M.D.I.Why. the art, gear, music, filth, depravity of Ross Sewage
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More than a decade ago, I bought a really old NJ series B.C. Rich Warlock bass from my friend Lorraine. I think she was ready to ditch pointy bass guitars for something classier as she went on to play in some excellent bands like The Gault and Worm Ouroboros. It came with a weird whitish-sparkly body, lots of dings that I added to, and multiple failed drill holes for a thumb-rest. I treated it as a beater bass I could fly with if I took the neck off. Well, that lil’ beater looks like this today.
And it also belongs to my wife now. It’s practically brand new, but with a vintage pedigree. This was a classic NJ series Rich, with its serial number planting its birth somewhere in Nagoya, Japan during the early eighties. The NJ guitars were real quality, then. I decided to give it new life. The project took me almost seven years to complete. But it was worth it to give my wife an awesome Christmas present.
We stepped out of the van into the Albuquerque sun behind the aptly named Sunshine Theater. Instantly, I could feel the carcinogens forming in my skin. This place was dastardly hot. The only place to unload our gear was currently baking in the open sunlight, so we opted to leave loading until we could find shade for our multitude of meltable props. Sean and I headed in an Uber to Home Depot and picked up more crap to fix all our broken hardware. We came, we played, we got paid, we were on our way for a two-day drive to Memphis. Until…
We were flagged down on the road by a woman pointing at our front left tire. I pulled off to the next rest stop and had a look. The rubber had quite literally been baked off the steel-belt of the tire, likely by the amazing New Mexico heat the day before. We avoided a blow out, but we did’t avoid being flummoxed by the lack of a tire iron in our rented van.
November 12th was an epic night for metal in Oakland, California. Napalm Death and Municipal Waste bringing us a show of epic proportions.
Along with long-time metal stalwarts and former locals, Exhumed, punk legends and actual locals, Attitude Adjustment, and last and probably least, our own gang in Impaled, you’ve got a bill worth getting in line for. A big fucking line.
Continue reading “Torture of Duty: Impaled gets Napalm Wasted”
Another day off (sigh) and two days travel from Rotterdam to Berlin. Impaled was going to get some more mandatory sightseeing. First, while still in the Netherlands, we drove to ‘s-Hertogenbosch, or Den Bosch, the birthplace of Hieronymus Bosch, a most epic painter. It’s a quaint little town in the Netherlands. We’d wanted to visit the museum, but like all things in Europe, it’s closed directly when you want to get in. Apparently, all museums and music gear shops close on Mondays. When I asked about it once, I was stared at like a madman: of COURSE all music gear shops are closed on Monday. What a fool I am. At least we saw the statue dedicated to Bosch in the city square.
We also visited St. John’s Cathedral. It was nice, and then Povey got on the live mic in the back altar and said, “testicle,” for the whole cathedral to hear. It’s one of those moritfying moments that you then have to high-five the mortifier for having the balls to do.
Ever been to Bourbon St. in Concord? That venue sucks balls! Luckily, we had a good show there with the tour. I was so sick the day after coming home from Portland, I had to have a shot of whiskey to keep me going before the show. Medicinal!
The very lastest show was one which we didn’t even know about until we’d hit Denver, in Orangevale. The club, which I’d never been to, turned out to be quite swell with a very punchy and hilarious sound guy. Raul had to work, but we managed to make it to the club just in time. Punctual!
Boise sure was interesting. Lots of kids and fun, and they were actually in the building when we started. We couldn’t find a place to stay so we drove on into Seattle at the end of the night. What a drive! Good times, though.
We played in Seattle and got to see some friends and meet weird people at Pike’s Place Market. Good times.
It’s all about the law of diminishing returns. Our returns for what we do diminish. I think. Actually, I’m not sure what the law of diminishing returns refers to, but it makes it sound like I could have made it on Wall St. instead of been in a band. I could have, but I don’t have to prove it to you. I know.
I can’t remember what I wrote last in Denver. We had some nice folks from Cheyenne buy us WAY too many shots. I do recall putting down my computer after typing some stuff and then heading upstairs to the mezzanine to kick some people’s ass. Whiskey makes you think you can do stuff like that even when you’re as scrawny as me. I guess my overconfidence worked, because these schlubs who’d accidentally spilled some beer on me seemed very intimidated. Go me.