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The infamous Revolting
Cocks 1990 tour: to this day Jason Pettigrew still gets asked how he survived
it. Find out why by reading the daily installments of his tour diary.
1990 & January 1991
Issue #33 & #34
to the get generation: get going, get a cab, get drunk, get high, get on the
phone, get trim, get paid, get down, get a plane, get on the bus, get me on the
guest list, get arrested, get me backstage, get out of my way, get lost, get
some points, get some sleep, get around, get around, I get around... by Jason
know that Al has a new name for you?" inquired Patty Jourgensen the day before
my flight to Chicago to go on tour
with another one of her husband Al's manifestations of madness, the Revolting
Cocks. "He calls you Jason Petrified."
am I supposed to think? Past press metaphors for RevCo tours include morsels
such as "the entire Vietnam war in three weeks," and "a fraternity house on
acid." So what am I supposed to do—bring a covered dish? Having legendary PMRC
hemorrhage-inducers in the Mentors and Austin's young,
wise-assed Skatenigs along sure as hell won't get me on the A-list at David
Sprague's friends' parties.
lot to be said about going on tour, and not all of it is evil. You get to see
the country in a mesmerizing kind of way, even if it is in a coach bunk or a
cramped van that blows tires frequently. You can meet some formidable people in
between the larger amount of human poop stains on the great underwear of Earth.
The major irritant of touring is that you are constantly surrounded by the same
people daily, and when tempers fray it is easy to envision bull's-eyes on the
backs of heads. The reciprocal of this is that when someone attacks from the
outside, the unit is tighter than a clenched fist around polished brass
Keep in mind
that this is not a great rock-and-roll swindle—or, for that matter, Spinal Tap.
I do seriously believe that had legendary blues master Robert Johnson been on
this tour, he would still be alive. Why? First, the Cocks would've had him
drinking so much that Bob would've inevitably puked up the poison allegedly
given to him by that jealous husband. The band would then find the sneaky
murderer and leave him lying in a pool of vomit, blood, piss and Barfo candy.
And Johnson would still be diddling the guy's wife on the tour bus. I seriously
doubt he could have done it all on the Ritual De Lo Habitual tour.
I THOUGHT YOU MEANT CHEYENNE…
crew are assembled to Jourgensen World HQ at 6 a.m. for deployment to St. Louis.
Everybody is ready to go; Cocks, crew and Skatenigs are sitting on the lawn with
all the equipment. It looks like they are camping out for Metallica ticket
sales—bottles, cigarette cartons and doughnut boxes litter the
postage-stamp-sized lawn. With each pull off a bottle or draw off a smoke comes
the inevitable question: Where is the friggin' bus?
is Nashville. At this time
(10:30 a.m.) there is
no way load-in and sound check can both be accommodated. Patty makes the phone
calls and the cancellation/re-scheduling commences. Back to bed, you
Cock was overheard saying the Mentors would never show, dismissing them as
losers. It turns out the Mentors did show up in Missouri after
all—drunk, belligerent and demanding to play. The cancellation forces them to
shelve the recording of their proposed triple live album, Eat Me In
IS WHERE THE DRUDGE IS
Not a good
day at all. The Chicago gig at the
3000-plus-capacity Riviera Nightclub is to be the opener on the tour, and given
everybody's frame of mind, the whole thing might as well go down the
Richard Tomcala has mysteriously disappeared from the venue, leaving stage
manager Alex Field, technician Sean Joyce, sound wizard Lee Popa, guitar tech
and part-time rhythm guitarist Mark Durante and monitor man Jeff "Critter"
Newell to do everything. Which includes getting cabs in which to load the gear.
Talk about all-stressed-out-and-no-one-to-choke. When Tomcala arrives on the
premises later, he gets a severe vocal bludgeoning followed by immediate silent
treatment. And let's not discuss "sound check."
It's not too
bad for me, as I meet up with my old friend and soul mate Greyson, with her pal
Elaine. Unfortunately, we don't spend too much time together because, hey, I got
a job to do.
Skatenigs open up the evening with their brand of hard rock, rap, funk, etc. to
overwhelming audience approval. Lead singer Phildo pulls out a strap-on plastic
phallus that squirts styling mousse all over his chest and the front row.
Guitarist Billy looks fetching in his wedding dress as well. The 'Nigs play
every night like it was their last night. Their future looks good.
the Mentors are uh... loose. Not everybody was ready for their locker-room
epiphanies, and they earned their share of projectiles. Lead singer/drummer Il
Ducé makes a peace offering by announcing that he's going to give away a copy of
their new tape. As he tosses it out into the throng, Greyson makes an astute
observation: "They should throw it back at him."
with the Caligula-down-on-the-farm look, the Cocks have implemented togas and
other sartorial garb. Paul Barker plays the pyramid-building slave; Chris
Connelly sports ruby-red curtains and olive leaves; Michael Balch offsets his
ensemble with red fishnet stockings; and, never to be outdone, Al complements
his toga and stetson with an actual working intravenous tree plugged directly
into his arm by Critter's hospital-orderly roommate. (Jeff Ward's wardrobe was
undetectable under drum hardware).
Too bad the
gig was crap. The samples at the beginning of "Physical" decide to pack up,
leaving Ward to play the opening bit a few more measures than usual. "Union
Carbide" is merely a blur, its characteristic sample and loop elements
indistinguishable. Tonight the band were upstaged by their dancers, particularly
the woozy Kim (who does her thing in black undergarments and long rubber
gloves), as well as some pink-haired trollop that gave Michael Balch a hand-job
under his Fairlight ("She has a good reach. I suggested that she play
basketball," says Balch later.). Al prefaces "Public Image" with an imitation of
the Thrill Kill Kult's Frankie that is so dead-on, I want to run and hide.
Ward's father later summed it up best: "It was okay once you tried playing some
THE NAME OF THAT KISS SONG?
and still no coach. Determined not to cancel any more dates, the crew loads up
Patty's van with gear while Patty rents two more to move those Cocks to Detroit.
Patty enlists the driving talents of cuddly teen heartthrobs from Chicago's
women's-rights advocates Rights Of The Accused, Wes Kidd and Brian St. Clair. Al
offers to fly Paul and myself to the gig (Northwestern Airlines to Detroit flies
two people for less than a hundred).
Hall in Detroit looks like a
Catholic Youth Organization dining hall. Fill it full of RevCo ravers and it
turns out to be one of the tour's more rabid nights. I am beginning to see the
social significance of Kiss' "Detroit Rock City."
highlights include some little geek in a beret asking Al at a restaurant to "go
really crazy tonight, maaan!," along with two teens who swarmed on Al with
instamatics poised while gushing a hole to the ozone layer. Caroline, the band's
merchandiser invites the girls to "suck his dick," so all of you politically
correct folks should call her sexist.
Detroit is nuts.
Besides some psycho with two-inch spikes on his leather jacket (later tossed out
by the base of his Exploited butt plug) there's another guy in the balcony
throwing cat's eye marbles, one of which had the name "Michael Balch" on it.
Some interesting dancers, as well; a knockout pro named Leslie Gala, and two of
my favorites, Colleen M. and Lisa L., who could make serious bucks doing photo
sessions for ladies foundations in Sears catalogs. Their onstage gyrations will
be the only good memory I will keep whenever I hear the Cocks' most substandard
cut, "Something Wonderful." Such cruelty to black lace supportive
to these young women, somebody has convinced there undernourished male bonebags
to strut their stuff wearing only a sock and a smile à la Red Hot Chili Peppers.
Hey, nobody is holding a gun to these peoples' heads to do this stuff, and
nobody's forcing me to laugh at it.
Balch's pleading with Gala ("Come to Cleveland, we'll be happy
forever."), the gals hanging all over Chris, Al's getting caught in a saliva
downpour, and Barker doing some uncharacteristic stage dives, a real nice fight
transpires between a hall security fascist and an angry punk. The punk is so
steamed that when Detroit police try to
intervene, he vaults over their heads and pops the security guy. I should have
gotten his name for a complementary subscription.
later, the crew is en route to Cleveland while the
rest of us wait for Al's friend Steve to "fill a prescription." (Steve will
follow us for the entire tour chauffeuring, gofering and even playing onstage a
couple times.) While we wait for departure in front of the hall, our driver Wes
suddenly yells, "ALL RIGHT!"
people to leave the place are the socked ones. It seems that one of them kicked
back too much to drink, and coupled with his diabetes, it wasn't letting him go
anywhere without a triple insulin burger. The other two guys are carrying him
out in a messianic position while they bitch to each other about letting him
drink so much in the car before the show.
I feel bad
for the kid. Wes, on the other hand, leads the crowd of after-show stragglers in
a chant of "PAR-TY GOD! PAR-TY GOD!" All this, and the gig wasn't bad, either.
We get into the van and drive off. Wes makes several wrong turns and politely
deadpans, "Well, see ya later Detroit. You stinking
sack of fucking shit."
TRAIN IN CLEVELAND,
PUT THE DANCERS
IN A CIRCLE
Cleveland. Brian's van
is threatening to quit. So are some crew members. Alex isn't into the RevCo
thang of dancers and stage divers, and Lee isn't too pleased with vans with
melting engines. This may never be resolved. (Some Cocks vow to quit if there is
no bus in Cleveland. Sure.)
Meet up with
Mike Shea, Joe Banks and Diskus Headworms at A.P. They take us out for dinner to
a dodgy Mexican restaurant with no name on the front. Headworms is still pissed
about his alley-puking ending up in the new Ministry home video. I tell him to
get a life and forget it. He says something to me about my mother and oral sex,
and Al throws a lit cigarette at him. He leaves and blows off the
The gig at
Empire turns out to set the Cocks' record for the number of people onstage at
one time searching for a clue: 28. This is not Alex's idea of production
protocol. There is some drunk guy yelling, "Play some music, you faggots!" while
trying to get onstage. (Shea tells me he's at all the shows.) Alex blows a
gasket and threatens the man with death.
to deflecting foreign objects and some cheap Vegas floor-show motifs, the
dancers have another purpose: camouflage. Al and Paul walk offstage for
two-and-a-half tunes, and nobody notices. Although I put Lisa and Colleen on the
guest list to insure aesthetics, somebody lets this frumpy "girl" onstage with
blue hair, ’50s glasses and on overbite you can sled-ride down, wearing nothing
more than a RevCo shirt that she keeps pulling up above her panties. You know
that feeling you get when you hiccup and you almost vomit but it reaches halfway
up and then slides back down?
joins the band for a couple numbers, including TVT President Steve Gottlieb's
favorite Black Sabbath cover, "Supernaut." He's nailed his headlining tour up
only three days before, and he's going back out with us. Sickness taking over …
four cases of beer sent back to the hotel after the show. Various hangers-on,
A.P. folks, 'Nigs and Cocks cram into Al and Michael's room. I am highly
unamused by Kristof, the Skatenigs' driver, trying to pick up my friend
Morticia, although in hindsight, I would have been better off. As Morticia and I
leave the room, Connelly is calling me "a very naughty boy," and Al is chanting
in a drunken stupor, "Where are my points?"
KILL TIME WHEN YOU CAN KILL YOURSELF?
supposed to be en route to Boston. Alex and Lee
have both decided they want out. Lee's resignation is due to burn out; he left
an extensive 24-7 Spyz tour to do RevCo. He needs some sleep. Alex on the other
hand has never worked under the auspices of bedlam, and can't go with the flow.
None of this matters to Al and Michael who have left in Steve's car with one of
Michael's conquests in tow.
I'm kind of
toasted myself, considering I had to play guidance counselor to Morticia's
whining about her college curriculum choices all evening. There's nothing left
to do but hit the bar.
later and we get a call from Al somewhere on the road. He claims he's at a 7-11
in West Mifflin,
Pennsylvania, where none of the inhabitants have any thumbs. He's tripping quite
nicely, thank you, and he's going on about how some woman came in the store
explaining to the clerk how to cook a kitten. ("I tried to trade Michael's
girlfriend for a tank of gas but the guy at the store wouldn't go for
gives Alex and Lee his blessings. Reznor saves the day by recruiting Fritz, the
monitor man from DC's 9:30 Club that Trent
stole for the last NIN tour. Critter will take over Lee's job behind the mixing
desk and Sean gets all of Alex's headaches. (Sean approves: "It's a punk-rock
tour, fuck yeah!")
11:00 p.m. and we're
finally leaving, just as soon as Wes hurls some invective about Cleveland. What
a guy! Three hours later Brian's van breaks down in Soft Stool, PA. We transfer
bodies and gear into the two remaining vans and move on. Wes takes this
opportunity to inflict pain on Chris, Mark, and me in the form of a classic-rock
radio station playing Kansas. Connelly
looks up from his Henry Rollins book and says, "Hmm, 'Dust In The Wind'? That
sounds like the kind of lyrics Controlled Bleeding write…"
take things far more seriously than the Cocks. The Cocks are, as I have stated
before, a roving party direct to vinyl, and at a party you don't have one
subject that's talked about. You have a person in the corner with a lamp shade
on his head doing the limbo. You have another person sipping martinis discussing
the Iraqui invasion. Then you have another person talking about Tupperware. That
is the Revolting Cocks. Whether it is good, bad or whatever, we are reality in
is a lot darker than the Cocks, as well as being more politically oriented. To a
lot of people, the music sounds a lot alike because all our brains are involved.
To me the musics are still separate, the Cocks being more danceable than
Ministry. There's a Cocks sound and a Ministry sound and never the twain shall
difference? C'mon Jason, it's a black-and-white issue. I've heard this question
every fuckin' night. Professional studios demand a professional attitude and a
professional situation. When we work as the Cocks, it's more of a party on
wheels than anything else. Because of our relationship with Trax Studio we can
get away with Smart Bar coming over after it closes and moving it to another
site. They supply the beer. It's much more collaborative within the Cocks. Al
and I don't need to be around to get stuff done. We don't have to babysit a
Ministry there is a lot more emphasis on the perfection of the shows at all
times. Everybody is a lot more laid-back on this tour. Even the way we reacted
to the way we practiced before the tour and how we were going to get things
down—after two shows, I had it down immediately."
Ministry, Al is the center focal point of the entire operation—it's his whims
that are catered to and his ideas that come across and ultimately his say. With
Cocks, it's more like a pirate ship on the road. Whatever can be made out of
whatever situation is what happens. A Ministry tour is high stress, high
production and generally a headache. With Cocks, it's a three-week
LIKE I NEVER WAKE UP
Due to the
appearance of some gay and lesbian literature in the foyer of Cambridge's Man Ray
club, Il Ducé surmises that this is, in fact, a "fag bar."
the Dooch. "Why did they bury Rock Hudson face down? So his friends could stop
in for a cold one!" All we need is Yello's Dieter Meyer to come in and say,
Fritz the monitor man think that getting me destroyed on Cuervo and beer chasers
will make for a good story. A reporter from Boston Rock sticks a
tape recorder in Trent's face and starts
asking questions like "What was it like touring with Peter Murphy?"
discussing Murphy's fellatio technique and expects me to join in on the
discussion. ("Gee Trent, he always uses too much hand on me.") Like we'd solicit
such things from Ziggy Lugosi.
The gig is
madness and I remember only three things: a) stumbling onstage to yell
"PHYSICAL!" and "BODY TALK!" at the correct times; b) trying to stick my tongue
down a prominent Boston scene person's throat (not the guy from Boston
Rock); and c) Wes emptying a beer bottle, filling it with urine, baptizing
the audience with its contents and then leaving it on the bar unattended. Wonder
if there were any
thirsty Kennedy's in
the house tonight?
OVEREXPOSED! OVERKILL! WELCOME TO NEW
us all up at 8:15 a.m. for the drive
to NYC. Ward and I stagger around the van and do our best Chip and Dale
impressions ("No, after you. No, really, after you. No, please, after you.")
because we're too hung over to demand full ownership of the front
former A.P. office manager, Laura Norden, who fills me in on the fact that her
pal Morticia feels smothered by me and that she's hung up on a Ramones staff
member she hosed down while I was in Times Square playing
Uno with transients. [See Wiretapping Issue 32] God, I hate New York. I
take heart that Al is wearing his A.P. t-shirt at all major photo shoots
light turnout, the bands burn tonight. Critter has the sound down perfect and
Fritz has found out the secret to Al's monitor adjustment hand gestures ("I just
ignore him.") As far as tightness goes, the Cocks rule. On the gross side, Il
Ducé comes out at the set's end, pulls out his penis and attempts to wank off
into a beer can. He then throws the can over his shoulder into the audience. I
have never seen a space open up so quickly on a club floor.
show, William Tucker (of the band Scornflakes) holds a RevCo party at Pyramid.
Unfortunately, we get there too early (a rare event in NYC, I gather) and the
management won't let us inside because of a "girl bar" night. This pisses off Al
so he goes to another bar and runs up a tab on Wax Trax prez Jim Nash's American
Express account. It's tough to be a pop star.
Oh yeah, we
finally get our bus.
I end up
doing laundry in Fayetteville, NC, while
everybody else goes to a shopping mall. Oh, the sophisticated life of a pop
music journalist. If I eat one more Hostess cupcake I swear to God I'm gonna
find an Uzi to fire in the hotel lobby.
interesting anecdote concerns later in the evening when some distressed hotel
patrons warn Fritz that there's a bunch of crazies in the bar and if he fears
for his life he shouldn't go inside. That's right, folks; they're talking about
JOYCE: "The first night I
fell into the too-much-worrying thing of everything getting off to a bad start.
As soon as we were in Cleveland, I thought, 'Fuck it, I'm ready to punk out.' On
the RevCo tour everyone is equal — that's why we get paid the same. If we fucked
up our jobs there would be problems, but that's cool because Al gives a certain
amount of freedom.
of Lee leaving was that he just finished the 24-7 Spyz tour and he had been out
practically all year with bands. He just burnt out. Alex on the other hand has
no experience with anything of a punk-rock nature, from his musical tastes to
his working procedure. What we talked about for three-and-a-half hours in
Cleveland was that he
wanted to run this tour like a Bruce Springsteen tour. All he kept saying was
'I've done Springsteen! I've done Madonna!' and all he did was babble about all
these big rock gigs that he had done. Come on, man, you can't compare
Springsteen to RevCo!"
DURANTE: "When I started,
everybody told me that the Cocks tour was going to be so much easier than the
Ministry tour—real casual, no big deal. But when we started I found out it was
just as stressful.
would have thought Lee and Alex would have known what it was going to be like.
I'm sure they expected crazy stuff but maybe it was just beyond their
expectations. Being in the crew means that your day starts at noon and ends at
three in the morning. It's not exactly fun and games. I played on three or four
songs a night myself and I can tell you honestly that that was the easiest part
of the night!"
JUST WANTED TO GET DOWN
Power Station club is located in a shopping plaza which beats the hell out of
any NYC hot spots in terms of pure decorum. Extra points are given for proximity
to discount liquor stores. The catering is easily the finest the tour will ever
experience, thanks to the brilliant Kimberly King (a.k.a. Pandora from WFIT).
Also, this evening will be a 30-minute set by Orlando's very own S&M power
metal combo, Genitorturers, led by the Ilsa She Wolf Of The
S.S.-demeanored lead singer Gen
evening's ambiance is set by the Mentors. Il Ducé drinks so much that he can't
play. One of their roadies pulls Ducé from behind the drums and out in front.
Duce tries to pull off Dr. Heathen Scum's hood, so immediately the roadies
tackle him and he passes out onstage while guitarist Sickie Wifebeater play's
Jeff Beck's "Freeway Jam." Another roadie sits on Ducé and sings the rest of the
set himself. Amazing.
the absolute pinnacle of debauchery and drug use. The Cocks take the stage after
consuming large quantities of the official RevCo sports punch (cranberry juice
and Absolute Vodka) as well as some Irish whiskey, liquid LSD, ecstasy, and
perhaps some "vein candy." Surprisingly enough, it doesn't sound bad.
"I want some
more vodka, goddammit!" dictates Dr. J as Fritz sets off the smoke machine right
on the spot where Sean is crouching. Chris, Trent, Phildo and Paul take turns
stage diving so often that they should be paying for the privilege. Ward plays
with some girl on his lap and then replaces himself with the Genitorturers'
drummer who probably never even heard "Stainless Steel Providers," let alone
played the parts. Somebody calls Al a "revolting cock sucker," and Al returns
the favor by patting him on the head and throwing a lit cigarette at him. Paul
tries to pull Chris' shorts down in the middle of "Attack Ships." Add to this
madness constant stage diving and gobbing plus an extra added bonus; Al's
parents are in the audience with his teenage brother. At least he got his vodka.
the band stumbles out for encores, a revived Ducé comes out to do a stand-up
act. "How do you get Motley Crüe on a bar stool? Turn it upside down!" In a more
tense moment he looks at an African-American bouncer and asks, "What's long and
hard on a black man? Third grade!"
To diffuse a
volatile situation, Skatenigs' bassist Lance, who is black, gives the Dooch a
hug. The security guard walks towards Ducé stops and stares. Ducé looks at him
sheepishly and offers his hand for a shake. The security guard laughs and pats
him on the head like he would a small dumb child that doesn't know any
insists on bathing the crowd with Corona which leaves a
good portion of the equipment covered in foam. At the set's end, Chris proudly
tells the audience, "Goodbye. We're going to have sex; you have nothing. Bye,
has to be carried offstage and into the coach. The rest of the band stumble
around like walking wounded. I have an appointment to keep with my older brother
who lives in Melbourne. I leave
while Tomcala is explaining to Al's family that it really wouldn't be a
good idea to go on the bus right now. ("Well, you see, this was a difficult
show for him, Mrs. Jourgensen, and in this business there are many different
ways to deal with stress. Plus, you must take into consideration that a band
with a name like 'Revolting Cocks' isn't going to be conventional in a lot of
aspects..."). Perhaps Richard should run for an office. I suggest mayor of
IS NOT A GAME YOU PLAY; IT IS A
Melbourne is the
Pleasuredome, then without a doubt, Orlando is the Gulag. Police around the bus,
backstage, in the front of the theater and in the theater foyer. I checked the
concession stand for doughnuts to no avail.
evening's immediate tone is apparent over the course of a twenty-second
conversation with Jourgensen and one of Orlando's fine
defenders of the city.
don't expect any problems, sir. It's just people out to have a good time and
that's too bad. I was kinda looking forward to hurting somebody."
climate of repression and censorship warrants a wary offense. The normally
brusque Mentors cover up their 'porno drums' (centerfolds and other shots of
nude women) with Florida dailies.
Phildoe keeps his mousse tool in the van. Dancers are solicited only for the
encores. Surprisingly enough, the Genitorturers' set comes off
temperate RevCo are playing this evening. Half-way through the opening "Beers,
Steers And Queers," the power goes out. The band is immediately rankled and
paranoia kicks in with Al and Phildoe immediately attacking censorship over the
mikes. A few minutes later a house technician finds the problem, but the band
can't use the smoke machine due to power shortages. The show carries on with Al
telling the crowd again that the political climate will affect their ability to
buy the records they want and bands will avoid Florida on future tours
(a notion that Al is willing to entertain).
show, some kid corners Jourgensen about shop talk and technical info and Al
immediately pleads with the kid to work toward fighting the censorship problem.
"Okay, promise me you are going to do something," Al asks. The kid and his
entourage promise and Al thanks them, shakes hands and goes back to the
particular moment is interesting, Al Jourgensen may be the king of all hard-line
party animals. And his attitude reeks of bad-assed braggadocio that he can do it
all and still wake up tomorrow. He obviously has the charisma and the ability to
communicate. Why he chooses to ignore it for drugs and alcohol is absolutely
unfathomable. He's smart enough to realize that there are people out there that
will piss themselves with laughter reading his obituary, praying for the sooner
the better. He's more important alive than some cartoon Jim Morrison
end to a shit day involves the house security force comprised of local college
jar heads (who can look forward to testicular cancer due to steroid abuse)
impounding the gear until they get a cut of the t-shirt revenues. This is kind
of unusual considering the promoter picked up that money close to thirty minutes
prior. It doesn't take me half an hour to count less than a grand.
to calmly discuss his point of view with guys named Kyle, Biff and Rex but, hey
Sean, never teach a pig to sing. You waste your time and annoy the pig. After
twenty minutes of frat-boy hooligan humor ("Hey, how many people does it take to
tip a bus? Let's go find out!"), the corpulent Izod model security chief with
the important headset/microphone radio transmitter gives us the go ahead.
I grab some
guitars and head for the bus with the rest of the guys bearing gear and I wonder
if Castro would really want this place. "Bay Of Jarheads" has an
awfully clunky ring to it.
"It depends on the
individual. I'll be the first to admit that there is a sense of camaraderie and
Al is a great comrade. So the drugs go along with it. Other times you draw your
own line for your own tolerance and your own sanity."
BALCH: "It's a
rolling party and if you don't have the appropriate elements to combine for that
party to happen it's going to turn into work. [RevCo's] an outlet for the less
serious side. In the words of Viv Savage, 'Have a good time all the
BARKER: "I don't
know what the perception is of the band. I know Al likes to propagate the
over-the-top image—excessiveness in every way, shape or form as a, without
speaking French, reason of living. That is his personal thing. I'm not really
interested in it. I know we can do a show completely straight; I did it many
times on tour. Believe it or not."
CONNELLY: "I might
take drugs once a month. What pisses me off is that down in Texas
someone said I was drugged out. Excuse me? I hate people making
presumptions—that makes me sick. I'm not interested in doing drugs [on tour]
because I feel they would mar my performance. The reputation of RevCo is
rowdies, sure but it doesn't necessarily mean drugs and alcohol. We're just
JOURGENSEN: "I can tell
you quite confidently that the people who do do drugs in the Cocks are
drug users not abusers. The big difference that all these fucking 1-900-HELP
lines should understand is that because you do a drug you are not a piece of
shit. I think that you can use drugs in a positive situation. It's like walking
across a fence for 40 yards. It's a tricky situation and it's difficult to do. I
am not encouraging anyone to do drugs and I am not encouraging anyone not to do
abuse drugs whatsoever. I strongly feel that or I wouldn't do it because at the
slightest sign of me abusing anything, I stop.
me how I can work with Ian Mackaye, the king of straight edge. And man, I
respect the fact that he can do it without it, but to me, drugs or no drugs,
it's like a vehicle for getting to where you want to go. Maybe Ian has his own
car, and I don't—I have to take a taxi. By the time we're done, we're both at
the same destination.
years, I have done maybe two shows where drugs and alcohol have not been used
whatsoever. I have a real bad distaste for the carnival atmosphere and idolatry
scenario. I feel very uncomfortable within a live format and I think the only
way I can alleviate my uncomfortableness and my nervousness is to, let's face
it, get fucking hammered.
the kind of idolatry that goes on, and you know how that thing makes me
uncomfortable. The kind of worship that goes on is absolutely fleeting because
the people that sit up in the front row will be up front for the next show. And
the next show. And the next show. This is not a generalization of the front row.
I look into these peoples' eyes and all I see is, 'Lead me somewhere, I will
follow, whether it be over a cliff, into a missile silo, or to church.' That
scares me and to be completely honest with you I am scared when I go onstage and
I need the reinforcement of liquid courage or whatever. It's not something I'm
proud of, it's something I need to do."
ALWAYS HURT THE ONE YOU LOVE
A day off
for relaxation (relaxing on a Cocks tour? Isn't that like enjoying a job in
retail?). Today we are stopping at a place known for its temperance and
upstanding life style. That's right, we're in New Orleans.
could you want in a city? Great blackened shrimp, $3 Hurricanes at Pat O'Brien's
and an adult bookstore that sells whip-its. A beautiful redhead with a perfect
figure stands in the doorway of one of N'awrlens seedy clubs. As Jeff tips his
hat to her, she pulls up her skirt and we are facing one of the best drag queens
in the city. We both laugh and applaud, and call attention to Jeff's REVOLTING
COCKS t-shirt. She/he/it approves by blowing a kiss.
Most of us
are at Pat O'Brien's drinking very large hurricanes and doing whip-its.
Caroline, Trent and I saunter back down to the bookstore to buy more frosting
propellants, stopping off in a park to er…uh…check said products for "quality
minutes later, we find our way back to the bar and I'm distressed that someone
has finished my drink. I tactfully inquire, "Which one of you pussies finished
you, man. I'll beat the fucking shit out of you," slurs Al with his fists curled
around my lapels. "I can and will fucking kill you."
drunk guy!" I taunt Al. Immediately Jeff comes in to cool the
on, it's Jason. Be cool."
grumbles while putting a claw hold on my face. "You're the pussy." He pushes me
away and walks out.
like a good time to separate. The real winners of the evening were Fritz and
myself. We returned something like 27 glasses to the bar and got back the
deposits and split them up between ourselves.
New Orleans concert
promoter Rob Rioux says, "I'm trying to get you gigs!"
deadpans the Alien with eleven hurricanes in his bloodstream. "I guess you're
IN FACT, THE PLACE
Institute in Dallas looks like
one-third Fellini set, one-third Picasso painting and the remaining third Pee
Wee's Playhouse. Lots of twisted sculpture and slapdash paint jobs.
Cocks will be joined onstage by Mike Scaccia from Rigor Mortis, known for his
lead guitar slot on the last Ministry tour. Also with him is RM's bassist Casey,
whose internal combinations of whiskey and acid are a bit scary for me to
lighter side, the promoter's name happens to be Jimmy Page. Il Ducè is
explaining to his Cleveland girlfriend (we're getting the Polaroids, be patient)
that he's brought along that she's going to meet Jimmy Page, as in Led
I can't wait!"
honey. We'll meet Jimmy Page," testifies the big bald belly. "He's got a
mustache and he's dyed his hair blonde, but he's still Jimmy Page."
great!," chirps Mrs. Ducè who has been making clothes out of hotel bed sheets
for her wardrobe since Cleveland (hey, no time to pack). She looks at him
demurely and says, "It's cool, but he doesn't hold a candle to you,
I meet a
beautiful woman with a walking stick who looks like she'd rather be having a
root canal. I ask her what's wrong and she puts up a real tough guard after
looking down at my laminate. (It might get you discounts in record stores but
it's a scarlet letter to some women). After I convince her that I'm not trying
to get into her pants, she finally lightens up. Her name is Marci and she's just
as cynical and jaded as me, only a bit more practical. If I lived there, she'd
be my little sister. She tells me that every time she goes to see a Wax Trax
band, she gets annoyed. And if that isn't a perfect segue into the gig
Dallas is totally
insane. I guess it's true that no matter how extreme it is up north, you can
double it down here. If they spit in New York, they'll choke up snot the size of
your fist here. You can stage dive in Cleveland, but down here one of these
severe-haircut guys will get on top of the highest PA cabinet, pull down his
pats, wiggle his pinwheel and swan dive into the crowd. (Nine out of ten doctors
agree there is no way this can NOT hurt)
Just as the
band whip everyone up into a feeding frenzy, the power goes out. And it stays
out for about fifteen minutes. After five minutes, I go backstage and see what's
thing I see is Scaccia on a chair all zoned out with a joint in one hand and a
beer in the other and God knows what inside. "Fuuuuuuuuck…," he
high again so as a consolation prize he drags over a huge garbage can filled
with beers and ice and starts tossing them out to the crowd. Five minutes later,
the power is restored.
comes out to play "Supernaut." And he plays it perfectly. There is no good,
logical explanation for this, given his backstage condition minutes ago. Reznor
is biting and caustic in his performance and Scaccia nails the song down
instantly. I am so floored that Marci asks me if I'm okay.
At the shows
end, the band goes out into the parking lot for cooling off, photo op's and,
check this out, autographs. Anybody who knows Jourgensen knows how he vehemently
despises that kind of thing. And now he's signing them. Well, not as "Al
Jourgensen," but "Buck Satan, 666" and on the "Physical" single he circles one
of the cowboy faces and writes, "ME!"
little dweeb tries to shake the bobcat skulls off of Al's cowboy hat and Al does
a repeat performance of the New Orleans incident.
Besides being a solid drummer, Ward is also a damn fine mediator. My only regret
is that I never meet Jimmy Page.
enjoying my trek through Houston, Texas. While
boring old sound check takes place at the Numbers Club, I hop off down the
street to Infinity Records to put some mileage on Banks' Master Card (Plug time:
not only was I able to pick up difficult to obtain records at a ridiculously
cheap price, the manager gave me an additional discount on them. God, I love
Texas. They know how to treat a man with a tour laminate!)
decided to come along for all of the Texas dates, upping the
guitarist count to as many as four at one time. I remember the old southern-rock
band the Outlaws' attitude of "Florida's guitar army." It seems to have more
balls than REVCO: CHICAGO'S SAMPLING BRIGADE. Patty has flown in from Chicago to
join the fray as well. Hail, hail the gang's all here, praise the Lord and pass
the bottle opener, would'ja?
features another audience from the State Hospital. I think
I'm beginning to understand the Jourgensenian concept of liquid courage. In the
packed club, I wave to Billy Skatenig and his charming girlfriend. Some Bon
Jovi-Xeroxed "rock dude" thinks out loud, "Man, I'd like to fuck her ass."
Without a moment's hesitation I smash this guy square in the jaw. He is
considerably larger than I am, and I don't think I'm drunk enough to withstand
the severe ass-beating he will deliver when he gets up. To quote Primus' Les
Claypool: "Later days, Willie Mays."
out a lot of things while slamming some serious beer tonnage. Tonight, all the
dancers look like my favorite Hustler Busty magazine fantasies. (Later on
in the tour, a local reviewer will say that the "choreography" was poor. How do
these people get these jobs?) The big thing I am remembering is a piece of
conversation between Banks and Al in Cleveland: "Joe, you
have to get fucked up to see us so you can see what we see." Some pasty
red-haired woman grabs me by the ass, pulls me by the hair and screams in my
face, "You're from heaven but you're going to hell!" I won't even make an
attempt on this babe; earlier I saw her out in the crowd singing along with the
Mentors' "Free Fix For A Fuck."
gig, Chris finds somebody to take us back to the hotel. I am so ruined that I
forget how to operate a car door handle. Back at the hotel, I have to cover one
eye just to get the key into the door lock. I feel bad that Caroline and I are
rooming together this evening and that I have unconditionally staked my claim to
the bathroom in a marathon worship service to the porcelain gods.
myself, rock and roll will never die.
OFF THE EDGE OF A RAZOR
I come close
to tears as I read the button I bought in New York on my tour
laminate: I'M NOT DRINKING AGAIN. It's time to haul my rotting carcass to the
venue for dinner.
Numbers, some Cocks and crew look like they've all been promoted poster children
for the National Cirrhosis League. This is no joke; you can feel an underlying
tension in the room.
are the press," begins Critter, "I guess you should know that Mark got arrested
last night." He walks away without further explanation…
If you think
this is a spectacle, wait until you see Part Two next issue
findest du hier.