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