White (haired) riot

The Grannies' old-school punk

by John O'Neil

Kimo's, a profoundly sleazy dive located deep in the bowels of San Francisco, is not the type of place a red-blooded hetero should find himself on any given night. Never mind the estab-

lishment's long history of catering to gay men, or that it is located smack-dab in the type of neighborhood where used needles get stashed in the free newspaper racks, and dumb bumpkins like us get rolled for their cab fare. No, the real affront to all things moral is the interior décor of the bar/club/shithole. All-purpose indoor/outdoor carpeting, soft lighting and warm wood; it is like some awful homage to fern bars past, only someone forgot to water the plants. The upstairs room, where live music has taken the reigns from Saturday night karaoke, is even worse, narrow, hot, and unhealthily stale. The bartender also turns a blind eye to smoking (now illegal by California state law), thus ensuring all present will have one whale of a headache come the cold, cruel rays of Sunday. On the plus side, the transvestite barmaid is infinitely more stylish and at least as foxy as any of the hookers who clatter by outside. And while wiser heads might have sussed out this scene and headed for the nearest fire exit, the Miller High Life is just about cold enough and the overall vibe just absurd enough to keep us around to check out the band, an upstart tribe of semi-nitwits named the Grannies. The word was already making the rounds that this bunch of moldy old punk rockers, whose short history consists chiefly of dressing up like old ladies, getting fucked-up, and fucking things up while decent folk look on in horror, were a definite must-see. Starting with a solid round of pre-set drinking, the typical Grannies show includes lots of kicking and fussing and usually culminates with something being broken, or set on fire, or broken and set on fire. Tonight the pandemonium starts at home.

"I made up a different set list for him tonight," chuckles guitarist Hockey Pants with a nod towards his bass player Misha Avrushenko. "No, really. He deserves it. It should be fun as he's usually telling everyone to fuck off. We were in LA playing and he was doing that while his own family was in the audience. Finally he insisted everyone but his family fuck off."

If you are catching the distinct smell of juvenile behavior, you'd be half on the mark. While the band take go to great lengths to ensure a memorable time will be had one way or the other, they are also serious students of making loud noise, which has always been first priority.

"[Hockey Pants] and I both talked about wanting to play loud rock and roll," says singer Deanamite. German born and a one-time DJ, the voice of the Grannies happened to live in the same apartment complex as Pants. "One day he slipped a note under my door saying `lets do it' and that was the beginning."

Lining up drummer Horribly Charred, bassist Scary and second guest guitarist Patrock (a full-timer in SF's legendary queer-rock unit Pansy Division) the band found their name, their look and ran with a handful of tunes to the studio. Mixed by Northwest super-hero and Grannies sympathizer Jack Endino (Nirvana, Soundgarden, Supersuckers, etc.), the self-titled debut album on is a square shot to the privates that mixes the guitar growl of the late, great Monomen with the tongue-in-cheek antics of the Dictators. Part ragged slop and part well-played noise, the overall result is the big sound Hockey Pants and Deanamite had originally envisioned, with the added bonus of offering zero in the way of serious social commentary. Then, just as the Grannies' buzz was building, things went awry.

"Scary liked to do too much smack and got busted in the soup aisle of the grocery store," Pants confides. "He was actually complaining about it. Then he stood up his bail guy who is bald, six-foot-five and usually carries three weapons. Scary was the type of guy who would miss practice, you'd call him on it, and his response would be, `dude, it's Tuesday?' He got mad at us when we threw him out."

Refusing to let 1000 copies of their new album go unheard, the band recruited Avrushenko and began blazing their path through most of the crappiest clubs in the bay area. It was destiny, as Deanamite explains: "Punk rock is the mother's milk of white guys. Reggae, that is the heartbeat of music, rap is the genius of the black man. Punk is the only thing white guys do right. And it is our duty to deliver it dressed as old women, as we too are old and past our expiration date."

And so, barely a year old and with no more than a dozen gigs total to their name, the Grannies not only managed to create a buzz in their hometown of San Francisco, they immediately caught the ear of the collective brain trust behind Boston's NEMO Festival. Sight unseen, the foursome was invited to fly out and play for the industry suits, which guitarist Hockey Pants concedes "was pretty flattering. They called up and wanted to know if we dress like this for the show. It's funny `cuz Maximumrockandroll slagged our disc. The guy liked the music but then said he wasn't that desperate to be entertained. What's the point if you aren't entertained?

"The whole point is no matter what you look like -- mohawk, studded jacket, it's still punk," Pants maintains. "I'd rather look like whatever it is we look like than being all self-conscious. I don't want to look like I spent 18 hours thinking about Neitzsche, even if I do. We just play rock and roll. And the gowns help because we're out of shape."

The Grannies appear Saturday, April 21st at the Lucky Dog Music Hall. Nuno Bettencourt and the Flames also appear.

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