The scene is the Southern Records Distributors [SRD] warehouse in North London, sometime in 1999. I lay down my tape gun and glance up at the clock. Lunchtime. I feel like blowing the end of it like it was a still-smoking Smith and Wesson. Maybe even give it a couple of twirls before placing it expertly in my imaginary holster. After all, me and my fellow tape-gun-toting pardner, Jon, battered through a big batch of Fugazi’s latest long-player, End Hits, and we were knackered.
It’s thirsty work boxing up the seemingly endless orders for DC’s finest in preparation for its pending release. The whole warehouse is a hive of activity ever since the raw product arrived. I don’t know if you’ve ever had the pleasure of hearing a hundred tape gunners boxing up batches of records. Allow me to paint an audio picture for you.
The sound is sharp and repetitive. Each yank of the tape creates a loud, ripping “zzziip” as it unspools, followed by a sharp, sticky “slap” when it hits the cardboard. There’s a faint creak as the SRD grunt presses down, sealing the box with a firm grip, and then a satisfying “whisk” as the serrated tape gun blade slices off the strip in one swift motion.
Fugazi in the (Ware)House
Around this, the ambient Lawrence Road warehouse sounds fill the background: the splintering crunch of a million discarded CD cases from some long-forgotten release carelessly strewn on the concrete floor, splintering shards sent scattering; the frantic clattering of the latest South London drum & bass release blaring out of the label managers’ office stereo; the terrified shrieks of our fellow grunts narrowly avoiding a fatal flattening from the careening forklift.
All the while, the trusty tape guns’ relentless rhythm punctuates the semi-organized chaos, like the beat of something beaty, marking the steady flow of less-than-perfectly-packed product being readied to ship. On the stroke of noon, the guns fall silent. Like I said, an SRD drone can work up a mean, mean thirst after a hard morning’s packing orders, to (kind of) paraphrase Paul Westerberg. Liquid lunch it is.
Suitably sated after a typical leisurely ‘business’ lunch, we slowly make our way back to the warehouse. As the ancient service lift groans its way back up to HQ, I can just about make out the muffled mumblings of a post-pub conflab emanating from the shop floor above. As the lift wheezes and finally judders to a halt, and the battered doors reluctantly creak open, I can clearly make out the unmistakable twang of Yank.
Interspersed with this are the inimitable cockney warblings of our own Mickey ‘Penguin’ Baxter, warehouse manager extraordinaire.
“Awright, Ian, Guy,” he says in his trademark Barrymore-like (Michael, not Drew) cockney warble. “Come on through. Graeme will show ya around.”
Fugazi is back in town.
It isn’t unusual for touring bands affiliated with Southern Records to pay an in-person visit to the North London epicenter of operations. Nor is it the first time that I’d crossed paths with our illustrious guests. April of 1999 saw all three members of the short-lived pop sensation Shonben take a life-affirming busman’s holiday to the legendary DC-based label Dischord. More of that later.
My task on this occasion is to escort our heroes through the detritus-strewn aisles and let them help themselves. The warehouse is a treasure trove of legendary labels from all corners of the underground, and I do my best to facilitate their eclectic requests.
As we crunch our way around the shelves, Ian Mackaye stops.
“Oh yeah, I’ve got a question for you. Would we be able to borrow your drum kit for the tour? I mean, we’d pay you for it.”
This marks the start of the short-lived era when Fugazi began incorporating a double-drum attack into their live shows, courtesy of Jerry Busher. The breathtaking fruits of this endeavor can be heard in full electrifying effect on their 2001 release, The Argument. The track “Epic Problem” is a particular standout example of this innovative approach.
“Give us your address. We’ll come down with John (Loder) to pick them up. Are you free tomorrow?”
And so it is that the wheels for the legendary (in my head at least) Fugazi visit to Gipsy Hill are set in motion.
Fugazi Goes Hard on Negotiations – with Tea
Tomorrow duly arrives, and I set about gathering the battered bits and pieces of my trusty Premier Projector. It’s seen a lot of action over the years. From sunny Scunthorpe to naughty Northampton. From the art deco splendor of the BBC studios at Maida Vale to the grey granite-clad pubs of Peterhead. In and out of poorly attended venues. Freezing load-ins and sweaty load-outs. Carelessly packed up and crammed into the back of barely roadworthy transit vans. Dropped, battered, mistreated.
For all that, it’s still in pretty good nick. A few dinks here and there, but all cosmetic, really. Premier drums are sorely underrated these days.
I give them the once-over with a duster and a quick spray of Mr. Sheen. The chrome fittings sparkle like new, and the black shells gleam like a bastard. She’s good to go.
The doorbell rings bang on time. So punctual.
I lead the illustrious visiting party up the fire escape and into the welcoming environs of my South London abode. Nestled above a William Hill betting shop and a mere stone’s throw from the gastronomic delights of the Gipsy Rose Café, the flat is a refuge from the chaos of London life.
We’ve had all sorts of punk rock guests popping in, staying over, and generally having a good time. Our local pub hosts all manner of raucous rock ‘n’ roll shenanigans, including the infamous Paxton Brawls. We’ve even thrashed Hot Water Music at Soccer Ball in the handily adjacent and not unjustifiably named Dogshit Park.
A pre-Kills Jamie Hince lives across the road in a former squat and often makes the short hop over to regale us with his hilarious anecdotes. It isn’t as if we haven’t been graced with the presence of punk rock luminaries before; Larry Livermore and Jello Biafra made appearances in our unlikeliest of punk rock enclaves, but it’s the first time for the Fugazi frontmen to venture here.
“Come in, come in. What would you like to drink? Tea, coffee…?”
“Green tea, if you have it, thanks.”
Flatmate Nicole busies herself with preparing the refreshments while the visiting party is ushered into the living room. They plonk themselves down on the battered sofa and get straight to business.
“Ok, we’d like to borrow your drums for the tour. We’ll bring ‘em back here at the end. Let’s talk cash. How much do you need?”
“Shall we call it 150?” says Mackaye.
“What, you mean pounds?” I splutter. “I mean, yes…yes, that…that sounds great.”
“John, can you pay Graeme?”
Loder dutifully complies and proceeds to count out the cash in front of me. He hands it over and tucks his wallet back into his jacket pocket. The refreshments arrive as the transaction is completed. Tea is supped, and small talk is had.
I wish I could recall what we talked about. Perhaps talk had turned to the surprisingly sporty twist our recent busman’s holiday to DC had taken. How Guy Picciotto’s almost gazelle-like elegance graced the volleyball court as the combined ranks of the Dischord stable dished out a sound thrashing to their lame Limey opposition.
Maybe we touched upon the way Picciotto brushed aside our futile flailing attempts to return his blistering spikes and cut shots. How we skulked off the court, gasping for breath, grasping for fags, and pleading for mercy. Maybe we recalled the incongruous sight of the immaculately coiffured and sharply attired Ian Svenonious, he of Make Up fame, studiously avoiding the on-court action, preferring instead to proffer vociferous encouragement to his colleagues from the safety of the sidelines.
We may well have remarked upon Svenonious’ prowess on the softball field. The sheer terror with which we faced his rocket-like pitches. The way he and our hosts mercilessly, almost joyously, ground us into the dirt. We may have explored the stark contrast in the levels of competitiveness between us and our stateside counterparts.
Fugazi Give Us a Hard Beating – with a Softball
Washington, D.C., April 1999. As the sun shines down on that glorious April afternoon at the fag end of the Clinton era, I squint at my beanie-bonced opponent. Surely Ian MacKaye would cut me some slack here. Didn’t we share some kind of Scottish heritage? No such luck for this petrified batsman. He winds up for what looked like serious business and let fly.
The so-called “soft” ball strikes the aluminum bat with such force that it reverberates through my hands, up my arms, around my gormless skull, rattling my puny frame and forcing the club out of my still-vibrating hands. The bat flies farther than the ball.
I stand stunned, dimly aware of my teammates shouting. At me? “Run, you daft fucker! Run!” I attempt to make for first base, and with the graceful gait of a sloth suffering a stroke, I take two steps, lose my footing, and crumple like a sack of Scottish potatoes onto the gritty ground. “Yer out!”
As the innings wear on, the rest of the Brit-based batting order fares little better. A succession of seemingly bionic punk rock pitchers tears through our petrified ranks with ease. One after another, they surrender to a fate similar to that of their bespectacled teammate. Our opponents’ bowling order still strikes fear into me to this day: Ian MacKaye, Kim Coletta, Alec Bourgeois, Brendan Canty.
Before long, it’s time for an innings change. Alas, there is to be little respite for our beleaguered band of amateurs, and the piss-poor quality of our cack-handed bowling only leads to further sporting humiliation. At one point during proceedings, a batter effortlessly connects with a wayward pitch. Klllannnggg!! The resultant shot is sent soaring into the stratosphere.
“Fuck me! These guys are good. He’s actually sent the ball into orbit!”
Suddenly, there’s a distressed yelp. It comes from a soccer field on the far side of the park. A player is down. Seemingly poleaxed. Everyone downs tools and rushes to offer their assistance. As we draw nearer, it seems like he is in some distress. Heart attack? As we get closer still, the area of the injury becomes painfully apparent. The prone striker clutches his crown jewels as his fellow players of a proper sport point to the projectile that struck their comrade down—a dirty great softball.
Fortunately, the damage is minor, and the area of impact, the injured assures us, seems intact. He stands up, dusts himself down, and burst out laughing. We join in, somewhat relieved that an inter-sport fracas has been avoided.
After the game, it’s time to retreat to our base in the leafy DC suburb of Silver Spring. To regroup and ready ourselves for our next adventure. This one involves watching bands and drinking booze. We’re pretty darned good at that.
Fugazi Beats the Hell Out of the Gleaming Bastard
Back in Gipsy Hill, we hang out for a while, and before long, it’s time to depart. Picciotto, Mackaye, and I heave the cases down the fire escape and onto the pavement outside. Loder follows close behind and opens the boot of the Volvo hatchback, placing my precious percussive cargo inside with more care than it had ever received. The years spent on the DIY road paid off, and it’s hard not to admire the ease and care with which the intrepid duo completed their task.
We say our goodbyes outside William Hill. They thank me for helping out and pull out into the chaotic South London traffic.
“Look after them,” I almost say.
My drums. On stage with Fugazi in Manchester. May 12th, 1999.
That was to be the closest I got to accompanying Fugazi on tour. An offer of live support for Shonben at the Brighton date of the tour was nixed at the last moment by an intransigent boss, and thus Scott Crawford and Janet Shonben couldn’t make it. Crawford wrote a song about it, but that’s another story.
I did get to see Busher behind the kit on that tour, though. The mighty thump of the Projector was all present and correct, and the thrill of seeing my humble trap set grace the stage with this juggernaut of a band was almost overwhelming. The tour wore on and the tubs held out. They were returned as promised in pristine condition. Geezers.