Don Gone and Sybil-less
I was in Rusted Shut for one night.
It was destined to be the night from hell, but with a little improvising, things ended up working out ok after all.
The Mike Gunn was heading to Austin to play a show at the Ritz with Rusted Shut and a handful of no-name Austin hardcore bands.
Even a minor road trip made for a good time for the Mike Gunn, and with Rusted Shut in tow, there was little chance that things wouldn’t at least be entertaining when all was said and done. The thing was, unbeknownst to us, by the time we had hit the road, the night was already falling apart.
By the time we arrived in Austin there was a message waiting for us in the club. Curt, our drummer, would not be making the entire trip in as he had opted to take his now infamous motorcycle to the show instead of riding in the four wheeled vehicles the rest of us decided to take. Naturally, it rained. This left Curt (and his homunculus, Captain Space) stuck drinking bad booze in a motel bar in scenic Columbus. The implication being that I would either play drums for the night or we wouldn’t play at all. Perhaps unwisely, drums it was.
As for Rusted Shut, things weren’t faring too well for them either. Don and Sybil had for no apparent reason decided to bail on the show as well. This meant that the remaining member, who at the time was Kenny (he of naked-defacing-of-Axiom-painting fame), who had the fortune to ride with us, would be Rusted Shut for the night.
After sitting through a coterie of truly unimaginative and formulaic straight-edge hardcore outfits, it was time for Rusted Shut to work their (his) mojo.
At the last minute, it was decided that Kenny would be joined onstage by me. If memory serves me correctly, our “set” was comprised completely of me standing up, bashing a floor tom and a crash cymbal, and Kenny “playing” guitar and screaming maniacal ramblings at the straight-edge kids. To describe their reaction as terror would be to understate the way in which these trust fund rebels were behaving. It was as though we had brought our truth potion, sprinkled it over ourselves, and then proceeded to lay down the law in grand, merciless style. Their response was to avoid eye contact and pretend that their cranberry juice drinks were so delicious that they were actually not hearing us. Pussies. Fuck straight edge. I don’t drink, and still… fuck straight edge.
It was stupid, deliberately provocative, asinine, juvenile, antagonistic, brash, confrontational, and utterly pointless. In other words, it was brilliant.
Their reaction was to key Scott Grimm’s car out in the alley behind the club as they were heading back out to Barton Springs or wherever their filthy rich parents lived. Clearly an act borne on the wings of true punk rock luminaries. I loved that they loaded most of their gear into a fucking pristine Mercedes sedan. Nothing but the best for these vegan, celibate babies.
Our work done, it was time for the Mike Gunn to do our thing. With me on drums, this amounted to a bunch of Pink Floyd covers, and some fairly well botched Mike Gunn songs. At that point, like many (if not most) of our shows, it was irrelevant anyway because there was no one there to watch us be the douches we so clearly were.
It’s funny to think back on that night and then to think ahead to now, a time in which we are to make a stab at coming back, if for one fateful night, to try and wring a last shred of pleasure out of that which so long ago made a fairly graceful and painless exit.
I am beyond amazed at the willingness of others to throw themselves on the fire as such. Me, I have no dignity. I loved being in that band even if it was agonizingly frustrating in so many ways. I can look back on it now and feel like at least I have accomplished a little something that I’m not ashamed of today.
In my years, I have learned that this is, to be sure, a monstrous achievement.
Knowing us, little to nothing may come of this experiment; the odds are spread fairly evenly across our completely running away, hating each other, or actually pulling it off.
We are negative creeps, this can not be denied, but I for one know that when we are at our best, we are capable of pulling it off well enough to be enjoyed on the merits of the music alone.
The odds of this happening are bad at best. Really I just hope we can find a sort of cohesion and a taste for why we hung in as long as we did considering our massive shortcomings.
I want it to work. I’m just not sure if it will.
Keep posted. Only the Shadow knows.
It was destined to be the night from hell, but with a little improvising, things ended up working out ok after all.
The Mike Gunn was heading to Austin to play a show at the Ritz with Rusted Shut and a handful of no-name Austin hardcore bands.
Even a minor road trip made for a good time for the Mike Gunn, and with Rusted Shut in tow, there was little chance that things wouldn’t at least be entertaining when all was said and done. The thing was, unbeknownst to us, by the time we had hit the road, the night was already falling apart.
By the time we arrived in Austin there was a message waiting for us in the club. Curt, our drummer, would not be making the entire trip in as he had opted to take his now infamous motorcycle to the show instead of riding in the four wheeled vehicles the rest of us decided to take. Naturally, it rained. This left Curt (and his homunculus, Captain Space) stuck drinking bad booze in a motel bar in scenic Columbus. The implication being that I would either play drums for the night or we wouldn’t play at all. Perhaps unwisely, drums it was.
As for Rusted Shut, things weren’t faring too well for them either. Don and Sybil had for no apparent reason decided to bail on the show as well. This meant that the remaining member, who at the time was Kenny (he of naked-defacing-of-Axiom-painting fame), who had the fortune to ride with us, would be Rusted Shut for the night.
After sitting through a coterie of truly unimaginative and formulaic straight-edge hardcore outfits, it was time for Rusted Shut to work their (his) mojo.
At the last minute, it was decided that Kenny would be joined onstage by me. If memory serves me correctly, our “set” was comprised completely of me standing up, bashing a floor tom and a crash cymbal, and Kenny “playing” guitar and screaming maniacal ramblings at the straight-edge kids. To describe their reaction as terror would be to understate the way in which these trust fund rebels were behaving. It was as though we had brought our truth potion, sprinkled it over ourselves, and then proceeded to lay down the law in grand, merciless style. Their response was to avoid eye contact and pretend that their cranberry juice drinks were so delicious that they were actually not hearing us. Pussies. Fuck straight edge. I don’t drink, and still… fuck straight edge.
It was stupid, deliberately provocative, asinine, juvenile, antagonistic, brash, confrontational, and utterly pointless. In other words, it was brilliant.
Their reaction was to key Scott Grimm’s car out in the alley behind the club as they were heading back out to Barton Springs or wherever their filthy rich parents lived. Clearly an act borne on the wings of true punk rock luminaries. I loved that they loaded most of their gear into a fucking pristine Mercedes sedan. Nothing but the best for these vegan, celibate babies.
Our work done, it was time for the Mike Gunn to do our thing. With me on drums, this amounted to a bunch of Pink Floyd covers, and some fairly well botched Mike Gunn songs. At that point, like many (if not most) of our shows, it was irrelevant anyway because there was no one there to watch us be the douches we so clearly were.
It’s funny to think back on that night and then to think ahead to now, a time in which we are to make a stab at coming back, if for one fateful night, to try and wring a last shred of pleasure out of that which so long ago made a fairly graceful and painless exit.
I am beyond amazed at the willingness of others to throw themselves on the fire as such. Me, I have no dignity. I loved being in that band even if it was agonizingly frustrating in so many ways. I can look back on it now and feel like at least I have accomplished a little something that I’m not ashamed of today.
In my years, I have learned that this is, to be sure, a monstrous achievement.
Knowing us, little to nothing may come of this experiment; the odds are spread fairly evenly across our completely running away, hating each other, or actually pulling it off.
We are negative creeps, this can not be denied, but I for one know that when we are at our best, we are capable of pulling it off well enough to be enjoyed on the merits of the music alone.
The odds of this happening are bad at best. Really I just hope we can find a sort of cohesion and a taste for why we hung in as long as we did considering our massive shortcomings.
I want it to work. I’m just not sure if it will.
Keep posted. Only the Shadow knows.
Labels: Austin, Hardcore, Rusted Shut, the Mike Gunn
