There are two types of people who may find this article interesting. If you’re involved in a 12-step program of any kind and maintain your sobriety, but secretly delight in the confessions of relapse or of wild times before Antabuse, you might enjoy what follows as your daily does of Schadenfreude. If you’re a traditionalist chagrined over the infiltration of the conservative movement by those insufficiently orthodox and of poor pedigree, it will be useful knowing that the number of misfit ex-nihilist, speed metal, and punk rock guys in your camp are legion.
Our presence makes a kind of sense. When as a member of the Goth-club underground, my identity was so vitally connected with being on the outside of damned near everything, it was only a matter of time before I gravitated towards traditionalism—a type of conservatism just about as incomprehensible to the mainstream of society as is Swedish black metal to a fan of U2.
I grew up a middle-class white kid from a stable military family. But from the age of 16 to 28, I was the frontman in a string of wildly socially unacceptable bands. We performed what can best be described as “confrontational performance art,” and we did it with a fanaticism that struck the parents as being, well, downright unhealthy.
I’ll recount an episode from the end of an era. My final live performance was with the last remaining person not too frightened or embarrassed to play with me at that point. The show just before scandalized the remaining band members, and they fled. It seems the audience was picking up on the insults hurled its way, and some kind of reprisal began to seem likely.
I had come to detest performing—I was sick of it, and all the yelling would make me hungry, and I’d fixate on burritos. Far worse, I loathed the people we played for.I hated the burn-out posers, metal heads, punks, ska kids, Goths, all of ‘em.
So, knowing this, my bass player heard about a warehouse that was converted by the city of Roanoke, Virginia, into a “new art” gallery. He contacted them, claiming to be an accomplished painter from D.C. who would create a piece of art just for their opening, donate it to the gallery, and than perform with his band for free. They accepted of course. He laughed. I was not amused.
Hating “art fags” even more than spoiled suburban kids thinking they’re Rastafarians, we agreed to make this unbearably uncomfortable for everyone there—indeed, to punish the city of Roanoke for encouraging such nonsense.
As mentioned, we were a two-man band at this point, like Milli Vanilli from Hell. I pre-recorded sequenced drums and other backing parts, over which we played our instruments and sang. Highlights of this five-song set were speed-metal versions of “Sweet Home Alabama” and The Cure’s over the top gay anthem “Fascination Street.” I was pretty sure we’d be kicked out well before reaching the end of the set.
So, we showed up at the warehouse/art gallery and were greeted by a mix of black-tie clad city people, mongrel art kids and punk rockers, probably a few tourists who’d come just to see this heavily promoted event, and the local finger painters proudly standing before their work.
My bandmate was a big, beer-heavy rugby player who liked to be called “Hawg.” We thought it would be funny, and disgusting, if he squeezed himself into a pair of tight black-leather Jim Morrison style pants and wear no shirt. I found a shiny silver shirt that made me look like I was wrapped in tin foil. The event people were visibly nervous when we walked in.
The milling around and hors d’oeuvres ended as the organizers called attention to the center of the main room. My bass player introduced himself as “a TRUE son of the Confederacy!” and then unveiled his gift to the gallery, which was a wooden box, opening up to the audience, about 18 inches wide and 5 inches deep. The inside was painted like a bright blue sky with puffy white clouds, and in front were prison bars—except these prison bars were completely wrapped in pornography. It was horrible beyond belief—not run-of-the-mill Playboy stuff but “you’re going to jail for that” nastiness. I immediately started the sequenced backing tracks, and we launch into the very loud, very aggressive micro set. I introduced each song by yelling short things like,
“You’re all losers! God hates you!”
“Why are you standing there? Go home!”
“You’re living in the South. Don’t bite the hand that feeds, support your tobacco industry!” while tossing out Virginia-grown Chesterfield unfiltered cigarettes.
And my favorite from the evening, “What the FUCK are you LOOKING AT!!”
Imagine Motorhead performing at a Bar Mitzvah. It was vile. But what made it worse was that throughout all this unforgivable behavior, too many of the people there actually liked it—confirming that my instinct to ridicule them was not entirely off base. They should have run us out of town with pitchforks, but instead, at what was a very dark time for me, their acceptance of abuse and contempt affirmed my assessment of my fellow men as despicable, foul, self-loathing creatures.
The scene form Sid and Nancy in which Sid Vicious sings a parody of Sinatra’s “My Way” and then ends the farce by shooting the fawning people in the audience perfectly captures how we felt.
And just where does one go from there?
I moved away from Roanoke a month after this. Eighteen months later, I returned to the Church. Ten years later, I’m reading Erik von Kuehnelt-Leddhin, Robert Nisbet, Romano Guardini and homeschooling four kids in a home without a television. After watching Sarah Palin’s interviews with Charlie Gibson and Katie Couric (on YouTube, of course), I’ve become a but worried. But I can’t get over the fact that I find her so nice. If it comes out that she, too, was in a confrontational performance art band, or owns a copy of Rekapitulacija, there are lots of us out here who would bob our heads, understanding why and how she turned out as she did. We’d be obliged to give her our support.
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The Usual Suspects