The Zine Pile_ round 1

[Garbage World Fanzine, vol 1]




Canadians know what's up in hardcore, and though not located in a more convenient tour location like Toronto and Montreal, Calgary is happening, and this zine is proof. Jason Scharf is the man behind this zine, assembling show photos and conjoining interviews as a way to "give back to hardcore." Noted in the intro, he'll travel far and wide to go hard in a great pit of a great band, he can get shit offensive about things, has no musical talent, and doesn't give a fuck - and I respect that atttitude. Some pretty entertaining interviews from bands like The Ropes (Chicago), Scab (UK), Vacant State (Vancouver, CAN), and White Wards (Olympia), and, especially, some really insightful facts about hardcore in Canada. Apparently Victoria is a "god forsaken piss soaked tourist corpse" (White Ward), much of the sounds of Vancouver doesn't get out of the city due to geographical restrictions, and outsiders of the country like Scab have much love and acknowledgment of the scene. I look forward to the next issue, and in all curiousness I hope it comes equipped with more insider info from those North of the border because that's what zines were all about before the internet happened, right? I'll admit I almost whipped out my red pen because there are a lot of typos and fragments and errors that make the skin of an anal, journalism graduate like me prickle. But the wall-worthy xeroxed photos, pleasantly succinct content, and leaving Scab's winking emoticons be left me feeling lenient, for now.

Send an email to Jason at droppinthekidsinthepool[at]gmail.com to see if any are available/pick up a copy for yourself. The first print runs in 80 copies. Oh, and photos I took from the Columbus Ropes show are in this zine as well.

[Fashionable Activisim, issues 1 and 2]



Kevin McCaughey, a.k.a. 1/2 of Fashionable Activism and known in the punk\internet/VLV\Tumblr world as negativekevin, stayed at my place for a hot week last month to experience New York City. While doing so he dropped off copies of his online-to-print zine, including the latest issue that came out last fall. In its hardcore punk fanzine form, Fashionable Activism transports the wittingly opinionated reviews and ramblings of its star creator onto a visually pleasing medium. The interviews thrown in, nonexistent in its online form, are proof that NegiKev ( o.k. with being "young, dumb, and full of cum") is not only doing his homework, but actively seeking to learn more. As a reader you get to participate in that through the conversations with today's noteworthy acts like Mauser and The Men. "The purpose of this zine is the proper documentation of hardcore 2010, and to express my current taste and feeling of this whole shit." Of course, it would be disappointing if it the zine didn't incorporate the snarky, love-me-or-hate-me, opinionated voice of yours truly.

Both issues are available (looks like they were reissued) at Kevin's Pass Judgement Records webstore.

[Our Show with Elliot Aronow Zine, winter/issue 1]


Commonly described by various outlets as "if GQ became a DIY punk zine," the first issue of Our Show successfully reeled in a new fan. I'm loving this whole punks go dapper overhaul among friends and strangers, and frankly there's nothing wrong with a man who takes good care of himself. Google Elliot Aronow and you'll find that not only is he the climbing tastemaker in culture and lifestyle - and being other cool things like co-founder of RCRD LBL and writer behind Kanye Wests' press bio, but this handsome fella never shies away from the opportunity to bust out a Cro-Mags shirt and oh my gods I can't even... Swoon with a capital S. Anyway, slightly digressing, taking on the fashion of your everyday punk zine, Our Show's entire 42-page, black and white spread is "a social alchemy at work," but his social circle is the cool kids kids club with more mainstream accolades, and a more refined taste for nice things than your average zinester. (Am I really using that word? Oh well.) Poetry-cum-screenshot of an iPhone conversation from Diplo, a photo spread by Yeah Yeah Yeah's Nick Zinner, AND a comprehensive crash course on tailoring and the perfect suit?! This NYC-centric zine harks back to the core practices of a DIY zine, extricating the information overload of the internet age (be this, do that, buy this, listen that) and cut it down to what Aronow finds to be truly insightful, truly necessary, one issue at a time.

Copies of this zine are scattered throughout record stores and boutiques in the NYC area. Non-residents can e-mail Elliot at elliot[a]itsourshow.com for a copy, if there are still any available. Hand-numbered, out of 300.

[Phil Knott's Tally Ho!]




The first time I ever had a magazine personally distributed to me by its bike-riding creator was with this issue. I found that moment very charming. Whether you've noticed or not, it's very likely that you've come across Phil Knott's works. His photography ranges from portraits of Broadcast to Jay-Z, his love of desaturated color and collage turned into a design for Hot Hot Heat's "Elevator" album, and his talent of tinkering with color and photography brings out a very vivid presentation of attitude and sound from his subjects. His works, in sum, are music you listen with your eyes. Knott's Tally Ho! pieces together not only his works, but works of artists like Mick Rock and Anthony Lister who are dedicated to reflecting and translating the cultures of modern life through striking works of art. It's a beautifully, understated cycle shown in print by Knott: the sociopolitical push on emotion which creates music which sticks to the minds of its listeners who use a medium like art to evoke commentary and feelings. The classics of rock and roll, David Bowie to Joy Division, are hand-in-hand with the artist in this particular tango.

75,000 copies in ciruculation. Available in newsstands, premiere book chains, and fine art galleries worldwide.

If I haven't made it more obvious, I love zines. If there's any out there that you think I may be into and really should check out, shoot me an e-mail with more information. Ciao x

9_21. WEIRD NIGHT W/ DAWN OF HUMANS, PHARMAKON @ HOME SWEET HOME, NYC

PHARMAKON: was easy to photograph



DAWN OF HUMANS: fuck it, I got a video of their set to make up for this.



To my chagrin, meeting up with friends at Weird after gallery hopping in TriBeca was a challenge. Home Sweet Home, a bar/venue on Chrystie Street in which the most beautiful and most explicit of hell broke loose, was all fog and dismal lighting. Second, it's in the basement. So not only was my attempt to cell communicate one fat failure, but closing in towards the stage meant you couldn't see shit. Thankfully I've been to enough goth/darkwave club nights to fine-tune my capability of recognizing silhouettes in a smokey, dark basement and all was scarlet cherries and penciled-in eyebrows.

The night's bill was lacking in number, but the energy accumulation of Pharmakon and Dawn of Humans was on level to a four-band show. When it's past midnight and you're one of the surprising few who have to clock in at 9 a.m. in mere hours, all you really want is a happy meal show with a super-sized sensation. My friend Nick told me that Pharmakon, stage alias for Far Rockaway's Margaret Chardiet, was feeling very nervous about the performance tonight - but if anything, I was nervous about possibly being post-bewitched by her noise set!

The precedent atmosphere left an unusual playing field for Dawn of Humans, mostly because it was unusual to see someone monkey-scaling-the-ceiling-water-pipes action in the foreground of fog and strobe lights. I didn't whip out my camera fast enough to capture that, but I hope you can get my drift on how maddening this set was in the video posted above. I need someone from the show to confirm for me whether those are his real (purple) balls, or whether it's some rubber toy.

The show was not a usual one for Home Sweet Home's Weird Nights, which, in the past, has headline the label's rosters including Automelodi, Led Er Est, and Xeno and Oaklander. The inevitable finally happened during Dawn of Humans and the Weird disco ball on the low ceiling was knocked off and torn to pieces. I don't think there's any need to add words to that metaphorical gesture.

8_3. CRYSTAL CASTLES @ NEWPORT MUSIC HALL, COLUMBUS

So for this sold-out, Crystal Castles show at Newport, I decided that for the first time, I wanted to watch the show from the balcony. One, because I learned my lesson about the misery of trying to dance in a tin-of-sardines-kind of a crowd when I saw M.I.A. at NYC's Hard Fest last year (and had a heavy storm come through and made it more miserable... go find the videos); and two, because I busted out the Rick Owens racer tank dress I gifted myself for my birthday and, although flexible and comfortable for a night of dancing, I don't think I trust its integrity rubbed against some sweating bodies. But cool story, let's move on with the actual show.

My two male buds and I arrived around 7:40 p.m. to 3/4 of the venue already crammed - the opening act didn't take the stage until 8:30! During that idleness, I pointed out to my friends a particular person in the crowd who may have, in the words of my friend Kent, "reached his peak a little too early." His enthusiastic jazz hands, hair whips, and air thrusts had us in hysteric. There was a good 30 minutes ahead of him before the show finally started. Poor dude couldn't hold it in any longer. The Columbus-based opener was not my cup of tea, but everyone else seemed to be gulping them up. To put it succinctly, whoever manned their lights should be paid generously, there was some rock 'n' roll (which I had little appetite for that night), and the keyboardist/vocalist would definitely do well in a mid-'00 Blood Brothers sounding band (which is not bad, really).

Crystal Castles finally went on around 10 p.m., though prior, members of the crowd and I speculated a possible second opener due to the presence of a drum set. (Did they always have a touring drummer?) Nope, that was for them, and of course the fogged up theater should have made it all more obvious. Amidst the flashing strobes in their hell of an impressive lights arrangement, they opened up with "Fainting Spells" and bulldozed through the first half of their set with all the hits. You couldn't see Ethan and Alice until "Baptism" kicked in, which is when their hunchback silhouettes had everyone go bananas and I'm practically losing my shit over the song's hypnotic trail. I've somehow managed to record the next song, "Courtship Dating," in its entirety (video below). If there was any problem I had about this show, it's that there were minor occasions, like the "Courtship Dating" performance, in which the vocals were hard to discern.

Sorry for the shaking camera. Can you blame a lady for dancing?

Alice will hand over anyone's ass in being the most energetic frontwoman for a live performance. Almost every time I come back from the dark, there goes Alice's feather-like body walking, sprawling, and fucking crawling through the sea of heads and hands gravitating to her beckoning like magnets. Those were the only instances of contact with the crowd, because otherwise they were completely removed. They did not check in on how the crowd was doing, verbally making it known that it's Crystal Castles on stage, or even said thanks. But really, is there any need or demand to break the mood with some small chat? Hell no. As the lights erupted and escalated like a fireworks show and hits like "Empathy," Celestica," and "Crimewave" (fuck yeah) had everyone feeling themselves up, and "Not in Love" had everyone nearly toppling over the balcony rail just to sing along, the group made sure that everyone was there to dance in their own ecstasy. If you didn't and you just stood there to "watch" them, then you're probably went bat blind staring at the violently pulsating strobe lights.

They came back onstage for the encore with not a word out of their mouth (no surprise there), and Alice comes out smoking a cigarette like a boss and swaying her shoulders and hips as "Intimate" slowly leaked out of the speakers. Two more songs came after that before they called it a night, but at that time my friends and I dashed to the door to avoid the crowd rush. And failed. It was in the rush that I noticed that the Crystal Castle male fanbase was total babe-topia, and it certainly wasn't saving me that these Josh Hartnetts and Simon Nessmans came through with shirts unbuttoned and hair side-swept behind their ears. (In Ohio?! How come I rarely see these men around?!) I met up with a friend who told me that being in the pit was, given the circumstances, surprisingly bearable. Now combining these two instances, I'm starting to wonder whether having all the free reign to dance on the balcony with this great view really was the better alternative.

Night accompanied by these lovely shits. I swear they were thrilled the entire night.

7_30. KVLT V: TEENGIRL FANTASY/PICTUREPLANE/GATEKEEPER/I†† @ DOUBLE HAPPINESS

This is my first time at Double Happiness, a bar-slash-venue located in downtown Columbus on Front and Fulton. It's actually rather swanky, and the theme of the decor and general vibe is Orient - hell, not only were there paper lamps, reed plants and amber tinted dome lamps, fucking House of Flying Daggers was playing on the big screens at the bar area. (Should have taken a photo of that, the dimly lit bar area is gorgeous.) Originally, the set up of KVLT V was going to have two different acts play either on the patio or the indoor stage throughout the first half of the fest - but as I arrived to get my wristband, Scott told me that residents were complaining that the sound was too loud. Whoever was complaining should have thought twice before signing a lease next to a bar/venue.

As a result, the time slots got pushed back by an hour and the headlining trio took the night around 10 p.m. Three of my lads and I didn't feel as terrible about the Dirty Franks hot dog rush hour that held us back (though it was tasty), but unfortunately we still arrived late and caught the last ten minutes of Columbus's Dirty Current's set: a a great mix of dark, crunchy bass bumpers that I feel in love with back when I saw them open for Deathface at Skully's. Despite the night being rather young for the dancefloor crawlers, the venue was half filled up - a positive sign for the fest as it's a crowd that makes the night.

I†† performed under minimal glowing light made convenient by the pre-placed lamps. This was my first time seeing the married duo live - let alone hearing the material. It was a drastic step from the brazening DJs before them, and it took that crowd a while to adjust from the environment change. This was the first time that I've witnessed the theremin being put to use for a live performance. It was both entrancing and fascinating to see the oscillating eerie hums added to washing sounds of minimal noise best described as the tortured, self-flagellating voices in your head.

It's no secret that the main anticipation of my night was seeing Chicago-to-Brooklyn transplant Gatekeeper play in my home state. I saw them headline Pendu night back in spring break with Streetwalker (1/2 of White Car) and Innergaze, so I was curious to see what their set would be like under the variables of touring and a crowd that blends a lot of the regulars of the Columbus eletronic dance music scene - a little more bright colors in the crowd of transparent black and denim. Albeit these circumstances, out came the rapidly pulsating strobe lights, abusing fog machine, and headlights well needed - perplexing otherwise - for this dark duo. Somewhere within the first half, their set got cut off during what I think was "Storm Column" for reasons I was unable to discern after investigating within the crowds. When everything went back into gear, the crowd erupted back to its raving state and I was in my self-sexual trance until blue tanktop guy plowed to the front to hard grind against this girl with so much force, he grinded against me and my goat-masked friend - up to a point to which I was not having it. Gatekeeper played a lot of what I assume was new material for upcoming releases and ended their set with "Chains" (yess) and "Giza" (yessx2).

I was with two friends who saw this tour in their current residence of Louisville, Kentucky. One of them told me about his funny predicament with Travis Egedy (stage alias, Pictureplane) and how he was mean mugging him due to the two showing up at the venue wearing the same parental advisory hat. This is why you Google search these performances prior to attending a show, preventing wearing what may be the stage/tour costume of a performer, and preventing being on the shit list for the night haha. But I digress. Real was indeed the feeling of the night, and Travis did a great job balancing his engagement (though from a distance - if that makes any sense) with the audience and even submerging himself into a moping euphoria through his own music. The glitch-hopping synths and drones are accompanied by Egedy's serenading breaths of soulful melodies that makes Pictureplane, and this entire set so dreamy. I wasn't too familiar with him prior to this night except for "Body Mod" and the "Real is the Feeling" music video, as well as an explosive amount of coverage he seems to be getting from music and art culture publications. That night I feel in love with the soundtrack to my future dreams. Get the "Thee Physical" full-length when you have a chance, I purchased this at the show on a cassette. Oh yeah, there were gimp dancers who, aside from the death glares they casted at the crowd, were completely removed and unresponsive to their environment except within the confinements of their duty to dance. I don't know why I thought this was slightly terrifying. I stuck around for 3/4 of the set because it got to the point where the poorly vented venue resulted in waterfalls of sweat, and I had to get out to regain sanity.

I unfortunately had to miss Teengirl Fantasy because it was hitting 2 a.m. and we had not only a long drive home ahead of us, but a mad craving for Taco Bell. (A very rare food mood for this health freak.) The Gatekeeper boys were doing lighting for this group, so I'd like to get the 411 on how all this went down. The drive home almost became a drive to our grave beds because when we got close to Nelsonville on 32, there was fog as thick as milk for miles.

5_29. OMEGAS/SCHOOL JERKS/CULO/VILE GASH @ The White House

My second visit to The White House in Columbus to check out yet another hardcore show. Summer's finally came out of its shell and spared us absolutely no mercy from perhaps one of the most sweltering basement shows I've experienced. If it was 94 outside, it was 100 degrees in the basement - and I'm sure that body heat wasn't taken into account. I spent the early hours of that day swimming next to a small flock of furry alpacas at a friend's farm. If only I could have pocketed and later enjoy that cool bliss at the show. Unfortunately God forgot to formulate that possibility when he created man.

Everyone literally warmed up outside drinking various tall cans of hard lemonade (and critiquing tastes of each one) before the bill finally revved into motion with Youth Attack/Columbus's own Vile Gash. Consider this set a warm-up for their West Coast tour (currently active) with Columbus cohort Nukkehammer. With the exception of some Pittsburgh visitors and Dayton-residing James Downing, a frequent of almost every Columbus punk show I've attended over the years, everyone planted feet and chilled with a few head lashes to the band's reverberating ripper of a set list. They apparently played some new tracks from their upcoming LP, including "Deluded." Joyously chaotic with a tighter grip on their brutality blasts - an improvement since I last saw them a while back. (Note: a long ass time due to my NYC-Ohio commutes and school.) Vile Gash ended their short set with a Crucifix cover (correct me if I'm wrong), and then everyone retreated upstairs to catch a hint of cool breeze.

There was a bit of a lag in time before the show moved on - mostly because School Jerks and Culo were nowhere to be found. Because of this, Omegas, the Canadian headliner of the night, ended up playing second to keep things going. I found this unfortunate because the reception of their set wasn't as crazy as it could have potentially been if they instead got the last slot. Regardless, Omegas was making the hardcore slams rain with the lights off. In this situation I wish I wasn't so petite and frail, because I wanted to stomp across the floor with the big guys so badly. (Realistically, I rickashay off anyone who crosses my path.) So imagine how bummed I was when "Disgusting Fun" (side note: intro echoes "Straight Edge Revenge" to me) kicked in. Took a picture of the vocalist in his bucket hat and trench coat get-up, but post-development I realized my thumb got in the way. He was quick to point out that unlike the noticeably absents, they "arrived on time."



Culo: I've heard a lot about this band before this set. Heard about the infamous flag burning at My Friends, The Pit fest and an apparent group beat-up of a troublemaker in the crowd during their MFTP set. Personally, I just wanted to see all this myself because a) I really, really like the "Toxic Vision" EP and find it to be a very fun listen, and b) I always take all stories with a grain of salt. When given the platform, everyone has a tendency to build up even the smallest of conflicts. So boom, Culo happened. Literally, the set lasted 6 minutes. I was amused by the slight uneasiness I sensed from the crowd, especially during the band's banters on being a Chicago hardcore band and beating the woes of bronchitis in the name of hardcore to play hardcore. You couldn't escape harm when crowd drives were encouraged by both the band and some ecstatic moshers. But hey, it was about time I saw some aggressive monkeying in the tiny basement.



School Jerks closed the show that night, and the time transition to them was equivalent to my walk all the way to a United Dairy Farm and back for a needed tall can of Arizona Ice Tea. (Too miserably hot to slam beers.) Had I not done so, I would have dry heaved vomit into the upstairs toilet, because dehydration became the end product of the hot, crowded basement. I took a birdbath against the bathroom sink and returned to the basement, immediately covered in a second coating of sweat and dust. Eerily quiet, the only sound breaking the silence was School Jerk's frontman chugging a 40 of cold, Natty Ice. As Canadian band #2, School Jerks was snooty and punk as fuck. The unbearable heatwave at this point might have contributed to the chaos. 80% of their set involved the vocalist stumbling about, nose and mouth plastered in his own production of thick, gooey snot (eventually mixed with blood), and a chuckling grin I seriously cannot get out of my mind every time I think about this set. The crowd got real agro at this point. I remember seeing the back of the crowd demolished like a set of bowling pins. I was kind of bummed that the ultra snootiness of the vocals didn't transfer well live (listen to their stuff and you'll know exactly what I mean), but that may have something to do with the constantly cut-off mic and the vocalist's state of sobriety. That entire set was an adrenaline rush: you had to hold on to your dear self if you really didn't want to get hurt, and you had to play dodge-the-snot every time the vocalist whipped his head sideways. I walked away with a purple right boob and snot dangling off my hair.


Overall great show. Wish the dog was around when I needed the snot licked off of me.

Revisiting the 1997 N64 Game, Mischief Makers.

Note: some of my posts will be reviews of various forms of art and entertainment for my review writing class. Until I figure out a way to make a page within my blog that will be exclusive to these posts, these reviews will be on this page. Otherwise, enjoy!

The other day, I decided to revisit a game that was a major part of my childhood. Back when blowing into N64 ROM cartridges was the norm of the geeks (now it's just cumbersome and a waste of breath) 1997's Mischief Maker's was the death to my nights of good sleep.

I remember some consecutive days were spent trying to get out of a swampy, vertical labyrinth in one of world 3's levels because I couldn't figure out the order of its star teleportation. For the simplistic 2D, side-scrolling, run-jump-attack nature the game seemed to front, my forehead nerves trembled over its surprising level of difficulty. Unlike side-scrolling predecessors like the Mario and Donkey Kong series, the unpredictable emphasis on control strategy is what took me on a nauseating, tireless ride.

Here's to round two of playing through two worlds in under four hours... ten years later.

The conflict of the game involves a kidnap of Professor Theo, a self-proclaimed 'genius roboticus,' who's in planet Clancer for a visit. The protagonist you control is Marina Liteyears, Theo's robot maid who fights her way to the Empire that's behind the abduction. As you tread the various terrains of planet Clancer to get to your ultimate enemy, Emperor Leo, and find out why the kidnap happened in the first place, you overcome an obstacle of enemies and allies called "Clancers" - a species of ghoul-faced animals and humans - and the game's major trio of bosses called the Beastector Mechas.

When this game was released, a year after the inimitable Mario 64, it was the first 2D side-scrolling game for the console. What separates this from other side-scrollers is that not only does your character cover every horizontal, vertical, and diagonal grounds of your peripheral play space, you're also furiously bouncing, free-falling, swirling, swinging, teleporting, and rocketing-launching your way through the course. This brightly colored, fast-paced game is an epileptic's worst nightmare.

But this trip of a ride doesn't occur until you checked out of the first world, a deceiver of what's to come: a valley of lush greenery, flowers, and - aside from those employed under Emperor Leo - law abiding citizens of Clancer. Here, you learn the art of "grab and shake," because nothing's more mischievous than shaking the life and loot of those around you to get by. It's conveniently an all-in-one game control for just about anything in the game because not only is it used for attacks, but also transportation and weapon alchemy.

The problem is that inconvenience lies in the convenience, and this is the reason why, even on my revisit, I'm always facing troubles in this game. With full knowledge of how to get to the blue star at the end of each course, I'm still falling to my doom in the lava pits or the depth-defying skies because the calibrations to hold onto the ghoul-faced balls is both too sensitive and occasionally unresponsive. To make matters worse, the "grab and shake" tactic encompasses 60% of the gameplay. So when I think I'm holding onto a flying enemy or a ghoul ball, I see little Marina loose a portion of her life bar because of my spastic fingers.



Complaints aside, I still get a kick out of this game because it encompasses the essential attributes to, in my opinion, a good video game. The minimalist make-up of the MIDI music soundtrack, character mobility, text dialogue satirical to the heroic platform game genres, and recycled graphics make room for actual gameplay. With constant demands for CGI, theatrical storyline, and million interpretations of a hi-def explosion to please the visual jerkbooth, the craft of good, strategic gameplay is lost in today's world of video games.

Sure the strategic make-up of the game and its major bosses induce mild headaches - but doesn't that leave you striving for more? Finally finding the blue star in the endless swamp labyrinth will leave you feeling like a million bucks. Basking in the privileges to throw around both your enemies and allies à la Grand Theft Auto and shaking them up for money and vitality diamonds provides a great escape to freely be a mischief maker.

Image sources: Screwattack.com, Gamefaqs.com.

5_13. THE ROPES/SOUTHSIDE STRANGLERS/ROCKS AT COPS/HARDTIME @ The White House

Any punk on the block will agree that basement shows make the best venue for punk music. There's no better backdrop for spit riddled snooty screams, spastic riffs, and some crowd bulldozing action than a dusty, humid basement.

The flyer for tonight's show that features The Ropes, Southside Stranglers, and locals Rocks At Cops and Hardtime, says the show starts at 8 p.m. "sharp," so I arrived around 8:40 assuming the show functions on punk time. My mental clock wasn't punk enough to guess that the show started, instead, around 9:20 p.m. After chilling on the steps of the White House, the house-cum-punk venue located just off of Columbus’s High Street, and passing time drinking cans of PBR, guitar feedback shook the living room floors signaling the start of the show. I made my way through some couch potatoes watching sports on T.V. to the tiny basement and propped myself against the damp brick wall.

The locals opened the show and Rocks At Cops was the first to take the plate. I'm surprised I didn't have blood trail out of my ears because prior to starting, guitar feedback took over for a good three minutes. As if super glue kept them in place, Rocks At Cops remained static while hastily ripping through some fast hardcore tracks - so fast, that my recollections of that set are all too blurry. I do remember a sparse crowd, arms crossed and timidly throwing their heads down when the guitars got melodic (if a band like this even had a melodic part), but that's always the curse of opening acts.



Hardtime was next on the bill, and fronting the New York hardcore cover group is one of the tenants of the house. When I hear that band name, I think of Cro-Mag's "Hard Times," so I knew that this show was about to get ignorant. Tucker Lappi, the vocalist, spent the past 5 years fronting his other hardcore projects Triceratops and Forget It, so naturally he's a master on the mic. I have a terrible ear when it comes to recognizing what songs are being covered - even if it's by a band as inimitable as The Misfits. Admittedly I don't remember exactly what songs were covered that night. I can assess that Hardtime put on one flawlessly brutal set. The crowd could not resist hard stomping to the tumbling, storm chugging sounds of New York Hardcore, and at one point a modest pile-on formed during a crucial sing-along.



The show took a slight shift to a more denotative punk sound. I say denotative because Richmond's Southside Stranglers played the straight-up, rock 'n' roll garage punk - the kind that, as the vocalist Kenny pointed out, "your girlfriend probably listens to." Interesting to see the ex-Government Warning frontman make this switch for the '80s hardcore sound. Whatever, Southside Stranglers had the audience shuffling and getting into the whiskey-fueled fun of their melodic numbers. I couldn't keep count on how many times Kenny stumbled into the crowd, locked lips with his bottle of whiskey, and was constantly in tango with an equally animated crowd member who, during song transition, heckled the band to "play something that's up the punx."



Finally the night capped off with the act everyone wanted to see: Chicago's The Ropes - a.k.a., basically The Repos with a name change and slower sound. As everyone crowded around the band's merch table to get a piece of their 100 copies exclusive tape release, the basement was packed to the brim. The bassist took a long drag of his cigarettes before The Ropes blew away the audience with its cacophonous blast of barking vocals and blown out guitars. When that guitar wails, a section of the audience gets a pile drive, and those up front were seeing red when "Heads Will Roll" erupted body shuffles and sing-alongs. I was upstairs snagging a tape and t-shirt when the "set" was over, missing the encore that left everyone seemingly satisfied according to the roars and clapping. This would be one of the last two chances for Ohioians to see the band before they check out of touring until the end of 2011. This night left everyone walking out of the house with a satisfied punk fix and ready to take on another house for the after-party.

COMEDY CENTRAL'S 'WORKAHOLICS:' SIMILAR BUT SATIFYING, LIKE A CHICKEN SUBSTITUTE

Note: some of my posts will be reviews of various forms of art and entertainment for my review writing class. Until I figure out a way to make a page within my blog that will be exclusive to these posts, these reviews will be on this page. Otherwise, enjoy!

When I watched the first episode of "Workaholics," Comedy Central's latest television series that premiered on April 6, I thought of nothing but a sausage fest that's all too familiar. This is coming from a girl who often hangs out with a bunch of semi-lethargic wits who, by getting involved in juvenile antics and later talking about them over some weed and Bud Light, flip the bird at the monotonous wheel of life.

What's more dull and monotonous for the men in "Workaholics," played by the unfamiliar faces of Anders Holm, Blake Anderson, and Adam Devine? Life fresh out of college and into an entry job - and boy are they holding strong onto the last patch of grass on the cliff of high times.

The first episode is full of kickers that will engage viewers on various "gotcha" jokes and leave them indignant. Titled "Piss and Shit" (so that you're warned on the impending hilariously crude, low brow humor), the first few minutes introduce a large daytime backyard party full of khaki shorts, bikini, bare skins, and booze-filled Solo cups.

Amidst the wackiness, Anders, 1/3 of the post-college trinity that includes Blake and Adam, receives advice from his roommates that the best way to take part in this newfound communication of "sexting" is to "give back the goods." (Note: even though they're college graduates, they're still interested in the culture of mischievous youth.) A flash of his flesh, click, and "text received" later, a randy Anders realized that his pimping was actually a trap set by his roommates. Not only did the bare skin and the booze encompass the life of the party, so did Ander’s down under.

The premise of the premiere episode stars, yes, the poop and the pee. The three roommates/co-workers come to work after their day of partying with a notification that a company-wide drug test is taking place that day. In panic, the trio spends their work day figuring out how to bypass submitting their own heavily infected urine samples to a villainous drug tester. The well-prepared Anders had his stash of clean urine accidentally smacked out of his hand, so the three scurry the office and a children's playground for plan B and C. To make sure that the episode has a "random" sub-plot, the three pass their time scattering "poo dollars" on sidewalks and streets, cat calling its victims. Can there be any better way to relate a plotline to their intended demographic of your average college/post-college bro?

Kyle Newacheck, the 27-year-old director of the series, lives with two of the main characters, so it's safe to imagine that the brotherly love/hate among the three characters reflect the roommates situations the director has among the main actors. I imagine an exchange of poop jokes and laughter, but the kind that harkens back to the dazed dorm days of college. These poop jokes are a slight intellectual upgrade from the playground sandbox, wearing glasses and with a copy of The Onion in tow. Moments like Anders having clean urine stashed in his drawer escalading to having a stashed urine-related accident will leave viewers in disgust.

Unfortunately the first episode brings nothing new to the comedy table, but instead provides an alternative. It's like if your mom replaces the inimitable roasted turkey with a chicken substitute for Thanksgiving. There's familiarity, it may be pretty good, but you can't beat the originator. Workaholics is the chicken substitute to shows like "Arrested Development," "It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia," and "Office Space." It just happens to switch up the conflict of the characters to be fresh out of college and, with difficulty, making the transition from the party life to real life.

But hey, if the viewers like the aforementioned series and wouldn’t mind diving into a similar but equally satisfying alternative, then Workaholics may be the next series on their DVR cue.

New episodes of the series airs Wednesdays @ 10:30 p.m. on Comedy Central. Click here to watch the reviewed episode in its entirety.

Photo from LivingfreeNYC.com.

The Age of Quarrel

Amidst this hectic ten weeks, a miracle allowed my schedule and that of an upcoming Cleveland show to beautifully elope.

Accompanied by some young 'uns, I'll be heading up to Cleveland next Thursday to check out Cro-Mags, Ringworm, and two other bands at Now That's Class. It's been too long since my last visit to this venue, and that may have been the Crude show. I'll strive to arrive early enough to indulge in their limited-made, outsourced vegan entrees. The last time I went, the nachos I ordered came with a bowl of mango habanero salsa - and boy, was it delectable. On the bar-cum-venue floor lies two vert ramps, so you can image the madness that would entail when a band like Bones Brigade - let alone, Cro-Mags, rips it on stage. I made plans to see them perform on a boat last summer, but show lethargy took over and I got lost in Chelsea instead.

Two days prior, Japanese band Envy will be hitting up Now That's Class and some Pittsburgh venue the night after. Unfortunately for me, I'm chained to a night exam the night of the Pittsburgh stop. If anyone could somehow Skype chat this show for me, I'd gladly accept inquiries.

EDIT: my review of this show can be found here - enjoy!