There’s barely been time for a dog’s fart to clear since the last issue hit the post box so hopefully that’s a sign of life in the Unbelievably Bad camp.
"Boy Howdy: The Story of Creem Magazine"
Alamo Ritz Theatre
Austin, TX U.S.A.
Thursday March 14 2019
,I was surprised to learn that there was a documentary film on Creem magazine. Then, I was pleased to learn that it would be featured as part of the South by Southwest Film Festival in Austin, TX
As I'd planned on attending SXSW this year, I thought that I'd look into seeing it.
In the early 1970s, I discovered Creem Magazine. I must've been about 13-years-old. The magazine was quite a bit different from the magazines that I'd read. It was irreverent and enthusiastic. Creem was based in Detroit, Michigan and offered coverage of Musicians and Bands from that region. It was during this time that I'd discovered The Stooges and The MC5.
I remember after bringing home my first issue that my Mom asked me not to purchase Creem anymore. Of course, I continued to do so.
“It is difficult to get a man to understand something, when his salary depends on his not understanding it.” ― Upton Sinclair
Some chipper go-getter types, reportedly, have had wonderfully gratifying early educational experiences, they seem to remember fondly. They are most often, obedient Ken & Barbie yearbook committee types with prominent last names, from bigass two storey homes nestled behind many old trees, and have nice cursive handwriting and strong math skills, own a lot of golf shirts in at least 31 various shades of Baskin Robbins, dutifully participate in sports, roller-skate, cheer-lead, earned many merit badges, and have already memorized the entire big bamboozle bullshit whitewash Murkkkan history that photo-shops all the hard and painful facts about this violent blood soaked empire settler colony that was built on the genocide of natives with the labor of slaves.
So as a person with an extremely limited disposable income, I am unaccustomed to experiencing so much high quality entertainment in a short period of time.
A family member tripped across some kind of free trial TV subscription service and I keep binge-watching music flicks-witnessing one marvelous show after the next, kind of glimpsing how so many of my former peers are able to stay apolitical, apathetic, suitably sedated in their consumer hypno-spells.
"He was a cocked pistol." -Robert Williams.
Mad Marc Rude grew up in ‘60s New York, the son of an abuser cop and negligent mom, who frequently expelled both him and his sister from the family home. He attended Woodstock the year I was busy being born.
I think I first became aware of him as a teenager, when I read an article about the Hollywood punk underground in the pages of Rolling Stone. I already published a shitty fanzine and was the rowdy front man for a defiantly outcast Midwestern garage band that performed covers of Dead Boys, Misfits, Cramps, and Gun Club songs, as well as some sucky Dead Kennedys influenced originals with cartoonishly banal titles like, "Victims Of The System".
By the time me and a flamehaired stripper with a sports car arrived in Hollywood, to look for the pot of gold at the end of the Rainbow Bar And Grill, it was mostly all over.
We were snorting up the last hours of sequins and vulgarity, mascara and laughter before the bad trip buzzkill of Cobain. We were squinting in the last blinding, big sprays of Aqua Net and final drunken caterwauls at Thursday night cattle calls, where a rogues' gallery of various whiskey sodden, speed freaky, Stars From Mars and Seaweed Eaters and Raw Flowers and Glamour Punks and Dawg Mafia and Queeny Blast Pop diehard, teased haired, Motley-Babies played their hopeless gutter-punk defiantly, even while Seattle was exploding into the mainstream.
It was the sad, last gasps of a cool and androgynous underground scene, as grunge and gangsta-rap and capitalist lifestyle unreality-tv programming were coming into vogue and all the faded spandex stars of the strip had mostly got rich and sold-out, died, or gone straight.