Jahr 1991




Alternative Press,


November 1990 und

Januar 1991


Revolting Cocks -


Cocked and Loaded


By Jason Pettigrew


Teil 1 findest du hier.

Teil 2 fängt nun an:

Part Two:


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…

Upon further 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.

Except that 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.

Despite the 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.

Of course 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.

I'm sitting 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.

He then 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.

Backstage after the show, Reznor and I play with Phildo's pit bull and I have to ask Al who was that masked man.

"WHAT? Mr. Rock Writer doesn't know who the fuck Billy Gibbons is?"

Let's hear 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.

The account 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.

JOURGENSEN: "The 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 rally."

CONNELLY: "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 favorites! [laughter]"

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."

DAY 15:


San 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.

The Showcase 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 bands.

The Mentors 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.

The 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 the front.

Backstage, I 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.

Tomcala 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 shower.

DAY 16:


The 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 Vegas.

After a 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.

Bad move. 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 the flames.

As I pull sheets off of the other bed to sleep on the floor I vow revenge.

DAY 17:


Sean's 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.

Liberty 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?

During the 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 throng.

The huge 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.

DAY 18:


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 indication.

TRENT 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?'

"I thought 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 camp.

"What's been my favorite moment on this tour? God, it's all a blur!"

Five months…uh…hours later and it's time to go. As we head toward California, Critter casually asks if anybody has seen Mark.

DAY 19:


Los 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 America—the Palace.

The Chainsaw 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.

An 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 vacation diary.

Let's talk shop. Today Chris and Paul are doing bulk interviews. And by the looks of it, they would much rather be bowling in Lordsburg, NM

Connelly's 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 responds, "No."

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 Charles Manson:

INTERVIEWER: I wanted to ask you about your video for "Faster Than Light…"

PAUL: Yes?

Trent Reznor is in the video but he doesn't play on it.

Yes, that's right.

Okay, are you guys friends?

Martin Atkins is also in there and he doesn't play on it.

Yes, I…

Bill Rieflin is in it and he doesn't play on it.

Yeah, I haven't seen the video, I was just asking.



[disgustedly] I said "Starfuckers." Yeah. [rising in tone] People who only care about it only because of who's in it. That's bullshit.


Yeah, that's 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.


That's bullshit!

No, it's not.

Sure it is!

Not really, I…

Sure! Isn't Martin Atkins as-big-a-name-as-Trent-Rez-nor?

Yeah, I didn't know he was in that, I guess it was just bad info.

Yeah, well now that you got the Nine Inch Nail thing out of the way…

[More invigorating questions concerning lard]

Now Ogre isn't credited on the Revolting Cocks album.

That was a fuck-up.

'Cause he sang "Get Up"…er…"Get Down."

"Get Around."

[insisting] "Get Down."

No, "Get Off."

"Get Off?" Oh, okay. "Get Lost."

[immense laughter] I wish I would have said that!

Now, dear 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.

Saying the 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?

In the 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.

During the 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.

Backstage Al 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.

[* A 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]

DAY 20:


This day 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 room.

Yeah, except 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.

Jourgensen, 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 set.

Everybody 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 tolerable.

DAY 21:


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 bastard."

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.

DAY 22:


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…

Running out 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 pussies."

Well, that 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 name here]!"

DAY 23:


DATELINE: 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.

Barker 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 Skatenig and 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.

DAY 24:


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 real glamorous.

DAY 25:


It's finally 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 on.

"New Orleans 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.

"Personally, 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.

"You start 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."

Yeah, but 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.

"The Cocks 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?

"We have 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

Cocks or Ministry tours for at least two years.

"But the 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 limelight."

DAY 26:


Actual sleep 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'?"

Madness is hereditary, and there's nothin' you can do about it. Thank God.


Al 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!

Michael 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 called Blackland.

Jeff 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.

Mark Durante rocks out country-style in the Waco Brothers alongside Wreck guitarist Dean Schlabowske and Mekons chairman Jon Langford.

Having 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 Chicago clubs.

Richard Tomcala is the publisher of Hemp Magazine, and is the owner of the Texas Hemp Company, "the oldest hemp store in the whole continent."

The Skatenigs recorded two albums before personnel changes fragmented the band. Lead singer Phil Owen (finc@swbell.net) 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.

The 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.

After their 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 Chicago

Casey Orr bears an uncanny resemblance to GWAR guitarist Beefcake. Mike Scaccia is rumored to have opened a guitar shop in Dallas

Jeff "Critter" Newell is an in-demand producer/remixer in the industrial-rock underground, and is a correspondent for an online e-zine.

Lee 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 A.P.

Teil 1 findest du hier.