UNBELIEVABLY Bad #9

Table Of Contents

Page 42 – Chad Morgan

Hold that ambulance! Oz country legend is still fighting fit. By Matt Reekie.

Page 48 – Henry Rollins

Greasy Belcher swaps conspiracy theories with Hank 'Jihad' Rollins.

Page 52 – Blacklevel Embassy

Melbourne walking cobras strike back hard with Asp. By Øysten Arsewipe.

Page 56 – Powder Monkeys

Guitar god Johnny Nolan looks back on a life dedicated to full-tilt rock 'n' roll.

By Fried Cat and Mark W.

Page 6 – The Front Bit

Starring Rick Chesshire, Greasy Belcher, Harry Choad, Glenno, Gospel O Losta'' Fun, Monotonix, Martire, and a handful of mental Mentors tribute bands.

Page 62 – Golden Plains

A road diary featuring cameos by Future Of The Left, Jay Reatard, The Dirtbombs, and a whole lotta wasted people. By Danger Coolidge and Angelica Von Helle.

Page 20 – The Devil Wears Clodhoppers IX

Part nine of a never-ending interview with trash cinema legend Herschell Gordon Lewis. By Mil Mascaras.

Page 78 – Depression: The DNA Files part IV Reprinting of a classic DNA Zine interview. By Harry Butler.

Page 24 – Crypt Kicking With The Misfits

A true-to-life tale of hero worship and grave desecration. By Mike IX Williams.

Page 82 – UNBELIEVABLY Opinionated

Compact Discs, Rekkids, Fillums, DeeVeeDees and Fangzines reviewed.

Page 26 – Awesome Color

In Detroit the fires still burn. Do you see the light? By Tim Scott.

Page 98 – My Favourite Freak Freak of the week: Sealo The Seal Boy.

Page 28 – Nick Oliveri

Disgruntled ex-Queen on becoming a Danish Dr. Doolittle. By Bogdan Ratshitski.

Page 32 – Devo

Reactivated spudboys discuss dental hygiene, Disney and the death of our species.

By Matt Reekie and Luke Anisimoff.

Page 38 – Rosetta

From Philly to infinity and eventually Down Under. By Darkie Krebbs.

Issue 7 3

In an effort to encourage better communication between you – yes, you, the cool cunt reading this – and us – yes, us, the sad cunts who couldn’t come up with anything funnier than this half-arsed spiel – we’re prepared to resort to bribery. What better incentive do you need to send us a letter – yes, a real hand-written letter, not a text or email or some bum chum myspace/facebook backstabbing best buddies bullshit – than this mega prize pack containing a bunch of the coolest product around, all personally recommended by the full-blown dick-whacks at UNBELIEVABLY Bad.

The Clodhoppers

A

wesome Color have cooler Facebook and MySpace friends than you. Unless you write wall-to-wall with J Mascis, Lou Barlow and Thurston Moore, you can go eat a bag.

They are poking indie rock royalty while you are playing Scrabble with your co-worker’s sister. The three-piece from Michigan – that would be the home of Detroit rock! – also happen to shred. Having toured with the likes of Dinosaur Jr, Lou Barlow and yes Sonic Youth, they bring the monster riffs and swagger.

Their latest record, Electric Aborigines, besides being on Thurston Moore’s Ecstatic Peace label is a doozy of rock ‘n’ roll radness. Listen to it and then have something to say when some dude asks, “Heard anything good lately?

Derek Stanton waxes...

State Of 48

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Eagle Boys - Taking Stock : Circle Pit - Total Waste : Speed Demons - Terracotta Jesus : Slug Guts - Hookin’ Town : The UV Race - Playin’ With Fire : Deathcage - Forward Together : The Hatchetmen (& the Fabulous Hatchettes) - Vous N'Avais Pas Fraction : Rock ‘N’ Roll Weapon - Just A Bullet : Hello Kitty On Ice - Man With A Hole In His Throat : The Homicides - In Love With Susan Atkins : : Cunt Butcher - Blue Vegan : Bambi & The Bambis - Slammer : Lightning Strikes - Gimme Some Lovin’ : Beyond Terror, Beyond Grace - Democracy : Jay Martini & The Dragon Chasers - The Devil Has Come to Fuck Me Up : Suburban Disease - Selling Drugs To Kids At School : The Selfish Gene - No Connection : Summonus - The Gallows : Inappropriate Tough Guy Behaviour - Deadline : Captain Cleanoff - There ‘Twas : Mongrel Country - Hog Tied : Ire - Never Ending : Crux - For My Children's Children (Pts 1 & 2)

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I

hate long car trips, loathe large gatherings and would rather have my nutsack sliced open with a rusty bottletop than spend a single night in a tent. But in November 2007, driving long-distance to camp the weekend in a sweltering paddock in rural Victoria with eight thousand other humans suddenly struck me as a brilliant idea.

This instantaneous about-face can be attributed to the announcement of the line-up for Golden Plains 2008. Ween, Jay Reatard, Future Of The Left, Sharon Jones, the Dirtbombs, Kamikaze Trio… Upon hearing these names, my gorgeous accomplice Angelica and I immediately decided a road trip was in order.

If the following chronicle of events seems in any way less than coherent, that’s because my memory is shot from too many years spent with my lips curled round a bong. Luckily I had the presence of mind to jot down a few stream-ofconsciousness rants on the backs of Liquorland receipts and sheets of that arse-damaging Port-A-Loo paper, otherwise I’d have forgotten all the details and been left with nothing but the lasting inner glow. And believe me, the last thing anyone should want to do is encourage a hack like me to start trying to write descriptions of his inner glows.

Golden Plains is organised by the same lot who do the Meredith Music Festival. It’s also held in the same location – the so-called “Supernatural Amphitheatre” – situated in Meredith, Victoria on a large tract of land owned by the Nolan family. Founded on rather hippie-like principles such as no

huge merch tables, no rip-off hot dog vendors and a carefree bring-your-own booze policy (no glass though), perhaps the most refreshing thing about Meredith/Golden Plains is that it’s a music festival that hasn’t yet lost sight of what it’s all about – i.e. the music, Dumbo.

There’s only one stage, so you don’t need to rush around catching bite-sized pieces of each act just to justify the cost of the ticket. What’s more, they don’t force bands to play drastically shortened sets. Ween, for example, don’t normally do festivals because their show goes for more than two hours and they absolutely refuse to compromise. Golden Plains said, “no wukkas, dudes,” and handed them the prime-time Saturday evening headliner slot – two hours plus encore.

Basically it’s a dream festival, and March ‘08 was a wet dream of a line-up. But first we had to get there. In the months leading up, every time I’d think of Golden Plains I’d think of the old theme song from Smokey & The Bandit, “Eastbound And Down” by Jerry Reed: “We got a long way to go, and a short time to get there…” I’d imagine I was Burt Reynolds and Angie a heaps hotter version of Sally Field.

Sydney to Meredith, down and back in one long-weekend with two full days of dirt-dwelling debauchery in between.

Sounds like a piece of piss, but the logistics had me ripping out hair by the handful. Not only will I have to pitch a tent at the end of a long and manic drive; two days later I’ll have to figure out how to somehow squash it and all the poles and pegs back into the pissy little bag they came in.

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Pic: Rod Hunt

Pic: Rod Hunt

Pic: Rod Hunt

ed arms and legs poking out dismember from sleeping bags, opened jars of peanut jam on car roof tops, blackened butter andsho es discarded..." "

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The Wrestler