punk | Tough Customer // Wire

Spider Problem

One of the great things about living in the internet age is the abundance of information. Anyone with a computer now has more information at their fingertips than the entire world had 100 years ago. Almost every thing, person, place and idea has its own Wikipedia page – if not its own website, MySpace page, or blog. This goes for everybody from LOLcats to Baby Jesus. It’s all there for picking – fact, fiction, altered photos. Many say it serves as the great equalizer.

But what’s funny about this wealth of information is that it’s accessed via key phrases that only a computer search engine can understand. These search engines are pretty sophisticated, but they still rely on their human counterparts to speak to them in a kind of pidgin English. For example, if you were to ask your friend and fellow human about new punk bands from LA, you might say, “Hey – heard any good rock bands lately? What’s up with LA?” You could even ask your friend just to put something on the stereo or simply shotgun a beer and yell “Dude! Let’s fuckin rock!” Chances are your friend would get the idea.

To get the same effect from Google or YouTube however, you have to type something like “kick-ass” + “punk band” + “los angeles.” Otherwise the search engine will pick up on unimportant words or misconstrue your query. When this happens it is like a brief glimpse into the strange workings of the internet’s brain.

Case in point: I was looking on YouTube for live performances by LA trash rock band Spider Problem. I would have thought that “Spider Problem” is a unique enough phrase that nothing else would come up in the top search results – especially as it pertains to videos. I was wrong. The number one video for “spider problem” on YouTube is literally a problem caused by a spider. It seems that the space shuttle Atlantis STS-122 could not launch last year due to a giant spider crawling over one of the launch cameras. The video shows the silhouette of a disgusting looking spider crawling over the shuttle in one point perspective. There are no words or sound, and the video has been viewed over 350,000 times.

While I understand the, uh, scientific relevance of this video, I can’t really imagine more than 350,000 people wanting to watch it. What makes more sense to me are all the videos that show up below it in the search. They are live performances by the band Spider Problem, and I can imagine anybody with a love for chaotic punk rock, spastic rhythms and sultry lead singers watching them over and over again. They are full of distortion, mascara, and flailing body parts, and they serve as a pretty good primer for how rock n roll should look on stage.

Of course, if you want to bridge the gap between YouTube’s search algorithms and your desire to hear some nasty punk destruction, here’s what you should do: flip on the silent “spider problem” video from NASA while listening to these tracks from the band Spider Problem. Bam! Problem solved.

Bonus link: This guy solved a problem with a spider. Sort of. -ed

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MP3: 'Bullet'

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MP3: 'Big Thunder'

By: Editor

15-01-2009

Los Angeles, punk

Philadelphia Grand Jury

The first time I ever went to Las Vegas, I was 19 years old. Three friends and I piled into an aging Honda Accord and drove off around sunset on a Thursday evening in early Spring. We had a stack of CDs, a couple packs of cigarettes, and three fake IDs between us. We had an invitation to sleep on the floor of a relative’s house out in the suburbs and we were to determined to pack as much crazy, unbridled fun as we could into the two nights we would be there.

The drive to Las Vegas from San Francisco is long – really long. It’s 10+ hours if you hit traffic or stop for food. By the time we crossed the border into Nevada, it was three in the morning and we were exhausted. We were on the verge of passing out and had started looking for a cheap roadside motel when the lights of the Strip rose suddenly out of the desert like a neon flying saucer. We’d already been stoned twice and we’d each drank about a liter of Jolt cola at that point, but the glow of downtown Vegas energized us. We hit the gas and covered the last few miles into town doing about 95 on the big highway that runs along the backside of the casinos.

After a strange breakfast served to us by an elderly lady in a négligée at the Peppermill and a disorienting drive through the Las Vegas suburbs, we finally went to bed as the sun was coming up. We slept through most of the day and woke up ready to kick Las Vegas in the nuts.

This time we had a hand-drawn map, so driving back to the Strip only took us about 30 minutes. We’d gotten our hands on some designer drugs before we left the city, and they kicked in just as we pulled onto Las Vegas Blvd. By the time we drove into the parking lot of The Stratosphere we were hanging out of the car windows, offering our bodies to strangers and screaming at anyone within ear shot.

The next five hours were a whirlwind of hyperactive weirdness. We rode the roller coaster twice. We snuck into the group photo of a bunch of Japanese tourists. We did flaming shots on an indoor boat with a dance floor that rose and fell mechanically to simulate the movement of waves. We sat in with the band in an artificial jungle at The Mirage, all of us singing along with some time-worn classic rock song. We visited what has to be the seediest strip club in all of Las Vegas (The Tally Ho, for the record) and at least two of us got a lap dance from a stripper with a fresh C-section scar.

At some point toward the end of the evening, we even tried to gamble a little. While not quite in full possession of our faculties, we did have the good sense to pick a smaller, slightly run down casino where the tables would be cheap and nobody would hassle us about the fake IDs. We were huddled around a one dollar black jack table when a tired looking cocktail waitress came to take our drink orders. We ordered gin and tonics and tried to pretend that we weren’t a bunch of drug addled teenagers sneaking alcohol in a Las Vegas casino on a Friday night. Of course the waitress carded us right away, although I don’t think she really cared how old we were. We probably could have shown her our library cards and she would have been ok with it as long as we tipped her.

In fact, she barely glanced at the pictures as we handed her our IDs one by one. She even gave my handsome friend Dan a smile, and he flirted with her a little as he ordered his drink. She came to my friend Scott last, and was still smiling when she took his ID. She made some relatively benign comment about his picture – told him he looked young or something like that. Scott could have easily laughed it off, or made a quick joke (“Yes, I have Casey Kasem disease”) and that would have been that. But he didn’t, and to this day I still don’t understand why he said what he said next.

Instead of charming the waitress into leaving us alone, or even being just semi-polite to her, Scott said, “What do you care? You just hate your shitty job. Don’t take it out on me. Now go get my drink, bitch.”

The next part of this story happened just like it does in the movies. Three very large guys in black suits appeared at the table. They grabbed Scott and his fake ID and told us to stay where we were as they dragged him to the back of the casino. We stood around waiting for them to bring our friend back, but that began to seem less and less likely as the minutes ticked past. Finally after about a half hour, we went looking for Scott. We found him in a dingy back room, handcuffed to a bench. He was being interrogated under harsh fluorescent lighting by the casino goons. To his credit, he had ramped up his animosity and was running through a grocery list of insults. He suggested that the security personnel were all the product of incestuous sexual unions and that they should all spend the rest of their lives humping barn animals.

Eventually the casino security guards realized they weren’t going to get Scott to give up the name of an international counterfeiting organization and they decided to let him go. They uncuffed him and two of the guards picked him up by the arm pits and carried him to the back of the casino. We chased after them as they kicked open a service door and literally threw him into the back alley. They even said, “And don’t you ever come back!” I swear to god.

I was reminded of that night in Las Vegas when I heard the Australian band Philadelphia Grand Jury. Their new single is called “Going To The Casino (Tomorrow Night)” and it might as well be the soundtrack for every debauched night out in Sin City. The band plays with unhinged intensity, yelping and growling over razor sharp guitar lines. Their songs are quick and to the point, like a punch to the face. It’s hipster punk rock at its best, which is to say it’s punk rock, but with better chops, cooler hair and a lot more soul.

What I love best though is the chorus on “Going To The Casino.” The band chants over the drums, issuing a blissfully unaware challenge to fate and pit bosses everywhere: “Going to the casino! Tomorrow night! What could possibly go wrong?” The underlying idea seems to be that even if it all goes wrong, it’s still alright. My thoughts exactly.

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MP3: 'Going To The Casino (Tomorrow Night)‘

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MP3: 'Ready To Roll' (Tough Customer//Wire Exclusive!)

By: Editor

09-01-2009

Australia, garage rock, indie rock, punk

Abigail Warchild

One of the more nefarious details of the current US credit meltdown is what’s happening at the top of this big, steaming pile. While thousands of people at the bottom lose their jobs and life savings, and while the government contemplates a record bail-out package, a lot of the top executives who oversaw this disaster are quietly leaving the scene. And guess what? They’re doing so with their pockets filled to overflowing.

It turns out that most of these CEOs have a so-called golden parachute that provides them with exit packages worth millions of dollars – regardless of the terms of their exit. Sure, they might lose their job when their company is sold or goes belly up, but they shouldn’t have any problem landing on their feet. Why? Because after several years of clocking six and seven figure paychecks they get an extra couple of million as their parting gift.

Ha! Here’s your “punishment” for fucking up the US economy Mr. Filthy Rich Executive! Don’t let the door hit you on the way out!

Look, we all know that life is unfair and some have more than most, but this is just plainly, blatantly, insultingly wrong. You know what happens to me when I am late on a single payment for my credit card? It goes on my permanent record, archived as a poisonous little weapon that can be used against me for at least seven years whenever some financial institution wants to deny me a loan, charge me a higher interest rate, or make it difficult for me to rent an apartment.

Right now I have a huge scar on my credit report because of an unpaid hospital bill. Four years ago I spent three and a half hours in an emergency room waiting for somebody to look at my broken hand. Finally I got sick of waiting and left. Unfortunately, I had given them my name and social security number when I checked in, which later allowed them to bill me $350 for my visit. Yes, that’s right. They charged me $350 to sit, untreated, for three and a half hours in the waiting room before leaving of my own volition.

Needless to say, trying to get this problem straightened has been a nightmare of paperwork and fruitless phone calls to creditors. I’m sure every one of you knows exactly what I’m talking about, because every one of you has spent some portion of your life on the phone or in a bank or online with your credit card company arguing about some rule in the fine print that allows them to pointlessly fuck with your world. It’s par for the course these days. Everybody who works or has some small amount of money understands the delicate and tenuous nature of their credit rating and how easily it can be used to make life difficult.

So here’s what I propose: First, the above mentioned executives should not receive any sort of exit package. I know their contracts may guarantee it and all that, but so what? You broke the American economy. Entire generations are going bankrupt because of your greed. Let’s see you get a team of expensive lawyers to fight this one when you’re paying for it out of your own unemployed pockets.

Secondly, and more importantly, every single top executive who profited from and/or had a hand in the current economic crisis should have his bank account drained and his personal credit score lowered to 150. After that, it won’t matter how much cash they have stuffed in their respective mattresses. Want to start a new business? Too bad, your small business loan has been denied. Want to apply for a credit card? Sorry, we can only offer you a $250 limit with a 34.99% APR. Want to rent a house, or install cable, get a cellphone plan, buy a car or turn on your utilities? Unfortunately your credit score tells us that you are an irresponsible and untrustworthy person.

I think the country would be a very different place if the people who created this mess had to walk a mile in the shoes of the people who trudge through it every day. I think that if huge corporations and monolithic financial institutions remove the piles of money that stand between them and the people they’re profiting from, they’ll see how rotted out the system is. I think it was their own greed that brought on the fall in this case, but it was bound to happen one way or another. As the great financial analyst/record producer Alan Parsons once said, what goes up must come down.

MP3: 'The Dive' (via RCRD LBL)

By: Editor

04-12-2008

indie rock, New York, punk, pyschedelic

The Ringers

Out at my parents’ house they have satellite TV. As a rule I don’t even sit down in front of their TV unless I have at least three hours to kill. I don’t know if all satellite users have this many channels or if they have some kind of mega-channel package, but the amount of choices available is totally overwhelming. There are something like 200 channels devoted to sports, with coverage of everything from slamball to motorcycle ice racing. Cooking shows take up channels 500 through 650, reality and home improvement shows are in the 800s, and you can usually find any sitcom ever made if you flip through the low channels. And of course there are 20 different versions each of HBO, Showtime, Cinemax, and Starz – and that’s not even counting the channels en Español.

With this many choices it’s hard to really enjoy whatever it is you end up watching. Sure that re-run from the original season of Iron Chef is cool, but what if you’re missing something better? It’s almost guaranteed that one of the 1000+ channels is doing a special on the world’s craziest bar fights started by explosions as described by naked co-eds to a soundtrack of rare Motörhead live recordings. And you could probably find it too, if you take the time to browse through all the channels.

Like I said, it’s totally overwhelming. I usually just end up watching the last 15 minutes of a bunch of movies I’ve already seen. Maybe that’s a little ADD, but it’s the only way I can reconcile the thrill of all that variety with the assurance of knowing I’m watching something at least half way decent. My dad, on the other hand, goes one better. He insists that most of the programming itself is worthless and that the true genius is in the commercials. Recently I’ve found myself agreeing with him.

Here’s why: those (relatively) new commercials from the National Milk Processor Board featuring a fictional glam rocker named White Gold. I’m sorry, but that shit is hilarious. Each commercial (not to mention the website, online ads, subway posters, etc.) is filled with so much tongue-in-cheek, self-referencing, semi-arcane rock symbolism that it’s almost like a game of Where’s Waldo for insider music jokes. Songs like “Is It Me Or Do You Love My Hair?” are played against a video back-drop that would make the boys in Spinal Tap proud. The website features tons of pseudo -Led Zeppelin iconography and a video game that allows you to assume the role of a sassy fashion photographer while White Gold and his back up singers strike various “awesome” poses. White Gold himself can be found playing the “infinite guitar solo” on his one gallon axe, which looks like a cross between a Flying V and one of Prince’s weird ass guitars. Needless to say, the guitar is filled with milk.

The first time I saw one of these commercials I realized that the actor playing White Gold had to be in a real band. He was just too good at playing an indulgent rock god. Nobody could step into that role without having spent some serious time in rock n roll fantasy land. Well guess what? I was right. White Gold is played by none other than Joe Hursley, front man for LA trouble punk band The Ringers.

Normally I would say actors and rock bands don’t mix (I’m looking at you Keanu), but in this case we can definitely make an exception. The Ringers play a brash style of punk rock that has the balls of The Stooges, the hooks of The Hives, and all the style of Los Angeles on a Saturday night. Their songs are full of sex, mischief and whiskey soaked growls. The band is all spit and vinegar and they bang out tight little rock songs like they’re getting paid 100 bucks for every party they start. I’ve never seen them live, but I’m willing to bet that the first three rows get wet.

What’s ironic is that The Ringers music is catchy enough that it will probably find its way into some commercial or another. If and when this happens, the result will be a commercial with music by a guy who plays another guy who plays music in another commercial for something totally different than the other commercial. Which is like, more confusing than a TV with 1000 channels.

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MP3: 'Holy Zipper'

By: Editor

26-11-2008

LA, pop, punk, rock

The Cops

At some point or another we’ve all seen an episode of the show “COPS.” Back in the days before reality TV programming ruled the airwaves, “COPS” was one of the few places you could get a voyeuristic glimpse into the lurid lives of speed freaks, wife beaters, and petty thieves – all from the comfort of your couch. However, it usually was just a glimpse, because most of the time the cop car with the camera in it showed up after the perp had already been cuffed and dragged out of the house. The bulk of the show consisted of interviews with patrol officers who used unnecessarily difficult (and often mispronounced) words to describe other cases they had worked on. “My fellow partner and me apprehended the suspected offender as he was exiting his vehicle in front of his place of residence.” As though these 8th grade vocabulary words would make the cop seem smarter/more righteous/less like a dick. Yeah right. I still remember that ticket your boys gave me for going 4 miles an hour over the speed limit back when I was delivering pizzas, just trying to make enough money to pay for college. Jerk.

So it would seem that all associations with the cops would be negative for us here at Tough Customer headquarters. And negative they would have remained if it weren’t for the Seattle band The Cops. Turns out when you capitalize the “T” and the “C” and add some loud guitars and irreverent lyrics, and remove the delusions of grandeur that come with being a keeper of the peace, you get a group of people you actually want to listen to. As evidence we submit a couple tracks from their new album “Free Electricity.” On these compositions of music the listener will recognize the alleged sounds of rocking out that reprobate youths are often found to be enjoying in western city-type locations. Yes officer, we understand. In other words, fuck the police, but The Cops are alright.

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Download 'It's Epidemic'

Download 'Terribly Empty Pockets'

By: Editor

16-11-2007

punk, rock, Seattle

Tough Customer // Wire

Spider Problem

Philadelphia Grand Jury

Abigail Warchild

The Ringers

The Cops

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