The accolade helped to catapult the Swedish band from obscurity to some of the biggest festival stages in Europe. But 11 yea. Swiss speed-metallers up their wicked game. Dance With The Devil is an absurdly exciting and wickedly nail-shard heavy metal record, full of dazzling musicianship, giant tunes and an overall sense that the Swiss quintet are giving the none-more-class.
But now Sheffield-based sibling two-pi. Ex Hex's Betsy Wright and Flesh Wounds drummer Laura King have assembled a new band that already stands out amid rock's wave of revivalists. From their inception in the mids, the band played a variety of styles, beginn.
H er name was Bullwinkle. We called her that because she had a face like a moose. But Tommy, even though he could get any girl he wanted on the Sunset Strip, would not break up with her.
He loved her and wanted to marry her, he kept telling us, because she could spray her cum across the room. It was dishes, clothes, chairs, fists—basically anything within reach of her temper.
One wrong word or look would cause her to explode in a jealous rage. One night, Tommy tried to keep her away by jamming the door to the house shut—the lock was long since broken from being repeatedly kicked in by the police—and she grabbed a fire extinguisher and threw it through the plate-glass window to get inside. The police returned later that night and drew their guns on Tommy while Nikki and I hid in the bathroom.
We never repaired the window. That would have been too much work. People would pour into the house, located near the Whisky A Go-Go, for after-hours parties, either through the broken window or the warped, rotting brown front door, which would only stay closed if we folded a piece of cardboard and wedged it underneath.
I shared a room with Tommy while Nikki, that fucker, got the big room to himself. When we moved in, we agreed to rotate and every month a different person would get the solo room.
But it never happened. It was too much work. It was , and we were broke, with one thousand seven-inch singles that our manager had pressed for us and a few decimated possessions to our name. The carpet was filthy with alcohol, blood, and cigarette burns, and the walls were scorched black. The place was crawling with vermin. If we ever wanted to use the oven, we had to leave it on high for a good ten minutes to kill the regiments of roaches crawling around inside.
Of course, we could afford or afford to steal important things like hair spray, because you had to have your hair jacked up if you wanted to make the rounds at the clubs. The kitchen was smaller than a bathroom, and just as putrid. Usually, though, Big Bill, a pound biker and bouncer from the Troubadour who died a year later from a cocaine overdose , would come over and eat all the hot dogs.
When we were really hard up, Nikki and I would date girls who worked in grocery stores just for the free food. But we always bought our own booze. It was a matter of pride. The neighbors complained about the smell and the rats that had started swarming all over our patio, but there was no way we were touching it, even after the Los Angeles Department of Health Services showed up at our door with legal papers requiring us to clean the environmental disaster we had created.
Our bathroom made the kitchen look immaculate in comparison. In the nine or so months we lived there, we never once cleaned the toilet. On the back of the door was a poster of Slim Whitman.
Outside the bathroom, a hallway led to two bedrooms. The bedroom Tommy and I shared was to the left of the hallway, full of empty bottles and dirty clothes. We each slept on a mattress on the floor draped with one formerly white sheet that had turned the color of squashed roach.
But we thought we were pretty suave because we had a mirrored door on our closet. Or we did. One night, David Lee Roth came over and was sitting on the floor with a big pile of blow, keeping it all to himself as usual, when the door fell off the hinges and cracked across the back of his head. Dave halted his monologue for a half-second, and then continued.
Nikki had a TV in his room, and a set of doors that opened into the living room. But he had nailed them shut for some reason. Every night after we played the Whisky, half the crowd would come back to our house and drink and do blow, smack, Percodan, quaaludes, and whatever else we could get for free.
There would be members of punk-scene remnants like 45 Grave and the Circle Jerks coming to our almost nightly parties while guys in metal newborns like Ratt and W.
Girls would arrive in shifts. One would be climbing out the window while another was coming in the door. Me and Tommy had our window, and Nikki had his. You have to go. He wanted to drive that car more than anything. That night, Nikki and I walked into the house to find Tommy with his spindly legs flat on the floor and this big naked quivering mass bouncing mercilessly up and down on top of him.
We just stepped over him, grabbed a rum and Coke, and sat on our decimated couch to watch the spectacle: they looked like a red Volkswagen with four whitewall tires sticking out the bottom and getting flatter by the second. The second Tommy finished, he buttoned up his pants and looked at us.
Then he was off—through the living room crud, out the busted front door, past the cinder blocks, and in the car, pleased with himself. We lived in that pigsty as long as a child stays in the womb before scattering to move in with girls we had met. The whole time we lived there all we wanted was a record deal.
But all we ended up with was booze, drugs, chicks, squalor, and court orders. Mick, who was living with his girlfriend in Manhattan Beach, kept telling us that was no way to go about getting a deal.
But I guess he was wrong. I used to tell them, You know what your problem is? When you do stuff you get caught. This is the way you do stuff. Then I took a shot glass and threw it across the room and nobody knew what the fuck was going on.
I guess I was the outsider. I had this place in Manhattan Beach with my girlfriend. I was never into hanging out at that house. I had done that, seen it. Before we left for a gig at the Country Club that night, they put the tree in the courtyard, doused it with gasoline, and set it on fire. They thought it was real funny, but to me it just stank. That kind of stuff bored me really quickly, you know. It was always so filthy over there that you could wipe your finger on any surface and get dirt under your nails.
To me, she was a dumb, young, possessive personality that was crazy or something. I could never get as violent as that, shatter a window and run the risk of hurting myself.
Everyone likes to look for aliens, but I think we are the aliens. This is where they dropped us off. From upper left: Rob Hemphill, Frank Feranna a. I smashed my bass against the wall, threw my stereo across the room, tore my MC5 and Blue Cheer posters off the wall, and kicked a hole in the black-and-white television downstairs before slamming the front door open. Outside, I systematically threw a rock through every window in the town house. But that was just the beginning. I ran to a nearby house filled with degenerates I liked to get stoned with and asked for a knife.
Someone tossed me a stiletto. I popped out the blade, extended my bracelet-covered left arm, and plunged the knife in directly above the elbow, sliding it downward about four inches and deep enough in some places to see bone.
In fact, I thought it looked pretty cool. I wanted them to lock her away so I could live alone. And I was going to make it. There was no doubt about that—at least in my mind. So I struck a plea bargain with my mother.
And she did. I never came back. It was an overdue ending to a quest for escape and independence that had been set in motion a long time ago. I was born December 11, , at A. I was as early as I could be, and, even back then, probably still up from the night before. My mother had about as much luck with names as she had with men. She was born Deana Haight—an Idaho farm girl with stars in her eyes.
She was witty, strong-willed, motivated, and extremely gorgeous—like a fifties movie star, with stylishly short hair, an angelic face, and a figure that inspired double takes in the street.
But she was the black sheep of the family, the exact opposite of her perfect, pampered sister, Sharon. She had an untamable wild streak: completely capricious, prone to random adventure, and constitutionally unable to create any pattern of stability. She was definitely my mother. She wanted to name me either Michael or Russell, but before she could the nurse asked my father, Frank Carlton Feranna—who was just a few years away from leaving her and me for good—what I should be called.
He betrayed my mother on the spot and named me Frank Feranna, after himself. From the first day, my life was a cluster fuck. At that point, I should have crawled right back in and begged my maker, Can we start over? My father stuck around long enough to give me a sister who, like my father, I have no memories of. For my mother, pregnancy and children were warning signs telling her to slow down—advice she heeded for only a short time until she started dating Richard Pryor.
For most of my childhood, the idea of a sister and a father was beyond my comprehension. I never thought of myself as coming from a broken home, because I had no memories of home being anything other than my mother and me. We lived on the ninth floor of the St. But she would neither relinquish me completely nor slow down. He was always in a terrible mood, and at the slightest provocation would take it out on me. One afternoon, he was taking a bath when he noticed me brushing my teeth from side to side instead of up and down, as he had taught me.
He stood up, naked, hairy, and beaded with water like an ape caught in a hailstorm, and smashed his fist into the side of my head, knocking me to the ground. Then my mother, as usual, turned red and attacked him while I ran to the pond to hide. That Christmas, I received two presents: my father stopped by our house while I was outside playing and, as either a feeble gesture to absolve his guilt or a genuine effort to be a father with the little means available to him, left me a red plastic circular sled with leather handles.
And my half sister, Ceci, was born. They never told me why. All I remember is that my mother and Ceci flew there which meant that I had to cross the border in the Corvair with Vinny and Belle. Belle was his German shepherd who, much like Vinny, constantly attacked me for no reason. My legs, arms, and torso were covered with bite marks for years. It somehow makes sense that Vince just bought one for himself. Mexico was probably the best time of my childhood: I ran around naked with the Mexican kids on the beach near our cottage, played with the goats and chickens roaming the neighborhood like they owned it, ate ceviche, went into town for fire-cooked corn ears wrapped in tinfoil, and, at the age of seven, smoked pot for the first time with my mother.
When Mexico grew stale for them, we returned to Idaho, where my grandparents bought me my first phonograph, a gray plastic toy that only played singles. It had a needle on the lid, so whenever it was closed the song played and when it was open it stopped.
I used to listen to Alvin and the Chipmunks all the time, which my mother never let me forget. My grandfather slept in a sleeping bag outside, my grandmother napped in a seat, and I curled up on the floor like a dog. At the age of eight, I was already sick of touring. After so much traveling, spending most of my time in the company of myself, friendship became like television to me: It was something to flip on now and then to distract myself from the fact that I was alone.
Whenever I was around a group of kids my age, I felt awkward and out of place. In school, I had trouble focusing. In El Paso, my grandfather worked at a Shell gas station, my grandmother stayed in the trailer, and I went to the local grade school, where the kids were merciless. They pushed me, picked on me, and said I ran like a girl.
To further my humiliation, my grandfather cut my hair, which my mother had always let grow long, into a flattop—not the most popular style in the late sixties.
I eventually grew to like El Paso because I started spending time with Victor, a hyperactive Mexican kid who lived across the street. We became best friends and did everything together, enabling me to ignore the scores of other kids who hated my guts because I was poor white California trash. But just as I began to get comfortable, the inevitable news came: We were moving again. I was devastated, because this time I would have to leave someone behind, Victor.
We raised chickens and rabbits as well as pigs. My job was to take each rabbit, hold him by his hind legs, grab a stick, and smash it into the fur on the back of his head. But at the same time I knew that slaughtering them was my role in the family; it was what I had to do to become a man. School was a ninety-minute bus ride of unpaved roads and constant bullying away.
When we arrived, the older kids who sat in the back of the bus would push me to the ground and stand on me until I gave them my lunch money. After the first seven times, I vowed that it would never happen again.
The next day, it happened again. The following morning, I brought a metal Apollo 13 lunch box with me and filled it with rocks at the bus stop. As soon as we arrived at school, I ran off the bus and, as usual, they caught up with me.
But this time, I started swinging, breaking noses, denting heads, and sending blood everywhere until the lunch box broke open on connecting with the face of one inbred shitkicker. They never fucked with me again—and I felt power. I was demented, and they all started to realize that and kept their distance.
Instead of skipping stones when I was alone, I started walking down dirt roads with my BB gun, picking off all things animate and inanimate. My only friend was an old lady who lived in a trailer nearby, all alone in the middle of the desert.
I would get to see my friend Victor again. I passed by his house at least twice a day, feeling my isolation and anger grow, before walking through the high school to get pelted with sports equipment on the way to the Gasden District Junior High that I hated.
For Christmas, my grandfather sold some of his most prized possessions—including his radio and his only suit—just to buy me a buck knife, and I rewarded his sacrifice by using it to slash tires. Revenge, self-hate, and boredom had opened up the path to juvenile delinquency for me. And I chose to follow it to the very end. My grandparents eventually moved back to Idaho, to a sixty-acre cornfield in Twin Falls. We lived next to a silage pit, which is where the extra husks and waste left over after harvesting were dumped, mixed with chemicals, covered with plastic, and left to rot in the ground until they stank enough to feed to the cows.
I lived a Huckleberry Finn life that summer—fishing in the creek, walking along the railroad tracks, crushing pennies under trains, and building forts out of haystacks. Most evenings, I would run around the house, pretending like I had a motorcycle, then lock myself in my room and listen to the radio. It cut through the boredom like a scythe. The song had style and attitude: It was cool.
I found it, I thought. When school started, it was like Anthony all over again. The kids picked on me and I had to resort to my fists to stop them. They made fun of my hair, my face, my shoes, my clothes—nothing about me fit. So I joined the football team because violence was the only thing that gave me any sense of power over other people.
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