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Amusing rock-themed Christmas cards
11.29.2016
10:35 am

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Nick Cave Grinderman card
 
I’m not really a holiday card person. In fact, I never send anyone holiday cards. My parents get one, but that’s about it. However, I’m digging these rock-themed Christmas cards by Etsy shop The Fidorium. They’re different from the usual suspects you get in the mail from relatives and friends. They stand out, in my opinion.

The Nick Cave “Grincherman” card referencing “Jubilee Street” is funny. I’m pretty sure that would go over a lot of my relatives’ heads, but who cares? It’s a great card.

If you’re interested in any of these, I’ve provided a link underneath each one.


Inside of Nick Cave Grinderman card
 

Johnny Marr Smiths card.
 
More after the jump…

Posted by Tara McGinley | Leave a comment
Meet Tony Coca Cola & the Roosters, the fake punk band from ‘The Driller Killer’
11.29.2016
10:01 am

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Movies
Music
Punk

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A minor obsession of mine is subculture representation in popular entertainment and mainstream media, especially as regards punk rock. That movement in particular was subjected to so many cartoonish misrepresentations that cataloguing them all would be a Sisyphean undertaking. The infamous “punk” episodes of TV’s Quincy and CHiPs set the gold standard for cluelessness, and countless hysterical local news segments ran the misconceptions into the ground. It’s more illuminating, in this scribe’s humble view, to look at the far rarer instances of anyone getting it right.

One of my favorite examples of actually nailing it is Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters, the fake band from The Driller Killer, the 1979 debut feature from Abel Ferrara, who’d go on the give the world infamous filmed provocations like Ms. 45, King of New York, and Bad Lieutenant. In the film, Ferrara himself (under the pseudonym Jimmy Laine) plays unsuccessful New York artist Reno Miller. Living off the largesse of his gallerist, Miller is unable to break through a creative block. Facing destitution and an eviction deadline, Miller approaches the art dealer for further funds, and is rejected unless he can complete a painting in a week. Complicating this challenge is his neighbor, Tony Coca Cola, whose band practices incessantly right in his apartment, depriving Miller of peace and sleep, causing his grip on reality to slip away. He snaps and embarks on an killing spree, offing derelicts with the movie’s eponymous power tool.

Ferrara, a Bronx native, was surely really plugged in to NYC’s seediness, so nothing about Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters rings particularly fake—it’s an entirely plausible band of the era. Check it out:
 

 

 
Sounds like an even more primitive Heartbreakers, with its stripped-down Chuck-Berry-via-Johnny-Thunders riffing. The band was made up of artist/author D. A. Metrov (under the pseudonym “Rhodney Montreal”) as singer/guitarist Tony Coca Cola, one Dickey Bittner on bass (in his only acting credit), and Steve Brown on drums, who’d resurface in a role in the 1988 gang/heist flick Deadbeat at Dawn. Metrov also executed the Reno Miller paintings in the film.

The above clip is from a restored version of The Driller Killer that’s being released by Arrow Video. The Blu-ray/DVD set features a new 1080p high def restoration from original film elements and an audio commentary by Ferrara, among other goodies. It’s the entire original cut, which was once banned in the UK as one of the “Video Nasties” that were suppressed in an infamous episode of official censorship in the ‘80s.

After the jump, watch another clip from ‘The Driller Killer’ as Tony Coca Cola and the Roosters audition backup singers while Miller tries to paint a buffalo…

Posted by Ron Kretsch | Leave a comment
Dennis Hopper’s record collection is mostly dollar-bin CRAP and can be yours for just $150,000
11.28.2016
02:09 pm

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If you’re ever looking to whip yourself up into a solid proletarian rage, I highly recommend surfing your internetcomputerbox over to Moda Operandi to get a gander at the appallingly useless trinkets and bullshit the 1% throw thousands upon thousands of dollars at while American children starve. Headphones bedazzled with Swarovski crystals? Check. A $30,000 duffel bag? You betcha! A goddamn quilted leather Pac Man machine? Treat yourself, Barron, you deserve it.

This holiday season, that site is offering a one-of-a-kind item—the late Dennis Hopper’s actual record collection. The description and photos reveal that Frank Booth rocks basically the same record collection as your bemulletted never-married uncle who goes to the State Fair to see Heart.

With a career spanning almost six decades as an actor, filmmaker, photographer, artist ,art collector and Hollywood enfant terrible, Dennis Hopper collected over 100 record titles during his lifetime. Including iconic artists and bands such as The Beatles, Bob Dylan, Van Morrison, Fleetwood Mac, Leonard Cohen and Miles Davis, this collection provides an incredible view into the world of one of America’s most culture-defining men.

 

 

 

 
The price tag on this is $150,000. Which is insane—I don’t care WHO owned it, this is a pile of extremely common records that, with exceptions we’ll note, should cost all of $100 to collect if even that. Bridge Over Troubled Water, Future Games, James Taylor’s debut, Dragon Fly? I could find affordable copies of all those bin-cloggers within an hour IF I had any desire to listen to them.

Now, the photos also show what appear to be test pressings of Carl Perkins’ “Blue Suede Shoes” and “Meshkalina” by the Peruvian rock/folk/psych band Traffic Sound, both of which are mighty goddamn cool artifacts. Also mitigating the price tag is that “[a] portion of the sale price will be donated to The Future Heritage Fund, which was founded in partnership with the New Mexico Community Foundation (NMCF) to support a range of cultural and artistic nonprofit organizations in New Mexico.”

More after the jump…

Posted by Ron Kretsch | Leave a comment
The secret artists Michael Jackson hired to paint insanely bizarre portraits of himself
11.28.2016
10:26 am

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Art
Music
Pop Culture

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Titled “Michael,” this oil painting by David Nordahl depicts Jackson as Michelangelo’s David surrounded by cherubs.
 
In April 2009, just two months before Michael Jackson’s sudden and unexpected death, Julien’s Auctions hosted a four-day public exhibition of 1,390 personal items from Neverland Ranch at the abandoned Robinsons-May department store in Beverly Hills. The exhibit was a fascinating look into the King of Pop’s personal treasures: from his iconic white-jeweled glove to a wonderland of 19th-century antiques and sculptures. One couldn’t help but notice the high volume of utterly bizarre works Michael Jackson had commissioned just for him: A life-sized statue of himself as Batman, a custom hand-painted Beverage-Air cooler, and a custom golf cart featuring an image of himself as Peter Pan painted onto the hood. However, what stood more than anything else was the exotic menagerie of oil paintings and murals of the pop star. Over many years Jackson paid dozens of artists to immortalize himself and his fairy-tale worldviews on canvas in scenes that depicted him as a figure of modern-day royalty in mythical tableaux. Where did Michael Jackson find the artists to help him amass such an insane collection of vanity? Why did somebody who was never satisfied with his looks spend millions of dollars to have his portrait painted?
 

Céline Lavail’s 1998 “Peter Pan” Neverland Ranch golf cart painting (from Julien’s Auctions Michael Jackson Exhibition catalogue).
 
Summer 2003, Leon Jones, a self-taught artist from Buena Park was airbrushing portraits of celebrities such as Lucille Ball, Jennifer Lopez, and Tupac Shakur on the sidewalk outside Café Tu Tu Tango at Universal Citywalk. A strange gentleman approached and asked if he was available to do some work for “his boss.” Jones was skeptical but agreed to meet the man at a gas station in Santa Barbara two days later after being persuaded by $500 in cash. Leon Jones and his nephew then followed the man through Los Olivos, CA, and were amazed when their final destination was revealed: Michael Jackson’s extremely secluded Neverland Ranch. Jones was then commissioned by Jackson to paint two, 15-feet-high murals at the Neverland train depot which took him several months to complete. One of the murals depicted Jackson in knight’s armor donning angel wings and the other showed Jackson surrounded by winged children pointing toward the heavens. “It was unreal, like you were on a different planet,” Jones said of his experience.

47-year-old American painter David Nordahl randomly received a phone call from Michael Jackson at his home in Santa Fe late one evening in early 1988. He thought it was a prank at first, but Jackson convinced the artist it was really him after describing a painting of Nordahl’s he had just seen in Steven Spielberg’s office earlier that day. After their initial hour-long conversation, Jackson invited him to the Denver stop of the Bad tour in March 1988 and soon after a partnership was formed: Nordahl left the commercial art world to become Jackson’s personal portraitist. Over the next seventeen years this creative collaboration resulted in thousands of drawings and roughly a dozen large-scale commissions. Jackson spent millions of dollars paying artists like Nordahl to transform his surreal and mythological ideas into fantasy art.
 

“The Storyteller” Nordahl shows Jackson as a Peter Pan-like figure surrounded by children including his sister Janet who is depicted as a fairy.
 

In Nordahl’s “Field of Dreams” Michael leads children of all nationalities (including sister Janet, AIDS activist Ryan White, actor Macaulay Culkin, and Pippi Longstocking).
 
Jackson paid up to $150,000 for the larger pieces and began referring to David Nordahl as his “favorite living artist” (Michelangelo being his favorite artist historically). Nordahl became a close friend, trusted adviser, and confidant who helped design Neverland Ranch carnival rides and joined Jackson for family trips to Disneyland. In 2004, Jackson and his children paid Nordahl a surprise visit on memorial day weekend, dropping by his Santa Fe home on their plush private bus. Jackson suggested a movie outing. “I thought we were going to a screening room,” Nordahl says. “His driver pulled into DeVargas Mall. He was friends with Roland Emmerich (the director of The Day After Tomorrow), and it was opening weekend. The mall was jammed, and there was no place to park. I took the kids, got the tickets and popcorn, and we went in. Michael came in after the lights went down. The lights came up, and nobody noticed him. He had on a baseball cap and these Chinese silk pajamas.”
 
Portsmouth-based portrait artist Ralph Wolfe Cowan painted Michael Jackson four times around 1993. The pop star bought the first portrait and then commissioned and paid for three more shortly after that. Cowan’s first abstract portrait depicted Jackson wearing a suit of armor, holding a sword with a parrot perched on top of it. Bubbles, Jackson’s pet monkey, was portrayed sitting loyally at his feet. After the first image of the portrait was sent to Jackson’s staff Cowan received back a strange, long-relayed message. “When I painted it, I had these dogs down in the bottom somewhere. German shepherds. Michael Jackson called up his curator, who called the guy at the gallery, who called my business manager Steve (Mohler), and Steve told me Michael didn’t want the dogs in there,” Cowan recounted. Extremely confused, Cowan insisted he hears from Jackson himself. Soon after, Cowan got a call. “Hello, this is Michael. I don’t like dogs,” he said in a soft, gentle voice. “I like monkeys.” Jackson paid about $30,000 for the 8-foot-tall painting, sans the dogs, which he hung in a living room beside his piano and can be seen in the background of Jackson’s well-known 1993 televised living room interview with Oprah Winfrey. Eventually, their working relationship deteriorated. Cowan explained how painting for Michael Jackson was really like working for a king. “He lived in a fantasy world and if he didn’t like something, you felt as if he could behead you. But the way he does it is by not calling you again. And somewhere along the line he stopped calling me and I thought I had been beheaded.”
 
Keep reading after the jump…

Posted by Doug Jones | Leave a comment
Stream the ‘scary’ & ‘demented’ new album by Doomsday Student, with ex members of Arab on Radar
11.28.2016
07:36 am

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A few weeks ago, Jason Pettigrew wrote a really fun listicle for Alternative Press called “Ten Bands That Are Actually Terrifying.” Sitting comfortably among other worthies like Deathspell Omega and Einstürzende Neubauten were Arab on Radar, a ridiculously noisy Providence, RI group of the 1990s who helped open the door to the 21st Century’s No-Wave revival. Here’s Jason’s blurb:

Nothing particularly scary about this late-’90s noise-rock unit fronted by Eric Paul. That is, until they got onstage, plugged in and created a caterwauling scree that emanated the ugliest of vibes. While onstage, Paul threw himself into everything (bandmates, audience) while approximating the high-pitched squealing heard in animal-testing facilities. When this writer first saw them, the bad vibes spilled out into the street post-show, with plenty of fights, vandalism and muggings going down. Or was it just the neighborhood? (RIP, Speak In Tongues, Cleveland.)

As it happens, I was at the same show, and it wasn’t just the neighborhood, though the neighborhood certainly was a bit more wild-west back then (the venue is now a waxing studio—RIP Speak In Tongues, indeed). I’d known Arab on Radar only by name, and was utterly unprepared. I stood transfixed in front of the stage, genuinely frightened that I might come to physical harm either from the band or the rest of the audience, but unwilling to miss a single note—they DID play actual notes, I’m fairly sure. The band members’ faces were distorted with white-hot maniac rage, they wore grey uniforms that put me in mind of concentration camp janitors, and their music was beyond assaultive, it was downright punitive. The most lasting image in my mind of that show was of drummer Craig Kureck, his face twisted into a mask of murderous anger, just fucking ruthlessly smashing a cymbal which he held in a chokehold, as if he was shattering someone’s skull with a hammer.

I’d made a jaded bastard of myself by spending over a decade going to every show I could possibly see, and was always stunned when I found bands still capable of surprising and exciting me to that level. I fell in love and bought many records.

More after the jump…

Posted by Ron Kretsch | Leave a comment
Motörhead’s Orgasmatron War Pig: The ultimate stocking ... stuffer
11.23.2016
03:04 pm

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Amusing
Games
Music
Sex

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The field of sex toys with an explicit rock music tie-in is a relatively new one, but if you think about it, it would be odd if a band who released an album called Orgasmatron and a song called “Vibratordidn’t have a line of sex toys. Clearly, this was the kind of thing Lemmy and the gang gave serious thought.

My colleague Ron Kretsch introduced readers to Lovehoney’s line of Motörhead-themed vibrators last year, so this isn’t exactly a new topic for us. The four products that were made available last year were tributes to Ace of Spades and Overkill—all of them vibrators—with prices ranging from $26.95 to $54.95.

But when they come out with new Motörhead models, well twist our arm, it’s our pleasure, nay our responsibility to let you know. Not for nothing, but the Orgasmatron thing was just lying out there waiting for something to give. Sure enough, Lovehoney has three new products, a glass dildo in both clear/black and black/gold which is a tribute to Bomber, and an “Orgasmatron War Pig Wand Vibrator.”

Here they are, beauties all:

 
Much more after the jump…....
 

Posted by Martin Schneider | Leave a comment
Strassenjungs: The ‘fake’ German punk rockers who toured with The Clash
11.23.2016
09:59 am

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Punk

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German ‘punk’ band Strassenjungs circa 1980.
 
In 1977 two German producers decided to try to follow Malcolm McLaren’s success with the Sex Pistols by creating a “fake” punk rock band. The result would be a quad hailing from Frankfurt called Strassenjungs (which translates as “Street Boys”).

Axel Klopprogge and Eckehard Ziedrich pulled Strassenjungs together during a time when the punk scene was still in a formative state in Germany. Their timing, as far as Strassenjungs was concerned, was pretty perfect. It should have worked. But it didn’t.

Despite getting lucky enough tour rather extensively through Europe with The Clash in late 1977 (and according to the band’s official site Siouxise & The Banshees in 1980), Strassenjungs’ albums pretty much bombed as soon as they were released. Which is strange because they were seemingly laser-focused on being as “aggressive” as possible penning songs about teenage rebellion, sex, drugs and booze. While the combination of these things generally produce hit-making results, this was not the case for Strassenjungs until much later in their career. They were never truly accepted into the punk scene in Germany and in 1977 German musician Peter Hein accused the band of not being “punk” at all but “langhaarig, blödfressig, deutsch” or “long-haired, loud-mouthed Germans.”

If certain folklore about Strassenjungs is to be believed after a couple of failed records in 1982 the band’s debut record was added to the German Index (a censorship program) under the charge of “inciting crime and alcohol abuse” both of which seem pretty fucking punk rock to me. Sadly the dubious classification now prevented the album from being sold to minors. With all that working against them you’d think Strassenjungs might have called it quits, but they didn’t. Though they’ve been through various lineup changes over the decades the band still performs today with original bassist Nils Selzer. I’ve included some singles from Strassenjungs for you to consider below as well as a couple of photos of the band pretending to be punks back the day. If you dig what you hear in this post here’s a link pick up a “best of” compilation from the band Strassenfeger: Die Hit-Box! (best of) by Strassenjungs.
 

The goofy cover of Strassenjungs’ 1977 debut.
 
More after the jump…

Posted by Cherrybomb | Leave a comment
That time Einstürzende Neubauten tried to burn the Palladium down
11.22.2016
04:41 pm

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One day, this was about a decade ago, I got a call from Mick Farren, the hard-living British rocker/journalist and counterculture legend who was at that time writing a TV review column for the LA City Beat.

“Mick! How are you? I was just reading about you in the new MOJO.”

“That fucking Pink Floyd thing?”

I grunted in the affirmative. Mick was the doorman at the UFO Club in the 60s, the acid-drenched psychedelic London nightspot where the Floyd, Soft Machine and his own group The Deviants, had gotten their starts.

“That article was really depressing. Written by someone in their twenties who wasn’t even born then, who got it ALL WRONG and then it gets published in the glossy pages of the high-falutin’ MOJO magazine and now it’s the official fucking history. It’s all wrong, of course, but now that’s the way it bloody was!

“We’re talking about an event that took place 40 years ago, and most of the participants are still alive and they can’t even get it right. Imagine if we happened to be a pre-literate desert-dwelling tribal society relying on oral histories being passed down for hundreds of years? How accurate can the Bible possibly be if MOJO is this bad?”

I’ve never forgotten that conversation. This morning, I was reading Einstürzende Neubauten’s Wikipedia page when I came to this bit, about their third North American tour, taking place in 1986:

On the tour, the group’s experimental and improvised live performance style occasionally caused difficulties with venue management and law enforcement. A performance at The Palladium in Manhattan ended 30 minutes into the set after an improvised pyrotechnics display. The band ignited lighter fluid in a couple of metal pans, and management stopped the performance and cleared the venue.

This is inaccurate, and hardly descriptive of one of the more notable—not to mention completely insane—concert going experiences of my life. It doesn’t even mention the date, which was May 29, 1986. In the spirit of historical accuracy—at least to a certain extent—here’s what I remember about that night…

Neubauten’s gig was part of the Palladium’s “Midnight Concerts” series (Tuxedomoon had played the cavernous nightclub the week prior). I’d already seen them play before and knew that you wanted to be right up front to properly appreciate what they did. Neubauten’s shows were intense. Demonic. Scary. Violent and very, very unpredictable. The only group who could rival them in the evil onstage astonishment sweepstakes was the Butthole Surfers and only them. If you were too close to the stage at a Neubauten gig, there was an ever present danger that you could get hurt, like being in the audience at a Survival Research Laboratories event. And not just from a flying hammer or power drill. The members of the band themselves seemed more than potentially homicidal and glowered with a murderous hatred towards the audience, especially F.M. Einheit (“Mufti”) the muscle-bound Hulk-like percussionist who looked like he could break a heavy chain with his bare bands. Or your wimpy eggshell skull. Their stage act at the time might’ve appeared to the uninitiated like a leather clad speedfreak who’d cut his own hair with a knife screaming his head off like a dying hyena as some of his miscreant Kraut buddies banged on metal, plunked elevator cables like giant bass strings and hurled around chainsaws—and they would be correct to a certain extent—but in actual fact, Neubauten make a kind of harsh modern classical music for the late 20th Century, the druggy progeny of Karlheinz Stockhausen and Faust.

What a thrillingly savage thing it was to witness.
 

 
I was no more than three to six people back from the front of the stage, which, it being a discotheque, was not very high off the ground and so I could see everything—the action and all their weird equipment and infernal gear—from where I was standing. (Club MTV was shot there at this time, so if you have a memory of that show, then you know what the Palladium looked like inside. It was the same stage on the main dancefloor.) The Wikipedia entry says that Neubauten played but half an hour before being yanked off by the club’s management, but this is not how it happened at all.

First, they played an entire set. They did closer to 90 minutes and the “riot” happened at the very end. They pulled the pin out when they wanted to. That part, at least, was planned ahead, for right before they walked offstage and I don’t think they had any intention of doing an encore.
 

 
There was something else they didn’t plan for: During their set a young woman of what used to be called the “yuppie” persuasion did something pretty outrageous. The rise of Manhattan’s “young urban professional” class was by then starting to push bohemian downtowners out of the cheap neighborhoods, but they were still a novelty to a certain extent, in a nightclub until the massive Palladium was forced to offer a more egalitarian door policy and let in anyone with money.

This chick was in her late twenties, with blonde flipped-back, 80s looking, curling iron-styled hair. A string of pearls, a cardigan—conservative clothes—she was not someone hip. Apparently a WASP “good girl” to look at her. Her four male companions were all basically Wall Street types and around the same age. You can only imagine what the audience of an Einstürzende Neubauten concert looked like in 1985. They were starkly out of place, and stood out like particularly uncool sore thumbs in their khakis, button-down collar shirts and blue blazers drinking, as all good yuppies did then, Rolling Rock beer.

They must have been quite drunk, or at least she was, because at about the midpoint of the show, overcome by the darkly pagan ritual she was witnessing she climbed onto the stage, with Mufti’s help, and started dancing around taking her clothes off as the band played. She took her sweater off, then her blouse and then her bra before one of her friends, after much nervous deliberation (remember what I said about how homicidal the band seemed) got up the nerve to jump onto the stage, covering her with his jacket and whisking her back into the audience.

Keep reading after the jump…

Posted by Richard Metzger | Leave a comment
Hair-metal hot dogs: A Cinderella story
11.22.2016
08:38 am

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Advertising
Food
Music

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Never mind prog, hair metal is the most reviled rock genre, period. And it probably should be, because most of it fucking blows like nothing else on Earth. (Show up at my door with a copy of Open Up and Say… Ahh! and a gun, and that gun had better be loaded.) But it shouldn’t have sucked—at its most basic, the genre combined the grit of ‘70s hard rock (awesome), the decadent swagger of glam (awesome), and the gleeful sneer of punk (awesome), but by some unholy and counterintuitive rock math, “awesome plus awesome plus awesome” equalled stomach-churningly shitty.

Before grunge tanked the genre in the early ‘90s, hair metal was already in decline anyway, due to the samey cartoonishness of its sartorial norms, the tediousness of its de rigueur power-ballads, and the body-blow of Penelope Spheeris’ documentary The Decline of Western Civilization Part II: The Metal Years, which aimed an array of klieg lights on the jaw-droppingly pathetic delusions of also-ran hair metal musicians. (If you have a Roku or similar device, The Shout Factory streaming channel has that doc, FYI. It’s a must-see.) But before the curtain fell, a band from Philly called Cinderella scored a huge hit with a power ballad (of course) called “Nobody’s Fool” and a triple-platinum album called Night Songs. The band was less party-oriented than much hair metal, ultimately moving away from the style towards a more straightforward bluesy hard rock approach, and they were gifted with a singer, Tom Keifer, who at his best approached the expressiveness of Ronnie James Dio. In his lesser moments, well, see how much of this you can make it through.

While “Nobody’s Fool” is arguably the song most closely associated with the band, I feel like the video below captures a way more appealing vibe. It’s a 30-second commercial the pre-fame band shot for a hot dog stand called Pat’s. (Located on ROUTE 420! COME ON!) To be clear, I am in no way knocking them for writing a hot dog commercial. There have existed a couple of hot dog places I would gladly honor in song, myself, should the occasion arise. I genuinely like this ad—for one thing, the footage of the rough-around-the-edges early band contrasts edifyingly against the blow dried, pampered-poodle corporate glam of their official videos, and watching them stuff their faces with dirty water hot dogs is about the least pretentious thing ever in a genre where affectation was job one.

In a great video made a few years ago for Loudwire, Keifer related the tale of how Cinderella came to make the ad.

In recent years, the commercial “Pat’s Chili Dogs” I did with my band Cinderella years ago has been surfacing on the internet quite a bit lately. And the way that came about was, that was right when early ‘80s MTV was just starting to take off, and we were a young baby band kicking around in the clubs in the Philadelphia/Jersey area, and we wanted to be on MTV, and we sent our video, which was horrible, to like Basement Tapes or something like that. They wouldn’t play it, they wouldn’t touch us. So a local proprietor who owned a chili dog stand asked us to sing. He saw us in a club and he liked us. He said “would you do a rock ’n’ roll commercial for my place?” And he said “We’re gonna buy local TV advertising on MTV,” and the light went off, we were like “Well, we’ll be on MTV, then!” [laughs] Only locally, but that’s what it felt like to us, so we said “Sure, we’ll do it.” Plus we got free chili dogs any time we wanted.

 
More after the jump…

Posted by Ron Kretsch | Leave a comment
Faster, Harder, Longer: Switzerland’s pioneering punk exports the electrifying ‘Nasal Boys’
11.21.2016
09:44 am

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Music
Punk

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Swiss punk rockers, Nasal Boys.
 
Like most punk rock jams, Swiss punks the Nasal Boys didn’t stick around too long after getting their start back in Zürich in 1976. By 1978 the the band ditched their original name and became the far less interesting sounding “EXPO” (”EXPO”?) before disbanding all together in 1979.

One of the first punk records to ever come out of Switzerland was a 7” put out by the Nasal Boys in 1977. Released by Swiss label Periphery Perfume it’s a blistering piece of vinyl containing two singles “Hot Love” and “Die Wüste Lebt.” Both support the band’s motto “Schneller, Harter, Langer” (or Faster, Harder, Longer). According to early interviews with the band they claimed their primary source of inspiration came from U.S. punk acts, and not UK acts like the Sex Pistols and The Clash. However, it would be Joe Strummer and his bandmates who gave Nasal Boys their big break when they asked the Swiss quad to open a show for them in their hometown of Zürich on October 1st, 1977 thanks to the success of their fist-pumping single “Hot Love.”

Later in 1978 Nasal Boys would put on what has been credited as the very first live gig featuring a punk band in Gersang, Emmen, an inner part of Switzerland. In addition to The Clash, Nasal Boys would share bills with other hugely influential punk bands like The Stranglers, Suicide and The Damned.

If you’re unfamiliar with Nasal Boys and now love them, I have good news. Back in 2006, 1000 copies of a Nasal Boys compilation called Lost and Found (featuring both studio and live recordings) was pressed much to the delight of punks with classy ears. Though it’s tough to track down a copy, if you’re intrepid enough you will find it. I’ve include some wicked footage of Nasal Boys performing their song “Manifesto” on Swiss television, the addictive single “Hot Love,” and the very Clash-y sounding track, “Die Wüste Lebt.” I’ve also included a strange bit of footage featuring Nasal Boys vocalist Leo Remmel from Swiss television that contains some excellent raw live performance clips from the band. I strongly recommend that you listen to to everything in this post at the highest possible volume. Posers get LOST!
 

A flier advertising a Nasal Boys show with Bastards and formative female Swiss post-punk band Kleenex from 1978.
 

Fantastic footage of Nasal Boys performing their single “Manifesto” on Swiss television.
 
More Nasal Boys after the jump…

Posted by Cherrybomb | Leave a comment
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