The Nerve Magazine January/February 2001

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The Anti-Christ Mass Issue Vol. 2 No. 1 January / February 2001

in Vancouver & Victoria, BC Canada: $2.50 USA: US$2.00 Overseas: $3.50 Cdn

A Mag for Freedom’s Sake!

Chattin’ with Jello an exclusive interview with Jello Biafra

Sick Little Monkeys Tattoos

CoreLore At the Drive-In VUFF Blue Movies

Editor’s Blurb Y es, by now I’m sure you’ve noticed our format change… well, most of you have, I hope. And if you don’t like it, tough shit. We’ve going for quantity not quality! That’s right, baby, so maybe your hands won’t feel so smooth rubbing across our pages, but we’ve printed twice as many… so we could, you know, increase our circulation to the local High Schools.

But on to what’s really important… If somebody doesn’t cream pie the mayor soon, I’m gonna have to fuckin’ do it myself.

What’s the matter with you people? Oh, and get this! The Loop Magazine told me they were going to join the effort this month, upping the prize another $100 and making the total prize money $200. They were enthusiastic even. But they copped out! To quote from the E-mail from the editor: “…Decided to pull it because a week before we went to press Phillip Owen made the announcement that he’d be pushing for programs which would help people on drugs in the Downtown Eastside. It didn’t seem to make sense to accuse him of doing nothing on the heels of such an announcement.” Yeah? The mayor gets some good press for two days and all of a sudden he’s the golden boy?

Where was he 5 years ago when the same problems plagued the D.E.S. Fuck him. We’ll just see what actually happens. Did you see how terrified he looked when he had his picture taken down there? What a chump. The Nerve is holding The Loop to their promise of joining our little contest, by the way… you know, just to help them save a little face.

Now, after being sloppily reported on in the West Ender and even worse in the Straight, the LIQUOR LICENSE PETITION, started

by Andy McDougal (long time employee of the Brickyard) because he was fed up with the bullshit bureaucratic strangling of the local live music scene i.e. the blind enforcement of archaic laws, (as are so many of us) that he started collecting signatures to petition for a review and revisal of the liquor laws. The Nerve got involved shortly after with an online petition (also found through citygigs.com and pigeonpark.com). If you haven’t done it already, go sign it. If you don’t have a computer, use a friend’s. If you have no friends, go to The Cobalt (ask for our very own Pierre Lortie) or The Brickyard and sign with a pen. We plan on turning in the petition to Shity Hall as soon as enough of you have signed. And

if they ignore it? Well, let’s just say we’ve got plans to get a little more pro-active. Did someone say flatbed?

Included (below) for your reading pleasure is a review of the July/ August issue as appeared in the last issue (#14) of Broken Pencil Magazine – zine culture in canada and the world. A slam? I think so, but we liked it anyway. T. Dick, the reviewer, does contradict himself into meaninglessness, but we’ll let you decide.

What else? Oh yeah, D. Cat is back! So for Christ sakes, keep this issue away from the children. Put it where you stash your pornography and guns, you know, that place they’d never think to look.

CONGRATULATIONS! To Little Sisters book store and their victory in the Supreme Court limiting the powers of those Canadian customs fucks on deciding what is obscene in erotic literature.

What was it? A fifteen year battle against censorship? The Nerve holds them in the highest regard. Go there and buy some books!

The Nerve would like to thank The Brickyard for hosting our 1 year anniversary party and Smoked Oysters, Assertion, and the amazing Ani Kyd for providing the entertainment. Special thanks to Jello Biafra and Alternative Tentacles, and all our sponsors: Scrape Records, Duthie Books, Does Your Mother Know?

Magazines, Medium Events Society, Denis of Smoked Oysters, and Black Dog Video.

Send your letters to the editor: The Nerve Magazine Box 88042 China Town P.O., Vancouver B.C., V6A 4A4 editor@thenerveonline.com

Uncensored - Viewer Discretion Advised The Nerve is: Publishers: Pierre Lortie, Bradley C. Damsgaard Editor-in-Chief: Bradley C. Damsgaard Music Editor: Paul Crowley Design and Graphics: Pierre Lortie, Bradley C. Damsgaard Staff Writers: Atomick Pete, A. D. MADGRAS, Liz Wakefield, D. Cat, Billy Tender Flake, Mike O, Brian Lindgreen, Mittens, Jeff Oliver, Matt Prendergast, Michael D. Dammitt, Paul Crowley, Matt Burrows, Casey Bourque, Jason LeBlanc, Brian Else, Core, Sinister Sam Other Contributors: Lee Mcdonald, Bob Roger, Robin Steen, Jason Ainsworth, Dexter R'lyeh, Matt Whalley, Elizabeth Nolan Illustration: Mike O Ad Sales: Bradley C. Damsgaard, Pierre Lortie Copy Editing: Grace Chin Pre-Press, Printing, Binding: Horizon Distribution: The Nerve crew in the rippin’ NerveMobile Cover photo: Ani Kyd The Nerve is published bi-monthly by the Nerve Magazine Ltd. (604)899-2406, (604)632-9654 (fax) Circulation: 10 000 in Vancouver, Victoria and via subscriptions. The opinions expressed by the writers and artists do not necessarily reflect those of the Nerve Magazine, its publishesr or editors. First publishing rights only are property of the Nerve Magazine. The Nerve does not accept responsibility for content in advertisements. The Nerve reserves the right to refuse any advertisement or submission and accepts no responsibility for unsolicited manuscripts or artwork. Copyright 2000 The Nerve Magazine Ltd. Box 88042, China Town PO, Vancouver BC, V6A 4A4

In the Anti-Christ Mass Issue Vol.2 No.1

January-Februay 2001

Chattin’ with Jello p. 10

Sick Little Monkeys p. 19

SECTIONS

Atomick Blast p.4 Live Wires p.6 Off The Record p.16 Blue Movies p.18 Straight 8 p.13 Free Energy p.9 Tattoos p.14 Off The Wall p 14 Cartoons p.15 Core Lore p 19 Who Else p.9

Fat Bureaucrats in No Fun City: Part II The BC Liquor Law Review has nothing in it for Joe Canadian

O

n October 30 th , the BC Government released details of its new Liquor Laws.

They promise a ‘modernization’ and ‘streamlining’ of those laughable laws that characterize British Columbia and Vancouver, our ‘No Fun City’. While the new laws seem to be in favour of positive change, once you look at them a little closer….

The ridiculous amount of current license categories are being replaced by a much simpler system of two license classes. Class A, which is for all places where you don’t have to eat to drink (all pubs, lounges and cabarets) called “primarily alcohol service” and class B, which is for restaurants (primarily food service). This means that places like the Cambie, the Commodore, the Pic, the Brickyard and the Cobalt, will all have the exact same type of license, and could all potentially be open until 4 am. Great!

Also, discrepancies between license capacity and building fire code capacity will be reduced as all licensed establishment that have a license capacity lower than the fire one will be entitled to obtain a capacity increase equivalent to fire capacity or 50% more than their license capacity, whichever is less. Not bad, no?

The final license approval process is left totally up to municipalities and is very vague.... Also, these improvements won’t be automatically granted but will, once again, have to be But the fun stops here. applied for by licensees and negotiated on a case by Upon deeper examination, it appears that this overhaul case basis which will of the liquor laws won’t have that much effect in Joe involve more bureaucrat ass Canadian’s everyday life.

One problem is that all kissing.

these nice aforementioned improvements are all subject to approval by local bureaucracies as well as the provincial liquor control board. The final license approval process is left totally up to municipalities and is very vague. It looks more like provincial bureaucrats are passing some of the No Fun tag to municipal bureaucrats. Also, these improvements won’t be automatically granted but will, once again, have to be applied for by licensees and negotiated on a case by case basis which will involve more bureaucrat ass kissing. It is not very likely that we will see all bars with the same type of license having the same hours of operation and the same rules, the way a real streamlining should be.

Other major flaw is that the government still believes that availability affects consumption. If this was the case, all of Quebec and Alberta would be raging alcoholics by now.

The BC government still wants to limit availability. There will be no new beer store licenses granted in the province. We will still have to buy warm beer at the liquor store (no more coolers will be added). They will still be operating at all kinds of different hours.

Booze will remain overpriced. And now they are even introducing a system to prevent cheap drinks in bars, everything must be at least 2 to 2.5 times the overpriced liquor store floor price.

To top all that shit off, they are introducing a police state twist to the new laws. Liquor inspectors will have more power and there will be more of them and it will pretty much be a zero tolerance situation.

Furthermore, this review of the liquor laws has been done in consultation exclusively with select interest groups such as bar owners, some community groups, municipalities and police forces. Of course, they forgot Joe Canadian. There has been no effort at all to consult the general public. I suppose they see us as a bunch of immature individuals who can’t behave, so they have to decide everything for us without asking us want we want although we are the ones paying for their expansive bureaucracy. Not only is this unacceptable, this is insulting.

So it looks like the new liquor laws are ‘modernized’ in theory but not in practice and that our paternalistic governments want to ensure that Joe British Columbian doesn’t have it too easy to have fun and that Vancouver retains its official No Fun City tag. Well, I don’t know about you, but that’s enough to make me wanna go out and get pissed.

Atomick Pete

4

Doin’ Brooklyn with Vancouver’s Jane Lee

Spiked Lee:

Photo: Jane Lee

By Jeff Oliver

A gang of hoodlums descend the rusty zipper of a dilapidated drug den. They are mean-looking , like a rogue gallery come-to-life, and their teardrop tattoos scrunch menacingly as they spot their next victims. The seething pavement recedes between us. Window shutters close. Stray dogs howl in foreboding.…

I am deep in Brooklyn, home to such gentlemen as the Wu Tang Clan, and I have no gun. Worse, my only posse is a ninety-pound, bespectacled art-major, so wisp-thin that the ODB’s bullet, shot point blank at her head, would surely whistle past and lodge directly into my nutsack. I panic, my pulse pounding like Oprah’s biological clock, and prepare to flee. But suddenly, just as the gang readies to attack, my companion starts to giggle. She hoots and belly-laughs, pointing up to the very fire-ravaged tenement from whence our assailants have come.

“Check that out,” she chuckles. “Classic!”

Above the tenement, there are two large bill-

boards, one partially blocking the other. The one in front reads: ‘REVERSE VASECTOMY! 1-800-533-8975” – and the other, super-imposed behind, is a Crown Royal advertisement with the famous purple satchel hanging off the bottle like a condom. The liner note, which from our viewpoint is just below “REVERSE VASECTOMY!”, reads: “PAPA’S GOT A BRAND NEW BAG!” Lee continues to laugh. “Hilarious, eh?! Ha!”

The humor escapes our assailants, but they are befuddled enough by this giggling, clearly-suicidal Chinese woman to let us pass unscathed. My testicles descend from my throat. I eye her curiously, looking for reasons why we’re still alive: the askew pink toque, frayed, paper-thin trench coat – that maniacal laugh. You can’t blame ‘em for not wanting to get involved.

It’s different hanging out with Jane Lee. She sees humor in things that normal people do not, in things that a normal person should not. Her visit to Brooklyn is a selfstyled “spiritual vacation” (i.e. trying to figure out whatthe-hell-to-do-with-her-life), after having just completed a Canadian tour with the Ladies Afternoon Art Society, a “now-sorta-defunct” three-woman performance art troupe.

The Ladies work(ed) on the philosophy of beautification, doing their best to make public space more appealing even if it means just putting smiles on people’s faces. Their activities include decorating drab mall trees with beautifully hand-made ornaments, providing a free lint-removal service, or simply walking into a GAP store and helping the overworked staff fold sweaters. Dressed in simple, waitress-style red uniforms, the Ladies never leave their “nice person” roles. Lee, who goes by the character-name Susan, is confounded by those who misunderstand the group’s goal. “Mall cops are the worst,” she says. “They usually throw us out even though we’re not panhandling.

But we Ladies just keep smiling … even offer them Vitamin C pills for their mall-cop sniffles.”

Lee’s rule to “never-stop-smiling” is a testament to her commitment to the Ladies. It means that she has to hold back on a facial expression that is far more natural to her: THE BLANK STARE. Maybe you’ve seen the famous Jane Lee blank stare. Perhaps you’ve walked into the Blinding Light!! alternative cinema (her place of employment), and mistakenly asked if Ben Affleck’s ‘Bounce’ is showing. Or maybe you’ve requested a cup of hot water with milk and honey (and no tea bag), just so you wouldn’t have to pay for a drink. If you have, and you have, then you’ve also been on the unfortunate receiving end of a blank stare that is steady and deadpan, the kind that most people can hold for three-maybe-four seconds without laughing. Lee can hold it almost indefinitely – it’s her masterpiece, the weapon of a quiet smart-aleck that can’t help but punish tactlessness. Maybe that’s why the mall cops find her so threatening.

Our first stop in Brooklyn is a lesbian art exhibit, hosted by an acquaintance of mine who wouldn’t be in attendance. “It’s going to be a gala event,” she had assured me over the phone. “Enjoy. And, oh, by the way, it’s sort of a potluck-thang, so bring something.” I hurried to buy a vegan quiche from an organic food co-op. Lee did not follow.

“Be right back,” she said, darting into a dingy corner store. “I gotta get a forty.”

When she returned, it was with not only the promised forty-ounce bottle of Old English wrapped in a brown paper bag, but also eggs, shortening, flour, and lemon meringue.

“I figure they must love pie,” she said, and proceeded to bake one from scratch.

At the party, a homemade pie in one hand and a forty of OE in the other, Lee is immediately swamped by butch-dykes. It’s obvious why – at first blush, Lee appears a perfect ”femme”. Her hair is short and adorned with girlish clips, her frame is thin and delicate, and her only makeup is Burt’s Bees lip-gloss. “I get called ‘Sir’ about once a month,” admits Lee. The exhibit is in a large white room, and at its center is a simple plastic box with blue paint splashed over it. The box, ostensibly, is the “art” for the evening. Lee looks on, disgusted, giving the objet d’art a furiously blank stare. She pulls out her forty and takes a long, satisfied swig.

“What a hoax,” she says. “They actually get paid for that crap?”

“But I thought you’d be into that kind of art?” I asked.

“Are you kidding? That stuff ’s for Prada scensters and morons.”

The gallery owner heard this critique and convulsed, floundering in a welter of how-dare-you’s. But Lee has a right to be so opinionated. She’s a graduate of Emily Carr, and the editor of Patti, a small but beautifully edited art magazine full of striking photographs and pithy short stories. “Sort of an anti-fashion magazine with a ghetto twist,” Lee explains. “The Patti staff are all about being quirky and unsentimental about art, while also being very serious about photography and image production.”

Lee is always working on Patti; taking photos, scribbling things down, collaborating with new Vancouver artists and designers. Still, I didn’t get to see Lee really at work until we visited Gleason’s Gym for some “white-collar boxing”. A Brooklyn favorite, Gleason holds the monthly Fight Club-esque event with a simple motto: ten bucks you watch, twenty you fight. Gleason’s is Rocky-authentic, down to the filthy, duct-taped American flag, warped mirrors, heavy punching bags and Zeus-sized boxers. The murky smell of sweat and bloodied canvas mingles with the

incessant beat of skipping rope and the scowling pep talks of leather-faced trainers.

The Round One bell sounds, and in the ring, a grizzly Merrill Lynch Financial consultant and a PhD Librarian (book-stack high) break from their corners and start beating each other to a bloody pulp. It was then that Lee left her seat and went to work.

First she approached the ring, stood at a corner, and delicately mounted a maple tree-shaped car deodorizer on the turnbuckle. Then she did the same with the other three. Making her way around the ring, she pulled out a hand towel, approached each trainer, and patted their foreheads down of sweat as they screamed at the bloodied boxers. The bell sounded; Round One was over, and Lee took a seat next to the timekeeper. She pulled out a can of Comet and some steel wool from her bag and shined the rusty bell, really scrubbing at it while the timekeeper watched in delight. When it was time for Round Two, the bell rang with amazing clarity.

No one, much less the timekeeper, seemed bothered by Lee. They assumed she was hired by Gleason’s to keep things tidy. But as she sat back in the crowd, smiles crept onto the faces of many knowing patrons.

...see Brooklyn on p. 17 5

At the Drive-In Murder City Devils Red Light Sting

At Richard’s on Richards in Vancouver November 15th, 2000

At the Drive-In tear up Richard’s on Richards Above and below photos: Paul Crowley

A

t the Drive-In came into town riding a wave of hype that would make “The Perfect Storm” jealous. Rumours that the show was cancelled, based on the band having crashed their bus a few days earlier, had been spreading like wildfire. A soothing, reassuring voice message had been left on the venue’s answering machine to calm frantic ticket holders, but there was still a distinct sense of relief that passed over the audience when the Texas five-piece took the stage.

They launched into the opening track from their latest (Relationship of Command) to a heartfelt roar from the crowd. Their emotional, post-Fugazi style translates well to the live environment; singer Cedric and guitarist Omar were an exercise in kinetic energy, climbing on things, bouncing around and nearly hitting one another a few times. Unfortunately, their musical output didn’t quite match their physical display, and the general level of enthusiasm dimmed progressively as it became clear that this just wasn’t their night. They played like – well, like a bunch of guys who had been in a bus crash, or were maybe worn out from too many weeks on the road.

At the Drive-In also takes its political stance seriously – and they want you to know it, dammit. They stopped their show between songs numerous times to stop “fights” in the crowd and berate audience members who were being too aggressive. As far as I or anyone else could tell, it was the usual, polite Vancouver crowd in attendance, and the interruptions served only to annoy.

At the Drive-In If Drive-In had spent much of their set trying to ease conflict (whether real or imaginary), then Murder City Devils frontman Spencer Moody got right down to the business of creating some.

Climbing down from the stage during “Press Gang” – which is fast becoming a live favorite for the band – he started a melee that required bouncer intervention before climbing back up, slightly battered, but never having missed a note. He later apologized: “Sorry for pushing that girl¼ I just wanted everyone to dance”. The band has been on tour forever and they were in sober, razor-sharp form (if only because it was a Wednesday). The Devils, famous and beloved across the northwest for showing up drunk and playing sloppily, were instrumentally perfect for once, spewing out chunky loud

guitar riffs set off by Moody’s gruff howling and atmospheric blasts of organ. They seemed to be relishing the chance to perform in front of a friendly crowd in a larger venue. When toward the end of their set they played “Broken Glass”, their loving ode to Iggy and the Stooges, there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.

Paul Crowley photos: Paul Crowley

THE PROBES VICTORIAN PORK w/ JELLO BIAFRA At the Brickyard in Vancouver Wed. Nov 29th

Chixdiggit The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets Riff Randalls At The Starfish Room in Vancouver Nov. 29th, 2000

I

t was a Ramones-kinda evening at The Starfish Room, typified by the opening act, The Riff Randalls. One might be tempted to say that they rocked out for girls, but that would be doing girls everywhere a huge disservice. Three chords do not a punk band make, and I’m sorry, but pumping your fist in the air on occasion does not constitute showmanship (or show-womanship, for that matter). I never saw the band with their original lineup, but these three girls seem to be trying to get by on cute alone, and that doesn’t cut it.

Second up, and the least Ramonesy of the three, was The Darkest of the Hillside Thickets, a self-professed sci-fi geek band. Known for their H. P. Lovecraft inspired songs, these guys put a lot of effort into their stage show, and it pays off. Wearing orange jumpsuits and looking like refugees from the Heavy Metal movie, they played songs about aliens, evil and math. It was good to see that not all of the high school Physics Club members became dot.com millionaires; some just went with the weirdness and never came back. The lead singer was wont to ask the crowd such questions as, “who went to school, owns a computer, and knows how to use it?” No doubt, he was one of them.

Headlining were those energetic sons of Calgary, Chixdiggit. Apparently they are celebrating their tenth year together as a band, although they still have the aura of a bunch of teenagers just glad to be playing in a band on a stage. They play happy-go-lucky, good guy rock ‘n’ roll. If they were cowboys, they’d probably wear white hats (and, most likely, nothing else). Stancemaster and singer CJ really knows how to work an audience, dedicating nearly every song to someone or something, from the Brent Cooper of Huevos Rancheros to the bass player’s great new leather pants. Playing plenty of songs (because several of them clocked in at under a minute), they kept the crowd pretty hyped up for a bunch of Vancouverites. Despite which, no one on the dance floor seemed interested in actually moving until the band ripped into “My Dad vs. Paul McCartney”. Then we finally got our lame asses moving. Joey would have been proud.

Dexter R’lyeh

T

Jello Biafra w/ Victorian Pork photo: Ani Kyd

here I was at the Brickyard, again. But this time I’m here to see Victorian Pork and the Probes’ last show ever. And with me was my good friend Jello. I told him that he would like the Pork band and that they did a smokin’, snotty version the Dead Kennedys’ song “Police Truck”.

We showed up just in time to see them hit the stage. LX, with her punk rock attitude and mean guitar playing was enough to make the young boys in the crowd get HARD. And speaking of hardRandy was there with the kind of hard-hitting drums you feel in the back of your chest. Combined with the solid bass playing of Tony, they kicked ass.

They ran through a tight punk rock set and at the end, played “Police Truck”. They played an extra verse hoping he would jump on stage, but no Jello. I was into the moment and I encouraged him to go show the Brickyard patrons just how punk rock music should be played. He agreed and they played it again. I ran next door to the convenience store to buy an overly expensive disposable camera. And it was worth it. All of the die -hard punk rockers couldn’t believe their eyes- it was Jello Biafra on stage playing “Police Truck” for a small amount of people. Playing it for them, and only them. And it rocked .

Ani Kyd (Chesty LaRue) photos: Ani Kyd

Bratmobile The Aisler Set Tennessee Twin

At The Brickyard in Vancouver Nov 30th, 2000

Tiger Tiger Canned Ham Neil Hamburger

o, there’s these two twin girls and they’re both lead singers for bands, and their bands played on the same bill ... with another band. That’s the Thursday night story. Anyway, the first group, fronted by one of the twins, is in fact called Tennessee Twin. Five (if I counted correctly) women who played engaging, front porch in Thunder Road-type roots music to a passive but generally agreeable crowd. I, unfortunately and due solely to my incompetence at telling the time, missed the majority of their set. But what I did see really swung (swang? swinged??). They are at least partially local, and should be playing in town again soon.

The Aisler Set, a five-piece, female-fronted band from San Francisco, were an altogether different matter. I originally thought I might just review the brick wall I stood behind – “brick wall proved to be more interesting than lame band” – or something like that. Maybe it was the wall’s fault, but when I finally moved out for a better view I went from “these guy’s suck”, to “it’s not so bad”, to “I’d probably like them if I were on acid”, to “actually, they’re pretty good”. They played a dreamy, noisy style of pop and the crowd seemed to be enjoying them. For my part, I really liked them on the songs where they picked up the pace a bit, generating an intense and effective wall of sound.

Somehow, I find that the restrained navel-gazing pop thing really only goes over well on CD. What can I say about Bratmobile, except “I think I’m in love”. Okay. That may be stating it a tad strongly, but they did impress the hell out of me. Hailing from “America”, these three brats put on an amazing show. Consisting of loud guitar, fast, heavy drums and lead singer/cheerleader/ go-go girl/twin, Allison Wolfe, they sounded much like the B-52’s on speed, and nearly generated enough steam to power a locomotive. Wolfe was a force to be reckoned with ... I haven’t seen anyone expend that much energy on stage in a long, long time. Dancing all over the place, doing cartwheels, mc-ing a butt shaking contest, and cracking jokes in the extended, but necessary breathers between songs, she must have been in a state of near collapse by the end of the show. Man, in a decently rowdy city they would probably have sparked a riot.

had been jazzed about going to see this show for quite some time, so this was going to be quite exciting. I think my fellow co-workers will be glad it is over, though, so I can finally shut up about it and quit harassing them to go (I swore that I had to see at least six of them there or I would quit – after I write this review, I will be updating my resume).

The first band up was Tiger Tiger, which, for lack of a better word, sucked. The extremely lo-fi pop thing just doesn’t do it for me.

Canned Ham, on the other hand, packed the place and had everybody jockeying for position in the hopes of getting a good look at what had to have been the funniest thing I had seen in a long time. I very rarely come across something so laugh-out-loud funny. It was two guys, one abnormally big, and the other, kind of scrawny – together, four huge balls; you would need them to give the performance they gave. It had everything: a dancing baby Jesus doing yo-yo tricks and twirling hairpieces on sticks. They even stripped down to their underwear and danced through the crowd. All the music for the songs was pre-recorded, so I was amazed at how perfectly timed out it was. My favorite song: Let’s Press Our Bodies Together Without There Being Any Complications.

For those of you who don’t know, Neil Hamburger is one of the greatest comedians of all time. He has taken it upon himself to totally change the medium of comedy to where jokes stink so bad that you can’t help but find them funny on some level. Whether you are laughing at how bad it is, or laughing at him because you can’t believe he told it, you will laugh. He is a master at the fifteenminute joke that has the most horrendous punchlines you have ever heard… and the long, awkward pauses he uses... hysterical. You always just hear about this kind of thing, but there were a few moments there where I thought I would actually laugh my ass off. I can’t give away any jokes here because there are too many good ones to choose from, and it is really something you should experi-

S

Dexter R’lyeh

At the Piccadilly Pub in Vancouver December 9th, 2000

I

continued on next page...

7

Live Wires ...from previous page ence for yourself.

Lee McDonald

UZ JSME DOMA FORD PIER At the Starfish Room in Vancouver Sunday Nov. 26, 2000

D

ays after deadline, I am all of a sudden having to write a review of a show I saw weeks ago because Ryan Cassidy didn’t bother. The Nerve got him in, apparently he enjoyed it.

Where’s his review? I guess it doesn’t matter anymore. He’s fired. (Editor’s note: That’s right Mike, Fuck him)

Ford Pier pulled out all the archaeological stops in order to entertain the few people who could find a bus on a Sunday night. Caveman art on real rocks for the rock and roll show. Never seen that before. Scored the one of the cave guy shooting the pterodactyl for myself while on a covert mission back stage to score the free beer… (Note: when looking for a drummer, try to find one who works at a brewery.) Genius. The VIP guest we had with us enjoyed it- the free beer-, but thought I was being mean when I offered to score him a cane from some other bar’s lost and found. I didn’t mean to be mean.

It was my first time seeing Ford. I sure did enjoy his set and he was a hell of a nice guy.

Giving me that rock and all. Man, had I known I was going to have to write a review, I would have taken some notes. I would have stayed sober- well, no, but I would have taken notes. You cannot stay sober in the face of sneaky beer, but notes could have been taken. If only I’d known then….

Uz Jsme Doma are a bunch of weird Czechs. Rock, jazz, punk- what the hell are they trying to do, anyway? Saxophone, guitar, bass, drums, pop-up books, constant touring? Who are these people? Well, nobody knows, but they are damned entertaining and I scored a pop-up book for myself, thanks to our VIP guest. He said he got a “significant discount” but wouldn’t specify a dollar amount. Retail was fifty bucks Canadian. If you couldn’t afford one, you can look at mine.

Meanwhile, if you happen to have any photos from this show, the Nerve would appreciate them. The pictures ended up in the same place as the actual review you were supposed to be reading.

I don’t know who the hell Ryan Cassidy is, but he owes me… something. Cash, drinks, a bus pass. Whatever. Ryan- YOU’RE FIRED.

Mike O (until further notice)

Buttless Chaps David P. Smith

The Sugar Refinery in Vancouver Thursday Dec. 14th 2000

T

hursday, December 14th, the Sugar Refinery saw an entertaining Victoria double-bill featuring The Buttless Chaps and David P. Smith. Smith, former frontman for the late, lamented Dogbreath Brothers brought along his new band, the Wurlitzer Sideman, an antediluvian throwback to the hurdy gurdy or perhaps more appropriately, the karaoke machine. Anyway, David’s one man - one machine show harkened back to the days of the Ozark Mountain travelling tent revivalist preacher... or maybe it was more akin to dropping acid at the Cloverdale Rodeo. Regardless, it was uplifting and disturbing at the same time. Playing his accordion through a variety of effects pedals, and singing about the evils of alcohol and the death of Santa (eaten by his reindeer, apparently), he varied the pace quite a bit... sometimes his songs seemed as slow as watching blood seep through the ceiling from the apartment upstairs, but then he would abruptly shift gears, revving it up to the speed of a drunken drive through the bible belt with a trunk full of kiddy porn. Straddling the fine line between performance art and art performance, he managed to scare off the people who had attended the earlier office party in record time.

Second up were the Buttless Chaps, an eclectic four piece, to say the least. Featuring lead vocalist, Dave Gowans on guitar, banjo and air raid siren; Lasse Lutick on hollow-body guitar; Torben Wilson on drums; and Morgan MacDonald on keyboards (effectively recreating the sounds of any instrument that may have been missing such as bass, horns, or Casio sound machine)... the band ripped through songs from their recent album “Tumblewire”, as well as treating us to several of their newer compositions. Little to no surprise that Mr. Gowans lists Neil Young’s strangest album, “Trans”, as one of is favorites.

Seemingly disinterested in sticking to any one genre, the show ran the gamut from spooky country to Ben Folds Five-ish pop to full-on frantic disco funk... sometimes all within the course of one song. Having played the Sugar Refinery on several previous occasions, they have a handle on how to get the best sound out of the place and managed to impress most of the crowd with their excellent songwriting and musicianship. Considering it was a Thursday night, and what originally seemed to be a sizable crowd, in fact turned out to just be the aforementioned office twits, the place refilled pretty quickly once the band started going. The good news for us is that The Buttless Chaps, as of January, will be a local Vancouver band. Hopefully a move to “the Big Smoke” will prove to be as profitable for them as it will be entertaining for us.

Dexter R’lyeh

Who Else?

The following is my list of mostly recent (memory only goes back so far these days) cheers and jeers from local shows, performers and assholes.

CHEERS: To the Cramps at the Commodore. They fuckin’ rocked even after getting their whole bass rig ripped off from the van the night before. Lux was in fine form s were they all.

JEERS: To the low life fuck who stole their gear… Fuck You! And if you know who did it, get a hold of someone at The Nerve and we’ll get it back to them. You should know how personal instruments can be. It takes years to find and get them how you want. It’s like if someone takes your dog or your girlfriend. Now you have to find and train a whole new one. Sucks.

CHEERS: The Halloween show at The Cobalt! Thanks to Bob Dog of Dog Eat Dogma for letting me get engaged to my girlfriend during their set. Next Halloween folks, best costume = best man. Oh yeah, and the actual show, featuring Nunstocker (rocked), Dog Eat Dogma (had a crazy chick pourin’ hot wax on her privates… cooool) As for Power Clown, I got taken home and missed them, but I heard that they were highly cool.

JEERS: For drinking WAY too much and getting carried home by my new fiancé (and for plugging your web site between asking her to marry you three times, ya drunk!. Ed.) CHEERS: To writer Robert Devereaux for the best anti-Christmas book ever, Santa Steps Out. Not the best writing ever, but the idea of Santa fucking the tooth fairy, Mrs. Claus in a gang bang with all the elves and the Easter Bunny being a six-foot rapist rabbit… yeah, gotta love it.

JEERS: My last sixteen hour bus ride back from the Cranbrook NoMeansNo show that made me read… And no beer!

CHEERS: Mycityradio.com and Joe Keithley for bringing our alternative lives to the world.

JEERS: Uh, where was I? CHEERS: To The Nerve Magazine for letting schmucks like me annoy you AND for single handedly fighting to rebuild the whole scene. (aw, thanks Else. Ed.).

JEERS: They let me annoy you. They let me annoy you. They let me annoy you.

CHEERS: To Jello Biafra for a great spoken word show at UBC (and letting us tape it), for signing my arm and for getting up and singing with Victorian Pork at the Brickyard. And to Dennis at the Van. Custom Tattoo Parlour on Granville for tattooing Jello’s autograph into my arm. Looks great!

So raise your glass, punks, and DRINK! And we’ll see all you next year. And don’t forget to go to my site at www.iamwhoelse.com.

Brian “The Most Annoying Man in Rock” Else

Another Article on Drugs

that’s been left on too long and has begun to soften the wound, insulating the sick viscous pus inside, and actually delaying the healing process. The wound’s exposure is excruciating at I’m sitting here at the ol’ G3, a nifty little halogen desk lamp helpfirst but the air, and time, heal quickest and best. ing to illumine the desk (activating the rods or cones—whichever Easier said than done, it’s true. Hmmm. You need to see clearly) and I’m dwelling on drugs. Oh yessiree, Drugs, with a deal with the core crises of person before the drugs will loose their grip on the addict. Sometimes that might be like asking a double amputee to jump hurdles, but Drugs are the grease of the social machine. that’s what has to happen.

They are the fertilizer and the pesticide—the food and “Whoa dude, but that’s pretty bleak”, you say. Yeah, you’re right. Mostly, of the poison. course, drug use pleasantly consists of a pack of good ol’ boys ‘n’ girls getting happily sloppy cap D. A cap of E, a line of crystal, a friendly frothy pint, or just down on the dancefloor and maybe gossiping a bit louder than a little old dime bag. These, people, are drugs and I have found they do during the workweek; or perhaps breaking into a rare and myself marveling at the knittin’ power of these deft chemical refreshing fit of laughter, and tackling your best friend to the entities on the social fabric of our great society many a time. couch for a change, even if you do both sustain a bruise or two.

I caught the headline of the Georgia Straight recently, as Fun stuff like that.

I was exiting some fresh and delicate Mid-Vancouver-style beerbistro. “CRYSTAL SPEED” it read, evilly. My Pavlovian mind instantaneously re-rerouted to a time, not so long ago, when oft my days would be crystal methamphetamine-fuelled.

I had been “up” for a fair number of months by the time I finally freaked myself out, realizing vaguely but urgently one dinner date with my girlfriend, that the very fabric of my personality had begun to erode. I had become a jibber, and that was suddenly blatantly unacceptable. I rallied, thankfully, and since then I’ve been pretty dern tootin’.

That Straight article, as I’m sure many people are aware, isn’t even about crystal meth. Men in white sterility suits on the cover suggest some creepy meth lab cover story or something. Nope, it’s about an up-and-coming Burnaby company that’s making faster electronic transistors. Dirty little journalistic trick.

Anyway, it’s a good illustration of how heavily drugs weigh in the subconscious of individuals, and of society at large.

Drugs are the grease of the social machine. They are the fertilizer and the pesticide—the food and the poison. But we need them. I don’t believe an organism, such as the human being spends any great amount of time on purely aimless pursuits. It would seem counter-Darwinian. So what do they really represent?

In his Notes from the Underground, the great Russian psychological novelist Fyodor Dostoyevsky writes, “And what if it so happens that a man’s advantage, sometimes, not only may, but even must, consist in his desiring in certain cases what is harmful to himself and not advantageous?¼ Man is sometimes extraordinarily, passionately, in love with suffering, and that Maybe we need a few bruises now and again. Could it is a fact.” I think his italics on the word ‘sometimes’ are key. But be that some of us act self-abusingly at times in order to remind it’s true that people often go out of their way to take pot shots at ourselves of our own physicality—to keep the world close and their own feet. Shit, I’ve slit the sheets myself a few hundredtactile, which otherwise might become for us an ethereal soup of thousand times at least! bewildering non-connectedness. Yikes!

When I think about the situation on the Downtown I would argue that the truest function of drugs in our Eastside, and the recently vaunted “radical” new approach to be communities is that of grease for the machine. Social lubricant, taken by City Hall in doling out smack, and medicalising the emotional balm, and creative fertilizer. Take me, for example. whole view of addiction, I get bummed. I think people are firstly During the course of writing this little digression I’ve consumed: addicts not because of disease or genetics, but because their spirthree bong hits, six cigarettes, and two beers and look at me—I’m its have been ripped up. Drugs are the opiate of the masses, alone, neurotic, and fresh out of good ideas. Bird feed! Grease for because so many people are raw and smarting inside. You see it the machine, I say. on TV everyday. Anaesthetic. Of course, brain chemistry does get Who says we want our transistors running on crystal fucked up, and wonky neurological pathways do get permanently speed, anyway? Maybe sometimes we need to retard the whole etched, and people do wind up dancing the crazy crack puppettime/life experience a bit and get a little wasted, if only to make shuffle, their withering body tissues rubberized from toxic waste. this dizzying view of the world that’s endlessly whizzing past our Hardcore addicts are, one could say, fatally wounded fogged-up portals a tiny bit clearer, even just for a short time. spirits for whom no treatment facility will ever counsel up salvation. However, if people choose to do drugs, whether as pain killer, Robin Steen creative catalyst, or social lubricant, then surely they can choose not to do them, too. Like taking off a once-soothing bandage

9

CHATTIN’ WITH JELLO

J.B.: We’re talking we’re talking- now play it back and make sure everything’s working.

M.O.: Everything’s working. I already tested it all….

J.B.: Well, do it again. Don’t be the next Spin Magazine.

M.O.: What did they do?

J.B.: Interviewed me and Ice T, and then [sent] the tape to New York and there was nothing on it.

M.O.: That’s bad. No, I tested it a few times already. I’m pretty sure it’s working….

J.B.: Mmmkay.

M.O.: If it’s not, I’ll just make stuff up.

J.B.: Uh oh.

M.O.: So - what’s new down there?

J.B.: I don’t know how to answer that question - um … so ….

M.O.: Got a president yet?

J.B.: Not as far as I know. For a brief time in our history the will of the American people is finally being respected - no one is president of the United States. The majority of eligible voters are so disgusted they don’t vote at all. They don’t feel that it will have any impact on their attempts to survive and pay the bills. Right now, Bush and Gore are tied with 27% of the possible vote in Florida. Twenty seven per cent.

M.O.: Is that 27 altogether or 27 each?

J.B.: 27 each.

M.O.: But that’s just the people that voted.

J.B.: And you never know who voted and didn’t get counted and vice versa in a state like that. I can only think of a couple of states even more sleazy in the way they run their elections than Florida and that’s Arkansas and Louisiana. This is just a typical Florida election, only this time they got caught. Throwing out the African American and old Jewish lady vote is par for the course in that state.

M.O.: But this time they got busted.

J.B.: Yeah.

M.O.: Cool - so you still don’t know what’s going on? I’ve tuned it out myself at this point - I just look at the pictures now.

J.B.: Of course there’s a lot of finger pointing going on against Ralph Nader and the Green Party, saying that if Nader hadn’t run, automatically a large enough chunk of those people would have voted for Gore that he would have won the election outright. And of course they’re gonna come down doubly hard on Greens running for state and local offices in 2002, but my reply to that is Gore cost Gore the election. There is a large number of us who cannot in good conscience vote for anybody that supports the death penalty, the drug war, putting nukes in outer space, ripping apart the welfare system, throwing people in the street, not to mention turning our sovereignty over to corporations through NAFTA and the WTO. I mean, I think Clinton should have been impeached, but not for unauthorized weenie moistening – he should have been impeached for treason. If he’d signed our sovereignty and our ability to enforce our own laws over to Saddam Hussein or the old evil Soviet empire, people would be surrounding the White House calling for his head. Shouldn’t giving the country away to Wall Street and corporations also be treason?

M.O.: Probably.

J.B.: As far as I’m concerned, anybody that supports NAFTA or the WTO supports treason. Period.

M.O.: Yeah, I mean, why bother electing people?

J.B.: That’s the whole point - you can have your mirage of a democracy and have these farty old pundits in their dunce caps sitting around a table in Washington DC claiming they know what’s best for the rest of a country they’ve never really met. And that’s what suffices for election issues when the same corporations control the mass media itself. Right wing versus ultra right wing - no other point of view is allowed.

Things like NAFTA are not even discussed at all. It’s more like professional wrestling.

And what people are also losing sight of down here and in Florida is, granted, it’s hilarious entertainment but either way the ultimate loser is the American people. Both Bush and Gore are cut from the same cloth - they’re from old money families and know that their job is to protect old money. Period. They don’t even bother to hide their contempt for real people, for the most part. It’s been so dumbed down that Americans who show up to vote at all basically elect their president based on who they can most stomach having to see on TV for the next four years; which of these corporate - picked candidates most effectively disguises what a total asshole they really are?

M.O.: Now, what I’m curious about is … how’s Mothra?

J.B.: A ha ha ha ha ha….

M.O.: THAT’S what we care about up here.

J.B.: Well, let’s see if she has anything to say.

MOTHRA: Meow!

J.B.: That’s the answer.

10

M.O.: You squeezed her, didn’t you?

J.B.: Oh, just tickled her – now she’s jumping on me.

M.O.: She blames you for the tickling.

J.B.: Either that or she wants affection - she’s mixing butter into my leg. Maybe she’ll have more to say.

MOTHRA: Rrrow!

M.O.: She gives good quotes.

J.B.: Exactly. She knows her sound bites.

M.O.: Has anyone let her out recently?

J.B.: Thankfully not, because now there’s raccoons living under my back deck who could rip her to pieces.

M.O.: Ouch.

J.B.: Is Mothra smart enough to avoid raccoons? I’m not banking on it.

M.O.: She’s got to be smarter than our old dog, Spike, who would go tearing off after raccoons and get all kinds of puncture wounds and be right back out there the next day tearing after raccoons. She can’t be that dense.

J.B.: Maybe he was a hockey player in another life.

M.O.: Could be. So, you got raccoons. How long have they been there?

J.B.: Um, I would say at least a year. A guy who crashes here a lot, especially when I’m out of town, reported seeing them a long time ago. And then nobody - including my vet - believed him. But then the other night there was a light on back there, and what do I see but three raccoons.

M.O.: Yeah, we’re lousy with them up here. They’re everywhere.

J.B.: What’s more interesting is as evolution goes, finally coyotes, mountain lions or cougars - whatever you want to call them - and bears, are starting to adapt to urban habitats as well. They’ve been driven out of their own because of the relentless growth of suburbia and of tucked away, back-to-nature trophy homes, so where do they come but into town? There’s an estimated population of several thousand coyotes within the city limits of Los Angeles now.

M.O.: Yeah, we got that too. There’s people putting up posters not because they lost their pets, but because coyotes got their pets and they put up their posters as a warning to other pet owners. So keep Mothra inside.

J.B.: Right. I don’t think the coyotes have hit here yet. They’d have to make it through Silicon Valley first because San Francisco’s up on the Northern part of the peninsula, and Silicon Valley, regardless of the clean technology hype, is one of the most toxic parts of the United States now. Not to mention there’s a huge spike in the ozone coming up from there too. I saw this graph once, it was like a 3D one of the United States with all these points coming up of what was poking the most holes in the ozone layer, and by far the largest was coming from Silicon Valley. It looked like the Trans-America pyramid surrounded by small tepees.

M.O.: Yowtch.

I got physically ill whe Destroy” by the Stooges Nike shoe commercial. I sa that that’s something I cou do to the people who’ve he all these years.... It would sible way to stab our fa

J.B.: And many of the lower level workers are reporting cancers, miscarriages and birth defects on an abnormally high scale.

M.O.: It only took them ten years to shut down Chernyobl, but this is still going on down there?

J.B.: Of course - Chernyobl doesn’t make the kind of money that Sillyclone Valley does.

M.O.: Did you hear about that? They finally, just recently, finally decommissioned or are decommissioning the last of the Chernyobl reactors - it’s been cooking ever since.

J.B.: It makes them a lot hipper and a lot smarter than the power companies in the United States. Not to mention King George II and his agenda to use the World Bank to promote building more nuke plants in Third World countries, so certain construction barons can make money. Not to mention General Electric, which builds a lot of the components. But you never hear that on NBC news because General Electric owns NBC news, and therefore has editorial control over the news content.

They’re a large military contractor too, so of course wars are covered accordingly.

M.O.: Well. they’re the largest, aren’t they?

J.B.: I’m not sure anymore. I mean, world wide, probably not.

I’m sure Rupert Murdoch has got more because he’s got Fox and SkyTV, which beams all over the world. Thanks to SkyTV, you can now watch Jerry Springer in Sweden.

M.O.: Sweet.

J.B.: Not to mention Belfast.

M.O.: That’s what they need in Belfast- Jerry Springer.

J.B.: I was a astonished when I went there - the promoter drove me through some of the really heavy neighborhoods to give me a feel for the place, even though there was a full truce on at the time. Y’know, just how generations of hate can be ingrained.

These large murals on the side of badass concrete housing projects. One that had just gone up from the Loyalists, as they call them - in other words the Protestants - was of somebody with a machine gun and a ski mask five stories high: “ Ready in peace, ready in war”.

M.O.: Nice.

J.B.: And a bunch of kids from that building were hanging out on the corner and the red light just wouldn’t change, so my friend started to get a little worried. Then the light changed and he turned around and said, “Oh yeah, people from these areas are coming to your show tonight”.

M.O.: And how did the show go?

J.B.: Well, they said “You have to say something about the Troubles. You can’t be silent about it”. And so I started making jokes about it and said that none of this would happen if everyone would just wise up and become atheist. They laughed for the first two then everyone went silent for the next one. So I went on to something else. But then, imagine my surprise when people started shouting from around the room “ Tell us about Rush Limbaugh!” And the best I could think of was to compare him to Ian Paisley, but I wasn’t sure how that would go over. So I can’t remember how I resolved that, except to say “ Haven’t you got enough troubles without having to worry about Rush Limbaugh?”

M.O.: When was this?

J.B.: A couple years ago.

M.O.: Does Rush Limbaugh still even have a show?

J.B.: He’s not on TV anymore, I don’t think. But he’s still a very popular radio talk show host and he has his cult, and unfortunately that cult votes. I mean, the problem is that ABC - which is owned by Disney now - has both the TV network and a huge radio network, six stations in this area alone. The laws were gutted under Clinton and Gore as far as how many radio stations an entity can own in an area.

M.O.: We got that too, now a single family owns pretty much all the TV stations and newspapers.

J.B.: Disney, contrary to their fuzzy-wuzzy family image, has more of the really rabidly racist, homophobic talk show hosts than anybody else. I don’t think they’ve g ot Limbaugh, but they’ve got a bunch of other people who make Limbaugh look like Ralph Nader.

M.O.: That doesn’t sound easy. Well, not much is new around here- but they’ve managed to keep Bill Vander Zalm out of the newspapers for the last week or so, so nothing really funny has happened in B.C. J.B.: Well, I have a funny Vander Zalm story but I forgot to tell it at the show.

M.O.: Well, bring it o n- we’ll have it in The Nerve.

en “Search and came on TV in a aw that as a lesson uld never possibly elped keep me alive d be the worst posans in the back.

J.B.: Clear back in ‘83, Dead Kennedys played a benefit for the Squamish Five, or Vancouver Five in Victoria. In Vancouver they’re known as the Squamish Five, but outside of Vancouver they’re known as the Vancouver Five. Anyway, we played there with the Neos and the Moral Lepers and the person who helped organize it was David Spanner, the old manager of the Vancouver SubHumans. On the way back to the mainland on the ferry we were twiddling our thumbs in the ship galley or cafeteria - whatever you want to call it - and here comes this slimy, oily man glad-handing all the old ladies as they’re trying to consume their questionable food. And Spanner points him out and says “ This one of the first Canadian politicians modeling himself after the New Right Fundamentalist Reaganoids from your country - it’s Bill Vander Zalm.” And then Spanner’s eyes lit up: “ And I know what his CAR looks like!” So, out of our chairs we went, ran down the stairs to the deck below, and sure enough, Vander Zalm’s Mercedes sports car convertible is almost next to the Dead Kennedys van. So we plastered “ Free the Five” stickers all over the back of Vander Zalm’s car. Then when the ferry docked we got in the car and waited - will he see them?

Will he spot them? And, sure enough, Vander Zalm got in his car, put the top down and drove merrily off into the sunset with “Free the Five” stuff all over the back of his car.

M.O.: Excellent. That’s a good one. Well, I guess I can let you go soon and get back to your vacuuming.

J.B.: Well, I made it through the kitchen so far.

M.O.: That’s it? Well… so, when’s Wesley Willis coming to town?

J.B.: You’ll have to ask him. I’m not sure, but I know he’d like to.

M.O.: What’s his number?

J.B.: I don’t know what his number is, actually - I’m not as good as Wesley is at remembering people’s phone numbers. You give Wes your phone number and he remembers it forever. Once he even announced a party at my house and gave out the address after a gig of his. It was at an art gallery and I wasn’t even in town at the time. It was in one of his brief major label days and they decided to have him tour galleries so he could sell his drawings off the wall and then play music at the same time. So it was a gallery opening with all these art patrons there and Wesley did, apparently, several of what he calls his “ bestiality songs” all in a row. So here are these art patrons examining the art while hearing “ Suck a Hippo’s Cock,” “ Suck a Rhino’s Dick,” “ Suck a Chimpanzee’s Ass with Cheez Whiz,” etc. The owner was eventually begging him to stop. Plus, Wes had brought other drawings with him and was selling them from a table much cheaper than the ones on the wall.

M.O.: Well, he can sell drawings at the Brickyard. If it’s still there.

J.B.: What’s happening with the Brickyard.

M.O.: I don’t know - it seems like the Death March is on.

J.B.: Uh oh….

M.O.: Yeah, I think the Russians want to shut it down for a while and re-open it as a dance club. So your next show with Victorian Pork will

Continued on next page 11

Chatting with Jello

...from previous page

probably have to be somewhere else.

J.B.: Apparently so.

M.O.: Maybe the Cobalt….

J.B.: Just what the world needs - another dance club.

M.O.: Yeah, there’s one around the corner, there’s one just down the block, there’s one on the same block, there’s a third one on that block….

J.B.: Sometimes the dance clubs wake up, though, and realize that in order to make their bar a better amount of money every night, maybe they should have dance music some nights and live music other nights.

M.O.: Yeah, there’s a couple that do that. Unfortunately, not many. But I don’t know how many dance clubs the city can support. Sooner or later one

J.B.: If it’s available on video, check out this movie called “Vernon, Florida”. It’ll give you a pretty good idea of just how strange the place can be. Of course, some of Herschel Gordon Lewis’s best known classics were shot there as well, in the Jacksonville area. And Jacksonville is a story all its own. The Tampa Bay area may be the armpit, but Jacksonville is definitely the butthole.

M.O.: Isn’t that the capital?

J.B.: No, that’s … what the hell is the capital of Florida?

Tallahassee. But Jacksonville - there’s no real zoning there, so geographically it’s one of the largest cities in the world. Said to be as much as sixty miles on a side. And what you get is block after block of a high-rise right next to a run down mobile home court, next to a beat up old porno store, right next to a mini mall, right next to another high-rise - for block, after block, after block. Mile, after mile, after mile. Who knows how many bodies have been buried back there?

Biafra during his 5 hour spoken word performance at UBC, Nov 28.

Photo: B.C. Damsgaard

of them’s got to go under….

J.B.: Another thing I might need to add to the part about Florida is - for those in other countries who can’t comprehend why Gore, who won the popular vote, wouldn’t automatically become president – this how the electoral college works: it was written into the U.S. constitution in the late 1700’s by the same people who wrote in that only white male land owners could vote and that slavery was legal. Y’know, it’s an antiquated part of the law that should have been dumped long ago but nobody ever got around to it. But basically what it means is it gives a disproportionate amount of power to the most populous states where it’s not a direct election of the president, it goes by state and whoever wins a majority of the votes in a certain state gets their number of electors to vote in the electoral college. Electors are based on the number of senators - two per state - plus the number of congressmen, which means that California’s got the most and other states like Alaska or Rhode Island have one. Plus the two senators. And so, even though Gore gets the popular vote, it all comes down to this totally mutant, bizarre state that has to be seen to be believed. I mean, it was once a tropical paradise but it’s been so thoroughly destroyed that it’s … it’s fascinating to see all the swimming pool blue stucco paint jobs cracking and peeling along with the rusty bars up on the windows. I mean, what is it about Florida … the Dead Kennedys got down there to Tampa, and one of the first questions I got was: “ Hey, I like y’all’s band - wanna see the machine guns in the trunk of my car?” What is it about Florida that creates bands like Marilyn Manson, the Genitorturers, Cannibal Corpse, and the Impotent Sea Snakes?

M.O.: Uhhh … I don’t know… I’ve never been there.

J.B.: You have to go there to understand.

M.O.: All right - I’m writing it down on my list of places to go right now.

It sounds fascinating. Got it: “Go to Florida.”

M.O.: Somebody oughta get a grant and find out.

J.B.: Maybe even Herschel Gordon Lewis.

M.O.: Why not? I’d support that. Anyway, I have a wedding reception to get to; and I’m sure you have more vacuuming to get to. And I think Ani wanted to talk to you before you go… Oh, I don’t think she can remember what she wanted to say.

J.B.: I have something to ask her, though.

M.O.: Okay - I’m gonna go do my hair, so thanks for the interview and I’ll talk to you later.

J.B.: Have fun … is it anybody I know getting married?

M.O.: Don’t get that started with me again.

J.B.: No, no Reed stories or anything, but - oh that’s right! Yes: “70’s Rock Must Die.” M.O.: Yeah, I finally got that song out of my head and you had to go and mention it.

J.B.: I mean, Al (Jourgenson) insisted that I sing it Brian Johnson style. As he put it: “On stage he looks like a New York taxi driver trying not to wet his pants”. That’s what he wanted it to sound like. Of course that’s higher than my usual singing range so I couldn’t talk for two days. But the point was made.

M.O.: The results speak for themselves.

J.B.: And the “No WTO Combo”, I mean, you know that one but a lot of people don’t. That was a wild time. It was like protest, march and - in my case – talk[ing] to groups ranging from sixty to six thousand by day, and then somehow throw a band together and three rehearsals by night. I didn’t even know the thing was being recorded, but then Krist Novoselic called me and said he thought it came out well and wanted to put it out. I was skeptical at first but he handed it over to Jack Endino, so now I think it sounds better than we actually were. We played the night after we were supposed to because the mayor declared the curfew and turned the cops loose the first night, and Krist was already down at the venue, the Showbox. So he was literally sitting in the office at the Showbox twiddling his thumbs, watching the cops get it on with protesters right outside the venue, right outside the building he was in. It was a scene right out of Terminal City Ricochet – sit[ting] in a building watching the cops raise hell right outside your door. And then … [with] A.T…. Yeah, the last two or three years have been absolute hell. The former members of my old band have been suing the shit out of me and it was triggered by my refusal to let “Holiday in Cambodia” be used in a Levi’s commercial. Fucking Dockers, no less. And so they went and got a lawyer who’s represented Bill Graham, Boston, Doobie Brothers, Santana, etc….

M.O.: All the giants of Punk Rock.

J.B.: Oh yeah, they have no ethics whatsoever. All they care about is money and if they can make me into Joe Strummer and let me take all the public heat while they sit on their asses in suburbia and count dollar bills, so much the better. But, personally, I can’t imagine people being so obviously on the wrong side of an issue at the worst possible time. Here people are pouring into the streets in Seattle, and others later on, over the abuse of corporate power and the way they steal our culture to sell SUVs and things.

Y’know, with a Buzzcocks song. And all they care about is the money. I got physically ill when “ Search and Destroy” by the Stooges came on TV in a Nike shoe commercial. I saw that as a lesson that that’s something I could never possibly do to the people who’ve helped keep me alive all these years because of what Dead Kennedys and my later work means to them. It would be the worst possible way to stab our fans in the back.

So what they did is they wouldn’t even settle the case and they dragged me through a fucking trial. Ray, Klaus and D.A. each marched up to the witness stand and lied, claiming they wrote all my songs and that I withheld money from them, but they’d been paid before they even filed the lawsuit. Yes, there was an accounting error, but we found it, we copped to it and we paid them. They then brought in a so-called expert witness from Grateful Dead records who claimed - get this - that if X amount more money had been spent advertising albums people who love this kind of music already know, X amount more CDs would have automatically been sold. Therefore, I owe them half a million dollars American in damages for lack of promotion. And the jury fell for it. So now I have to appeal the damn thing - I’m already well over six figures in debt and appeals are expensive. But, it’s gotta be done.

Meanwhile, a questionable individual in Toronto has been trying to swipe Dead Kennedys for his own label called Muck. Another one who has absolutely no morals whatever about punk ethics it appears. And, so if people see Dead Kennedys on Muck or anything else besides Alternative Tentacles, they can feel free to spend their money elsewhere. I mean, if they succeed in stealing something that I put twenty two years into just so they can put it into commercials and pimp it to labels, big or small, where it doesn’t belong - then maybe Napster or whatever takes its place is gonna be my best friend.

M.O.: Is there anything else?

J.B.: Meanwhile, Alternative Tentacles; in spite of all these attacks, we’ve kept going strong. There’s Wesley Willis, obviously, there’s The Causey Way now, and Los Infrenos - who may have been to Vancouver already - and of course, I always space on what we’re putting out at these crucial times. For hardcore, intense as it gets, Vurados Temporale from Brazil and my new album [Become the Media]. We’ve also done spoken word from Noam Chomsky,

For a brief time in our history the will of the American people is finally being respected - no one is president of the United States.

12

M.O.: I don’t know - do you know the Saddlesores?

J.B.: No. M.O.: It’s the guitar player. Anyways, I’ll stop the tape now and you can talk to Ani. Bye. Jello talks to Ani Kyd while interviewer squeezes into women’s plastic pants and fixes hair. But it ain’t over yet….

J.B.: If you could just mention those albums I’ve done recently, because not everybody in Vancouver knows that Lard 70’s Rock Must Die ep….

See Jello on p. 17

Straight 8

VUFF 2000

At the Blinding Light!! Cinema in Vancouver November 23-26 2000

N

ovember 23-26 brought us the third Annual Vancouver Underground Film Festival at The Nerve’s favorite centre of cinematic excellence, The Blinding Light. Once again the festival was a great success, which is hardly surprising considering the elements: good programming, interesting panel discussions with local film and video makers, celebrity appearances, cool art installations, and of course, BOOZE. With an all-access pass to be had for just $20, and free drinks frequently to be found, who wouldn’t camp out for the weekend? As festival director and general Blinding-Light-in-one-man Alex MacKenzie notes, the programming was not actually too different from what you’d usually expect to see. Experimental films from here and away, quirky local fare, a parade of arty shorts, etc. Highlights included Russ Forester’s documentary Tributary, an engaging look at the world of the tribute band. Also prominent was Toronto filmmaker Steve Sanguedoc’s SMACK, a part documentary, part fictional account of three brothers and their submersion in lives of drugs and violence.

Just what we like and often visit the cinema for. But what made the festival extra special was all the extra stuff. Panel discussions might not seem too exciting, but they are a great way for aspiring artists and film nuts to interact with film and video makers.

This year the VUFF hosted two discussions. “To Stream or Not to Stream” focused on the Internet and its potential to (Gasp) lure away would be audience members! “Slick and Sloppy” brought a half dozen film and video makers together to debate the use of digital technology as tool, type of aesthetic, or both.

Of course one of the best parts of the festival is the festive aspects: the drinks, the parties, the food. Alcohol was happily available throughout. For further festive enhancement there was a performance by LSD 49, mixing crazy visual and audio beats the first night, an after screening party at the Alibi Room on Saturday night, and a wind down party with DJ Todd Tomorrow the final night, which also featured free food from the Sugar Refinery. All we can do now is snivel till next year, getting our merely cinematic fix at the Light in the meantime.

Barbara Sternberg: Like A Dream That Vanishes Barbara Sternberg, Canadian filmmaker at large, was on hand Nov. 25th to give her own introduction to the screening of four of her films. Sternberg described an overall concern with perception/perceptions of reality, and with time as an aspect of our realities. Memory, history, rhythm, repetition: these are the concepts which she tries to express through diverse images and sounds. According to Sternberg, what appear to be opposites are always inter-related, there is always an “and” rather than an “or”. She sees this as being especially true of life and death. Working with this philosophy, as a filmmaker she explores the medium of film as being analogous to the human condition.

The Sternberg screening took its name from her latest work, Like a Dream That Vanishes.

According to her own description, images appear and disappear out of the film emulsion and are analogous to human life rising from the ocean and eventually returning to a sub-atomic state.

Seemingly unrelated images unite in the giant theme of life. Repeated images include shots of the sun, the sky, trees and leaves. There are also scenes where an elderly man expounds on Hume and the theory of miracles. In one scene where a group of kids hangs out smoking and chatting; the audio is disjointed from the visual but effective in describing teenage alienation.

Sternberg’s earlier films are less successful on a purely watchable basis - they’re the kind of films you might watch at the National Gallery (where they do appear) but not enough to keep your concentration on a normal movie night. Of course, Sternberg’s works are meant to be art, and on a formal level they do succeed.

Marcus Rogers: The Widower Probably the best part of seeing Marcus Roger’s The Widower is the chance to pick local celebrities hamming it up. There is a great Canadian tradition in casting our cultural icons in films.

Jello Biafra (not ours technically but might as well be) did a hilarious turn as a Custom agent in Bruce Macdonald’s Highway 61; he rivals that performance as a Satanic funeral hall director in The Widower.

Rogers in fact uses a few tricks that will endear him to a select group of viewers, and while it won’t guarantee him mass distribution, that doesn’t seem to be what he’s going for. Instead, he seems happy to make a darkly comic little film (another great Canadian tradition) that fully incorporates the local music scene which he belongs to as both musician and video maker.

The plot involves a man and his dead, but still domineering, wife. Milton Smythe just wants to enjoy life being told what to do by his honey, and a nosy old lady neighbor and some bumbling cops don’t really get in the way. The story line isn’t too deep but there are lots of funny moments.

And of course our celebrities - Joey Shithead as a cynical barman and Nardwuar as a idiotic donut shop counter boy - possibly his quietest moments ever!

Rogers makes the most of Vancouver’s less than appealing locations and creates a depressingly convincing impression of urban decay in an inconsequential city. His sets are wonderfully archaic and his tone is right. He has also created a soundtrack featuring Canadian greats such as DOA, Neko Case, and Huevos Rancheros. I thought the use of Nomeansno’s “I Need You” in the bar scene was particularly well placed.

In the end, The Widower is a film that is bound to go over well with people who know the bands and the local scene, and who can appreciate the humour in a guy carrying around his dead wife.

Whether this can translate into a larger success remains to be seen.

Elizabeth Nolan

The Directors of Gore

T

his fuckin’ Christmas, your special one may be asking for what he/she wants under the tree - and it may involve the purchase of gore films.

Other than having to study and waste your time when you could be doing what you want to, I’ve decided to provide a sort of directory for the European trash fiend to help in the reading of the “back of the boxes”.

So here’s a short list of director’s names to always keep an eye peeled for, and some titles thrown in for good measure. Hopefully you can find most at your local video store (ahem, not ROGERS, VIRGIN, or BLOCKBUSTER); otherwise, you may have to – “oh my god” – mail order. Here goes: Dario Argento We already all know who he is by now, and we all know how much PHANTOM OF THE OPERA sucked, so we’ll skip him.

Lucio Fulci The perennial master of the Italian gore/splatter film with roots down solid in Westerns, crime films and even comedies. Around the late 70’s and all the way to his death in 1996, he made some of the most nasty, over the top splatter films of all time. Some say this phase started with his 1979 film ZOMBIE/ZOMBI 2, the almighty gore epic. This started his zombie “series”, including CITY OF THE LIVING DEAD/GATES OF HELL, HOUSE BY THE CEMETERY, THE BEYOND/7 DOORS OF DEATH, and to some extent ZOMBIE 3 (in which, due to illness, he only finished half of the film; the other half was completed by...)

Bruno Mattei Hailed as the almighty hack master, Mattei was always there to steal an idea and make it his own in more ways than one. This was truly exemplified in his NIGHT OF THE ZOMBIES/VIRUS, which stole direct scenes from DAWN OF THE DEAD (as well as the soundtrack). The unbelievable CRUEL JAWS manages to steal directly from JAWS 1,2, and 3, as well as the previous Italian JAWS rip-offs. The special features of his films are the over abundant gore scenes, which try to substitute story and character with over-the-top splatter.

Not bad.

See Directors on p. 17

Off the Wall Gallery Hoppin’

Welcome to another segment of URBAN INK. In previous issues, I have photographed various tattoos in my community and configured them on a page. This time, I have decided to focus on a single artist and profile their work, shop, and to some extent their attitude in an effort to promote and encourage an ancient and spiritual art form as well as promote some of the incredible local talent Vancouver has to offer.

My first victim is Denis, the self-proclaimed ‘chief plowhorse’ of Vancouver Custom Tattoos. A local to Vancouver, Denis has been tattooing for six and a half years. “I wanted to be a rock star but my friends said I had pretty writing” he confessed during a phone interview. “I like to do everything.

Like if a musician only plays one style of music then that is pretty limiting as opposed to someone who can play a number of different styles”. Denis’s work is a reflection of his beliefs with influences ranging from Bernie Luther to Maricio to ex-local Trent Pare. “Beauty is in the eye of the beholder,” he states, reflecting upon his peers. “It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks about your piece, it’s what you think that matters. If you think it’s cool or a reflection of what you believe in or whatever, and you’re happy with it, then fuck anyone who says different. “IF ANYONE SAID SOMETHING ABOUT ONE OF MY TATTOOS, I WOULD STUFF MY ARM SO FAR DOWN HIS THROAT I COULD GRAB HIS BALLS THROUGH HIS ASS AND PULL HIM INSIDE OUT.” Actually, Denis didn’t say that last part but he did say ‘FUCK’ and he might have said that other stuff if he got hit on the head with a chair at a hardcore show drunk and stoned on pot. BLEEP... ZIP...

BOING... FRAP....o.k. on that note I’m going to sign off and work on this Sunday night buzz with Hotrod. Check out Denis and his shop at 1149 Granville St. Vancouver B.C. and check out his super fast hardcore band ‘Smoked Oysters’ wherever they can scam on a bill. Thanx Denis.

Jason Leblanc Painting by: Andrea Tucker

Jim Cummins

“The Prince of Nothing” Tart Gallery 1869 W.4th Ave. 738-0856

I’m sorry to say I was watching this effing exotic stage show (it was DIRTY) when The Guy at the Bar he comes up to me and he can’t keep his effing mouth shut, okay?

And I swear to God he was talking about all this Painting thing and all this Beaux-arts thing! Yes! I couldn’t effing believe it, not in this city. And so he says to me – “Go out and see that I Braineater picture show.” So I did.

Holy Jesus it was a good show. Down there at the TART Gallery (nice)… It was paintings all over the walls.

Huge paintings, big ones, massive, shiny, floppy, tight and gilded. That whole show was nubile. Jim Cummins, that guy can paint. Gold Leafing makes the moods zoom. Rococoa-go-go. A feeling of Joy came over the whole room.

You’ve got to see this one for yourselves (comes down Jan. 15)

Prices were frighteningly low….

So The Guy at the Bar was right. Big good show, the walls were packed, the Bartender was nice, there were people everywhere. It was a titillating opening. Jim Cummins wore a fine suit and he shone like an angel.

Past Shows now over but were good.

Andrea Tucker “Temperance” at the Moon Base 227 Carrall St. 608-0913

Now this was another good one, especially as seeing it was her first one man show. Been in lots of group events, and on the cover of that free weekly thing, I forget what it’s called. So some of the twenty or so pictures I’d seen before, but there was an abundance of new ones to look at. No disappointments here- lots of tasty moments.

The Guy in the Bar made quite a fuss; he was dirty.

Then a baby showed up and I left. It was quite the display, but I think its come down now. Don’t know what’s

See Upcoming Shows on p. 17

Memphis Bleek The Understanding Calloused/Shitlist Split cd Fired Up Records

16 Horsepower Secret South Razor & Tie Records For those of you who are partial to spending quality time alone with a bottle of sour mash and slowly taking things deep into the wee hours of a hot August night, if you’ve never done it with a 16hp record for the soundtrack, you didn’t do it right. 16hp’s new record Secret South blesses us once more with 11 tracks of what I can only unjustifiably liken to ‘gothic country’. A cover track of Dylan’s “Nobody ‘Cept You” is done so well that I’d go so far as to say it’s the way the song should have been played. Secret South is 16hp’s 3rd LP. If you’ve never heard this band, start at the beginning with Sackcloth ‘n’ Ashes (1995) and then take yourself through Low Estate. Open minor key tunings coerced by a buffed metal slide accompanied by dark banjo, accordion, fiddles and a double bass with a bow. Boys, thank you.

A.D. MADGRAS

Various Might As well … Can’t Dance Adeline Records Compilation Jackpot! Oakland seems to be some sort of hotbed for good music, or at least you’d believe if you got to hear this cd. Wish I could list all the bands, but Pinhead Gunpowder, Lifter Puller and One Man Army are definitely on my cd buying wishlist.

Rock being the only word to use here, it sounds like people with guitars drinking and having fun blasting it out. Kinda positive like. Familiar structures that, just when they are on the verge of being derivative of something, burst off into fresh original new forms.

Long live rock and roll!

Matt Prendergast

Holy Christ! Two very heavy bands here, Calloused being first up.

Very interesting vocals for Calloused, either a female or a wee lad, sort of a high pitched classic speed metal shouting, but with a weird off key punk snottiness to it. Fucking annoying as hell for the first 3 songs, but it grows on you, completely addictive by track 5 when the ultimate sing-a-long chorus (get high, get high) kicks in. Pretty tight band in a very uptempo heavy style, seems marred by shitty production and an unwarranted musical cautionedness.

Shitlist light it up a bit more on the musical side, but that guttural, metal puke-singing really makes the song mush together in an unagreeable way. Speedy!

Matt Prendergast Deadbolt Voodoo Trucker Cargo Music Truckin’ and killin’, voodoo and fried chicken, Deadbolt’s newest release Voodoo Trucker is – hands down – the best night-time road record of all time.

Billing themselves as the “Scariest Band in the World”, I’m partial to agreement. Voodoo Trucker is their 5th record. Previous releases include Tijuana Hit Squad, songs about drinking tequila in Mexico and killin’, and Zulu Death Mask, songs about the jungle and killin’…you get the picture. Voodoo-billy reverberated grooves that take you on the lone highway with the greasy spoon truck stops, cb banter, the Chrome Nudy-Girl Inn, hitchhikers with bad intentions, and a cb prankster called “The Mocker”. The last track “Trucker’s Rumble”, wraps up the record nicely by bringing all the characters together for a good ‘ol truck stop fisticuffs.

A.D. MADGRAS

Gjallarhorn – Sjofn Northside records

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www.singlesgoingsteady.com

The polar obsessed people of Minneapolis’ North Side Records have released what could easily be their best disc to date with this new piece of work by Finnish four piece, Gjallarhorn. After a masterful debut (Ranarop; Call of the Sea Witch) a couple years back, this second CD has been anticipated as the all-important “prove it or lose it” disc for the band. Skeptics be damned; Sjofn demonstrates a mature and ingenious perspective on Nordic tradition through a whole new microscope.

It was a joy to see that Gjallarhorn resisted the temptation to cop out and New-Age-ify their sound and songs, considering that much of their subject matter is drawn from the mysticism, mythology and Sagas of Finland, Iceland and Sweden.

All sounds are acoustic (No synthy wind sounds or seabirds) and the voices pure and passionate. Lead vocalist and violinist Jenny Wilhelms is a force to be reckoned with as a vocalist, musician, interpreter and composer. Her voice can be enticing and disarmingly sweet while moments later raging. Wilhelms’ violin and Hardanger (8 stringed fiddle) playing is equally adept, bridging the delicate reels with heavy handed (possibly the heaviest bow-hand I’ve heard) sawing that makes the violin groan with secondary and tertiary sounds most string players would consider forbidden.

To draw the mandatory comparisons I will venture to draw parallels between Gjallarhorn’s vocal / interpretation style with Cape Breton’s Mary Jane Lammond (But willing to take it further than MJL), the best ethereal moments of Dead Can Dance (minus the electronics and naval gazing), The ritual /tribal energy of Norway’s Pagan rockers Ym Stammen all coupled with real heart, unique vision and righteous musicianship.

Bob Roger PS – If the stores are gauging you for import prices contact the label at www.noside.com.

PPS – It is rumoured that Gjallarhorn will perform at the Commodore Ballroom on February 14, 2001.

Before the November release of JayZ’s Roc-A-Fella clique album “The Dynasty”, Memphis Bleek, the protégé of Jay-Z, commented on 360hiphop.com that “This shit is better than my album.” That wasn’t saying much. “The Dynasty” was a halfhearted effort released because of label scheduling, and “The Understanding”, Memphis Bleek’s follow up to his 1999 debut “Coming Of Age” is even more pointless, inane and repetitive.

This is surprising after listening to the upbeat and smart intro song “U Know Bleek”, which lasts a very short minute and fifty seconds. For such an uninspired, cookie-cutter rapper, Bleek’s lyrics in the first track are prescient and original: This for them dogs that’ll hold me down / and my niggas on the internet that download my style / And that nigga with that plate, choppin them grams / him and his man, listening to music that they understand / And that white boy going to college / He don’t know about the ghetto but know how to hold metal / Them white boys, they’ll shoot shit up / They can listen to this shit, I don’t give two fucks Acknowledging the white audience that has catapulted rap music to its current culturally dominating status is a very smart move, though whether it’s business acumen the young rapper is exhibiting or a wider view of the world is too hard to tell. The next 13 songs are a disaster, and not even Roc family member Beanie Sigel, who appears on three songs, can straighten things out.

Memphis Bleek’s first LP went gold, selling over 500,000 copies. The way he raps about 2000 model Benzes and trucks, how he smokes in them, drinks in them and fucks in them, you’d think he hadn’t earned enough yet to put a down payment on a normal house.

Lucas Soi Noam Chomsky Case Studies in Hypocrisy: U.S. Human Rights Policy AK press/Alternative Tentacles Anybody who knows Chomsky knows what the score is here, and anybody who doesn’t should get their head out of their ass and get down to the library or rent “Manufacturing Consent”. Chomsky is, according to the New York times, “the most important intellectual of our time”, and while that sounds about as exciting as buying socks, he is the man when it comes down to breaking down the bullshit of government, and explaining it in a way everyone can understand.

This 2 cd package comes in 2 parts, “U.S. Human Rights Policy: Rhetoric & Practice” & “U.S. Iraq Policy: Motives & Consequences”. In both he quickly lays to waste any shred of information you’ve ever seen on C.N.N. about either topics. He shows the U.S. to be absolutely conniving in it’s dealings with the U.N., in fact quotes the minister of foreign policy as saying “the U.N. can not be trusted to vote with our interests”. Think about that for a while... that’s what this c.d. does, makes you think, and if you think too long… you’ll be rioting in the streets.

Matt Prendergast The Oiid Music Cat Independent I took my two complementary CD’s down to the place where local CD’s go to die.

Charlie’s Music is the elephant’s graveyard of local albums. I wonder if SookYin-Lee knows that there are sixteen copies of a “Bob’s Your Uncle” album sitting their just waiting to be purchased. Anyway, I offered them up to the polite brownskin woman behind the desk.

“Only played’em once,” I

told her with no regret. She snapped the cases shut and handed me seven dollars for my trouble. Immediately, I hit the street and rushed across Granville to buy myself a decent local album.

The man sits playing an instrument of his on creation, stoically drawing his bow across the strings almost daily. I asked how much for a tape. Five bucks. The cassette had a child’s drawing labeled “Cat” and the words printed simply “The Oiid Music”.

“The Oiid Music” is strange and intriguing music that is created Desire J. Savigny, old father graybeard of art music in Vancouver. He blends Brian Eno’s ambiance and experimentation with John Cales knowledge of music and noise. The linear notes of Savigny’s year 2000 recording explain his approach to music which mirrors that of some of the most important movements in music. “Each piece of music I play is ad-lib: spontaneously created,” the photocopy of dignified hand writing reads.

The beginning of the tape is interesting when he is droning on his hubcap violin, but slowly loses its excitement.

Those of you who can’t get enough of John Cale on “The Velvet Underground and Nico” will be treated with a more relaxed form of viola madness. When the repetition of the various drones give way to a mix of instruments, Brian Eno and David Byrnes album comes to mind very quickly. The hubcap violin is at its best when Savigny has an acoustic guitar chording along with his compositions. It gives the song palatability that mild fans of experimental music can greatly appreciate. The best of this album is created through the interplay of instruments. Savigny uses what sounds like water glasses or glass bells to create a song that sounds like a dub symphony minus the bassline. The sound of glass gives the song an incredible feeling of movement that is coupled by the dropping-in of various noises. A gruff voice counts off “1, 2, 3,” as the glass chimes.

He builds his own instruments, then he teaches himself to play them. You won’t find his album in stores but you can find him down on the street hunched over on his stool playing to the people that walk past.

Matt Whalley photos: Alex Schiller Xzibit Restless It is a well-established fact that hip-hop was spawned in the Bronx, NY in the late 1970s. On Xzibit’s third release, Restless, the California artist pays homage to these roots by covering KRSOne’s Boogie Down Productions track The Kenny Parker Show and flipping the original rhyme “Adidas, Nikes, arms, mics / Turntable suckers in the wheel of my bike” to “Adidas, chains, jerseys, braids / bandanas hanging off the end of my gauge / Step right up if that’s what you like, but watch your bitch / I catch hos like a dyke.” The bi-coastal similarities are no coincidence.

Xzibit’s flow is very East Coast, and if it wasn’t for his beats (funky, bass-heavy and upbeat) and his chorus staples (repping California and his ties with Dr. Dre) the uninitiated would have a hard time telling him apart from the hardcore NY talent pool. Xzibit is being hailed as a fresh breed of MC on the West Coast, one who raps for the love of the medium and challenges himself with each song. Restless does show a diverse range of subject matter, and stays away from the weakness of gangsterism.

Xzibit is quick to point out he’ll shoot you, but at the same time reveals more of an appreciation for the realities of life; you’ll find less of the partying and everyday laziness found on Dre’s Chronic 2001 and Snoop Dogg’s Tha Eastsidaz. What separates Xzibit from NYC and even his West Coast counterparts is that he takes us out of the ghetto and addresses issues more pertinent than where he’s going to find his next blow job.

Lucas Soi

Writers Wanted!

To cover the Music Scene in Vancouver or anything else worth writing about.

We pay in beer. contact the editor at: editor@thenerveonline.com 734-1611 632-9654 (fax)

Brooklyn... from p.5

Directors... from p.13

“Whew!” said Lee, folding her towels into her bag, now finally comfortable enough to spectate. “Did you smell that salty reek? And that poor bell; such corrosion!”

Lee just can’t help but do her thing, and therein lies her difference. While cynically asking “What the hell am I doing with my life?”, she simultaneously does plenty.

And at a time when so many artists flagellate, talking big games about their next project, Lee quietly and effectively plugs away, creating small niches of expression that are as compellingly original as they are engaging.

So what will Jane Lee do with her life? What does Brooklyn want her to do? Nothing. Just to continue with her innovation and audacity. That way she is sure to beautify not only this little borough, but far, far beyond it.

Patti magazine is available all over Vancouver, and in some very shady parts of Brooklyn. The Ladies Afternoon Art Society may be available too – wherever drabness lurks.

Jeff Oliver

Sergio Martino One of my all-time favourite directors, responsible for some of the greatest examples of the Giallo/Italian thriller genre. His film TORSO recently got an American release, beautifully showing off all the tits, ass and bloody murders. All of his Gialli involve incredible plotlines (mostly written by Ernesto Gastaldi) and excellent casts, most notably George Hilton, Ivan Rassimov (Kier-La Janisse’s secret fantasy man) and the gorgeous Edwige Fenech, all seen in DAY OF THE MANIAC and THE STRANGE VICE OF SIGNORA WARDH. Mario Landi The most unknown and underrated of most ALL the Italian trash/ gore films, Landi’s films are the most over-the-top experiences possible for a gore hound. From graphic skewerings (PATRICK VIVE ANCORA) to slow dismemberment (GIALLO A VENEZIA), his films easily rank with the most distasteful and gory of all time. It must be mentioned that the producer of the PATRICK VIVE... and GIALLO A... also produced Andrea Bianchi’s masterpiece of zombie carnage, BURIAL GROUND/ LE NOTTI DEL TERRORE, easily the goriest of the Italian zombie films and highly recommended.

So, there you go. Remember, this is just the tip of the iceberg. I could have added hundreds of directors that could have made the Jello... from p.12 search for these films and genres that much more interesting! Have fun, and “Merry Christmas.”

Howard Zin, Mumia Abu Jamal, and Angela Davis. Which is not Sinister Sam only putting our label’s strengths where our political mouths are, but hey, you’re not as likely to get prima donna Rock Star attitudes and demands that the label buy somebody a van to soothe their egos from Noam Chomsky, let alone Mumia Abu Jamal.

M.O.: Yeah, I can’t see Noam Chomsky doing that. “ Where’s my van?” Or Upcoming Shows... from p.14 even, “ Where’s my SUV?” J.B.: If people want to check it out for cheap, we have a sampler at the Moon Base now. Actually that’s the sort of thing I called “The Ecstasy of the Agony” that goes for five or six dollars should know American. You can get it off our web site. It also might be worth noting somewhere that the “Become the Media” album is so far only available on the web site until January.

M.O.: Until then, people can borrow my copy.

Upcoming shows.

J.B.: And another thing - it’s all downloadable through MORDAM’s web site. MORDAM Records - some of it you can get for free off Gallery Gachet 88 E. Cordova 687-2468 of us too, because we do free downloads from time to time. The The Desmedia Workshops other thing you might want to check before you go to press, is with “an exhibition and activated video space” Pam Tagle from UBC; because the show sold out so fast and so (Christ only knows what’s going on here. It’s an East-Side collective. Confuses many people were turned away, she may be bringing me back at the the hell out of me.) end of January. You might want to check on that or hint at that.

Opening Friday 15thy December, 7-10. Runs Dec. 15 – Jan 13.

M.O.: I’ll do that. And I’ll try to get that night off.

J.B.: Hey, there you go. See if Michael Kyd can come too.

That’s enough for now. Actually, there’s quite a few interesting M.O.: We’ll kydnap him from school. things going on, just like in Barcelona.

J.B.: All righty. Well, put Ani back on for one second.

Mike O.

Jason Ainsworth

Something Old, Something New. Something Borrowed, Something Blue... movies, that is!

BLUE MOVIES H

o! Ho! Ho! Welcome to the Yuletide issue of The Nerve, jism time for X-Mas. Now, some of you will be disappointed that I didn’t go out and find some X-Mas porn.

Well, I did think about it, but come on! Does anyone really want to see a bunch of red and green midgets, weird toys (the hobbyhorse comes to mind) and a big-breasted Mrs. Claus hanging her stockings on someone’s chimney? All right, silly question.

Next year! I promise.

B.C. BABES 02/00 TMG PRODUCTIONS DIRECTOR: Debbie Dare & Hardcore Max STARRING: Christina, Tasha, Cindy, Nikita, Desire & Brad Well his name may not be in the credits, but what we have here is another series of “screen tests”, from that Dirty Old Man, Mike. How can I tell, you ask? Well, there is definitely no mistaking his accent, sickly pale complexion or penchant for keeping his dirty old socks on.

Now it would be unfair of me to say that the producers spent more on videotape than girls, but there isn’t one who doesn’t have scrapes, bruises or both. Of the four girls who get to “screen test” with Mike, only Tasha seemed enthused. Overly enthused to tell you the truth, she couldn’t get enough. Cindy had a more than generous amount of pubic hair that made even Mike decide

to keep her at dildos length till the end. And as per usual, the girls get a facial at the end of their “test”. And after hers, Cindy became a little emotional. Even Mike’s offer of some industrial strength paper towels didn’t seem to console her. Nikita on the other hand, had a one-inch clit and after the D.O.M. came on her face, she began to retch. Which led Mike to exclaim, “Oh dear!”

Desire and Brad tested themselves and his arm kept getting in the way of the felatio shots. Now Brad either wrestles bears for a living, or this guy is the stuff, cause he was covered in claw marks. My money’s on the bear wrestling.

1&1/2 out of 5 “Oh dear!”s.

FILTHY FETISHES 4 HOURS SOUTH COAST VIDEO STARRING: No names but many familiar faces.

For the most part, this flick seems to have been made up of bits and pieces left over from other movies. The scenes stop and start without segues and the soundtrack is buried (no music or dialogue). The box boasts 4 hours of XXX but by my count it’s almost 20 minutes short. I’m guessing it was edited for Canadian consumption.

Which would explain some of the misleading pictures on the display box. But don’t get me wrong, the title is only half misleading. There may not be a lot of fetish but there is filth.

rabid weasel. She uses a cookie monster voice to call him all sorts of names including, poodle dick, Chihuahua and Chewbacca. She spits on her own snatch continually and even starts beating Sledge with the wet end of a dildo. Kudos to Sledge though, he’s got a bat on him and he hammers away obliviously to the obvious conclusion.

The other mentionable scene features Dave Hardman and Bobbi. You may remember Dave from his supporting role in White Trash Whore 14. In this one, he keeps his sunglasses on the whole time and even does a little pussy talking before he gets Bobbi to blow a bubble. There’s a lot of asides and even some “in” jokes among the actors and actresses, you could tell they were having a good time. And the girls were certainly a step or two up from some other films. Mila the possessed weasel aside, an okay flick.

3 out of 5 Chewbacca’s.

Cunt Hounds was graciously lent out by Paul “Checkmate” Kingman. Thanks Paul.

Remember, it’s the season of giving, so give “Santa’s little helper” a hand!

Until next time, Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.

MICHAEL D. DAMMITT

The two morbidly obese trailer park lifers sharing toys was one moment. Granny, with her wrinkly mouth getting busy was another. There are too many scenes on this “almost” 4-hour tape to list them all, but some of them include: a jail scene, a doctor’s office, a guy and a girl in a coffin (Goth porn!?) and a bathroom scene that wasn’t the water sports spectacular the box hinted at.

There is also a hairy dancing midget getting blown by two schoolgirls and a guy getting the business end of a strap-on.

Movies like this are great background fodder at parties. Not to say there were no good scenes, cause there were a couple. They’re just few and far between. And on a 4-hour videotape that means your hand spends more time on the remote than… well nuff said.

2 out of 5 dancing midgets.

Are you gonna lick all that candy?

CUNT HOUNDS 11/03/97 SOHO DIRECTOR: Brian “Cheeks” Williams EDITOR: Bigbubs STARRING: Mila, Bobbi, Phyllisha Ann, Kiki Morgan, Kim Jade, Sledge Hammer, Stoney Curtis, Kyle Stone, Dave Hardman, J.J. Michaels, with an introduction by Young Doc.

Simple title, simple plot. Five hounds go out on a cunt hunt and are, of course, successful. Each guy finds a girl and they’re taken back to one of the boys’ posh houses.

The first scene between Mila and Sledge Hammer is kind of scary to tell you the truth. She comes off like a cross between the Exorcist and a

I will teach you to deny Santa candy!

photos: Paul Beard

ASIAN HARDCORE SEX The succession of photos revealed the seduction of a young schoolgirl by an older grey-suited businessman. How old was she? Fifteen? Sixteen? The requisite plaid skirt and white blouse made her look younger still. Cat watched the crude stopmotion parade. His hand in her underpants. Her blouse torn open. Her white, cotton briefs being pulled off.

She was tied to the bed by shot four. Her pussy cleaved, and tits displayed by shot six. Cat couldn’t wait to get to the next page.

The girl’s head was turned to one side, her eyes squinted shut. Her soft, pink lips were parted in an expression of submission and pleasure-pain. Was this rape? Or did she want it? The girl’s next expression was pained as the man invaded her. “I’d fuck her either way too,” Cat thought.

She was one of those girls who loved to fuck, once they’d been reminded of that.

The girl grimaced as the man shoved his cock down her throat. His fingers pulled one nipple from her braless shirt, while the other hand maintained a grip on the girl’s head, bearing her down on him. Cat’s eyes scanned the next photo.

Soon the girl was tied to a chair made just for that purpose. The man bound her legs in three places, with the attached straps. Thick cords criss-crossed her breasts, pinching her nipples. Similarly, twin cords separated her labia and parted her ass while constricting her clit between them. Every movement caused the cords to chafe the most sensitive places, yet the girl was bound in such a manner that constant movement was necessary or her circulation would be compromised. Her squirming caused her nipples and clit to become uncomfortably sensitive and engorged with blood from the friction.

The man alternated between feeding the girl his cock, and taking it out to rub the juices from their playing onto her tits.

He loved to massage the fluid into her nipples. She moaned

from the intense sensation as he lowered his cock towards her cunt. The girl’s pussy was slippery, hot and dripping wet. The man quickly penetrated her with his thick erection.

The next shots showed the girl being carried by the man, with his cock still inside of her, into another room. He made the girl straddle a wedged-back “sawhorse” device in the centre of the near barren room. If the girl stood on her tiptoes, she avoided having to rest her pussy on the dull wedge. The beam between her legs further aggravated her already sore clit whenever she tried to rest. She appeared near exhaustion by the last photo.

The man watched the Asian girl twisting on the horse in front of him, her cunt becoming tender. He slowly massaged his cock to the vision. The girl was becoming distressed. She seemed to plead with her eyes, begging him to release her from the instrument. He walked over to her, placed his hand on her mound, and squeezing the swollen area as he slipped his finger into her. She appeared to cry out and he slid his tongue into her mouth to quiet her. The slight brush of his hands across her red, pinched nipples sent her writhing.

The final photos showed the man carrying the girl off the sawhorse and placing her on a futon on the floor. Securing her to the bed with more cords, he began to finger-fuck and masturbate her. She began to buck with a series of strong orgasms, and the man again mounted her, fucking her deeply.

She cried out in ecstasy, and the man shot his load into her drenched, waiting pussy.

“Hmm.” thought Cat, “What’s in the Members Only area?”

D. Cat

Her soft, pink lips were parted in an expression of submission and pleasurepain. Was this rape? Or did she want it?...

The next shots showed the girl being carried by the man, with his cock still inside of her, into another room.

The problem is that you WANT to still go to these places and see her – PERIOD. 2. Stop boozing when she starts becoming attractive. If you can’t, then grab your bottle and run away. Smash into walls, trip or drive drunk if you have to - it will well be worth the effort and your self-esteem will thank you.

Dear Core, I recently broke it off with my girlfriend. Let’s call her “The Ice Queen” for short. A three-month affair of abuse, misuse, mistrust and gross alcohol consumption. When we were up, it was great; when one of us, or both of us, were down, it was unbearable. My problem is this: we have a lot of the same friends and hang out in the same bars. It’s looking like neither of us are about to change our habits. Every time I see her I either want to rip her eyes out or try to get her drunk and into my car. What should I DO? Having Bad Thoughts

Oh! Decisions, decisions!

Now then, let’s weigh the consequences of your dilemma: if you rip her eyes out, well, sure you’ll have two more holes to plunge into. But then again, you won’t be able to utilize them while you’re incarcerated - so we’ll leave her with the gift of sight. Now, should you decide to get her drunk and into your car, sure you get your five minutes in the Land of Ah’s.

But you run the risk of becoming involved with this woman again on some level - and that SHOULD be a deterrent in itself, although I’m not terribly convinced that this is the case.

So, with this in mind, the focus of today’s lesson on how to behave in a constructive manner is entitled “I Will Not Be A Twit Today” and will consist of five custom-made steps on how to maintain what is left of your dignity.

1. Stop deluding yourself with the idea that having the same friends, going to the same bars, blah, blah is a problem - it isn’t.

3. Stop thinking about the good times - they no longer exist, and IF they ever did, chances are you were drunk and ANYTHING can be fun when one is loaded.

4. Stop seeing women until you know what you want - because you don’t and never will as long as Queenie has her tongue stuck to your pole.

5. Stop believing that a three month-old girlfriend is worth writing about - she isn’t. You’ve probably had longer relationships with the blue stuff in your toilet bowl.

Well, there you have it. Hope this helps - Cheers!

Core Lore 1:11 “Our relationships are only as fucked up as WE are so God forbid we meet our match.”

Dear Core, Here’s my problem: I’ve been seeing this great guy. The sex was phenomenal. He broke out in a sweat after the first three times I fucked him... we actually could stand the sight of each other after. We began seeing each other and it’s been about 4 weeks.

I’ve noticed we have less sex – well, actually, no sex the last time he slept over. I think he’s a bit afraid of his feelings. I know I am of mine towards him. It was really just supposed to be a one night stand kind of thing ... I know he broke up with his boyfriend a year ago and I broke up with my main guy, though we were not monogamous, this past October.... I didn’t want to

rush into anything, but cupid is stupid. Also, now this great guy refers to himself as bi, not gay! What should I do? I genuinely like him and want back into his jockstrap.

One Messed Up Dude

Oh Honey ...

So what you’re saying is: I’m rebounding with a bi who does not wish to have sex with me anymore even though we’ve done it three whole times at least, and sure, he wasn’t direct with me about his not being homosexual, but that’s okay.

And sure, we don’t sweat it anymore after 30 days and I’m not getting what I need, but that’s okay too because I really, really like him anyway and must find a way to make this prize of an individual mine at any cost to my self esteem and happiness.

And, I am willing to compromise all that I value to accomplish this. Is that what you’re saying?

Now then, ahem, I’d like to hear exactly what it is that you find so appealing but I’m, uh, busy ... that day. So, with this in mind - WAKE UP, BABY! There just ain’t a dick talented enough to satisfy what you are craving - that being an orgasmic revelation in which you are overcome with the notion you are actually worth something to, obviously, anybody. In “layman’s” terms (for lack of a better word) - you are needy. So my advice to you, my dear, is: buy a puppy, or ... stand up (nice and tall now), brush the spooge off your lip, and start using that mouth of yours to express your intolerance to all who wish to treat you as a whore. Sure it takes balls, but you’ve expressed that you have them so use ‘em for something a little more practical. Now run along, you’ve got work to do.

Core Lore 1:12 “Relationships based on sex are like jockstraps; you’ll only need them if you’re playing a game.”

People, you can send all your problems to Core at: corelore@thenerveonline.com or to Core Lore, c/o The Nerve, 88042 China Town P.O., Vancouver B.C., V6A 4A4

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