Served So Raw From Miami

The organizers meet the disorganized. Thanks to Danny and Nicole and So Raw for everything!

Welcome back, all. I trust you were all satiated when I posted my account of San Francisco's most delicious sights and sounds and wacky adventures of a lad gone stoned a few months back. I would hope you've come back starving however, for it's now time to reverse polarity and attempt to document my latest whirlwind thrill ride through the sunny and seamy shores of America's closest foreign destination: Miami, Florida.

For those who have never been to Miami, it's not like the rest of Florida. Instead of NASCAR and theme parks, Miami offers a glimpse of a glittering steamy world that is better signified with slip-on deck shoes rather than a redneck's bandana. And no matter what the city had to offer, Rot Shit was quite agreeable to accepting the challenge and playing the So Raw Festival in June of 2009. If you haven't gotten hip to us by now, some blog put up both our out of print 7-inches, so feel free to go get 'em.



Being the forward thinker that I am, I decided to stay for a week instead of a weekend. Why not? When you're playing a gig (or in this case a festival) you have to run around, deal with inner workings and machinations of the other people in your band (who in this case are America's stupidest band, myself included), meet everyone in a whirlwind of handshakes and partying in the span of 48 hours, and then go home a wreck and who needs that? Luckily I had Danny from Melted Sunglasses to make my trip the perfect introduction to the Bizarro Pittsburgh; and he shall go down forever in the annals of Great Dudes in History for showing me what was probably the best time of my life. For starters, as soon as I exited the plane and stepped into the Ft. Lauderdale sun, I was met by Danny on the curb and beers were shotgunned in the whip posthaste. It's nothing to say that my expectations were met right there within the first hour. Danny then decided to blow my mind even further by bringing my now-drunken stomach one of the savoriest treats in the Cuban culinary lexicon: El Rey de las Fritas.



A frita is a Cuban sandwich that is made up of ground chorizo and (I think) some beef. It's mixed in with spices and tomato sauce and then topped with shoestring potatoes. This was kind of a mind-blower because back when I was a young lad and the folks used to load Lil' Suzz and I up in the car to drive to DC we would usually have a couple sandwiches for the drive prepared and my mom would always purchase a can of shoestring potato sticks in lieu of potato chips. The memories I have of trying to get the obstinate grease off of my hands tickled the back of my brain for a second before I dove in and I have no problem telling you lovely readers that this sandwich will tantalize any sense you choose to throw at it.



The first night after Danny and I took in a Guinness or two on the street I got to begin to meet most everyone and I learned the following: A) I am old. B) Every girl in Miami is beautiful. C) The Miami lifestyle is quite different and I was up to the challenge to adapt. D) See ya white girls. While hanging at Sarah's house, baby found some smoke and Sarah and Amanda were making tiramisu.



We hit up Fox's Sherron Inn after that which is basically Miami's punk dive bar and I got to get a glimpse or two of the local punx/kids. The service was awful, the bar packed, and the air humid so we mostly just drank in the parking lot next to the bar which seems to be de riguer in the land of expensive Yuenglings. Hi ladies.



After that the rain began to fall (as it does every day in Miami... sounds familiar) and we headed off to Mary's Coin Laundry. I know that sentence seems strange at first, but I was hipped to the fact that Mary's is not only a laundromat, but also a deli/sandwich shop/smoothie bar... and it's open after 3 AM... and it is delicious.



After we all regrouped I found a large gaggle of us just lazily hanging out in the small outdoor seating area, and after Tony V. pulled down the awnings for what seemed to be the first in the establishment's history we were ensconced in a private booth on the street and able to listen to the rain and chill out. I was fairly drunk and pretty tired but I did my best to soldier through. I also got to eat some dishes I have never experienced before, like my first beef empanada, perhaps a bizarro cousin to our humble pierogi back home.



Victor commanded that I eat a choripan sub and I'm always happy to indulge him. Choripan was probably the best-tasting meat of the trip, and the revelation was much like when I discovered milanesa in Oakland, CA. Choripan is another chorizo based sandwich that comes on a crusty sub roll and tastes like a firecracker of deliciousness. I forgot to take a picture of my sandwich but I just stole a picture of another one that would have been better quality anyways (I didn't take out my real camera [and I forgot to borrow Lil' Suzz's GOOD camera] till Day 2 and the iPhone has done nothing but bum me out with its inferior image capabilities, especially for a gent on the go with a food website like myself). It's nothing. Much love to Mary's. Will eat again.



Danny made me some mate, too. Love first time food/drink experiences. Best guy.



From here on out I did not stop partying for the next five days so I am surprised I could even eat let alone anything remember to take pictures of it. But as the actual festival draws nearer and nearer down the page the coverage will get intense, so please bear with me and don't be upset because you're not getting what YOU want from ME. I'm trying my best here.

The next day I got to go to the only Tex-Mex in Miami that is worth a damn (this came from the mouths of the locals) at Taco Rico. I was advised to order the fish tacos by Danny and I took him up on it and made three new friends who I quickly murdered and cannibalized.



As I said in my last post, Negra Modelo with a lime has become my beer of choice when I'm not throwing money around like a horny sailor and now I am sure the guys at Gooski's are bummed that I order this during a packed Saturday night gig, but hey. I suppose this brings me to another point. Another bizarro point of contention between Miami and the Steel City: kids in Miami can seriously pound booze, and if they had their choice I'm sure they would drink the Pittsburgh Brewing Company dry on the same cheap beer that powers our parties. There is no time in Miami for your fancy IPA's or stouts or whatever. People want to get drunk and get drunk NOW and they do not care how it happens. I was in no position to argue, so from there on out it was High Life, Modelo, Budweiser, and all the rest I remember from my youthful indiscretions. Beer was cheap and it was hot so here we are. Happy dude here:



From what I have gathered, Miami is definitely a bumpin' city with 5.4 million residents and plenty of stuff to do, but the only game in town for real rock n' roll is the small cadre of local bands that are made up of the same group of kids, and surprise surprise, that's who I was hanging out with. Miami's most known exports right now (both of whom have LP's coming out on Florida's Dying really soon - pick 'em up!) are the Jacuzzi Boys and Electric Bunnies (who were kind enough to actually make it up to Pittsburgh to play Totally Wired Fest back in April) and So Raw set out to showcase what else Miami's scene had to offer. Over the next couple of days we kicked it around town and raged, and eventually Friday night rolled up on us and we finally got to check out the So Raw venue at the Ism Gallery. I was pretty anxious to see some live jams and my juices really got flowing when Electric Bunnies took the stage. Here's Victor:



When Electric Bunnies first 7" came out I picked it up. While hearing the 45's gives you a decent enough introduction to the band, I have seen them excel much further in the longform, meaning I have enjoyed their two live sets immensely and I am quite interested in seeing where their upcoming full-length will take them. It's strange that the band presents such a low-key fuzzy beach pop image when in actuality there is a psychedelic charge hidden so far under their preconceived sheen. The songs have more room to breath and expand when the band stretches out and they were in fine form during this particular gig. There's rumors of a tour coming up, but I won't spoil any surprises.



"Nobody takes pictures of the drummer" according to a shitty metalcore band.

In addition to the Bunnies that night, Eric (Bunnies and Melted Sunglasses lead guitar player) was playing TeePee songs with a full band. Having only heard his "Wooden Noise" tape before my turntable unfortunately met its untimely demise, I wasn't sure what exactly to expect. When I was driving to the beach with Christina and Rene to pick up Solange we were listening to CDR's in the car and Christina said "This song is awesome, you need to listen to it." Well, it was indeed awesome and is indeed included on the upcoming TeePee full length that Eric is putting out and if you head over to the TeePee Myspace you can check out this exquisite bedroom pop number called "I Told You So". After we listened to it about three times in a row between sprinkles of the rest of the TeePee full-length I immediately told Eric when I saw him that I was hoping to hear that song at the gig and sure enough he delivered. While I missed the first improv half of his set running around with Drugula's dumb ass (who had gotten wasted enough to forget his PIN number... good Lord) I made it back in time for the second half when Eric was slamming out my request.



TeePee seems to be a musical lynchpin of the Miami scene due to his involvement in multiple projects and his multi-instrumental/multi-genre-spanning talent. While I usually don't have a lot of good things to say about mining the comforters and dust ruffles of America's bedrooms, I find the TeePee songs to stand above most of his contemporaries due to the sheer volume of influences and styles TeePee experiments with. Anything ranging from the dissonant slop guitar workouts of the later Scientists to the narcotic nudges of Spacemen 3 to the dreamy and hyper-sexual sounds of French synth-wave becomes grist for the mill in my ears and the creative spark that drives TeePee can ignite that pile when it all melds together.



TeePee has 7"s out on Weird Hug and Hozac right now and a debut LP on the way by winter-time. Don't be an idiot.



Not soon after Vinnie and BD Biz fell on the PA and busted it that first evening, leaving the Yolks soldiering on and singing out of a harmonica microphone and giving the kids what they want (thanks Lauren for the photo), we headed over to the penthouse on the beach (not kidding) that Manny and Danny had obtained for us for some righteous debauchery and the beds were soon covered with vomit, babes, booze, illicit substances, and a whole lot of Natural Light courtesy of Eric. Pink Reason immediately became null and void due to overconsumption and the party raged on till the fuzz showed up and gave everyone the boot. I don't remember TOO much but it was a pretty great time and we had another gig and another late night to look forward to coming up. And with that, baby went to the beach.



Rene and Christina and Solange and I had rolled over to Miami Beach earlier that day. I'll level with you readers here. I've never really been a beach guy. When I was around six or seven my family went on our last vacation together to Rehoboth Beach in Delaware. While that may now be the burgeoning gay vacation mecca of the mid-Atlantic these days, all I remember back then was getting knocked over by dipshits on boogie boards every fifteen minutes and nearly being dragged under the water by the undertow. Couple that with seventeen or eighteen years of being overweight and out of shape and pretty soon you haven't taken your shirt off in public for five years or so. But thanks to the bike and the yoga mat I decided to strut my stuff and actually expose my skin to the sunlight and let me tell you - one soak in the warm and inviting water of Miami Beach is enough to slough off any hangover, heartbreak, or nagging worry that may attempt to tether itself to your mind. I swam out past the crowd and into the deep water and floated on my back over the waves until I couldn't hear anything anymore. Perfection.

After that, we headed off to get some grub at David's Cafe down along the beach. Here Christina and Solange got some enticing milkshakes.



I opted for my first Cuban sandwich of the trip, and I must say aside from the slightly higher beachfront price tag, I was not disappointed in the least. I got the regular Cuban and whomever was sitting next to me got the Media Noche (which is basically the same thing only served on Cuban sweetbread, which is yellow and fucking delicious. Here is my Cuban:



Here is my reaction to its deliciousness:



Here's the Media Noche. See how the bread is yellow? That's Cuban sweet bread. They serve baskets of this stuff, too. I must say, it opened my eyes.



After the meal, Solange got us some Cuban coffee which was enough to raise your hair on end with how powerful it is. I had about four shots and was ready to rip phone books in half, so think espresso concentrated with even more sugar and you'd be getting close. I can definitely see how this could keep you up till 5 AM without blinking. Two out-of-town members of the entourage REFUSED Cuban coffee in Miami. I won't mention any names but these two dinks were thereafter regarded as complete morons (and a little rude if you ask me). Who travels to another city/state/country/culture and then doesn't sample an integral part of the cuisine? Bah. Anyway, I'd like to thank the girls and Rene for rolling me out there because the beach trip had me jazzed to hop onstage and throw down later that night. While I am probably hopping back and forth on the space-time continuum due to being out of my mind for a week straight, there was a day show at the Upper East Side Garden. I guess it was pretty tough for most people in Miami to be outside before 1 PM but the show went on and I checked out the two bands who played Little Beard and Fluffy Lumbers.



I didn't really know what to expect from Little Beard. Sarah and Nicole are in this band and I planted myself next to the "stage" to check them out and I'll be damned if I didn't hear some delightful indie pop with some Korg or Moog or Floog or whatever people who don't want to play a piano play. Sarah has a fine voice, the band a tight rhythm section, and the songs were upbeat and snappy. While this isn't my normal cup of tea, I could see them actually doing something with the right push in the right direction. The two guys and two ladies make for a cute-looking young foursome that actually has some musical chops and could get kids moving were they not walking zombies from the night before.



Fluffy Lumbers played next and honestly I didn't really care because I was probably thinking about NEANDERTHAL and looking at girls at the gig. I threw my drink at the singer's head during a lull in the set and apparently made disgusted faces every time I heard a change I didn't like and so what? What are you gonna do? Call a cop? Take me to jail! Weird Hug has put out their first record. Weird Hug are my dudes. YOU make the call. Here is a picture of Alex who did play some noodly yet tasteful lixxx which I could appreciate since no one wanted to listen to the Grateful Dead with me except Manny.



Oh yeah, I am beginning to remember the timeline a little more clearly now. After we awoke at the penthouse, and before the gig at UEG, we piled into Eric's work van with no windows and a bucket full of hats. Drugula and I both donned one and we decided to eat something else. The last time I'd been in Florida (Orlando to be exact) I was taken by my friend Natalie to their grocery chain Publix and I ordered a sub. In the back of my mind I always remembered that fresh and inviting smell of their bread, the Boar's Head meats and indulgent condiments they used, and the toppings that snap in your mouth with all the flavor of a farmer's market. So I told everyone "Yo, we should go get sandwiches." Publix never disappoints.



Wylie and Drugula stepped it up a notch by ordering the chicken finger sub.



Kevin and Vinnie split a box of chicken, I decided to go the healthy route and grabbed a tuna salad spinach wrap, a banana, and a blended health beverage made up of numerous green fruits and veggies. It can't be all bad all the time. Sometimes you have to listen to your body. Look, a handsome gent.



Here's another Bizarro Pittsburgh twist for you. Most folks in town, especially the ones who work in Downtown Pittsburgh know Franktuary (whose dogs have made an appearance or two on 7-Inch Slam before). Speaking of which, here's the bratwurst I wrecked from there last week:



Anyway, Tony and Elena were driving me over to Rene and Manny's for a pool party or maybe even to the gig or something, I don't know! But they stopped to grab some grub at none other than the spot that caused Franktuary to christen (I kill me) itself its current name after some hefty legal wrangling.



The Dogma Grill. Seems their use of the word "dogma" caused a lawsuit and Pittsburgh's Hot Dogma (the better name by far) had to change their name even though the respective restaurants are 17 hours away from each other and honestly how many yinzers are going to be strutting around Miami that aren't already Pittsburgh Steelers getting their dongs polished by tanned fake-breasted starfuckers? Riddle me that! Dogma did have some pretty tasty chili cheese fries that I sampled, though.



The Sedona Dog. From the menu: "Homemade spicy salsa, grilled bacon, fresh sliced avocado, sour cream, diced tomatoes, and vinaigrette". AKA: Fuck you, Franktuary.



So now we're here. Saturday Night. Game time. ROT SHIT has to deliver. But first there were some other bands to hop onstage at ISM Gallery like Couchfaces with Nicole and Sarah T. and Tony and Danny, some acoustic act that played because someone died in their band or something (I can't remember anything about the conversation I had with the dude while i was waiting for a beer), and basically just a whole lot of nonsense since there were cancellations and lineup shufflings to attend to. Of course, I'm sure everyone knows what was coming up: the man with the plan, bringing you nothing less than the razzle, the dazzle, the agony, and the ecstasy of Brian's Dirty Business or as we refer to it: "motherfuckin' BD Biz". Check his onstage harem:



One song. Six times? Did you like the slow version? The fast version? The mid-tempo rocker? What does it matter? It's all a party, man. The kids shook it up and had a blast watching this man dismantle himself for our viewing pleasure.



Vinnie: "Yeah, yeah, you heard the Quick and wrote a song and it wasn't good." Mad clown love to BD Biz. Up next: ROT SHIT (photos by Lauren... if anyone has any other good ones, lemme know)



Actually some newspaper or blogger or some other bullshit took this one:



Kevin joined us onstage for "DEAD II". Sick dogpile. Dope like Sublime.



It's nothing to say we were awesome. I heard the live recording Eric did and "Power-Pop Faggot" sounded like INFEST. Thumbs up!




Drugula and Gabriel and your man of many hats.

After we were done, the band I was most excited to see all weekend was up next: MELTED SUNGLASSES!



Melted Sunglasses are my favorite group from Miami. One night recently I got super fucked-up alone in my apartment thinking about my time in Miami and I just opened up Microsoft Word and had to get this down:



Miami sears into you as you coast along its congested highways upon entering this glittering paradise. Commerce pollutes the landscape with the most fashionable of shimmering glass monoliths to empty corporate promises that leave the most intrepid of the young in search of something, anything that will pull them into a new direction. But while the fight burns inside a small group of dedicated musicians, they must sacrifice and explode and implode and feel the tearing and the exhilaration and the utter futility of pounding away at something new. And when these bands release songs like this, I feel it in me from years apart and over a thousand miles away. Miami was a new scene to me and the band that makes it stand out the most as a representative regional beacon of its mesmerizing culture and good feeling and uncertainty that we experience everyday in these turbulent times is Melted Sunglasses and I for one can do nothing but offer all my unbridled support and whatever words they permit me or not.



Utilizing the musical and emotional tools from all parts of this group of young men making things happen musically in a city with the means to crush everyone’s dreams before offering a solution for the young people tired of their ingrained existence unknown to the rest of the USA, Melted Sunglasses tack on a new dimension, dragging their toes through the final grains of lush warm sand on the beach until they hit the parking lot and are wandering with bloody toes under a neon sidewalk sale of futile glitzy urban dreams begging for a return to the clouds and warm breezes and the electric touch of the girl waiting for them in the grass on a hill with a hit of acid and a six pack of Tecate and a lime for you to share.


Photo by Michelle

Danny and Tony and Eric and Tony give their songs (and the Miami scene) the true harsh sexual-psychedelic twists that belie their joyous adolescent punk/pop sensibilities and turn each song into either a throbbing sweaty variation on a synapse-tweaking theme or a joyful romp through theories meshed in a mind-melting drift down the Opalaca River in a boat built for you and whatever friends you feel are ready to harness all the electricity their body can muster. I’ve felt it. You can feel it too.

"Sun King Pt. 2" sounds like King Tuff meets Flipper. Should I say anything else?



Drugula didn't know what to do at this point, but after that, it was time to make the scene while waiting for Pink Reason and Jacuzzi Boys to close out the night. That's when I retreated to the merch booth where our Greatest Hitlers cassettes and Bart Simpson Acid shirts were flying off the shelves. Sitting on the band beers were two righteous babes, Michelle and Amber:



"YEAH BUDDY"
-Liquor Store



Pink Reason and Jacuzzi Boys either sloshed themselves off the stage grinding through their hazy drunkenness or were sloshed with beers by the adoring crowd. Things had begun to veer off in the rawest direction yet and after cleaning up the actress blood, whipped cream, saliva, beer, vodka, and Vitamin Water it was back to the Penthouse for Party #2. It's nothing for me to say that it went well, complete with drunken lust, excessive overindulgence, another visit from the fuzz, and the repeated clowning of Midwestern freeloaders. Finally, the party just ended up like this:



By the next morning, no one had slept, everyone was hung over, and I had lost my white polo shirt over the 39th floor balcony and was swathed in Gay Josh's tiny white shirt that I am not even sure was a shirt. Needless to say, it did not fit. The boys on the balcony with our man Manny:



We kicked it the next day relaxing at Sarah's house playing pool and foosball. Great times. And soon, with the other 3/4 of Rot Shit and Pink Reason back en route to our respective domiciles and me flying out on Tuesday, it was time for me to begin to say goodbye to my new friends in Miami, and what better way to do that than with fancy beers and grub and plenty of the beautiful ladies of Miami. Rene and I took a drive through Miami's more opulent communities and met up with everyone in a gorgeous plaza complex where tap after tap spewed forth with pleasing libations. Naturally I had more than a few Rogue Dead Guys and we made the most of my time, and nearly everyone made it out to see me off. Wylie showed his appreciation for these nachos:



Rene and Christina looking stylish before their big move to NYC.



No blog entry about Miami is complete without Raul. What is this?



Tony G., Nicole I., Steve A. Much love. $$$ GETTIN' MONEY $$$.



The food here was quite a fine pastiche of seafood and Tex-Mex with a swank trendy bar inside and enormous tables outside that we had all to ourselves. I couldn't ask for a better send-off and luckily I can scam more website hits off of pervy dudes watching Christina eat dinner.



Dessert.



As I took this picture I said to myself, "I wonder what everyone in Pittsburgh is doing right now. HA!" Say hello to the lovely Allen sisters Christiane and Michelle with Sarah T. and Christina, Nicole, and Elena. Let's finish out the night here and at Manny's before Danny shipped me off to the airport with a parting embrace. I'm glad I can post this picture and that the Internet exists:



And a final go-round with the boys:



So there you have it. Rot Shit may be banned from So Raw next year (HARSH SHIT), but it was worth it. I will never forget my trip to sunny South Florida and I doubt you will either. Reporting live from the G-20 are my great memories of new friends, new foods, new jams, and new beginnings. I will be in attendance next year, and bands can get in touch with So Raw for touring Miami till then. It is worth your time. Trust me. Build a scene with these awesome kids and remember it for the rest of your life.



I'm out. Turn on your lovelight.

Here Comes Sunshine

Greetings to all fellow travelers, eaters, jammers, and rockers out there. Since the last quick teaser from HONE featuring our good buddy Nobunny tearing up the Burgh back in April, I've aged another year and have now crossed the threshold of 27 when musicians are theoretically allowed to die and in addition I've been out on the road doing big thangs for all the readers out there who are so bummed that they don't get to see this page updated as regularly as they'd like. But after careful consideration and some pensive late-night reflection, it makes me happy to bring you what I've been up to recently outside of the Steel City (pictured below).



The winter had been harsh in town this year both personally and meteorologically and I needed a lot of time this year to clear my head and figure out how I was going to wrench myself out of the doldrums and rise above (no Rollins). Thanks to my ever-benevolent bosses who I think get some kind of vicarious thrill out of watching me stumble across America, I had plenty of time to just be broke for a few weeks and then hop on a plane to leave it all behind. My first choice of venue change was to everyone's favorite jealousy-inducing, wallet-emptying hippie paradise known as the Bay Area. With guarantees of food, spirits, libations, and much more coming from such notables as our own Vinnie, Mitch Cardwell, Icki, and more - we also had the ultimate face-off. Not Travolta vs. Cage, mind you, but myself and Andy The Inhuman Eating Machine. If you've been to this blog before, we've had the link up for a long time, so give yourself a refresher.

My flight left in the afternoon from Pittsburgh International and waiting for the 28X with my messenger bag, yoga mat, and wide-eyed anticipation of a city, state, and environment I'd never entered before was ballooning my expectations and getting me jittery for the five-hour flight. I knew that upon landing, I'd be navigating BART to Mitch's house to get the weekend started, and as I slipped into town around 9 PM I headed over to the East Bay, the whole time thinking about food, girls, tunes, and of course, Too $hort:



Mitch picked me up from the Macarthur station and I was pleased to find I hadn't gotten lost on my first night. He and Dulcinea set me up with a delicious sandwich on the couch and I got myself together with the help of the ever-progressive California medical community. We were due to meet up with folks at longtime Oakland institution the Kerry House. I was overjoyed to reconnect with old friends like Mitch and Mark. The last time I had seen both of them together was in Brooklyn at the Teengenerate reunion with Chuck Barrels and I was quite tired of all this internet hullaballoo and just needed a solid hang. What I got was more and then some.



I don't normally drink liquor, but why not? A common refrain I've perfected over the last couple of months sealed the deal: "Baby's on vacation." Kelsey has since bailed the Bay for the concrete pastures of Brooklyn, but it was great to meet her and chill with the gang.



Myself with the lovely Andy. I didn't get to steal any Revolver trade secrets, but I do think I managed to be sufficiently charming. She had to bail town that week for Chaos in Tejas, as did Mark for family business, but it was great to vibe my first night. While sitting at the Kerry House, I noticed a bum sleeping on the bench against the wall. Thinking that the bar showed compassion to street people, I inquired if this was normal.

"He works here". I looked in the back of the room and saw a woman passed out on the pool table. Mitch told me some stories about the sordid goings-on there as I watched a derelict pedal a bike through the door behind us. I zipped my head around and noticed he had a sandwich strapped to the rack on the back of his bike.

"Oh, that derelict is delivering sandwiches," I mused to no one.

It was our bartender. Soon enough, I was accosted by Oakland's finest after a brief conversation in which I utilized some obscure Oaktown 357 knowledge to meet some new dance partners. Shake it up, white boy.



We headed back after that and I prepared for my first day. Upon waking up on the couch, I decided to head for a walk in the morning and see what was up with Oakland before I was hit with a hammer or beaten like a 97 year-old woman. What I found was a lovely stroll through the park and around the lake.



The Japanese Tea garden had some lovely flowers and strolling baked through the sunshine made me forget about getting rained on for the past two previous weeks.



I came upon a large music video set and walked through it to see a bunch of jokers in board shorts and ballcaps running around like crazy catering to the whim of some unseen band they were setting up an American Pie-esque comedy bit to film. I got bored after twenty seconds and did a lap around the lake. Soon I was back to where I started and saw the "band" which turned out to be some solitary Puerto Rican screamo nightmare sitting alone in a director chair. If you squint you can see him/it. Harsh vibes.



Andy and Mitch soldiered up to the task of beginning our descent into food debauchery. And so it begins. Our first stop was the Sinaloa taco truck.



I was told to order the suadero taco and the seviche tostada, which I did. Luckily, the tostada had an option to get all the seafood on the menu (mixta) and it was one of the greatest things I've ever tasted.



Hello, Andy, welcome finally to 7-Inch Slam.



A little lemon and lime and you are in business. The seafood was so fresh and inviting that I murmured after every bite, savoring the thick avocado and the heat beating down on us. And look at this taco. Suadero is thinly sliced beef off the brisket and I highly recommend haunting the Mexican grocery in your town to find it. Pittsburgh will never have it and I am already sad about it:



And now for more me:



Morty Cardwell:



From there, we needed more. The next order was the Bahn Mi Ba Le restaurant that Andy and Mitch had been talking about. While we have bahn mi in Pittsburgh, ours are generally crowed about by the vegetarian set, and while they're great, this one said it contained meatball and egg. You bet I will. Note: I apologize now for the blurry pictures.







Look at this sensitive man. When Icki says "That's a good picture", you hold onto it. From there things began to get heated as we headed over to the El Ojo de Agua truck.



By this time I realized that all the Spanish Suzz had ever learned had never rubbed off on me and the dudes gave me a hand and helped me order my first real torta. I ate the beso de novia, which I can't describe in words, especially since I don't know the Spanish versions of what I was eating, nor did my honky upbringing prepare me for such delicious savory meats.





Note the cheese sauce, queso blanco, avocado, fresh lettuce and tomato. I haven't even described the three meats in the torta. And why should I? You should just go eat one. Everyone stepped up to the plate and tried a different variety and we stood in the parking lot housing sandwiches off the hood of the car and deciding where to go next.



Here's a size comparison to help out (that is half the torta):



Due to my extreme cultural sensitivity, I found it necessary to traverse the racial culinary spectrum and I was taken to check out the West Coast version of BBQ at Everette and Jones in Oakland.



The sauce here was THAT FIRE and folks behind the counter were getting heated up watching Lebron dominate, and we chilled outside and met up with Patrone who you may remember from FM Knives and more recently Photobooth. With a cute little dog and some stylin' shades, Jason joined our gang and we began to fight our way through the meal.



I ordered the hot links. They were smoky and spicy and full of hot pepper flakes and served with a tangy potato salad and bread. And here I have to admit after the first ten bites I had to run to the garbage can and hork because my stomach was too full of delicious food. Too much food in too little time caused for a quick detour from mastication, but Andy finished my grub and I remember my E&J experience fondly.







For dessert from Mi Puebla (more on that later), I tried two firsts: not only did I experience the mamey fruit for the first time, but I got it blended into a swirling cavalcade of freshness known as the agua fresca.



After all this, we journeyed to the Mormon Temple on the hill so that I could get a cool view of the East Bay in all it's hazy glory. Seeing Mormon money in effect lording their wife-swapping, do-gooding ways over the people of the bay was a trip indeed... one of the stranger megachurch whatnots I've seen and I've seen plenty of Christian FREAKS.



Handsome guy.



FREAKS!

From there it was a blur of a day. I can't find any pictures to confirm but I do know for a fact that I spent a night of intense partying with Brace, Eric, Heather, and Neil, I found myself walking alone through the Tenderloin at 10 in the morning doing my best to make it back to Oakland without losing my eyeballs/teeth. I must thank those kids for A) playing me a pretty killer Wild Thing CDR and B) Heather giving me a sweater to stay alive in the freezing chill outside and C) Eric for saving my Nalgene bottle and eventually mailing it back to me when I got home along with some other goodies like some of the records he put out on his own label Daggerman and a couple travel guides for my next trip back. Love ya, Eric. There's more Brace coming up, so fans of the internet and Vinnie-esque characters are in for it.



You know this burger if you're from California, but if you're like me and you're rolling there with the boys (including Mitch's roommate Clark who added some more good vibes to the trip) you're stoked. My companions soothed my horrid hangover and primed my gullet for In-N-Out Burger, a California institution that I've been dreaming of ever since I saw The Big Lebowski. I was convinced that I needed to order everything "Animal" style from the Secret menu, so that is what I did. Here are my fries:



Here is Clark about to dig in.



Never have I had a fresher fast-food burger anywhere in America. The employees are also given a living wage, which is extremely righteous and explains why they are busting their humps all day in those ridiculous paper hats. While the company is owned by kooky Jesus freaks who put biblical scripture notation on the underside of their cups, I can't knock their hustle. I think about the Double-Double at least once every three days.





When I mentioned Mi Puebla earlier, I was talking about the large Mexican grocery located in the East Bay. Upon my initial visit I snapped a photo of one of their employees preparing a bunch of grilled chickens in front of the store. No sooner had that happened that a large security guard stopped me and informed me there would be no pictures to taken inside. Well, that guy could eat a dick because I tucked my camera away the second time, got my camera in there and took pictures of all I could. Whole Foods tried to do the same thing to me on my own block, and all it made me do is begin preparing the "Fuck Whole Foods" 7-Inch Slam entry that brews a little more every time I go over there.

Anyway, here is some of the shit you can get in the grocery store over there. Made Giant Eagle Market District look like Beirut and for that, I salute the proud Hispanic tradition contained therein. But never tell me not to take a picture of food, motherfucker.

Delicious pastries I'd never seen.



Veggies qualified to satisfy, so fresh, so moist, so inviting.





Fruits that you've never even heard of before.



Chorizo ground fresh that day.



A seafood case built for a king. Each crab in there was probably 10" in diameter.



Premade BBQ supplies/meats/grilling fodder. This was three sections of a 15 section case.



The salsa case. WHY GOD?!



The Chickarron case - AKA giant pork rinds. Yes please.



Not only do all these beautiful creations come presented to you in the cleanest grocery store you've ever seen, but it is filled to the brim with hauntingly beautiful ladies strutting their stuff on their shopping day or working. And then when you go outside, there is a churro cart which you can utilize to fill your churro of choice with chocolate, caramel, strawberry, and more. I got a plain churro, Andy went with caramel and gave me a bite, and I learned that a churro pulled out of fresh oil on the street will make even the most hardened anti-desserter (me) wince with delight.





Cue the homophobic males jealous of me looking handsome/getting stuffed.



Moving on, later that evening we made a trip out to the lovely town of Porta Costa, CA to the Warehouse Bar, which is across the street from an old brothel and still serves up a lobster dinner and hotel room for the low sum of $65 if I am quoting correctly. We had some drinks and enjoyed the scenery. They also had something else that I enjoyed (though I must confess here, Mark was the man and took this picture and I realized there are no pictures of he and I from the whole trip, so I apologize Mark! Bacon cheeseburger dog on me next time.):



As the sun drifted away to the lilting strains of Mitch's 237th Fleetwood Mac attack of the week, the vibes circulating around the picnic tables outside were good and we co-existed happily amongst the shuffling old Deadheads and Parrotheads. Special note: if you have an internet jukebox in your bar of choice, there is a good chance you can search "Cheater Slicks" and come up with at least the In The Red albums. I learned this and life may be easier in the future if I'm ever stuck in a smoky life-ender with nothing to do. Andy and Kelly gave me a lift to their place and I dozed in the backseat and we crashed out watching the FSU episode of Gangland. They did not talk about any sweet bands. They should have also interviewed Freddy Madball just because. Especially about his hilariously awful new rap career.



Andy had plans for me the next day. We headed into SF proper and went to one of his favorite restaurants, Le Cordon Bleu, which served French Vietnamese eats at a counter the size of a dining room table. We shuffled in around 11:30 or so after Andy gave me a quick tour of Pacific Heights, Golden Gate Park, and the beach. The weather up to this point had been quite fair in the East Bay and SF but today it was beginning to get wet and chilly as the day went on. I cursed myself for not bringing a jacket to California. Cordon Bleu made up for it. There are five items on the menu. #5 is everything on the menu for 8.95 or so. We both ordered it.



The dish is sliced grilled beef (they call it shish kebab but there are no skewers or veggies involved), a large piece of chicken, white rice with meat sauce, cabbage, and a roll called the Imperial Roll. The meat fell apart in your mouth and the roll was so packed full of sumptuous flavor that I was drinking water just to cleanse my palate and retaste it with every bite. I didn't really finish my white rice and meat sauce, but Andy was happy to oblige and further impress me with his WMD knife and fork. He's like me and does his best to eat healthy then splurge, and it was a joy dining with him. Here's a couple more shots... look at the Imperial Roll. Just look at it.



Do you even like eating?



Andy took me off to Marin County and showed me lots of California that I never thought I'd see. The communities of Sausalito and Alameda and were gorgeous, and if you weren't aware San Quentin resides on the most gorgeous cliff over the water you'll ever see. How do you feel about that? Wild place, man. By this time, I decided that I finally needed to take the plunge and indulge in one of the things I'd come for: the Haight. He dropped me off and I began to walk.

Suffice it to say, there were a couple nice things about it. There is a market for buyers on the street and I was treated quite right by a fellow Deadhead from Humboldt County. Despite the testy weather, I had a borrowed sweater, a piece, and the tools to get the job done. I walked up and down Haight Street searching for some glimmer of the Grateful Dead spirit and instead found a larger dirtier recreation of Pittsburgh's South Side with more fuzzed-out bums and psuedo-hippies offering me the dank nugz. Any plans I had for freelovin' hippie babes, flowers, and sunshine were dashed.

Looking into their eyes for a brief moment showed faces devoid of emotion and charged with expectation. They were nothing more than stony vessels of gruff hustling - the mellow ineffectualness of the hippie of old had been replaced by a grizzled hick with a drugrug and an underage girlfriend tugging angrily at him. A t-shirt at any store ran at least $25 and the one bar I stopped into for a beer (the Toronado) was packed with rowdy financiers and very unwelcoming. The community was grasping at straws and it seemed to me that any vestige of what was important there probably never even existed. I waited for Brace so we could enjoy some Mexican in the Mission.

I did meet this nice dog when I ducked into a park for a reality detour.



Moving on.



We had a party to get to with all the young punx where I was sure to feel like an old man, but we needed fuel and we hit El Castillito which served us up two excellent grilled vegetarian quesadillas. My camera got a workout in here which i think all the cooks were bummed about, but with a trusty Negra Modelo and some righteous sauces and salsas any tensions soon subsided. The meat here looked great too:



Look at this asshole:



I think I am the number one supporter of little asshole punk kids and I really wish there was some kind of summit where the Braces and Vinnies of the world unite then get their asses kicked by their older friends. Too fun hanging with this guy.





I've also come to the conclusion that Negra Modelo with lime in it is probably my favorite reasonably-priced beer. Best bottle, good memories, and refreshing as can be.



After swinging by the party and kicking it with the kids from Buzzer, Apache, and Wild Thing (and feeling super old), I headed over to the knockout to go see some swingin' garage bands. The first band on the bill The Mindless Things started things off great with some rousing R&B-tinged rockers that actually culled some soulful Oblivians moments and some good hooks. Only problem was the guitar amp shit the bed after five songs. That stuff looks great but then when you gotta fix it what can you do? The five tunes I heard were hot and I would check them out again gladly.



Dusty the drummer was an A+ guy and introduced himself and we hung hard in front of the club till I was in a haze. The other bands on the bill were the Boars (aptly named) and the Shangorillas (who I think were actually using a pedal board for a rote 60's rehash). I passed. Met some cool folks and got loaded. Couldn't complain about the venue. The Knockout looks and sounds great and is packed with lovely ladies so give it a shot. Here's me and Melanie, and she kicks ass.



The Castro is the cleanest, nicest, most inviting neighborhood I've ever seen. They have a cafe called Tangerine which had a brunch that I couldn't believe. I ate a corn and macaroni pancake with fried eggs on top for under ten bucks in a cute place and I must give it my highest rating.





Some more killers from brunch land - my grilled brie and tomato croissant from a cafe I cannot recall the name of, except there was a wait for everyone else and there is no hostess.



Scrambled eggs with avocado:



Since it was time for exploration, this time I took the trip out towards Delores Park through the Mission. I stopped into the Needles and Pens zine store:



This spot had a lot of great material and a nice dude working the counter. There was a family with three children inside the store screaming and wailing and moving items around and he and I exchanged knowing glances. There is honestly one thing that bugs me so much on the street and it is "cool" parents. Sickening. While I was there I picked up a copy of Human Being Lawnmower #2 which ended up not only including a great Rot Shit review, but also righteous interviews with Andy Shernoff, Eddie and the Hot Rods, and more. I really liked this zine a lot even despite its obvious clinging to some sort of NYC punk history which to me seems like trying to hold onto sand at the beach.

I met a girl in the store who began to wander with me and she struck up a conversation about how she wanted to move to Pittsburgh. She was cute so I listened as we walked. After she told me she was interested in the anarchist community in Pittsburgh, I said "What sort of activities do you want to participate in besides living extremely cheaply?" When she had literally no other answer I figured it would be easier to just blend into the park and forget the whole thing. Two of her friends we bumped into introduced me to an old gold-toothed hippie who was doing bong rips in the middle of 1500 people on a hillside and I sat and conversed with him and enjoyed myself for awhile. Soon I began to get hungry so I nabbed a parting gift and headed out to a bar for a couple quick beers in this place called Delirium. One thing I learned is that shitty barpunk culture (along with the hipster grandma - which I got to see at the Nothing People gig coming up further down the page) knows no cultural limitations and even if you think your town is still the only place where new Misfits, rockabilly, The Dragons, Heavy Rebel Weekender, and Pitchfork combine to sluice a musical slop onto willing soon-to-be county employees, you are WRONG, brother.



After imbibing a few terrible beers and watching the near-homeless eat free bar garbage with every guy you ever saw at a Deftones show, I needed respite and the cheap delicious sushi at We Be Sushi killed it. I jammed the dinner special and three rolls and some cold sake and got fucked up and full and ready to roll. My last roll was the spicy creamy tuna salad roll and it was tight.



I haven't mentioned my buddy Damian yet, but here he is in his studious glory.



Damian has been my man since he and the elusive AA of Cool Dude Quarterly banged their way through Pittsburgh after the WFMU record fair last year. HONE and I were happy to have them for a few days and we made fast buds for life. Here are all four of us looking smart and lonely last Halloween at my house.



Damian saved my life multiple times on this trip and I can never repay him for anything ever. But for some reason he seems to still like me anyways. He has since moved to Berkeley and is ballin' out of control at school there running his lab and getting ready to crack the whip at grad students. I salute him. He took me all over Berkeley and showed me the campus and the rotten hippies polluting the streets. Once again, cheap tie-dye was a loss but the lasses were beautiful and the
lunch we had at the Intermezzo Cafe was on point.

I got the tuna salad and thai chicken noodle soup:



Damian jammed the corned beef and a half-salad (the whole salad is enormous and looks like something I need to try right away when I come back):



While Damian was busting his hump in the lab a couple days, I was strutting around Berkeley hitting up Yoga for the People and Yoga Kula (which was my first introduction to Anusara Yoga and an awesome refreshing class that got me very psyched). I also hung out smoking in People's Park watching the people mill about and then explored the city some more. The campus is bright and inviting and I forgot what being on a college campus was like, especially one as big as this. There were also many furry friends for me to say hi to:







That night, Damian and I went to Oakland to go see Nothing People at the Lobot Gallery. This was a huge highlight of my trip as I'd come to really enjoy the singles and World's Lousy track this band produced and I had heard nothing but good things about the LP's S-S has been putting out.



The gallery was housed in a desolate industrial area in Oakland and we were quite early. Using this time to purchase beers from the corner store, we settled in and waited for the gig. Luckily, Nothing People were up first and I was sufficiently zoned and ready to get some low-key space vibes rippling up through my spinal column. Nothing People came to play and they brought along ex-Monoshock member Doug Pearson as the new guy on bass and keys (even though everyone in the band switches instruments at least once during their set). The songs were crystalline in my ears and the room expanded and contracted with every brush over the strings. Tube amps and analog synths pulsed together creating a buzz in the room that rushed in and out of me with each breath. "It's Not Your Speakers" carried me along on a slow journey to the end of a beer bottle and gave me pause to close my eyes and take it all in with the beaming red lights and enormous installations.



The band were all sweethearts and were stoked that I was so excited to see them. Apparently they play about three times a year so I witnessed a pretty uncommon event and I am quite thankful. Amazingly they even tossed me a copy of their record and I must say Late Night is standing high above any other LP's I've heard so far this year with the exception of the Slicks Bats in the Dead Trees. A dirty satin and hard sex vibe sinks under the surface making the tones and sounds employed on this record drip like morphine, filling the room with blue smoke and warm, controlled feedback slowly melting into a throbbing k-hole of sound. Late Night lives up to its name and makes for a great listen when you truly need to disassociate with a smirk and the end of your trip. Pick one up while you can. They canceled their tour so live vicariously through me and support a great band. Get the record here.

Ran into Rob from Tractor Sex Fatality who I hadn't seen since Buffalo two or three years ago for Big Neck Fest. He is happily married and prowling Amoeba looking for more 45's to put in his special bin and it was nice to rap for awhile. Jesus, look at me.



One thing I noticed - kids are fucking FREAKS and I don't get it.



Another thing - CAVE headlined the show and sucked dicks while looking like Jesus playing prog rock and making all the kids flip out. Sorry boutcha. Damian and I shook our heads and headed home.



Eventually all good things must come to an end. My last night in town brought us all together at Thallassa in Berkeley and we had plenty of beers. Missy and Kelsey came out again with Andy and Kelly and Mitch and the vibes were great and I was really happy to have made some killer new friends and chilled hard with some old ones.

He's single, ladies. But don't ever try to get in the way of his Tapeworm 45.



After the bar I was loaded and we headed up the street for the perfect cap to the vacation: TOP DOG in Berkeley!



These sausages will stand up to any of our Euro brethren in the States and I could not get enough.



I killed the bockwurst, knockwurst, and a calabrese. They serve all these on French bread. Heaven! I got kraut, onions, and mustard on all three of mine and I must say: FUCK YES.









Here's a guy who had a good vacation.



Time for one more bite:



After heading home and waking up at 5 AM to get to BART to get to the airport, I walked an hour, discovered I left my debit card at the bar and had no money and was an hour away from the airport. Damian saved me at 6 AM, gave me ten bucks and sent me on my way. I got to SFO, missed my flight, slept under a bench for six hours, rotted in Vegas next to the ugliest, most annoying British family I'd ever seen (which was made all the better when I watched one of their sniveling five year olds faceplant on the carpet in the Vegas airport), got stuck on a Vegas runway thanks for Air Force One, and was met at midnight that night by Vinnie and lil' Suzz who brought me a sandwich and a kombucha. Best sister ever.

I'd just like to say, thanks to everyone: Damian, Mitch, Andy, Mark, Dulce, Brace, Melanie, Heather, Eric, Neil, Missy, Kelsey, Andytai, Dusty, Rob TSF, Nothing People, and more! If I forgot you, please forgive me, but I am a bum and sometimes it slips my mind. All I know now is I love the Bay and I'll be back.

Prepare for next time: STEVE HITS MIAMI. Coming soon!

Happy Birthday Nobunny!

The irony of our back from the dead post being Easter related isn't lost on me, we're taking some baby steps here with a little food, a little music and some hype for this weekend's Totally Wired Fest.

One of my favorite things about any holiday dinner at Mama Rizzo's are rice balls. They are a tasty little rural Italian concoction of rice, Parmesan cheese, ricotta, parsley and salt & pepper rolled in bread crumbs and fried in oil until a crisp golden brown:



Ready for the table:



After stuffing ourselves silly, playing video games and a little secret gambling (I won twelve bucks!) we slogged on over to the Polish Hill Punk Palace to catch the Nobunny/Rock N Roll Adventure Kids/Savage Lines show.

Vinnie stepped up with a holiday appropriate carrot cake from the Paddy Cake Bakery in Bloomfield.



Schleep digs in, punx are oblivious and the dog works on a plan of attack:



After carrot cake, watermelon and a kicked keg Pittsburgh's Savage Lines lay it down:



Rock N Roll Adventure Kids:



Mistress of Ceremony, the fabulous Sharon Needles:



Nobunny works his special brand of furry sex magic, American Apparel modeling skills and proves that his taint really does smell like an aromatic blend of Pabst and Cadbury Mini Eggs:



PS:
Don't sleep on this weekend's Totally Wired Fest:



Out of towners should take a looks at Schleep's Tips!

Photo credit to Rizzo on the band pics.

Secret Stash (or What I've Been Up To)

It's a jungle out there. I'll vouch for that. With all the turmoil in America right now, I think we could all use a break from the norm: the accusatory ranting of ultra-zealot neo-cons trying to sell our populace snake oil, a tanking economy, a media circus election that still is one of the most crucial turning points in our history, and of course, every member of my generation acting simultaneously like a morose 1920's West Texas pipe-liner and a drooling, whiny baby with unstable bowels about topics ranging from the most inconsequential (Vivian Girls, iPhones, sexy Halloween costumes) to one of the most consequential (the fact that all this gas price nonsense you motorists have been hooting like buffoons about is taking a dangerous toll on all manner of FOOD AND GROCERY PRICES!).

But whining and caterwauling aside, I'll admit in the past I would normally have had a bad attitude about plenty of the other completely ridiculous problems our world faces these days. But as time goes on, I've learned that life is much tougher than most of us could dream of and tuning in to gripe on message boards from our lofty office drone perches only makes us look more spoiled and laughable to the foreigners who have been ravaging eBay lately, pillaging and plundering all of our essential United States hardcore and punk vinyl history with our ever-shrinking exchange rate.

And basically, all I can say is I've been doing my best to detach, beef up my daily yoga practice, and to stay full for the long winter coming up. So let's take a look at some special sandwiches and assorted other ephemera that I have been foolin' with since our last update (and a couple special blasts from the past, as well). But I guess no day is complete unless you begin with a hearty breakfast first.



My new apartment has a pretty large kitchen, and before jetting off to LA with Eric Courtney for her new career, my girl Roxanne (who you may remember from our Leekfest Spectacular in West Line) gifted me this kitchen table where I can sit on a nice morning to enjoy my vittles and read. Here we have my bachelor breakfast, which on this particular day, consisted of an egg-white omelette stuffed with spinach, tomato, onion, and Monterey Jack cheese. My cereal of choice here was a bowl of Total mixed with Grape-Nuts.

Despite the meats and cheeses and assorted nonsense I've shoved into my yap in the last 26 years, I have never been big on sweets and I like my breakfast cereal like I like my women: crunchy, full of fiber, and whole-grain. So yeah, jab away, but I will eat the criticism up with some soy milk. Also, the Yoo-Hoo hit the spot. After Vinnie and Drugula couldn't stop talking Yoo-Hoo back in July, I made it a point to grab a six-pack, and it made for a nice treat for awhile. The potatoes, which I have been making since back in college, were spicy, crispy, and the perfect breakfast side dish. Add some fresh fruit, and you can turn your hovel with no TV, one free-standing lamp, and resin on the coffee table into a swank little private soiree for you and your lonely morning.



Chicago Dogs can't be beat, but the only problem is locating the perfect ingredients when not tromping through Illinois. Hopefully one of these days, one of our Chicago readers sends me a care package with the proper tools to replicate the joy of a true Chicago Dog. I've done most of the leg work and found the stores with the sport peppers and the proper franks, and now I need the neon green relish and the seeded buns! A few years back when I began working Downtown, there was a hole-in-the-wall on Liberty Avenue called Yovi's. It was run by two Chi-Town ex-pats, one of whom I assumed was Yovi, but I don't think those dudes could have gotten their names out from under their moustaches anyways. The shop, which was dirty in all the right ways, was completely covered from floor to ceiling in Chicago sports memoribilia and served the dogs in the exact same manner with the exact same ingredients that I'd come to find in Chicago proper. It is missed.



Here's a snap from lunch at the new Downtown PGH standby Franktuary with Vinnie and Pittsburgh all-around nice guy and record aficionado, Dan Allen. What you see here was half my order... my Bratwurst special didn't photograph well on my new phone, but you can see the Detroit (chili, onions, and yellow mustard [and I added jalapenos, sauerkraut, and banana peppers]) and the Buffalo (bleu cheese dressing, Frank's Red Hot, and I always add the chopped red onions). Someday I will have a full Franktuary rundown, but for now this will do. I am five dogs away from a free one on my Franktuary card!

Moving on, here are some pretty boss sandwiches I think you should take a peek at.



Turkey pastrami is my go-to lunch meat now. Here it is with some jalapeno mustard, onions, and Swiss on some multi-grain Tuscany. Don't mind if I do.



I whipped that turkey/avocado/bacon/Muenster/tomato/mung sprout/onion number at 3 AM after ingesting some fungus. Not too shabby.





My co-worker Chris (who loves eating and food and complaining as much as I do) went out to lunch one day and about forty-five minutes later I received a mysterious phone call from him. He said "Which do you like better, corned beef or pastrami?" That is a difficult choice for anyone who loves the most delicious of the salted, cured meats. I opted for the pastrami, and he brought me this killer greasy pile of slop from Smallman Street Deli topped off with about a pound of salted and spiced mouth-watering shaved meat with all the love that the Jewish community is known to show to their cuisine included.



Thanks Chris!



Here is the result of when Ciggy and I made some fried bologna sandwiches. This hot one had two kinds of cheese (Colby Jack and provolone), mayo, tomato, and onion. It was quite tasty when put on toast. Don't forget your roots.



Here we have one of my South Side moving casualties. No longer can I walk a block and a half to Carson Street Deli for this monstrosity named The Donnie Brasco. From the CSD website menu: Buffalo Chicken on Fresh Italian with Hot Pepper Cheese, Lettuce, Tomato, Onion, Hot Pepper Rings and Egg Salad with Your Choice of Ranch or Blue Cheese Dressing. For seven dollars? Forget about it!



Internal!



Spinach, salmon, and feta. Delightful. And in order to further confound and anger Andy from Inhuman Eating Machine, it's another with sprouts on it. I've decided recently that leaves of lettuce are pretty weak, so I am going to be garnishing sandwiches with sprouts or leafy greens from here on out. No sense eating solidified water in Iceberg form (unless it's shredded finely... shhh...)



Fresh fruit often makes any sandwich more appealing. This didn't need it, but it didn't hurt.



And with that, here's a sandwich that puts shredded Iceberg to GOOD use, and as recently as last week supplanted the Varsity Pizza in Moundsville, WV as my favorite Italian hoagie in the world. Any Pittsburgher keeping up with the internet knows this place, and I'm glad to give some props to the East End's finest new pizza shop: SPAK BROTHERS PIZZA. In addition to employing Cig and a host of other young punks, including Vinnie on a part-time basis, they serve plenty of food for the veggies out there. I picked up some Spak Bros. last week to celebrate Lil' Suzz's birthday and she says the Seitan Melt is the best sandwich going right now, so you know what to do if you haven't yet.



Here is the Italian close-up:





I haven't sampled much else, aside from one slice and three curly fries, but Spak Brothers deserves all the praise it gets. All they needed to do was print the ingredients of the Italian on the menu (sweet capicola, hot capicola, hot soppressata, and Genoa salami, all from Parma Sausage Company in the Strip. Remember them?) and they had my backing for life. Congrats to Ryan and Nate on their opening and I wish them success for years to come. And free sandwiches for myself.

This last set will mess your brain up. Get ready.



It was my boy Cla$$y Chri$' 35th birthday and he and the wife called me up for some deep-fried hoagies down at Jerome Bettis' horrid restaurant on the North Side. Aside from the terrible servers, the gaudy faux-celeb design, the wobbly table, and the moronic yinzer fanbase that filled it up, all I can say is they served DEEP-FRIED MEATLOAF SANDWICHES (see above) and then what I decided to wolf down...



THE DEEP-FRIED ITALIAN. Here's a closer look:



Moving on...



Ever been to Texas? On my first trip, I ate so much outstanding food I reconsidered coming home. Ever had a brisket taco from Mia's Tex-Mex? It was the first thing I ate there and the shock and awe that these marinated slices of heaven brought over my person was on par with the time I first I ate the Elbow Room's clam chowder, which I think is saying something.



I also sampled some of the "famous bean soup":



And I really couldn't have asked for more, thanks to my lovely tour guide. Ashley #1.



But I did ask for more. I asked for some giant beers:



And then I asked for a trip to Cafe Brazil. And a chorizo egg-white omelette with hash brown casserole. I got that.



Ashley asked for some SERIOUS fruit pancrepes. She got that.



And then she asked for some of my omelette. She got that.



In case you were curious, Cafe Brazil was stocked to the gills with bountiful, healthy, and fresh ingredients; a large and diverse menu that appealed to all walks of life; and coffee so good even I had to have a cup or two. We were the only folks there and the atmosphere was gorgeous. Quite a fine joint, that Cafe Brazil. I would love to return. Probably the most amazing food-related sight I saw in TX was Central Market, which was the size of a Sam's Club or Costco filled to the rafters with gourmet food. Delicious treats, outstanding produce, huge meat and seafood sections, football-field size wine racks and fancy beers of all stripes were everywhere, and you wouldn't believe the gelato stand!





We ate up the Forest Berry Yogurt Crunch mixed with Vanilla, and it put the tame cherry, lemon, and chocolate flavors the Eyetalians have here up in Bloomfield to shame. STEP YO GAME UP. But I digress... there was sushi to be eaten at Fujiyama. We hit this place twice, and the second time I was smart enough to get some pictures. Feast your eyes:









And finally, here are some records sent to us by fans and some that I have been jamming at the new spot through the summer and fall.



All 7-Inch Slam readers should know of the Inhuman Eating Machine by now. Andrew Levy from the Touch-Me-Nots happens to be the proprietor of said blog, and he and his lady make up this San Francisco twosome who were nice enough to toss their LP and 10" my way a long time ago. And finally I am getting around to writing about it, but here's what I have to say. The TMN's fire off a gaggle of snappy, witty tunes and I can hear a touch of Woody Allen's New York loser humor in the lyrics that showcases Levy's East Coast roots.

The sound is minimal, with Kelly Tschantz providing plenty of more than capable straight-eight pounding and dreamy backing vocals. The guitars twang and sling about a Southern heft, and honestly, I am reminded of ol' King Louie himself and his one man band spectacular, minus the years of self-abuse and backstage eight-balls. I feel like the Touch-Me-Nots would be much more concerned with a glass of smooth sippin' whiskey and a burrito after the show instead. The guitar work shows taste and restraint at times, and can break into a wild blues stomp, complete with off-kilter shredding during others. It's a sound that works in their case, but my main caveat is there is very little low-end in the tunes die to their lack of a bassist, so maybe you want to fiddle with your equalizer beforehand or petition Andy to fashion his Fender combo into some kind of dual G&B rig. But anyway, if you can grab either of these records, I'd say go for it. I especially like "Class Reunion" as an example of their low-key hopped-up sound. I'll back 'em! The LP is self-released and should be able to be gripped here. And you can grab the Sheldon Munn 10" up above from the Frenchies over at Yakisakana.



"Don't Hit Record!" Records out of my my favorite little touring spot, Memphis, TN, dropped off two EP's for me to peruse, one being the split 7" (take THAT, Mike Sniper!) squaring off my partners in crime from Chicago Daily Void with Montreal's newest dark and moody punk darlings The O-Voids.

Daily Void checks in with two tunes, including a reprise of their hit "Devil's Gold Window" from earlier in the year. Having played shows, partied, and hung out with the DV boys ever since Horrible Fest #1 when they were still Functional Blackouts, I must say that this is not an act and these guys are one of the more unique combos going right now, and any chance I get to praise their work is more than welcome for me. The jerky robotic paranoid vibes you get here stem from a break from the Chicago "cool kids" and an introspective look into a strange dystopian universe which I hope never comes, but I am always happy to hear songs about.

This happened to be the O-Voids first vinyl appearance at the time, and they did not disappoint. Apparently all the PCP and gorgeous girls in Montreal didn't stop them from keeping their songs moody and dissonant, worming the dubious "noir punk" tag from some press releases and reviewers. Philip Marlowe this ain't, but it sounds just right to me with bleak tinges of Warsaw and I think it would make a more than suitable companion for lonely beers and window-staring or a drive in the rain to somewhere you don't want to go. There's a stripped-down post-punk clatter that works well with some heavy reverb on the vocals, but not too much to garner a chorus or render it unlistenable like some of their contemporaries who are much too busy checking Pitchfork for their names to bother with making memorable songs. Great first effort. "Remote Control" would be the hit to me, and if these characters make it down here, this is a band I could see sharing a bill with Kim Phuc, who share a similar vibe.

As for the Staags, this record threw me for a loop. You might know their bassplayer by his internet psuedonym Jack Stands and his stellar live recordings for all your Memphis and Gonerfest darlings. I checked out a few songs live when Rot Shit played with these gents down in Memphis at Murphy's in January and was duly impressed, but this record separates them from the pack with its pure hardcore sentiment. Sometimes live hardcore can have an off-night, but a 7" record is ALWAYS its truest test. Regardless of whatever hip jams may get you laid these days, raging hardcore punk was never on that Top Ten list, but I couldn't care less. The Staags attack, charging headlong into pounding 80's template rhythms which will always work as long as young, white men are mad about something, however ridiculous. This record carries my highest personal recommendation if you want to turn your brain off, drink ten beers, fight your friends, and pretend you're Matt Coppens for about seven minutes, and that's just long enough for me.

Cool cover art and simple basic hardcore pounding make this a winner, and the songs on their Myspace also show off some great catchy rock n' roll chops, so they are firing on all cylinders... check out "Noise Ordinance Rock"! Hopefully we get another EP in the pipeline, and I'd say the Staags could call it a day and be remembered fondly on Killed By Death: The Termbo Years (which Aaron Lefkove needs to get on comping RIGHT NOW, got it pretty boy?). That being said, I'd roadie for these guys.



Hook or Crook didn't send me this one out of the goodness of their hearts, but the thirteen bones I plunked down in June before the USPS lost my pre-ordered copy of the new Human Eye LP "Fragments of the Universe Nurse" was no sweat off my back. And when lost, head honcho Chris was kind enough to supply me with another copy of the colored vinyl, limited to 200, even! What a guy! But getting down to brass tacks, this is an essential long-playing platter in '08 and Human Eye continues to bring their warped psychedelic vision to life on wax with more force and drive than ever before.

Everyone liked the first LP fine after they shook off their acid hangovers, and the recent singles (two of which share tunes with this release) were even more of a step in the right direction. But now Timmy V. has pounced on his art and has got me reeling whenever I drop this on the turntable. "Poison Frog People" on the B-side gives you the shivers with the winding tear the guitars rip into, and the multi-instrumentalists they are, they send Johnny LZR on a Pigpen-esque racket of xylophones that back up Vulgar's guitar histrionics over the tom-pounding that will make you twitch. They've really hit their stride, and I'd love to get the chance to check them out again. We've been pulling for a PGH show for awhile now, but let's see if we can finally make it happen. I would be afraid to see them torch another vacuum cleaner again, though. Wait, who am I kidding? No I wouldn't. Hook or Crook is putting out some important platters these days (Lamps, Haunted George, Mirrors, the Rebel), everyone. Don't sleep and make sure to throw them some business.


As for new singles, you bet I got some for you!

Tyvek? They just put out another 7-inch on M'Lady Records with some more old songs from the Fast Metabolism CDR we've all been listening to over and over since they started kicking around the MTV-approved "LO-FI" scene a few years back. This time, we have one of my favorites "Sidewalk" kicking things off and "Future Junk" from the split with Cheveu as well. "Flashing Lights" tops it all off, and what you have is a much-needed DIY blast that echoes long-lost UK wonders like Desperate Bicycles, Swell Maps, and good old budget trash recordings like no other. Y'all missed out on this 300 copy gem, so maybe there will be a repress. I believe they have a full-length recorded for Siltbreeze as of this writing, so hopefully there will be a tour coming up that hits my neck of the woods. Seeing them at Southpaw in Brooklyn wasn't gonna cut it when I had to sit at a merch table all night two hundred feet away, so hopefully TVK will be OFF DA GRILL soon!

Mayyors? Only getting better. With the "Megan's LOLZ" EP they have got their sound hammered into place and the noise blasting from Sacramento is deafening. Woodhouse has his recording on point as always, but I am continually turning to Mayyors for a dose of garbled unintelligible droning screams and the fuzziest guitars and bass this side of a shitty broken Pignose amplifier. Not much else to say except you've probably missed out by now, but you can jam it vicariously through me during bong rips.

Monoshock? I know, not new by any means, but a cheap eBay pickup of "Model Citizen (Nitroglycerine)" warranted posting as it has one of my favorite tracks on the flip. "Hawkwind Show" breaks the cycle and shows Grady and the boys at their most pop-oriented. My sister added that track to her Suzz's Jams iTunes playlist, but this should give you the hint to buy the Monoshock singles and rarities comp CD "Runnin' Ape-Like From the backwards Supermen" on S-S post-haste. The double LP is getting some bids on eBay now, so pick that up while you can. Baby needs more singles, so write in if you can help! Hippie San Francisco Psych-freakouts never felt so good. Also, I need the lowdown on Grady's in Ventura. This blog is for ME, people!

Eddy Current Suppression Ring? One of the best bands going right now, and they're leading the charge which along with our shitty dollar is filling the touring circuit up with GREAT Aussie bands like Witch Hats, Ooga-Boogas, and more! The Demon's Demands 7" on Iron Lung is long gone, but Goner is repressing the first LP, and you can pick up the Primary Colors LP right now! This band will unite all the freaks, rockers, bangers, weird punks, not-so-weird punks, and louts alike, so get in where you fit in and pick up all the ECSR you can! I need it all, baby!

Kim Phuc? I've dished on them already, but the new 7" is beyond the pale, and the My War Matt recording on their new 7" disc for Criminal IQ finally does them justice. They have two more 7"s recorded, so get ready for the barrage of depressed musings and wimp-slaying guitars emanating from our Burgh real soon. Not much else to say. They do now have a Myspace page, so you can go pretend to be aghast at Ben's Confederate button-up, but I'll be happy to go see 'em next week. Young Eli's got a hot new pop band called Plastic Idea, as well, so there are some great things on the horizon.



Cheater Slicks? The best band in the world. Hands down. Between them and the Dead, I didn't listen to too much else this summer. HONE has the hook-up for a few 45's I'm missing and my partner in lazy blogging crime Tony over at Cool Dude Quarterly sealed the deal this morning with my Slicks Holy Grail (the giveaway 7" from their 10th anniversary show), but I still need the following:

SINGLES
"Chaos" b/w "Destination Lonely" 45 on Gift of Life
"You Don't Satisfy" b/w "Little Red Book" 45 on Sympathy

ALBUMS
"On Your Knees" LP on Gawdawful
"Don't Like You" LP on ITR

Last time I checked, I gave you this lovely blog and something to read while you were bored at work. I never asked for much, so please do the needful and email me if you can help with any of these. I will be happy to drop some $$$$ or trade something of value. Until next time, keep your RSS feeds locked right here. Missed y'all.



And that's that.

Big Mama Said There'd Be Days Like This

Just for a quick taste today before we get to the meat of this post, here are some fine examples of the extremely red-eyed Steve and Ciggy tossing together some most triumphant (in the parlance of Count Drugula) fried chicken over at Sarah Street this spring. I like to think we made some great chicken, but sometimes you can't hold a candle to the real thing, which you will see after this set of pictures.









So since our last update, I've been uprooted from my humble digs in South Side and have scampered over to the East End in our beloved 'Burgh, shacking up alone in a space-age bachelor pad in East Liberty suitable for the likes of a disheveled fancy-boy like myself. Back when I was a youngster, most Sundays I was shepherded into the ominous sanctuary of East Liberty Presbyterian Church by the folks, much to the consternation of the newly minted Sunday School teachers, until about the age of nine when all parties concerned decided that the Lord's work was not a vocation designed for my wise-cracking then-metalhead constitution. But now, I have returned to my familiar stomping grounds in the shadow of the steeple over on Highland Avenue, much to the delight of Momma A ("Just think, you get to wake up and look out the window and see that church your great-grandfather helped build" - OK, Mom) and finally I have two grocery stores within a two-block radius that supply me with better ingredients than the South Side Giant Eagle could ever dream of.

In addition to having said grocery stores within easy walking distance, I got myself a new pizza place, a new bar with some delicious food and Punk Night which gave me the chance to spin records there about a month or so ago, a bunch of Ethiopian restaurants I don't see myself visiting anytime soon, and a brand-new bike commute straight down Liberty and through the Strip District that tacked eight extra miles onto my route everyday.

However, now my favorite part of the day is zooming down Liberty at 7:30 AM inside a fancy private bike lane and then rolling through the Strip on the freshly-repaved Penn Avenue, and you've already seen what can be consumed by any aspiring gastronomist that breezes through there, I'd guess. But the place I want to discuss today is further down Penn next to the 16th Street Bridge and I roll by it everyday: Big Mama's House of Soul.



I decided to take the trip during my lunch break Downtown, and I rode over to the Strip again, hoping to be the first customer that day. My hopes were dashed when I noticed a group of retirees had beaten me to it:



But undeterred, I waited through the sea of people that piled up in about five short minutes and eventually filtered out through the door. I placed my order for lunch: fried chicken, greens, and mac and cheese - my soul food standard order - so I could effectively give Big Mama a chance to show off some of the restaurant's finest wares. Big Mama is not an imagined marketing creation like Betty Crocker. She is very sweet, very real, and a lady who commands all the respect you can deliver when you are in her presence. Her waiting area had become flush with patrons who had little room to stand and little control over their volume and slightly pushy behavior.



Here's Big Mama (real name: Brenda Franklin) in action:



After she took my money, she succeeded in clearing out the waiting area in front of the kitchen in order to work. All the patrons were told to go around the corner to an air-conditioned room on the side of the building. I figured it had to be better in there than sitting out in front at the picnic tables with a bunch of white-haired norms, so I went around the corner, only to find an open door to a room lined with football Astroturf and Steelers memorabilia covering the walls. I was the only one there for some reason. None of the other customers were even on the side of the building I sat down in a chair with one of Big Mama's helpers hanging out nearby and opened my Styrofoam container and silently began to eat. The food was stellar:



Here's another look.



Killin' it.



I was taken aback with how great this chicken tasted. It had an excellent crunchy breading, spiced perfectly with a noticeable cayenne-addled kick and delicately tender meat. But you probably don't even like eating. Lord knows I don't...



Big Mama breezed into the room and finding me there immediately gave me a tour of her Steelers room after I asked some preliminary questions while I was eating. She was quite happy to dish with me about her life, her restaurant, and more. The Steelers figure heavily into her universe, as she is lauded for her fandom and cooking by the team. Santonio Holmes and Hines Ward seem to be her #1 dudes. Autographs decorate items all over her pickup room (which is where I figured I was) and I was getting the VIP treatment by even being allowed to be in there. Here's a taste:


The Super Team XIII LP. I think Siltbreeze is repressing this... oh wait, they're probably Eagles fans. WHATEVER.



Hines had to say this:



Good enough for me. Also, good look on adding XL MVP to the signature, Hines. YES.



All the Steelers and BBQ stuff is great, but you have to remember one-half of our coverage here is music. Well, of course Big Mama had us covered. She has been a jazz and gospel singer for decades, playing with every notable jazz artist in the city, and for the non-Burghers out there, we have a pretty extensive jazz history in town including dudes like Harold Betters, Roger Humphries (who Big Mama sang for and is in the 8x10" up above), and more. Then I got the best part... Big Mama turned up the stereo that was playing and sang me a gorgeous gospel snippet that was so moving that I gave her a hug as soon as she was done. Here's the video (you might need to turn this down... I did the best I could):



In case you've noticed, I've kept it pretty clean in this entry, and that is because Big Mama is a reverend and will not tolerate any cursing. I was well-appraised of this fact when I dropped an F-bomb in my conversation and was strictly admonished for cursing in her presence. But sometimes you need to shut up, so I appreciated her telling me who's who and what's what. Big Mama is a number one lady and I'll do pretty much whatever she needs me to do. I was invited to Jazz on the Bridge that weekend, which I guess is every Sunday down on 16th and Penn. If I had the chops, I'd bring the Epiphone down there and try to swing, but instead I think I'll return for the ribs this time. Anyone who wants to come with knows where to find me.

Steve's Lousy With Ideas, Vol. 1

The old man has taught me plenty in my twenty-five years on this planet, and along with Momma A they have instilled some hard and fast cooking values into me that will hopefully benefit me the rest of my life, provided our country doesn't devolve into a dystopia with food riots and meal pills and filtering one's own urine for drinking water. One such tenet of the Anderson men is our predilection to oysters, specifically the raw ones. And I woke up one Saturday morning and noticed Jacques Pepin on PBS doing a rundown of basic seafood preparation. When I saw how easy it was to simply obtain raw oysters, shuck them, and serve them much like the old man loved so much back when I was still living at home, I grabbed our well-worn and eternally loved copy of The Joy of Cooking off the shelf, and with oysters fresh from Coleman's Fish Market down by the folks' house in Wheeling, WV, I decided to try something new and had a small oyster party for myself.



The process itself wasn't very difficult. Grab a towel, grab a knife (since I didn't have an oyster shucking knife, I just used a paring knife instead of spending twelve dollars for one meal on a knife I would probably use ten more times in my lifetime like a jerk), scrub the grime off the oysters with a grill brush, and cut the oysters' muscles when I got them opened up. Not too much more to say expect these were delicious. Any amorous intention that oysters supposedly conjure up in the loins of their consumer is probably gospel truth, since these gave me a hard-on that could have led me around like a seeing eye dog.

With the requisite condiments (fresh horseradish, fresh lemon, and cocktail sauce), I got to work arranging my plate so as to utilize all half-shell slurping potential. Magnificent results soon followed.



Also, if you'll remember last week's A#1 BBQ we covered, I mentioned that I purchased some tuna steaks and more oysters at the store to be hidden away from the roving fools I consider my friends. Well, naturally, later I did the same thing and threw all that together secretly, only this time you can add broiled garlic-stuffed tuna steak, some tasty beets and greens, and oysters on Kavli crisp crackers (one of Norway's finest exports) to the list. I topped it off with a Hoegaarden I found in the back of the fridge. Did I mention that I LOVE EATING?!







I am also openly challenging our readers to a raw oyster eating contest. If you think you've got the stones, get in touch. You know where to find me.

Speaking of ideas both good and bad, the soundtrack around the house lately has been spiced up with a new 7" compilation series that has prompted some wags over at Termbo to hold a new selection of 7" EP's to the high standards of Am Rep's Dope, Guns, and Fucking in the Streets series of the 80's and 90's. But the focus today is on what many would lazily dub "weird punk" instead of "pigfuck" or noise rock or whatever you like to call Am Rep's varied output over the years. The series that is here in the now, and is doing a fine job of highlighting bright, under-appreciated stars in the underground punk sky is Almost Ready Records' The World's Lousy With Ideas compilations.



Almost Ready is run by a gent named Harry Howes (coincidentally the guy who hepped me to the Rats!) who migrated back to the Massachusetts in the contiguous USA after a furlough over in Hawaii. He certainly came back with a plan and with this series, he lined up some prominent (Home Blitz, Dan Melchoir, Wax Museums, Nobunny) and not-so-prominent (Lady Doctors, Fag Cop, etc.) bands to drop a tune on the pile, alternately kickstarting the collector scum fury for the bands' earlier releases, but also giving some stranger acts a first crack at wider exposure.

The disparate pairings of bands is the saving grace here. With a single volume, the listener can be treated to the trashed-out two-man thud of a primitive ensemble like Fag Cop, whose "My Daddy's Got White Trash Friends" stands as one of the dumbest yet greatest wadings into the Reatards/scumpunk gene pool that I've heard in quite awhile, or the mid-90's sandpaper punk guitar scrapings of a combo like Coconut Coolouts who channel a tuned-up yet slowed-down ghost of Kraut with their number "Messed Up Man". My favorite song of all the series so far has to go to Nobunny's "Hippy Witch" on Volume 3, even when the locked groove begins its torturous journey to the end of my sanity when I'm trying to read a book.

Volume 6 should be hitting the streets soon, and the proposed volumes I've heard about from Harry have me salivating for what is coming up. A few of the volumes have gone out of print as of this writing, but represses are on the way or in the case of Volume 1, out on the streets right now. However, I'd recommend heading over to ARR's Myspace to keep up with when future volumes will be forthcoming. Mine are all OG's though, and I like to think I've got some of the funniest sleeve designs. My personal favorites being the black cheerleader/wolfdog of Volume 2 and the swastika ladies' hockey team of Volume 5 I got the hockey sleeve special. Hope you get the special Burger King tape. Thanks, Harry! Eat up!

Leekfest 2008

Sometimes the good time you need more than anything to take your mind off the hustble and bustle in town is a simple roadtrip away. And when you've got red-VW-driving friends like Eric Courtney and Roxanne, sometimes you get to go on these trips and have the time of your life. We hopped in the car with the Cig and headed to Northwestern, PA for Leekfest at the West Line Inn three hours north. While I expected a grand day in the sunshine with the gang, I was unprepared for the bounty of amazing food, trashy bikers, good vibes, and general thumbs-up situations we found ourselves ensconced in on this particular day.

There's not much online information about Leekfest, but I'll give you the basics I gleaned from Roxanne and associated family members over the course of the day. It's been going on for over twenty years in this extremely small town on the outskirts of the Allegheny National Forest. It's held at the historic West Line Inn, which was a really interesting old building with a great staff of friendly country dwellers.

Since there no vegetarians in the car, we indulged every culinary creation that presented itself with impunity, starting with the most interesting gas station find in some time:



Buffalo style spicy/sweet cashews. Yes, they are as delicious as you might think. We were finally able to polish off this bag by the time we had reached our destination, and that was quite a feat because these pack a punch and will not only sugar-shock you, but salt-shock you as well. Bonus.



The countryside was beautiful and we were greeted by a pheasant while we parked the car and got ready to enter. The community was packed with revelers, with the local populace exploding to 100 times its normal size for this event annually.



After paying the five dollar entrance fee, here is the Inn and a portion of the crowd. This is not including the stage setup to the right, featuring admittedly awful acoustic cover sets from local yahoos. But the first group that played was a four-man bluegrass ensemble who legitimately started the day off properly as we went for our first beers inside, where luckily enough, two of Roxanne's cousins were the bartenders. Since she doesn't drink, we had a designated driver who was not only nice enough to bring us along, but also got us drunk rather cheaply. Ciggy said it best: "Roxanne is THE BEST." Truth.com!





Here's the first thing we slammed, the Greek Leek sauce dog. Quite frankly, one of the best I've ever had. Toppings included: meat sauce (similar to Texas-style dogs, if that helps), diced leeks, whole leeks, mustard, onions, relish. Everyone knocked one back and we moved onto the real menu after checking out the bikers and tossing back a beer or two.





I was extremely happy as soon as we entered. We ditched our jackets and got back to work. This should give you a better idea of the crowd size:



Yuengling had a hand in the festivities as well. Bonus!



Despite being thoroughly confused by the ticket system at first, thanks in part mostly to Ciggy's "jammers" we indulged in beforehand, the menu looked quite promising.





Here is the owner of the Westline Inn, standing outside the deep-friend leek station. This was the second item we polished off the menu. Tickets were a buck apiece and one could conceivably get stuffed for less than ten bucks.



The finished product:







Up next came the turket meatball sub, which hit the spot and was the only menu item lacking leeks, aside from the strawberry shortcake which no one got the chance to eat.



We also got to meet Roxanne's dad, who was a complete badass and a perfect example of how to grow to be a man in this day and age. He helped get us drunk and laughed at our exploits. Here are the boys of Spring, including Eric Courtney's new starring role in "Meet the Parents".



A tasty and unassuming concotion of ham and leek provided our next culinary adventure. I do believe that Ciggy ate at least two of these.



I took on the leek sausage and potato, ham, and leek chowder next. This was probably my favorite food of the day.





After awhile I just dipped my sausage into the chowder. Steve #1.



Inside the bar when returned to get a drink, everyone got freaked out by the Bigmouth Billy Bass-esque deer head that would sing to you when it was touched. I became extremely confused when I touched the rubberized head and it swirled around to look at me and then broke into song. The real deer head a foot to the left was not much help, either. They scammed us city folk but good.



The bikers were in assless full force and confused when asked for pictures.

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Not only were monsters like this one in attendance, but there were plenty of 1%ers about, including David Allan Coe's old motorcycle club, the Outlaws. Yipes! We had realized that when we saw hundreds of motorcycles lining every road that we (especially us dudes) needed to be on our absolute best behavior, lest we end up being scraped off the leathers and boots of bruisers or angry meth dealers. Amazingly, we remained unscathed as the day drew towards its zenith. However, we did become aware that bikers are the kings and queens of offensive/hilarious/genius bumper stickers, back patches, regular patches, t-shirts, and vest writing. Next time, give them a close look. I couldn't stop laughing at every slogan that passed by: "If you can read this, THIS BITCH JUST PASSED YOU!".



West Line Inn menu. Looks quite promising.

Despite our pledge to good behavior, Cig and I still needed to get into some trouble.



I love the enthralled stare in the background. Time to get punk.



I followed up with another leek sausage.



After bidding goodbye to this wonderful community, we headed back to the city. We made sure to stop off at a random gas station for a spot of ice cream the way they can only do it out in the sticks. I grabbed a chocolate and peanut butter cup waffle cone model, and my first ice cream in about a year was as good as you would imagine. I'm getting misty thinking about it now. I guess I'll just have to stop back there next year.



Since there weren't any records to be found and honestly, the bands onstage had about 1/10th the spark of a decaying horse cock, we were satisfied with Roxanne's iPod on shuffle the whole way there. But on the way home, I just said "Just jam the Velvets". With that, we revisited the classic third VU album. While I've been a VU fan for a long time now, sometimes I have to debate with myself which particular album resonates the most for me at that particular time. Some days I believe White Light/White Heat is the untouchable jumping-off point of their greatness. Or I may wake up to The Velvet Underground and Nico, a mug of green tea, and a beautiful sunrise. Perhaps full-fledged pop genius is the order of the day and Loaded will make its way to the top of the heap. But as I think about it right now, when driving through the wondrous majesty of true, wild nature, staring out the window at an ever-brightening moonlight brushing the tops of the trees and illuminating the stars around us, perhaps it doesn't matter. Perfect music will always fit our perfect moments. And here I believe you can see a touch of my ebullient side:



Thanks West Line and Roxanne for everything. I will be back next year come hell or high water. Eric Courtney and I have discussed the West Virginia Rampfest as well. Stay tuned.

Quattrone's Poutine and Rob Henry's Anxiety

The chef in his glory on my old bathroom floor, circa 2006.

Here's one from the vaults of wintertime I had saved for posting here. A few months back, local nightspot Remedy in Lawrenceville hosted "Neil Young Night". Naturally, Paul Quattrone from Modey Lemon/Midnite Snake/Baby Bird/Italian Ice (Jesus, that's enough for now!) had a raunchy food idea cooked up and decided to salute our steely Canadian brethren and whip up that wonderful concoction I've been waiting for since Vinnie and I soldiered up to Toronto two years ago known as poutine. Unfortunately, when I was bumming through Queen Street, I learned that poutine is much more common in a French-Canadian city like Montreal where everyone is wacked on PCP all day and not so easy to find in a burgh like Toronto where everyone is content to be drunk on shitty beer like Labatt 50 instead.



While bootleg Neil footage blared through the projector and sound system upstairs, the jukebox (when turned on) cycled through the requisite gems in his catalog, much to the delight of uber-fans like Lil' Suzz. The place was packed with our friends and I finally got a chance to give poutine a go. Barring any trips to Montreal ("Vive le Steve!") in the near future, I must say that the poutine was delicious! The combination of curds, fries, and gravy hit the spot. And while Canadians or Wisconsinites may take issue with their curds with a vehement proud streak, the Pittsburgh version suited me just fine. Despite having to eat standing up in a crowded bar, I'd give the experience an A- when food, soundtrack, company, and location are all added up in this great internet equation known as 7-Inch Slam.







While I was there, I ran into my friend Ben Smartnick, straight-edge rogue and one-half of the guitar corps of up-and-coming local powerhouse Kim Phuc. He had a copy of their then just-released 7" to slip me, and I was quite pleased to be an early recipient before the general public could hound away for this 300-press gem.



I do believe this is now out of print, but you may be able to write the band for more.



Kim Phuc has been gigging around town for quite awhile now with Ben and vocalist Rob Henry as constants, and most notably with the newest lineup featuring Corey from Caustic Christ/Aus Rotten on bass, local heartthrob Eli on second guitar, and local roustabout TFP on drums. Their sound has been refined in a gristmill of dark, brooding, anxiety-ridden punk: rain-soaked and rusted, much like many parts of our city, owing as much to 80's Northwestern punk and warbly post-punk as to hints of Rudimentary Peni's Death Church. Rob Henry wails and stomps and spits out his neuroses on wax, and you can feel the palpable tension contract and expand as the walls close in around him. Despite his reputation as a ball of pleasure, the lyrics dwell in a sub-basement of the human condition, all sweat and jitters and regrets long since washed-over.



While the recording here doesn't have the punch of their upcoming 2-song effort on Criminal IQ, the songs have no trouble standing up to the given treatment and generally overcome any sonic issues, especially in the case of the B-side, where they sufficiently punk out and deliver a knee to the solar plexus akin to their live show which earns them more and more fans as time goes by. Up above you can see the author with RH in all our glory, right after I'd ingested fungus that was both a blessing and a curse, since I enjoyed the show immensely, despite Eric Courtney and I ending up at a ski resort six hours away at 7 in the morning the next day. But what can you say? A youthful indiscretion, perhaps, but our motto around these parts is don't fear the afterlife.

Keep your eyes peeled for more from these fine folks. They have recently played out in NYC and Philly, and with a substantial string of local gigs coming up (some with good-to-great bands and some that I generally will excuse myself for [which I find to be Kim Phuc's only real failing: SELECTIVITY OF SHOWS]) I can only assume they will continue doing us proud here in Pittsburgh until Rob Henry finally collapses. And that's a day I hope will never come.

Kim Phuc photo courtesy of Laila A.

Subways, Sidewalks, Dude Talk

The first BBQ of the year passed recently over at my humble abode. With a group of goons consisting of Slam stalwarts including HONE, Cla$$y Chris, fan favorite Ciggy, and newcomer Eric Courtney, we grilled and jammed and eventually all had to be chauffeured away from the general public that night to mask our drunken loutish behavior which would have put even El Duce or any other Chief's Cafe patron to shame. But while we took over the courtyard on a gorgeous Saturday afternoon wiling away the hours with assorted HONE mixtapes, HEAVY ROCK percolated in our veins, ready to blast through our skin and unleash itself violently, painting the walls with manly aggression while simultaneously setting back progressive politics about forty years.



I wanted to prepare something new for this BBQ, so I took a trip down to the seafood counter down at the grocery store. I picked up a lot of seafood, only some of which I would share with my foolish brothers-in-stomach. I decided that since we had an abundance of skewers in the apartment that belonged to Suzz that I would prepare scallops wrapped in bacon and fresh shrimp on the grill. This turned out to be one of my finest BBQ creations yet, and I have only the loving birthday gift from Momma A and Johnny Rando last year: How to Grill: The Complete Illustrated Book of Barbeque Techniques by Stephen Raichlan to thank.



Here is the grill getting its first use since Pittsburgh became a sopping-wet, snow-covered wintertime muck seven months ago:



I also purchased some tuna steaks and oysters, but those were for me, not my yutz friends, so they will be in a forthcoming entry. After lugging the charcoal back up the street, I dove into the case of Wolaver's Pale Ale that Rob Henry and I had purchased the day before and waited for the guests to shuffle into sight.



The beauty of grilling scallops with bacon is that while scallops normally turn chewy and difficult to manage after a few minutes, the bacon exterior seals in moisture and flavor and keeps the scallop dripping with smoky, delicious (not to mention free) seasonings. The shrimp was left on its own after being skewered and squirted with fresh lemon and dusted with spices. Which one proved to be the winner is difficult to say. Folks like bacon, but I can also respect going sans red/white meat and just enjoying some light but hearty seafood. My own personal tastes drift farther and farther towards our oceanic inferiors as time moves on, but I believe that truly great seafood can overtake most meats when stacked side-by-side.



And naturally, in an effort to piss off some of the sloppier and more pedantic meat-eating readers out there and make myself feel superior simultaneously, I prepared some grilled vegetables which turned out delightfully. Thanks to How To Grill, I spent some of my prep time putting together some eggplant and tomatoes with some fresh basil finally culminating in what became grilled eggplant and tomato with caprese "salsa".



Here is the finished product:



This turned out to be a great idea, since not only could this combo of fresh mozzarella, basil, olive oil, and tomato stand alone as a vegetable topping, but it also held up its end of the bargain when Eric Courtney returned from the store and slapped some chicken breasts on the grill afterwards and I took it upon myself to create a Frankenstein monster of a chicken sandwich with all the previously mentioned ingredients. As someone who has been lukewarm on many types of chicken in my life, this hit the spot and provided a nice counterbalance to the upcoming foodstuffs.



After making some burgers and dogs, we decided we needed more ridiculous food. Cla$$y and Cigs headed off to procure more silly meats and then returned with a pile of sausages, lamb chops, encased tubes filled with meat-like puddings, and basically whatever else they could shove into their baskets.



So now we were stocked to the gills with all the chorizo, andouille, blood sausage, spicy garlic knockwurst, kielbasa, garlic ring bologna, liver pudding, kiska with beef blood, and sausage rolls that five diseased minds could cobble together in a quest to further pollute ourselves.



After all this was cooked, it began to rain, so we brought the party back inside and took turns stabbing at plates of sausage in my kitchen like the ravenous ghouls we had become.





If you noticed the secret filet of salmon hidden in the back of the sausage orgy, it's because you're on the ball. Eric Courtney and I made short work of it.





This hot little number is still in my fridge being slowly eaten away, but I thought I'd post a picture of it to let you know that the bologna you hated as a kid is still as delicious as ever and that you are a fool. Someone get me some rye bread and spicy mustard, stat!



So where does this all lead on the great cosmic train of nourishment and pleasure? Well, as I mentioned before, HEAVY ROCK (and the concept of) is here this spring in a big way over on the turntable and especially in this Termbo thread I started. There are two records right now that are blowing the windows out at my house with their constant plays. Hard, grinding, brutal, mean-spirited HEAVY ROCK is the order of the day!



Pictured above is the new 7" by Sacramento, CA's Mayyors. There is literally no web presence to link you to. Mayyors don't do it. No Myspace, no site, no email, no nothing. The band is made up of Sacramento folk including FM Knives' Chris Woodhouse providing his unhinged guitar histrionics in addition to manning the 8-track for the production duties here and also contributing a scalding recording full of the tangential fringe psyche-punk touches that bands like Monoshock mined to great (or not-so-great) success back in the 90's. But here we find the dirges more pronounced and bass-heavy, the guitars and effects panning from speaker to speaker with little regard to the listener, and vocals that David Yow would be proud to spit through a blood-spattered megaphone.

The Gordons "Future Shock" EP may provide a good example of the grinding and hissing that permeates the record's veneer, while filtering the churning murk through any of the modern noise-rock heavies that are experiencing a rejuvenation and rebirth right now (basically what I am saying here is that I don't want to make another Brainbombs comparison that a lot of lazy descriptors have already, because I don't find it applicable). Variety lurks in every revolution of this platter and there are twists and turns a-plenty for those who want to investigate.

While my description is limited, since this record appeared in a pressing of 300 copies issued by the band's own Waste of Oil records that instantly sold out, I suppose you have full license to cop a download of it from your preferred source and form your own opinions. I've had my copy spinning pretty regularly thanks to a quick Paypal finger and S-S listing the last few on his site before the stock dwindled, so unfortunately today I gloat and tomorrow you eBay. Hate to do it to you. There's supposedly another 7" on its way from the band, so keep your ear to the street.

Here is a photo I swiped of them in action from 7inches.blogspot.com:



Moving on...


Speaking of HEAVY ROCK and S-S Records and all the finer things in life, since there are 300 copies of the Mayyors EP and 600 copies of the Billy Bao "Fuck Separation" 10"(pictured above) out there, at least 900 people in the world can own a piece of a brooding, teeth-gnashing scene that grows bigger and bigger everyday. Before the metal chumps take over and buy and sell your band (and they will... do you remember what happened to hardcore?), here is how to get in on the ground floor.

Billy Bao's story is probably one of the more intriguing in modern punk. A Nigerian named Billy Bao ends up having his life saved by punk rock, hurdling cultural walls to the Basque Country in Spain, and then hooks up with like-minded Spaniards to form a juggernaut producing one of the most hypnotic 10" EP's of all time. Here is what he says about himself on his website:

When I came from Lagos (Nigeria) to San Francisco (Bilbao)
life was tough here or there.
I did not mind, I had a purpose in my life:
to fight the system that fucks up everyday of our life. Back in my hometown,
I was an unknown songwriter
but, as soon as I arrived to the streets of Bilbao, I discovered Punk Rock.
It had energy and attitude and was exactly what I needed.

Inspiring, eh? The two songs on this record breathe sonic hate and perilous torture and humankind's descent into the flesh-melting inferno of our own self-awareness and selfishness and greed. The music cross-fades back and forth, confusing and startling the listener, while the grinding riff each song is built upon are played as loudly and strongly every single second of the record. However, the lyrics take on a whole different set of stripes. Instead they tackle European border control and racism on one track and the ghettoization of punk's ideals on the flip. With a curve like that, I began to appreciate this record even more than I did previously. Add to that some exquisite white screened packaging on white vinyl (a direct counterpoint to the Mayyors black on black on black aesthetic) and you have a must-own record that you still have a chance of owning in these heady times that one must navigate with an adventurer's courage and a ready bank account (which is obviously not what it's about, so forgive me while I hold my nose). Fans of anything heavy would be pleased to know that Billy Bao has a few other releases out there, including an LP on Parts Unknown, so do some digging, and I would say check with S-S first.

Also, those sausage sandwiches turned out great the next day: