Picking the easy targets since 1993
I Don't Care for What You're Insynuating: Dining with New Jersey's Finest Thrashers
Published in RW#2, 1994
Your pal Muggsy here with my first interview in a long, long time—too long. I was not born to be chained to a word processor. I was born to run wild, wild and free in the Rock World. I was born to drink large amounts of Pilsner Urquell with ugly, stinky roadies and party into the waning hours of the A.M., raging with Metal Gods and Grunge Gurus, scammin' on overlooked or discarded groupies. I do not go gently into any good night—not sober and not alone, especially when bands like Insynuator are in town. Insynuator, 'cause truly evil people do not accuse openly. Keep that in mind. Fuckin A, right on man!
Insynuator weren't actually in town, actually, ah, you see, their Bedrock's gig got snaffled and well, the only place they could play was, well, it was a dance hall in Elgin. But fuck man, it still rocked—rocked hard. They drove from Jersey to give everything they had to a room packed full of sweaty thirteen-year-olds who knew every Insynuator song by heart. There wasn't a dry eye in my head that night. That's what we do here in the fucking Midwest, man, we give respect to bands that deserve it.
So, over fifteen pitchers of Bug Light (yeech!) at a local fast food pizza fucking franchise, I commiserated with the bad boys of good rock.
Muggsy: Mug (me)
Mug: Me thinks I've seen you guys just about every time you've played Chicago, or the surrounding area, I should say.
Bo: Yeah, isn't that a load of crap? Gettin' the stiff one from Bedrock's, Cheese Palace of the Western World, man, screw them, see if we ever gig there again.
BR: Cool, man. I already scratched 'em off next month's tour.
Mug: Yeah, you guys tour like crazy.
Bo: Once a month.
Mug: How is that? Does your label support you the whole time you're on the road? I know you survive off Bud Light and shitty pizza but that's gotta add up.
Bo: Metalli-Sized, our label, puts a lot of money into us. Not a lot of money, but enough, and that's really cool for them to do that, but I think . . . no, I don't think, I know that Insynuator makes them a lot of money. We're probably the biggest draw that label's got. They don't want us jumpin' ship to a major league outfit, so they keep us happy.
Mug: Wow, I would have thought that bands like Death Krack or Chapped Nuts, even Sin Nation Sinsation would be the front runners at Metalli-Sized. It's you guys though, huh?
Bo: No, I said category-wise, we're the front runners, not overall front runners.
BR: He's got a tape recorder, asshole.
Bo: I meant categorically we sell the most records of the category we're in, which is more "Alternative" metal. Death Krack is Death Metal, definitely. Chapped Nuts is Grind Core and Sin Nation, they just suck, but they sell shitloads of records because your average record buyer is an idiot. Don't get me wrong, those guys (Sin Nation) are my boys, but ah... they should just shoot themselves now before they put out another record and really do some damage to this country.
(Dread Fread joins the group after a short hiatus to the restaurants puny excuse for a video arcade)
DF: I got ripped off dude, no frickin' way.
Mug: What's wrong, Dread?
DF: I got frickin' jilted man! I was totally haulin' ass on this big, alien space ship thing. It was like super big and it was firin' shit at my ass so I was retro-rockin' that thing to frickin' Newark when it completely bombasted me with all these little frickin' sprinkly pieces of shit smart bombs, man, no frickin' way. Uncool. Way uncool.
DH: I think it's very sweet the way he feels the need to come over here and bother us with this bullshit.
Mug: Hey, it's Dread Fread though, right? It's his trip right. Incredible bass player.
DH: Yeah, but he's still a peckerhead on his trip or mine or anybody else's, whether he's playing great bass or I'm carrying him.
RR: Watch it, Stick.
Mug: OK, I've heard that you guys are getting sued by some kid's parents for inciting him to rebel against them. Is there a nugget of truth to this rumor?
Bo: There's a boulder of truth to that rumor, in the fact that, yes, we are in the process of getting our Calvin's sued off, but there's only a tiny pebble of truth to the fact that we are guilty of inciting anybody to do anything. What the kid did was completely misinterpret some lyrics of mine from a song called, "Kill Your Parents Now", where I simply suggested one possibly way of dealing with your parents.
Mug: Double homicide?
Bo: Right, but I was in no way saying that that was the only option, it's just one possible option. Anyway, the kid never did it. They should be fucking happy he listened to some other band and got a different opinion before he acted. Kids aren't stupid you know.
Mug: Shit, they buys your records, right?
Bo: Exactly. Anyway, this kid bought a copy of an Insynerator album which as a song on it called, "Burn Your House Down, and fortunately for Insynuator, the kid chose that route.
Mug: So they're suing Insynerator instead, not Insynuator.
Bo: No, they're suing us both because they really can't tell us apart. Musically, we sound the same and we have the same message in our music and, actually, people have told us we dress and act a lot alike. People involved in the litigation process don't have trained musical ears and can't pick up the subtle differences between them and us.
BR: And why should they?
Bo: Right, why should they? They're just suing both bands, no big deal.
(Dread Fread returns once again looking disheveled, nerves slightly shattered.)
DF: Giant Spacepede with, like a trillion zillion legs, man. Nowhere to hide. Death Fungus on my back. Goddman it! Gimme another quarter!
(Dread Fread once again parts our company)
DH: Time for him to fly, man.
RR: Forget it, we need him on bass.
DH: What? Are you deaf? You hear how many times that joker botched ittonight? He fucked up plenty tonight, man, plen-tee.
Mug: So do you guys got a new record in the works or are you
still promoting your last album?
BR: Man, we got to keep it together here, Stick, let's not air our grungy laundry to the public.
DH: Aaah, fuck him.
Mug: So, no new record, huh? Just pluggin' away at the same old tunes you've been doing for the last five years, eh?
Bo: Stick's right, Robby, Dread's losin' it. we sucked tonight and it was the fault of no one at this table.
Mug: Still floggin' the living hell out of the dead horse, huh?
(Dread Fread returns from another sojourn at the video arcade)
DF: Dudes, Level Four, Sector Seven. The Zyling Fighter planes are wastin' Xenobes everywhere! I shoot the mother lode at the mothership. One more fuckin' jolt and she's history and, like, shit goes down, man! I'm out of laser power, astro bombs and frickin' space fuel! GODDAMN IT ALL!
Bo: Keep it down, Dread, we're almost history here ourselves.
DF: XENOBES MUST DIE, MAN, FUCKIN' ALL OF 'EM!
(Dread Fread departs again, praise the lord)
Mug: So, I heard you guys are looking for a new bass player. Heh, heh, heh.
DF: I'm gonna kill Dread, man. That does it!
RR: Chill out, he'll be alright. He's just getting into a video game, Xenobe, or whatever it's called.
DF: There are only two games in that arcade. One of 'em is Pac Man, and the other one is Mrs. fuckin' Pac Man!
Mug: Excuse me, but can anybody explain to me just what exactly is transpiring here? I'm feeling slightly uncomfortable in the midst of this present crisis.
Bo: It was that acid experiment of his, it back fired, he just need some time to straighten himself out, that's all.
DH: Five years? No way, the guy's been in the oven too long,. He can't come out now, he's too burnt. He should have quit while he was a Head. I say we leave him right here in Pizza Hut and let him fight the Xenobes 'til he figures it out.
RR: What are you nuts?
Bo: I don't think it's a bad idea, Robby.
RR: You think we should just leave him here in Nowheresville, Illinois to fend for himself?
Bo: Illinois isn't such a bad state to be in, Robby, especially considering the mental state he's in right now. He'll be alright here, they'll take care of him.
DH: Yeah, let's hope they take care of him.
Mug: You guys are serious right?
Bo: C'mon, Robby, lets get the fuck out of here before he comes back. Muggsy, buddy, you can cover the bill right? Thanks, man, we gotta blow this pizza stand.
Mug: Hey guys, c'mon now . . . fuckers.
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