One of the perils of sleazy rock journalism is that you'll arrive early to a rock n' roll show and have to spend money hand over fist on the harshest liquor available so that you'll have something to do while you wait for the band you are about to interview to show up. You'd think they would let the sleazy rock journalist drink for free but someone's got to pay the bills and what better person than the guy who has to be there, right? So, as I throw back my sixth shot of tequila and shake the bright spots from my vision I notice a trio of girls to my left move a bit closer to where I am eking out my lonely, vulture-like existence that night. They are young. One of them has on a Superman t-shirt and is carrying a Superman lunchbox. Emo kids, maybe. They're here to check out Cheerleader they tell me. So was I, incidentally. If they were emo kids they were in for a big shock. Cheerleader, despite their pep rally name, are not bubblegum chewing, pom pom shakers. They're rock n' rolling, machine gun generals ready to blow your fucking mind. Then I noticed the girls had big, black X's on their hands. Great, I thought. They're straight edge. As it turns out they were far from straight edge. The X's meant that they were underage. Perfect. The waiting game just got interesting Sure, sleazy rock journalism has its perils but it also has it perks. I spent the rest of the time waiting for Cheerleader to arrive by buying alcohol for 18-year-old girls who wanted to fuck this sleazy rock journalist just because he was getting them drunk and would soon be hanging out with rock stars. Long live rock n' roll...

Then the back door swings open and in comes Cheerleader, pushing cabinets and riding the cold winter wind. They are late. Not just for me, but for the show. Must have been the blizzard. Or it could be the fact that they are rock stars and time doesn't apply to rock stars. Either way, I catch the arm of Ethan Cawke, Cheerleader bass player, as he makes his way by the bar. He assures me we will do the interview after they set up. Congratulations girls, more waiting. Shall we have another round?

Some minutes later (was it minutes? Time, it seems, also doesn't apply to the drunkard sleazy rock journalist) Cawke tells me he's ready. I ask if any of the other guys are going to join us and he says that I can also talk to Jimmy if I want. Jimmy Vapid, it turns out, is not even a member of Cheerleader, yet for the sake of this interview he pretends to be. What do I care? He is a friend of the band. He even has his own band, The Vapids. Good enough for me.

We make our way to the back of the bar where Cheerleader has set up its merchandise booth. We settle in amongst the kids snapping up t-shirts and the band's two EPs. The Dutchmen, tonight's opening act, tear into their first few riffs, supplying wonderful ambient noise. Cawke, 21, is sporting a Batman t-shirt (is there a superhero theme no one told me about?), leather jacket and gloves, spiked belt and bracelet, and his signature blue bandanna over top his ragged mop. He is the poster boy for rock n' roll fashion at the height of the eighties, which just happens to be about 1987, when Appetite for Destruction ruled outright. Vapid, 28, has more of a boy-next-door kind of look, with his baby face under the same ragged mop, Converse shoes, and bomber jacket. There is a window above their heads. The snow is swirling thick and fast.

"We hate the weather here in this country," says Cawke, a pint of Budweiser to his lips. "We try not to tour in the winter time. We try to go down south and tour California."

Geographically speaking, the places can't compare. If you've lived here then you know. I think Vapid sums it up best when he says, "It's hot down there. It's cold up here." Well put, you wisecracking bastard, but what about the scene? What about the kids?

"Kids there like rock n' roll a lot better than they do in this country," says Cawke. 

Vapid disagrees. "There's no problem in this country. There's plenty of good rock." He flashes Cawke a confrontational smile.

"He's talking about the kids here," says Cawke to Vapid. Then he turns to me to continue his point. "They watch MuchMusic and go out to see the band they see on MuchMusic and not the underground bands, but in the States it's the opposite. They shun the mainstream bands and go checkout the underground bands. We're unknown there and we draw hundreds of kids. Over here, no one will come see us unless they've seen us on MuchMusic. It's bullshit."

Cawke's comments strike some memory in the back of my mind that is trying to emerge from a sea of alcohol and thoughts of 18-year-old girls. One of the most outspoken artists in this country is Robin Black, who Cheerleader has played with before in this very bar, and who I interviewed awhile back. Black's views on the state of rock n' roll seem somewhat pertinent here. Cawke sees it another way.

"I don't have anything in common with him," he states assuredly.

Trouble in cock rock paradise?

"No, no. He's cool. He's actually a pretty cool guy," says Vapid. 

I can't tell, but do I sense a hint of sarcasm? Damn you Jimmy Vapid. You sure are wily.

"I like Robin Black himself," says Cawke as him and Vapid exchange smiles. "I like him. He's cool. But, musically we come from different parts. He's more into poppy music. We're more into raw music. We don't have any of the same influences or ideas about music."

Cheerleader's sound can be accurately defined by their influences. The raw, heavy, curb-stomping, party anthems of Cheerleader owe as much to The Ramones and Guns N' Roses as they do to Motley Crue, Slayer, Judas Priest, and Iron Maiden. Jesus, I hope those emo girls don't get disappointed and leave. Not only will it mean I will likely have to spend the rest of the night drinking alone but it might also mean that their cushy little emo world of colorful clothes, spiked hair, sweat bands, and bad music (and lunchboxes apparently), won't get soiled by a dose of Cheerleader cock rock sweat and semen. Certainly not what they're used to...from their music, anyway.

"Right now what's catching on is fake grunge and emo hardcore," explains Cawke. "We don't care about those scenes. We'll never fit in and we don't want to either. We're doing our own thing away from everyone else. We get kids here and there who discover us and like it but we don't want to fit into anything. We're trying to start our own scene."

Proof that real rock n' roll lives underground and relies on the true power of the scene to survive. Word of mouth is the best advertising.

"And God bless the Internet," says Vapid. "The Internet is great for a hard working band that doesn't have a lot of people working for them. There's nothing wrong with it."

"We have people all over the world downloading our songs and telling their friends about us," adds Cawke. "It's perfect for word of mouth. We would never be able to make fans on the other side of the world if we didn't have a web site."

"Not yet," says Vapid with a chuckle, implying that Cheerleader is bound at any moment to strike out on some global underground tour.

"Right," says Cawke. "We haven't been there yet. We're planning on going there later this year."

"It's awesome," says Vapid. "We're going for gold." Then turning to Cawke, "It gets better than this, right?"

Cawke laughs. "We're going for what?"

"Gold, man," says Vapid.

I begin laughing for the same reason that perhaps Cawke is. First, Vapid says the word gold like he's a little kid with an air guitar and a head full of dreams. This is rock n' roll, my friend. There is no gold. It's all black and blue. And sometimes blood red or vomit green. You should know that by now. Second, Vapid isn't even in the fucking band. And not to burst their bubble, but I casually mention how I saw them rolling in their own gear. I would think that getting your own roadies would be step one. You know, before the gold.

"Yeah, of course," agrees Cawke. "That would be real cool. Roadies would be awesome."

If roadies are step one then most assuredly the chicks are step two. Yet Cawke's response here is the most bizarre and cryptic statement of the interview. I'd like to blame the alcohol but even sober I still haven't figured out.

"We're all chicks with dicks," he says. "We are chicks."

Ok. Well, what about the chicks without the dicks - the chicks with tits? I mean, let's refresh. We have steps one and two: roadies and chicks. Step three must be marketing, which will hereafter be referred to as sex and rock n' roll. I've got it. Imagine Cheerleader on stage (the rock n' roll) with cheerleaders (the sex). Perfect marketing.

"That's a really obvious and simple idea," says Cawke matter-of-factly. "We wouldn't want to objectify girls like that. We like girls. We don't want to objectify them."

Vapid begins to laugh and pats Cawke on the shoulder in a job-well-done sort of way. Cawke pushes him back then continues.

"We got our name Cheerleader from the girl we all lost our virginity to. She was a cheerleader. When we were naming our band we thought we'd name it after her. There's never going to be any cheerleaders on stage with us or in our artwork or anything."

All right, forget step three. Bad idea. If there isn't going to be any cheerleaders on stage then what will there be?

"Mayhem. Guts. Spit. And guns too," says Vapid.

Then Cawke reverts back to his puzzling ways.

"You can expect four transvestites in dresses and drag playing cool rock n' roll music," he says.

Well, it seems like a good time to end the interview. Basically I am too drunk to decode what it is these two rock n' roll maniacs are throwing at me. Besides, The Dutchmen are done and it is time for Cheerleader to hit the stage. 

I don't see any transvestites but I do hear some cool rock n' roll music. For the next hour or so, Cheerleader blasts through its cutthroat repertoire in a flurry of flying sweat, broken strings, ripped denim, and flashing leather. It is infectious. I know the emo girls love it. There's one for the good guys. Unfortunately they have to leave. It must be their curfew or maybe the intensity of the show is just a little too much for them. Either way, I am left with nothing more than a phone number I never end up using and a hole in my pocket. But don't worry. Three more girls come along. They are friends with the band, which means that while they are less impressed with my sleazy rock journalist status that they at least know how to party. They take me to another bar to finish the night, which I do in a white haze. 

Cheerleader is back in town in a month. You can bet I am going to that show, if not for the chicks then for the rock. Plus, I think Jimmy Vapid will be there again, that coy fucker. I'll get a real interview with him about his punk band, The Vapids. Who knows, maybe Ethan Cawke will sit in on that one. It's rock n' roll after all, kids. What do I care? Cheerleader: www.cheerleader666.com
  - JW Warren