self-titled - no. 2 - (Page 43) S HIT MAGNET “Never explain. Your friends do not need it, and your enemies will not believe you anyway.” — Elbert Hubbard, American philosopher, illustrator and soap salesman, 1896 S AY WHAT Y O U WI L L A BO U T GA R AG E-PUN K P H E N O M J AY R EATARD . H E ’ S HEARD I T A L L BE F O R E . By J. Bennett Photos: J. Bennett cover/opposite Stepen Schuster here’s a rock band on the video screen, three dudes playing fast and loose in white T-shirts. Camera bulbs flash while people in the audience bob their heads and point fingers in the air. A guy in a baseball cap climbs onstage and staggers briefly in the direction of the drum kit. The bandleader grabs the interloper and attempts to steer him back into the crowd. The interloper’s shirt rips as he’s pushed offstage, and the bandleader loses his grip. The bandleader grabs him again. The shirt rips again. Finally, the bandleader spins the dude around and decks him—right in the squash, by the looks of it. The contact sequence is repeated six times in rapid succession, like a boxing highlight reel edited for maximum comedic effect. When the footage picks up again, the band members are packing up their gear. Large factions of the audience are booing. Others are clapping. Everyone seems to be yelling. Someone shouts, “You shouldn’t get paid then, pussies!” The bandleader is wearing a yellow jacket now. He directs a stream of indecipherable profanities at someone near the front of the stage. Then he walks off. The next day, the bandleader posts about the incident on his blog: “Last night’s show in Toronto got completely fucked up We don’t need people getting so wild that they jump onstage and smash our gear—but that’s exactly what happened People were throwing beer bottles at us, someone jumped onstage and smashed my pedals, another guy took a full pitcher of beer and dumped it all over the rest of my pedals and then threw it right at my Flying V, breaking the pickup and the input electronics. After three songs all our gear was smashed and unusable. Even when shit gets that crazy at [a] Circle Jerks show, there’s at least some security, but when I asked [the promoter] about it before the show he told me, ‘I thought you guys were a garage band.’ ” Another time, in Dallas, the bandleader shows up drunk to his own gig. There’s an altercation. OK, two altercations: one with the opening band and one with the promoter. The bandleader kicks the opening band off his show because he’s just read in an Austin weekly that the group decided not to use the tracks he produced for them. The argument with the promoter is a little more convoluted. It starts because underage fans are being denied entry—even though it’s an all-ages show—and ends with the bandleader leaving the venue (without playing), eating acid and watching The Shining in his hotel room. The promoter posts his version of the events on his blog, Parade of Flesh. Brooklyn Vegan reposts his entry. Idolator makes fun of the comments on Brooklyn Vegan. Then Pitchfork contacts the bandleader to write a response. He wisely declines, but the story lives on in teenagepunk-rock-shit-head-Interhole-warrior infamy because the thing about the Interhole is that it never fucking ends. Welcome to Jay Reatard’s Wild America, a place where the bandleader's every move is viewed through the twin microscopes of YouTube and the blogosphere, where everybody has a self-righteous opinion and where 43 T http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3zOA8i9UnEQ http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Jay_Reatard http://paradeofflesh.blogspot.com/2008/08/little-too-reatarded.html http://www.brooklynvegan.com/archives/2008/08/jay_reatard_dit.html http://idolator.com/399887/brooklyn-vegan-commenters-offer-their-expertise-on-mixing-drugs-diversifying-investments
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