Teil 1 findest du hier.
Teil 2 fängt nun an:
JOURGENSEN AS BUCK SATAN 666, PAUL BARKER AS MR. HYDE, MICHAEL BALCH AS THE
LATEX LOVER, JEFF WARD AS THE DRUMMER WITH A SKIRT, SEAN JOYCE AS BWA
(BABYSITTER WITH ATTITUDE), MARK DURANTE AS THE FUGITIVE, TRENT REZNOR AS THE
ACCIDENTAL TOURIST, JEFF NEWELL AS THE SOUND CRITTER, FRITZ AS THE MAN BEHIND
THE MONITOR AND RICHARD TOMCALA AS SCOOBY DOO'S PAL SHAGGY. WITH SUPPORTING
STARS THE SKATENIGS AND THE MENTORS.
The story so
far: We gave Jason Pettigrew a handful of quarters to go on tour with the
Revolting Cocks. Here's the final installment of that adventure continued from
last issue. Last we knew, Mark Durante, RevCo guitar tech and occasional rhythm
guitarist, was arrested in Houston, putting the
tour in limbo…
snooping I found out that after the gig last night Mark had a little too
much…uh…too much. After his RevCo duties, he went out for a night on the town in
his Revolting Cocks t-shirt and backpack and went to hail a cab. Well, in
Houston if you want
a cab you have to call ahead for it, a rather antiquated notion, I think. So
when Mark hailed a cab it passed him up. So when he tried to hail another and it
passed him again, he threw a rock at the cab.
it wasn't a taxicab at all, but a Houston patrol car.
Houston's finest were not impressed. In a moment of great law-enforcement
technique, they thought that an antihistamine was a controlled substance.
Needless to say, it was a night in the hoosegow for Mark.
sullen mood of the RevCo camp, the show will go on. Billy Skatenig will be the
pinchhitter guitar-tech this evening. Patty Jourgensen will be the road manager
(Queen For A Day?) and Richard Tomcala as the impromptu paralegal. I don't know
who's playing the role of the shy, retiring weekend alcoholic music writer
because I have a headache that feels like Power Drill Maintenance 101 at the
community college of your choice.
onstage, the bummer mood transforms into evil. The normally affable Barker is
thoroughly pissed off. Sources of this irritation are somewhat unclear,
but I would imagine that a good part of it may have something to do with this
tall, bony, annoying dancer with white nylons and child's finger-paint make-up
that insists on dancing in front of Paul and Chris. This abuse is justified as
some of the articulate speech out of her head involves becoming an actress and
how she jumped out of a cake at one of her father's office parties and how
everyone was "turned on" by it (I wondered silently to myself why pimps would
have office parties). After about three songs, Paul recalls his best hockey
plays (thinly disguised as rock-and-roll histrionics) and bodychecks her into
the sold-out crowd.
on some equipment cases nursing a Dr. Pepper when this guy with a cowboy hat,
sunglasses and a large bandanna the size of the Riviera Theatre guest list runs
into me. Since I can't hear a vocal apology over the volume, he starts holding
my shoulders and wiping off my shirt where he spilled my drink. I tell him it's
okay, no big deal. And he pats me on the shoulder.
turns to Jourgensen onstage, and starts waving his fist in the air. Al looks at
him between dive-bomb chords of "Stainless Steel Providers," and smiles. After
about four minutes of this, the polite bank-robber-type leaves.
after the show, Reznor and I play with Phildo's pit bull and I have to ask Al
who was that masked man.
Rock Writer doesn't know who the fuck Billy Gibbons is?"
it for a brush with greatness. ZZ Top's Billy Gibbons knocked part of my drink
on me. Earlier in the day while Reznor and Chris Skatenig were doing interviews
with some college radio DJ who was sitting naked on a mirror pondering his
asshole as his birth canal, Al was having dinner with Mr. Gibbons. Al was
immediately impressed by Gibbon's ability to eat an Italian dinner without
getting one single speck of it on his trademark beard (the huge bandanna is to
insure anonymity when out in public). Gibbon's turns out to be a major Ministry
and RevCo fiend. Everybody loves a sharp dressed man.
of Mark's arrest was published in a slightly different form in all of the
English rock tabloids, most notably the NME and Sounds. The story
they ran concerned protest groups picketing the gig, a twenty-foot high wall of
flame, a wall of barbed wire, Al riding a bucking bronco à la Urban
Cowboy while holding a flamethrower, and last but not least, a whole herd
of cattle running through the audience during "Beers, Steers And Queers." A
better dream sequence could not have been directed by David Lynch. Here's a
toast towards misconceptions.
greatest misconception about the Cocks is that we have a focused agenda. Because
we used porn [on the cover of the live album], we're labeled sexist. We did 'No
Devotion' with some Tantric things that were considered satanic. We are a party.
We do not have the exact same things. That is not a party, that is a
"There are allegations
that we are fascists and that we're sexist, which nobody can make that judgment
upon me unless they know me personally. I hate ev'rybody, I don't play
BALCH: "That we
know what we're doing. The Cocks get taken seriously by some people and that is
a misconception in itself, because the genesis of the band was a fuck project to
begin with, just to get acquainted with equipment."
WARD: "People try
to equate the seriousness of the other projects into the Cocks and the Cocks are
a way to vent energy for the hell of it. When I went to do 'Stainless Steel…'
the opening line was, 'Do you want to be a cock? [laughter]'"
BARKER: "That we're
a great band. When I think of the shit that really brings me to tears, it's not
the stuff that we play."
Antonio looks like a locale
for an ABC Movie Of The Week concerning abducted children. (Imagine the
picture; Roy Schneider searches the dirt of Texas in a ’65 Dodge trying to find
his alcoholic prostitute ex-wife, played by Hope Lange who has kidnapped the
kids after a custody battle went bad). The area that we're in has few green
things (i.e., vegetation) and a lot of brown things, like a bookstore whose
ideologies reside on the far right of John Sununu. Balch picked up a factually
correct pamphlet on how all rock music is directly linked to Satan. Now I
realize why I despise Erasure.
club could have been a wonderful thing had they just installed a motherfucking
air conditioner. Twice I had to pick up my face after it melted off between
do their thing in front of a bunch of underwear skidmarks. That's right, folks,
I'm talking about skinheads. They're Seig-Heiling along to the Mentors while
trying to mask assaults on other audience members as slam dancing. Of course Il
Ducè and the rest of the band do nothing to either stop or spur them on, which
is kind of disappointing.
Leave it to
the Skatenigs to redress the balance. Billy grabs a mike and says, "I want
everybody to have a good time tonight. But first I want these Nazi Seig-Heiling
motherfuckers thrown out of here NOW!" One of the hairless ones flips Billy the
finger so Billy burns huge holes in him with a deranged stare. Mr. Skinhead
tries to go over the barricade and Billy goes to meet him but security
intervenes and the hairless one is thrown out. Subsequently, the 'Nigs transfer
this energy into a powerful set.
104-degree heat is not going to stop San Antonio from
killing themselves against the barricade. Reznor's cold-beer baptisms are the
product of compassion rather than punk-rock annoyance. Sean Joyce is strafing
the crowd with ice remnants from the beer tubs and actually gets applause.
"Stainless Steel Providers" becomes the soundtrack for the removal of bodies in
meet a voluptuous young woman named Trish who is beating the heat by unfastening
lots of buttons. Unfortunately she's with some pathetic non-entity who looks
like he's up to his chin in defaulted student loans. (Why do the most wonderful
women on the planet like geeks?) I give her some magazines and the boyfriend
gives me some dirty looks. Reznor offers to keep him busy if I want to get
intimate. That's what I call friendship. I opt for remaining a gentleman as
opposed to a concept album idea for the Mentors. God, I am so stupid.
arrives with Mark just in time to pull out of town. Naturally, Mark has to field
a lot of prison ribbing which involves everything from being called "jailbird"
to inquiries about whether he bent over to pick up the soap in the
IN MY BED NOW
Tulsa show has
been canceled, which is fine with everybody involved because we can actually use
the eighteen hours of travel time to go to Austin and prepare a bachelor party
for Sena who is leaving after the next night's gig to get married in
night of whip-its, free well-brand drinks with tour laminate only. (Did I
mention that I love Texas?) and a cool set
from Last Rites at the Cannibal Club, it's back to the hotel for more bachelor
celebrations (captured by Fritz on videotape). Sean is presented with a
wonderful blow-up doll that looks a lot like my ex-fiancee (only a lot warmer).
Tomcala produces some 'shrooms and everybody is cleared for take off. I decide
to retire early.
Paul, Reznor and Fritz pound on my door. Like the moron I am, I let them in and
they proceed to try to light the carpet on fire with my bottle of Sea Breeze,
only to end up putting it out with my shaving foam, while Paul giggles "FIRE! My
God, I'll put it out!" and dumps water all over my bed, which is nowhere near
As I pull
sheets off of the other bed to sleep on the floor I vow revenge.
SOMEWHERE DRY ME OFF
blow-up doll was found on the bus contorted with a beer bottle up the anal
orifice. All accusations are aimed at Balch. Evidence Exhibit A: the bottle
found in the doll was a Canadian beer.
Lunch is a neat venue, more barn dance simplicity than metropolitan club
culture. Perfect setting for hometown champion 'Nigs and Cock-types. Aside from
a couple dangerous fans (Sean had to throw some guy out twice), the crowd were
into every second as if the Cocks were the last band they would ever see.
Tonight in the middle of "In The Neck," Al has decided that the dancers have got
to go. As if on cue, the girl in front of Paul…wait where are my notes? Whaddaya
mean whip-its destroy our memory?
encore of "Public Image," Reznor grabs Sean with the full intent of tossing him
out into the crowd. I intervene and all three of us are spinning around the
stage (which has been lubricated with Corona), slippin' and
a-slidin' until stage security gets bored and throws all three of us into the
beer tub is now water thanks to the heat and when I go to grab it to give
Austin my parting
dunk, Reznor dumps the whole thing on top of me. I'm standing on all these
cables wondering if I'm going to fry. Backstage I decide Trent must die, and I
commence a very soggy choking.
Ever been to
Lordsburg, New Mexico?
Then you have never truly been bored, so bored that the idea of taking your life
in front of a mirror just so you could watch yourself die slowly doesn't sound
too out of line. There is bowling and there is eating. And by the smell of it,
there is laundry.
Reznor and I
collect quarters and go to the Laundromat whose current working capacity is
about 8 percent if the number of "Out of Order" signs is any
REZNOR: "When [the Cocks tour]
was presented to me for the first time it was like, 'Wow, this would be fun.'
But then it was like, 'Uh…do I want to go out for three more weeks?'
it would be fun and there's absolutely no pressure on me. It's nice not to have
to do interviews all day and have the pressure of a show riding on me. Plus I
felt it would secure or destroy my friendship within the Ministry
my favorite moment on this tour? God, it's all a blur!"
months…uh…hours later and it's time to go. As we head toward California,
Critter casually asks if anybody has seen Mark.
DON'T KNOW WHETHER TO LEAVE YOU OR PUSH YOU OVER THE EDGE…
Angeles. Oh, the beautiful
people, the action, the sophistication, the scum, the losers, the smog, the
bullets and the locale of mankind's largest steaming turds in the litterbox of
of Damocles is hanging over us today. Interviews get clichè, soundcheck sounds
like shit and the club's drunk slingers all look like Liberace offspring—only
without the class.
incredibly annoyed Mark Durante should be arriving at Los Angeles Airport after
the bus he was riding left him in New Mexico. Can't wait to read his summer
shop. Today Chris and Paul are doing bulk interviews. And by the looks of it,
they would much rather be bowling in Lordsburg, NM
interview involves some gangly college DJ asking him if it's true that "You're
doing an album of cocktail lounge music for Wax Trax?" (I have heard Chris' solo
record. This question is similar to asking John Cale why he can't make a record
that you can play on radio). Instead of slashing the guy's throat and painting
the outside of the club with his blood, Chris hesitates and quietly and
Paul on the
other hand, is pissed. The same man that patiently answered a Houston interview
question of "where'd y'all start" is changing from a kinder gentler Cock to
INTERVIEWER: I wanted to
ask you about your video for "Faster Than Light…"
is in the video but he doesn't play on it.
you guys friends?
Atkins is also in there and he doesn't play on it.
is in it and he doesn't play on it.
haven't seen the video, I was just asking.
said "Starfuckers." Yeah. [rising in tone] People who only care about it
only because of who's in it. That's bullshit.
what I call a starfucker. See, you haven't seen it and you're asking me about
[said if speaking to a small child ] Trent Rez-nor.
Martin Atkins as-big-a-name-as-Trent-Rez-nor?
didn't know he was in that, I guess it was just bad info.
now that you got the Nine Inch Nail thing out of the way…
invigorating questions concerning lard]
isn't credited on the Revolting Cocks album.
That was a
sang "Get Up"…er…"Get Down."
Oh, okay. "Get Lost."
laughter] I wish I would have said that!
reader, imagine the lowest form of human life you can possibly think of:
used-car dealers, child rapists, politicians, Benneton employees, Hitler, King
Herod, televangelists…get the picture? And I will contend that those individuals
are kitty-cats compared to the security staff at the Palace.
A bunch of
overweight, steroid abusers of various races, nationalities, religious
convictions (usually found in a mirror) and degrees of halitosis refuse to let
Caroline and me onstage and explain to us that we will be thrown out if we don't
get out of the area. A.P. photographer Jackie has all her credentials in order
through Tomcala, and these bastards still harass her. Even Balch was told by one
of these pus-bags that he's either to be "In the dressing room or on the stage,
no exceptions." Mr. Balch, ever the gentleman, explains patiently to Baby Huey's
Bel-Air cousin Biff that if he is told where to go, he will not play and then
Biff will have to explain to the audience why tonight's show is being canceled.
Biff wisely backs off.
gig is a complete shit-piece is like saying that Saddam Hussein is interested in
Kuwait. Onstage sound is shit, monitors blow and certain Cocks' timing is poor.
And if that is not enough, the crowd is being scrutinized by the club staff
goons for the slightest hint of dancing, so they can go eject-happy. Who wants
to be thrown out at Palace ticket prices?
ugliest moment of the entire tour, Al totally loses it and smacks Mark square in
the head with his guitar, breaking it in the process. The source of his anger is
Paul who sounds out of tune. Al then commences to fire Paul onstage telling him
he's history—he's out of Ministry, Cocks, EVERYTHING. Paul, who's had a couple
drinks, is nonplused.
encore, a severely truncated "Get Down," Sean gets revenge and stage dives into
the crowd, whipping up the bodies. After he sets the whole thing in motion: he
swims out of the crowd, looks at a bouncer 93 times his mass, smiles and gives
him the finger.
begins a chair-throwing rage after which, he runs and apologizes to Mark for
everything that went bad on the entire tour. Paul wisely retires to the bus. As
I leave the club, another security pedophile tells me that once the band leaves
I can't get back into the club. "I know you don't wanna hear it." I tell him the
only thing I want to hear is when he will commit suicide. He starts the
tough-guy speech, and I walk away. Let me tell you, I personally endorse any
vandalism and terroristic threats made and/or carried out to staff security and
members of their immediate families, including pets.*
And if all
of this were not enough torture, our bus driver demands that Chris and I go to
the back of the coach because we (the band) have not fulfilled our promise to
keep the front of the coach clean. Chris offers to help him out, but the driver
(who used to do lights for Nazareth, he'll have you know) wants no part of our
assistance. The two of us retire to our bunks after deciding not to clean the
toilet out with his ’70s arena-rock styled pseudo-afro.
recent news item in Billboard magazine states that the Palace gave a
bouncing check to the charity responsible for Curtis Mayfield's medical care.
The check was from monies generated through an all-star benefit rap show at the
club. The Palace has since been closed by bankruptcy trustees. And you thought I
was exaggerating the scum quotient.—JP]
PLAYING: AL JOURGENSEN IN "THE VINCE LOMBARDI STORY"
promises to turn into one of Andreas Serrano's piss bottles. We've been thrown
out of two San Francisco Chinatown hotels for dubious reasons. (The first
removal stems from constant inquiries from females to the front desk. The other
involves certain unnamed characters throwing up in the lobby ashtrays). A
telephone hopscotch game between A.P. publisher Shea and me over why American
Express hasn't sent me money yet ensues. And if the envelope can be pushed
further, during the photo shot where the band sits with transients, I ask if one
of the homeless is the new bass player. Nobody laughs.
The show at
the Storne is a real scorcher. Perhaps coach Al delivered a hellacious pep talk.
Perhaps he threatened members with pink slips. Whatever transpired, it paid off.
As the band pounds away, my good friend Mike LaVella notices that it's the first
gig he's ever attended where the fog machine never filled up the
they weren't using the fog machine. Turns out that certain audience members set
off smoke bombs in an effort to ruin the gig. Exactly who is responsible is
unclear; the only clue available is that they are politically correct bombs. All
the smoke concentrates on the left side of the room.
who's temper is about as hot as the head of Satan's prick right about now, is
determined to carry on with the set no matter how much chemical shit he or the
others inhale. And dammit if those motherfuckers don't kick out the jams, using
the smoke to their advantage during the best version of "Attack Ships" I've
heard all month. Play ball with these guys and they will ram the bat up your
ass. The band rallies through the dense shit and comes off with a killer
feels pretty damn good about tonight after the Palace debacle, and the triumph
over the gas attack has definitely mended any tensions on the bus. School's out
for the Mentors, and Al loads up Il Ducè with enough bottled entertainment to
make his drive back to L.A. a lot more
SHOTS AND SLOTS
Here we are
in the desert of Reno. While the others are working the tables or the bars, I'm
calling room service to inquire if they have any extra lungs. Last night's smoke
coupled with creeping bronchitis has decimated my breathing and all I can do is
drink Irish whiskey and cough up cheese.
I crawl down
to the slot machines and proceed to piss away twelve bucks worth of nickels.
Dinner sounds promising, so Fritz, Paul, Chris, Trent and me are trapped into
waiting for a table for 40 minutes. By the time we get our food, Tomcala comes
in and informs us that we must leave at once because our formidable driver has a
plane to catch tomorrow morning. Chris mutters something about a "dead
Back on the
bus Al tries his best attempt at rapping (I have the perfect stage name: Al Al
Cool J) while Sean brags about how much he's won at the casinos. He wins cash
and marries a beautiful woman. Bastard.
IN ADVERTISING: THE DONNA REED SHOW AS THE SALT LAKE SCENE
So here we
are in Salt Lake City. I hear there were some amusing moments in this city on
the last Ministry tour involving Marie Osmond, a bull whip, a Robert
Mapplethorpe gallery catalog and Terry Roberts. But there isn't anything really
funny today. I'm looking at a local fanzine with an advertisement for the gig
that reads "MINISTRY as REVOLTING COCKS." Hey Al, hate to ruin your day but take
a look at this…
of the club comes an excited Sean. "GUYS! CHECK THIS OUT! I left this righteous
turd in the ladies room! It's the longest one I've ever done!" Everybody grabs
some kind of camera and files into the women's restroom while the female
staffers at the club wonder what we're trying to prove. (For documentation, this
was a fairly sizable piece of feces.)
At the gig,
the crowd just stands there as if they were waiting for a doctor to come by to
feel their crotches and ask them to cough. I decide to take a running start
through the crowd during "Beers…" to jostle some of these dolts, and in the
process I clothesline some guy's girlfriend. He returns the favor by punching me
in the face. Dripping blood on my nice Felix The Cat t-shirt, I make my way up
to the stage. Al looks at me and I read his lips saying, "Man, I am tripping out
of my fucking mind." Chris and Al decide to berate Utah. "Man, you fuckers are
lame. You all look like you're part of The Donna Reed Show. But hey, it's
Ministry as Revolting Cocks, right? This is 'Something Wonderful,' you
did it. Immediately, the barricade is smashed and bodies are piling upon others
to be on the stage. This is the closest I've seen to a videotape of the Who at
Riverfront Coliseum. At the set's end, Paul tosses his bass down near the front
of the stage and the guys up front dive for it, reducing it to tangled strings
and a crushed body. Subsequently, Lance Skatenig is drafted to play bass on "Get
Down." Backstage Al starts on Paul: "Fuck you, Ion! We suck to begin with fifty
percent of the time. Then you fuck up the other fifty percent of the time!" They
both end up laughing and slapping backs.
Back on the
bus, a tired Paul is divulging his favorite drug ("My wife sitting on my face")
while writing a nasty autograph that reads "yr ass, asshole." I think it's time
for him to go home and get a fix, and some guy keeps hounding me as to the
whereabout's of Elaine (you know, like the old song "You say Elaine/ I say
Alain/ Elaine, Alain/ Alain, Elaine/ let's call the whole thing off."). I
volunteer to get the coach owner back from the hotel to get away from girls with
names like Cinnamon that have huge pieces of metal through their arms, face, and
God knows where else, as well as old drunks who are throwing sweaty clothes
through the driver's side window screaming, "Give this to [insert band member
ALMOST LAST HURRAH
DENVER (A.P.) There is
a tradition in rock and roll that is followed by everyone from the most hideous
death metallers to little fart-bubble biters like Billy Joel. The last night
usually means a total disregard for protocol, professional attitude, law, order,
safety and the Constitution Of The United States. (which means it's not that
much different from any other night this month.)
Sean and I
decide that we're going to have fun till Daddy (Tomcala) takes the T-bird away.
The kind folks at the Gothic Theatre have furnished lots of tubs of ice so we
can annoy everybody. And I have to deal with Barker's indiscretions from
Austin. Sean decides to
bombard Mark with ice during "Beers, Steers And Queers." A little innocuous, no
big deal. By the middle of the set, we have graduated from ice to cups to
projectiles. When Reznor walks off between songs, he dumps half a bottle of beer
on my crotch. So I strafe him with ice. While he's acting like Trent Reznor,
Rock Guitar God onstage, I walk onstage, remove Trent's hat, dump a bottle on
his peachfuzz head, replace the hat and walk away. A lot of the Denver crowd has
to be wondering who this dick is that keeps wandering out and disrupting these
fine men, but I think I got some applause.
decides he's tired, so he lies down onstage. I'm standing over him and ask if he
wants a beer. He responds by opening his mouth. I retort by pouring it on his
glasses, his hair, his chest and other places where it's hard to taste. When I
get back home, I will get t-shirts made with the Flintstones wearing long hair
and glasses for the first FRED INTO GOLD tour.
Some of the
ice I'm throwing at Reznor misses and I connect with Al, who up until this point
seems totally oblivious to the shit being perpetrated. We save all our abuse for
the encores. Fritz comes out to strap Trent up with several
yards of duct tape across his guitar, boots, hat, groin and fingers. Ward seems
to have a force field around him; I can't get anything to connect on him. At the
final chord of "Public Image," I take this opportunity to bombard Barker with an
ice storm. Tomcala is not amused and knocks the remaining cup out of my hands (I
told him to let me know when the Skatenigs go on so I could see them one last
time. He didn't, so fuck him).
Back on the
bus, Chris is playing his Fall CDs for some women who wouldn't know Mark E.
Smith from a locksmith. One of the ladies, a blonde cleavage clichè, sidles on
up to Trent. Reznor looks at
me and says in a tone louder than regular conversation levels, "Skagathon. I'll
pay for the cab. Let's get out of here." Chris agrees and we're out of here. We
have proclaimed the evening "Let's Torture Tomcala Time" and proceed to infest
his hotel room with people. Ward and I are sitting on the floor talking to Billy
some fans. Al walks
over and crumples over my shoulder. I look at Jeff and deadpan, "Dead bodies
everywhere." Tomcala tries to initiate a "colorful barf" contest with a mere $50
prize. He gets no takers.
THE WHEEL, MADE OUT OF STAINLESS STEEL
Back home to
Chicago from Colorado. Our new driver decides to drive the whole thing straight
through, something like twenty hours. We have watched every video this bus has
to offer, most notably the entire Arnold Schwarzenegger resumè. Yeah, this is
AND RELAXATION? YOU OFTEN FORGET…
over. And if I don't get this story in on time to editor Banks, my life will be
over as well. Al wants to talk, and suggests that I turn my tape recorder
has Mardi Gras," he says, "but not twelve months out of the year. People are
gonna believe what they want to believe, but it is just as important for me to
convince people, 'No, we are not rock gods,' as much as it is to convince them
that, 'No, we are not heathen scum.' I don't take the Cocks in any direction—the
Cocks take their own direction.
I feel like it's time for me to lay low. All of our songs are about people
leading their own lives and making their own decisions and taking full
responsibility for what they do. It's an unfortunate thing that idolatry beckons
some people and unfortunately there are a lot of people who like to lead a life
vicariously through someone else. These are the kind of responsibilities I've
never faced up to before, and they hit me square between the fuckin' eyes.
falling into a trap where it is difficult to objectively look at what kind of
person you are in the period of a tour. You react instinctually to the
environment around you."
the whole "rock thing" rewards sleaze with idolatry. And let's face it, the
Cocks don't throw bibles at their gigs à la Stryper.
are a pisstake of [the rock thing] but a lot of people don't get the joke.
People's sense of irony has gone down the tubes. I'm not going to be a
figurehead for the lampshade and limbo line. I'm not gonna lead anybody around
and I'm certainly not gonna give them ammunition."
So what are
you getting at?
European commitments we have to fulfill in January, but after that I don't think
you'll see me onstage for a considerable amount of time. No
Ministry tours for at least two years.
Cocks are the Cocks and I'm not going to take the Revolting Cocks and make them
Joy Division, for god's sake! I know I feel I'm comfortable out of the
feels so good. Just as I start getting into this wonderful dream concerning Kim
Deal and a vat of olive oil, I feel this slimy, wet thing across my face. It's
Al's five-year-old daughter Adrienne, who is wide awake and holding a fly
swatter she's dipped in last night's dish water. "Whatcha' doin'?"
hereditary, and there's nothin' you can do about it. Thank God.
ARE THEY NOW?
Jourgensen and Paul Barker
became co-owners of Chicago Trax Studios, where they are currently recording the
follow-up to 1996's Filth Pig album. "We've talked about reactivating the
Cocks," says Barker. "But that's really on the far back burner." When asked if
taking ownership of the studio meant there would be no more crazy nights of
driving motorcycles through vocal booths, Barker deadpanned, "Not really. We'd
just pay people to do it."
In the years
following the Cocks' final album, Linger Fickin' Good, Chris Connelly
released three critically received albums for Wax Trax! that gradually
distanced him from industrial rock. Late last year, he formed a band called
The Bells and released The Ultimate Seaside Companion on the
Chicago-indie Hit It!
Balch contributed to
Ministry's Psalm 69 before returning to Vancouver. He recently moved to
Los Angeles and has been working with former Moev member Tom Ferris in a project
Ward went on to tour and
record with Nine Inch Nails and with Dave Allen and Rick Boston in Low Pop
Suicide, and local Chicago band Coven Of
Thieves. He committed suicide in 1994.
Most bands' careers
peak and end in the time it takes Trent Reznor to perfect a new Nine
Inch Nails album. Expect a follow-up to The Downward Spiral in
late-’98 or early-’99.
Durante rocks out
country-style in the Waco Brothers alongside Wreck guitarist Dean
Schlabowske and Mekons chairman Jon Langford.
handled tour managing duties for the Young Gods, Soundgarden and Satchel, as
well as having some of his samples used on Linger Fickin' Good,
Sean Joyce lives in Chicago where he spins records in select
Tomcala is the publisher of
Hemp Magazine, and is the owner of the Texas Hemp Company, "the oldest
hemp store in the whole continent."
Skatenigs recorded two albums
before personnel changes fragmented the band. Lead singer Phil Owen
(firstname.lastname@example.org) lives in Austin and is the frontman for two bands, Sawed-Off
and Choreboy. He has also done production/remix work for Skrew, the X-Cops and
Pigface. Billy Jackson resides inDallas where he
rides mountain bikes with his girlfriend.
Mentors founder El Ducé
(a.k.a. Eldon Hoke) was killed when he tried to outrun a train on the tracks of
Mira Loma, CA. He
found several additional seconds in the spotlight after he claimed Courtney Love
approached him to murder Kurt Cobain for $50,000. Gutter conspiracy theorists
think he was pushed in front of that train.
band Rights Of The Accused disbanded, Wes Kidd and Brian St.
Clair started a new band, Triple Fast Action, that recorded albums
for the Capitol and Deep Elm labels. 3FA broke up in mid-spring 1998; St. Clair
now lives in NYC, while Kidd spins records at a series of swanky gin joints in
Orr bears an uncanny
resemblance to GWAR guitarist Beefcake. Mike Scaccia is
rumored to have opened a guitar shop in Dallas
"Critter" Newell is an in-demand
producer/remixer in the industrial-rock underground, and is a correspondent for
an online e-zine.
Popa was last seen living
in Los Angeles, doing
production work for various rock bands.Alternative
Press Senior Editor Jason Pettigrew still gets feedback from people
claiming the RevCo tour diary was the best thing they've ever read in
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