#weneverlearn

🎙️ 28 Weeks Later: The Price of Moving On

We tell ourselves that once the threat is over, we can rebuild. That we’ll learn. That this time will be different.

28 Weeks Later reminds us how fragile that hope really is.

From Don’s fatal choice to Alice’s final moment of compassion, the film forces us to ask: how much humanity can we afford to hold onto when survival is still uncertain? How quickly we convince ourselves we’re “back to normal”, and how little it takes for everything to fall apart again.

Sometimes the virus isn’t the only thing that mutates. Our fear does too. Our mistakes echo.

Lmao.

GARAGE PUNK DOC IN THE WORKS! 

Wherein Italian trash rock lifers dust off their old VHS concert tapes and pick up a new camera to document the 1990s garage rock scene.

About the last week of November, a trailer of sorts (above) was making the trash rock rounds. It’s cool clips and odd editing of some of the best garage bands of the 1990s piqued lots of interest and fevered sharings, garnering excited queries of “What?” “When?” “Who?” Gaaaaaggghh!!”

Well it turns out I had a clue, as this in-the-works documentary of the end-of-the-century garage rock scene (ala the one covered in my book) is being scrummed up by Italian uber-fans, Massimo Scocca and Gisella Albertini. They not only started booking great bands from all over the wold in their town of Torino and beyond northern Italy back in the early ‘90s, but they had their own great trash trio, Two Bo’s Maniacs. And yes, @newbombturks have been pals with them since they first booked us in 1993, and are one of many interview subjects planned for the film.

Since the chances of 20th Century Fox coming along to bankroll a doc on the 1990s garage punk scene is probably out of the realm of possibility, here’s hoping Massimo and Gisella get all the help and funding they need to finish the project.

We Never Learn checked in with Gisella for some more details on the project.

So, what is the name of the documentary, and why is it named that?

We needed a working title that could pretty much summarize what it is about, and not just cool sounding: Live The Life You Sing About - Tales of Low Budget and Desperate Rock’n’Roll.  

We started wondering how bands that sound so different from one another are often perceived as part of the same category or “genre.” When someone asks us to define it, we end up with a long series of terms: garage, punk, rock’n’roll; sometimes with an extra “sixties” or “lo-fi” or “low-budget” in all possible combinations because they’re not not necessarily all true at the same time. Maybe the one thing they have in common is attitude. Something like: play, sing, do what you think is right, no matter what other people think or say. This often comes along with struggle, frustration, and the feeling of being on a different planet, so we threw in an extra “desperate.” It also happens to be the title of an old song that a band brought back to the present, which is another common theme here. However, it might still change, if we come up with a better idea.

Who started the idea to do the documentary, and why?

We came across a box of Video 8 and cassette tapes, forgotten in a closet for years, and something clicked: “We should do something with this!”

From time to time we happen to meet kids who were just babies or very young children in the 90’s, but are very much into this kind of music. Usually when they hear the names of the bands we saw play live, they look at us with amazement and envy. That reminds us of when we talked to people who had seen maybe like Bo Diddley and the Rolling Stones in the ‘60s in just one night. Ok, it means that we’re getting older, but at the same time, we feel lucky and grateful that someone worked hard to allow all that to happen. Now, it’s our chance to save someone “from the misery of being a Taylor Swift fan and do something good for the world” ( - Tim Warren). Ha ha ha!!!

Gisella (far right); Massimo (middle) - Photographer unknown

Is there a kind of timeframe to the bands in the movie?

I guess you know exactly what it means having to choose what to include and what to cut. So many stories that should be told, so little pages...or minutes. It’s just an impossible task. So, we somehow arbitrarily put some boundaries. We decided to focus on whatever happened between 1990 and 1999. Last decade of the millennium. Pretty epic, you know. The era of transition towards new technologies that deeply changed the way of doing many things, but at the same time, at least in this kind of music, strongly rooted in the previous decades of the century.

Oh sure, it’s not that a flying saucer with all these bands landed on Earth on January 1, 1990 and left on December, 1999. We will have flashbacks and references to the present as well. But since the documentary is mostly based on our own archive, it’s also necessarily influenced by the fact that we met some people and not others, and we saw, filmed, and photographed some bands more than others.

Tell me about what your backgrounds are -- in music or life in general.

Oh well, the main people [working on the doc] currently is the two of us -- with the precious help of a few people who could not devote themselves to the project until it’s completed, but worked with us and supported us in many ways.

When we came up with the idea, we had two main options: putting together a professional-looking proposal, sending it around and just wait, hoping some producer would notice its great potential and decide to invest thousands of dollars on it. Or, just jump in and start somehow and figure everything else out in the process. We chose the latter -- it’s more punk! There’s no fame and fortune guaranteed with this project. You do it just because you want to and no matter what.

I mean, we expected a bunch of dedicated fans and collectors would love to see a documentary like this. But being realistic, that’s a relatively small niche. We tried to figure what people know about this. in Italy, the closest they can usually get to this kind of music is what here is called the  “Po-po-po-po-po-po-poo World Cup chant.” Real title: “Seven Nation Army” by the White Stripes. Not even something we plan to mention. 

Next, a bunch of bands of the late 90’s-early 2000s, still quite a bit out of our range. Then numbers get lower and lower, down to the most obscure ones that only few geeks have ever heard of.

Anyway, if all goes well, we’ve finally found a stable technical crew. Also, we’re working on a few ways of funding the project, besides our own bank account, and including crowdfunding later. Plus a few other ideas, but nothing defined yet so I prefer not to say more, until we’re settled.

1995 7″

Torino newspaper clipping, 10/93. - “Shitty local bands get the main title, while they (A-Bones) only appear to deserve a "tough (?) garage rockers from NY.” - Gisella

How far along are you in finishing it, and when do you think it will be done?

We already did a lot of work on the archive and the structure that will help speed up the editing process. However, we still have quite a few interviews to make, presumably in the summer, and post-production that will involve quite a lot of work on sound especially. Sorry guys, sit down and relax, at least until late 2018. But we’ll keep everybody updated on our page.

Who have you talked to so far, and who do you hope to talk to when you come to the States?

We did long interviews with Tim Warren and Ben Wallers at their homes. Then we have eleven more, collected at gigs of the bands that happened to be touring Europe: opportunities that we couldn’t waste. Many interviews were between sound check and dinner, or even after the gig, and we might decide -- with the interviewees -- to use only part of them, or not at all, then do more while we’re in the U.S.A. Oh, I almost forgot to mention 30 audio-only interviews we had made for our zine in the ‘90’s that will be partially edited in as well. Who do we hope to talk to in the States? Hey, we’re Italian and superstitious, we don’t reveal names in advance!

Torino newspaper clipping, 1994.

Tell us about when you first started seeing these kind of garage punk bands. And what was an early show you saw that really made you get into this music?

Gisella: Sixties music has been my favorite since I was 4 or 5, when I found my mom’s Beatles records -- two 45’s -- in a cupboard. From there, you know, Kinks, Them, Animals, Pretty Things, and then Pebbles, Back From the Grave, and the bands more or less inspired by that. So when my friends and I heard that the guy from the Prisoners would play in town with his new band the Prime Movers, we all went, of course. There, we discovered the opening band would be the Wylde Mammoths. Great night, and a first glimpse of things to come. But it was really the Gories and Thee Headcoats records I came across at a local record store that blew my mind and had me say “Oh THIS is what I really want to hear!.” Everything else followed.

Massimo: Well I’m older than Gisella you know, and I saw some awesome bands during the ‘80s like Suicide, Gun Club, etc. I used to collect a lot of garage compilations, early blues records, r&b, soul, and all the good stuff. But the event that attracted me strongly into this music happened in 1990. I was in NYC, checking the Village Voice and saw that the Gories and the Raunch Hands would play that night. So I went there, and man, that gig was unbelievable! Totally different from anything you could hear at that time, and so shocking that it definitely changed my life forever.

I guess there will be a lot of old film footage in the movie. Can you tell us about one or two old videos you have that you are particularly excited about putting in the movie?

The first one we ever shot. it’s 1995, Micha [Warren, Crypt Records] tells us the Oblivians will be touring Europe. The 10” on Sympathy was awesome and the Country Teasers will be playing too, so we decide to follow them around for a week. Right before leaving, I remember a friend of mine had a Video 8 camera from the late 80s, ask him if we can borrow it, and he says yes. Great, off we go in our ‘70s orange, rusty Ford Transit that we can also sleep in. We get to Stuttgart, Germany. The venue is a sort of long narrow basement, really packed, hot wild atmosphere. Camera battery is fully charged, everything ready, we’re thrilled at the idea of filming such an event. Except... five minutes later, the camera’s dead! The battery was fucked up. What do we do? We can’t miss something like this. Between the sets, we ask if I can keep the camera plugged to the only socket around, at the back of the stage, and they say ok. So for the whole gig I’m there in a corner, trying not to pull my 3′ cord too much, horrified at the thought of blacking out amps and P.A., making the band and the crowd mad at me forever. Luckily, I didn’t. And we came home with some real crazy footage!

Was there any band so far that said NO to an interview for the film?

Considering that in most cases we basically popped up at sound-check asking for an interview for a basically nonexistent documentary, we’re really grateful that they all said yes in that moment, despite the often dire circumstances. It gave us the confidence to persist.

As for the future, we haven’t contacted 100% of those we’d like to interview yet. Until now there was only one who said, “Maybe, it depends.” But I already sort of expected this could happen, and in fact I contacted him way before all the others, in order to have time to figure out my countermoves. Not all hope is lost, ha!

Tell us anything else you want about the movie.

We want our documentary to reflect what we think was the feel of that era -- no bullshit, fun, crazy, and not too high tech!

Nice little write up from circa when I did the first book tour out west in 2010, written by the fine fella that started the great "10 Things Jesus Wants You to Know" fanzine that I named in my book. Kind words and a couple stories from way back... And the mentioning of the kooky Canadian zine, Gee-Zuz, was a good brain fog rattle too.

Ah, the things you find on old laptops...

While recently seeing if my previous laptop could still breath, I found some old writings. This one, below, is a piece I did about 10 years ago when asked to write about my favorite records store for a compendium the now defunct Get Bent website was putting together. My particular fave rave store didn't just rest on a good used selection, but ended with an appearance from the FBI!

Then last week, Record Revolution in the Coventry section of Cleveland, closed - I frequented that place a few times over the years; then I tripped across the Other Music documentary last weekend on Night Flight, and that seemed like another cosmic nudge to post this.

So check it out if you care, and go visit your local record store today!

If memory serves, the first album I bought at Wax Stax...

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Wax Stax, Parma, Ohio, 1985 – Eric Davidson

My hometown of Parma, Ohio, was a suburb (the largest in the nation in the later 1970s; not anymore), on the west side, about 15 minutes from Cleveland proper. That’s where the great record stores were, on the far east side of Cleveland specifically; or in Lakewood, the slowly hip-morphing near west side suburb that had cool things like neat old homes, vintage stores, dusty dives, rusting diners, even gay people. But that was still about 15 minutes away from no-drivers license me.

         So I made do with the weak mall chain store (yeesh); and a surprisingly worthy shop, Record Revolution, that sat on the far, old, outdoor strip of that mall (my first lesson in learning how most of the things I appreciate in this world will be shoved to the margins). I got my first Velvet Underground record there (White Light, White Heat). There was a huge Peaches Records & Tapes (one of many of the disappearing non-mall, self-standing chain stores, though this one oddly survived under different names until just a few years ago). And then a good used joint, Record Exchange, opened in a small retail strip within walking distance. (It moved a few years later, after adding racks of video games, an ocean of used VHS tapes, and metal tees, and changed its name to “The Exchange,” no doubt to divorce itself from the dying music market.)

And before that even, there was always The Shoppe, a quirky, incense-stunk, flared pants-era cobble of curiosity shops in a big old house in kind of nearby Berea. They always touted that their new vinyl was only $5. Like I wanted a new copy of The Nylon Curtain! It was only worth bothering a friend to drive me there for the selection of “imports,” which at that time in the ‘burbs meant anything not on a major label; or even lame-lier, a German Red Lorry Yellow Lorry 12” single. But I did find some of my early favorites there. I remember, in 1983, sitting in the car outside The Shoppe, the heater on, snowy outside, waiting for my friend to finish his purchase, looking over the Murmur liner notes, thinking “Man, I can’t believe they had a copy of this!”

         So all things considered, I guess I didn’t have it that bad. But the Parma-approachable record stores always had that patina of “west side” to them, which if you lived in Cleveland then, you’d understand. No cool fliers on a board near the door. (“Baby sitter Needed!” doesn’t count.) No piles of weekly newspapers and more fliers flopped around the windowsill near the door. No endless racks of dirty plastic-sleeve 7’ singles. And no crotchety “old” 29-year old at the counter making fun of/informing my purchasing habits. Not that the local stores didn’t have their charms, but let’s put it this way – in 1985, you don’t want Scorpions and Heart posters on the walls of your indie record shop. You want Cramps and Smiths.

         So oh the joy when Wax Stax opened! Tucked away in an even more remote, crumbling, and weird little strip, behind another nearly as old strip, next to a barber shop and nothing else, to me it was the Taj Mahal. With Cramps posters. On the way to/from Wax Stax, I had to pass the Catholic church I was weekly hauled to. And pondering the contradictions between the church rooftop cross and the Stooges, Ramones, Prince, and Rodney Dangerfield albums in my hand did more to form my morality than 1,000 confirmation classes. At least it felt like 1,000!

         But back to the real place of worship…Wax Stax was great! Smaller than any of the previously mentioned stores in town, it was packed with a much higher percentage of cool shit. The thing is, there was a Wax Stax on the east side, and this was an attempt to expand into white flight-ville. So when they opened, the place was already packed with lots of great used and new goodies sent over from the other store on the cool east side. They had actual imports, bootlegs, fanzines, and the #1 sign of any great with-it record store of that era – promo copies. Lots and lots of promo copies.

         See, back then record labels did not just email out, via publicists, a mp3 to blog writers who won’t even take the time to download them. No, record labels sent out finished copies of their albums. (While I wrote for the Cleveland Scene magazine in the late-80s/early-90s, I probably accumulated 33% of my collection via the “freebie box” in their offices, or trade-ins of said freebies.) And labels sent promo copies to record stores too, often more than one. Made sense, right? You want to make sure the employees can hear the new shit, talk it up to the customers, and hopefully order more. Ha, right! What the hell do the employees care? They would’ve ripped open a new one to hear it. But whatever, it was a wealthier time. (Or is that wasteful-er?)

         Bad Moon Rising, Zen Arcade, Tim – probably paid no more than $4 for each of them. Promos all! (Not to mention all their used records rarely rose above $5; new, $8.) The lone female clerk/manager was not only from the east side too – and hence knew what “Pere Ubu” meant – but was not surly and condescending in the traditional indie record shop sense, and pretty cute, too-boot! And she gave great trade. So I was bringing in Bobby Brown and Guadalcanal Diary promos, and a few of these fledgling “CDs” I was getting from the Scene, and trading them in for cheap-ass copies of Death of Samantha, Buzzcocks, and the Volcano Suns. It was as close to mafia accidental back of truck falling off shenanigans as I was likely to get in my life. Or so I thought.

         One day, a little less than two years after Wax Stax opened, I was sifting through the “B” section (“Well, “All That I Wanted” is a good song, but a whole Belfegore album?!” Nah…), and in walked two guys wearing – and I am not embellishing here – long trench coats and fedoras. They flashed a badge at the manager, said a few things to her, then looked over: “Hey buddy, yer gonna have to take off for awhile.”

         Yup, fucking FBI guys, I shit you not. It was one of those mini-moments at the end of the ‘80s where major labels decided to throw a bone to “Cracking down on unlawful sale of promotional copies.” Read the stamps on those old things. It says some nonsense about those being the property of the label. (The labels never tell you that they write those promos off on their taxes, right after subtracting them from the artists’ future royalties.) The preponderance of bootlegs might’ve had something to do with the flat-foots storming the gates too, and maybe some grass passing through the back door. But who knows.

         Wax Stax only closed for about two weeks. Once reopened, it didn’t seem much different, though the scare worked, as there were never again as many promos or bootlegs in the racks. But the two new managers were really nice guys – one a tall, skinny, bespectacled collector geek; the other a black guy in tattoos and dreadlocks who was into Ministry – in Parma! Cool. (Yes, for about a month in my life I thought Ministry fans were sort of cool. Especially black ones. Hey, it was 1987!) Then about a year and a half after that, some really odd older drunk guy (or maybe a hop head – my inebriation radar wasn’t as well-calibrated back then) bought the place, added more t-shirts, posters, video games, cassingles, and those expensive CD things, and, well, you can see where this is going. The place sucked…and closed about a year later.

         But by then I was going back and forth to school at Ohio State University in Columbus, soon to move there permanently. And for my purposes, Wax Stax had done its job exceptionally well. My standards for a cool used record store had been diamond-cut, and as I toured the world with the New Bomb Turks, stopping first at every town’s indie record store, I could make like General Patton surveying the far hills.

         The other day I was scanning down my iTunes list. I didn’t feel like Patton.

         Come to think of it, Used Kids Records in Columbus, Ohio was probably the most important record store in my life. But that’s another story…which you can read about in my book, We Never Learn: The Gunk Punk Undergut, 1988-2001 (Backbeat Books).