ON A MISERABLY SULTRY EVENING during the summer of 1994, I found myself at the mercy of one of my only friends with a driver’s license as I was chauffeured to a party after a grueling day of skateboarding. Rounded out by a punk show that was so bad I've expunged it from memory, the last thing I was interested in was hanging around a stranger's house that was sure to host the upper echelon of Bakersfield's "hipster" elite. The fact that I was filthy, free of drugs and alcohol, and chock full of teenage angst only fueled my frustration.
As we made our way up the sidewalk, I could feel a burn of indifference pierce my soul as the half-dozen kids that occupied the front stoop shot daggers in our direction between exaggerated eye rolls that were loud enough to be heard.1 After slipping through the naked hostility of the porch-dwelling gatekeepers of coolness, the vibe inside was less intimidating, though our welcoming committee was no less reluctant. I didn't know a single person in attendance by name, though a few familiar faces seasoned the main room with a brooding layer of apathy, their desperate hands clutched to the remaining bottles taken from a sole case of warm New Castle. The Dead Kennedys’ 'Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables' provided a ghostly atmospheric soundtrack, as the volume was so incredibly low that I scanned the room in search of album sleeve identification to substantiate my claim. On the floor in front of an old speaker was the proof I sought, complete with a crusty pile of weed carefully arranged amidst the vehicular inferno of the album's artwork. I then noticed a thick black line that was drawn between the numbers 2 and 3 on the stereo receiver, which wasn't even met by the line inherent to the fat, silver volume knob. "These kids are Ill in the Head if the volume stops at 2!" I thought.
With the exception of a devoted handful of hangers on, the party was dead on arrival, and the snail's pace at which the rest of our night unfolded was all the more excruciating as a result. As armchair philosophical drivel fell from the lips and tongues of uneducated mouths, the necessary context for such heady conversation hung in the air alongside a dense cloud of chain-smoked emissions. My mind began to drift into oceanic uncertainty, and from the depths of my subconscious I questioned whether or not my friend and I had actually made it to our intended destination. Had we instead died a gruesome death en route? Did this scene represent my new Life in Hell? Had my time on earth approached zero? All of the signs certainly pointed to the grave possibility of my otherwise sleep-deprived, dehydrated theory. I could feel the burgeoning spiral twist beneath my feet, and as I was about to lose footing, a conversational shift in tone slowly led me back to The Land of the Living. Exactly how long I was Under the Sea is unknown, but it was a period of time substantial enough for the Nietzschean concept of eternal recurrence to devolve into a very—very—heated debate that concerned the correct pronunciation of the word “Orangutan." This rather amusing exchange of views went on and on and on, which—ironically—bends backward on itself, thus resting comfortably within the wheel of Nietzsche's loopy philosophy ∞
THE MAINSPRING HAD BROKEN DOWN like a thrift store Metronome, and the time had finally come for us to direct our heels toward the Ausfahrt. And, while definitive concurrence to the aforementioned debate twisted in the wind, the Brainless Wonder that argued in favor of including an additional G due to the coloristic similarity between the great ape’s reddish-brown hair2 and William A. Mitchell’s wildly unpopular powdered drink mix3 had seemingly disappeared into a dark corner with a healthy—unhealthy?—dose of Self-Pity.
On the way out, my friend loudly announced his sudden appetite within earshot of our philosophical, primate-loving linguist, and despite his firmly held position as a staunch contrarian, the casual mention of midnight mozzarella sticks struck a surprisingly agreeable chord. Quickly—and, ungraciously—he invited himself along for the ride, shouting “shotgun” at a decibel level I could have heard if I had still been in the house, all while staring directly into my eyes as if he were daring his right to claim such spaces to be challenged. I’ve always been partial to sitting in the back, so I went along with his self-imposed seat-play success, while silently cursing the entirety of his family with il mio malocchio.
Before the ignition even sparked, my shiny new nemesis had rummaged through his requisite 90’s backpack in search of a tape that we “needed to hear.” Having turned in his seat to address me, he shook a pinkish-yellow rectangle in my face for a fraction of a millisecond and asked, “You ever heard of these guys?” Without offering me an opportunity to respond, he twisted back around in his seat and let out a faint giggle. The familiar sound of a plastic cassette case in a state of undress echoed throughout the car; a brief interlude to my inner-dialogue, which was plotting the murder of this kid via fistfuls of Denny’s fried cheese logs. As the cassette made its slow descent into the stereo’s mechanical cavity, my blood was at a boil due to the sheer audacity on display. And, then… the music began to ooze.
I wouldn’t come ear-to-ear with this band again for roughly 10 months, and my initial reaction to their music on the evening outlined above could very easily be described as one of overwhelmed perplexity. I must have felt—at least, intuitively—that the exposure was something extraordinary, though I wasn’t especially blown away upon first listen. I was instantly intrigued by the drums, though my attraction had more to do with production value, as opposed to the drummer’s obvious skill level. Loud, extremely powerful, and pushed to the front of the mix, I'd never heard anything quite so raw, even within the realm of punk rock. And, while the meditative tribality of their odd brand of whateverthefuck was enough to quell my murderous rage through a shabby stereo system in the backseat of my friend's Dodge Diplomat, I still walked away from that brief car ride feeling as though what I'd heard was NoThing more than a weirdo blues funk band fronted by a Jello Biafra obsessed fanboy—and I wasn't entirely convinced that it was my (Body) Bag.4
MY OFFICIAL (RE)INTRODUCTION to NoMeansNo came by way of miscommunication and forced exposure. One afternoon as I sifted through a collection of tapes that littered the cab of my bandmate Joel’s truck, a particularly clapped out cassette caught my attention. The artwork featured a scrapbooked family photo of two boys hijacking an older fellow’s drum kit, and as I silently read the words scrawled across the top of the J-Card, my brain began to fire off a multitude of mixed messages. Once an operational connection had been established, I hastily blurted out: “Oh… this is thaat band!” I suppose I placed an emphasis on the oh—as opposed to that—and, I must have done so with some amount of enthusiasm, because my outburst was completely misinterpreted as one of excitement. After a brief discussion regarding my knowledge of the band, I declared that I wasn’t a fan. A sour grimace assumed Joel’s face, and he slapped away the dirty words of my admission with a vigorous hand gesture as he slipped the tape into the deck and hit rewind with the other. “You have to listen to this,” he said with sincere immediacy. As the thin polyester film of Side A whirled noisily backward, Joel showered John’s drumming with endless praise—which, was rather surprising coming from him.5 After a series of short mechanical clicks, thus began my strange and unusual relationship with the Wright Brothers and “no one particular.” And, what a Joyful Reunion it was.
THE CONSIDERATION OF JOHN WRIGHT as an influential figure in the development of my youthful determinism to become a drummer is easy enough to address, because it simply wasn't there. From my first encounter with NoMeansNo to the moment I realized their music was worthy of reevaluation, one thing was painfully obvious: John's talent—and, his level of skill—existed in a league of its own. The transparency of this fact was so clear that not even my hormone-infused, heightened sense of teenage self could break down the walls of his power and rich complexity. The only logical thing to do was observe from the sidelines; wholly appreciate, and listen intently as John performed in what was truly a singular sport.
A precise calculation of the time I’ve clocked-in with NoMeansNo over the past 30+ years would be a fool’s errand. It would be equally foolish to assume that John’s influence hasn’t infiltrated my rhythmic sensibility, though I never once dipped into the bag of his musical contribution in search of something I felt as though I should apply to my own playing. This could be chalked-up to unfeigned debt paying, but throughout the course of this writing, I made a conscientious effort to approach this moment of my history from a position of objective retrospection, which—at The End of All Things—would suggest that John’s influence is—and, (perhaps?) always has been—deeply embroidered into the fabric of my percussive experience.
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Within a year of this incident, many—if not all—of the partygoers that had written me off as an indignant poser could be seen from my position behind the drum kit, as they danced and sang songs written by my first band. A handful of them tried desperately to befriend me, having no recollection whatsoever of the cold brushoff they’d given me only a few months prior. As a teenager, I found immense Joy in ignoring these kids, and I watched with glee as their insecure worlds crumbled beneath my Florsheim boots.
Not to mention, playful rhyme time fun: do the Rang Tang!!!
That is, until NASA adopted the beverage for the Human Spaceflight Program in 1962.
For many years, I felt as though my dismissive comparison to Jello was directly related to the fact that less than an hour before I hopped in my friend's car I'd been listening to The Dead Kennedys while earnestly questioning whether or not the album art for 'Fresh Fruit...' was a wink from the universe, subtly informing me that I'd died a slow and agonizing death on my way to a party where I’d be mocked and/or shunned by "cool" kids drinking warm beer for the rest of eternity. As my relationship with the band steadily increased, It became more and more clear that Rob's voice did in fact sound like Biafra—albeit with a degree of intensity and/or similarity that would vary from song to song, album to album. Recent use of the Internet has made it more clear that I was far from alone in my criticism/analysis.
It should be duly noted that Joel is one of the most accomplished, impressive drummers I’ve ever had the pleasure to watch. And, while he retains an admirable amount of humility in spite of his own—well deserved—showers of praise, his perpetually flat response to the frequently asked question, “What do you think of so-and-so?” was—and, I imagine still is—undeniable.
His project Radiation Blackbody will be of particular interest to drummers and bass players alike, but it may also hit a nerve with fans of progressive instrumental hardcore, the occasional blast beat, and mind-numbing mathematical equations.