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Appalachian Aggression: Heavy Music Is Alive In The Rural South

Jack Cooper III | May 7, 2020

Topics: Angel Dust, Appalachia, appalachian music, bailey stiltz, blue ridge, bluefield west virginia, Bracewar, Break Away, choose to suffer, clot, discourse, dread state, Forced Order, galax, gravity kong, hardcore, harlan kentucky, Harrisonburg, jack cooper iii, jesus piece, josh sison, late night zero, local music, metal, modern pain, music, nailcrown, Naysayer, Outsider, powerviolence, reality strikes, roanoke, Roanoke bands, roanoke music, roanoke shows, rock, RVA shows, shows, Southwest virginia, step off, The Golden Pony, the rocket club, the shanty, the spot on kirk

In the underbellies of Virginia’s smallest music communities, DIY scenes preserve hardcore and metal over generations in Roanoke and throughout Appalachia. 

Hardcore punk has been burning strong in the fabric of American music for nearly four decades now. What originated in the slums of Manhattan’s Lower East Side, and within the urban sprawl encompassing Los Angeles in the 80s, has now spread to every conceivable corner of the globe. The roots of this youth-centered subculture are widespread; they’ve taken a strong hold in cities across the nation, and emerged as music scenes in the bubbling undergrounds of lesser-known, isolated rural communities throughout the South.

Wherever there are groups of angsty and disaffected youth, you can be certain that a hardcore, metal, or punk-adjacent community also exists. 

When looking introspectively at the various music scenes in Virginia, it goes without question that Richmond is the epicenter of hardcore and metal. Its long-established scene has made a lasting impact on heavy music as a whole, from storied venues like Alley Katz and Strange Matter to notable acts like GWAR, Four Walls Falling, Avail, Down to Nothing, Lamb Of God, Municipal Waste, and more. With Richmond’s monopoly on heavy music, it can be hard to imagine another area in the Old Dominon where hardcore DIY (Do It Yourself) music is thriving, and very much alive — but it only takes a look westward, past the banks of the James. 

Nestled between the Blue Ridge and Allegheny Mountain ranges, just off Virginia’s I-81 corridor, lies the city of Roanoke. Because of its convenient geographic location, Roanoke has served for ages as a gateway for bands traveling west or north toward the densely-populated urban centers of New England. I’ve been a part of the local music scene here with Josh Sison, guitarist for Dread State and Step Off, for years now. He sees Roanoke’s location as part of the reason underground music has been able to survive here over the decades; legendary hardcore and punk acts like Sick of It All, Avail, Token Entry, and Green Day came through our town and first brought our scene to life in the early 90s. 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

From the beginning of the region’s hardcore and metal scenes until today, successive generations of locals have passed the metaphorical torch to the scene’s younger participants, designating them as the next custodians of Roanoke’s hardcore and punk scenes. The scene has stayed alive, but the frequent change of hands has made it difficult to establish a scene with longevity and enough name recognition to be on the forefront of people’s minds. The scene’s periodic instability is an unfortunate reality of life in smaller cities — with an underperforming local economy, limited job prospects, and large cities relatively close by, many Appalachian areas struggle to compete with the metro areas’ ability to book large touring bands on a regular basis. 

The government’s gradual shift in focus from rural agricultural communities to populous urban centers over the last century has led to a long-standing deprivation across Appalachia. While larger population centers in the region like Roanoke have more opportunity than the most rural areas, Appalachia’s smallest communities face even more challenges. The music scenes in the area tend to come together, creating a united feeling across cities rather than each city operating individually as areas like Richmond do. This style of “teamwork” allows even the smallest areas to grow, and it’s why DIY music is able to thrive here. Bradford Harris of Harlan, Kentucky — a coal mining town in the easternmost part of the state — speaks on the significant turnover rate within his own town’s music scene. 

“All those people who were involved in building up the scene here lacked the mentality to keep things going; they went off to get jobs,” he said. 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

With few job prospects, many young people in Appalachia have chosen to vacate their hometowns to seek out better educational and employment opportunities elsewhere. Over time, this created a cultural and intellectual vacuum in the countryside, stunting the growth of both local communities and their DIY music scenes. As many localities in Appalachia are starved of the necessary resources, they’re unable to grow with new cultural changes and expand the region’s musical palette — but many locals have taken it upon themselves to start heavy music scenes from scratch. In a town known for its annual Bluegrass competitions, Wil Sharpe and Denver Walker of Galax, Virginia are doing just that. 

“We want to put the aggressive style of music out there for people to hear, so we can start developing interest in building our own scene,” Sharpe and Walker said of their new powerviolence band, Clot. 

“I’d like for Clot to get big enough that they can play [outside of Galax] and bring attention to our town,” Walker said. The mixture of hometown pride and passion for hardcore and metal music drives them to carve out a space of their own, and mutual support from other rural areas helps each scene stay alive. 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

The same breed of barriers that exist in Galax are also prevalent throughout the Appalachian South; the most challenging being a lack of reliable venues to book shows. Jordan Musick, drummer for Late Night Zero and Choose To Suffer (both formed in Roanoke), discussed the ups and downs that his hometown scene in Bluefield, West Virginia has experienced. 

“From roughly 2007 until 2010, our scene was really big,” Musick said. “We had the Princeton Rec Center, which became our go-to spot for touring bands, and then bars like The Rocket Club that let us put on shows. Unfortunately, the Rocket Club closed its doors, and the Rec Center stopped allowing us to book there — nothing was sustainable for a long time after that.”  Unpredictable relationships with venues can be detrimental to a scene’s survival, and in this case, caused a multi-year lull where punk and metal nearly died off in the area. 

In my own experience booking shows in Roanoke, a majority of the venues and bars in town are apprehensive about booking DIY bands. Most event coordinators and business I’ve spoken with share the same concerns: they worry whether bands will draw enough attendees to make profits from door sales, they’re unsure if they’ll make any bar or food sales during the show, and they fear liability in the event that someone gets injured while moshing or stage diving. The possibility of sustaining damage to their property, or of a patron getting hurt, has stonewalled any chance for the scene to transition from booking basement shows to booking established venues. 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

These concerns are faced by music scenes everywhere. Even areas like Richmond and in cities like New York and Washington, D.C., local booking agents will share similar experiences. What separates the larger cities from areas like Roanoke and even smaller regions is their lack of venues — where Richmond has a substantial amount of places to host shows, the Roanoke scene has been limited with only a handful of venues for live music. Misunderstandings about hardcore ethics and the DIY mentality, alongside a general lack of faith in the music’s ability to bring in new business, has made it increasingly difficult for the scene to grow and expand heavy music in the region. But despite the hardships we collectively endured (and the grim realities we’ve had to face), many hardcore and metal scenes in Appalachia are beginning to thrive once more. 

Shows are happening consistently, new venues are becoming household names, and a genuine sense of scene unity is emerging. Nick Gekoskie, show promoter and guitarist for Brick, spoke with me about the rise of the Golden Pony in Harrisonburg. 

“It’s a wonderful place that serves as the music hub for our community,” Gekoskie said. “Paul Somers, the owner and operator of the Pony, is fully invested in the scene. He’s able to bring quality acts of all genres.” 

In 2019 alone, Eyehategod, Red Death, Ilsa, Murphy’s Law, and H.R. of Bad Brains came through Harrisonburg and drew huge crowds — and this isn’t the first time Harrisonburg has brought legendary acts to the Shenandoah Valley. Bane, Poison The Well, Converge, Fugazi, and The Bouncing Souls have played MACROCK, an annual festival hosted in downtown Harrisonburg that showcases regional and national DIY acts. 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

Meanwhile, Roanoke’s hardcore scene is still recovering from its near-death experience after losing the longest running DIY venue in its history, The Shanty. As the birthplace of many local bands, and the only safe space for hardcore/punk shows, The Shanty’s impact on Roanoke’s metal scene over the years is incalculable. To see hardcore bands like Bracewar, Naysayer, Angel Dust, Forced Order, Discourse, Jesus Piece, Break Away, or Modern Pain play in a venue the size of a small carport is mindblowing to those of us who have experienced it. And although many Roanokers are still grieving the loss of this acclaimed institution, the community has survived and adapted in a world without The Shanty. Since the beginning of 2018, the heavy music scene in Roanoke has seen a whirlwind of changes. 

A younger generation has started forming bands — like Gravity Kong, Choose to Suffer, and Reality Strikes — and the old heads have formed newer projects showcasing their perfected skillset, like Nailcrown and Dread State. 

They’ve started forming working relationships with venues in downtown Roanoke like The Spot On Kirk and VFW Hall 1264, and have hosted shows with bands like One Step Closer, Year Of The Knife, Facewreck, Stepping Stone, Outsider, and Drain. 

Bailey Stiltz (of Choose to Suffer, Outsider, and Reality Strikes), Josh Sison, and myself have taken the lead on booking shows. Show attendance numbers may not have returned to their former peak, but the metal scene in Roanoke is on a steady rise. 

“The scene has definitely receded a bit, but I see it growing slowly,” said Sison. “Even with attendance at shows being lower than what we’re used to, the kids that do show up put on for every band on the bill. There’s never a dull moment during a Roanoke show, and I think that’s partially the reason why bands continue coming back.” 

PHOTO: Via Jack Cooper III

Roughly ten years ago, I was beginning my assimilation into the hardcore/punk subculture. One person in particular spoke words that struck a chord in me during those formative years, and his name is Aaron Bedard. Bedard is the vocalist for Bane and Antagonize, and in Bane’s song “Superhero,” he talks about the ability inside everyone to make a difference. We’re able to better our own lives, and as Bedard vocalized, “the difference between hard and impossible is a thousand miles wide.” 

For those of us who are still actively engaged in the hardcore and metal scenes in Appalachia, the community can attest to the validity of his statement. From an outsider’s perspective, maintaining a heavy music scene in the region may seem like an impossible task — but to myself and those I work with to do it, the preservation of our scene is a worthwhile pursuit. 

What has been done in the past can be replicated and improved upon; the evidence is right here in front of us. Despite our lack of resources, networking challenges, and limited visibility, this region continues to find ways to keep our scene alive. Hardcore in Appalachia, and throughout the rest of the world, will survive as it always has: through struggle, persistence, and dedication. We will keep passing the torch, the flame will burn eternal. 

Check out Jack’s favorite bands from the area, who are all members of the Appalachian scene or have strong ties to its community. Support local music!

Step Off
The Mirror
Unnerve
Dread State
Grudgeholders
Compulse
BRICK
Reality Check
True Worth
Dbol
Gravity Kong
Force
Wiretap
L.I.P.S.
Clot

No Lies, Just Bullshit: Homegrown in Harrisonburg with Virginia’s Underground Podcast

Caley Sturgill | November 8, 2019

Topics: Absolute Art, alley cat tattoo, Appalachia, avail, blue ridge, blues brothers, Bracewar, brian bruno, brie swartz, brother hawk, clifton forge, Harrisonburg, hori yoshi iii, jill bonny, kings avenue tattoo, marius meyer, mary jane, music, nick swartz, no lies just bs, old heavy hands, podcast, podcasts, politics, rural virginia, scott biram, scott sterling, Shenandoah Valley, Southwest virginia, strange matter, tattoo, tattoo artists, tattoos, tim barry, timothy hoyer

From announcing the Avail reunion shows in Richmond to interviewing tattoo artists, musicians, and hometown folks, No Lies Just BS Podcast host Nick Swartz opens a personal window into Virginian life from his Harrisonburg shop, Alley Cat Tattoo. 

“I don’t really do things in the conventional way.”

When he first started the No Lies Just BS podcast, host and owner of Harrisonburg’s Alley Cat Tattoo Nick Swartz had a lifetime of stories waiting to be told.

From humble beginnings in Clifton Forge to being kidnapped with his brother at eight years old, Swartz could have easily captured an audience with the tales of his own upbringing — but his stories weren’t the only ones Swartz wanted to tell.

“Not everyone is a great storyteller, but everyone has a story to tell,” Swartz said. “I’ve talked to people from all over the place… I’ve got a ton of stories that I haven’t told yet on the show, but I like to sprinkle them in when my memory is sparked by someone else.”

The podcast, which started three years ago this October, is a storytelling podcast with a focus on the tattoo community. From interviewing world-renowned tattoo artists to hometown folks from rural regions of Virginia, to hosting the original Avail reunion show announcement in its Tim Barry episode — which quickly ignited fans from Richmond and across the nation — Swartz made a point to highlight voices from all walks of life.

“The podcast has kind of grown on its own. And it’s weird, because I get recognized in Richmond a lot more than anywhere else — but I also have people look at the podcast and go, ‘What’s that?’ more than anywhere else.”

Swartz has come to know many of his friends and podcast guests through owning Alley Cat Tattoo. Since No Lies Just BS started, he’s sat down with tattoo artists like Richmond’s Brian Bruno at Absolute Art, Mike Rubendall of Kings Avenue Tattoo in New York City (according to Swartz, one of the most high-profile shops in the world), Jill Bonny of San Francisco’s Studio Kazoku, Virginia’s Scott Sterling, Timothy Hoyer, and more. He’s also hosted musicians like Scott H. Biram, Old Heavy Hands, and Ryan Braces of Bracewar.

“I was trying to tell these stories out about growing up in the mountains and having this crazy life,” Swartz said. “My brother and I got kidnapped when I was eight and he was eleven. We were left in an empty condominium in Florida for a month. We were around rednecks, bikers, and scumbags, drugs and crazy shit. I was telling these stories [as I started the podcast], but I was sort of directing them toward a tattoo audience, because that’s where I was known.”

An especially-beloved voice for Swartz is that of Mary Jane, a local artist in her 70’s who made her way into his shop seeking her first tattoo. Mary Jane had just seen the latest season of Stranger Things, and noticed the character with a fishbone tattoo on her ear. Sick of wearing earrings, Mary Jane decided to get her first tattoo on her earlobes.

“I hear her setting an appointment, and she has an incredible Southern accent from the far South. And I love accents — it’s something I’ve always been drawn to,” Swartz said. “I said to her, ‘Do you know what a podcast is?’ And she said, ‘Yes, of course. What am I, an idiot?’ I asked if she’d like to be on my podcast, and Mary Jane said, ‘Well, my friends will probably think I’m crazy for spending the day with some weirdo like you, but I’ll do it [laughs].’”

Mary Jane (Episode 98) went on to tell a remarkable tale of growing up in Alabama and living through segregation. Born in Tuscaloosa — at the time, the national headquarters of the Ku Klux Klan — she lived in the Deep South until 1969 before moving to Virginia’s Shenandoah Valley. Her family included a black woman, Johnnie Mae Jones, who was her daddy’s best friend and worked as their live-in nanny for 50 years. In high school, Mary Jane and her friends used to get drunk and sneak into Klan rallies.

“She said, ‘I remember going to these meetings as a little girl,’ and I thought ‘Oh my god, she’s gonna be racist, I’m gonna have to throw her out of here.’ Then she went, ‘The only thing I knew about these guys was they wore white… things… over their heads, and that they were white trash. You knew they were the lowest of the low,’ and I said, ‘Oh, thank God.’ I’ve had the gnarliest tattooers from all over the world reach out to me and say she’s their favorite episode — now, she has two full sleeves of tattoos and two half sleeves on her legs. And she’s part of our family, she comes to cookouts at my house.”

Stories like Mary Jane’s aren’t uncommon to No Lies Just BS. Swartz has hosted guests from tattooers to musicians and hometown locals — all telling their own little pieces of life with a laid-back, and usually comedic, flare.

“Anytime you have the opportunity to be friends with someone, it improves upon your life,” Swartz said of Mary Jane. “We’ve become the best of friends. She’s a special lady.”

As the owner of a tattoo shop nestled in the Shenandoah Valley between the Appalachian Mountains, Swartz has come to hear the wild and entertaining stories of his many customers, musicians, and tattoo artists in the industry.

“[Jill Bonny] came on, and told a story about visiting two Japanese tattoo masters in Japan, both of them in their 80’s. One of those gentlemen is Hori Yoshi III,” Swartz said. “He prepared a statement to be read on my show, which is mind-blowing. He’s been my favorite tattooer for years, and I never thought I would be in contact with him.”

Of the few people Swartz has pursued more than once to be on the show, Tim Barry was one of them. When he initially didn’t hear back, Swartz assumed it was because of his enthusiasm for Avail, a part of Barry’s life that was behind him. But out of the blue, he got a text from Barry that said, “I want to do the show, and I want to do it on this day.” 

“Avail is a big deal for me, they made a huge impact on me,” Swartz said. “I said I couldn’t do that day because I had someone flying in from LA to do the show and hang at the shop for a couple days, and he goes, ‘Well, it’s got to be this day. And if it can’t be this day, it can’t be at all.’ I was like, ‘fuck!’ [laughs], so I went to Richmond… And he said the real reason why you’re here is because Avail is playing in Richmond for the first time in 12 years.”

The episode quickly reached the music community in Richmond, sparking a wave of excitement for the reunion in Virginia and around the country. When he first announced the show dates on the podcast, Barry noted an episode of No Lies Just BS that hosted his bandmate, Beau Beau.

“Tim told me, ‘Listening to you talk to Beau on the podcast, and the way you described our shows, was inspiring, it made me feel good. Then I was opening for Hot Water Music in London, and they described the Avail shows the same way. I listened to Over The James again, and it sounded really good… so I decided to talk to the guys [about a reunion].’” Swartz said. “It was a face-melter for me. I didn’t know he was going to do that when I got to his house.”

At the beginning, No Lies Just BS got its name from the first Blues Brothers movie — Swartz’s favorite to date. His son’s name is Jake Elwood Blues Swartz, and the podcast’s name was no less intentional.

“It’s been a part of my life my whole life. After Jake gets out of prison, he asks, ‘When are we gonna practice?’ And Elwood tells him the band’s not together. Jake says, ‘You told me the band was still together, you lied to me!’ and Elwood says, ‘Ah, it’s not a lie, it’s just bullshit.’ My wife suggested the name for the podcast, and I agreed because I didn’t want to be the guy to discuss serious topics — there’s a place for those things, and I’m just not the guy to host that show.”

Swartz still tries to make a difference in the world, especially close to home. He just doesn’t like to make a big deal out of it.

“I’m the type of person that I believe as long as we take care of our own, and our own neighborhoods and communities, everything will be okay,” he said. “I do it here. Whenever it’s time to pack the bus for school, I go around and get everyone in the shop to pitch in for school supplies for kids in our area. It’s not a huge thing. But I feel it makes a difference here.”

As he became more involved in the culture over his 16 years owning Alley Cat Tattoo, Swartz came to meet many people with interesting backgrounds and stories he thought the world should hear. As No Lies Just BS grew its audience, he found that the most valuable piece of the podcast was its ability to share the jokes, tales, and personalities — the small, often overlooked facets of everyday life — that give a community its soul. Its underground and personal vibe makes listeners feel like they’re sitting in the room with their favorite artists and musicians.

“There’s this incredible tattooer out of Norway named Marius Meyer, and he was one of my early listeners,” Swartz said. “He said to me, ‘Nick, the draw for me is not the tattoo stuff, but it’s the window into Appalachian life from a country boy’s point of view. There’s no way I can get an authentic version of that where I live, unless I read a book that was written 50 years ago. It just doesn’t exist.”

The podcast offers its listeners a look into the region’s culture. With little other outlets aside from local news, No Lies Just BS creates a way to tell Virginia’s stories from a personal view that many news stories don’t convey.

“The thing that I enjoy is bringing stories to the table that people would not hear otherwise,” Swartz said. “My brother and I lived in a place where, if you needed to, you couldn’t holler for anybody. It was just our house in the woods. We cut wood to stay warm, we killed deer and caught trout to feed ourselves, and we had a giant garden. It’s a point of view that I can provide and share that’s just not often touched on.”

Swartz feels that there’s a difference between his own perspective on life in the back country of Virginia that isn’t captured by most who choose to write about it.

“Often those little articles and news stories [about life in the area] are written from an outside perspective that is spoken to someone that they pity,” he said. “I’m proud of where I’m from, I’m proud of who I am. And the things that I’ve experienced, good and bad, equipped me for life.”

Swartz is interested in everyday people, and with them, he’s heard everything from the complicated to the humorous and bizarre. A passionate chef, Swartz takes a personal investment in cooking — and after cooking with Old Heavy Hands, Brother Hawk, and the artists of Absolute Art among others, his cooking and connections through tattoo communities helped him become close friends with many people from the tattoo industry, including Bracewar’s Ryan Braces.

“Ryan’s been my buddy for many years, and he was booking a show at Strange Matter for Brother Hawk and Old Heavy Hands,” Swartz said. “He asked if I’d come down there and cook, so I went with a buddy of mine. It was a blast. I hit it off with those dudes, we drank whiskey and smoked, and I gave them a ton of food for them to take on the road. So at that point, we decided to link up, and Bracewar booked a show in Harrisonburg. He’s a solid guy all-around — those dudes are my close friends, and they mean the world to me. That’s my family.” 

Another favorite musician of his guests on No Lies Just BS, Scott H. Biram, originally made an impact on Swartz the first time he saw Biram play. That happened back in the 90s, when Biram opened for Hank Williams III in Washington, D.C. When Biram played a show in his town years later, Swartz reached out to a friend at the venue about getting him into the show.

“He told Scott, ‘I think you guys are very similar, and you’d get along just fine.’ So Scott avoided me at all costs,” Swartz laughed. “A year later he comes back, and his manager tells me the reason he avoided me is because he plays a persona on stage — from my friend, he thought I was just like his persona. And he didn’t want to associate with anybody like that. But I’ve been to his shows and bought him drinks so many times, I said that if he sees me, he’ll know me. I texted Scott a picture of me, and immediately got a text saying, ‘Aw hell, man, I didn’t know it was you!’”

When Biram came on the show, he played a version of “Mule Skinner Blues” in the office. The old-time bluegrass song has been a favorite of Swartz’s since he was about 10 years old.

“For a moment, I was like, ‘This is unreal. I can’t believe it, he’s sitting five feet from me playing a song that I’ve listened to my whole life.’ That really made a big impact on me. He’s a solid guy, it definitely kind of blew my mind — he was also one of the first people that had no reason to give me a chance. In tattooing, you might know who I am, but in the rest of the world, I’m just a dude.”

After more than 160 episodes, there are still plenty of guests Swartz hopes to host on No Lies Just BS in its future. From tattooers like Baltimore’s Uncle Pauly and New York’s Rose Hardy, originally from New Zealand, to honky-tonk musician Wayne Hancock from Texas, the list keeps growing as Swartz meets artists from different walks of life. Most importantly, he wants to hear their stories; especially more from ordinary folks like Mary Jane and his Uncle Benny.

For many of us, the words of a passing stranger in our day-to-day encounters are nothing more than white noise in the background of life’s routines. But for Swartz, something as simple as an accent overheard from another room can open the door to a lifetime of stories shared, new friendships, and the sense of community that connects us all as individuals. The simple things are, to him, things to be valued — and whether it’s small talk or a big moment with our artistic heroes, he’s able to use No Lies Just BS as a means to bring people together.

Catch up with Swartz at Alley Cat Tattoo in Harrisonburg, with his shop’s artists including Chris Porter, Andrew Conner, Trevor Smith, Richie Stutler, and Jake Hockman, as well as piercers Katie Davis and Sarah Pennington (who also performs in Richmond as a popular burlesque artist by the name of Sindi Ray Boustier).

Listen to No Lies Just BS on Spotify or their website, and check out Alley Cat Tattoo on their Instagram. 

Pagan Baby: Weekend Playlist by Nick Swartz of No Lies Just BS Podcast

RVA Staff | August 16, 2019

Topics: alley cat tattoo, art, Harrisonburg, local business, music, nick swartz, no lies just bs, podcast, shenandoah, tattoo, tattoo artists, Virginia artists, virginia podcasts

Every Friday night, RVA Mag brings you a lovely and wonderful playlist curated by Virginia’s most influential artists, musicians, and institutions.

This one comes to us from Nick Swartz, who is not only the main man behind the No Lies Just Bullshit podcast, but also the owner of Harrisonburg’s Alley Cat Tattoo. Beginning with nothing more than he and a rotating crew of friends and relatives telling stories about their crazy lives, the podcast has grown over the past three years to host world-renowned guests from the worlds of tattooing and punk rock. It was even the place where the world first learned about the Avail reunion that took place last month!

For his playlist, Swartz brings us a wide spectrum of tunes, everything from metal to country to hip hop, but all of it comes from a spirit of rebellion and freedom. This makes it the perfect playlist to enjoy as you launch your wild n’ wolly summer weekend.

Get loose, Virginia.

Open this playlist from mobile in your Spotify app HERE.

Music Sponsored By Graduate Richmond

Cursing With A Mouthful Of Waffles: Buck Gooter’s Glorious Noise

Benjamin West | June 3, 2019

Topics: Billy Brett, Buck Gooter, Finer Thorns, gallery 5, Harrisonburg, Peace Siren, Terry Turtle, touring life

For Harrisonburg duo Buck Gooter, traveling the world playing music is what being alive is all about.

In a partially unbuttoned, jet-black dress shirt and bomber-style leather jacket, coughing echoes of the rockabilly underbelly of Memphis, Billy Brett jumps off the Gallery 5 stage and into the crowd. Everybody in the crowd, sloshing around Narragansetts and pint glasses of Albino Monkey, takes a bit of a step back.

It’s only been a handful of seconds since a driving, industrial, electronic beat has swept the stage, and Brett’s partner, Terry Turtle, wearing chainmail and the mask of what might be a long dead skeleton king, has just lurched forward into his own complementary riff. But a hole forms below the stage, maybe a result of Brett’s abrupt fourth-wall break, or maybe because the writhing, swaying, head-bobbing fans know whats coming — that the sonic scene will burst out over the dusty floor in the form of flying pieces of metal, kicked and thrown off the stage by Brett like bubonic plague carcasses over a medieval castle’s besieged walls.

It might be a large crowd for a Sunday night. Older punk rockers in faux leather and brass studs — straight-laced types in polos and above-the-knee light-wash khakis; arty students, forearms stippled in stick-n-pokes — but it’s by no means packed. Brett throws back his head and explodes into his raspy vocals, the vacant eyes of Turtle’s mask gaze forward as his large hands pluck seamlessly and aggressively at the guitar hanging almost to his knees, and it’s clear that the duo would be playing no differently at the Fillmore, the Grand Ole Opry, a tobacco-hazed basement, or somebody’s backyard. Under Gallery 5’s gaudy, gargoyle stage and the oppressive, blood-red lighting, Brett and Turtle are giving it everything they have. It’s infectious. It’s intoxicating.

Together, along with Turtle’s aesthetically and sonically modded out acoustic guitar, Brett’s soundboard and theremin, and their 2004 Toyota Sienna, Brett and Turtle are Buck Gooter — a sort of noise-rock, industrial metal act out of Harrisonburg. I approached Turtle before they went on, in the almost deafening silence you get immediately after the first band of the night plays, when you aren’t sufficiently drunk and feel caught like a deer in the soundstage headlights. I asked if the legends were true, if Buck Gooter is what you get when you try to say “fuck you” with your mouth full of Belgian waffles (others have said it was soup and crackers)? The look I received could have signaled ironic humor, or maybe just good old salad day memories — he cracked a smile and confirmed. And I believe him.

That afternoon, I had encountered Buck Gooter in the gray spring sun out in front of the venue. Gallery 5 has a way of jutting out into the crosshatched Jackson Ward intersection, like an island in a sea of asphalt. The duo were locked out and couldn’t load their gear inside, so Brett pulled their minivan, slouching on its axles under the weight, up onto the curb for us to lean up against and chat.

“It was an excuse for two country boys to go somewhere, was to be in this band,” Brett said. “Because I had heard about that, I was like: ‘oh yeah, bands tour and stuff, even little, tiny, shitty bands. Let’s do that!’”

Brett is built medium-skinny, with short buzzed brown hair. He’s 33, three decades younger than Turtle, who’s 67.

Photo by Zoo Williams

“Most people don’t think I’m that age,” Turtle said, looking up from his seat on the ground, leaning up, legs crossed against the old firehouse wall. He does look like a turtle, I guess, if you use your imagination. He has big eyes, a beard, and a shock of white hair. You can tell he’s normally a quiet person, but when he gets excited, he almost talks over himself, tripping excitedly in multiple directions at the same time. “I’m into kung fu. I’m into all this shit now, I work out, I do a hundred Hindu squats every morning, yoga,” he said. “I’m into all that stuff.”

Formed in 2005, after 19-year-old Brett stumbled onto some of Turtle’s art on a restaurant wall and decided to seek him out — as a friend, as a bandmate, as an escape hatch from the overpowering grasp of the Shenandoah Valley, –Buck Gooter has been undeniably prolific, releasing 18 LPs in the past 14 years.

“They say 18, yeah. I guess that’s it,” Brett said. “It’s on the internet somewhere.”  

A good chunk of Buck Gooter’s first albums were one-n-dones, small-batch cassette releases shot out into the world and then gone forever. Brett remembers stitching their first record together on his computer, but swore that approach off after hearing the result.

“I’ll never do that again,” Brett said, noting that he’d rather have somebody who knows what they’re doing record and mix them — whether that be in a professional studio or somebody’s basement.

According to Brett and Turtle, a handful of their albums were recorded by Don Zientara, legendary DC DIY label Dischord Records’ unofficial house producer, in his Arlington studio. Zientara is known for recording early Bad Brains and every Fugazi release.

Today you can find about seven of their records scattered over the various major streaming platforms. And you can buy hard copies, vinyl or cassette, from their Bandcamp. Although their focus has been succinctly hardwired on touring, and getting out, the albums are consistently enjoyable and fresh.

I asked Turtle how many shows they’d played over their years on the road. Hurtling through the wheatfields of Iowa, the tulips and dugout coffeehouses of Amsterdam. The wrought iron and greystone peaks of New York City. I expected a wildeyed guess. An, “I dunno. 500? 600? 1,000?” But I was surprised to find that Brett keeps an almost religious record of their tours on his phone. To date the show count is 697, to be exact.

Photo by Paul Somers

Country roooooads

Turtle doesn’t have a driver’s license. It’s not that he can’t, or that he doesn’t know how, or that he grew up in the backlots of some towering city with halfway decent public transportation — nothing like that.

“I’m like an animal — I don’t feel comfortable in a car,” Turtle said.

Rolling down the highway was a fear he had to overcome when Buck Gooter began heavily touring — which was, of course, almost immediately.

“Oh, I’ve had motorcycles,” he said, lifting up the leg of his shorts to show a pale, white scar running up his thigh. “I had a hit and run accident in a place called Bridgewater. And then I moved to Harrisonburg, I just decided I was going to walk.”

Turtle walks a lot, and it’s one of the reasons he believes he’s still alive. After he moved to Harrisonburg, people respected his decision, but would constantly ask, “Why don’t you get a bicycle?”

“Why don’t you walk!?” he’d shoot back at them.

This leaves Brett to do just about all of the driving. In the early days, when Turtle had a bit of an intrusive drug and alcohol habit, highway bystanders — that is, kids peeking through dotted sunshades or white-bearded truckers looking down from their hulking semi truck perch — might have seen Turtle bobbing aggressively to the music and the sounds of the open road. Or maybe he had his head cocked back, passed out cold. It was usually one of these two extremes.

But these days, Turtle has delved into the adventure of sobriety — stone sober, as they say. He spends more time now looking; talking when he feels like it, but also just looking. West Virginia. Kansas. Oklahoma. Northern Canada. LA. Mossy cobblestone. Shark-infested waters. And all the way home to Harrisonburg. I imagine him poking around for vegan food in the neon haze of a backroad corner store, or feeling the air go still and eerie in the blinding midnight of an overlit truckstop.

Many of these moments, these days, are mundane. Dragging. Calm. Brett, an avid reader, might be grabbing a few pages of his current book — or maybe not. Maybe the band is powering through to their next basement gig. Maybe it’s been so many days without a proper bed, a proper wash, that Turtle begins to feel like he’s sinking into his clothes. But eventually, it always ends. They make it back to their sleepy town.

Photo by Paul Somers

But it’s not always mundane. Both Turtle and Brett vividly remember one muggy afternoon coming out of Tijuana, rolling up to the heavy machinery of a border checkpoint, where something like 20 lanes of traffic funnel into each other and sentries pace around with loaded assault rifles. The band found themselves accidentally heading into the center lane, a paid-for service.

“There’s a big sign that says $500 fine if you go here without the right credentials,” Brett said.

“It wasn’t in English,” Turtle half-muttered.

As quickly as they could without causing an accident, they slammed the brakes and Brett hopped out to face the oncoming traffic, congested and inching towards him.

“An officer came and was screaming at us, and then she started whistling and getting cars to stop,” Brett said.

Eventually — their car turned around and headed in approximately the right direction — the band was sent to talk to another federale, who informed them that they would indeed need to cough up $500.

“And I was like: ‘dude, we do not have any money.’ And he’s like, ‘well you have to pay something, man, do you have $200? do you have’ — ‘dude, no! I don’t have any money!’” Brett said, somewhere north of exasperated while recounting the story.

Turtle told me that he did, in fact, have $300 in his pocket, but he kept mum and eventually somebody from another band they were touring with ran up yelling “20 bucks!” The cop asked them to kindly slip it under his paper because “it’s for me, ya know?” And the boys were home free.

“I didn’t worry,” Brett said. “I would have worried more if it was in the middle of, like, a vacant stretch of road.”

“Guy who looks like Tom Brady can do what he wants,” Turtle said.

I laughed — Brett really does look like the football star.

“Doesn’t he?!” Turtle said, following up, laughing too. “I love Tom Brady.”

These shenanigans came as a cap to an odd one-show tour down in Mexico. First, the band was confronted by the intense poverty of Tijuana, where many extremes collide — “You’re sitting in traffic in Mexico and there’s just people everywhere with these poles with these toys all over them, trying to sell them to the cars, and weaving in and out of traffic there’s legless people on skateboards, scooting between,” Brett said. Later, they turned up at “The Mustache Bar” for their show with another band. All the Americans in the room from the Buck Gooter caravan drank copious amounts of beer, and when it was all said and done, the proprietor simply tossed open the register and gave all their beer money back to them. Turtle ultimately wrote their most recent album, Finer Thorns, largely about what they saw south of the border.

“It’s just something totally different for these gringos — a couple country boys, never been there,” Brett said.  

Fourteen years, something like a million miles, and untold gallons of cheap beer stageside, piling up. Buck Gooter said the deserts of Joshua Tree National Park feel like the red slopes of Mars. They remembered crunching gravel up into the holler-pocked hills of Point Pleasant, West Virginia, where in the mid-60s, two young couples were the first to report seeing the glowing red eyes and 10-foot heaving wings of Mothman, a beast who would allegedly destroy the Silver Bridge in 1967, killing 46 people.

“It feels weird there,” Brett said, speaking about a giant seawall partially surrounding the downtown strip, shielding Point Pleasant from the river.

“If you go on that side and you walk down the wall, it’s the history of the city in mural form,” he said. “It’s a really dark place. Point Pleasant, West Virginia, I think, was the frontier at one point, and they had to displace — or conquer — the natives to get them out of there, to take over the land.”

Brett compared the grim quiet scene to Derry, Maine in Stephen King’s It, and said absolutely nobody but them was down by the river, on that little trail to take it all in.

One of their favorite places is Serpent Mound, an ancient American-Indian burial ground in rural Ohio, and the longest drive Brett remembers making was 11 hours, when he left an Ohio University at midnight to drive home to Harrisonburg.

Their first out-of-town show was quite literally in a shack in the middle of the woods in that empty expanse of rural wasteland below the “V” made by I-81 and I-64.

“We played a shed in the middle of the woods to three people,” Brett said.

The most memorable moment of that day would have been their host’s extreme irritable bowel syndrome, according both guys, if it hadn’t been for one of the people who showed up to hear them play, filmed them, and told them about a Philadelphia band called Northern Liberties.

“We met those guys shortly after meeting this guy, and they’re still some of our deepest friends in music,” Brett said.

“That guy at that show created that connection,” he said. “It’s just a commercial for ‘every show has something to offer.’ You might get down and out about a gig being shitty, but there’s always some silver lining to it.”

Photo by Zoo Williams

The best laid schemes o’ mice an’ men

The calloused palms, tanned skin elbow to wrist — it’s hard not to think of the blunt realism of the dust-swept Steinbeck aesthetic when in the presence of Brett and Turtle. They’re often as different from each other, and yet so intertwined, as a modern-day George and Lennie. It’s the decades between them, and their personalities. While Brett takes the lead in most social situations, Turtle seems much more comfortable a step or two outside the center of attention. Turtle writes, mostly, and Brett interprets — lashing and pulling and squirming and kicking, all while Turtle stays squared off against the audience, feet set, hardly moving. Just playing.

I asked Turtle if he had to be coaxed from his quiet home to the open road. Brett chimed in immediately that it was the only way it would have happened. Turtle had been painting and writing and playing guitar all his life when Brett sought him out, but from their first discussions of the band, 19-year-old Brett made it clear that they were hitting the road. That was the only discernible goal. No exceptions.

“Well the band started, and I was like, ‘I’m touring,’” Brett said. “I don’t want to be in a band if we’re not going to tour. I don’t want to be the local band.”

“He said if we form a band, we’re not doing it to dick around. He had plans,” Turtle said. “I’d never met anybody like that.”

But Turtle isn’t simply Brett’s ticket out of the Shenandoah valley. Turtle is good at what he does, and it’s obvious that Brett deeply respects him. He repeated over that Buck Gooter is ultimately Turtle’s band.

“He was unlike anybody I’ve ever been friends with,” Brett said, “and remains one of my longest friends … we established a kind of relationship that’s pretty special.”

“He’s a dedicated guy. He’s interested in music and writing — creation — which is something some people just aren’t interested in.”

I asked both men what they would be doing if they hadn’t found music, but my eyes were leveled at Turtle.

“I’d be dead if I hadn’t met Billy,” Terry said without hesitation, he almost cut me off before the words left my mouth.

Brett followed soon after.

“I’d probably just find music to…play,” Brett said, chewing on his words.

“You’re saying if you didn’t play music you’d have found music to play?” I asked with a grin.

“Maybe!” Brett shot back in a jokey tone. “I don’t know, I don’t know!”

Gallery 5’s stage is like something out of a Heavy Metal magazine, if Heavy Metal skewed hellish and gothic. The stage is wrapped in vintage wood scavenged from grand, decaying buildings. A gargoyle sits hunched directly above the performers, surrounded by orange rendered wooden flames. Buck Gooter felt perfect for the environment. Sound flooded the room and Brett began writhing around, strangling himself with chains and pulling the skin on his face back, comically grotesque. Looking around, many people couldn’t help but smile, not with mocking grins but admiration at the pure, raw, beautiful, burst of energy.

The set went quick, maybe a half-hour and some change. The lights cut on, almost jaggedly abrupt. There was no “one more” warning or call for an encore, it was just happening, and then it wasn’t. Just before the applause and the lights and the ambient chatter of a room full of sloppy patrons, Turtle ended the set by pulling close to the microphone, speaking with his southern accent and a piercing, blunt sincerity.

“We’re Buck Gooter, thank you for listening to us.”

Top Photo by Paul Somers

Music Sponsored By Graduate Richmond

The best inter/national music acts we discovered at MACROCK 2017

Brad Kutner | April 17, 2017

Topics: Alex Cameron, Artful Dodger, Harrisonburg, MACROCK 2017

We spent an alternately chilly/beautiful/drunk weekend in Harrisonburg earlier this month and saw some noteworthy jams as part of MACROCK 2017. The annual festival that specializes in lesser-know but still noteworthy acts doubled down on the “lesser known” side which gave tons of breathing room for expectations. Sure enough, we found a number of acts that surpassed our hopes and first up is the best national acts we saw.

Harrisonburg flipped five venues (and a few basements) in honor of MACROCK’s 20th year and among those was the Artful Dodger. While familiar to any Harrisonburg…er, the cute little coffee shop/bar/stage played host to the first (and one of the best) national acts we saw of the weekend: Alex Cameron.

Hailing from Sydney, Australia, Cameron took the red-draped stage around 6 PM Friday night with a simple set up. He swayed and sang Bowie-like in almost every way, accompanied by a pre-recorded synth track and a live sax player for the occasional solo. He crooned out jams that genuinely made me shake my hips, offering a delightfully modern/retro take on a number of dark and depressing topics.

Later that night we headed over to The Gold Pony, formerly Blue Nile (for the curious).

There we caught one of the most intense shows of the fest. Armed with an industrial smoke machine and a series of strobing LEDs, Autins, TX’s Street Sects took the stage and completely nulled my brain as I tried to understand everything that was going on.

Sonically, it was as if early 90s, Broken-era Nine Inch Nails had never stopped and was now dropping tracks on band camp. Visually, the strobes flickered in the smoke-filled room at such a pace it made my eyes, brain and camera lens freak the fuck out.

It was like a sensory deprivation tank where you could only hear the crashing of the beats and the occasional screams from the singer’s microphone – though both were incredibly crisp and minimally distorted creating a surprisingly accessible metal/industrial set.

I came to discover the act was actually two people, but that was AFTER the singer, in the foggy, strobed-out haze, hit one of the MACROCK organizers in the face (allegedly). Not a smart move for a band, especially when you had a house show scheduled for later that night (which was canceled cause you can’t hit the organizer in the face). The singer also revved up a real-life chain saw (sans chain) and ran through the crowd while gas and exhaust fumes filled the basement venue.

It was incredibly dope; so dope, in fact, I managed to get myself together enough to head to a house show they played in Richmond the following Monday – that show also ruled. And I’m not the only one paying attention to these noise fiends – they’ve made Drop the Needle on youtube bow down as well.

Before leaving the venue for some house shows, we managed to catch a bit of Kal Marks, an also brutal three piece, this time hailing from Boston, Mass. Their set was noisy to say the least, but it had a bit more of a traditional indie feel compared to Street Sects (who’s set we were still recovering from to be honest.) We took a few shots and caught the set walking out, but WRIR’s Mike Rutz stayed for the set remainder and said all the harsh energy Street Sects left was replaced with good l’fashioned indie moshing by the end. I was bummed to have missed it, and you should make up for it by buying their record or getting them to come to RVA.

We caught a lot of Virginia stuff that night and the following day (more to follow on that in another write up) but Saturday night we caught some of Lojii’s set. This Philly-based emcee tried his best to relate his from-the-streets beats to the noticeably white and privileged college crowd. His beats were solid, thought playing off a track can be a hard look in today’s world of portable samplers. There was a disconnect that fell on the venue, not the performer, but kudos for making it out and carrying a great message.

Last on our list of notable national acts was LA’s Kraus. While their record might offer moody, soft gliding breaks, the live show more accurately mirrors the sonic torrent of bands like Lightning Bolt. We caught these guys in a crowded basement and could really only hear the drums, but the high energy nature of the set left me wanting more and sure enough their bandcamp was worth diving into.

We caught a lot more local and regional acts that weekend so keep your eyes peeled for the that write up and be sure to check out the acts mentioned above if they come through RVA in the future.

Words and top image by Brad Kutner

The best inter/national music acts we discovered at MACROCK 2017

Brad Kutner | April 17, 2017

Topics: Alex Cameron, Harrisonburg, indie, Kal Marks, Kraus, Lojii, MACROCK 2017, Street Sects

We spent an alternately chilly/beautiful/drunk weekend in Harrisonburg earlier this month and saw some noteworthy jams as part of MACROCK 2017. The annual festival that specializes in lesser-know but still noteworthy acts doubled down on the “lesser known” side which gave tons of breathing room for expectations. Sure enough, we found a number of acts that surpassed our hopes and first up is the best national acts we saw.

Harrisonburg flipped five venues (and a few basements) in honor of MACROCK’s 20th year and among those was the Artful Dodger. While familiar to any Harrisonburg…er, the cute little coffee shop/bar/stage played host to the first (and one of the best) national acts we saw of the weekend: Alex Cameron.

Hailing from Sydney, Australia, Cameron took the red-draped stage around 6 PM Friday night with a simple set up. He swayed and sang Bowie-like in almost every way, accompanied by a pre-recorded synth track and a live sax player for the occasional solo. He crooned out jams that genuinely made me shake my hips, offering a delightfully modern/retro take on a number of dark and depressing topics.

@alkcm live at #macrock

A post shared by Brad Kutner (@patioweather_rva) on Apr 7, 2017 at 11:27pm PDT

Later that night we headed over to The Gold Pony, formerly Blue Nile (for the curious).

There we caught one of the most intense shows of the fest. Armed with an industrial smoke machine and a series of strobing LEDs, Autins, TX’s Street Sects took the stage and completely nulled my brain as I tried to understand everything that was going on.

Sonically, it was as if early 90s, Broken-era Nine Inch Nails had never stopped and was now dropping tracks on band camp. Visually, the strobes flickered in the smoke-filled room at such a pace it made my eyes, brain and camera lens freak the fuck out.

@streetsects at #macrock

A post shared by Brad Kutner (@patioweather_rva) on Apr 7, 2017 at 11:25pm PDT

It was like a sensory deprivation tank where you could only hear the crashing of the beats and the occasional screams from the singer’s microphone – though both were incredibly crisp and minimally distorted creating a surprisingly accessible metal/industrial set.

I came to discover the act was actually two people, but that was AFTER the singer, in the foggy, strobed-out haze, hit one of the MACROCK organizers in the face (allegedly). Not a smart move for a band, especially when you had a house show scheduled for later that night (which was canceled cause you can’t hit the organizer in the face). The singer also revved up a real-life chain saw (sans chain) and ran through the crowd while gas and exhaust fumes filled the basement venue.

It was incredibly dope; so dope, in fact, I managed to get myself together enough to head to a house show they played in Richmond the following Monday – that show also ruled. And I’m not the only one paying attention to these noise fiends – they’ve made Drop the Needle on youtube bow down as well.

Before leaving the venue for some house shows, we managed to catch a bit of Kal Marks, an also brutal three piece, this time hailing from Boston, Mass. Their set was noisy to say the least, but it had a bit more of a traditional indie feel compared to Street Sects (who’s set we were still recovering from to be honest.) We took a few shots and caught the set walking out, but WRIR’s Mike Rutz stayed for the set remainder and said all the harsh energy Street Sects left was replaced with good l’fashioned indie moshing by the end. I was bummed to have missed it, and you should make up for it by buying their record or getting them to come to RVA.

@kal_marks_the_band at #macrock

A post shared by Brad Kutner (@patioweather_rva) on Apr 7, 2017 at 11:26pm PDT

We caught a lot of Virginia stuff that night and the following day (more to follow on that in another write up) but Saturday night we caught some of Lojii’s set. This Philly-based emcee tried his best to relate his from-the-streets beats to the noticeably white and privileged college crowd. His beats were solid, thought playing off a track can be a hard look in today’s world of portable samplers. There was a disconnect that fell on the venue, not the performer, but kudos for making it out and carrying a great message.

Last on our list of notable national acts was LA’s Kraus. While their record might offer moody, soft gliding breaks, the live show more accurately mirrors the sonic torrent of bands like Lightning Bolt. We caught these guys in a crowded basement and could really only hear the drums, but the high energy nature of the set left me wanting more and sure enough their bandcamp was worth diving into.

We caught a lot more local and regional acts that weekend so keep your eyes peeled for the that write up and be sure to check out the acts mentioned above if they come through RVA in the future.

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