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The Fuck Boys Bus Tour |
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It wasn’t long after we returned from Toronto when Agnieszka said to me,
“Rockabilly and a tour bus full of drunk cowboys. I’m never doing that
again.”
 I was out of it and just nodded accordingly. “Wait,” I said, eyes
half closed, trying to piece together sloppy memories of the past nine
hours. “What the hell just happened?” She repeated it again just to make
sure I did, in fact, understand. “Rockabilly and a tour bus full of drunk
cowboys.” “Fuck Boys,” I said, waving a blurry finger in the air. “They’re
not cowboys, they’re Fuck Boys.”I knew Nevada Brown back when he was Spencer Brown. He was quite the character then, a kick-ass drummer with a head full o’ dread locks, a knack for cooking gourmet meals, and a penchant for pot, which is pretty fucking cool when you think he would have been about 14 years old at the time. We had lost touch after high school but apparently he got word that yours truly was scribbling some notes for the mighty Sleazegrinder, so he sent an offer my way. “Hey Amigo,” he said. “Take a ride with Charlie Glide on The Moonshine Riders Fuck Boys bus tour!” I’ll be damned if I knew what he was selling, but it sounded tempting enough. So I bought it, and here follows the spoiled wares. _________________________________________________________________________ |
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| I pulled into the Arva Flour Mills about 30 minutes ahead of schedule. The bus was set to head to Toronto at 7:00 PM so I had apparently mistimed my five minute drive out of London by 25 minutes. No problem. Agnieszka was making the trip with me, so I had someone to wait with. I thought finding the Flour Mills might have been tough, but in a one-thug, two-skank town such as Arva, it’s not hard to miss the fucking Flour Mills. So we sat in the gravel parking lot, eyeing the red buildings and makeshift silos, making idle chatter about the journey on which we were about to embark. We came to the conclusion that there was a good chance the both of us were in way over our heads; me a tattooed, converse-wearing, tight-tee’d, funky-haired sleazy rock n’ roller, she a tiny, beautifully stylish, pierced Polish photographer, and them, small town good ol’ boys who love their geetars loud, fast, and fiddlin’ and their beer cold and plentiful. | |
| Ok, so only a handful of the stragglers were actually wearing cowboy boots and hats, but the scene was plenty strange enough. Then came Nevada, strolling down the dusty roadway like a wanted man, as slick as whiskey with drum sticks poking out of the back pockets of his leather pants. He was dressed to kill, with a Hank Williams belt buckle, Lou Reed shirt, and aviators. It was at that point when I felt that, despite the obvious tenor of the situation, this was going to be one hell of a rock n’ roll experience. Then he held up a clenched fist, threw back his long hair, and screamed, “Fuck Boys!” The crowd of about 30 held up their beers. “Fuck Boys!” |
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____________________________________________________________________________________ The Moonshine Riders are Nevada Brown on skins, Doc Colts on lead axe, Heartbreak Hardy on lead vox and rhythm geetar, and Dust’N Bones on bass. I’m not quite sure why they haven’t officially changed their name to The Fuck Boys, but I figure it’s only a matter of time. Truth be told though, the Fuck Boys are more than four rockabilly hound dogs. The Fuck Boys are, in essence, all the Moonshine Rider fans, loyal subjects of the rockabilly charm, many of whom were making the trip that night. In fact, yours truly has now been branded an honorary Fuck Boy. I can think of worse things to be called, believe me. Nevada describes the Fuck Boys bus tour this way: “The bus ride is basically our local support. They’re great parties, let me tell ya. And these people are out to every show, so we really appreciate our fan base. We’re giving our blood, sweat, and tears and they’re killing their bodies every night with us, so it’s great.” So there we are on a converted school bus, once used to transport violent prisoners, screaming down Southwestern Ontario back roads like a ghost in the night, headed for a show at the infamous Horseshoe Tavern in Toronto. The Moonshine Riders are opening for The Royal Crowns and seasoned veterans, Los Straitjackets, who play nothing but instrumental psychobilly while wearing masks, the kind you see Spanish midget wrestlers wear on late night TV. Nevada, the unspoken charismatic leader of everything, it seems, makes his way to the front of the bus and slips in a cassette, then returns to the seat across from me and grabs a Black Label. Not more than a few seconds after he sits down, someone from the back inquires about the music choice. “It’s Zeppelin,” Nevada yells back. “Live version of The Song Remains The Same. Bonham does a 20-minute drum solo. It’s fuckin’ killer!” Goddamn drummers. “The rockabilly scene is an underground culture,” says Nevada, one ear on the drum solo. “I think there is a market. I just think it’s whether or not you’re willing to put yourself out there and play whenever you can. You’ve got to do it for the music and not the money and that’s what we’ve prepared ourselves to do. I think LA and Texas is where we belong and we’re definitely going to be there.” LA and Texas may sound like some sort of rockabilly pipedream, but The Moonshine Riders are on their way. They traveled all the way to Nashville to record their self-title debut with producer P.T. Houston and haven’t looked back. Combining Tennessee flavor, good ol’ fashioned rockabilly (the kind your grand pappy is used to hearing), a hefty dose of heart, and respect for the rock, The Moonshine Riders set barns on fire with their Johnny Cash meets Waylon Jennings meets Reverend Horton Heat calamity of classic country rock. It’s toe tapping and head banging all at the same time, and when you’re drunk, there are some serious chances of losing an appendage or two. |
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As the bus rolled on, the empties began piling up, and the “Fuck Boys!”
screams became more frequent. Zeppelin was over and we were soon listening
to Ride The Lightning and Use Your Illusion I over and over again.
Nevada’s having a handful of conversations at once, but manages to shoot
me some lines every now and then about being Nevada Brown and living the
sleazy rock lifestyle. “I take a ride with my friend Charlie Glide every so often, but other than that, you know, sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll. It’s what makes the world go ‘round.” “Is there a girl in your life?” I ask. |
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“Tara Patrick,
Brianna Banks, and
Jenna Jameson,” he shoots back. “I treat
‘em all equally. I love ‘em. Seeing their pretty faces all the time and
their nice chassis’, they take care of the old boy.” “You gonna pick up a little Philly tonight?” “I don’t know, buddy. I can’t predict the future, but I hope something works out.” A big smile on his face. “You’ve got to be a nice fine thoroughbred for Nevada Brown to go all the way with you.” “So, Nevada Brown, huh?” “I throw on the cowboy boots, the Hank Williams belt buckle, the leather pants and Nevada Brown is in full effect. I’m really not predictable. I’m a really spontaneous person. That’s why it’s good I’m in a riff n’ country band.” “And you’re having a good time.” “We’ve found something good here. We’re a good group of boys, we have a great time doin’ what we’re doin’, and we’re devoted to new music. We’re gonna get in there, bring the soul and grit back, and raise some hell.” We talked for a few more minutes, about his Dad giving him a Who tape and drum kit at age five, about Japan’s greatest rock n’ roll band, Guitar Wolf, and about sharing some Bolivian breakfast, after which Nevada gets up to join the party at the back. I spend the rest of the ride to the show making frequent trips to washroom, drinking beer, and making out with Agnieszka. We hit Toronto a loud, obnoxious, and alarmingly late group of Fuck Boys. The Moonshine Riders have little time to set up and are soon on stage. Any qualms I had at the beginning of the night about not enjoying myself were quickly erased by a healthy dose of alcohol and some damn good music. Rockabilly isn’t, nor ever will be, my bag, but the sheer intensity and authenticity of The Moonshine Riders was intoxicating. It didn’t matter what kind of music they were playing – this was a rock n’ roll show. Doc Colts is a 20th century Keith Richards with Slash tendencies. Dust’N Bones is so smooth I thought he’d slither right off the stage like a rattlesnake. Heartbreak Hardy is a bona fide front man, doing is name proud, driving the ladies crazy with his crooning and charm. And then there’s Nevada, who plays the skins standing up. It’s not long before he’s half naked and on top of his kit or out front stealing the mic from Heartbreak. They run through a solid set of their own tunes, but the highlights for me were their rockabilly covers of For Whom the Bell Tolls and Kickstart My Heart. They ended the set with a blistering version of Suspicious Minds, which made the older crowd come alive. I didn’t bother to catch the rest of the show. Agnieszka and I made our way through the dirty streets of Toronto, watching street theatre and looking for something to eat. We ended up back on the bus at the end of the night where it seemed the party had never stopped. The debauchery continued all the way home. By the time the bus rolled back into the Flour Mills, someone had tried to kiss my girl and several people couldn’t wake up. We said our goodbyes and got into the car. I rolled down the window. As we flew past the Arva town line, I could still hear the distant and drunk cries of a bunch of steel-drivin’ rock n’ rollers and their gaggle of rowdy Fuck Boys. www.themoonshineriders.com |
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_____________________________________________________________________________________ -Jeff Warren Home |
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