It's the volume knob, stupid

Dimwit's pure, if accidental, punk genius

by John O'Neill

The introduction Dimwit made to the over-21-crowd at Ralph's has to go down as an All-Time classic moment. Having just arrived from somewhere in the bowels of middle Connecticut and from a Toys for Tots benefit, the foursome -- ragtag and road weary -- stormed the stage, tossed on their guitars, got into their Rock-Action machine-gun pose, and then . . . nothing. With a crowd of some 200 old-school punks, radio deejays, local musicians, 'zine scribes, former scene queens, and at least one city councilor looking on (most of whom had heard great things about these undisciplined but pure kids), Dimwit were knee-deep in technical difficulty before having a chance to count off the first song. Bassist Dave Dimwit lifted his shoulders in a shrug and asked for a new amp. His had apparently died on the ride back north. Soundman Bob Peters hopped off the board, scurried on stage, assessed the possibilities, and, with stealth and quick thinking, twisted the volume knob. Bingo, problem solved. What might be an embarrassing moment -- especially for those bands who take pride in knowing basic concepts like which direction equals louder -- endeared us to Dimwit that much more. Though unkempt and stupid may be no way to get ahead in the business world, it makes for a lotta fun on stage. And, as far as wits go, it doesn't get much dimmer than that maneuver.

"We read in a magazine that if you played guitar, girls would like us," sniffs Dave when reminded of the Knob Incident of '99, which, besides summing up the band's modus operandi, is as close as he'll come to a mea culpa. Frankly, there are no apologies to make when you are the city's finest practitioners of dumb-ass punk rock. Not to be confused with budding rock stars or a band with a plan to make it big, or even confused with serious musicians, Dimwit have had their sights set on no more than making their own noise, hopping around stage a bit, and maybe, just maybe, avoiding being beat up or tossed out before the night's over.

The story begins nearly five years ago when then 13-year-old guitarist/singer/songwriter Wally (just Wally) began "skipping school and fucking off 'n stuff" with drummer Steve Bacteria, one year his senior. Being young and impressionable, they gravitated toward the anti-establishment slant thrown off by the then up-and-coming Green Day (whom the band continue to sheepishly accept as an influence) and by Nirvana (who elicit groans from three-quarters of the troupe when Wally mentions them). Not too ambitious, the boys got the first incarnation up and almost-running when they indoctrinated a fellow slacker to play bass -- because it seemed better than no bass player at all. But the results were not spectacular.

"It was [Wally and I] and a girl who ate Chinese food all the time," reflects Bacteria (who, it should be noted, is the only band member to graduate high school -- only after he threatened the principal he'd go public with his affair with a lunch lady. But that's another story). "She, who will remain nameless, was a bass player. Well, she had a bass. And she played it, sort of. . . . Now she listens to a lot of Madonna and Prince records. Then Dave came along and we started playing out."

The group's next big break came while drinking in the woods one Friday night: Dave's younger brother Matt (now the baby of the band at 16) decided to sign on as the second guitarist. Bringing a much-needed shot in the arm in terms of dynamics and unique Cartman-esque backing vocals, Matt helped the newly christened band (named after an insult uttered by one of Matt's teachers) start soaking up the rich if not too varied sounds of Screeching Weasel, Mr. T Experience, Queers, Riverdales, NOFX, and those venerable grand pappies the Ramones. Soon they were in the studio, recording their debut cassette, Slap Happy. Already intimately familiar with the concepts of bad judgment and of stupid decision-making, the freshman release is regarded both in their press bio and in person as a piece of complete crap. Yet Dimwit not only persevered, but also they slowly clawed their way up the punk totem poll, landing gigs alongside SNFU, Jughead's Revenge, and, as Wally puts it, "a lot of shitty ska bands." They also started bugging their heroes to notice them, which paid off this past month when the band recorded at Joe King's (a/k/a Joe Queer) studio completing their brilliantly puerile second stab, Tickle the Red Head.

"We just sent him up some (stuff) and kept calling his mom's house," explains Wally. "He liked it and invited us up to record. We're up in the air right now. We're waiting for Joe to get back from tour. He's starting a record label, and he's been saying that it would be an option to be on his label. He told us right off that he'd like to help us out [distributing] it."

Gleefully immature, Tickle is loaded with two-minute blasts of nonsense dedicated to things they love (Ralph's Diner in "Ralph's"), things they hate (hippies in the soon-to-be-legendary "Die, Hippie, Die"), and the usual cast of pop-punk obsessions -- beer, girls, brain damage, and zombies. Add in a sterling cover of "Earth Angel," just to prove to the world that the difference between classic West Coast-style punk and a good, old-fashioned pop tune is the speed it's played at, and Dimwit have produced a rough, warts-and-all guide to snotty, hastily written songs that will offend skinheads, straight-edgers, some parents, commercial radio, anyone who refers to themselves as a "musician" rather than a member of a band, conservative music critics, and, unfortunately, a good number of girls whom the band pray will like them. But anybody not on that list will embrace Tickle the Red Head. It's a sloppily honest and passionate breath of fresh air in a world that's been force-fed so much Korn it can't get its fat ass up from the chair to switch off Ricky Martin. Which is critic-speak for saying these losers are winners, and Tickle the Red Head is a big thumbs-up because it's silly stuff played by a bunch of misfits.

"It's not the sharpest shit in the world, but it will cut you like a butter knife," Wally deadpans when describing the band's place in the universe. "We aren't trying to be on MTV, and we aren't singing about unity . . . skinheads and `real' punks who live on Salisbury Street always wanna kick the hell out of us. We just want to play some really good shows."

"[The album] is pretty good," adds Matt. "It's punk music with a lot of screw-ups. I guess it's the way we are."