Cranford Nix 

Just prior to deadline, I got the sad news that Malakas frontman and all around rock and roll motherfucker Cranford Nix died from that most rock of bitter ends, a heroin overdose.

Son of a bitch. Now I don't even have anybody to relapse with.

Although it wasn't completely unexpected - his demise was predicted as often as Johnny Thunders- that doesn't make it any less tragic. Cranford was one of the greatest rock and roll songwriters in America. Put on any of the Malakas albums and see for yourself. After you finish choking on the bitter sarcasm of his lyrics, you'll find hooks worthy of the Replacements in their prime, or John Easdale at his best. But he liked the drinking, and he liked the drugs, and he loved the notoriety that both brought him. I interviewed him last year, and it was such a blast, we agreed to do another interview later, for a chapter in my upcoming book on the perils of rock and roll decadence. We never got to do the second interview. I called him late in the year, and he was in good spirits, had just gotten out of jail, in fact, having served 6 months for the crime he describes in detail in our initial conversation. We agreed to talk again a week later, and I just never got around to it. Now I never will. It is a dubious honor indeed to present you with the final Cranford Nix interview, but I've got pay some kind of tribute to him. I've kept my original introduction intact, because, well, Cranford wasn't dead when we did the interview. He was alive as motherfucker, even sneering at the bony fingers of death pointing his way. Personally, I don't think that Cranford would've cared one way or the other about how you remember him, but I know I want to remember him as a loose lipped, grave cheating son of a bitch that was always five minutes ahead of everybody else. Wherever you are Cranford, I hope all the drinks are free.

I Don't Know If I'm Alright: The Ballad of Cranford Nix
"I shoot heroin, and I sing in a rock and roll band."

The greatest living rock and roll songwriter in America is a monster, a menace to society as well as himself, a dangerous criminal with an ill-tempered disposition and a flagrant disregard for the law or anyone else. At least that's what people tell me. The only part of the equation that I know for certain is true is that nobody can write a more perfect rock song than Cranford Nix. Even if he's a devil, he's a crafty one. As the swarthy leader of San Diego's criminally underrated Malakas (roughly translated from the Greek as the "Jerk-offs" ) he's spent a decade penning a deep well of trashy rock and roll classics, a raucous soundtrack to his life of misadventure, filled with the kind of instantly memorable hooks that only Dave Pirner on Soul Asylum's best week could keep up with, and an amazingly dark sense of humor, the agony and the ecstasy wrapped in the bleakest sarcasm possible. They are the evil Replacements, the satanic Dramarama. Albums like "Sorry About the Drinking" and "Too Good To Be True" are filled with hipster jukebox singles and wedding songs from some impossibly cool alternate universe where there are no repercussions for rampant drug abuse and violent, drunken episodes of lawless mayhem, only free drinks for the smart-ass with the guitar and an adoring audience that laughs at his jokes, even when they're bad. They are, quite simply, the best at what they do. And if you've never heard of them before now, it's all Cranford's fault. Like the equally reckless Iggy Pop before him, he's quite adept at snatching defeat from the jaws of victory. As Kris Kristofferson would say, he's a preacher, and a prophet, and a problem when he's stoned.

When I first approached Jim Rinn at I-94 records, the Malakas' label, he pretty much told me to forget it, that Cranford has a tendency to sabotage interviews with drunken sarcasm and foul mouthed ranting. What he didn't realize is that's model behavior in the circles I run in. Eventually, after a proposed Malakas US tour imploded when Cranford was busted for various offences and served a 6 month probation, effectively trapping him in the Detroit area for awhile, Jim relented. He set up the interview, and asked Cranford to try to take it seriously. He did his best, he really did. That is, when he finally got around to calling. As our initial interview time came and went, I listened to the Malakas, wondering what a guy that writes lyrics like, "We said the serenity Prayer, and then we fucked/She was a teenage prostitute, and I was just a drunk" would have to say for himself. I'd been spreading the word about the band, who had quickly become one of my new favorites, to anyone who asked. The results were all over the map. Fellow C14 scribe and damage consultant Dimitri Monroe scoffed at the mention of Cranford, dismissing him as "Me, with a drug shtick." Local rock starress Jill Kurtz told me that she couldn't get past his "idiotic lyrics" enough to enjoy the music. "I hate all that sexist bullshit", she told me. Meanwhile Stacey, Mrs. Sleazegrinder, thought he was a genius, happily singing along to deceptively sunny sounding misanthrope anthems like "Fuck You Lorraine" and "Satan Song". Me, I just found myself relating in that ghetto-spiritual way multiple rehab veterans often do. So when he finally did call, his explanation for being two hours late came as no surprise.

At least I was an asshole on the way

"Hey man, I'm sorry I'm late, I had to go in for fucking random drug test", Cranford tells me by way of an introduction. He speaks with the instant familiarity and casual obscenity of a man who's used to explaining his actions, the morning- after clarity of someone who's spent many nights in regrettable circumstances. I like him already. Although guilty as sin, Cranford has managed to beat the system for another day. "Oh, I beat it every time, man. I've got the whole timing thing figured out. All I've got to do is take a Breathalyzer in the morning, and then I've got to piss in a cup once a week, to check me for morphine, or something. So you can have a few. Actually, you can have a ton, and be sober by the next morning. Cranford sighs. "But it's a nightmare, dude. It really is." Cranford is a man caught in the grips of a situation, you see. "Dude, I am in so much fucking trouble. You have no idea the degree of fucking trouble I'm in."

Why don't you just split back to San Diego? 

I'm stuck in this city. It's no way to live. I'm a ward of the state, I can't leave Oakland County. They have me in the 'alternative' to jail, which isn't much of an alternative, really. I'm on a work release program, and that's a nightmare, too. Community service ain't like it used to be. If I even light a cigarette while I'm out there, they'll throw me out, and put me in jail. It's kind of scary.

What kind of community service do they have you doing?

They've got me painting buildings and picking up trash, using a sickle to cut down weeds; it changes everyday. But the sickle thing is kind of funny, because they give you an orange suit and a sickle, it's like you're a gay grim reaper.

Damn. It sounds pretty grim.

Don't get me wrong, I don't ever want to be in this kind of shit again, but you know, I do have a killer, Devil worshipping rock record coming out, so what the Hell.

I'm surprised you found the time to write new songs, with all this going on.

Well, I have a drinking problem, man. Normally, I drink a lot, from the morning until night, and because of this breathalyzer thing, it limits me. It kind of half-sobered me up. So I have a lot more time to stare at the walls and play guitar.

Do you want to talk about what happened? 

Yeah, what the fuck. What happened was, I got into this marriage that really wasn't working, and I started using dope again because I was miserable. I mean, here's a typical story. Natasha recently moved back to California, because we got separated. She was on the train, and she got off when it stopped, and went to a bar. She got so drunk that she started hallucinating, and she thought she was still in Detroit. So she gets into a cab and she tells the driver to 12th and Coolidge, which is in Detroit. So this cab driver is driving around Chicago looking for 12th and Coolidge. Obviously, he can't find it. So this woman misses her train, loses her purse, and ends up calling me from a homeless shelter in Chicago. I mean, this was kind of a daily thing, and it starts to wear on your fucking nerves after awhile, because you just don't know what the fuck's really going on.

So what'd you do, kill her? 

No, but I wouldn't have been surprised if she killed me. I am terrified of women at this point, man.

Who isn't? 

Right. So anyway, I was in rehab, and I broke out. I was pretty pissed off about a cigarette incident.

I've been there.

Yeah, so you know what I'm talking about. I just got out and I found out that my kid was sick. That was on a Thursday. Then on that Sunday, my dad had a stroke. So, things weren't going well. The next Tuesday, I'm sitting in a bar, and I'm telling my wife that we've got to get divorced. And my wife is fucking nuts, it's one of my favorite things about her. But it also makes me terrified of the chick. So, she started making fun of me, she was saying, 'You know, you're kid's a fucking retard.' So at that point, I slapped her, and I just left. I went to another bar. There was this asshole at this other bar, and he kept giving me shit, I don't know what was going on, it was a sports bar, I don't really hang around at those kind of places. So finally, I just stand up and I say, "Dude, you're a fucking asshole", and I walked out of the bar. Now, him and his bouncer, they run out into the parking lot and grab me. They hit me, and throw me against the car. And I just remember looking into their faces and thinking, 'Dude, I'm going to drive my fucking car right through your bar.' When they let me go, I got into my car, I put it in drive, and I smashed into the fucking bar. I'm glad no one got hurt. So I go home, and right as I'm pulling up to my house, there's like 14 cops. I've never seen anything like it. They took me to jail. They said, 'you're under arrest for domestic violence. I was like, 'what?' Then they added malicious destruction of property, leaving the scene of an accident, operating under the influence of alcohol, all these charges. But I've got a feeling that they're going to let me go, although I'm sure you should be able to drive your car through a bar and not do any jail time.

Cranford, I think that's the greatest story I've ever heard.

Yeah, well it's not. When I first got into court the next day, I was still drunk, you know. And the cop was going, "This man is a menace to society, he's not fit to be walking around in public", and I was like, "Who is this guy? throw him in jail!" It was surreal. But you know, there's so many heinous crimes going on in this city, that I'm nothing compared to the rest of them. I'm lucky that I got busted in the murder capital of the country.

You should have given the judge a copy of your record.

He would've definitely locked me up then.

Well, you're one hit record away from this being acceptable behavior. Rock stars get away with shit like this all the time.

It's not acceptable, though. I feel like a fucking idiot, because they're going to take my life away for the next year, even if I don't go to jail, and there's a pretty good chance they're going to put me away for 6 months. (Editors note: They Did.)

I Do What the Devil Tells Me To

I think you're the best songwriter in America.

Thanks man. Could you write that down and get it notarized, so I can show it to the judge? Because he doesn't seem to feel that way about me at all.

Sure. Have you always been into music?

My dad was a famous musician. He played with Willie Nelson, Johnny Cash- Patsy Cline was his best friend. He was a famous banjo player, which is a pretty unique experience. So you know, I've always loved music. It's almost better than booze. Of course, if you add booze and women to music, it's like heaven. There's nothing I like better than going to a bar and listening to the jukebox.

How did you get the Malakas together? 

I've been playing with TJ and the Malakas for 12 or 13 years, ever since I was a little kid. I ran away to California and met him, and we've been playing together ever since. Listen, I know we're never going to 'make it', but we're going to be playing together until the bitter end, I'm positive of it. It's really hard to find dedicated musicians who will, at any time, move to New York, or Seattle, to find people who can really play. 

Were they calmer days when you first got together ten years ago?

Oh, no. I know this is going to sound horrible, but in that first period, I got 4 chicks pregnant in the space of a year. I have two kids out of that whole thing. That was typical of what it was like back then. I was young and drunk. 

So, not much has changed.

No. I've achieved local fame in New York, I lived there for 4 years, and I know everybody. Same thing in Tampa Florida, San Francisco, Los Angeles, San Diego and Detroit. And I've never gone anywhere. There's never going to be any way that we're ever going to have a gold record.

Well, you never know.

Sometimes you do.

It's worth it, man. The band is amazing.

I've dedicated my life to my band, but it's turned into a nightmare. I've been at the bottom for so long, that it's starting to feel like home down here. At least you have the freedom to write whatever the fuck you want when you're at the bottom.

Yeah, let's talk about some of the songs you've written. What about 'The Satan Song' on 'Too Good to be True'? That might be your best song, but Jesus, Cranford, you sing "I am a Nazi and I want to break your neck" in it. 

I knew that one was going to cause trouble. I got all kinds of bad press for that album because of that song, because of the Nazi thing. That song's about heroin. That last thing I am is a Nazi. I say that I'm Jesus in that song too, but nobody brings that up. But fuck it. Who cares? My songs just reflect my life. It's not like I've cultivated any sort of image, although I know it may seem that way.

How about 'Fuck You, Lorraine'. Who's Lorraine? 

Lorraine was this girl I used to go out with, and she used to go to all these survivor meetings, like survivors of incest. You know what that chick did to me? I was at a party and I grabbed her ass, you know, just goofing around. She looks at me and she says, "Don't you ever do that to me again", and I was like, fuck, I'm sorry. I mean, I was fucking the chick, I thought it wold be ok to grab her ass. "I don't like that shit, because I was raped", she tells me. And I'm sitting there, thinking, God, that's horrible. At any rate, 6 months later and I'm still with this nutcase, and I'm like, so what happened? And she says, "Well, I wasn't just raped once." So, I ask her, how many times? 32, she says. By the same person? "No, I was raped by 32 different people." And I'm thinking to myself, how does that happen? That doesn't work with the law of averages. She told me that her dad raped her on the dinner table at Thanksgiving. That's a pretty outrageous thing to say. I ended up meeting the guy, and I was like, 'Whoa'. And later she told me, you know, that wasn't really true, "I just dreamt that and thought it really happened." Anyway, that's what that song was about.

Man, you don't have the best luck with women.

That's for sure. You can't save anybody, man. I've got a problem thinking I can. They never work with me anyway, women. I like to travel, I like to go to Paris at the drop of a hat. You get into a relationship, and suddenly, they want you to start working, they want you to go to the flea market. Well, I don't like going to the fucking flea market."


Your Future, If You Have One

How come the Malakas aren't the biggest band in America?

For over a year and a half, our last record has been the number one record in San Diego. It's in every jukebox in that city. We sell out every time we play there. And I've proven that from New York to LA, so I'm just wondering, you know, what the fuck?

Maybe it's your bad reputation.

There was this guy from Elektra that TJ was talking to, and he knew all about us. He said the only problem was that he'd heard I was really difficult to work with. I don't understand it, because that's just not the case. I'll record an album for a bag of fucking White Castle, you know? What's difficult about that?

You should really have the same kind of following that the Replacements did. The Malakas are just as good, maybe even better.

A buddy of mine was drinking at some bar recently, and Tommy Stintson was sitting there. He went over to say hi, and Tommy says "Hey, I'm drinking on Axl's money!" I thought that was pretty funny. Anyway, I never really like the Replacements to be honest with you. I mean, so many reviews of the Malakas have mentioned them, so there must be something there, but I don't see it.

Aren't you guys supposed to have a new record out?
We recorded an album last year that we never released. I think it's a great record, but at the time, we were all on drugs, you know, and I'd just gotten married. I don't know what this woman was thinking, marrying a guy that's at the bar from ten in the morning until two AM. We were in no shape to release a record.

So you just shelved it? 
Yeah, we just decided to do another one. TJ, who's in our band, he's in rehab in Lake Tahoe. He got hooked on dope again. We've been talking a lot, and he and Greg are going to fly out here next month and we're going to record our 3rd record, and it's pretty fucking good. Actually, it's fucking excellent. We wrote about 37 songs for it, so it's going to be a really good one. So the band's going to be in Detroit until I can get out of this mess, then we're going back to California.

So things are looking up, then.

Not really. I'm assuming things aren't going to go smoothly for the next ten years. 


It's Ok, I Don't Feel a Thing

I hear you've given up the drugs.

My entire 20's I wasted away on drugs, and, well, a little bit of my 30's now, too. But I've pretty much had it with drugs. I mean, I still like drinking, though. And a Valium every once in awhile. And maybe hitting a joint here and there. And maybe a Percocet once a year , on Christmas. But no, I don't foresee myself doing drugs ever again.

Assuming that you stay on the same course, people are going to start predicting your death, much like they did with Johnny Thunders. 

I don't foresee me dying by my own hand. I can't predict whether some chick plunges a knife into my chest, though, but I'm pretty level headed to tell you the truth. I like to live.

Have you had any close calls? 

I've overdosed 3 times. One time, I was at my parent's house. I was about 20 at the time, and I went to visit them, and overdosed in the bathroom. They had to bust the door down to take me to the hospital. My sister had to help them carry me. I guess at some point my dick fell out of my pajamas. So I went to the hospital, and they revived me, and let me go. So I'm back at home, and my sister says, "You know, your dick fell out, and it's fucking tiny." My theory on that though, is that I was knocking on heaven's door, and I'm pretty sure that your dick shrivels up when you're dying. To this day my sister laughs about it.

You're not worried about dying, though? 

No, I'm not worried about dying. And if I did, I'd be a pretty shitty songwriter.

Cranford's legacy lives on in the music of the Malakas www.themalakas.com. They've got two stellar records out. Do yourself a favor and get 'em from I-94 records. community-2.webtv.net/i94rec/I94Recordings/