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The Whore Moans |
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People are using good words when talking about Seattle’s The Whore Moans. When I say good words, I don’t mean D-list words. D-list words are “great” or “amazing”. Or “wicked” (that one’s for you, Boston). The A-List words circulating around The Whore Moans are “Venomous”, “Fugazi-ish” (nice one) and “Germ-y”. Okay, I made up the last one but The Whore Moans definitely has a “Touch-Me -I’m-Sick”, Germ-y sort of vibe.
The Whore Moans have been irresponsibly slinging around tunes from “Watch Out for This Thing” all over the West Coast. “Watch Out for This Thing”, was released on 2/24/07 by Wizard House Records. Which at last check was in fact, a House Strangely enough, said House is in my Seattle neighborhood. Sometimes, I take midnight drunk-walks looking for The Wizard House (where, if I understand correctly, “Watch Out For This Thing” was recorded). You would think a band that makes this much noise might be within an earshot of my house. Although it’s quite possible I might be deaf. Most nights, I’m just too drunk to fuck. I mean Too Blind to Hear. How could I confuse two four-letter words? Damn you Community College. Speaking of houses, tonight the boys gets to rock one of the older houses in Seattle, The Comet Tavern. The Comet is Hell’s ultimate dive bar. It’s inhabited by hipsters cooler than you. Stiff drinks are served up by Tattooed Love Boys and Girls. There are at least three guys who could pass as bastard sons of Tom Waits. The rest of the patrons are deliberately drowning in firewater or, are in bands performing tonight. Of course, in Hell, we will all be forced to piss into the Urinals from CBGB’s. And if you’re wondering, the ones at CB’s were nicer than The Comet’s. Toilet jokes aside, I can’t stop thinking about the DNA on the Shitters at CB’s. We could create the greatest Glittery, Nico-loving, Fuck-Me-With-a-Guitar-Johnny Rock-Star that ever lived. Seriously, someone needs to write a grant for this. The Government will pay cash-money for research on the environmental affect of Burping Cows (turns out that Burping Cows seem to be a contributing cause of global warming. Nice). So if you’re smart and shit, or you went to, like, a real college (not the University of Phoenix), call me. The chalkboard above The Comet’s bar is filled with quotes from the world’s greatest Outlaws. Hunter, Bukowski, and Tony “Say Hello To My Little Friend” Montana. While I’m on the topic of Tony “Co-caieiein” Montana check out the sweet blood-spattered new comic from Seattle’s John Layman, “Scarface Scarred for Life” (issue #4 is out in April). Also in the works for Layman is “Marvel Zombies vs. Army of Darkness”. So since we’re all going to burn to death, Let there be Rock. The Dead will once again walk the earth. And really, Consequences are for Losers. Tom Petty writes songs about losers (“Even the Losers” never even charted…WTF?). Bruce Campbell kicks zombie ass. You get my drift…choose your side. Is Satan getting behind you or are you walking by His side. Me? I wish I had a chainsaw for a hand. TWM hit the stage around 11:00. Ryan (who plays his bass like he’s waving a flag) tells us that Jonny (TWM Man-in-Front) will forgo booze tonight in favor of hot-dogs. It seems that digging on Swine translates to some mighty Fuzzy, Scream-Licking-Good Rock and Roll. The set includes a completely unexpected cover of “Hey Jude” and the crazy-catchy “X-Ray Eyes”. People are standing on chairs and the line of fan and band is completely blurred. TWM brought it tonight. “It” being some very fine gut-punching adrenaline rock. Remember that Jack-O? Boy Howdy, I sure do. The live power and oblivious passion of TWM could single-handedly save us all. From what you ask? How about the horror that is Commercial Radio… So if you’re in San Francisco, check ‘em out at Blondie’s on March 26th. By the end of the set, Team Cherrybomb had successfully killed off the entire top shelf Gin. I know, it’s not even Spring and we’re drinking Gin. But really, it’s all about my volatile (or vomitous) relationship with Amber Liquids. I still got a fistful waiting for you Whiskey. And I’m pretty sure I will never know how much Mezcal I have to drink to become invisible. After 6 or so shots, I’m too busy pretending I can fly. Or it just might be bedspins. The Earaches (no, I’m not stalking them in case you’re wondering…okay, maybe a little) close the show and shake the rest of the Wicked out of me. I can now die happy, full of Cold Gin and Rock and Roll. We should all be so lucky. Somewhere in Seattle, The Whore Moans. And it’s anything but quiet. DJC |
