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.