, Jan 27^th Tulsa show, Oklahoma was visited by a record amount of snowfall, shutting down businesses, schools, and the club BJW was going to have the bon voyage show at. The Thursday show had been at Eddie’s insistence-the boys secretly felt that all it would insure was that they would leave for their tour hung over. Friday morning the boys rose early and began the trek to Taos, New Mexico, marveling at the winter wonderland of abandoned cars and jackknifed semis along I-40 West all the way to the Texas border.

DAY 1: TAOS, NM

Tim’s Chile Connection was a lovely Mexican restaurant in a ski town that had not seen snow all winter. Nobody came out, the hired help loved the show and bitched profusely about all their lame friends who had promised to show up. The boys spent the night in a ski hostel Eddie had booked, and rolled on to Tempe, AZ

DAY 2: TEMPE, AZ

Arriving at the Green Room, the boys felt a little better. This was a proper punk club, chain link fences and that icicle-curtain stuff along the back wall of the stage. The sound man was an east coast palooka who seemed to know what he was doing, and Caustic Resin(billed to us as a Dinosaur, Jr. side project)was headlining. As BJW played, John was reminded that a friendly soundman does not always equal a good soundman. Captain Shure kept asking us to turn down, saying that he was not able to keep the vocals up with our stage volume. The PA was huge, and the only thing lacking was his intestinal fortitude to use the force in sound reinforcement. The crowd seemed like a bunch of stiffs, and BJW left the stage without feeling like anyone had had much fun. After meeting the guy from the Wipers outside and having many people gladhand them after the show, spirits lightened a bit. The leader of Caustic Resin(which contained a former Dinosaur but was its own long free-standing entity) asked Manson to sit in with his theremin for a Hawkwind cover and a couple more. For the unfamiliar, Caustic Resin reminds me of old Flaming Lips minus Wayne’s Jesus complex. The theremin in a swirl sound like this was heaven for Manson, and BJW’s in the audience said it was cool and the Caustic Resin guys said it was so good it sounded rehearsed. The local band that played the center slot offered BJW a place to sleep, making all in BJW glad they had been polite. Morning brought another long drive, to LA to check in at the Motel 6 just off Hollywood Boulevard and for the rest of the band to finally lay eyes on the weird little bloke who had made all this senseless suffering occur.

DAY 3: LA-LA

Los Angeles. Hollywood. Tinseltown. The Big Apple. City of The Angels. The boys had finally arrived. They snuck into the Motel 6 two at a time, as not to alert the desk goon that they were cramming 5 in a single occupancy room. They called Eddie, who was painting a hall in his home like any good pussywhipped newlywed does. He came to the motel, and Manson finally got his first glimpse. Pale, as to be expected of a native of the sunless island. Short and bristling with determined energy, as any good ten-percenter ought to be. An affinity for retro clothing, as could be expected of James Intveld’s pimp. He had them follow him to the venue, the Blue Café in nearby Long Beach. It was raining, and Eddie was driving his wife’s little silver SUV like a fucking maniac. 85 MPH on the highway in the rain, weaving in and out of lanes like he was getting extra points on Twisted Metal, no-look no-turn signal 3-lane change exits, all with Manson driving as close to his ass as he could and not throw the van into a fatal skid if suddenly Eddie were to encounter any of LA’s trademark logjams o’ the highway. The boys finally called Steve on his cell phone(Steve was in the SUV with Eddie) to tell Eddie to slow the fuck down. Upon arriving at the Blue Café, a shaken Steve Jones exited the SUV and summarily vomited on the sidewalk, wiped his ashen face and said he would have told Eddie to slow down earlier but that he didn’t want to look like a pussy. The boys decided that Eddie was not a booking agent at all, but a member of Her Majesty’s Secret Service who was training the Wingheads for counter-terrorist operations on American soil.

The Blue Café looked like Billy Joe Winghead’s worst nightmare. An upscale, well decorated blues bar with a squeaky-clean Cali-Holiday Inn blues band going through its well-oiled paces. As BJW set up their gear, Manson asked one of the blues guys to start a stopwatch when they started playing, to see if they set a record for clearing the room. But, as with friendly soundmen, first appearances can be deceiving. Most of the people stayed, a couple of drunk cheerleader types who had wanted to sing Proud Mary with the band got the whole crowd dancing, and it pretty much stayed that way all night. Vegas visited with a former Humpers guitar player after the show who happened to be slumming, and the boys chalked it up as a general success. Plus they got fed and it was the best guarantee of the tour, all on Superbowl Sunday. After a somewhat more subdued drive back to LA, the boys snuck back into the motel ready to tackle the next nights gig at the very cool place.

DAY 4: LA-LA, IN THE SNAKE PIT

When Eddie had told Manson they would be playing the Viper Room, Manson only vaguely knew of the club. His bandmates began jumping up and down like cheerleaders with kidney infections in line at a porta-potty and told him it was THE Viper Room, Johnny Depp’s The Viper Room, The look-this-is-the-toilet-where-River-Phoenix-did-his-last-shanghai-sidewinder-before-expiring-on-the-sidewalk-out-front Viper Room. Visions of sugarplum guns and candied roses had danced in Jeff "Detroit Rock City" Vegas’ head ever since the announcement had been made. As Manson had contemplated the upcoming show, he was certain that a snotty staff was going to treat them like the loser band from Arkansas all night. Eddie had given Manson no reason to expect anything else. But, like friendly soundmen and shiny blues clubs, things would be a little different.

The 2 soundmen who helped BJW set up were hospitable. They gave a fuck. They were really nice, not just acting nice. One was American, one Irish, and the American, upon hearing BJW was from Oklahoma, talked with us at length about the most popular thing in Oklahoma, tornadoes. He was a true twister freak, looking to book one of those storm-chasing vacation packages. Anyway, the first band, named something like Blackraven Pisswater, was a perfect Radiohead/Molly’s Yes/Stone Pearl Templejam thing that played flawlessly and probably spent more on their demos than most people spend on their master’s degree. It was singerboy’s birthday and a shitload of people came to see them, all watching them and bobbing their heads as if this music rocked. Anyway, most of those nice looking people left before BJW started, and it didn’t take them long to scare out most of the rest of them, except for OKC friends the Mimsies who had moved out to LA and were impressed to see us playing at such a marvy room, and a girl who publishes a pinup and music rag who loved it and wanted to do a story. A little let down, the boys expected the post-gig you-fuckers-were-too-loud snub from the staff, but it didn’t happen. Stage manager guy told us most Mondays were this lazy and that it was all groovy. The DJ was in a band called Chickenhawk(Skynyrd meets the Butthole Surfers, in his words), and said he’d be at our SXSW show. Oh well, the gig was probably just like fucking Madonna up the ass-more fun to say you’d done than to do. Back to Motel 6, another day dead.

DAY 5: SAN JOSE

After a longish drive up the coast, the boys arrived in San Jose around sunset, and into the lair of some of the finest people they were to meet on the tour, Thane and Marci, a lovely couple who live in an abandoned monastery full of broken jukeboxes and other cool objets d’refuse. Thane is a handsome young greaser, and Marci is a lovely Vespa girl who makes jewelry and other cool stuff. They put us up, they stocked the mini-fridges with Jolt Cola and Budweiser, there were bags of Doritos and oranges in every room, the sheets were clean, there was soap in every bathroom, they were so hospitable we couldn’t imagine them not being Okies(Thane’s mama was, so we guessed kinda right). We had to hurry to the gig at the Fuel club, and soon were shaking hands with Big Myke Destiny, the club impresario who also DJ’d the Big Guitar Show on local station KFJC, and had been heavily spinning BJW for the last month-plus.

A few couples were doing some fairly serious Latin dancing when we arrived at Fuel, so we had no idea what to expect. When Myke started spinning, all our worries were gone-his shit was solid twang & garage bubbapunk. A few lowlifes straggled in, and the boys were well received until a party of four 40-something sports bar rejects wandered in. Manson and their leader traded insults between songs, and finally Manson got them to leave by telling them there was a bar down the street that had free cocaine and lap dances. They stomped out to the door to the delight of the crowd in attendance, but not before upending their full beers on the table. Myke took lots of pictures throughout, and just generally made the boys feel like rock stars. The gig over, it was time for the evening to begin.

As they expected, after the gig the Wingheads found themselves in a Japanese karaoke bar surrounded by fruits and greasers, watching Marci do a sultry version of Cry Me A River and helping Thane with backing vox on Mountain Dew. His voice fried by too many 2-set shows in a row, Manson croaked his way through Wichita Lineman and Hello Walls before the gurgling sound of his trying to sing through all the blood in his throat became too much to bear. Half the karaoke bar came back to Marci and Thane’s for the after-party, which went on into the wee hours as Manson sunk into the soft bed in the Vespa-theme bedroom, ready for the first day off on the tour.

DAY 6: NADA

Laundry. Tacos. Sleep. Good-byes to Thane and Marci. Drive to San Diego to stay with Dan’s old school chum who was featured in Playgirl Magazine with his weenie out. Sleep.

DAY 7: SAN DIEGO

This was the show we’d been waiting for. The Double Wide Hayride on San Diego’s radio station KCR had been spinning tracks from Be Your Own Boss every week ever since it came out. The two DJ’s, Gus and Mr. Lucky, were heavily promoting the show on air and it was Gus’ birthday. We were playing at Tio Leo’s, a Mexican restaurant with a regular live music schedule, opening for local rockabilly faves Hot Rod Lincoln, who played there every Thursday. I had heard Hot Rod Lincoln on the Double Wide before, and it looked like a good bill-we always had fun at home playing with Brian Parton and The Poison Okies. Unfortunately, like friendly soundmen, shiny blues bars, and big-deal boozeholes, some things are not what you’d think they’d be….

As we looked at the calendar a little more closely, we noticed that every Thursday was swing dance night. As we ate our soft fish tacos, we noticed a crowd of people assembling for the pre-show swing dance class. We heard the Brian Setzer Orchestra CD so many times in a row we thought the club was trying to get into the Guiness Book of World Records. Like the train conductor who comes around the bend and sees the landslide on the track, we knew there was no way to stop this terrible thing from happening. We were sick of playing the wrong rooms and sick of turning down. Gus and Lucky introduced us, but it wasn’t a Double Wide crowd. We played 35 minutes of our 60-minute set, when the soundgirl with the cowboy hat and the huge tits told us to play 2 more. San Diego was the reason we had come out to Cali, and here we were in front of our two dear friends and an army of zoot-suit cocksuckers, and we were getting the hook. I’m sure I will always remember Tio Leo’s in San Diego on February 3 of the year 2000 as one of the worst gigs of my life. The soundgirl and doorguy all told us that it was the wrong night, that we should come back on a weekend and play with Deadbolt and it would be great and that we were great but I could really give a fuck. Pain is good. It reminds you of what you hate, where you never want to be again. It drives you.

Of course, San Diego had its moments after the show. Gus and Lucky spent the next day apologizing for what a bunch of pussies their constituents were(Lucky even informed them of that fact over the PA during the show), and they took us out for an afternoon of wandering the beach, Steve snapping away furiously with his digital camera at any exposed flesh that wandered within tele-zoom range. After exchanging gifts and saying our goodyes, we hit the highway back to the Hollywood Motel 6 and the home stretch of the tour.

DAY 8: BREA

Our next gig was opening for James Intveld, Eddie’s bestest client, at La Vida Roadhouse, a stucco mission-style joint in the canyons of Orange County. After a long, winding where-the-hell-are-we drive through the hills we finally found the joint, and the preponderance of hot rods and bikes made the boys wonder if this was Attack Of The Greaser Snots Part ll. BJW said fuckit, turned up loud, played hard, entertained 70% of the people and left 30% wondering what the hell was going on-exactly like most of their shows. Sold a ton of CDs, lots of good vibes from people after the show. James Intveld kicked ass, in Manson’s mind putting Jesse Dayton in the friggin’ dirt and Joe Ely on notice.

DAY 9: LALA, BOWLING BALLS

Just like the Carol Burnett show, it seems like we were just getting started and it was time to say goodbye. The last show of the tour was Bowl-A-Rama at the All Star Lanes, opening for Big Sandy and his Fly-Rite Boys. In higher spirits after the La Vida show, BJW wanted to end things loud and stupid. Martin McMartin of RAFR/Flipside records had promised to show up, and did. He had told the boys that he was going to include their freshly recorded Hard Rain on the upcoming RAFR lll compilation, but upon arriving he told the boys that he had spun Be Your Own Boss for a friend recently who had flipped over Komanawannaleia, and now was debating between the two songs. He brought his lovely wife and their crazy friend Reggie from New Brunswick, NJ. Seeing someone from New Brunswick made the boys miss all the lunacy they had shared with the Mad Daddys last summer, and they regaled her with Sleazefest stories and about the band’s collective crush on Pete Moss, the Daddys’ bass player. Now, get this straight:

1. All the Mad Daddys are sexy, it’s just that Pete is REAL sexy.
2. This crush is(in Manson’s case, anyway) a Marky-Mark Tiger Beat crush. We think he’s dreamy, and would love to sit on Seaside Heights beach on a warm fall evening toasting marshmallows and discussing our deepest thoughts. I don't particularly want his big hairy dick in my ass.

Anyway, the set rocked, all the musicians in the house clustered around the front of the stage with their mouths open during the theremin songs while the greasers just looked annoyed, the PA was crapping out through the whole show, and the boys were glad to be rocking once again. The CDs sold well, Vegas was drunk and ready to kick greaser ass. Eddie wanted us to make one final stop before we hit the road-a little party his wife worked at called Makeup.

 

EPILOGUE: LALA, COSTUME BALLS

Makeup is a glam-rock party held the first Saturday of every month. The Saturday BJW happened to be in town was the 1-year anniversary of the party, so everyone just HAD to go there. We showed up at the El Rey theatre around midnight, and there were at least 200 beautiful people all done up in leather, spandex, feathers and what have you just dying to get in, and they knew they weren’t getting in but I guess to some people standing in line at the cool party beats going home. While BJW has its strong points, I don’t think anyone has ever called us snappy dressers either individually or as a group. So Eddie, Mr. Hollywood-doorguy-terrorizer, walks up to the security goons and after only 2 minutes of haranguing and a few threats from his wife to pipebomb the place BJW is walking past the sacred velveteen rope and the 200 unfortunates in line are thinking maybe they should show up to Makeup’s second anniversary party dressed like shit.

Inside it’s all Hollywood Babylon Caligula’s Birthday Party At Disneyland On Acid, the chick from Four Non Blondes is dressed like an Indian chief leading a band made up of guitars from Tin Machine and The Cult and the drummer from Black Sabbath through a schlocky set of Zeppelin covers. Sin and Eddie promise that we can play makeup next time we’re out-and we’re thinking, "yeah, and you thought the swing dance crowd hated us…".

Anyway, every once in a while you drive past a tourist trap in the Ozarks that has some ostriches and mangy lions in a cage and homemade fudge and it claims to be "a camera paradise". Well, dear friends, with all its red-hot nobodys, luke warm used-to-bes, and out-of-sight somebodies, I’d certainly have to rate Makeup as a camera paradise. Steve shot pictures all the babes who fell for his friendly goober act, Vegas lounged with off-duty porn stars, and we got to party with Eddie’s neighbor Rob Zombie(hey-they ARE neighbors, and we were ALL at the party, so IT’S TRUE….DAMMIT!!!). And, just as we were getting comfy in this world of hype and artifice, it was time to get in the van for the 23-hour drive back.

None of the gigs in Cali were nearly as fun as most of the shows we’ve had in Tulsa, Austin, OKC, and Chapel Hill-the four towns I call home. The thing that struck me the most peculiar was that having more of everything going on seemed to divide the Cali scene into cliques whose paths seldom crossed and who seemed to validate their own aesthetics by furiously shitting on others’ aesthetics. At the 66 Bowl in Oklahoma City last Saturday(Feb 26^th to be exact), a Sonic Youthesque band from Austin called Hot Wheels, Jr. opened for Brian Parton and The Nashville Rebels. A lot of the OKC rockabilly crowd was there, and they clapped for Hot Wheels enthusiastically. Poison Okies frontman Brian Dunning is a garbageman on the route in my neighborhood, and when I told him of our experiences he said he’d heard the same thing about the West Coast retro scene. Sorting the recyclables into the bins on his truck, he said that to him there’s always been just two types of music-good and bad. I heard enough excuses about what night we were playing and how 2 nights later the crowd would have loved us out there to think the problem is not in the music. We also ran into a few people who loved us so much they would jump in front of a speeding bus for us. That seems to be how it is with BJW. Now if I could only figure out why I can’t wait to load the van and go back….

8.99:   SUMMER ’99 TOUR MEMOIRS

 Sightseeing in the D of C done, the boys headed for Baltimore, home of The Glenmont Popes, Twin Six, and John Waters. Pulling into the outskirts of town early Wednesday, evening, the boys saw a state recreational area on the map that looked like a likely overnight camping spot. Frequently becoming disoriented on the small and poorly marked roads, the boys finally found the park they had begun to doubt the existence of only to find it closed at sundown. Looking for a place to do a U-turn, the boys found the one thing that travelling musicians never want to find: A bored small-town cop on a back road waiting for out-of-state communist hippie jew lesbian fascist negro sympathizers to plant drugs on. The road was 2-lane, the speed limit was 30, and the terrain was hilly. John "Prince of Paranoia" Manson was at the wheel, trying to keep it at just above 30 going down the steep hills but just below 30 on the flats in an exact approximation of what a van that WASN’T carrying large amounts of drugs would do. This shit went on for about five miles, with Johnny Law three feet from BJW’s back bumper. Finally the cop turned off, and a mile or so later the back road let out into a strip-mall area full of fast food and angry black people. Searching for and failing to find another campground, the boys broke down and hit a Motel 6, ready to rise early and explore this jewel of the Chesapeake.

BJW has found some new friends out there in computer land, and if you’re reading this page, we’re sure you’ll want to make them your friends, too! Out west in sunny California, there’s a little town called San Diego, where(along with Mojo, Billy Bacon, and the ghost of Country Dick Montana), lives a little school called San Diego State University, which has one of them commie-hippie college radio stations, which on every Tuesday from 7-10pm Pacific(9-12 to those of you in the Winghead Zone) has a radio show called the Double Wide Hayride, which plays only the best in psychobilly, western swing and general white trash lunacy. The hosts, Gus and Mr. Lucky, are crazier than a couple of shithouse squirrels, and Wanda the intern can allegedly chug-a-lug Karo syrup with the best of ‘em. The show can be listened to on your handy-dandy Real Player,  and you can visit their brand-new website at  http://www.hayrideshow.com.   We here at Winghead World guarantee that listenin’ to the Double Wide Hayride is more fun than dippin’ your wick in a coffee can fulla night crawlers, and a lot easier to explain when friends drop by…..

3.3.99 WHOLE LOTTA SHAKIN’ ALL OVER!

It’s been a while since our last news update, but WE’VE BEEN BUSY! Original drummer Dustin "Neil Peart Is Dreamy" Reynolds showed back up at the rehearsal space with a whole new outlook and some shiny new tattoos (real new-scabs and all!). Interim drummer and all-around stud Aaron Preston was given his honorable discharge, and may go to Chapel Hill with the band in May if the neon gods forbid Dusty to make the trip twice in a fortnight. Jeff Vegas is continuing on with the original fab four, keeping busy as well with Aaron in the Demon Seeds.

The preparations are well under way for the release of Be Your Own Boss. Thursday, March 25^th BJW is slated to be on KSPI "The Spy" in Stillwater on the local spotlight show. Friday, March 26^th is the Tulsa CD release party at The Fur Shop. Saturday, March 27^th BJW will do an in-store performance at Tulsa’s Starship Records in the afternoon, and straddle the turnpike to throw the OKC CD release party at 66 Bowl that evening. The BYOBallyhoo will wind up on Sunday, March 28^th when the boys are slated to hand out with Davit "Blonde Ambition" Souders on the Homegroan Show on Tulsa’s Z104.5 The Edge at or around 11:00 PM. Look for rare Winghead tracks, recently unearthed Kustom Kar Kommandos sessions and, if you’re lucky, a weird Theremin-drum machine-bass live performance that will almost certainly sound like shit. All this after…O yeah, South By Southwest!

While the boys got passed on this year by the SXSW starmakers, that did not daunt BJW’s legendary can-friggin-do spirit. On a tip from some friends, Steve sent a CD to Blondie’s Skate Shop, a sometimes-venue not on the official showcase list. The thrashers loved Beto Junction, and gave Winghead a Friday, March 19^th show. Having played the party for real and rocking the house last year, Manson saw no dishonor in playing a non-conference show….hell, isn’t that how Hanson got signed? The SXSW 99 showcases are ass-deep in big names: Supersuckers, L7, Wayne Kramer, The Flaming Lips, Flat Duo Jets, all sorts of folks. Now, if the boys can just figure out a way into the shows….

12.7.98 WINTER UPDATE

The December trip to Chapel Hill was, in the minds of the 3 original Wingheads, the Big Road Test. Practices with new drummer Aaron and new guitar slinger Vegas had gone well, but this was the first show. In front of the Sleazefest Gods. Manson was nervous that they didn’t get enough songs ready, but that’s show biz. They loaded up early on Friday morning and set out on the by-now familiar 23 hour trek.

The boys arrived in Memphis around 8:00 PM, and immediately went to Graceland. The grounds were closed for the evening, but the mansion was all lit up for the holidays with blue and white Christmas lights, a sight that none had ever beheld and nearly moved Manson to tears. Then on to Beale Street, where the boys did massive amounts of gumbo, catfish, BBQ and raw oysters in a Welcome To Winghead feast. Guts full and beers empty, non-drinkers Steve and Manson pulled the late shifts and got the van to Chapel Hill by mid-afternoon on Saturday.

Local 506 is next door to the North Carolina Sports Bar, which put Dan and Aaron in whiteboy heaven. All games were coming down simultaneously from the NASA feed on the roof, and between bouts Dan and Aaron tossed free throws at the indoor hoop and ate hot dogs. While the show openers, Boston’s Peasants, were hanging posters and taking their acoustic guitars to the coffee shop to drum up business, Manson was displaying a seldom-seen competitive streak as he kicked Dan’s ass to be the champion in the Winghead Air Hockey Tournament. After watching Dan’s form in his well-contested match with Aaron, Manson had a sneaking feeling that Dan let him win, but victory is victory!

The 506 opened around 8:30, and Dave “I’ve Been Asleep All Day On the Couch With the Weather Channel On” Robertson filled the band in on the latest Chapel Hill news and tasteless jokes. Local punk heroes The Archers of Loaf were doing their farewell performance at the Cat’s Cradle up the street, so the boys prepared themselves for an intimate evening. The Peasants kicked off the evening with a brisk set of well-crafted songs that left us knowing exactly how the singer-guitarist felt about frat boys, his girlfriend, gainful employment, and a plethora of other topics that momentarily escape me. The house filled up a bit throughout the set, and by the time Winghead took the stage there was a more respectable crowd than Manson had expected, given the AOL show next door. Aaron and Vegas played the rehearsed material flawlessly, and when the set was over and the crowd yelled for more, Aaron and Vegas managed to make it through Grave Digger and Harlem Nocturne surprisingly well having never played or listened to them before. People danced all night, bought stuff and just made us glad to be in North Carolina. Mary Huff and David Hartman from Southern Culture on the Skids came out for the show, and Dave told us that they would request BJW as their opener next time they played Oklahoma City. The doorman, who turned out to be an old friend of Aaron’s from the Chainsaw Kittens days, produced the hacksaw we had left at the club after using it to slice our bigass bologna at Sleazefest. He had been meaning to hang it on the wall with the other R&R artifacts, and wanted us to autograph it so it could be displayed along with the Dick Dale surfboard and other priceless objets-de-refuse. An impromptu signing ceremony was arranged, and the immortalization of Winghead at 506 was completed.