WARNING: The events in this story are presented as remembered. These hazy visions pulled from the recesses of one writer’s mind may contradict what is known as stone cold fact. If times, dates, or specific individuals are presented out of order, it is not intentional.
When people ask me to name the best concert I’ve ever attended, I usually say, “Oh, that’s gotta be either the time I saw Iggy Pop in 2001 or the time I saw the Damned in 2000. Both had great energy and really put on a solid show, y’know? Just really entertaining, fun, loud rock n’ roll, and that’s what it’s all about, man.” I then toss my head back quickly, whipping my shoulder-length David Cassidy coif through the air, while simultaneously pushing up the sleeves of my “ALCATRAZ INMATE: PSYCHO WARD” t-shirt. These moves never fail to impress the slack-jawed teenage runaways who congregate outside the trailer office of my drywall business.
The sad fact of the matter, though, is the above statement is a bald-faced lie. I only say it because it seems to shut people up and doesn’t really beg further question. Truth be told, the best concert I ever attended was a predominantly hardcore punk show at a VFW Hall in the otherwise unimpressive burg of Casselberry, FL, around the same time as the aforementioned Iggy Pop show. Weirdo terror-noise outfit the Locust was headlining; I’m sure they’re the reason I went, but they are far from the only reason this event was so great. This show was basically a giant freak-ass circus, a cavalcade of musical and visual insanity from the moment my friends and I stepped into that hallowed veteran’s hall until the final buzzing notes of the Locust’s set.
“Casselberry Mind Castration” 2001, as I like to call it, opened with an act called Dead Bird, a one-man keyboard dirge project. This cat, who looked like a severely medicated version of Daniel Radcliffe, spent 15-20 minutes pounding out the thickest, most atonal racket this side of Bette Davis’ cancer hack. It seriously sounded like someone was playing Human League records underwater eight times slower than their normal speed. I don’t think there was any break between songs; Dead Bird just laid out his Zoloft-inspired jams as everyone filed in and then abruptly stopped. Most of the crowd thought this poor kid was just soundchecking, so no one really reacted to his epic, misery-soaked closer. The lack of applause seemed to devastate him.
Following Dead Bird was guitar ‘n’ drum screamo act Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket. Silly costumes were the order of the day with these guys: On this particular night, guitarist Seth sported what looked like the jumpsuit of a sewage treatment plant employee (complete with gas mask) while the drummer was dressed as a 19th century riverboat gambler (complete with drawn-on handlebar mustache). Before each song, Seth made faithful variations on the following statement:
“Okay, alright, uh, this next song is about somebody’s birthday.”
After 20-some odd birthday dedications, the crowd was ready to tear Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket to bloody fucking shreds. I think they’re lucky they got out of there alive.
I don’t think I’m the only person who subscribes to the theory that karaoke can be pretty insufferable unless you’re the person doing it. Highlighting that notion with the brightest marker they could find was We Karaoke, a group of girls dressed like Cyndi Lauper who invaded the performing area after BF Chum Bucket made a hasty exit. Their tools? A karaoke machine, a sprinkle of hits from the ’80s, and enough sass to stun a yak. I kind of zoned out during WK’s performance, wondering if I’d ever finish college before the end of civilization, but I assure you what I heard was torturous.
Waifle took the floor next (I don’t think anyone actually used the VFW’s stage at this show except the Locust). Waifle’s aggro-emo slash-and-burn was punctuated by A) the singer’s resemblance to the kid who played Rufio in Hook, and B) the sudden construction of a puppet stage to the left of the crowd watching them. Waifle carried on like nothing doin’, but attention was soon entirely focused on this makeshift Punch ‘n’ Judy venue. What the hell were we about to endure? Were things about to get all Romper Room up in this mug? Surprisingly, the answer to that question was yes, kind of. As soon as Waifle stopped playing, an honest-to-god homemade hand puppet show broke out that not-so-subtly extolled the virtues of Communism. My friends and I were incensed—not because we disagreed with Communism, but because we couldn’t imagine a more stupid or cloying way to cover that kind of topic (judging from the boos and catcalls, the audience seemed to agree). Pissed off, we left the venue briefly to get some 25-cent sodas at the nearby Safeway. Adult-sized democracy reigns at discount grocery stores.
When we returned, bellies full of grape soda, Tampa’s Combat Wounded Veteran was tearing shit up in a space I imagine was generally used by old people to play cards and talk about ladies’ hot gams. If memory serves, CWV, a metallic hardcore/grindcore/no shirtcore band, had a reputation for unnecessary assholery and outward violence that more or less preceded them on the Central Florida/national scene. They were certainly inciting some intense moshing/chair-throwing when I saw them, a sight I’m sure scared the suspenders off the war heroes holding the punk rockers’ deposit. Heck, I was pretty scared myself. A few more punches and an ECW match may have broken out. Keep that barbed wire away from my face, Dick Dudley. I like my nose the way it is.
The fear did not dissipate when the Locust took the stage to end “The Hassleberry in Casselberry” (another pet name I like to use for this fun-filled event). In addition to their trademark post-apocalyptic fishnet insect costumes, a noticeable air of tension hung over the members of the Locust like a cloud of… uh… crop-destroying bugs or something. There had been an incident before this concert, apparently, in which the Locust had been branded as a racist band. The singer spent five or so minutes up front addressing these false rumors in a very aloof, stuttering manner. He seemed so worked up over the accusations that he had lost the ability to form coherent sentences. That kind of thing would be frightening or unnerving coming from a normal man, let alone some dude dressed like a giant Hellspawn parasite. Eventually, the awkward character defense gave way to a cathartic explosion of music. The Locust coated the VFW’s walls that night with wave after wave of obtuse fright-punk, all bearing titles like “Skin Graft at 75 Miles Per Hour” and “Moth-Eaten Deer Head.” If any band I’ve ever seen made me feel like I was trapped in Zion with my fellow refugee humans on the eve of a mechanized holocaust, it was the Locust. Still, people seemed more happy than terrified.
By the time I was in the back seat of my friend’s car on the way home, I felt utterly depleted. This whole event had just been one big chunk of sensory overload. What could possibly ever compete with a more-intense-than-usual Locust set, a spontaneous pro-Communist puppet show, Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket, multiple child star doppelgängers, and 25-cent grape soda? The only elements missing from this wild event that could push it into bona fide wacky teen comedy territory were a group of fumbling burglars, a couple of negligent cops, the girl of my dreams, a stolen treasure map, a skateboarding dinosaur, Fred Willard as the cranky janitor, Fred “Rerun” Berry, and the ghost of Wolfman Jack.
Nothing’s ever come close to that crazy night. Not even the time I met Carrot Top.
UNNECESSARY EPILOGUE
The Locust are still alive and kickin’ it bizarro new wave style. Their most recent release, 2007’s New Erections, included the songs “Tower of Mammal” and “We Have Reached an Official Verdict: Nobody Gives a Shit.”
Combat Wounded Veteran broke up in November 2003 without one audience or band fatality.
Waifle broke up sometime after the Casselberry VFW Hall show in 2001; by all accounts, their singer still looks like Rufio.
Last time I checked (2005), Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket was still annoying people with their patented combination of raw screamo and silly costumes.
I imagine Dead Bird stopped making music shortly after opening for the Locust and went to college for graphic design.
No one knows what became of We Karaoke or the Pinko Puppets. For all I know, they were one and the same and currently work at an Olive Garden in Kissimmee.
One of the guys who accompanied me to this show went on to develop a wild cocaine habit and ended up working in real estate. Today, I believe he owns land in Brazil.
Watch: The Locust perform “Teenage Mustache” [at youtube.com]
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Communist Puppets & Riverboat Gamblers At 75 MPH
by: James Greene Jr.
When people ask me to name the best concert I’ve ever attended, I usually say, “Oh, that’s gotta be either the time I saw Iggy Pop in 2001 or the time I saw the Damned in 2000. Both had great energy and really put on a solid show, y’know? Just really entertaining, fun, loud rock n’ roll, and that’s what it’s all about, man.” I then toss my head back quickly, whipping my shoulder-length David Cassidy coif through the air, while simultaneously pushing up the sleeves of my “ALCATRAZ INMATE: PSYCHO WARD” t-shirt. These moves never fail to impress the slack-jawed teenage runaways who congregate outside the trailer office of my drywall business.
The sad fact of the matter, though, is the above statement is a bald-faced lie. I only say it because it seems to shut people up and doesn’t really beg further question. Truth be told, the best concert I ever attended was a predominantly hardcore punk show at a VFW Hall in the otherwise unimpressive burg of Casselberry, FL, around the same time as the aforementioned Iggy Pop show. Weirdo terror-noise outfit the Locust was headlining; I’m sure they’re the reason I went, but they are far from the only reason this event was so great. This show was basically a giant freak-ass circus, a cavalcade of musical and visual insanity from the moment my friends and I stepped into that hallowed veteran’s hall until the final buzzing notes of the Locust’s set.
“Casselberry Mind Castration” 2001, as I like to call it, opened with an act called Dead Bird, a one-man keyboard dirge project. This cat, who looked like a severely medicated version of Daniel Radcliffe, spent 15-20 minutes pounding out the thickest, most atonal racket this side of Bette Davis’ cancer hack. It seriously sounded like someone was playing Human League records underwater eight times slower than their normal speed. I don’t think there was any break between songs; Dead Bird just laid out his Zoloft-inspired jams as everyone filed in and then abruptly stopped. Most of the crowd thought this poor kid was just soundchecking, so no one really reacted to his epic, misery-soaked closer. The lack of applause seemed to devastate him.
Following Dead Bird was guitar ‘n’ drum screamo act Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket. Silly costumes were the order of the day with these guys: On this particular night, guitarist Seth sported what looked like the jumpsuit of a sewage treatment plant employee (complete with gas mask) while the drummer was dressed as a 19th century riverboat gambler (complete with drawn-on handlebar mustache). Before each song, Seth made faithful variations on the following statement:
“Okay, alright, uh, this next song is about somebody’s birthday.”
After 20-some odd birthday dedications, the crowd was ready to tear Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket to bloody fucking shreds. I think they’re lucky they got out of there alive.
I don’t think I’m the only person who subscribes to the theory that karaoke can be pretty insufferable unless you’re the person doing it. Highlighting that notion with the brightest marker they could find was We Karaoke, a group of girls dressed like Cyndi Lauper who invaded the performing area after BF Chum Bucket made a hasty exit. Their tools? A karaoke machine, a sprinkle of hits from the ’80s, and enough sass to stun a yak. I kind of zoned out during WK’s performance, wondering if I’d ever finish college before the end of civilization, but I assure you what I heard was torturous.
Waifle took the floor next (I don’t think anyone actually used the VFW’s stage at this show except the Locust). Waifle’s aggro-emo slash-and-burn was punctuated by A) the singer’s resemblance to the kid who played Rufio in Hook, and B) the sudden construction of a puppet stage to the left of the crowd watching them. Waifle carried on like nothing doin’, but attention was soon entirely focused on this makeshift Punch ‘n’ Judy venue. What the hell were we about to endure? Were things about to get all Romper Room up in this mug? Surprisingly, the answer to that question was yes, kind of. As soon as Waifle stopped playing, an honest-to-god homemade hand puppet show broke out that not-so-subtly extolled the virtues of Communism. My friends and I were incensed—not because we disagreed with Communism, but because we couldn’t imagine a more stupid or cloying way to cover that kind of topic (judging from the boos and catcalls, the audience seemed to agree). Pissed off, we left the venue briefly to get some 25-cent sodas at the nearby Safeway. Adult-sized democracy reigns at discount grocery stores.
When we returned, bellies full of grape soda, Tampa’s Combat Wounded Veteran was tearing shit up in a space I imagine was generally used by old people to play cards and talk about ladies’ hot gams. If memory serves, CWV, a metallic hardcore/grindcore/no shirtcore band, had a reputation for unnecessary assholery and outward violence that more or less preceded them on the Central Florida/national scene. They were certainly inciting some intense moshing/chair-throwing when I saw them, a sight I’m sure scared the suspenders off the war heroes holding the punk rockers’ deposit. Heck, I was pretty scared myself. A few more punches and an ECW match may have broken out. Keep that barbed wire away from my face, Dick Dudley. I like my nose the way it is.
The fear did not dissipate when the Locust took the stage to end “The Hassleberry in Casselberry” (another pet name I like to use for this fun-filled event). In addition to their trademark post-apocalyptic fishnet insect costumes, a noticeable air of tension hung over the members of the Locust like a cloud of… uh… crop-destroying bugs or something. There had been an incident before this concert, apparently, in which the Locust had been branded as a racist band. The singer spent five or so minutes up front addressing these false rumors in a very aloof, stuttering manner. He seemed so worked up over the accusations that he had lost the ability to form coherent sentences. That kind of thing would be frightening or unnerving coming from a normal man, let alone some dude dressed like a giant Hellspawn parasite. Eventually, the awkward character defense gave way to a cathartic explosion of music. The Locust coated the VFW’s walls that night with wave after wave of obtuse fright-punk, all bearing titles like “Skin Graft at 75 Miles Per Hour” and “Moth-Eaten Deer Head.” If any band I’ve ever seen made me feel like I was trapped in Zion with my fellow refugee humans on the eve of a mechanized holocaust, it was the Locust. Still, people seemed more happy than terrified.
By the time I was in the back seat of my friend’s car on the way home, I felt utterly depleted. This whole event had just been one big chunk of sensory overload. What could possibly ever compete with a more-intense-than-usual Locust set, a spontaneous pro-Communist puppet show, Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket, multiple child star doppelgängers, and 25-cent grape soda? The only elements missing from this wild event that could push it into bona fide wacky teen comedy territory were a group of fumbling burglars, a couple of negligent cops, the girl of my dreams, a stolen treasure map, a skateboarding dinosaur, Fred Willard as the cranky janitor, Fred “Rerun” Berry, and the ghost of Wolfman Jack.
Nothing’s ever come close to that crazy night. Not even the time I met Carrot Top.
UNNECESSARY EPILOGUE
The Locust are still alive and kickin’ it bizarro new wave style. Their most recent release, 2007’s New Erections, included the songs “Tower of Mammal” and “We Have Reached an Official Verdict: Nobody Gives a Shit.”
Combat Wounded Veteran broke up in November 2003 without one audience or band fatality.
Waifle broke up sometime after the Casselberry VFW Hall show in 2001; by all accounts, their singer still looks like Rufio.
Last time I checked (2005), Bloody Fucking Chum Bucket was still annoying people with their patented combination of raw screamo and silly costumes.
I imagine Dead Bird stopped making music shortly after opening for the Locust and went to college for graphic design.
No one knows what became of We Karaoke or the Pinko Puppets. For all I know, they were one and the same and currently work at an Olive Garden in Kissimmee.
One of the guys who accompanied me to this show went on to develop a wild cocaine habit and ended up working in real estate. Today, I believe he owns land in Brazil.
Watch: The Locust perform “Teenage Mustache” [at youtube.com]
by: James Greene Jr.
published: April 30, 2009
in column: Over a Beer
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