Category Archives: Misc

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Paradise Village: Population 2

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Paradise VillageLove is in the air, my friends. Last week heard the melodic vibrations from love’s rapturous heartstrings with the forging of Jason and Rachael, and today will mark the blissful beginning of Mr. and Mrs. Troy and Kelly Benjamin (Troy been jammin’ I always say). So, who better to usher in these two Caribbean companions than Al Caiola and His Islanders?

Paradise Village is not just an unincorporated island in the minds of love-seeking soul-searchers, it’s also a romantic escape, at 33 1/3 revolutions per minute, to that island of hope, the rock of love if you will, that so many strive for, but very few are able to witness firsthand. I found my island… her name is Jillian. Jason found his, and now, Troy is about to take a permanent vacation to his own exalted oasis. Congratulations to Troy and Kelly! May your love, and the grandiose beauty of your future keep you both in a village of paradise for the rest of your remaining days.

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Shep Lives!

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Bahn Frei BlueJean Shepherd is neither a shepherd, nor a woman. If you know who that is, I have absolutely no doubt that you are already an enormous fan. The mischievous New York radio personality, whose eloquent tenure spanned from 1948 to 1977, was nothing short of an eggheaded genius, a word I VERY rarely use (well, I seldom use eggheaded either for that matter). His brilliant storytelling and enthusiastic delivery has, very poorly put, never been equaled and, I’m certain, never will. Also an established writer (who, if anyone, has never heard of A Christmas Story?!), Shep, as his fans knew him, shared his magnetic rants over every conceivable medium, and will forever be identified as radio’s most overlooked legend.Shep

Like with any show, there is a theme song. Shep, for reasons not entirely clear, chose Arthur Fiedler’s version of the Bahn Frei Polka to kick-off his shows. Like the start of a marathon horse race, the Bahn Frei Polka launches from the gate with a galloping wallop of fury and anxious anticipation that, to this day, gives me goosebumps and an enormous smile every time I hear it.

Bahn Frei RedPlease, I beg of you… if you have iTunes and an internet connection, treat yourself to one of life’s most cherished treasures, and subscribe to the (free) podcasts, The Brass Figlagee and Mass Backwards. With nearly 1400 recorded shows (you read that right), the prosperous servitude of this man’s objective vision should be shared and analyzed by any and every fan of the childhood laugh. Long live Jean Shepherd!

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I Remember Buddy

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BuddyYeah, I remember Buddy! That Birkenstock-wearing, Top 40 Radio-listening, part time tree-hugging philanthropist. It’s nearly impossible to forget him, given his gaudy, rhinestone eye patch he considers, “a necessary fashion accessory, regardless of my 20/20 vision.” Yeah, Buddy’s ideals are more based on the weekly grocery circulars than anything he learned in Philosophy V01 up at Ventura College.

Jerry BackI remember Buddy, and so does Jerry Vale. My memory of this tip-stealing, hot sauce drinking, re-gifter isn’t near as sentimental as they appear to be for Mr. Vale. Unlike Mr. Vale and his sugar-sweet, golden-throated praise in Buddy’s memory (why he would do such a malignant thing is far beyond the grasp of my comprehension), my memories of Buddy, the vagrant oil stains littering the driveway of my past, those memories need to take a permanent vacation and never get a striking urge to write home. I’ll never forget you Buddy, although I would do just about everything in my conceivable power if given the opportunity.

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An Open Letter to the Deceased Tim Hardin (Prematurely, and Hastily Written)

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Dear Mr. Hardin AKA my current crutch,

Why? Thank you, sincerely, and from the bottom of my soul, but why? Did you know… did you see… that death was easier than the inevitable? Was it easier to give in, than to exploit and disrupt? Love, being only a four-letter word, seemed easily disregarded, be it, perhaps, for only in three minute intervals.

Mr. Hardin, certain voices cannot be silenced, and certain feelings cannot be ignored. I carry as much sorrow as I do gratitude, and your voice, provided with fevered esteem, will carry on where your will could not. Seemingly out of nowhere, the soundtrack to the bulk of my existence, my self-indulgent, unconscious darkness, is produced by you. You did what was needed. Your demise is not in question… certainly, for, who am I to judge? Instead, the painted roadmaps that lead to your inevitable doom, and ethereal glory, is what, above all else, I can’t figure out… be it my ignorance, or your selfish neglect.

Tim, for what you’ve provided, and, what I imagine, will continue to provide via your essentials, AKA record albums (the Record Album?), for that body of work, a body I assume you were never able to see from afar, I am extremely grateful… to put it mildly.

The words, “Tim Hardin” will never be far from thought, and I will do all that I can to suggest, to convince, to sway, to push, to assure, and to drop the needle for any and everyone I feel necessitates your comforting tone.

Mr. Tim Hardin, I was only one year, six months and two days when you passed, but until the day in which I leave this mottled agony, I will not forget your soulful message. This adolescent gesture is but a scuff on the shoe of creative genius, but please rest assured, your music will forever have a home so long as these lungs are able to draw in the dank, desperate air.

Sincerely,

The Prudent Groove

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Isn’t It A Pretty Scene?!

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Screen shot 2013-10-16 at 9.52.57 PMIt had been suggested that I write a commemorative string of meaningful and explicit words to commemorate the bonding unification between two of my favorite individuals (whom I’ve been socially forced into articulating with).

It had also been suggested (many times… and mostly by yours truly) that this pair, not unlike Lennon & McCartney, Simon & Garfunkel, Hall & Oates, Difford & Tilbrook, and essentially, primarily, inherently, and FINALLY, She & Him (she being Rachael, and him being Jason… obviously… GAH), were perpetually destined to straddle the horseback of life’s mischievous quarrels side, by loving side.

Sometimes, and it’s a rather rare affair, love’s destined future rears its ambiguous head, and sometimes, the testing seeds of exaltation present themselves in ways that (still) stand as glistening examples of how immaculate and pure the binding of two (never again) strangers can secure.

Congratulations to Rachael and Jason Hardwick… it was about damn time!

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Drinks N’ Roses

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Do you know what I hate? Whiskey. Yeah. I hate whiskey. It’s not the lovingly-bitter pinch it leaves on your exasperated tongue, it’s not the superhuman strength it willingly, and fervently gives you, it’s not the subtle suggestions it, well, suggests, that leave you STRONGLY considering running for a seat on the United States House of Representatives… instead, it’s the overwhelming velocity in its seemingly subtle proposals that provoke me to nudge the dials on my home stereo from, oh, I don’t know, say a neighborhood pleasing, tolerable volume, to a RAGING, cacophony of disruptive and uncongenial banter of my emotional choosing (namely, Guns N’ Roses, Refused, Guns N’ Roses, and ok, well mainly Guns N’ Roses).

There are specified channels of unquestionable vitality that never consider stepping down from atop their immortal foundation, and 1987 G N’ R is absurdly no exception.

Editor’s note: I extend my intense apology for the choice of photos for the following X posts. You see, I’ll be out of the office for the next X days and, well, I’ve forgotten to take pictures of the proper albums prior to my last minute post writing (you know, with the proper daylight and all). Something tells me, however, not a soul will notice, or venture to care, and therefore this Editor’s note will have served as a monumental waste of both your, and my time. Carry on.

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Freak Out!

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ChicLadies and gentlemen, it’s officially time to freak out. Why you ask? Is it because we’re well into our 2nd week of this adolescent government shutdown? No. Perhaps it’s due to the fact that one of your best friends is getting married in a few days and, like you, he’s an underdeveloped and severely frightened child living in an adult’s body? No, well, yes, but no. Maybe it’s the fact that in exactly 100 days, The Prudent Groove turns 1 year old? Possibly, but I think it’s something much more offbeat and divergent than that. Why can’t we all just freak out for freak out’s sake? I mean, it’s good for the beat-loving soul to freak once and a while, right? Yes. Well, all right then.

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Who Framed Roger Rabbit?

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Roger the BunnyWas it those Commie Liberals, or maybe the offensive line for the Green Bay Packers? Maybe it was the elusive idle Indiana Jones went searching for and was ultimately forced to hand over. Perhaps it was a not-so-anonymous committee consisting of former Burger King drive-thru attendants and vintage wallpaper designers. But who would have wanted to frame the poor animated bunny? Was it the face of Mahatma Gandhi in a pool of oil beneath a leaky engine? Or maybe it was a Norton Anti-Antivirus, designed to infiltrate and disrupt all Robert Zemeckis films. For that matter, it could have been the scheming and manipulating team of Marty McFly and Jennifer Parker, although, if that were the case, I bet Doc was the mastermind behind the operation.

Richard RabbitHas anybody checked the whereabouts of the Chicken Lady on the night in question? People say John Bonham died, but at times like this, one really should verify the facts.

What possible motive did he, or she, or they, or IT possess? My guess… he wasn’t framed at all. Roger Rabbit is guilty! Thank God for Forensic Files, am I right?

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The O.C. 45

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O.C. 45 SleeveThis record is a thermoplastic material. Do not expose to excessive temperature. So reads this vintage 45 sleeve from Capitol Records. I personally don’t own an O.C. 45, but that will undoubtedly change sometime in the near future. For those of you not in the know, don’t worry if you aren’t, because I just discovered this for myself some short moments ago, the O stands for optional and the C stands for center. I do, obviously, possess several generic adapters (many of them classic Spiders), but something tells me that the O.C. 45 is, quite simply put, the Rolls Royce of 45 adapters. Except that, it isn’t. Here’s why.

SMALL Spindles LogoThanks to Capitol6000.com for harboring the only information about this long defunct adapter anywhere online. I encourage you to read the article at Capitol6000.com, but here is the gist of it: To provide the listener/purchaser/record collecting nut with viable options for pure, listening satisfaction, Capitol Records invented a record that could easily play on either small spindles (78rpm and 33 1/3rpm), or by (aggressively) punching out the optional center, the record could be played on larger spindles (45rpm). This seems like a clever and convenient way to circumvent the clouded format war of the late 40s and early 50s (a war that still rages on to this day), but my question is this. Was the punched out adapter able to be punched back in?

LARGE Spindles LogoSay your wife wanted to enjoy some Les Baxter with her bothersome friends at the bi-monthly block party cookout, but you’ve already punched out the optional center. After (reluctantly) searching the entire house looking for the damn thing, do you return to the Better Homes and Gardens party a hero, or will you go down in history as the only guy on the block who couldn’t give the ladies Les Baxter when they needed it? Thankfully, the Frank A. Jansen and Snap-It adapters were slowly moving their way into record collections across the gluttonous US of A by this time, so any possibility of further social awkwardness could easily be avoided.

Beasties O.C. 45Used to house my transparent blue vinyl copy of the Sabotage/Sure Shot split by the Beastie Boys, this pristine little vintage record sweater is a perfect fit for my mid 90s rock/hip-hop obsession.

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Let’s Begin Now

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Not Cleared for BroadcastDistributed in the height of Star Wars sequel anticipation, this 1979 release of a children’s Read-Along book and record set hosts one of my first vivid memories of playing a record. Thanks to my first, pocket-sized (for very large pockets) turntable, I was able to enjoy an insanely abridged version of my favorite story… a story I had been convinced was the greatest ever told.

Original Motion PictureWhen listening to this little memory-harboring 7″ (with all its pop-filled, skip-tastic glory), I can still picture myself reenacting the drama-soaked adventures with my 3¾” Star Wars action figures and thinking, being a kid is the greatest thing on this, or any galaxy, regardless of placement in time and/or location. (A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away… was easily replaced with Just a moment ago in a playroom very, very near…)

The ol’ girl has certainly seen better days, but I wouldn’t trade her for all seats on the Imperial Senate.

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Shut ‘Em Down

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ONYXSo, the (US) government is shutdown for the first time since 1996. Well, isn’t that fantastic? Since the country can’t even agree to disagree, it’s about damn time to unleash the pit bulls of pain… Shut ‘Em Down, Onyx… Shut ‘Em Down.

Released in the dwindling years of the 20th century, Shut ‘Em Down was the third album by the Queens based gangsta rap quartet turned trio (RIP Big DS), and their final for Def Jam Records. Shut ‘Em Down features the first big label appearance by 50 Cent (which is about all our government is worth at the moment). I’m not a fan of 50 Cent, but his debut with Onyx is worth noting.

I’m partial to Bacdafucup myself (Onyx’s first and most prolific album), but on a day when someone desperately needs to hit the reset button on the nation, Shut ‘Em Down will certainly suffice.Mad Face '98

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Post #250: Three Albums, One Island

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Paul'sIf you were stranded on a remote island (that conveniently harbored electricity, speakers and a bomb-ass turntable), and you were only allowed to pick three albums with which to spin for your remaining, ocean-gazing days, what three albums would they be?

For me, the first two albums were no-brainers. Paul’s Boutique by the Beastie Boys, and The Kinks Are the Village Green Preservation Society by The Kinks. Choosing the proper versions, both albums are double LPs (1998’s Grand Royal reissue and 2011’s mono/stereo split), so you’re already a leg up on the island dwelling competition. The third and final album requires much more, overanalyzed thought. Do you play it safe and pick Abbey Road? What about The Beatles, also known as the White Album? Or, do you skip the 12” format altogether and grab your favorite song, which just happens to be a post-hardcore thrasher by the obscure Wisconsin band, Defacto Oppression? Certainly NOT an easy decision to make (in this overly voluptuous hypothetical), second-guessing is sure to follow after the inevitably dreadful decision is (finally) made.

Village GreenBruce Springsteen’s Nebraska garnishes some thought, but would probably be far too depressing… after all, these three albums will help feed, or deter the fact that you are, after all, stranded on a remote island. Emergency & I by the Dismemberment Plan is a considerably strong candidate, but would immediately be my number four pick. Bizarre Ride II (The Pharcyde), In Case You Didn’t Feel Like Showing Up (Live) (Ministry), This is Tim Hardin (Tim Hardin… duh), and Circa: Now! (Rocket from the Crypt) are all, exceptional lily pads on this thought pond, but none of them make the distinct cut.

London Calling (The Clash), Double Nickels on the Dime (Minutemen), Singles – 45’s and Under (Squeeze), Energy (Operation Ivy), Appetite for Destruction (Guns N’ Roses), which would easily be my number five pick, Black Monk Time (The Monks), and Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables (Dead Kennedys) all lay floating in the salted sea of “never to enjoy again.” Damn, this post is depressing.

RefusedAnd the winner goes to… The Shape of Punk to Come… the quintessential soundtrack to my evasive youth wins the number three spot, and with little hesitation, I might add. Refused’s best, and another double LP, this top three has quickly turned into the top six, and would respectfully demonstrate, and/or adequately demolish my headspace for the rest of my delusional life. To pick three out of 2,800 is certainly NOT an easy gesture… if asked again tomorrow, I’d have a completely different roster. Oh, the joy, and immediate pleasure of viable options.

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Saturday Mornings With Richard Pryor

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RichA day that goes by without a Richard Pryor quote is both a sad, and extremely rare day. Literally every time someone mentions a year from the 20th century, my tuned Pryears : ) perk up, and I do everything within my power to stop from breaking into the classic Sugar Ray Robinson routine. “Nineteen what?!” One of the best gifts I’ve truly ever given myself was the countless hours of listening to Richard Pryor. Because, in doing so, I’m now able to conjure up Rich’s voice in my head, seemingly at will. It’s an overwhelmingly comfortable feeling to have Richard Pryor with you every moment of every day. One of life’s little gifts, I guess.

The following is a list of everyday objects and well, whatevers that will forever be linked to the funniest man to ever walk the Earth (sorry, Jason Hardwick): fish sandwiches; dice; change for $1; craps; pet monkeys; walking in the woods; snakes; winos; 11 o’clock; blackjack; polar bears; (I’m literally crying I’m laughing so hard just thinking of these comedic bits) Mongo Santamaría; turtle soup; license plates; a cool breeze; and anything deep (to name a few).

I’m strongly considering dedicating Saturday mornings to Richard Pryor, much to the dismay of my girlfriend and our uptight neighbors. If you’re unfamiliar with the crowned prince of comedy, start with Craps (After Hours). Keep an open mind and the kids out of earshot. You’ll thank me.

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The Presidents Speak

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WashingtonWhat’s better than an Extended Play 33 1/3 rpm Hi-Fidelity Record on George Washington? An Extended Play 33 1/3 rpm Hi-Fidelity Record on George Washington narrated by Art Baker, that’s what! And what’s more, a Collector’s Edition Presidential Commemorative Medallion… specially minted coin replica of one of America’s legendary leaders! It’s raining awe over here at The Prudent Groove, and I’ll be damned if I’m going for my umbrella.

Attention Collectors:

You will want the handsome plaque, specially designed to display the entire collection of Presidential Commemorative Medallions. Ask your dealer!

Don’t tell me what I want, 1966 Kaysons International LTD.! I am fully capably of deciding for myself. I don’t need you telling me, okay? Okay.

(Man, I could really use a nice, specially designed plaque with which to display my Commemorative Presidential Medallions… damn you, 1966 Kaysons International LTD.!)

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Moscow Mules at 3am

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3am RantFueled by a Moscow Mule at three in the morning (the first I’ve ever made for myself), I sit, alone, ripe with intensity at the notion of plugging away at today’s fiendish post. Unfortunately, I have no geological compass with which to guide my lamenting rants. My scorned conscious maligns itself at continuously writing about writing about music, instead of actually writing about music… the byproduct of never taking myself too seriously.

Why music? Furthermore, why the tedious and lethargic interactivity of a flippable media disc? And why does it provide so much relentless satisfaction? Are we slaves to our pleasures? Would we care to acknowledge the answer we know to be true? I’m not immune to the truth. I just choose to keep it at bay in the back of my mind next to my burgeoning narcissism, and that video of me singing Pour Some Sugar on Me as a nonsensical child.

Perhaps, personalized discovery is to blame… or to credit. A sea of emotions built, and then repeatedly cast upon the wall with each gratifying listen. Music is above all other things, the greatest distracter of deafening silence. Because, once the silence takes hold, you’re stuck with the worst conversation you can possibly imagine… the conversation with yourself.

I listen to music in order to mute my internal monologue. My unconscious self, much like my conscious self, is a raging idiot, and I’ll do just about anything in my power to shut it the hell up… I don’t see harm in fanning this enduring process, do you?

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Having Nothing to Do With Anything, These are My Thoughts While Listening to Sports by Huey Lewis and the News

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News CoverI wonder if Huey got paid for his cameo in Back to the Future, or if his role as the disapproving high school teacher was compensation for the two Huey Lewis and the News tracks featured on the soundtrack. I remember wanting to be a ninja when this album was big. I believe I WAS a ninja for Halloween one year… I should have gone as Huey instead.

I’m not sure why I own two copies of this album. My father introduced me to Huey Lewis and the News, albeit inadvertently. He had Sports on cassette and would play it in his Datsun. I had a small toy Datsun around this time. I used to pretend it was my father’s car speeding through makeshift highways and back alleys… all while listening to Sports, of course.

News BackI wonder who the modern day Huey Lewis is. I have a new respect for the News now that I know they were Elvis Costello’s backing band for his debut, My Aim is True. Does anybody remember the sketch comedy show on HBO, Not Necessarily the News? I distinctly remember the video for Stuck With You, but since that track doesn’t make an appearance on Sports, I’ll bypass further ramblings of this thought.

I wonder what drug Huey was referring to that makes him feel three feet thick. I wonder what the street value of that drug was then, compared to what it is now. Going back to Back to the Future, I wonder how successful the movie would have been had the DeLorean been replaced by say, a 1985 Chrysler Lebaron.

Sports, for me at least, is the soundtrack to a half-decade of childhood memories. I can’t imagine growing up without it.

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Post #242 (AKA My Unhealthy Obsession with Belgium’s Greatest Band)

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242There was little to no doubt as to what post #242 would give prominence to. My only fear was that I wouldn’t be back from Wisconsin in time to snap the appropriate pictures to accompany this particularly numbered entry. For nearly a decade, I’ve been addicted to the self-proclaimed Godfathers of EBM or electronic body music (wikipedia calls them pioneers… I’m onboard with that)… Belgium’s Front 242.

AgressivaAs aggressive as they are danceable, and as rhythmically astounding as they are painfully lethargic, Front 242’s brand of industrial dance music is just the kind of narcissistic noise pollution that calms the unsettling nerves of my unbalanced equilibrium. It certainly doesn’t hurt that this rotating four-piece signed to Wax Trax! Records and, in the mid-80s, toured with Ministry (which resulted in the historic and monumental creation of the super group, Revolting Cocks).

GeographyAllmusic lists Front 242 as Pop/Rock. If Front 242 is Pop/Rock, then Willie Nelson should be categorized as Speed Metal. With heavy synths, combative vocals (when there are lyrics, which is rather rare considering their 32 year catalog), and the pleasure-secreting cloud of rhythmic percussion, Front 242 invokes the offensive aggression of punk, with the mind-numbing social-fukk-fest of Techno, for that perfect combination of salty-sweet ear food. It’s quite possibly the best form of music I’ve ever had the pleasure of shoving into my head.

Sometimes, you just dig what you dig, and you could care less as to the politics involved. Front 242 knocked me out some 10 years ago, and I’m still, without any moment of hesitation, completely comfortable enjoying this blissful, unconscious condition.

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Sometimes

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Fellini FrontSometimes you visit family and friends in the wooded, open-air state in which you grew up. Sometimes you cry from laughing so hard, you wear stocking hats in the early afternoon, you run the same route you did in High School Cross-Country, and sometimes you eat a whole, 1/3 box of Honey Maid graham crackers in one sitting.

Sometimes you throw away tiny mementos of your childhood to make room for tiny mementos of your adulthood, you discover a workman’s jacket your grandfather used to wear, you weave and dodge deer crossing rural roads at night, you attempt to snap pictures of the house cat chasing a chipmunk from the kitchen to the dining room and back, while your parents scurry from room to room attempting to get the poor zoo creature out of the house, you enjoy a severe thunderstorm, you visit your grandmother’s new apartment, you adjust to the idea of your grandmother living in an apartment, you drink countless, hearty cocktails, and eat at all your favorite restaurants that Los Angeles reluctantly ignores.

Sometimes you visit Half Price Books and find the soundtrack to Fellini’s 8 ½ for $2.99, you get your picture taken with your favorite MLB mascot, you delightfully peruse your parents’ record collection, you laugh ad nauseam with friends you haven’t seen in nearly 8 years, you play with cats, and you create new memories with which to bring up and enjoy in the future.

Sometimes you play Atari and drink Wisconsin’s finest beer with your girlfriend while laughing hysterically, you enjoy a bucket of balls at the driving range with your father, you play games at the kitchen table and your mother adorably invents a number of priceless one-liners, you build a bonfire, you visit the lake in which you learned to swim, and you wonder why you don’t visit more often.

Sometimes… it’s good to go home.

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First Artists Presents: 311 with No Doubt (Saturday, September 16, 1995)

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311 Stub311 catches a ton of flack. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve thrown my fair share of insulting tongues towards this Omaha band… but before I wrote off this relax-happy, genre-bending five-piece musical act (for reasons I’m not willing to explain at the moment), they acted as a brief, three year favorite for me and a few of my close, rural Wisconsin friends.

1995 seems like a dream being quietly suffocated by a nightmare these days. I guess I was a sophomore in high school, but I really can’t remember. All I can remember from this show is 1) Gwen Stefani was nearly booed off the stage (what the hell was No Doubt doing opening for 311 in the first place?), 2) an avid fan attempted to pass a jay past a security guard to frontman Nick Hexum. Nick dropped it, then politely ordered the security guard to fetch the fallen, illegal substance, which the portly guard did. Nick took a deep drag, and then gave the doob back to the ecstatic fan. Oh, and I also remember catching 37 types of hell from a judgmental girlfriend for attending a concert where such “barbaric” things took place.

Rural Wisconsin can be a bit of a drag sometimes, know what I mean?

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Saturday, April 21, 2001

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RFTC at The MetroThe day: Saturday, April 21st, 2001. The venue: Chicago’s Metro. The event: International Noise Conspiracy opening up for Rocket from the Crypt.

It had been two, LONG years since I’d last seen Rocket from the Crypt in concert. I had been living in Milwaukee for little over a year at this point, and in that time, when San Diego’s finest came within driving distance (essentially any venue in any state bordering Wisconsin), you dropped whatever you were doing and you got your ass to the show.

This was the third time I’d seen Rocket from the Crypt, and before even fueling up the car to head some 90+ miles into Illinois territory, I had already made up my mind that, amid the enormous amount of live acts I’d seen up to that point, no other experience had topped the raw and ecstatic vigor of Rocket from the Crypt. I’ve seen a plethora of shows since that cloudy spring day, and my assessment has since proved to be 100% accurate.

Being an avid Refused fan and never having the esteemed opportunity to see them perform live, my youthful self was barely able to contain the restless fever of seeing Refused’s frontman, Dennis Lyxzén and his new, post-Refused band, The (International) Noise Conspiracy. To see a fraction of Refused open up for the greatest live act I had, and would ever see, was enough to blow the feeble mind of my 21-year-old self.

RFTC StubI escaped the evening intact, but only barely. It would be exactly 3 months (July 21, 2001) until I saw Rocket from the Crypt again, and I had to close the Hollywood Video where I worked an hour and a half early in order to do so, but that’s a story for another time.