By Guest word blogger Pat Jarrett and vid blogger Kyle Johnson
We were out of beers. Mark Gastar and I discovered this simultaneously when we saw Pete Skalski, Mark’s bandmate in Corn Rocket, drinking my last Coors. On the way back from the BP, Mark shared a story from when Corn Rocket was out touring and the band and their “entourage” rang up a bar tab larger than the band made from performing at the venue. It’s a scene that played out in The Blues Brothers, an absurd, slapstick, SNL comedy movie. “I’ll just go out and take a collection from the boys.” For those who don’t remember, this was an inciting incident that led to one of the best car chases in cinematic history, but I digress.
It happened to my band last month. It’s comforting to see that there’s still no money in DIY music.
Corn Rocket reunited on Saturday to support the screening of No More Punk Time: The Last Days of Crayola House, a documentary I made with Tarik Begic, Kyle Johnson and Will Russell about 275 Old South High Street, which was a DIY music venue since 1992 when it was called Corn Rocket House, named after the band who lived there. Our documentary benefited from the footage we received from Terry Harrison, who dutifully documented the 90s “freak posse” era.
The freak posse reunited on the occasion of NMPT screening at the Virginia Film Festival. Thomas Dean had a fresh batch of shirts featuring the freaks’ mascot, a sickly-looking three eyed pig with antlers named Dukie, that Billy Hunt wore during Buck Gooter’s opening set that night.
Buck Gooter is one of the wildest, and most quintessential Harrisonburg bands I’ve ever seen. Billy Brett opened the set by placing his late band member’s chainmail headdress on a mic stand at the front of their stage, between the Billys. Throughout the set, recordings Terry’s voice played over the PA furthering the shambolic and shamanistic ritual that is a Buck Gooter set.
Sally Rose claimed underground royal status in the lyrics of Sweet Freak, “do you even know who I am / I’m the damn King of the underground.” A bold claim indeed when performing in a room full of underground musicians, but they can confidently claim the crown. Shagwüf’s swampy riffs had old heads banging through their set, and Sweet Pete Stallings’ guitar sounded like it belonged on a Tarantino movie soundtrack. New drummer Brittany Horkan had a great performance.
If Shagwüf are the royals of the current underground music scene, then Krode are the pitchfork-wielding serf mob. Praveen Chhetri’s guitar hit strong and precise, like any good siege engine should. The galloping rhythms from Matt Isham on bass and Jared Zimmerman on drums gave Grant Penrod a structure for his pointed words. (Unlike Metallica) Krode has a clear point of view: fascism is taking over, everything is fucked, modern technology is keeping us disconnected and they’re pissed off about it. My voice is still hoarse from screaming along to I’ve Had It.
Between smoking-hot rippers, Grant also gave thanks to the Freak scene and those who made Corn Rocket House and Crayola House such a special place. “Some of you here tonight assisted in lighting a fire that is still burning today, so thank you for that.”
Corn Rocket seemed to be as surprised as the rest of us that they still rocked that hard. The band had been rehearsing in the evenings the days leading up to Saturday, and the sweaty and sloppy soul of these guys lit up the whole venue. Peter danced and shoved the mic in the faces of old friends who knew the lyrics by heart. Lance Lumar’s bass still had the tags on it, as he planned to return the instrument en route home to California, but there were no intentions to return his performance. Mark’s guitar sound was positively filthy, feeding back between songs in the best way, held in place by Lance’s low end.
At the end of a 14-song set Peter tiredly told the crowd that they were out of songs. Of course there were calls for more. I’m sure Billy was tired, he bookended the whole show, but he dutifully got back behind the drums and ripped out another version of King Corn before calling it a night.
Showing our film to this audience felt like looking through an old photo album at a family reunion. Though we knew that it was a big deal to show this film at the Virginia Film Festival, we also knew that this community screening meant so much more. Crayola House and Corn Rocket may not be a venue anymore, but the foundations of community, chosen family and love will live on as long as people remember it. Saturday’s soundtrack will continue ringing in my ears long after the amps are switched off and the lights are turned off.
Crayola House is dead. Long live the dead.
