Back in the 1980s whenever I wandered into Wax Trax Records on Lincoln Avenue, I would always wonder about the futures of the punk rockers lounging about out front. Would they remain defiant to the end ( like Sid Vicious or four of the five Ramones, all living abbreviated lives ) or would they "sell out" and become respectable ( e.g., Elvis Costello, Johnny Rotten/Lydon ) ? The question popped back in my head when I checked out the Queers at Reggie's as a prelude to all that holiday cheer ( sugar plum fairies? not this kid... ) . As I mentioned in my review of Kepi Ghoulie's opening set for this show in the Dec. 18, 2010, column, this shindig was far from what I expected. Granted, the middle act, Canada's The Riptides, turned Reggie's into a jolly brawl and delivered what I expected, but the Queers and Ghoulie were about something else entirely.
The nucleus of the band, fronted by Joe Queer ( aka Joe King ) , came together in 1982 in Portsmouth N.H., broke up a year later, got back together and, despite numerous line-up changes ( J.Q. is the only remaining original member ) , has been cranking ever since. But where the Queers were certainly punk, they were far from humorless, pretentious or threatening. They always had a snarky infantilism which made them impossible to take seriously ( "Can't Stop Farting,""Journey to the Center of Your Fucking Skull,""Burger King Queen" ) but enough musical muscle and smarts to embrace regardless of the jokes. They also had a kinship with there idols, the Ramones, going so far as to re-record Rocket to Russia ( Sire Records ) as a tribute. The Queers balanced pop and punk successfully, stripping the music down to it's basics, diluting the threat, and adding Beach Boy-esque harmonies without being labeled "sell outs." Punk that was hummable, agreeable, funny, approachable and crass as all-get-out ( when you come across a song title like "I Want C*nt" you certainly can't say that you didn't know what you were in for... ) may not have inspired Ramones-like worship but with the new Back to the Basement ( Asian Man Records ) and their "polite" gig at Reggie's before a hyper crowd, it was hard to care.
Back to the Basement's opener, "Rollerdog" is a lumbering instrumental blast of coiled surf rock, so crunchy and stinging that it makes you want to grab Annette Funicello and ... well, you get the idea. There's a clutch of rockers that zip by in 4/4 time with barreling guitars mixed to the front and an average running time of two and a half to three minutes; the songs resemble monosyllabic rants ( "Outta My Skull," "Psychedelic Mindfuck," "I'm Pissed" ) and there are a couple of toss-offs that seem designed to fill the crass quotient ( "Keep It Punk," "T*tf*ck" ) . A blistering cover of Black Flag's "White Minority," for all its serrated bite and anger, feels plopped in the middle of all this and a little jokey, while "Don't Touch My Hat" is a mid-tempo mild-mannered kiss-off to an obnoxious pest. The real highlights of the album bracket the start and finish. "Back to the Basement," a rocker about days and rage gone by is part nostalgia trip ( "What happened to Black Flag/Sid and Nancy too...?" ) and part indictment of the current "punk" wave ( "Used to be every band had balls/Now everybody's wimpy hanging at the mall..." ) . "Everyday Girl" is even better—an almost wistful valentine of such open sincerity and sweet bluntness that it almost upends the albums bite. Dreams, sentiment, a touch of nostalgia and straight-faced romance—maybe it's not punk but it sure is human.
This, of course, did not mean that the Queers ( J.Q. on vocals and guitar, Dangerous Dave on bass and vocals, and Hog Log on drums ) had gotten all wet and wussy. The show at Reggie's, though it lacked the Riptides' unmasked rage, still had a celebrative cheeriness with a velocity that was reminiscent of a runaway train and by the time Kepi Ghoulie ran on stage to share J.Q.'s mic for a furious duet on the Ramones' "Sheila is a Punk Rocker," the entire main floor of Reggie's had turned into a massive slam pit. So the Queers answered my question about what becomes of mature punk rockers ... they go right ahead and keep rocking. Happy holidays in-fucking-deedee...
My deranged New Year's ... Part I
The New Year's Eve line-up for this show made no sense to me at all. The idea of SSION ( the godfathers of militant, ass-wiggling, raving, homo-happy disco-slam funk ) and Mucca Pazza ( a 30-member punk-circus send-up of regimented brass bands and cheerleading squads ) seemed like a pairing of extreme opposites, and I had a hard time wrapping my brain around it. Halfway through the opening set I turned around to face "Dan the Fan," who was kind enough to enlighten me. Dan is what I would consider an angel ... a positively benevolent man who pops up at killer shows and makes a point of "getting into it." Though we just officially met this past summer I had seen him at numerous shows ... numerous excellent shows I must add ( the db's reunion and Andrew Bird at the Hideout Block Party in 2005, White Mystery at last year's Taste, The Ponys at last summer's Wicker Park Fest ) , perpetually bouncing lightly on his feet feeling the music with an ear-to-ear grin. The guy just gets into it and actually makes pop culture valid simply by expressing the joy it brings him. And his presence is certainly what I needed to shut my mind off and get with it, or, as George Clinton once said, "Free your ass and your mind will follow..."
Out of Our Minds ( OOOMs ) , the evening's opener, was a refreshing straight-up pop band and a witty mash up of styles; lead vocalist/guitarist Zack Medearis ( whip thin, scruffy, and squeezed into air tight denim ) was the polar opposite of vocalist/keyboardist Mary McKann ( cool and blonde ) and vocalist/percussionist Gee Gee Lira ( blown-out frizzed afro, pointy petite white lace-up boots and a Saran Wrap tight mini ) . What OOOMs featured were some polished pop ideas with a punchy attack and a diverting sense of humor and drama. My only regret was that they didn't get a full open-ended set that would have allowed them to stretch out more.
By the time OOOMs were into their final song ( a love song called "Until You Are Dead" ) I could see why they were positioned at the outset; SSION ( pronounced "sheen" ) front man/nucleus/svengoli Cody Critchloe was just off stage left, chugging a bottle of champagne. By the time SSION hit the stage he was half-juiced, which threw this show into another dimension. 'Course I've experienced my share of live train wrecks ( My favorite was the Evil Beaver "Saturday Night Beaver" catastrophe at the Empty Bottle where a sloppy drunk Evie Beaver ripped off her shirt, thrust her boobs in my direction and belched "Stick these in your @#$?!!!! newspaper!!!" Granted WCT is a gay newspaper for the whole family so we weren't giving Evie's boobies any play—but I digress... ) and my reaction was to cringe since I had no idea where this show was headed. Again, Dan popped up behind me and his very presence whispered "chill out."
Critchloe may have been crocked but it certainly didn't stop him from ripping the joint. Never mind that SSION hasn't had anything out since 2008's Fool's Gold ( Sleazetone Records ) ; or that the dystopian performance art concept angle of the album got lost; or that he left his spandex-wrapped twink go-go boys back in Kansas City; or that the crypto-feminist WOMAN segment didn't translate; or that the auditorium's acoustics tuned the mix into mud. What did matter was SSION was there to party and that was all: no selling, no pontificating, no message to get across—just spine-rattling ass-shaking. The only song in the set that I did recognize was "Bullshit," but that didn't matter, either.
This show was all visual; Critchloe in a black leather jacket and what looked like an embroidered night gown go-going his ass off ( and yes, I have to admit that the '70s porn-star handlebar moustache, the beauty mark and the white face have to be some kind of sinister inside dirty joke ) the WOMAN ( Shannon Michaels ) pontificating and loving every second of not only being the center of attention but also in being an irresistible bitch ( think of a sexualized coked-up Tallulah Bankhead, but in a way better body ) , the angel-faced drummer stripping down to his skivvies for some art-nerd beefcake and guitarist JAM getting all up in his primal-hippie-studmuffin funk.
What was really funny, of course, was that SSION flooded the Logan Square Auditorium with such a high dose of queer pizzazz that the straight boys and their girl dates were so overwhelmed that they had no chance to process it psychologically and could only, uh, dance. Or, to follow through on Clinton's words, SSION freed an awful lot of asses that night.
To be continued...
