“Take it from me, orbitin’ the Earth over ’n’ over ain’t all it’s cracked up to be. When I was asked to hop on board a Soyuz headed to the International Space Station (Assignment: Critical Observation), I reckoned this’d be the trip of a lifetime. Space, the final frontier. And how ’bout that view? But now I feel like I’ve been here that long—a lifetime, that is. You know, the food ain’t much to speak of, plus I gotta constantly make sure I don’t make no crumbs, else they might fuck up our air breathin’ filters. Crumbs! The things one learns. Drinkin’ ain’t no fun neither, ’less you get your jollies sippin’ daquiris from a straw out a plastic bag, like some swishy, doe-eyed Deadhead. And don’t even get me started on hygiene issues! I believe I could take a life for a proper bubble bath right about now (I miss my ducky, too). Which is all just a lumberin’ yet apropos segue to the matter at hand: this debut LP by Watery Love.
“Now, any right-minded corncob south of the Van Allen Belt knows them three precedin’ 7-inches via Richie, Siltbreeze and Negative Guestlist smacked kernels hard, and that smolderin’ ferocity has naturally been carried over here. The glow ’n’ throb what’s got got is as much the byproduct of the eternal bioluminescence of Iron Cross or Third World War as an appreciation for the corroded, fractoluminescence exuded once upon a time by Chain Gang, Slow Death EP-era Leather Nun ’n’ The Gordons. Sure, their environment might seem cold and uncarin’—even downright sociopathic—but behind that facade of David Goodis-like grimness are four sodbusters chompin’ to have a good time. When singer Richie Charles hollers “I’m a skull!” who among the masses would not rush headlong to get a lick off that boney pate? It ain’t about Rofinol, people, it’s about the roof, and how far can Watery Love raise the fucker. Unlike you dickheads, I’m sittin’ pretty in the catbird seat (what part of me bein’ out to space did you miss?) so let me say, keep it comin’! Higher ’n’ higher, nose to the grindstone and all that. Don’t worry, I’ll stop ya when ya get here. And one more thing—don’t forget to bring a six pack. We’ll need it.” —Roland Seward Woodbe
International Space Station, Outer Space
Call Sign: Alphar
Stop & Smell Your Face is the 2nd full helpin've repugnant genius served up by that saucy band of ptomaine gobblers known as True Sons Of Thunder. And I's is here to inform one 'n all that this lp is out to harsh your mellow ten ways till Sunday. Soundin like it was recorded in one of them Tennessee Valley nuclear reactors at the height of a meltdown, True Sons aurally (if not euphemistically) wrestle all manner've thinkin person's topics; marine life, parent/child conflicts, abandonment issues, mortality, hey, if this record was any more eggheaded it'd be all over you's face. 'Death Walks Behind You' is easily the best Flesheaters song what went unpenned by Chris D a billion blabbermouth lockjaw years ago. If the Angry Samoans had feasted on the slow roasted, cocaine laced thighs of Earl Campbell or collectively gnawed Barry Bonds simmerin, steroid enhanced noggin, they may have come this close to such beauteous distemperment. But them items weren't on the menu then. They is now though. So dig in. You can thank me later.
Roland Seward Woodbe
Mytilene, Lesbos Island
1-Would it be fair to say TSOT are to BBQ what Rude Norton was to the Meat Pie?
If Rude Norton was famous for passing out ass-down in Meat Pies, then you're on the right track.
Verily, Richwad (banjitar/primal scream of conciousness) is a pit master. Once at an Ides of March party, he spent the day sweating as meat tender and drinking until, at some point, he fell out face first and was awakened by shadowy figures surrounded by bright light. His friends had awakened him by applying mushrooms to his tongue. No meat was burned during the tripping of these balls.
2-Has any member of TSOT ever gotten a DUI while riding a Segway?
Funny story- we were on tour in New Orleans (our tours last exactly one show, if we are lucky). Drummer Abe had been dragged away by some lady of the night or morning or, shit, I think it was a lady. Anyway, New Orleans was still in the midst of rebuilding their neo-yuppie/Brad Pitt enclave and a lot of the scraggy Abbey spunks had scattered to abandoned Walgreens and other now-empty slabs all over town. King Louie was working at his Ace Hardware store out in Harahan and came to the show at One Eyed Jacks in the Quarter, we were opening up for the Dirtbombs. Matt Muscle stuck a pig's head on a stick and proudly held it in front of the stage. Peg O'Neil came by outside but still wasn't up for dealing with Mick Collins. I think Keith from the Drags was still doing door. I had seen the Dictators there a few years previously- they were friends with Kelly Keller, RIP, who used to book Coney Island in NYC. Lotsa folks have died since then. Not sure those Segways are safe since only mall cops seem to use 'em. The Sun rises in Memphis but the Sun sets in New Orleans -a long day drunk into night. All that, and I can guess where you got your shoes.
3-If you had to eat a Scuffs record, which one would it be & why?
I'd eat 'em all if I could. I'm fucking hungry. Wait, Sam's got something to say...
The Anglophilic Memphis power pop band? The ones who did Teenage Gurls (the subject of which was given a superior treatment by the Surf Punks on their 1980 album "My Beach," although they would eschew the Chilton variant until it was resurrected by Katy Perry in the year of our Lord 2010)? Those guys love England so much they would line up to teabag Earl Grey. But we all know that Memphis' greatest contribution to British music was the drummer from Haircut 100. As a foodie, I'd say I'd rather eat the steaming Plate of Gary Wrong Group or a Fuckemos Platter, which goes down like raw oysters covered in brown gravy/acid. EAT IT!
4-Wine spritzer of Shandy?
Shandy sounds dandy. Spritzer sounds like howitzer. I'd eat it.
In Germany, the Shandy is called the Radler because it's a drink popular with Radlers. They make it with Fanta and Lowenbrau because the night is kind of special.
5-TSOT can level them cover songs. Any chance you'll ever tackle Cloverbottom's 'Cottage Cheeseheads'?
YES! Nashville's finest. Cottage Cheese Head, Back, it's all cottage cheese up there. You might notice we have adopted Cloverbottom's punks-pissing-off-punks strategy of taking a good punk song and playing it too long. Fuck it. We got nowhere else to go. Do you? Why don't you go there? Oh wait, uh, Sam?
Right- We'll get on it after we finish our side-spanning medley of Total War/Total Castration/Totally Wired (by Rice, Null, & Smith, Attorney's at Law, which is co-incidentally my pet name for my genitals -guess which one's the penis.)