Fat boys
White lines, white trash, and White Knuckle Sobriety
by John O'Neill
It was the best of punk, it was the worst of funk; it was everything an album
should be: sonic bluster meets brains, stoner goof-off meets smart-ass
tongue-in-cheek. There were big hooks, harmonies,
dumb-dumb lyrics, power-pop sweetness, indie-rock sweatiness, grade-school
rhymes, high-school pranks, old radio ads, chanting, ranting, celebration, and
decerebration. A rocket ride into the heart of rock and roll that took a sharp
turn and ricocheted around the brain pan of dementia before finally exiting
(and the disc does have a preoccupation with bum-function so we'll pass on the
easy orifice reference) to crash land as a heaping testament to fun. It's a
Good, God Damn Time, which is just what White Knuckle Sobriety promise
on their opening track disclaimer/modus operandi "In the Beginning" from their
debut, Fat End First (ECAE). And don't be confused, the title means
exactly what you think it does.
"Those three words together are really hilarious. You know, `Shut-up,' `No you
shut-up, or I'll take this bottle and stick it up your ass fat end first.' And
it was our first album, so it kinda made sense," says Doug Wedge between
sips of his drink before finally coming clean. "Okay, it definitely has to do
with shoving things up your ass."
Wedge, guitarist Rich Maliska, and bassist Mick Lawless may be best remembered
as three-fourths of the Missionaries, the early '90s alt-phenom known for their
willingness to play anywhere, as well as for a hot-looking singer who would
come unglued at a moment's notice. After the band spun completely out of
control -- in direct correlation to their growing popularity -- the trio joined
Black Rose Garden castoff Terri O'Toole and her sister Traci in the short-lived
Tripstick. Then, in rehearsal, the seeds of foolishness that would bloom into
the genius of WKS were sown.
"Yeah, we came out of the whole Tripstick thing, we would jam together while
waiting for Terri and Traci," says Wedge (who, by day, is a Worcester
Phoenix designer). "We started having separate practice for ourselves
and decided to only do one [band]. We were happy doing White Knuckle Sobriety
so we went right off into the studio."
But it took a bit longer than expected. Wedge split for more than a year to
attend college, while Lawless and Maliska went into post-production armed with
raw tracks culled from sessions in December 1996 and March of 1997 at the
not-so-famed Toad Hall Studios in East Douglas (also responsible for recording
the should-have-been-legendary Roy Hinkley Trio's Jesus Ray). With a
little help from producer John D'Orto's home computer, the band began throwing
everything they could find into the kettle and sorted it out from there. Disco
whistles, backwards loops, groupies talking, mix tapes, friends pretending to
be pirates, distortion, haunted keyboard embellishments, Big '80s Jan
Hammer-style synth, and celestial backing vocals are added to basic pop and
punk tracks creating the total Knuckle sandwich. Owing as much to the Monkees
as it does Zappa, Fat End First is one of those rare repeat-listening
projects that takes a half-dozen spins through to get to the bottom of it. The
plus is, unlike most complicated albums, this one doesn't have that nasty
side-effect of wanting to pitch yourself out of the second-floor window. And
that's because their "deepness" is actually simple: Fat End doesn't
labor to be either different or cool. Smart enough to realize that music has
all been done before, the Knuckleheads are fine spray painting their own
twisted vision across everything the Pixies, Big Black, Cheap Trick, Pavement,
Neil Young, and Sonic Youth have done.
"We all have wide influences, and we've all played different styles. We're
open minded to listening, and we'll try anything once," explains Wedge. "I
really didn't think it would come together at all, we kept adding and adding.
But once we took segments, and faded songs into one another, it became a whole
alcohol concept album."
Which explains "Schaefer" (currently on the WAAF Sunday-night charts), a
loving rehash of the old "when you're having more than one" campaign. It's also
a natural fit alongside "Big Brown Cow," the old school-yard rhyme. (Think back
-- "milk, milk, lemonade, turn the corner fudge is made . . .") Not
to be outdone, there's a slew of brilliant, though screwy, original thought:
"Chick Singers (The Lilith Syndrome)," a less-than-PC take on the state of
commercial music; "Hammer Head," which is an accurate picture of Friday nights
along small-town Main Street filled with booze, burning rubber, cop ditching,
and dope smoking; and there's "Special Chair," which is about a, uh, chair
that's special. ("This guy really into porno showed us this movie. He said it
would change our lives. It was disgusting and we were laughing at the same
time. It was about unloading in [someone's] face. We wrote that song a week
after that. It came out in five minutes!") The album ends with the countrified
rocker "Far from the Tree," one final curve ball for the listener, and the
equivalent of Sha Na Na singing that semi-sad song at their show's end just to
let you know it's all over.
"There's something in [the album] for everyone, unless you've been locked in a
closet your whole life," says Wedge. "I still get goose bumps and sometimes I
can't believe it. It's the type of album I'd want to hear and pay good money
for! I'd feel pretty lucky if we can do another one as good."
Check out White Knuckle Sobriety when they appear this Saturday at Lucky
Dog.
Space Jam
The once-vital all-ages scene suffers yet another blow this week with
the city-ordered shutdown of the Space. Having operated out of Harding Street
for years on a nose-clean/blind-eye policy with code enforcement, the hammer
finally fell after complaints from at least one nearby business.
"The big thing is, we need a parking variance, so we have to go before the
zoning board," says the Space's Matt Hallas. "We have one shot at it, so we
need a rock-solid case. We can appeal, but it takes a couple of months just to
get a hearing. This is the biggest thing we've ever had to face."
Besides looking at about a thousand dollars in permits and fees, the
non-profit is also faced with the cost of retaining a lawyer and an architect.
The Space will also lose at least two months' worth of revenue due to the
shutdown.
Benefit shows are already being lined up to make up for the lost income (the
rent alone figures in at $900 a month), and Old Glory Records will help defray
immediate costs. For now, all donations, helpful hints, and words of
encouragement can be sent c/o Todd Blake, Box 17195, Worcester 01601.