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Notes From The Underground

[whitespace] Nashville Pussy
Michael McClure

Snear Campaign: Nashville Pussy lit up the Catalyst with fire-breathing rock & roll.

The Price Is Right:
The fire-breathing Nashville Pussy breaks down the Catalyst last Thursday

THE PRICE TO SEE Nashville Pussy at the Catalyst last Thursday was $14. The cost of being shot down in flames by the band's breakneck power trips: $10. The cost of watching ace guitarist Ruyter watersport with minions while tearing off Angus-styled high-fret leads: $15. Cost of seeing Corey, the bassist amazon, breathing fire and inviting everyone to a country-fried barbecue devoid of tofu: $50. Cost of watching laughable Ruyter and Blaine's Budweiser bottle exhibition: $10. Cost of watching Blaine's "Charlie Manson-meets-Charlie Daniels, damn the microphone and my knees" jig--$20. The feeling after leaving show--priceless.

Nashville Pussy's scorching, warp-drive rockers from Let Them Eat ... eagerly propelled the audience members into the fetal position as if they were searching for Top Ramen on the floor the night before payday. Ruyter bent steel riffs into shape before breaking all six strings on the guitar, provoking me to scream "I Love Life!"

Corey, sister of NBA bench warmer Cherokee Parks, is star power on stilts. Super-slick bass work. Serious musicianship is this band's only gimmick.

"Go to Hell" was bluesy heaven. Why do you think the Beatles don't get back together? Because Nashville Pussy would kick its collective ass back to Liverpool. And at what other show are you going to see gynecologists and midwives duking it out in the front row?

Openers Nebula were rock solid, too. The trio's high-spirited metal riffs gripped me like an e. coli burger from a mystery fast food chain. Time-traveling guitar work and lots of Mark Arm-like evangelistic wails put me behind the wheel of an 18-wheeler and shoved Skoal down my throat. The drummer capably punished his monster kit. There was use of a demented smoke machine, too. It's a good thing I was still wearing my Goth garb from Skinny Puppy Night the night before at Pergolesi.

Head Trip

Concussion Number Six. Yet another wild ride from the zine that eats the skate, surf and music competition alive. There is a savvy article on Berryessa's Glory Hole plus coverage of lots of skateparks only a hop, skip and an ollie away. Concussion never takes itself too seriously for its own good. The hilarious malt liquor taste test went down smooth. Plus, where else are you going to find articles on King Cobra, the beer, and king cobra, the snake?

The best part of this Concussion issue is the column featuring Danny Johnson's advice on how to be a "rock star." Plus, there's a vocal cliché rhyme scheme that had me on my knees begging please. There's also a short but sweet interview with local doomsayers Herbert.

For those of you who haven't already taken advanced prep classes on the fine art of belligerence, there is a story on how to get kicked out of a bar. The article "Why Policeman Should Be Replaced by Robots" provided stirring teatime conversation between me and Mr. Roboto.

I swear this zine is scratch and sniff, because when I scratch it, I see blood and I smell pain. As of March 31, 1999, I decree that a Concussion zine should be at every Doctors on Duty.

For a copy or info, write to Concussion, P.O. Box 1024, Santa Cruz, 95061 or email concussion@concussion.org.

Upcoming

On Thursday, Vincent's Ear, Spaceboy and Chaos Lounge play the Catalyst, while Sunday's Built to Spill show at the Catalyst has been canceled. There are no plans to reschedule the date any time soon.
Matt Koumaras

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From the March 31-April 7, 1999 issue of Metro Santa Cruz.

Copyright © Metro Publishing Inc. Maintained by Boulevards New Media.




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