Dick Says: I Was in a Grind Band and All I Got Was This Lousy...

...chipped tooth and several forehead stitches.

I was young once. Now, this is not to say that my youthful, boyish looks and acne have fled my hollow self entirely, but I was once far more impressionable and unacquainted with the many mysteries of the earth. Such a time was full of discovery and wonder for me (read: I learned that ingesting bottom-shelf tequila on an empty stomach was a brilliant way to encourage dry-heaving throughout a chemistry exam the following morning).

During these times of spiritual metamorphosis, a handful of friends and I felt it necessary to fully cement our platonic, adolescent relationship with one another. In retrospect, the obvious methodology for a coming-of-age task like this would have been to simply stumble across a waterlogged dead body or accomplish something else equally Corey Feldman-like. Given that we were located in a middle-class Michigan suburb, however, the only apparent solution at the time was to start playing some experimental derivative of grindcore at various DIY venues.

And so it began! We threw around some ideas for gimmicks and themes to set ourselves apart and drum up some notoriety. At one point we considered going as different zoo animals on stage, but it soon was made apparent that our drummer's blasting ability would suffer if he were in a giraffe costume. Around that time furries were also fairly high-profile and christ knows we had enough problems without getting roped in with the kind of crowd interested in pleasuring Bugs Bunny.

Our brainstorming concluded with us simply deciding to have no part in the cookie-cutter "brutal" aesthetic which permeated the hardcore/metal shows we were attending at the time. With this in consideration, we figured a good percentage of our audience would quickly bore themselves to death if a solid opportunity to windmill kick one's neighbor were not provided. To compensate for this, we upped the visual stimulation at our shows by harassment via a high wattage lights setup and quasi-recklessly flailing ourselves about.

Per the title of this article, during a bout of our trademark on-stage self abuse, I managed to catch a swinging bass headstock to the dome. The result was vital fluids exiting their way down my face with no observable interest in letting up. Not wanting to end our 20-minute set early (songs seldom broke the 2-minute mark), I asked for a 1-10 scaled assessment of the injury's severity. If my memory serves correctly, it was deemed an approximated "six" and we finished the rest of our set. The gig's after-party was held in the hospital down the street.

Out of the good 30 or so shows we ended up playing, the most memorable would've had to been some dilapidated punk venue in the shitty part of a West Michigan city. The guy who booked us heralded it as "the oldest venue in the US since CBGB's closed... man" - a significant and outright dubious claim, I know. We were at first wary of making the 3+ hour drive out, but once word came that none other than GG Allin himself had both performed (i.e. defecated) and briefly lived at said venue, not playing there became instantly out of the question.

I am still adamantly undecided as to whether this show was our best or worst. To say that the individuals in attendance weren't the most welcoming might have been an understatement. On top of this, the venue itself was essentially a squalid warehouse with some blown-out PA speakers mounted to the wall. We watched an admirable percentage of the underage crowd openly drinking and consuming narcotics, all while assertively questioning the sexual orientation of (and throwing freshly emptied beer cans at) the bands performing prior to us. What also might be worth noting is that (Edward Norton aside) I had never seen anyone with a full-on Swastika blatantly tattooed on their chest until that fateful day. Despite all of us in the band having WASP-y racial immunity to these goons, we began quietly hyperventilating and debating if we should just pack up right on the spot.

It was eventually decided that we'd make our presentation short and sweet, then remove ourselves from the situation as quickly as possible. Miraculously, our performance was met with a minimal pelting of recyclables and I think I only got called a faggot twice. These details aside, the majority seemed to really enjoy us, despite our having good dental work and not playing music of the "punk as Fuck" variety. I almost felt like a bonding experience had occurred between the us and the locals, even if it was for the briefest of delicate moments.

Dick's Closing Thoughts TM: We whole band stint lasted a little over a year; as priorities began shifting and the sparkly, magical glisten of creating atonal waves of noise in front of teenagers began to dull. While the frequent ass-pains of moving gear, arranging practices, and financial snafus will not be missed, I'll still reminisce upon the overall experience fondly. My only regret was not going with the exotic wildlife getups.