Interview:
McLusky
Missives From The New World: by Doc Pickles
A story by Oneida's Kid Millions
Okay, do not be confused. McLusky are NOT playing Wavelength. By god, we wish they were. With McLusky Do Dallas (Too Pure/Beggars Banquet), the Welsh trio is responsible for one of the best rock albums of the year. Andy from McLusky answered some questions via email in advance of the band's Canadian debut at the Horseshoe on Nov. 11:
On record, you guys sound like you are playing while constantly on the verge of total physical, mental and nervous collapse. I can't imagine what this is like LIVE. How do you keep it up? And is this an accurate reflection of your own physical, mental and nervous states?
When we started, we used to play for 20 minutes, then piss off before the crowd knew what the hell was going on. In 20 minutes you can get away with anything. Guitar broken? So what. Pretend it isn't, nobody cares anyway. Obviously, there comes a stage when you're playing higher up the bill, and you get 45 minutes -- this means you get to go on 25 minutes late. Recently we've been hovering near 40 minutes, playing a quiet song in the middle to get our breath back, then onward. I respect the fact that a couple of people might actually want to hear some songs. Specific songs, in some cases. Accurate reflection? In reality, I'm a quietly spoken man who laughs like Frank Bruno. The other two are demented.
Your lyrics seem to be told from the point of view of some hilarious characters. Are you just telling stories "in character", or are you simply hilarious characters in real life?
Hilarious characters? None of us own bowties. Maybe I'm in denial here, I mean, most of the lyrics come from my brain, but I bathe regularly and my landlord thinks I'm a nice guy. I suppose you could say that I was a little sarcastic, but I wouldn't like people to think we made daft music. I mean, we're clearly post-daft.
You are from Cardiff, if I am not mistaken. Tell us something about the city and how it may have influenced or affected you.
I moved to Cardiff at 18, disguised as a student. I was instantly attracted by the fact that it wasn't London, but I'd like to think it was my home now. Even though most of the bands suck, at least there's a huge variety of bands that suck, which is a good position to be in, relatively speaking. I like the way you can walk around the city centre in about 20 minutes. Sweetness itself.
What's with all these bands with matching suits and haircuts these days? It's obviously so they can find each other quickly at airports.
"Where's Pelle?", "He's over there, next to the toilets." Probably instigated by a ring of crafty tour managers, sick of hunting through packs of people in tie-dye denim jackets. And chinos. Once I've calmed down, my view would be: at least they're not wearing shorts on stage. Every cloud, etc.
How do you feel when people compare your band to the Pixies or the Jesus Lizard? Murderous or appreciative?
There was a guy I knew at school who looked a bit like Patrick Swayze in a certain light, circa Roadhouse. I can't remember if it bothered him or not, but he was an awfully good tennis player. He's dead now.
Who is Alan and why does he kill cowboys?
Alan is a serial fantasist. He'd die crying if a cowboy as much as walked by. That song provokes so many different theories. It's had more interpretations than Twin Peaks.
How was it working with Steve Albini? Is he really an "asshole," or does he just speak his mind?
He's a big guy, about 280 lbs, biceps like supermarket shelves. You don't fuck with him, not in his "arena". Shock of white hair. Ruthless. Lovely man.
Explain to us "hosers": what is the difference between a "tosser" and a "wanker"?
You've got me there. Perhaps it's geographic. "Tosser" is pretty final, you say that just before an awkward silence. "Wanker" is maybe more affectionate, like something you'd say to a pet with a gammy leg or a disabled relative.
You guys have great song titles ("Lightsabre Cocksucking Blues," "Clique Application Form"). What is your songwriting vs. song-title-writing ratio?
My song-title polarity gauge is fucked, sorry, so I'll have to rely on guesswork. Erm, 1.7:1? I could do you a pie chart. Recently we got "Bipolar Bears Take Seattle."
What do you fear most about coming to America? Guns. The rejection of the farming class. A moon shaped like Billy Bragg.
-- interview by Jonny Dovercourt
McLusky play a free show at the Horseshoe Monday, Nov. 11 with Currently In These United States.
BY DOC PICKLES
I had just returned from my summer in Europe and was looking forward to hooking up with my old friends. The summer had been good for me, lots of exercise, macrobiotic vegan food, and no coffee, cigarettes, pot or alcohol. I felt like a straight-edge poster boy. One of my friends was going to go into seclusion due to the imminent birth of his first son, and was having an informal get-together at the Cameron House, where in a twist of fate, the fabulous White Star Line were going to play a set later in the evening.
One by one, I gradually reintroduced my holy trinity (quaternity? -- ecumenical ed.) of drugs back into my body. First up was a cup of coffee. The hardest drug to give up was coffee, I was utterly cranky for a full week after quitting my morning espresso. I used to believe that there is nothing like that lift from the first cup of coffee in the morning. Well I was wrong. If you wait for several months, the fireworks that go off in your brain can only be compared to an orgasm of alertness. My arms and legs felt so light that I was afraid I would be floating ten feet off the ground for the rest of the day.
To settle myself down I had a cigarette. Seconds after the first drag I could feel the weight returning to my body. The taste of that cigarette was atrocious; it felt like I was down on all fours licking the floor of the bus. My body felt like there was a lead cannonball in my solar plexus gradually growing heavier. I was too tense from the coffee, too lethargic from the cigarette.
So I rode my bike to Coronation Park, and there by the shore of Lake Ontario, I rolled a little joint. Like lead to an alchemist, my body began to liquefy. I opened my book and began to look at the shapes on the page that were somehow supposed to combine together into a recognizable language. I decided to open my notebook and write lyrics instead. I'm not sure how much time passed before finishing the first song, but the sun had nearly set, and damn it, I was hungry.
Nothing satiates a hungry stoner like a falafel. The deep-fried balls of chickpea paste sat in my stomach like dogshit on a sidewalk. The only hot food I had eaten since the spring was the food on the airplane. The blood left my brain and collected around my stomach, and I began to feel sleepy. It was time to go to the Cameron House.
My friend was sitting with some colleagues from work. Nobody else I knew had shown up. After the first pint, I worked up the nerve to start laughing at the jokes the strangers made. Halfway through the second pint, I began to make jokes of my own. After one was particularly well-received, I ordered another beer. Dear friends I hadn't seen in ages began to arrive. We drank to celebrate the passing of days, the arrival of new life, and the happiness of the moment. By the time White Star Line began their set, I was slouched on a chair in the back room. By their third song, I began to think about making my way home. Then suddenly it was noon the next day and I was in my bed.
Sunday night was my first Wavelength back. I decided ahead of time not to drink. But it was good to be back, and I had to work up the nerve to say a few words to announce the bands. I also got drunk at the next Wavelength and began to wonder where my willpower had gone. Getting drunk at the third Wavelength was enough to convince me that I was on the edge of having things go terribly wrong. In less than five hours, I had undone five months of healthy living. It's funny. I thought that going all that time without putting anything bad into my body was enough to prove to myself that I had quit drinking. Turns out I forgot to clear out the bad stuff in my head.
I sobered up on Monday, and on Tuesday I called Paddy O'Donnell and Jonny Dovercourt to tell them I was going to take a break from Wavelength until I cleaned myself up. Then I called AA. In the end I MC'd the next show, the Venus Cures All reunion, which I wouldn't have missed for a heroin addiction. Not only did I abstain from beer for the whole night, but I had a bang-up time as well, which surprised me because I didn't expect to have very much fun. I also announced to the whole room that I had quit drinking.
I've been told that at first I should expect to feel a certain amount of shame in admitting alcoholism, but when I announced it onstage I felt pleased with, almost proud of, myself. And the people in the room applauded warmly. Things are going to work out, I thought to myself for the first time. At the end of the night I rescinded my decision to suspend myself from Wavelength, and was looking forward to the new challenges ahead of me in this new world I was in the process of defining.
I'm 29 years old now and next April I'm going to be a father. I plan to be around when my child turns into a teenager and starts down the same road I have gone down. After the first sneak-in-drunk moment occurs, we will go out to a cottage and sit by the lake. I will conduct a tutorial on how to roll the perfect joint, and we will smoke it together. After a while I will turn to my child and ask which state feels better, the joint or the hangover. I will say what I hope is a nugget of practical fatherly advice:
"It's not my job to make any rules for you anymore, kid. But if you're going to try anything, make sure it's got roots."
A STORY BY ONEIDA'S KID MILLIONS
OK -- now I'm nice and stoned. Let me tell you what just happened to me. Totally insane.
First thing, I get to work this morning and I'm told I have to go to this venture capital place to install computers. Fine. What they didn't tell me was that it was an overtime job. I get there and after like five hours of work, I ask my partner, "So how long do you think we're going to be here tonite?"
He's like, "Until about 8 or so."
Major fucking bummer. I have to meet my famous friend from overseas (herein referred to as Buddy to preserve his dignity), he's staying at my house for a week and he came in on the plane at about 4:30pm, so he had to find something to do with all his luggage until I got out of work. So Buddy meets up with the dude who put out the vinyl of Each One Teach One (Version City Records) and they start drinking. Whiskey. Last time Buddy was in town he told me, "I'm fine if I stick to lager, but I'm fucking insane if I drink spirits."
Well seven whiskeys and seven hours later, I get out of work and show up at the Lakeside Lounge. My friend D. is standing outside the door of the bar, leaning up against the wall. On my way down I'm saying shit to myself like, "OK, just be positive. This is going to be fun, I'm going to have a good time." But here's my friend, leaning up against the wall.
OK, "Buddy's inside."
"Cool. How is he?"
"Just come with me. I want to show you the person you'll be taking home tonite."
OK, so D. puts his arm around me and leads me to the back room of the Lakeside Lounge. A band is setting up their gear on stage. I round the corner and see my friend L. talking on her cell phone. And then I see Buddy. Lying on a bench, sprawled out on his backpack, totally passed out. . . So I'm like, "This is really bad." To myself.
Then D. goes over and shakes Buddy and tries to wake him up. Meanwhile I'm thanking D. profusely for taking care of Buddy while I was working late. I'm thanking L. too. Later on in the night I realize maybe I shouldn't be thanking them, but I'm getting ahead of myself.
So Buddy lifts his head a little and opens his eyes. They are glassy, not completely focused. "Hey, Buddy!" I say, trying to seem upbeat, "let's take you home."
Buddy glares at me. Or at least that's the way I interpret it and I'm thinking, "Well OK, I guess I was late and he is carrying his huge backpack around with him, so well, maybe he's mad at me."
And all the time I'm feeling kind of anxious that he seems to be mad at me, totally forgetting that I had just had a totally fucking hellish day of work. Buddy then closes his eyes and lays back down onto his backpack, seemingly for good. D. gets back to it and tries to help Buddy put on his coat.
"Hey Buddy, Kid's going to take you HOME SO YOU CAN SLEEP."
Buddy slowly lifts his torso up, his head bent forward at the neck. D. helps him put one arm through the coat and Buddy decides to lie down again. "NoNONONONO, come on Buddy, let's get up and put your coat on," D. is pleading while L. just sits there like she's seen it all (she has, she manages rock bands).
Around this time, I start thinking about my roommate. My really nice and thoughtful and sensitive roommate who is totally being a saint this CMJ week with all these people crashing at our place and now I'm about to fucking carry someone into the apartment, who may or may not be throwing up on the carpet and who may or may not forget that it's really important not to let the cat out, and on and on and on. In the meantime, Buddy has gotten his coat on and is lurching slowly towards the bathroom. Let me just say that I haven't seen anyone this drunk, um, well I've never seen anyone this drunk who can walk.
So Buddy disappears into the bathroom. In the meantime L. puts a quarter in the sex test machine and it comes up that she's "BURNING." Fine. I drop my money in that shit and it comes up that I'm "WILD." Right?
After about 10 minutes of sitting outside the bathroom, waiting for Buddy to emerge, I start to get worried so I go and check up on him. He's in the stall and all over the floor is watery puke. I go back out into the bar and wait. This has just become his problem. But who am I fooling. It's my problem.
After another minute he emerges and I think that maybe I can go up to him and kind of place my face in his field of vision and he might recognize me.
"Hey, Buddy. It's good to see you."
There's a flash of recognition in his eyes, a touch of a smile. "Kid man, I don't feel so good."
"OK, Buddy, I'm going to take you home and you're going to get some sleep."
"Don't you want to go out tonight?" he says with a pleading tone. Yes, Buddy can't walk three steps without tipping over and he still wants to hang out.
"Give him about two hours," D. tells me, "he'll be totally ready to go back out."
"He's not going back out," I try to convince myself.
Buddy says, "I mean I want to go out and get drunk with you later."
Then he starts to waver again and lose his balance. I grab a hold of him, pick up his backpack and we make our way out of the bar to get a cab. Buddy is holding onto me and I'm keeping him from pitching forward into the concrete.
OK, there was a cab sitting there at the light ready for a fare. Cool. I'm thinking, I'll just grab this cab, load up Buddy and get the hell home. D. gets the cabbie's attention.
"We need you to take this guy home."
The Indian cabbie looks out his window at Buddy stumbling across the street. He starts shaking his head vigorously.
"No no. I cannot have this in my cab. What is wrong with this man?"
"Open up the trunk."
"No, I cannot take this man."
So I'm like, "I'm with him, I'm fine. It's on me."
The cabbie is still shaking his head and saying "No no no," but the trunk pops open so I throw the bags in the back. D. gets the door and leads Buddy into the cab.
"Are you going to be all right?" L. asks me concerned.
I think "no" but I say, "Yeah, yeah. I'm cool."
"What is wrong with this man?!" the cabbie yells at me and won't move. So the cabbie is sitting there, glaring back at me, his eyes flashing from Buddy to myself and back again.
"What is wrong with this man?"
"He just came here from Europe and he really tired, now will you please take me to Brooklyn. Manhattan Bridge, Fulton Street." This was too fucking much.
"DO NOT LIE TO ME!"
"OK, he's drunk, now will you please go?"
"I cannot drive a cab with this. This man smells very bad. My business."
"I understand," Buddy smelled like shit it was true.
"Yes, you UNDERSTAND," my cabbie scoffed.
"Listen, will you just drive, leave me here if you don't want the fare, I'll find someone else."
"You understand..." he mutters under his breath, "WHY YOU WANT A CAB?"
"Because I want to go home now."
"Because you want to go home," he says like it's the most disgusting thing he's heard all week.
Then he starts to drive. And then he turns at me and starts cursing in another language. He's flying down Avenue B and all the while he's got his eyes trained on me in the rearview mirror, letting out a string of expletives, of which I actually started to guess their meaning. It felt like he was cursing me and my children for eternity. For a brief second, I honestly felt like my life was going to be hell from this point onwards. Mainly because I imagined that this guy was cursing my life. All for loading Buddy into his cab and telling him that I wanted to go Brooklyn. Buddy's head, in the meantime, is bouncing up and down on the door of the cab, because the cabbie's driving recklessly, and Buddy is totally passed out against the door.
The string of curses continue but gradually lose steam. Then silence descends over the cab. The cabbie grips the wheel with anger, beeping his horn, driving like a total lunatic. I'm thinking, "Fuck it if you think you're getting a tip." The only sound I'm hearing is the bumping of Buddy's head against the door and I'm worried that he's going to puke in this guy's cab and I'm going to have to drag Buddy across the Manhattan bridge myself.
He gets over the bridge and then all of a sudden the mood changes. He needs me. He needs me to tell him where I live. And in order to take me to where I live, he needs to ask me nicely because he wants a tip for this fucking ride. So with all sweetness he asks, "Left on Fulton Street?"
"Yes please," I say straining to remain polite.
He drops us off at my apartment and I give him a big tip. Buddy needs to be woken up twice before he crawls out of the cab. So Buddy can't get his balance. Just cannot get his balance. He's literally spinning in the street, walking towards my door and then abruptly wheeling around and shuffling down the sidewalk. I grab his arm and push him towards my apartment. I get him into the foyer and he leans his head against the wall.
Since I'm carrying my bag and both of his bags, it takes me a second to get my keys out and open the door. I swing it open, walk through and hold it, turn around, expecting Buddy to follow. He's fucking passed out. Against the wall.
"Buddy. Come on man. Let's go upstairs."
I goad him to take every step. I put his hand on the railing myself. "Hold on."
For some reason the lights on the third floor and the fourth floor (my apt.) are both burned out. So we ascend into pitch darkness. Someone opens the door on the third floor. In front of their apartment door, and cluttering up the entire stairway, are piles and piles of garbage. I guess they picked tonight to clean some stuff out of their place.
"Listen, do you mind moving some of this stuff out of the way? My friend is really, really sick."
It's about all I can say. Buddy is leaning, his head on the wall again, in darkness, hand on railing -- I think the poor sucker is about to pitch down the stairs and break his neck. We got to my door and it's totally black. I push into the apartment, Buddy staggers in behind and I show him his room. He lies down on the bed fully clothed. It's over. At least for the moment.
He's lying there, silently. He's wearing his shoes. So I take them off for him. Then he starts to come around and begins to take off all his clothes. ALL of his clothes. He's about to get buck wilin' in front of my shit. 'Cuz I have dignity and honour, I leave the room and let him do his thing and come back after a second to see if he wants some water.
"Yeah, water's good."
I bring some and he's passed out again. This time naked. So I pull the covers over him. He kind of wakes up and is like, "Thanks John, I'll be ready in a second. Just give me a second, I'll be back at it."
"OK Buddy, whatever."
"Um John?"
"Yeah."
"Could you bring me something to puke in just in case?"
"Uh OK. Give me a second."
Something to fucking puke in? Well I guess it's better to be prepared. So I go get this garbage can I painted right before I went away to high school, empty it out, and give it to him.
"Thanks mate. Is there any water?"
"Yeah, right there next to you."
"Oh."
I go and check my messages. There's something from a friend of mine. I think the message was like about a minute long. And then I go and turn on the computer. I decide that I'm going to write some of this shit down because it's just too insane and I want to let the other guys in the band what I went through tonight. I think they'd get a kick out of it. My roommate's computer takes about a minute to boot up, so while I'm waiting I call my friend back and get his machine. So I start to leave a message.
"Hey J. Its me just getting back..."
And then I hear a horrible sound. Buddy is throwing up in my room. He's basically screaming.
"AAAAAAGGGGHGHHHGHHH!!!"
"OK J. that's about it," I hang up.
"CHHHHHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGGGGGGGGGHHHHHH!"
Think of the sound of water being poured into a tin watering can. That's what I'm hearing. I go into the room and turn on the light.
"Will you empty this out?" he holds the can towards me.
"Yeah, just hold on, don't do anything until I get back."
I dump it out and rush back.
"RRRRRRREAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAGHGHHHHHHHH! COUGH! COUGH! COUGH!"
I worry about what the neighbours are thinking. Maybe they're scared of something.
"AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRRGH!"
He's still. He seems finished. I pull the can away and go empty it out again. When I bring it back he's like, "Just clean it out, I'm done for the night. I'll be fine."
So I rinse it out and bring it back. Then he asks for a cloth, so I bring him a couple wash cloths and he blows his nose in one and wipes his hands on another. Maybe something was lost in the translation. He lies back down.
"Hey Buddy are you OK? Do you need anything else?"
There's a pause.
"Yeah, a clock."