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Dayton,
OH - Sometime in the late eighties. SA is playing in a club
to about 10 people. In the middle of the show the entire audience
leaves the room. We stopped playing to see what the hell was
going on. We walked outside to the front of the club and watched
with the whole audience as the bouncer/doorman was getting the
shit kicked out of him by some necks from across the street.
For me, that was symbolic of what it was like to be a member
of SA. Fraser is the best lead singer in the City of Cleveland.
That was my primary reason for joining the band.
(JHS) |
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I
met SA in 1990 on a tour with my band Alien Boys from Germany.
We had fucking cool 3 weeks touring the eastcoast circuit and
the midwest. Two years later they came over to europe and we
toured Germany, Austria and Scandinavia together. Great, those
guys. I wonder what has become of each of them. Danny, did you
build your frictionless perpetuum mobile-car?
Tom Alien |
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Friday,
June 8th, 2001: Betwixt Cleveland and Detroit
[........]
But, now that I think of it, I can remember an even funnier
Lemonheads story, if I may seriously digress.
In
1987, we went on our first ever tour and we were, like, a
bunch of wiry little 18-year-olds looking for whatever trouble
we could drum up. We were also sort of popular on the punk
circuit, so we found trouble everywhere we went. Anyway, we
played a show in Cleveland at this place called (I think)
Twister’s, which doubled as a dinner theatre place. We
were opening for a popular local punk band called Starvation
Army who were, well, sort of...dirty, for lack of a better
word. They were all at least a decade older than us and very,
very punk. Evan and I were playing pinball when these two
teenaged girls came up and started talking to us. Evan told
them we were in the band and they said bullshit and he said,
“Yo, I can prove it.” Anyway, he started working
his magical charm and soon they were not only convinced that
we were in the band, but they were game for seemingly almost
anything. (This is sounding like a Penthouse Forum letter,
but I promise it won’t go that way). Evan brought them
backstage and started really flirting in earnest. We found
all of these costumes for the dinner theatre and Evan pulled
out a cummerbund and said, “Hey, do you know what this
is for?” The girls said, “Um, no, what is it for?”
Evan explained that it was kind of like a bra and that, for
certain dance numbers, women wear them to (sort of) cover
their breasts. The girls were like, “Really? I never
knew.” Anyway, he convinced them both to go into the
bathroom and put on the cummerbunds in that fashion. Once
they were obviously putting them on, Evan went and assembled
all of the members of Starvation Army in the dressing room
and told them to be really quiet. When the girls finally burst
out of the bathroom, sporting nothing on top but these very
narrow, tight cummerbunds, all of the guys from Starvation
army started cheering. The girls then went back into the bathroom
and refused to come out for the rest of the evening.
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Reaching
adolescence in the suburbs of Mentor Ohio was pretty fucking
boring. In the latter part of the seventies into the eighties
while I was still in junior high I started to listen to bands
like Devo, The Clash, The Jam, and even New wave shit like early
Adam and the Ants, Joy Division, and Flock of Seagulls.
My older sisters played a lot of that music. One of my sisters
who was a senior in high school and four years older than me
hung around a guy named Kevin Kelly. I thought this guy was
the coolest. He drove a black GTO circa 1967-68 (I think), and
listened to really off the wall music. One afternoon I looked
in his car and saw a Germs tape. I went out and bought it and
that was it for me.
The first local scene show I saw was at the Mentor Civic Center
in 83 and The Offbeats, The Holes (I think), and a few other
bands played (maybe Starvation Army). From then on I went Downtown
to see shows at The Lakefront, Cleveland Underground, and eventually
Kent shows at JB's down. During high school I met a guy named
Brian Kelly, who I eventually became good friends with for quite
a few years (unfortunately we lost touch many years ago which
is my own fault). Through him I met his brothers and a few other
musicians involved in the scene at the time.
One dark evening we were at a party (Brian and I) in Mentor
getting real drunk on Red, White and Blue and other things and
decided to go to the East Side to visit. When we got to the
home a few of the members of Starvation Army were there (I'll
leave out where and who) and were already well in outer space.
We hung out for a while, but things soon got out of control.
The chimney was pushed over and the house was set ablaze. Instruments
and luggage were thrown into Brian's car and we sped away.
We never really talked too much about it after that. Beyond
all that these folks were some of the nicest people I ever met
"no posers" just real. I don't think they would remember
me, but I wish them well and on occasion I throw the shitty
cassettes into the stereo and treat my wife and daughter to
some of the greatest music to come out of Cleveland to this
day.
Joey V. |
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It
happened in '89 maybe it was '90. We were on are way back from
a trip around the country sleeping on beer-stained couches.
We were a completely self contained unit. Contained in an 8'
x 14' rolling laundry basket we called a van. We travelled with
a case of Ramen and a miscellaneous box of dented cans Tony
had picked up for a quarter and promptly tore the labels off.
Everyone loves a mystery. We placed bets as to the contents.
Tony made a big show of not wasting the precious liquids contained
inside. "Nectar" he would say "Full of nutrition"
and then he would gently lift the can to his pursed, quivering
lips.
Ramen can be eaten straight out of the wrapper like a giant
wrapper using the packet of MSG at your discretion. We preferred
to get hot water when we stopped for gas. This had never been
a problem until the day we pulled into a gas station in Wyoming.
It was nowhere, but for the little man behind the counter it
was everywhere. That day he denied us our hot water and nobody
was in the mood for giant crackers. Dan went in first, Dan always
went in first. He was in charge of anything related to driving
He could even jack-off while driving and would do so into some
unfortunates sock whilst we were nestled in the back having
dreams about Cliff Burton and that guy from the Minutemen. Tom
followed him in and went for the hot water. Don Knots see him
and says "That waters for people what buy somethin"
and Tom replies " We are buying something, gas" guy
says "Nope, It can't be gas, gotta be food". Well
our three dollar a day per diem didn't allow such extravagances.
Besides fuck him.
Tom exits with his steaming plastic cup of sustenance and here
comes Mr. Magoo tailing him. Dan had moved to the front of the
van to check the oil and the rest of us were lulling around
preparing our own meals. Dude starts bitching at Tom near the
pumps about his theft of the water. Tom being the reasonable
one says "you want your water" and dumps it out. The
guy gets upset and starts ranting about us messing up his place.
He's gonna call the cops. Yeah we got time, we'll wait an hour
for Smokey to show up.
"Get out, Get out" he starts screaming. In the meantime
Tom had walked over to a KOA campground a few hundred yard away.
We drove the van over to finish are morning routine. Tom had
gone into the campground facilities to get some tap water to
finish preparing his meal when here comes that guy running towards
us yelling "Where's that kid, Wheres that kid" then
quickly figures it out. He goes in. Seconds later they emerge
grappling with the cup whose contents dump out, further infuriating
him.
At this point people are emerging from their trailers and tents,
dogs are barking so we decide to make a casual retreat. Dan
finishes checking the oil and tosses the paper towel on the
ground. The guy is livid now, trembling in fact. Dan looks at
him and says "look at you, you baby, you gonna cry".
The guys response is "I..I.. might" well were pretty
hard but nobody wants to see a grown man cry. Hooting with laughter
we get in the van to leave. Dipshit gets in front of the van
like his Mannix on meth. "You're a baby, You're a baby"
we taunt him. "Get out of the way ya baby" we continue
and toss some beer cans out the window for good measure. "Good
bye, baby."
Tim Kelly |
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We
were once again touring the Midwest disproving the myth of
the groupie when Dan decided to turn things around. He was
a good looking guy back then. Think Eric Stoltz but secretly
gay.
This was gonna be one of the best shows of the tour, opening
up for Poison Idea. These were the fattest fucking punks since
the Big Boys. Pig Champion, the lead guitarist was so immense
he had to jam a stool under his enormous ass to prop himself
up. His guitar dwarfed by his mammoth girth appeared the size
of a ukulele. You could tell when he was getting into it because
he would stand up.
The gig was a success, over 700 in attendance. We felt victorious
and wanted to celebrate. There was always an after party even
if it was just the five of us. We found someone to follow.
Dan had found a friend who wanted to ride along. The convoy
rolled out of town. The mood was festive. Ol Dan's gettin
some, hurrah! We get to driving and driving when we realize
were in the suburbs. It's too late to turn back so we follow
our hosts into one of those faceless subdivisions we'd all
run from.
The kid who lives there ushers us in and down to the basement.
There's a partial keg of flat beer and some teenagers making
out. We're mortified but per the Punk Rock Handbook we rally
and decide to make the most of it. We open a few bottles of
wine discovered on a shelf and commence celebrations. Well
Mr. Poser comes charging down the stairs "My step-dad's
home, My step-dad's home". "Everyone's gotta go
cept the band". Oh, no! My mom's wine you can't.
Sorry sport, we did. He goes upstairs. I guess so his step-dad
can tuck him in. See ya...fag. We grew bored and located a
cache of dry goods in the basement pantry. We proceeded to
throw dried beans all over the basement. I mean c'mon were
professionals at this punk shit.
This gave us an idea. We were hungry. By now it was about
7:00 am and Dan and his conquest had gone out to further humiliate
the van.
The house was still as we crept into the kitchen, found some
grocery bags and went on a little shopping spree. Fresh eggs,
bacon, bread and something for lunch were taken. We went to
the van and since Dan's friend was obviously no stranger to
a large breakfast and since she needed a ride home anyway
we repaired to her abode.
We grilled her on the ride home about her roommates. Hoping
they would be girls. She was vague saying she lived with her
"Uh...friend. By the time we pulled into her driveway
which was on the opposite side of the Denver sprawl it was
a warm sunny morning. We went into the kitchen and started
fixing breakfast. Dan and his gal pal decided to get cleaned
up and headed into the shower. We're looking out the window
into the backyard and see some dude back there. It must be
the neighbor sunning himself in the sweet spot. He gets up
and to our amazement comes right in the back door.
"What the fuck's going on in here" he's pissed.
"Were making breakfast" Tony replies.
"Not anymore, Get the fuck out" he seems to be getting
more pissed.
"Can't we at least clean up" asks Tony wanting to
be a gracious guest.
Dude starts shouting for the girl. "Oh, she's in the
shower" we offered. He goes and starts pounding on the
door. "Knock it off asshole" Dan yells at the door
thinking it's us. Fraser gets mad because his blood sugar
is low. He wants some fucking breakfast. He storms out the
front door. The rest of us stay behind to watch the fun and
just in case we gotta kick this guys' ass. The girl managed
to calm down her friend.
Thankfully cooler heads prevailed and we all sat down to a
nice breakfast, except Fraser who stewed in the van occasionally
shouting "Fuck You" at the house.
We cleaned up and made Fraser a sandwich to go. That's what
happened in Denver.
Tim Kelly
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The
Useless Tavern, late '86. Fine establishment. Despite the fact
that S. A. had done our duty and drawn a decent sized (and hard
drinking) crowd, the bartender would barely serve me when I
was paying, and he wouldn't pony up so much as a courtesy draft
after we'd all (inevitably) run out of money. Maybe he disliked
our churlish 'Who' imitation at the end of the set - kicking
over the amps. No real damage done except to poor Fraser's head
(which is, as frequently proven, quite hard and very durable).
Fraser made a heroic dive worthy of 'Wide World of Sports' and
managed to catch my amp head before it hit the floor - "the
thrill of victory!" Unfortunately he was buried under the
two 4/12" speaker cabinets as they fell - "the agony
of defeat!" One of the cabinets also tumbled into the PA
stack, knocking it over. That mess barely missed the pinball
machines. A week or so later I was standing at the bar. The
same bartender poured me free shots until I couldn't stand up.
No explanation, barely a word, he just kept 'em coming.
Bathroom Waldo |
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Here's
a three-fer of stories about early Stravation Army:
Story
1:
Originally SA had formed as "Burning Theatre", influenced
more along the lines of early Gang of Four and Killing Joke.
But then, around December of '81, maybe January of '82, Fraser
and I realized hardcore was where it was at and we changed
our sound. First "gig" as SA went something like
this: Doug Gillard, our original guitarist, was dating this
girl- I want to say her name was Cindy, but thanks to lots
of drugs in the ensuing years and the fact that this was nearly
25 years ago, who the fuck knows? Anyway, "Cindy"
decided to have a party at her house in bumfuck Wakeman or
North Ridgeville or someplace like that, and invited us to
play, unaware of what she (and we) were in for. We show up,
hang out for a while, and then it was time to rock. We're
setting up our equipment and the kids seem excited. "Alright!
A band!"... people seemed happy to have us, even though
we looked a little weird. We looked like punks and the rest
of the partygoers.. well, they were comfortble with their
feathered hair and Van Halen or Billy Squier t-shirts. So
we hit those first few notes, feedback blaring, no bassist,
and Fraser screaming his face off. For the first few minutes,
the kids stood there dumbfounded and frowning. By the time
we were into the second or third "song" (read: blast
of cacophony), they'd had enough. The boos, shouts of "you
suck!" and "play "Freeze Frame!" grew
as loud as us. Finally, here comes their show of appreciation
with a shower of lit cigarette butts, plastic forks, and paper
plates. We didn't exactly go over. The funny thing was, if
memory serves me, as soon as we stopped playing, everything
was copasetic. We escaped without a beatdown by the AC/DC
crew somehow...
Story
2:
In the
spring (?) of '83, SA had a new guitarist in Jim Krane and
took it's first road trip, playing a few gigs in CT and NYC.
Played a show at the Anthrax club in Stamford, CT with Corrosion
of Conformity, which went over swimmingly. Hey, I even got
to play Reed Mullin's enormous Tama drum kit for SA's set.
Then, after a gig a Pogo's in Bridgeport, we headed for a
much anticipated show at The Great Gildersleeve's in NYC with
Roach Motel and, on their first tour, Suicidal Tendencies.
We opened the show- then Roach Motel played. Those guys were
some funny MF's- ...then Suicidal hit the stage. During their
set, Mike Muir dropped the mic he was singing into, broke
it, and grabbed the bassist's mic and kept singing. The soundman
wasn't watching when it happened. When he went to the stage
to start wrapping up cables, he found the broken mic and came
to US. I think he assumed Fraser was responsible as he was
much more of an energetic wildman, thrashing all over the
fuckin' place. So we're like "Hell no, we didn't do it,
it was the singer from Suicidal Tendencies!" So the soundman
goes to *those* guys. Next thing we know, All of Suicidal
(who were all buff, huge dudes), walks over to us with their
equally muscular barrio/street gang roadies, and TELLS us
that WE broke the mic and THEY ain't payin' for it. Now, considering
that the three of us probably weighed in at a combined 400
pounds- equal in weight to 1 1/2 of those fuckers, they got
right up in our faces and were like "YOU guys broke that
fuckin' mic!". Sigh. Fearing for our lives, we "admitted"
to it. Considering that the cost of an Shure SM58 in 1983
was probably as much or more than we were gonna get paid that
night, we didn't get paid. Oh well, the gig was still fun
:)
Story
3:
In late(r)
'83, SA hits the road again to play a show in Toledo with
The Necros and, I think, The Offbeats. On the van ride there,
and during the set and soundcheck period, everyone in our
crew was becoming obsessed with a gigantic, honkin' zit on
the bridge of my nose. I mean, it *was* ridiculous. Shit,
now I'm 38 and I still get 'em. Stupid acne... Anyway, after
the soundcheck, some of the people in our contingent decided
they just couldn't take it anymore. All of a sudden, out of
nowhere, I'm gang-tackled, held down, and I believe it was
Michelle Munchkin that did the honors, driving her razor-sharp
cat claws into my Mount St. Helen sized pimple. It exploded
with such force as to bloody her t-shirt! ...ok, then we proceed
to play our set, as did the Offbeats, but before the Necros
could take the stage, a fight broke out on the floor. Next
thing you know these jock assholes are everywhere, pummeling
the shit out of punks and vice versa! Show's over folks! No
Necros. Then, on the way back, in the van, I was sitting next
to Jim Krane's hot bass-playing sister Kara, and decided,
with the fresh crater on my nose, that now was a good time
to put the moves on. My hand slowly found it's way onto her
leg, and after sitting for a few awkward minutes, she finally
was like "Don't". Oh well, can't win 'em all.
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