Monday, December 31, 2007

LA Guns

I found some real treasures today while picking through the boxes and piles of magazines in what used to be my bedroom in Rocky River. Flyers from old See World, Southern Trespass and Amps II Eleven shows. My old wrestling 8X10 photographs which have always been a superb gift to weirdo friends and touring bands who spend the night at my place. CDs that span my entire life as a music fan (rap, punk, straight edge hardcore and even a stack of pro wrestling theme song records!)

I need to throw some shit out but I only have the heart to get rid of little things. So when I found a piece of yellow scrap paper I was excited to rip it to shreds and toast my hard work with a Great Lakes. I'm glad I took the time to read the words on it first. It was the start of an article for what would have been the eleventh issue of Wroth! fanzine. It would have been an true-case account of an LA Guns show at the Cove in Geneva on the Lake. Too bad the zine never saw the light of day but not so much in the sake of this piece being published. I thought I would print it on Deadtown before I tore up the scrap paper and maybe while I enjoy that Great Lakes.

It's two pargraphs long but packs a punch for something writen by an idiot in 1999. Take it for what it is (awesome).

New Years Eve. The dawn of the new millennium. Place: New York City. Time: 11:58 PM. The air is crisp and the roar of the Manhattan crowd grows with anticipation. What's this? Broken glasses? These belong to john. I'd know them anywhere. It's a clue. Now it is a race against time. 11:59 PM.

Meanwhile in Geneva, Ohio on a different night, in a different year. A young man of nineteen sits at a table contemplating whether he will risk ordering a drink from the waitress with ample hair and ample breast. A door opens and a nineteen year old jaw drops. That jaw belonged to me, Matt Wroth. And this is the story of the night I met Tracii Guns.

Well... that's it isn't it? Pretty awful but somehow it sums up who I am perfectly. Also it's a slice of life from Cleveland circa the late-nineties. I went to this show with some friends who had no agenda other than getting out of the house. Little did they know they would see Jizzy Pearl live and in person. And on top of that I really did meet Tracii Guns. I walked right up to him and asked him I could get a photo taken together. I did this with an agenda. I wanted to get a letter printed in Metal Edge with a pic of me and my guitar god. And that's just what DID happen. I found that today too.

Metal Edge Magazine. December 1999. $3.99. Pages 80 & 81.

Here's the letter:

Recently I had the pleasure of checking out the Poison tour package. I even had VIP seats, which meant I could hang out by the tour buses like a rabid fan thirsty for rock 'n' roll blood. This is how my friend Ryan and I met LA Guns bassist Chuck Garric. This cat was totally down to earth. When Ryan bought a Turd CD (Chucks killer old band), he even ran around trying to get us change for $20! Then, a week later, LA Guns took time out of their hectic schedule to visit Geneva on the Lake, Ohio to put on another mind-blowing performance. This time it was in front of less than a hundred people, but it was even more incredible than a week before in front of 11,000 fans. And the most amazing part is that they choose to play, no one forced Guns to do what they do best that night. Here's a photo of me with Tracii Guns, the best dressed man in the music business today. It was the highlight of my utterly pathetic existence. And let us all praise Tracii Guns, king of thy rocketh and they rolleth.Matt Chernus
Cleveland, Ohio


I made it into Metal Edge one more time with the help of being in Amps II Eleven (we were in their sister mag Metal Maniacs too!) Go to your local library and ask if they have a back catalog.

For further reference to me see the June 2000 issue of Wrestling Maniacs. It's got pictures of the Rock, Steve Austin, Sting and Mankind on the cover. A picture of me on the inside. I'm going to frame the copy I found today.

Wednesday, December 26, 2007

Teabagged for Christmas

I don't want to be boring but I think that I am. I know that I have been writing about the same couple of bands whenever I try to steer the focus back to Cleveland music but I don't know what else to do. I only have a couple of good friends and they all happen to be musicians. So they call me and try to convince me to drive to a bar, get wasted, see them play and then drive home. It almost always works and I have a good time doing it. So then I want to write about it.

So I'm a-gonna write some words.

I got to see the Hollywood Blondes the other night at Spitfire. Man, these dudes have gotten so much better than the last time I saw them play their Pabst and Converse Punk; Cleveland has finally created our own Screeching Weasel... if Ben could wail like Stiv Bators.

I was happy enough to be drinking an Elliot Ness and smoking in doors but when these dudes turned in a long set of tunes, the night was more like a drunken yarn that some older punker told me about in American History class when I was fourteen. I can see how bloodshot that dudes eyes were and how his clothes smelled like Marlboro Reds. But, shit, it's not the mid-nineties (damn!) and I'm that old punker smelling of Great Lakes and Pall Mall smoke.

Tommy Teabagger, legend in my own mind, has honed his stage presence, finally living up to his nickname and local lore by being cocky, snotty and singing like an angel. A Hells Angel, of course. I don't have any song titles in my mind so let's just say that they were all winners and the crowd were champions too, throwing bricks of cheap fireworks into the Blondes' kick drum, creating the perfect Cle Christmas ambiance.

Go see these dudes if only to get your kicks without actually getting aggro and kicking someone. Be happy, be drunk and try not to get eaten by Tigers on Christmas.

Saturday, December 8, 2007

CMZ (That's a play on TMZ. I meant it as cleveland then whatever m and z stand for).

I think this blog has to go into a different direction. No one really wants to know what I'm up to (I don't care myself). For instance, I am writing this at the library I just walked to and I think I am still drunk from the night before. See? That's not that interesting.

So. I think, from now on now, this blog should be about my celebrity sightings. TMZ and Deadtown Cleveland can walk hand in hand.

First off this blog: This Moment in Black History. Bim, Buddy, Lawrence, Chris. Celebrities? Sure, in a sense of the word. I picked these dudes up at the airport yesterday morning and I was in about the same shape I find myself in now. The first thing Bim says to me is "Have you been drinking?" I had been. Twelve hours before. That set a tone, for sure. That tone escalated when we saw celeb two.

Bim asked Patrica Arquette is she had a joint. Lawrence then stressed that hash would be cool too. The whole story is long and hilarious but I think it's better left at that.

Celeb three and four were spotted later that night at Cha Cha Lounge. First I took a piss next to the bass player from Metallica. I don't know his name but I remember he had a depressing looking apartment in Some Kind of Monster and I respect that completely. Then the fat dude from Knocked Up and Superbad showed up. Everyone left at this point whispered.

This is what life has become and I am confused by it. And with a small apartment suddenly housing seven Clevelanders everything is weirder. Hopefully we will all see Britney Spears tonight and then we can all head back to Ohio.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007


I heard the sad (or maybe just weird) news that the Jigsaw in Parma has been sold. I have been assured that the place will keep it's integrity and stay the same shit hole it has been for so many decades but the news still came as a shock. If nothing else, I wish I was still in town so I could have at least entertained the idea of buying the 'Saw myself. I can't even imagine how amazing life would be if it was spent between those wall on a daily basis. I'd even get the neon Parma sign tattooed on my arm. But now... I will not.

The Beachland being up for grabs is not as big of a shock to me. I, like everyone else, had heard the rumors of their financial distress for a while now so it was easier to digest even though losing that place would be another nail in the local music scenes coffin. I don't know of a cooler room to see some touring band you have never heard of play than the Tavern. Electric Eel Shock, Supagroup, Peelander-Z, Early Man, Cherry Valence; just some of the bands I stumbled upon while drinking Straub and looking at pale girls. New music in a familiar setting is a luxury I hope we as a town do not lose.

I am still thinking about the perfect Cleveland tattoo. Without the neon Parma I might be leaning toward a tattoo some friends out here in Los Angeles were thinking about getting: Kenny Lofton's face. With a matching Lebron, perhaps? It's something to think about.

Saturday, November 24, 2007

Holiday Holocaust

Is no news really supposed to be good news? I don't know about that one. It seems whenever something is happening then life is a little better. Action and reactions. More bullshit. But I am back at the library smelling my dirty jeans and trying to figure out something of note to post on this utterly awesome, but neglected, blog; it's all coming up blanks, man.

I miss Cleveland but that's a given. I just spent Thanksgiving in Encino, California with a house full of Ohio ex-patriots and a beer drinking dog. Take away the palm tree and the nice weather and I could have been in Parma or Strongsville. I kind of wish I had been. But there's a lot to be said about the west; I just seem to spend most of my time talking about the mid-west.

Yesterday, while strolling through a shopping plaza in China Town, I heard some standard Christmas song on the radio. It made me very sentimental. I almost starting to get sad but the store full of Hello Kitty merchandise made me far too confused to feel sorry for myself.

Oh yeah, I met Jesse Camp of MTV fame the other night. Remember him? He has my phone number now which is kind of stupid. I will tell you all the story over a Christmas Ale in Decemeber, okay?

What the fuck am I doing here?

Monday, November 12, 2007

The King Comes to LA

Three of us Cleveland dudes went to the fabeled Staples Center to see the King. King James, King of Cleveland, King of the Buckeye, you know who I mean. From the moment we stepped on the train I saw a bunch of Lebron shirts. Cleveland Indian hats. Man, we are everywhere. Even the guy who took my ticket was from Cleveland. When I told him I grew up in Rocky River, he upped his ante by saying 'Oh! That's where Bernie Kosar used to live.' Live, indeed.

We won the game too. How nice is that? Fucking California, I refuse for you to take my heart and it's not just me. I'd trade the nice weather for a few more chances to see Damon Jones sink some 3's.

This entry is lame. I see that as I type it but, what the fuck, I'm a little homesick and I just saw my old friends. It's was nice to have them visit us. Oh and take advantage of those free bobble heads and shit, no one got a thing at the Clippers game. Just $8.75 beer and expensive 'downtown dogs.'

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Six Feet Away

Oh man, I just saw a bulletin on myspace that put me in a bad mood. I guess today is the day where the lovely state of Ohio votes on Bill 16: The Strip Club Bill. As I write this I hope with all of my heart that my friends (and maybe even family) are out at their local voting haunt, pushing against this horrible shit.

To sum it up quickly: six feet dance rule... six feet pre-dance rule (this means a hard working dancer can't even have a post dance cuddle!). ALL clubs AND adult stores must close by Midnight. A whole lot of people lose their jobs. Most strippers have kids too.

I guess I will know tomorrow what the fate of my beloved Crazy Horse will be. Will the name Bugsy's Speakeasy go down as legend along with such gems as Model Tease and Pinkies? Or will it stand, mighty, with crusty pant legs coming and going for decades to cum?

I know I spelled that last word in a really gross way. My mind is in the gutter; right next to the people of Ohio.

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Ducking Bullets

Fuck, I forgot to talk about the shooting.

Not the Cleveland shooting, thought that was something I never thought I would have to read about. I'm sure y'all in Cleveland have a better understanding of that situation than I do being in Los Angeles. I wanted to mention the shooting that happened on my friend Ben's street a few weeks back.

To start I wanted to point out that I don't know what was fired or at whom. I don't know if anyone was hurt or worse. I don't know anything other than we heard a big blast while watching something like 'Beauty and the Geek' and then helicopters were flying above us shinning spot lights into Ben's backyard. That's the second shooting I've been within harms way of. Two shootings, two cities, two states, one year. I am currently working on my hip-hop LP.

I guess that is it.

Monday, October 15, 2007

Herbie Fully Loaded Two

I sat right by Lindsey Lohan on a flight from New York to Los Angeles on Saturday. That's how Hollywood I am. She even spoke to me. All this and the Indians won too.

It was amazing to be back east and feel a real deal Autumn air on my face. The leaves were starting to turn and people were breaking out their coats and scarves. I miss the fall like nothing else. The smells, the colors. Don't get me wrong, it's not warm in Los Angeles and the sky is not bright. In fact, it's a cool sixty today and the clouds in the sky make one believe they could be walking down Lorain Road instead of Sunset Boulevard.

The people were different too. Not better, not worse; different and in a refreshing way. The length of a country and the different seas really does change everything. Well, not everything. I think we can all agree that Lindsey Lohan is hot. I am a witness.

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

They Are All New in Town

I had something kind of vital that I wanted to write about but I forgot what that was. It may have been the fact that I am a huge Indians fan now. Give me a playoff victory and I will repay you with my loyalty. But, aside from that, it might not have been what I wanted to get off my chest. It was probably the news that I am now a proud renter in the city of Los Angeles. I am also a certified asshole because I have dropped a shit ton of money on a new bed, furniture and celebratory booze. Oh well, my bedroom has a view of the LA skyline rather than a burned down house in Tremont (which, having been said, is a sight I kind of miss... arson aside).

This blog is not supposed to be a diary (I detest shit like diary land but now seem to have fallen into the trap of writing about my day-to-day. No one cares about my emotional state, unless I am on the verge of jumping off a bridge. That would make many interested enough to read) but an exploration of a mid-western dude living in a very western world. So, with that in mind, I will give the observation that everyone here IS also a mid-western dude (or dame) living in a western world. Or so it seems. Example: The bartender at the The Powerhouse (the choice bar for after school beers) is from Cleveland... a fact we found out while watching our beloved Indians beat the implorable Yankees. And where a bartender from Ohio roams, so does the Ohio drunkard.

It's a warm feeling to run into someone that you can discuss the pros and cons of life in Parma with. It's warmer still to know that Parma (as example) is still there living on with out you but still waiting to let you in her arms again. I know everyone escapes some sort of hold eventually, city or not, but you never lose the charm of what molded you. I was molded by the city of Cleveland and the wonderful people I loved within it.

Most Friday nights here become a radical BBQ, made up of misplaced Clevelanders who are eager to discuss old times and old friends, leaving the outsiders to look at their beers and wonder how it is that we can drink them so much faster than they can. The answer to that questions is an easy one: it's because we are better than you in every single way. Fuck yes.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Go Badboy Go!

I need to express my true congratulations to my old friend the Canadian Bad Boy of Cleveland All-Pro Wrestling for his unprecedented appearance on the WWE's flagship television program Monday Night Raw. No, I did not see it but I've read about it on the internet and I am truly sad that I missed it. I heard it was pretty foolish. He was an OSU sumo champion or something just as confusing. But no house means no cable TV. I love knowing that someone from Clevo, who has worked so hard at one goofy thing his entire adult life, made a dream come true. God speed, brother.

It's getting fucking warm in California. I drove to the Santa Monica beach today as a way to escape my harsh reality. Fucking Baywatch, out there. Bikinis and bicycles. Someone get me a tan and help me lose twenty pounds. Then I'd be in the circle man. That's all it's going to take.

PS--Indians/Yankees. I'll be watching at a bar in the middle of the afternoon. Buy me a pitcher at Hooters, won't you?

Monday, October 1, 2007

"It's the First of the Month/Get Up! Get Up!"

Bone Thugs N Harmony. Apartment less. I digress.

As I said in my last post, I love Lebron James but, man, Saturday Night Live was awful last week. With so much deserved attention on Cleveland's sport franchises, it was kind of a bummer to have to watch that display. Nothing against Bron, he's my favorite human being, but I felt bad for Americas late night television audience. A lot has been said about the writers coming up short but I don't think anyone was even trying with that shit. Hopefully you, my readers, were off being foolish and having premarital sexual encounters.

Ryan and I made our first appearance at a Browns backer bar this past Sunday. I almost cried out in joy every time they showed a shot of the Cleveland skyline. I've only been gone for three weeks but some big-time home sickness is beginning to appear. I made a new friend there though whom I shared some eerie ties with from back home. And I got drunk at eleven in the morning which seriously ruined my Sunday afternoon.

Between sighs of lust directed at the (216) area code, I have continued the search for a new home with less luck than ever before. I don't think Los Angeles wants us here. The proverbial dirt keeps getting kicked into our faces. Even the three or four pretty girls sitting throughout the Edendale library are not helping to lift my spirits today. Plus I have a huge amount of corned beef and reuben digesting inside of me. I thought people in California were obsessed with health... all I see are taco stands and burger joints.

Oh... I want to give a shout out to the dudes in Skeletonwitch. I saw their ugly mugs in a copy of Revolver today. Ohio death metal is about to have it's day.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Groundhog Day

At the library again. I probably would not have even thought to write today if it was not for John G. Thank him for this, he's a direct influence on me and my blogging.

Everyday is the same. Groundhog day. Lame reference, yeah, but Mastodon made it in a DVD about Blood Mountain so I can then take it as my own here.

Not having an apartment after two weeks of searching... it's frustrating to say the least. Nine to five, every fucking day. Driving, interneting, whatever it takes. Fucking cocksucker California land lords. I had my last place in Ohio within minutes. A handshake and some bullshitting, that's all it took. Not here, my man. This is a whole other beast. A well fed one, at that; apartments are everywhere and, it seems, they are all being lived in.

Last night was a hell of a burger party. Cleveland people outnumbered the "other kind of people" by a healthy margin. It was nice to be full of dead cow and beer; talking about the same people and the same places but doing so about as far away from them as we could without leaving the country.

Tonight our trophy son is hosting the season premiere of Saturday Night Live. I heard through my mom that this is a HUGE deal back home. I bet. That's the cool thing about a town like Cleveland, no news is fucking big news. I saw the new banner that the city is going to put up outside of the Q. Is it sad to admit that it made me a little teary eyed? I'm not sorry, I just love Lebron James.

Friday, September 28, 2007

Week Two

Week two in Los Angeles is almost over. Still we have no apartment. My head is kind of swimming from sleepless nights on the floor. The weather is up and down. One day will be nothing but sun and the next a perfect fall afternoon. Everyone here knows I am a stranger from the midwest. They are totally right.

I am at a library nursing a hangover and using valuable apartment searching time. There is no chance to write yet. No chance to explore or give a shit about anything other than finding our own shelter. I hope this headache does not find strength. I can't even afford a bottle of Asprin right now.

All of that aside... America is a pretty great country. The drive west was an eye opener. It is the perfect way to get outside of your life and see things through that greater perspective. Plus a beer tastes like heaven after stopping at night fresh from a twelve hour drive. Oh, and girls are way prettier once you get out of Ohio. I'm just saying.

I just wish I could have went fishing.

Tuesday, August 28, 2007

tick fucking tock

My life is going to change radically in less than two weeks. It's one thing to move to Detroit on a romantic whim or roll from one neighborhood to the next like changing t-shirts; this is cross country and I don't know if I ever want to come back.

That was hard to write because I love Cleveland. It's a part of me and sometimes you don't recognize that fact until your about to sever the limb. I live in Rocky River right now and I love it too. Fuck me running, I may even go as far as to say I love Toledo and Columbus but that might be a sentimental feeling. Right now my heart is racing and my nose is running with allergies; the snot like one last bitter kiss goodbye.

A rather lovely episode of Anthony Bourdains Travel Channel show filmed in Clevo aired last night. A fun and informing sixty minutes (give or take) of some smart ass wing nuts walking around the city days after one of our more scenic (and BRUTAL) winter blasts. Harvey Pekar was along for the ride and Marky Ramone somehow became a resident without having to buy a run down double in Parma (he could always bunk with our own CJ and Aaron Ramone). Harkins suggested we tape this show for numerous re-watchings in Los Angeles. This morning, I think he is on to something.

Three more days in the strip club business and then I will devote my last week to loving my hometown. And I have to find a car too.

Saturday, August 4, 2007

One Month

I am moving to Los Angeles, California in about one month. It's no big surprise for some--I've been talking about it for years--but, for others, it might come as a shock. I've told almost no one. I guess I don't care for much hoopla about it. But then again, here I am telling the blog world.

Speaking of blogs. This one was originally supposed to be about the Cle music scene. The real agenda was to use this as a launching pad for a zine idea that Sebastian Wagner and I had been talking about doing for a long, long time. An alternative to the alternative (If Scene and Free Times can even be called that any longer). Or the anti-Pressure magazine... one that really gave a shit about what happens locally. Just like our band Southern Trespass, the zine became a causality of our drinking problems and general apathy. So I took it as my own and decided to use it, from time to time, as my own place to talk about how middle-age black women hit on me in the parking lots of super markets as they beg for change.

So what is to become of Deadtown Cleveland now that it's leader is off to have sex with movie starlets and take up a healthy heroin habit? Well, I thought that, in between orgies and lines of Colombian coke, I would keep up the writing habit (the only healthy one I have) and make this a sort of Clevelander vs. California blog. Us against the world, or better still, us trying to fit into the regular (ie non-Cleveland) world.

Wish me luck. If I am gone for more than one year... that will be a new record.

Monday, July 16, 2007

Stuck Inside of Clevo

I spent the other night listening to a Bob Dylan show from across the Cuyahoga River. I’m out of my contacts for a week and my glasses were prescribed a decade ago so there was no way I could have made out the figure of old Bob even if I had spent a large sum of cash on a ticket. It was a weird experience but I guess I should have predicted that. Sitting on a bench with a couple of hippies and a few ex-hippie yuppies, sipping a tall can of cheap beer and watching (or trying to) a family of ducks swim by.

My only complaint was that I had to piss REALLY badly and I was not drunk enough to resort to doing the homeless lean against a wall. Also the set list was weird; slow pacing and a lot of newer or obscure numbers. Or so I thought. Admittedly, I am not a huge Bob Dylan fan. I guess the fact that I would rather listen to him from a half of a mile away than see the show in person might have given that fact away. Still, I couldn’t pick out a single number that I knew well.

Then I found the set list online… I’m either deaf or daft.

‘That’s Alright Ma (I’m Only Bleeding)’, ‘When the Levee Breaks’, ‘Stuck Inside of Mobile’, ‘Highway 61 Revisited’, and an encore that closed with ‘Blowing in the Wind.’ (Granted I left before the encore to find urinary relief at the Flat Iron where I also found relief from life within the warm embrace of a few pints of Guinness.)

Maybe the river messes with the acoustics. Or maybe I was too involved with listening to the random conversation floating around me (the best was a far too enthusiastic response to the news that the Moody Blues would be playing Nautica soon). No matter, I still think this is a great way to pass a summer night. The company is weird and the view is lovely (that red bridge brought back memories of a River Fest that my momma took me to so that I could see my first real rock show. The band I was there to raise a fist to? Local glam almost-heroes: ZAZA!).

I could wait awhile before visiting the Flat Iron again, however. Too many Irish blokes and not enough drunken Irish women. I feared for my Hungarian life

Saturday, July 14, 2007

so, it's saturday afternoon

My neighbor across the street, the one with the Red Dog sign in his window, is cranking Classic Metal as he works on his house. He’s been doing just that since about seven in the morning. It’s a Saturday but don’t ask me what year it is. When you have college radio and Mercyful Fate, everything kind of just stays the same; caught in some wonderful timeless drift. I hope it’s like this forever.

Side note: I got in my car to go to a doctors appointment before posting this entry. I found out that the last song heard before leaving my house was by our own Shok Paris. They may, in fact, have the GAYEST name in Cleveland rock history but don’t ignore the chops. I suggest you research them. The song was off a compilation brilliantly titled ‘Cleveland Metal’. I have to get myself a copy.

Friday, July 13, 2007

summer time blues (and reds)

There’s something very interesting about living in a metropolitan town where only miles from the heart of the city lies a shit load of summer fun. I live a stone throw away from downtown and am a drinking, fucking, all around cancerous type of man. Yet, in the last few weeks, I have laid out in the sun at Edgewater staring at the skyline (and avoiding trolling gay guys), hiked in the woods and stood knee deep in the dark Rocky River waters catching Sheep Head. There are very few places like Cleveland where an ugly part of the music scene can transform himself in to a Huck Finn with such little effort.

But with this new found outdoorsmen attitude comes the harsh reality that God hates us all (also a Slayer song title). In the midst of my last solo fishing trip (there is nothing that takes the pain of being a loser away like fishing alone in a valley) some kind of organic garbage found its way into my right eye and gave it the gift of infection. If you have met me you probably know little more about me other than that I have beautiful eyes. No longer. The eye I speak of is an unholy red. Not the type of red that might come from a huge bong rip but rather it looks like it was penetrated by a rusty rail road spike. And a lot of discharge is involved.

Today is the first day of the past three that I can raise my head high enough to look around the house due to this bastard known as light. I have no intention of seeing the outdoors anytime soon except for the hundred foot walk to and from my Buick. The city and the country do not mix. Outdoor life is fine when looked at through a television screen or an Al Gore documentary. Listen to me. If you go in the wilderness of Cleveland this summer you will get stung, slapped, laughed at and then your eye will be infected.

I am getting a chance to read, though; a paragraph an hour. Currently it’s the Lemmy autobiography, White Line Fever. I think Lemmy and I could have been mates. I doubt he has any desire to ever fish in a filthy river again, either. Though he probably never did so to begin with. The speed might make you yearn for other things.

Saturday, June 30, 2007

Great Balls of Fire

There was just another fire on my street tonight. From what the whacked-out neighbors say, it’s the third in the past few months. I think each one was within a football field from my bedroom. From what I can gather, bare with me… it’s 4 am, a garage was caught on fire. I don’t mean to sound ignorant but how does a garage catch on fire at this point in the night? I will discount what the children who roam the sidewalk say tomorrow.

Those neighbors I spoke of spun me some pretty incredible conspiracy stories. A lot of nods to crack, name calling and the like. Look at me, I write the word CRACK and the phrase ‘the like’ in the same fucking sentence. Cleveland summers do this to a dude.

One guy said it was time to get the fuck out. I agree. I used to think I lived in some kind of bohemian utopia. Exposed brick streets, flowers growing on my fence, sex offenders living near by... I was ready to retire. No longer. Fire, crack and racial slurs… yeah, I think I am out.

I have never smoked crack. I, unfortunately, know people who have. One such asshole lived above me. This neighborhood seems to be soaked in it. Fuck, can you be soaked in rocks? It seems so.

Anyway. This all seems kind of great to me. What better a way to kill a Friday night, post-work? More stories to tell and more land bombs I have survived.

And another thing I LOVE about this… Weird neighborhood bickering. I’ve never been a home owner but I suspect this is kind of like a ghetto Desperate Housewives. Instead of complaining about a picket fence too close to my garden, I am stuck between white trash and crack addicts. All they can argue about is which one is worse and all I can think about is how awesome life is when caught in the middle with no loyalty… only concern for my wrestling DVD collection.

Oh, and the last story I heard tonight was about a young girl throwing a Mountain Dew bottle with a LIVE snake inside it into a pool… well, that’s just pure Cleveland legend.

Take my city... PLEASE! hahahaha

Tuesday, June 5, 2007

Are You a Star or something?

On my way out of the parking lot of Dave’s Market this evening, I was approached by a heavy set black woman. She called me honey which I liked and she seemed to be stuck there. When she got to the window of my rusty Buick Lesabre, she said something to the effect of:

‘Ooooh you’re pretty! Are you a star or something? Whoooo.’

She took about forty cents from me after telling me the she knew I had a dollar bill somewhere.

Thought I’d share that.

Sunday, June 3, 2007


This past Saturday was a big night for Cleveland. Sports fan or not, we all must appreciate what this means for our city. The attention, the anticipation and the bond it gives us. I knew something huge was happening as soon as my phone started ringing. New York, Missouri, calls came from across the country (well…really just those two calls). Cleveland had proved itself.

I went down to the Gateway Plaza at halftime after sinking a ton of beers at the Garage. Nothing says Cleveland sports like a case of beer in your system. There was no way I could have been prepared for the sight I saw. Thousands of Cavs fans going nuts, the good kind of freak-the-fuck out and party nuts. To make things even stranger, there wasn’t any beer for sale and people didn’t seem to miss it (sans me, I searched and searched for booze, to no avail. I was too late, supply and demand). Weird.

You all know about the game. Who won, who lost. I won’t bore you. BUT I have to point out how amazing my chants were. I started a pretty healthy ‘Boobie’ chant in honor of Gibson (and was the first in my section to be smart enough to chant the title of this blog) but it was the ‘Fuck Rasheed!’ rally cry (sparked as he walked to the locker room after being ejected in the fourth) that I am most proud of. Getting large groups of people to follow along in bad behavior is a healthy hobby of mine. Sure there were children in attendance but innocence has to die sometime. They will never forget the first time they heard a grown man curse a professional athlete.

Ditching downtown after the game in favor of a little less claustrophobic Ohio City, I witnessed something better than a Lebron drunk: poor parenting. After a little boy ate shit on the Lorain/Carnegie bridge and fell toward traffic, his mother dropped him half way through picking him up to yell ‘yeaaah!’ at a convoy of basketball fans who decided it was proper to yell ‘Go Cavs!’ at a fallen child. This is what I love about our town.

Other notable shit: *Some dude rolling in the back of an SUV rocking a flashing red, white and blue grill. That needs to be sent to the troops in Iraqi. *A girl getting out of her car while in traffic on West 25th, jumping on the hood of her car and dancing while a guy from the following vehicle ran around with a bottle of Grey Goose in hand. *A thirty-something year old man, ghost riding his truck down the street. Everyone on the sidewalk waved.

It’s a day latter. You can’t turn on the television or open up a newspaper with out seeing or hearing about the Cavaliers and how rad it is to live in Cleveland right now. I’m not sure winning the eastern finals makes property values rise but it’s pretty fucking cool anyway. I don’t care, I rent.

Everyone is happy and that’s a rare thing.

I’m proud; as a sports fan, a Cavaliers fan and, most importantly, as a Clevelander. Pop in that patriotic grill and smile for once. Cleveland is doing something other than killing people and making steel.

Sunday, May 20, 2007

Classic Cleveland # 1

I had an idea for something I would do on this blog called Classic Cleveland. Even as I start to write the first one, I still don’t know what it means. Reviews of classic records, classic shows or maybe a classic person. Probably just record reviews, though. So here’s the first attempt.

Autopilot Stuck on Get Down
Smog Veil Records

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For a few years the band Stepsister totally ruled my social calendar. I’ve seen them play wild Parma drag-outs, shows at Peabody’s where there was barely another soul in the building; I was even hip to their last Cle performance. A new band called Bad Wizard was playing and, sorry dudes (and chick), our heshed stoner rock beat yours from New York. I loved this band so much that I actually ended up in the project that came from their ashes, Amps II Eleven, and it was like a rite of passage. So we enter my first attempt at the Cleveland Classic idea with a very biased look back on a killer record. Hey, I’m drunk on a Sunday and this is like going to church for me.

Autopilot was recorded with what is arguably the best 'Sister lineup if not only the last. The Eakin brothers (the late Scott on drums and singer Tom Dark) always knew how to win us all over: with utter relentlessness. The addition of Aaron Dowell and Attila Csapo on guitars and Tony Erba on bass cemented this band as a steamroller.

‘Her Name Was Knife’ kicks things off with the WORST song title in the cities’ history but also packs a charging riff and a screech so tone deaf that it could only come from Darks mouth. Amazing. This song chugs along and never really advances toward anything other than kicking your fucking teeth in; we see where things are going. ‘Wild Ride’ comes next with more of the same. At this point you’re drunk, your girlfriend has lost her panties and when Dark yells out, ‘taking a ride, yeah!’, your fist is in the air. This song was always brutal live. Where’s the denim, buddy?

‘Coming Down Hard’ provides a brutal end; full of speed, crashing solos and pierogi-stinking howls. The title holds weight; this is the type of song one creates when coming down and falling right onto skid row. ‘Blackout Man’ continues the trend of hardly living. ‘Yeah, I’m blacking out!’ Dark screams behind the first hint of the heavy eighties hardcore influence these guys had. It’s like Black Flag met the Hells Angels and a party just kinda ensued.

By the time you get to ‘Pay the Price’ your head better be swimming because mine sure does. The riff that starts it off is so right-on, if a circle pit doesn’t start off the bat, it must be one of those shows I spoke about where I was there alone (Steve Callahan was probably near by, though). The faint ‘Get Down!’ heard in the break down is further proof of how GREASY this record is.

Now we’re down to bare bones. ‘Long Time Gone’ is placed perfectly, second to last. The sleazy and almost inept attempt to do an epic intro is either a bit of an inside joke or just plain genius as it leads into another fucking rage of punk guitar-rock. If you don’t dig a solo in between verses then I suggest you retire to your Pixies records.

Last, but by no means least, is my personal live favorite, ‘Big Bad World’. I remember a group of us 'Sister fans falling over ourselves and onto the stage of the Revolution on Brookpark Road; arms laced around each other mouthing the chorus together. ‘It’s a big bad world/and it’s all mine!’ Life was fine, brother. On disc the song doesn’t seem to transfer the urgency I felt when they would close the set with this song. Fuck, I was twenty-one and really drunk, all of the time. Today it reminds me of a lot of the songs I hear other Cle bands playing. Makes sense that the band no one ever went to see would, in turn, influence a whole crop of bands in its wake. As I continue to listen, the goose bumps are beginning to return. Sorry, but this was a time in my life, man. Not much has changed. It’s still a big bad world but I’m no longer sure it’s even remotely mine.

There’s another weird scream from Erba before the song starts to leave us. Where was he when he did those? He sounds like a fan sitting on a stool at the back of the Jigsaw (before they had the room with the stage). The guitar work begins to shake and boogie, turns are being taken and it sounds like what it is: a barroom jam made by working class blokes.

I'm glad this record was made. I'm also glad to have had these dudes in my life for a year or two. No matter what was going on in my life, I KNEW that Stepsister would be playing somewhere that week. And they always were.

I’m not going to bother with rating a Cleveland Classic. I’m only reviewing records that meant something to me. I’m most important. Stepsister was most important. Then they broke up.

Saturday, May 19, 2007

It was 'Another Perfect Day'

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I went to see the mighty, majestic and all around wonderful Lemmy Kilmister play with his band The Head Cat at Peabody’s with a headache. Of course this is the worst possible place to go for a show even if you have something as trivial as a hangnail. I guess what that means is that Peabody’s has a tendency to make me sick, make me angry and make my wallet fall light after way too many tall cans of cheap, shit beer. So when some thick neck security guy informed me that I had to give him the memory card from my camera while Mr. Kilmister was dazzling me with interpretations of Buddy Holly and Credence songs, I immediately started penning a vicious call to arms; asking all of my faithful Cleveland drunkards to stand up and ban this corporate trickery.

I was seething but I couldn’t help but smile at my hero who stood on stage brilliantly smoking a cigarette in a town that is trying to get it’s citizens on board with the idea of a smoke free Ohio. I love that man (No, I really do. I’m not jumping on any sort of band wagon. My roommates and I once named the house cat after him and those two big warts).

Post drink purchase, I happened across the guard who nabbed my memory card. He took me to the office and slipped a card off of a table and handed it to me. In all, there were only two there. Either no one else thought enough of Lemmy to bring their photo takinf devices or myself and someone else were made to be examples. No worry, it was nice that they gave me the card back.

Then I see that he had made a drastic mistake and given me someone else’s card. Was this merely an oversight or do they have piles of old cards lying about to replace ones from customers that may be holding important photos that they laughingly erase (I had photos from Wrestlemania 23 on mine for God’s sake)?

It was just a mistake.

In fact everyone was way nice in sorting it all out. The security guard even let me know that he didn’t give any sort of a fuck… all part of the job, you see. I put the card back into my camera and checked to see if they had invaded my personal space and erased my memories (something of which the beer was doing just fine at).

There was Mr. Kilmister.

It all ended well and everyone walked out smelling of roses and High Life. Aside from ruining the last half-hour of the show for me, I’d say everything went smoothly that night and I have to give my second least favorite venue in town (well, does the Phantasy even count as a venue anymore?) a deserved, if not reluctant, clap of the hands (only one!).

I’d be foolish not to mention the band that truly blew my mind (well, the Lemmy-less one), Slack-Jawed Yokels. Let me start by saying that they’re from somewhere around Medina. Their myspace page says Granger Township. I have no idea where that is. I don’t care frankly. There’s no way a kid from the city was going to write these ruckus numbers full of stupid lyrics about drinking and rocking. Their guitar player killed it, man. They all did. They also look a little nerdy which is bonus.

Sample Lyric (I know that I am butchering this but the show was almost a week ago): ‘We’re going down to Kentuck/There’s lots of liquor stores there/We’re gonna buy us some beer/Slack Jawed-Yokels going to the liquor store!’

Uncle Scratch was great too. Brother Ant shattered a bottle of beer toward the end of their last set (USGR often play between bands… in corners, in parking lots, wherever the spirit suggests). The glass fell down on Brother Ed like some sort of divine shower from the heavens. I hope more then the blood of Christ was shed.

Tuesday, May 15, 2007

the start of the end of summer

The other day I was sitting at the light at Denison and 25th. I felt and saw nothing out of the ordinary except for the really nice weather and the fact that people were out and about with smiles on their faces. Then the gun shots go off. I’d say about eight of them.

It’s two in the afternoon and there is some fucking kid shooting at people in the middle of the McDonald’s parking lot. Two other dudes split. One runs toward the bridge over the zoo, the other wonders toward the line of cars on 25th. Traffic is heavy and people start screaming and freezing. It’s all surreal to me and I kind of don’t know if I should duck or take it all in. It’s two in the fucking afternoon and this awful fucking shithead is firing shots left and right. He didn’t hit his targets and thankfully anyone else from what I could tell.

Cleveland needs to implode and start over. It needs to tap out, submit. There is an awful mess here and no one is trying to clean it up or even lead us in a different direction. Cleveland is an awful place sometimes. Yet there’s so much that keeps us here.

Speaking of the small moments of terror that one is exposed to living in the metro area, I have to mention that Gordon Solie Mother Fuckers reunited this past weekend. I only caught the evening show at Now That’s Class but it quenched my thirst for Cle hardcore. Erba was fantastic; bleeding, yelling and jumping through tables. The band sounded great. They looked great too; street thugs from Parma (and Painesville), tons of time logged in at the arcade between them. I could probably go another six or more years until I need to see this sort of reunion again and that’s hopefully how long it will take. Gunshots are one thing but there’s only so much GSMF I can handle. Call me a pussy, I don’t care. Eventually we’ll all go back to what brought us to the dance. For me it’s hardcore. Cleveland hardcore. But it’s nice to take a break and smell the gunpowder.

It’s summer in the ‘best location in the nation’. If anything we have our beer and Drew Carey. Why can’t we be happy with that?

Saturday, March 24, 2007

A Cleveland Tradition?

Horriblefest 2006 was a fucking mess. I’m not referring to the mics being stolen from the Beachland or any in-scene shit talking; I mean it was a fucking mess. It was a mess of drunken idiots stumbling around in circles, no-good prankster bands and broken glass. In essence, exactly what Russ Romance and Ryan Horrible had in mind when they drank the idea into existence. Thanks, Dudes. We all had a blast.

Even though I remember very little, the highlights are brutal. Clockcleaner making a big splash in Cleveland as we all watched Sharky turn into a man. Human Eye making a mess of the evening afterward with a greasy-packed Black List getting lost in whatever the fuck that band was doing. Saturday starting hard with an electric eel lying dead on the floor of Moe’s as I first walked into the venue. This was early in the afternoon. Everyone was drunk, so drunk that I HAD to join in; pissed that I again missed a rare gig by the Mcshitz. From there it gets immediately sketchy. Columbus rippers, The Feelers sharing the same bill as Cuntpuppet and Functional Blackouts. Um, the Jabbers. I don’t know what to say, many apologies to hand out. But it’s been a year.

Memories don’t always last a lifetime when you live as most of us Clevelanders do. Therefore it is totally excusable if you don’t remember a fucking thing from this year’s fest either. Ryan has given us some nice material to look forward to as the show graces both the Tower and Now That’s Class. American Cheeseburger, Candy Snatchers, Shoot it Up, Southern Ohio rednecks Brody’s Militia and Detroit heroin addicts Bill Bondsmen are a few bands I expect to see and then forget all in the same moment. Don’t forget to bring your own beer in the afternoon and then tip your bartenders in the evening.
The flyer is pretty righteous too. --Chernus
Oh yeah, the shit goes down Thursday, April 19th-Saturday, April 21st at The Tower and Now That's Class.

Friday, March 16, 2007

old river road used to rule

I don’t know how many of you read Michael Heaton’s Minister of Culture column in the 3/09 Plain Dealer (I don’t actually know if anyone is reading this blog at all. But most people in my life would agree that’s it’s ‘all about me anyway’ {it’s usually said after sex}. So I’ll digress and just continue the thought for myself). It was about the ‘revitalization’ of the east bank of the flats from the perspective of the baby boomer generation. The generation that, arguably, had the most fun on the river, saw the coolest shows there and then left it in the fucking dust.

Heaton spoke of a time when any young drunkard could catch live music up and down the bank, through the steel mills and along into Tremont, with ease. From the old Peabody’s to Pat’s. The Odeon in its heyday or the original Pirate’s Cove. It was a nice trip down a memory lane that I never got to publicly urinate onto. But I feel the pain. I miss the Euclid Tavern where my mother would drop me off so I could see a hardcore show. I miss Speak in Tongues; bushes ripped from the soil and then hurled in the air during the final Gordon Solie show. But the grit still remains where those places once stood. You can walk down Lorain and still see the damage being done, if only in your minds eye. Meanwhile, the memory of the east bank is going to die with the boomers and the few of us who got to catch shows there before it was too late.

Soon someone will sip on an iced coffee, in their six figure residence, and enjoy the lakes breeze. They’ll being doing this right where Pere Ubu played, where The Spudmonsters and Mushroomhead cut their teeth. Or maybe, down the street, some teenage girl will be buying a top at the Gap and the sale will take place inches from where Metallica played the ‘MMS Coffee Break gig. Where legend has it, Lemmy and Blackie Lawless once tangled. The joint that hosted the place I saw both Rollins and Keith Morris play Black Flag songs in the same night. And I bet her dad used to hold back her mothers hair as she puked her guts out right there on Old River Road. I guess it really does belong to them.

As more of us move on, the legend fades. My generation has different places to house the memories. Remember the Black Eye? Those were good times too.--Chernus

Sunday, March 4, 2007

It's a Tragedy...not really

It’s weird to stand in a sea of straight edge teenagers, tall can of beer in hand and many poor life choices behind you. Admittedly, it makes you think a little differently of yourself; uninvited soul searching comes into play. And, fuck, I hate thinking about myself. I’m a drunk; I smoke, eat shit and think too much about professional wrestling. It soon comes to me why I don’t attend more hardcore shows at a place like Peabody’s: I don’t like young kids and the ideals they carry.

Well, suck it up. I was there to see a little bit of Cleveland history. Hardcore Idol, Tony Erba was debuting his post-Nine Shocks Terror project, Cheap Tragedies. Erba has been pissing on the Cleveland musical landscape for a long time. If you’re reading this lame blog about our cum stain of a city, I would hope the name Face Value would hold great weight with you. If you’re memory is as wrecked as your looks, it might be easier if I reference Nine Shocks Terror and Gordon Solie Mother Fuckers. Three bands that are still talked about, from Parma to Tremont; stories of shitty behavior, fireworks and manic rants from Erba during song breaks abound.

Through this ugly lineage of thrash and hardcore bands, a little bit of legend and mystique has formed; surely enough to make Cheap Tragedies worth rubbing elbows with some serious suicide candidates.
The band kicked into to some solid youth-crewy riffs that were nothing more than expected, then a clash of cold steel made me jerk to my right; Erba was wiping several links of heavy chain like a fucking animal as he crept through the crowd, giving many kids in attendance their first whiff of Cleveland panache. Cue the black cats!

Tragedies play fast, they play few songs and it’s over before your mind begins to wander. That’s a backhanded compliment. It’s what I’ve come to expect from this style of music but with a little more Revelation Records to it and more rock and roll than punk hostility. Bassist Christopher Rager wasn’t afraid to get into your face while keeping up with the quick gunned drumming of Ian Thomas. Granted this is a scene I don’t often wander through, but I have never seen these fuckers and here they are inciting a circle pit (though it will be noted that this was a McDonalds circle pit, manufactured and friendly…until the end when some rad stage dives sent me ducking like a retard). Erba was his scary,
whipping his chain like a phallic symbol gone horribly wrong.

‘Going Going Gone’ left and impression; an eager look back on our city, referencing everything Cle, from Super Host to Chippewa Lake. The opening riff is simple, like something Fall Out Boy would write and then dismiss, then the shit kicks in giving Erba a couple of minutes to wonder what exactly happened to the Cleveland of his suburban youth. Yeah, I hear you man.

If I may, I’ll end with a lame device: let’s hope that Cheap Tragedies don’t end up a memory as many fondly remembered Clevo hardcore acts before them (Puncture Wound, anyone?). Yeah, I’m gonna say it. Let’s hope their run won’t be going, going…oh fuck it.--Chernus

check em out, if you'd like:

Monday, February 19, 2007

Book Some Metal and Cleveland Will Come

Just like the snow, rust, poor employment options and general attitude prevalent in our city, Cleveland metal is a constant. Abrasive, humorous and incredibly exceptive, the scene has developed only in it’s company; shit still sounds like it did when Bill Peters created Auburn Records but the cast of characters continues to grow, making a cle metal show like a class reunion consisting of all of the drop outs.

WJCU hosted yet another killer benefit show at the Jigsaw the other night. I’ve had the pleasure of playing one of these Peters’ organized events and they rarely fail to make me fall back in love with our fucked up town. The crowd often looks like the hangers-on outside of a WASP show at the Cove in Geneva but you’re not going to a local metal show to get laid. No, you’re looking for booze and chops, both of which were in abdunce on said night.

These type of showcases have tight schedules; sadly I missed the first few bands but wandering into a packed bar while Wretch is on stage is a welcome sight. Colin Watson is Cleveland’s Ronnie James Dio; the man could easily be the darkest part of your nightmare or the highlight of your weird hobbit/Tolkien dream. As punishing as the music was, Watson scored major points with his power-metal vocals reaching the kind of heights that blew off long-thought-dead rounds in some dudes bullet belt.

The guys in Ground Zero surprised with an intense set of thrash; comparisons to early-nineties Megadeath were made through out the set. Ken Duggan could learn a thing or two watching the film Rockstar, his killer vocals and bass lines were only hampered by his lame and reserved plugs for the bands myspace page
( Whatever, ‘T.K.O.’ alone sent me for a loop. A song about fighting with a full-on boxing promo playing over the PA before the song started? Not evil but tough enough to excuse any softer moments. ‘Crush, Kill, Destroy’ was an pulverizing end to the set that brought even the worst Cleveland drunks away from the bar and into a goat-horn frenzy (yours included). Even with a strong history in glam metal, I tend to dismiss any band that offers a call and respond session with their audience (this holds especially strong in local scenes) but Ground Zero made it work, or at least they had a bunch of dudes saying what they are always dreaming of doing….crushing, killing, destroying (again, yours included).

Fucking, Soulless. Wander into the Jigsaw on any given night and you will see these guys holding court over a sea of empty pint glasses and maybe an order of pierogies. If Colin Watson is our Dio, Jim Lippucci is our Henry Rollins, Ozzy Osbourne and Andrew Dice Clay. Drummer and Cleveland scene mainstay, Chris Dora spent as many moments handing out drum rolls as blast beats, but that’s not to say the band didn’t slay. Close your eyes at one moment and we could be witnessing the birth of hardcore in the early-eighties, the next would be the dawn of death metal in Florida. With a new record on its way, (‘Remember records? They were devices used to transport music’-Lippucci), Soulless lead us through an epic journey through the woods, past the crashing shores and into the belly of the beast, burning as bright as the flames of LTV past. The night ended with a heart-felt chant for more. It was over for the evening but the future is bright. Steel plants go out of business but pentagrams burn forever (as long as we’ve got the people to keep lighting shit on fire). --Chernus

Tuesday, January 30, 2007

We Don't Know What We're Doing But Neither Do You

The purpose of this blog is two-fold: to promote the concept of a magazine born in Cleveland that is made for those of us who covet the local music scene and also to promote and discuss said scene through our own (free) forum. I don’t see much need to explain any of it further; even if you're halfway through a case of cheap beer (which is probably about right), I think the message is clear…what ever the fuck we are doing here.

Let's start off with a show review, shall we?
The Dwarves @ The Beachland Ballroom 1.29.07

Honestly, the twelve dollar door made me rethink ever leaving the house in the first place; typical Cle complaining which I am always capable of but I'm glad I broke through that initial cheapness. Walking into the Ballroom was kind of a shock, only a few kids loitered around the room; not so much of a shock was the discovery of a half-dozen more holding down the bar. I chose to follow their lead.

There I found Tommy Teabagger of openers The Hollywood Blondes; tall can of Pabst in hand, shit eating grin firmly on face. His band was about to play for a small group of friends in a room that holds five hundred and he didn’t give a shit. A welcomed attitude that is not ironic to find at a punk show, it makes you feel better about it all.

The Blondes cut through a set of passionate pop-punk brining back memories of hard-ons in study hall and drinking beer at the local park. The guys in the band are far too old to still take part in those past times but the mind never forgets those magic moments. The crowd responded with warm ovations between songs that were quickly drowned out by overblown band banter. I'd rather have heard 'Back & Forth' played one more time.

Sounder blew doors down a little later, upping the ante with big amps and big riffs made for small minds. Dude-rock, for sure; loud as a Motorhead set, drunk as a five-am steelyard crowd.

We are going to take the high road and resist mentioning the Turbo Ac's. Cleveland has a large history with 'punk and roll' (this term was introduced to me by a girl I knew while describing a Cleveland band that she thought was both Rock and Punk...also known as Pumpkin Roll), such as this. The singer of the almost-forgotten Crash of '59 did pelt the front-man between the eyes with a can of Schlitz, worth noting.

The Dwarves. I don’t know what to say here that fans would not instantly shit on me for. But it was exactly what I expected without even putting any thought into it. What stands out is the fight between two girls in red shirts, the agro security team that pushed every kid who came onstage to the floor without any regard to safety (the only time this ceased to happen was when singer Blag Dahlia, in a flash of genius, took the opportunity
to take off some girls top), and the police state at the end of the show.

Cocks hanging out of thongs on stage, tits being groped by an old punk legend, cops just waiting for some kid to give them a reason.

I do enjoy Cleveland winters.

--Matthew Chernus