Creepy Crawl Punk Venu


If it’s anything St. Louis has no shortage of—it’s the various small-dive punk clubs. Some open, some close—R.I.P. as rents go up with the gentrifying neighborhoods. Your best bet is something in the shuttered industrial-district on the grimy edge of city limits, a rose-carving in a wrought iron-gate for the dank atmosphere of auto-exhaust and the sewers.

Cheap shows– $10 for a night of mayhem, if the bands on the bill aren’t terribly well-known.

You have a thrasher, maybe a left-wing skinhead from the old Eastern bloc countries who weaves through the audience in a green bomber jacket, his boots laced-up with red anti-fa shoelaces. Punk is maybe an open-minded series of observations, individually subjective for all the strange flavors of variety. He looks like “that guy from Anthrax”, as you could only be referring to Scott Ian, like earnest gung-ho driftwood and goofy-foot guitar hopping like cargo shorts and raked guitar strings.

You also have “wise-guys” with the sly, perceptive art of observation. Maybe he’d be a cartoonist or just a clerk at 7-Eleven. View-askew, a cap turned sideways and a clever t-shirt of some scribbled vintage. His state is constant bemusement through a pair of pop-eyed glasses.

Don’t forget the crew of goth chicks, skin as pale as cottage-cheese in the artsy, performance-based world of witchcraft and “large, in-charge” antics. She definitely knows what she wants, the raven-haired streak of appetite and life-force like a fish tank of gleaming glass beads and murkier smells of paint and incense. Pick one or the other, like sisters differentiated slightly by personality but still wonderfully mysterious.

You have the blonde, dreadlocked stoner and “outside-the-box” thinker with a tragic overbite and clenched, silent intent hanging his arms out of his Rastafarian shirt colors for a hop and kick of the hackey-sack. . . . . a game of ultimate-frisbee. Attention Deficit Disorder as the mild, silent-type who fits the bill of all stoner-lore and comic-relief.

And there’s a sour, chirpy lark who’s small but as overflowing with punch as an atomic warhead for chewing gum and eyes lighting up with mischief. Contrarian and street-wise like a pill of cyanide, swallowing a straw of pixie-stix and flailing around until she collapses from a blown-out sugar-high and gets back on the stage to do it again, diving back in the pit.

These would be Lydia’s friends. . .. . . a gang of indie-media slackers living off their parents’ largess and in the artistic lifestyle of alt-rudderless experience. Where Lydia goes, they go—fleshing out this Beetlejuice 2 movie as the plot coalesces in a strange world and becomes a film.

You will here more about them. . . . . the St. Louis experience. Stay tuned!


Creepy Crawl Punk Venu

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .


Hobgoblins of telecommunication have knocked-out my internet here in St. Louis– as seen on the national news where flooding is a story. You’ll see lots of rolling, bumpy green hills from the sky-chopper, incidentally “a notion of where Beetlejuice 2” might be filmed.

And what’s this business of creepy clowns? You hear these stories about perverts in the woods messing with kids’ minds as this sounds more like “tall tales” and mass panic.

Though in Eureka we do have our share of weird happenings.

Just think of this place as a township a few miles outside of the city, beyond the county, and deeper in-state. If Lodi, New Jersey produced Glenn Danzig and Aberdeen, Washington calls Kurt Cobain a home-town son, this place would draw a comparison.

Through the haunted woods– you might here stories about hidden meth-labs. . . . . or was it just a hotdog cook-out? Or twisted imbeciles left abandoned in the woods “by their handlers” to pull on car door-handles and garble unintelligibly. . . . .

It is a world of camp-fire lawn chairs and beer coolers where you see the rugged nature of the outback mixed with zany artistic-impulse, like rusty nails dipped in buckets of diet cherry 7-Up and a whole lot of mind-altering drugs for skaters and BBS internet-pirates “back in the day”. Drifters, drift-wood, and homebrew wailing guitar. 1920’s hunting lodges and whorish Bettie Page spanking-gear with bee-stung lips and 1950 Atomic X-mas as told by serial killers like Ed Gein– and rockabilly mutton-chops.

The coldest touch. . . . . like crib death or a toddler with a Frankenstein haircut as it’s “The Munsters” or “Garfield’s Halloween Special” or even “Return to Oz” for green, foaming dark fantasy death with claw-footed bathtubs and the gray, leaden sky out the window.

Beetlejuice would be under the bridge, fishing. His friend, a black, scruffy poodle with giant, swinging, tumorous balls and blind to the world.

Someone call the health department– or maybe the dog-catcher. We don’t know, for who.

As the story goes, “living in a van– down by the river”.

The cops will hose him off in the drunk tank “because of the unbearable smell” and tell him to raft away to the next town. He’s the Missourian vagrant. . . . . or maybe it was Florida.

Moving south for the winter as an itinerant carnival worker if not a kids’ show host on television. Don’t dress up as Chuck’ee-Cheeze and keep a clean police record. . . . .

Scenic, Twisted Missouri. . . . .

Hell-Fire Club, Paris

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Welcome to the Crypt!

Skanks, Deth-Rockers and LOST SOULS– ENTER HERE.

Parents Beware!


Visit here:

Hell-Fire Club, Paris

Things Overheard in a Record Store

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  nomag06_p01-XL    emily_strange_guitar

Record stores will never die. Nor bazaars– spreading-out their offerings like a booth of tape-trader’s going back since ancient times and local economies.

And with record stores come teenagers.

Like a frenetic batch of reflexes, fight or flight or fuck– and milling around the bottom reaches of the service economy after something in the air, “a bit like excitement” and better than the mere liberty of boredom. Down there, the materialism like petty marijuana dealing and pettier-theft like street-rats sniffing after the rumor “of some golden hoard”.

Or maybe you just had to be young and frustrated and gullible and stupid– even “to ask”.

So it is, our local grunge-bin of buzz and dubious pursuit– Vintage Vinyl as one of the best personable used record-stores in The United States. You were a punk, or pirate, or hippie, or any random customer who came by way of “The Delmar Loop” on the edge of the ghetto like a little slice of New York City.

A human zoo as colorful and scattered as the flyers tacked-up on the plywood wall by the electric-doors– word-of-mouth, and a tribe called “quest”– rapping on bongo-drums and the snicket of Bic lighters like a snaky macarana-beat/happening poetry-kick. . . . . literature on the wharves and world-faring hello’s from San Francisco Bay to the Rock of Gibraltar to the sea of Japan. All the exotic restaurants and counterculture shops boded well for a developing area like street coinage and the groan of our tired old city.

For the jaded-eye, a hang-out no hipper. . . . . Lydia Deetz loves this place like second instinct as Beetlejuice 2 uses locations on sight, for sore eyes– around these cow-town parts as you’d have to be dead not to have heard of it.

And funny things, these clerks at record-stores somehow overhear. Referring you now to a funny article up in the blogosphere by “Dangerous Minds”. It takes all sorts to make a circus, as they duly took-down the funnier things to mention. Have a ball with these– and know it couldn’t have been “made-up”!!

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And as a special bonus– some vintage punk-zine covers of interest to all goth-rockers and “Hello, Kitty” deth-heads. . . . .

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Things Overheard in a Record Store