Located directly across from the now-vacated Ghent Inn (now I know why Will Fosters hasn't shown his...uh...mug about town lately), Cruzer's is one of the last places you'd expect to hear rock 'n' roll. A merchant marine club specializing in Filipino dishes like pancit (still can't tell ya what that is exactly, even after having it explained to me several times) and catering to an older crowd, this wide-open room with no dividers in sight would appear too conservative for the loud-fast-rules legislation of rawk. Guess again. With the demise of Cogone's Instant Art, Cruzer's has emerged a victor in providing a late-night home for some of Nawfuck's wildest denizens as well as furnishing a temporary crash pad for out-o'-towners. Draft beers are pro bono to the performers (and those pretending to be), giving them the acumen to strum 'n' drum at their best. Strolling through the hallowed entrance at approximately nine-fifteen in the pee em, my stick people Holly and Sambone RNRMF were sipping their respective lager and pilsner (Miller Lite, right 'Bones?) on stools which needed major reupholstering. Sad but true, the era of Metallica most suited to professional wrassler Stone Cold Steve Austin's taste (the '96 el pee with a Load-ed title on many levels) was treating royally on the sound system and crowning the three of us "King Nothings." "OH, HELL NO!" I beckoned to the Majesties of Mandatorily-Shorn Manes, relinquishing my loser headgear in exchange for the gaudier outfits of Kiss and The 'Coop (thanks to whomever changed discs). During the opening stanzas of "Mainline," another pal of mine, known to all at the West Beach Cafe as Alex, gave me some "whaddups" and the results of his band's placing at a "Battle of the Bands" which had taken place inside a joint spotlighted in a recent Em Tee Vee (c)rap video. At the bar counter, Cruzer's answer to Outback Steakhouse's bloomin' onions was waiting to be marked with bicuspids. I started a time clock to see how long the fried-food platter would remain unclaimed. With a glance at Alex's Value City-purchased Roll-X, the countdown to cholesteric consumption began. So did the trial of the first band on the docket.Submitting punk rawk 'n' roll evidence bringing to mind the likes of 'member-dem favorites such as The Loudmouths and Stinkerbell with a HC flavor in spots (Germs, perhaps?) shaped by a (thanx, Alex) "Poly Styrene-vocal unintelligibleness," Nancy And The Knockers from parts RichMan, Vee Aye testified on behalf of unabashed women everywhere. Though the 'Knockers had presented their case with gusto, the deliberators were stalled in chambers. Siding with the ladies was a bespectacled Caucasian in his late-fifties. Despite the screeching from amplifiers and speakers, Mister (A) had casually enjoyed at least three plates of food from Cruzer's menu as if he'd been the only one present in the dining area. An opposing viewpoint came from a very skilled pool player with the shot-making abilities of former world 9-ball champion Efren Reyes. Mister (B)'s perpetual table run-out had been interrupted by Nancy and her comrades. Through the entirety of the 'Knockers set, he'd covered his ears in protest. Alex blamed the differences on the fall equinox (also known as Samhain in some circles), but whom can we shoulder the forty-minutes-left-untouched bloomin' onions upon? I, for one, am familiar with the culinary habits of Glenn Danzig and John Christ. They prefer 'em raw.
The JRSS (that's read, "The Junior Ess Ess," for those playing along virtually) are Tidewater's latest supagroup, composed of four talented virtuosos: (J)ustin with the bass mastering, (R)ich on the tater skins with baked-potato appeal, (S)tevie not-so-secretly playin' some devilish guitar, and (S)ambone freely grabbing the mic and BFTs on vox. For the past six or seven years, I've been accustomed to seeing Mr. RNRMF with clutched axe per his stints in Big Bobby And The Nightcaps and the more-recent Horehounds. Sam, who will one day own more guitars than Rick Nielsen (ever play a double-neck?), is already in a comfort zone as a frontman. Shaking a tambourine and maracas along with the rockin' sounds, he and the band glammed 'n' glittered their way through ten numbas best described as an amalgamation of It's Only Rock 'N' Roll-era Stones and Sweet's one-two punch of Desolation Blvd./Give Us A Wink. Highlights not for children included a slow 'n' sleazy "Golddigger," the tributary "End Of The Ramones," and the penile trilogy of "Pleased To Meat You," the D-Boys' "Caught With The Meat In Your Mouth," and the Chinn/Chapman-penned "Little Willy." Way past one and feelin' alright, there was one more act to see before calling it a night.
Hailing from somewhere in North Carolina, a place where Furginians drive hours-long to save a coupla cents on cigarettes and which surprisingly shares a small border with Georgia, the Runarounds upended Manowar as the loudest band in the world on this nite. Mixing the usual-suspect drinks from Dee-troit with the riff-raff tonic of NWOBHM stalwarts Saxon and Tygers Of Pan Tang, "Self Destruction Kick," "Out Drinkin' Again" (ably assisted by Holly and Greg Apostle/Unabomer on gang vocals), "Sick And Tired," and "Hell And Back" were served up shaken in dirty glasses. A sixty-year-old lady stepped outta the kitchen to see and hear what the fuss was about. Perhaps, she too, was a NWOBHM mark who fancies the flexi version of Def Lep's "Rocks Off" over the On Through The Night album take. Next time I'm Cruzin', I'll loan ya my U.K. heavy metal comp tape. You've gotta hear Girlschool's "Demolition Boys" and that "struck me like a sledgehammer" hit.
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