January 28, 1986 was a day I'll never forget.
My brother and I woke up late, because we had watched one of the greatest Gary Coleman movies ever made ("The Kid From Left Field") the previous night. We ate our usual breakfast of donuts and potato chips while listening to a recently purchased Motley Crue tape. Leaving our house at 7:10 a.m., we ran into our "friend" Kevin -- who always had a bad joke and an even worse skateboarding story to tell us. Enduring 15-minute tales of transitions and Trashmore, we reached the front door of our beloved Churchland Junior High School.
This facility, which had doubled as a women's correctional center in the mid-70's, was governed under a tri-principalship. Mr. Glisson made a number of key decisions during his tenure, such as lowering the price of Mello Buttercup ice cream sandwiches and pulling the plug on students who sang Debby Boone songs in talent shows. Mr. Little was the enforcer of the trio. Anyone that said "Yeah!" to him was forced to do 50 push-ups on the lunchroom floor. Mr. Hartz was the free spirit of the bunch who added a dash of celebrity to CJHS. In addition to being a former linebacker for the Kansas City Chiefs, Hartz had become a leader in the pet supply industry with his 2-in-1 flea collar invention. His love for animals was evident on this day, as the students were treated to an SPCA-sponsored assembly during the final period.
After six hours of three Mello Buttercups, 200 push-ups, and two bites from Rocky Raccoon, it was time to go home. While walking down our usual path on Merrifields Drive, we noticed something very peculiar. It was a porn magazine on the hood of a car. My brother and I glared heavily at the facing pictorial. The spread showed a big-breasted blonde in pink stockings having her twat tongued by a prim, conservatively dressed brunette. Other pictures featured a saucy redhead with a densely furred bush posing beside her cat, a rather grandmotherly woman in a rocking chair demanding you to "Eat her peach pie!" and a 19-year-old pledge forced to lap the labia of six future sorority sisters. We wanted to take the magazine, but my brother and I saw the figure of a man in the house adjacent to the parked car. Taking no chances, we left the porno on the pervert's car and made our way quickly to the next street.
I'd learned a very important lesson that cold January afternoon -- one which has been taught over the years by the likes of McGruff (the crime dog) and Michael Landon: NEVER TAKE PORN MAGAZINES FROM THE CAR OF A STRANGER! From that day forward, I only took pornos belonging to people I knew: my friend's stepfather, my uncle's girlfriend, and the friendly cashier at Uni-Mart. The acquisition of porn magazines without fear of repercussion is something every adolescent should experience. So if that guy in Merrifields still puts porno mags on the hood of his car, don't take the bait. Take the High Society under your father's mattress instead.
Acceptance of these densely layered offerings comes easily, right from the opening invitation to "take a chance and step out of the light" ("Have A Real"). Barbed-wire kisses tasting like psycho candy are met head-on, puckering with black lipstick on smooches such as "Wrecked My Car" (Caddy hearse stalled on its way to an '89 Love And Rockets gig), "At Our Rendevous" (halfway-to-crazy surf dementia at 4 AM), "Dumb & Fun" (Joy Division-cum-The Stooges, a la the former's "Interzone" and "Failures"), and "Highest Sun" (backing vocals which shine like the brightest Mazzy Star).
Automatic as happy rain from an April sky, Members Only awashes in a cleansing shower of feedback and fuzz. No jacket required.
Onstage, these hams from Smithfield, VA smoke with the bratty enthusiasm of Metal Blade Records-era Goo Goos (especially recalling the Robby-sung songs) cured by an Alkaline Trio sodium shock. At the packing plant, a posi-punk spirit a la 7 Seconds/Big Drill Car glazes Lit-like histrionics, most flavorful on bites such as "Why" and "Bringing Me Down." The balance between old and new recipes assures Mmm-Mmms from everybody seated in their musical chairs. No second-guessing this holiday centerpiece...when AA's on your table, you'll just want seconds. Pick 'em to the bone!
I was first made aware of Heyman's talent via a cutout of his 1991 superb disc (Hey Man!). With its 12-string Rickenbacker jangle, heard-'em-before vocals, and dashes of clever wordplay, I dubbed the collection Return To Rio, because of the uncanny similarities to Roger McGuinn's (with helping hands from Tom Petty and Elvis Costello) overlooked gem from '90 (Back From Rio).
I'm glad to hear that Heyman is, metaphorically speaking, still stuck in South America. Taking half of the twenty-eight songs recorded during the session (the extras can be found on Rightovers), he churns out more winning power pop from his Tabby Road Studio (a lover of felines and The Beatles, obviously), AKA the living room. Handling all instruments himself, save for scattered shots of bass from Nancy Leigh, his wife, Heyman rolls the up-tempo balls of yarn ("Everywhere She Goes," "Diminishing Her Return," and "What In The World" being three meows that stand out) and purrs with the slower-paced "When Evening Comes" and "Wishful Thinking."
Another fancy feast from this top cat!
The just-below-R raters from parts Nawfuck and Vaaa Beeech were met with horror at their set's opening credits, as a young woman bloodied herself from shards of a bottled Bud. Thirteen minutes later, PG unleashed a black cat that had been tied up in a "Kidnapper Van." The feline meowed like Mike Watt (Minutemen) and Biscuit Turner (Big Boys) during its "bring the punk, bring the Caribbean" scratching. A shark attack at the pool table turned up "Wet" when Jaws bit into an old Ventures album and Fugazi's 13 Songs. Finally, Fishbone had forgotten their horns but didn't waste any time serving up breezy ska and drinks like Issac on "The Love Boat" to more than one "Barfly." Kudos, Badguy, for connecting disparate characters while directing your half of the double feature.
NYC's White Light Motorcade have the look of stars in the making. Their screen test did not disappoint. Borrowing the method acting from wannabe Brits like Black Rebel Motorcycle Club and The Dandy Warhols, WLM stuck to the script throughout their sitcom-length performance. "My Way" utilized Gary Glitter/Joan Jett-esque "Oh yeahs!" that were fondling to the ear. "All Gone Again" swirled like a lost Oasis B-side. "It's
Happening" revealed the band's punkier side with crunchy guitars and screaming vocals. Aficionados of lost sirens Manic Street Preachers and The Jesus And Mary Chain would've enjoyed WLM's after-dinner theatre. jOhn A. (Siskel) and I (Ebert) gave it matching hitchhiker signals.
More than just the group who had a minor hit with "Sucked Out" ("Kissing the bride/45 minutes a side") in '96, Superdrag haven't run outta cancer sticks on their latest puff.
Housed in a sharp-looking matchbox cover, Last Call For Vitriol is even more striking sonically. "Baby Goes To 11" is simplistic-yet-great power pop on par with top-shelf Material Issue. The crunchier-than-a-Nestle-candy-bar "The Staggering Genius" and "Stu" make you wonder why SD aren't opening for the Foo Fighters on their current tour. "So Insincere," with its slurred vocalization, plays like an advance track from an upcoming Fountains Of Wayne album. "Safe & Warm" has harmonizing a la The Jayhawks/Wilco if yer a "hipster," or The Eagles/CSN&Y if "huckster" better suits you. "Her Melancholy Tune" gently recalls some of Lennon/McCartney's quieter moments. "Drag Me Closer To You" employs an AC/DC-type rhythm to remind you that Superdrag are, first and foremost, a rock band.
Easily one of the five best el pee's of the double-smoke-ringed decade.
In the Tidewater, VA area, no other topped pie has come close to matching the lip-smacking flavor of the long-gone Pantera's Pizza.
During its early-to-mid-80's heyday, Pantera's was my family's preferred choice for a great meal and after-dinner video games. Whether the eatery was locally based or national remains unclear, but for patrons of the Churchland
and Indian River Road locations, Pantera's delivered the "What a hunk!" promised by the big-breasted blonde in its television adverts. A deep-dish creation formed by a beer-flavored crust and covered with monstrous helpings of cheese, pepperoni, sausage, and other selected toppings, this pizza should've been blessed by Pope John's ten fingers. Even my mother, who has never liked heavily meat-based Italian fare, enjoyed a slice or two with a knife and fork (She never leaves home without her manners or American Express!).
Very few of our restaurant visits were "events," but a night at Pantera's put everybody in a celebratory mood. When our faces weren't buried in thick 'n' dripping mozzarella, we dropped quarters into arcade classics like Moon Patrol (Mom's all-time favorite coin-op -- a reconfigured Missile Command?), Joust (collecting eggs while camel-jockeying), Q*Bert (#2 or 3 on my list -- I also caught the snout-nose's cartoon on Saturday morns), Jungle Hunt (like a grown-up version of the 2600's Pitfall), Congo Bongo (a 3-D Donkey Kong?), and the obligatory Ms. Pac-Man (not the one on ludes presently found in sub shops and the like).
After 2-3 years of making residency in P-Town more tolerable, Pantera's shut down due to speculated reasons of organized crime. I may never know the true story behind its closing, but Pantera's remains guilty of being the Grand Don in local pizza history. Even Phil Anselmo would say "Fuck yeah!" to that.
January 28, 1986 was a day I'll never forget.
