Glitter Dick Shall Set You Free

Photo by the lovely Lara Goins

Glitter Dick are an unpredictable mess. They are not some mythical dildo, despite popular belief. They are an Albuquerque band of misfits who know how to demoralize innocent women and children. Their favorite pastime is to scare the straight shit out of insecure men who aren't entirely comfortable with their sexuality. They absolutely love it. Singer Kendoll Killjoy is ring leader of it all. He flaunts his abilities right at the start of each of their shows. He slays their tough guy attitudes by jumping off stage and banging his mammoth dildo against his tambourine and their troubled, overgrown heads. The confusion rolls on when he jumps back on stage and starts giving his keyboards head. He was such an orgasmic sight when I saw them at the Z Club this past Monday  that I was compelled enough to run to the bathroom to try and toss my own salad just to calm my heterosexual nerves. It didn't work because the Dicks decided to play their cover of Slayer's "Season of the Abyss." Never had I've heard such an amazing cover of Slayer before. If Kerry King were there to hear it, he'd probably start fucking the rest of his band, while fisting himself with spiked brass knuckles.
Yes, their cover was that damn amazing and unique. Same goes with the rest of their latest album, Sparkling Richard. Give it one listen and you'll hear exactly what I'm talking about. One moment they're cruising along on an ocean of lube playing a surf rock soundtrack and the next, they're spazzing out into a punk rock nightmare. You can definitely hear their influences on each song, but they definitely sprinkle their own lil' spermy magic all over them. They combine rockabilly, courtesy of Magnum P. Nye's guitar playing, a squirt of the Doors' keyboard playing, the wardrobe of TurboNegro, with a punk rock rhythm section rounded out by drummer Suzi de Sada and bassist Jock Poppycock, to provide the seedy masses with a feel good, sexy time.
Now, if that doesn't give you an erection lasting till your cremation, then you should see them live. They put their asses straight in your face. Really all you can do is pucker up and hope they showered recently. Suzi is a remarkable skin beater, way beyond your comprehension. She blasts the crowd into a state of trepidation every time she crashes her cymbals. Then you got Magnum jumping on top of Kendoll's back while playing the "Tea Leaf Shuffle." It's every closet homosexual's fantasy to lay their eyes upon that position. The Dicks will even offer you some sweat from their Greek-like bodies. I know, it sounds too good to be true, but it's not. You'll have to wash it down with potato bug sperm aka well vodka just to take it all in, but heed my warning, you might choke as Poppycock turns the worst PA system into a delightful assgasm with his succulent bass playing. In fact, the whole band possess this charm. Believe me, just go and witness them in their natural, lecherous habitat. It's the only way to tell if you are gay or not.
You probably are and I hope you're still not limp. If you are, then what are you waiting for? Be a Dick Head already. Join the unpredictable assembly that is Glitter Dick's fan club. You can start by buying and stroking their Sparkling Richard. By the time you finish the intro, you'll have no trouble leaving your girlfriend and worries behind. Becoming full blown gay is the only way to be happy in life. Trust me, it's about time you give up your inhibitions and prance your big bulge on over to the brown side where an endless procession of fat, hairy balls are waiting to smack you in your smiling face.

http://www.facebook.com/glitterdickmusic

SLO Brew's Bloodlust

That damn pole. It has more blood on it than a serial killer's penis. Have you seen it? Well, if you've ever been lucky enough to have seen a concert at SLO Brew, then you know exactly what I'm talking about. It's right smack dab in the middle of the floor. What a architectural fuck up! It's impossible to see the didgeridoo player in the corner of the stage if you are enjoying one of the house brews, from the 21 and over section. Might as well sneak in your own booze and get as close to the stage as you possibly can. If you forgot your moonshine, then you're shit out of luck. Why don't they just remove it? Perhaps put an archway there? I don't have a fucking clue. Get a Cal Poly engineer on it. Just an idea...
I've seen people horribly injured there, especially during metal concerts when a circle pit gets going full steam. Bones get broken, faces and limbs get mangled, genitals get dismembered, puddles of blood get formed and slipped upon, and that's during the opening band. I witnessed this hemorrhaging first hand the other day at an Exhumed show (Pictured left). There were girls in the pit as tall as 6'5 and weighing close to 250 lbs., swinging their mallet-sized fists and vomiting on their fetuses they just aborted. It was almost kind of boring. I yawned and went to buy a drink. That sucked too. I had to pay $30 for a shot of cheap whiskey and a mixed well drink. The booze, however, made things a bit more interesting, but it did not give me the courage to donate any of my blood to the floor.
I've also been to hundreds of other shows at SLO Brew since its inception in 1492. I've even been to a few hip hop shows there. Now, let me inform you about rap shows at Brew. They are ridiculous. In a good way. There are all kinds of weirdos that come out to see the likes of tha Alkaholiks, DJ Quik, DEL, E-40, and other rap acts. These cool ass muthafuckas get so high before, during, and after the show that they think they are no longer a part of reality. They've finally sailed off and are listening to their departure songs. For example, I've seen some dudes with hugs sets of curly hair, walking and spinning on their goddamn heads like their hairs are actually the universe's strongest, tiniest arms. Bananas. I can't possibly wrap my own head around it, but I love it. I also love how there are 30 guys on stage with the main performer all rhyming at the same time, spilling their beers all over the stoned crowd. Now that's what I call an out of body experience.
Next we have reggae. Now, there have been many people shot and killed at some of these shows, but never at the Brew. It's usually peaceful, groovin, and smokey. You know why? Security guards. They don't interact with the crowd too much. They aren't trying to show off their new martial arts moves. They let us jerk off in the corner or dance without worries with our dead pets. However, when they have to, they step in and execute whoever is being a buzzkill and make sure everyone gets back to enjoying the show they paid good money for. They are professionals and I personally want to thank them for doing their job well and knowing when to beat some idiot's brains in when they try and ruin a show at the Brew.
To be honest, it's never happened. No one can ruin a show at SLO Brew. They host the best concerts on the central coast. They deserve an award of some kind. What's not to love about the Brew? The sound there is phenomenal. I damn near go deaf at every show. Fuck my ears. The location is also a plus. It's brick walls are stacked right in the middle of the ass crack of downtown SLO. I dare you to try and not find this fucking place. If you don't know where it is, ask the next person you see and they will point and say, "watch out for that damn pole." That damn pole. Get rid of it. Nobody wants to know what a serial killer's penis looks like, let alone get killed by it. Although, it would be kind of cool to see someone get their chest cracked open by it, especially during a smooth jazz concert. I plan on going to every concert at the Brew until this happens. Hopefully everybody survives. Or not. The pole needs more blood. We must obey.

www.slobrewco.com

Eat Ya Heart Out Proxima Parada

Women troubles, shit, we've all got 'em. Us, men, are better off having our better half take us to the taxidermist and getting stuffed and mounted in their pretty lil rooms, to show off to their pretty lil friends. It'll be easier for everyone: we'll always be stiff and quiet, and they can talk for hours on end without us getting bored or saying something stupid in response. It's not that we don't try though. Give credit when credit is due. Most honest men give their all. We give our money, time, energy, wisdom, and massive erections, anytime, any place without question and we ask for next to nothing in return. This is, often times, not good enough. So, they dump us, right on our sorry asses, and move right on to the next man as if we never existed, but it doesn't end there! We always come begging for more and more and more and more until, we're dreaming blue, sweating blue, puking blue, shitting blue, and turning blue, to the point where it seems like eating our own heart is the only option we have left. Now, accompany these dreadful feelings with the weeping sounds Myles Wittman makes with his trumpet and we start to get an idea of what type of music Proxima Parada plays.
Myles is not the only one chewing on his heart, he's joined by his bandmates Bryon Bailey, Kevin Middlekauf, Nick Larson, and Andy Olson. Together they share in on the same great woe that destroys even the strongest of men. I saw it all over their faces when they performed with my girlfriend this past weekend. Wait, that came out wrong. My girlfriend and I could see misery pouring out of them when they opened up for the Tumbleweed Wanderers and Tilted Tides at SLO Brew. For you information, Parada should NOT have been the openers. No offense to Tilted Tides, but they were completely blown off the stage by them. They simply could not compete with Parada's emotional and remarkable stage presence.
Bryson's voice was the first intonation that caught my attention. He has some soul in him, this kid. It comes roaring out of his wondrous throat every time he sang one of his original songs. Even if he hasn't had a woman rip out his soul and run it over with her new boyfriend's truck repeatedly till there was nothing left but dust, he sure as hell can sing like it. So can Nick for that matter and they all can play an eclectic range of instruments as well. One moment, Kevin could be working the deep grooves of the bass and the next, plucking a banjo and finally going over to the mandolin to strum away all his pain. Then, they all trade spots and Andy will also come out from behind his kit and sing till the audience is in tears, reminiscing old flings that got away.
Not all of Parada's songs are about break ups and choking on your own heart. They know how to get down and educate as well. For example, they incorporate Latin influences in their music, hence their name. Their rhythm really gets the crowd up and dancing and stomping and break dancing. They also have a song questioning the belief system many, many Americans follow so blindly, written by Nick Larson himself. Some other original songs they have include "Sink or Swim,"Who You Callin'," and my personal favorite, "See These Eyes." Each song shows off this young band's prowess as musicians.
They are very much indeed a very talented band, who's future will bring them much more recognition from the Central Coast as they continue to open up for traveling bands and to do shows of their own. But all this praise comes with a price: women. Yes, they will be swimming in pussy juice in no time, but with that they will end up in an ocean of sorrow. It's inevitable, but that's great news for those just discovering Parada. Why? Because the more they feast on their own hearts, the more soulful songs they will write, the more us men can finally move on to robot women who don't like our money, time, energy, wisdom, or anything else our sorry asses have to offer. Good job fellows, way to get the burdens off our minds and for that we are more than happy to oblige by going to all of your shows.

Voyage to the Uncharted Dimensions of Bliss: A Primitive Radio Gods Review

Music is inside all of us. It wondrous sounds make our souls sail off into uncharted dimensions of bliss. The lyrics and vocals that accompany it, takes us to yet another level, where we forget our own thoughts and even our own selves, if only for a few moments. Yes, music is one of the greatest treasures in life that everyone can enjoy, but not everyone can create it. Most try and most fail. Even more criticize, but have absolutely no idea what they're talking about. Then, there's a very select few who have written and performed a song that has made it onto the Billboard Top 40. Primitive Radio Gods have. Don't remember? Check out their song for "Phonebooth"  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0LKVZ4NTfUc Still don't remember? Could it be that you're so consumed with today's pop stars that you've permanently killed your appreciation for quality music? Do yourself a favor and forget all that. There's no way anyone will remember a single note from any of those shit songs. They will be long gone in a day or two and the Primitive Radio Gods will go on and continue to make timeless music.
Chris O'connor, Time Lauterio, and Luke McAuliffe have put their music out there for those who are willing to seek it. PRG don't plan on stopping despite their lack of recent commercial success. They have never needed the major labels or the millions of loose groupies or the attention of the ignorant masses. All they ever needed was music and the ability to create it without any restraints and it shows when they perform. For those of you who had your gigantic heads up the squeaky clean ass of pop music this past weekend, I will describe to you the miracle I witnessed at Camozzi's.
PRG put on a stellar, atmospheric performance. Luke McAuliffe warped our minds, 12 of us in all, with otherworldly sounds he extracted through his guitar. He made us feel as though we were drifting in space, watching as planet earth grew smaller and smaller till it finally vanished into the infinite void. Rubbing our glossy eyes, we gazed into the unknown, searching for our sustenance. He came into form. He didn't have the traditional rocker look to him. He looked as if he was a resident of Shandon, who's never really came to as big a city as Atascadero, which made it all the more surprising when he played. He was truly the embodiment of the saying, never judge a book by its cover. Chris O'Connor, the bassist/vocalist, who helped start the band back in the late 80s when they were known as the I-Rails, brought us back from space to Shandon to Atascadero to the bar down to the belly of emptiness. His seductive voice was all that we knew there. He was telling us to slow down and enjoy life, to embrace tragedy and triumph, to lose ourselves and follow his voice towards an unfathomable serenity . We did. Our bodies began to move with his bassline. We became possessed by it. Our hearts followed in rhythm to the beat of the drums played by Tim Lauterio. He took advantage of our weakened state. He was able to crawl inside us, inside our veins and open them up. He made sure there was no mistaking who was doing this to us. He made us feel as though we were contributing to the show, even if it was with just our collective pulse. His mellow playing closed out their set and when he hit the last cymbal, we all stood in a moment of despair and silence, wishing the music never stopped.
I deeply regret you not being there. I'm ashamed for you and your bad taste in music, but there's still time to change. Do yourself a favor and kill off your contentment immediately. Drown it in the wonderful sounds of Primitive Radio Gods. They have a new album out entitled Out Alive. Get it. My favorite track is "Unglory." It captures what the band is all about, which is quality music laced with psychedelic elements, 80s new wave, 90s alternative, and how the band keeps evolving over the years. They are an inspiration for other local bands to pushing on and to keep creating for the love of music. I urge you to do the same and to forget about pop music for a day and let PRG take you to uncharted dimensions of bliss.

primitiveradiogods.info

Date Raped By The Dead Volt/American Dirt

I had a 32oz of Bud Ice, a tall boy of Busch, and a man can of Budlight, before I went out to Molly Pitcher to see the Dead Volts and American Dirt play a "mostly alive and somewhat acoustic showcase." The two bands took turns alternating sets. The Volts busted out first. They took their grungy, country, Central Coast rock vibe and slapped us in the face with it. I had a Dogfish Head IPA to soak in their sounds. In case you were counting, that's 7 beers. I had a steady buzz when I finally started to mingle with the crowd. I even offered strangers invisible used condoms and smiles.
After shooting the shit for awhile, I found a seat and listened as Pat Hayes stomped his feet and belted his heart out through his bearded, crusty mouth. The rest of the band, Mark Folkrod, Pete Robbins, Mike Crogs, John Rhoadarmer, all shouted sad alt. country, twang rock tunes along with him. In some ways they reminded me of a cross between Neil Young, Nirvana, and Merle Haggard, all rolled into a mustache itching for a ride. Shit, that's perfect drinking music. Perfect for me, perfect for you, perfect for everyone. By the end of their first set, I did just that and had another IPA. Still counting? 8 beers...
American Dirt came on next. My beer began to taste a lil funny when they busted out their acoustic, garage rock with a hint of country sound. David Wilson, the lead singer, definitely has the voice of an old soul screaming through the dirt of a burial ground, demanding to be heard by all. The rest of the band was pretty good too, from what I can recall, but this is when I started to feel weird. My body grew from loose to completely numb. I began to have fantastic insights on American Dirt and the crowd, but I just couldn't seem to write them down. I even tried to mingle again. Only slurs stumbled out of my mouth. I tried to get up, but all I could do was fall all over the place and annoy the shit out of people. I didn't understand it, I've had gallons more than this before and been completely coherent, but this time, I was a shit show. Pat, from the Volts, recognized the ass I was making out of myself and took swift action. He was kind enough to carry me out and send me on my way with a goodnight kiss from his converse. Sorry American Dirt, I wish I had more to say about your performance.
Outside, the entire world fell into an absolute blackness, including my mind. I have no recollection of leaving and immediately falling asleep in the parking lot and using a curb as a pillow. Nor do I remember when some fine young citizens woke me up and sent me home to my real bed. When I finally arrived, somehow, I was still blacked out and when I woke up in the morning to muddy sheets and all the lights on and the alarm blaring, I realized what had happened, I was drugged. That's the only possible explanation. Come on people! You were keeping count! 8 beers! Then, black out? Impossible. For anyone. I was fucking roofied or GHBed or some shit. Either way, it was terrifying. It made me wonder, do women have to deal with this all the time? I feel sorry for them. Men are the creepiest fucks in the universe. How desperate can you assholes get?
Well, at least I had a good time and from what I can remember the Dead Volts and American Dirt's "mostly alive and sort of acoustic showcase," was phenomenal. They both have a ton of passion and raw energy and hillbilly ruthlessness. They both also play quite a bit around SLO County and I plan on catching them again, only this time, I plan to watch out for my drink. I don't ever want to experience that type of black out again, unless it's by my own self will, but even then, fuck that. On a final note, I really hope I wasn't raped. I guess it's alright if I was, especially if each of the band members had a turn at me. They sure do know how to treat a fan. The icing on the cake is that I have their punktry blues to get me through the rest of my troubled, trembling nights. Thanks fellows. Don't rape anyone else. Not everyone's as good a sport as I am.

thedeadvolts.com
http://www.americandirtmusic.com/

Mother F Bomb Treats

The last place on Earth anyone should ever be is at work. I know I'd rather be dropping acid, smoking myself senseless, and watching extremely gory horror films, than frying 100s of chicken cocks and listening to their tiny souls screaming in agony, boiling in an oily hell, while the boss lady tells me, I'm going in there next if I don't hurry up. Fuck that! Fuck you, you evil dyke monster. Fry this shit yourself and go wash the dishes, gather the shopping carts, stock the shelves, and suck on these shit Popsicles I just made for you.
We all wish we could say this to our bosses. I know I do, but we can't. We're trapped in their customer service prison. They've been creating this form of slavery since the beginning of civilization. They've perfected it. But the tides are turning. They've gotten away with this for too long. We should no longer stand for this. We must fight back. We must break free from this tyranny and we will. Soon... For now, we must search for minor victories. Any sort of means of escape to prepare for the great uprising. I suggest we do as much drugs as possible, drink oceans of beer, and start making anarchistic forms of music, preferably punk rock. That's what Jesse Baker, Jake Duarte, Robert Belling Hausen, and the "real" Glen Allen Shannon, have done. They even did it on 4/20 of all days. They have their heads in the right place for the last year of humanity. We should all follow suit.
Mother F Bomb is what they call themselves. Together, they're saying Fuck You to authority and they're doing it in their own personal way. They're not the raw, aggressive punks, who slam heroin and kick everyone's teeth in. They're the feel good punks. Catching one of their live shows proves this. They blend rock, funk, and whatever else they feel is right for the moment and mix it up for a damn good time. When I saw them at Club Soda, in Atascadero, they set my soul on fire. I had to take my clothes off.
They are an absolute trip to see perform. They remind me sort of a blase Iggy Pop and the Stooges. They had their shit together. They were tight. I could tell as soon as they were done shoveling shit for the dyke man, they went straight to the bar, then the smoke shop, then to the practice studio, where they played their dicks off till they had to head back to work again. Listen to Jesse Baker fucking shred and tell me, they don't have something going for them, even as a newer band. Jesse let's loose and makes his guitar, his bitch and the mother f bomb can sing too. Robert the III plucks his bass right along side him like a laid back Flea. His easy going style syncs up perfectly with drummer's, Jake Duarte, flawless timing. He keeps everyone in the band focused. Not an easy task and he never loses the beat. That's always easier said than done. I've seen tons of bands, whose drummers just blow it. They're awful and clumsy and it ruins the whole experience of going to a concert. The "real" Glen Allen Shannon, on the other hand, is a fucking beast. No exaggeration. He's a true showman. He owns the stage and your woman's ass, if he catches you sleeping during their show. The dude was downing beers in one gulp and running around all over the fucking shitty stripper stage/bar. He was talking a gang of shit too. He's one funny, vehement mother f bomb. He was also throwing buttons or whatever else he could get his hands on, at the people that were playing pool during their set. You old shit faced freaks! Drop the pool stick now or take the risk of having it shoved at your balls as opposed to the balls on the table. A game of half assed pool is never that important. Never.
Neither is work, but we do what we gotta do. Sometimes, we also have to stand up for ourselves and call that monstrous bitch of a boss of ours, a punk ass dyke. Deep fry your own titties wench, instead of always telling us what to do. We know what we need to do! We are going to rebel. We are going to be free. We are going to drink our minds into another dimension, if we feel like it. We are going to lose our shit to the punk rock sounds of Mother F Bomb. We are going to enjoy our lives and break free from your oily hell. There won't be a damn thing any boss can do about it. We will uprise. For now, here's a shit Popsicle you and your greedy friends can suck on. Bon appetit.

Release yourself here:
http://www.facebook.com/loudrockandroll

Suicidal Contemplations With the Jahny Wallz Band

Everything goes wrong. Your family disowns you at the drop of a fly's shit. Your woman accuses you of sleeping around and kicks you right the fuck out. All your friends have moved on with their lives. They have careers now and families too. You begin to think you are worthless. There's nothing left to do, but go out for a walk and contemplate suicide.
Wondering the streets, looking for the perfect place to off yourself in public, you stumble upon Frog & Peach and decide to get a drink. A lil something to delay the inevitable. In the bar, there's a band setting up upon the smallest stage ever built. The band, their sign says the name Jahny Wallz Band, looks like they are some kind of Jewish reggae band with a lead singer that resembles Ritchie Valens. You make your way to the bar and order a shot and a beer. They are both gone before the bartender brings back your change.
Your eyes wander. The crowd is restless. A few have been drinking since sunrise and now, at ten o'clock at night, they want to dance or fight, doesn't matter which comes first. They start screaming. They keep at it. You mind wants think it has found the perfect place. Maybe it would be better if you took out a few people first. Maybe break your beer bottle and ram it into their mouths and watch them bleed out. As you get ready for this, the dreamy lead guitarist/singer Giovanni Verduzco strikes a chord and let's us all hear his beautiful voice. Everyone stops, including me, and stares, longing to know what else he can do with his mouth.
You are feeling a slight change in attitude now. There's a good feeling in your core and the Wallz band hasn't even really started yet. They are just jamming. Then, the drummer, Tino Marrufo, the Jew rasta, kicks it into gear. He blasts into a cover Led Zeppelin's "Rock n' Roll." You are now fully committed towards having a good time. You say fuck dying and god fuck everyone else. Let them go on living life without you. Music is all that is ever needed in your life. This soaks in as you admire Tino. He dominates the song. John Bonham, you think, would even tip his hat to him.
They play a few more songs and everything's going fine till two extremely intoxicated women start dancing in front of you. It's expected when you sit by the windows next to the stage, but what you don't expect is for them to start falling all over the place, bumping into everyone dancing, pissing them off, and spilling their drinks onto your new pair of pants. Son of a whorish baby! Comes out your mouth. They go and try and clean your pants off and of course, the last thing you want is for your woman to come in and catch them putting their filthy hands on your crotch. She does exactly this. Perfect.
She pretends to ignore you, but there's no way to stop the wrath of an inebriated girlfriend. When she wants revenge, she knows exactly how to get it. Your weaknesses are easily identifiable and immediately put to the test. Just then, the bassist, Ivan Paredes aka Jahny Wallz, eyes her. He senses dismay. He begins to rub her pussy with the vibrations from his bass playing. He sings to her in the voice of Jim Morrison. And she loves to be seduced, especially by a hot latino with charisma. She's already soaking wet from his performance. She's just about ready to leave you for him when you storm up from behind and grab her and try to kiss her. She wrestles away from you for a moment, but you get a hold of her again and force her out to the back. She wants nothing to do with you. You're drunk again. You're a fool and a liar. You let her go and watch as she disappears into the sounds of "La Bamba" and the screams of drunken harlots.
You're right back where you started. There's nothing left to do, but pound your beer and sit in the telephone booth and convince yourself you're a shitfaced Superman and you don't need no damn Lois Lane in your life. Unfortunately, kryptonite sets in deep in your heart. The worse has yet to come. You know this, so you go back inside to the bar and order three shots of whisky. 1. 2. 3. At least now you won't have to remember all the problems in your life. The pain's gone temporarily. You have Frog & Peach and the Jahny Wallz Band to thank for that. The delay continues once more. But answer me this smart ass, how much longer can you actually live with yourself? There's only so much a man can take. There's only so much a man can do before that final curtain call. Time's a wasting.

Soundtrack to your demise:
http://www.reverbnation.com/jahnywallz

The Last Orgy with TPN

The Traveling Puss Nuggets played at the oppression palace for their last time ever. They will never play another show together again. And you probably missed it! What were you doing this time? I hope you weren't working up new, creative ways to mutilate your own genitals. For the rest of us hillbillies, who support local music, it's a shame. We lost another band. We hardly have any as it is!
Tickling Poop Nubs will be deeply missed. Their funky, rocking, chaotic live shows are one of a kind, but all good things must apparently come to an end. And on this final day, the fans at last came out of the back hills of Atascadero to catch one last glimpse of them. The crowd, though supportive, looked like they were masturbating to pictures of dead unicorns for 24 hours straight before they hoped in a stolen El Camino and raced over to the bar. Our favorite bartender in town, Becky the Pickle Charmer, promptly escorted these mutants toward oblivion, while the opening band was finishing up. The redneck hicks were good and loaded when Ten Pound Nipples finally started. The place went completely apeshit. M.C. Phail really worked the crowd into a dancing orgy. His voice, though not particularly outstanding, was enough to make me want to down my beer and lip sync to their songs I have never heard before. They also did covers, during which the bass player, Josh Magicock, had his shoes off, so a line of women could suck off a bead of his talented sweat, while they tipped him. Brandinac, the rhythm guitar player, was visibly jealous, but he shook it off and played as if he was channeling George Harrison. I felt this even more so when they did a cover of The Beatles' "Tax Man." Then, they did a few more original tunes and even had a drum solo performed by their freakishly hairy drummer, Josh Washturd. For sure, he's a fucking maniac. His cymbals are proof of this. They are all cracked. It looks as though they are hurting when he hits them, which makes sense because Josh tries to murder his drum kit every time he plays.
Ah yes, but we can't help but want to kill him too. He's the reason why Atrashcadero is deep throating grief right now. He's the reason why the band is dismantling. He's venturing off on a cross country trip with his new wife and starting a new life and blah, blah, blah. He said he's not looking back at this shit hole either. It's a good thing he's not because we would all be giving him the bird with our genitals. Trust me, it's possible. But he really doesn't care because when I asked him for some parting words for his band, he said, "I'd probably trade it all for $40." Damn Washturd.
Well, his lead guitar player, Christ the Captain TitWaters, will also miss him tremendously. He doesn't know what to do with himself. I guess he will have to use his angelic hands for more useful things like masturbating to pictures of dead unicorns. Same goes for the rest of the band and the rest of Atascadero for that matter. All us oakies can hope for is that maybe, just maybe, they'll get together one day and form a side project, but it will never be the same. Not without the Turd. Until then,  may those Twisted Pecker Nights forever live on through scratched up CDRs lost inside a buried blow up doll's vagina. Rest in peace big fellas. We loved you in an extremely gay way.

A Night of Passion With Queen Nation

There's nothing sexier than four charismatic blokes soaking your body with their own sweat. Ryan Gosling naked? Katy Perry stripping? They both make my eyes want to puke themselves up in hot lava. All they want to see is men in wigs. All I ever want to behold is the climax of Queen cover bands, Queen Nation. Imagine yourself all tough and taking your woman to another one of her shows you want nothing to do with. Then, like that, it happens. With only a thin layer of polyester separating your face from their genitals, it's impossible to remember that you were straight walking into the Ranch, in San Miguel of all places, and now have become fully gay and falling in love. I believe Queen Nation makes this their goal for every performance. It works like a homoerotic charm.
Forming in 2004, Queen Nation have set out to make sure the next generation of lost children know what timeless music Queen have created. Nation does this flawlessly. Joe Retta, who performs as Freddie Mercury, prances around stage and sings as if Freddie's ghost is haunting his vocal chords. He demands your eyes to follow his every move. He is no cheap imitation. None of the band is. Guitarist Mike McAnus mimes Brian May's solos effortlessly. He is a virtuoso in his own right. Pete Burke and Parker Combs reincarnate Queen's rhythm sextion. Roger Taylor or John Deacon could step in for either one of them and no one would be able to tell the difference. That's how incredible of a cover band they are! No one else has ever surrendered their entire existence to the rulers of Arena Rock as much as the Nation has and despite the size of the stage they perform on, the comparison of sound and quality is remarkable. Throughout their entertaining 90 minute set, featuring We Will Rock You, Fat Bottom Girls, Crazy lil Thing Called Love, they don't miss a note. They deliver on all levels. Even their improvisation adds to the authenticity of the show. You cannot  help, but fall in love with them and the performance they put on.
I dare you to go to a Queen Nation show and try and resist their homoerotic charm. You will never want to leave. You will give up your abysmal marriage and pathetic job to join the band as a groupie. This is what happened to me when I saw them. Well, maybe it won't happen to you, or so you tell yourself, until you go to one of innumerable shows they put on each year and get showered in their sweat and start singing along to Another One Bites the Dust with only a thin layer of polyester separating your lips from their genitals. Then, what will you do? There's no stopping this love caboose. Go and ahead and try. I dare you.

http://www.queennation.com/

Local Kings of Annihilation: Depths of Chaos

Buried deep within a darkened tomb, hidden away from the psychotic violence and diseased fornication surrounding Grover Beach, lies Depths of Chaos. Guitarist/vocalist Darien Lohof, drummer Tom Hoopes, bassist Joey McDaniel, and guitarist Ty Richardson make up this merciless alliance. Together they have vowed to play death metal until an eternal darkness has covered the earth and slaughtered all of life.
Their utter commitment to annihilation began in 03'. Depths have since went on to play countless shows and record a handful of demos by which they have perfected their punishment. They invoke classic death metal acts such as Morbid Angel and Cryptopsy and blend it with bits of melodic and groove elements. Any respectable metalhead, who has heard them and says they are not a fan, deserves to be lobotomized and castrated simultaneously. As for the rest of us, we must do our duty to support them and go to as many of their shows as possible.
I was fortunate enough to be one of their victims during their last show. They played at Camozzi's in Atascadero, which is an decrepit venue to say the least. We have no choice in Atascadero. This is the only place in town to catch a show. No matter, Depths still made my ears bleed and orgasm throughout their whole set. From start to finish, through brutal riffs, unearthly growls, an unrelenting pummeling of the skins, and groovy, complex bass lines, they unleashed hell upon the audience. Most of the crowd let the music possess them. They banged their heads until their hair fell out and their brains spilled out onto the amps. Some of the other less open-minded concertgoers did not feel so blessed. They immediately went to the nearest church they could find and drowned themselves in holy water. It's too bad they missed out. Nothing is better than leaving a show covered in sweat, sin, and filth. The high stays with you forever.
Not everyone wants this. There is an abundance of conservative pricks, who would rather drown as opposed to have their face smashed in by an alcoholic maniac who is addicted to everything loud and gruesome. Death metal is an acquired taste, but it's one of the only genres of music that has truly dedicated fans, ones who devoutly worship the bands. Depths of Chaos, I feel, is one of these bands. Trust me, they deserve your admiration. They will be crowned the kings of annihilation by the end of 2012. Give up your souls now. Let them defile the sacred. For the punishment is sweet, the darkness eternal.

Burn your eyes with this video:
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4uz_AXsuCNk