Show Report: Bone Awl
June 28 2009 at 08:57:40 PM  Fuck Michael Jackson. Saturday night: Four bands for eight bucks. Three of the four bands: Over an hour late to the venue. I know how to pronounce the names of one of the three bands and I’m still wobbly on the one I can pronounce. Two guys in two of the bands were wearing cowboy boots. Local band opening for the aforementioned consists of two guys. One wears a fedora, muscle tee, shorts, sambas, one fingerless glove in apparent homage to MJ. The other wears large sunglasses. He is overheard singing “PYT” before they plug in and do some “WE LIKE IT UP THE BUTT” noize set. My friend Rob shows me the only way to “smuggle” booze into a show is to walk in with a fucking cooler. No sense in hiding it. “I want to love you, PYT / Pretty Young Thing.” The show’s supposed to start at nine. I’m there at nine. Bone Awl, Volahn, Ashdautas are not there. I go through four tallboys and check my voicemail. “This is a very important message: Do not miss out on the Michael Jackson, R.I.P. t-shirts they are selling at Citgo up the street, man. I woulda bought you one, but I didn’t have the cash.” Another friend goes into a long discourse re: eating beets and says it’s still disturbing in the end even though you know it’s going to come out that way. I agree. Some guy comes out to the parking lot to tell all the crusties – and me – the show’s about to start. OK, so what is the deal with the Spuds McKenzie muscle tee and no shoes? What kind of look is that? I’m still grappling with it. And what is with the guy in the wifebeater and deck shoes up front holding himself and running his fingers through his hair? It’s three bands from California, hoss. It’s not like someone tied your mom up and made you go down on her at knifepoint. First band sucks. The “singer” looks like Silent Bob and he screams lots of unintelligible shit into the mic. It’s like 120 degrees in the venue. I’m soaked. I’m getting drunk. I keep talking like the drummer from Absu. I can’t help myself. Volahn is good. One of the guitarists, who happens to wear cowboy boots and call himself “Volahn,” has a tone that sounds almost too close to Link Wray. The fucker can soar, too. The other guitarist also wears cowboy boots and drums for the second band, Ashdautas. If he cut off all his hair he would look like Cheech Marin. Ashdautas sported a goofy vocalist who hid under a cloak, wore enormous spiked wristbands, and screamed through lots of effects. There were many moments where his vocal was not needed and he just zombied around the stage drinking Pabst. It’s like 130 degrees in the venue. “Cool band guys” arrive with their “cool band chicks” and they look like they are ready to kidnap wifebeater/deck shoes’ mom, tie her up and force him to go down on her. They are not mourning the death of Michael Jackson. .JPG) By the time Bone Awl goes on I’m non-verbal. The beer’s gone. It’s like 140 degrees in the venue. I’m in some devil worm’s womb surrounded by the art space crowd, praying for showers of ice while I overhear the Spuds McKenzie guy singing “Wanna Be Startin’ Somethin’.” But let’s get this straight: Bone Awl is not Black Metal. They are one of the last bona fides Oi! bands around. If you close your eyes you will see that little clip-art swatch with the Doc Martens and the Oi! logo. You will see thin, whitebread boys with clean, shining domes, white tees, braces, bleached jeans, 20-eye oxblood Docs. If you see anything else it’s just wrong. Forget about Bone Awl being two guys, one with long hair, one with short hair, who add a bass player when they perform live. Forget that shit. All you really need to know is one or both of the guys must like Beckett and Skrewdriver and 4-Skins and DePalma once told me Bone Awl made him “antsy.” I am not going to argue. They are some restless, fidgety motherfuckers and the omnipresent oom-pah doesn’t help matters. It smells like beer and sweat and everyone’s screaming and got their fists in the air and suddenly they don’t all look like Starbucks baristas. Wifebeater/deck shoes wipes his mom’s taste outta his craw and starts to do some slamdancin’. “Cool band guys” are visibly pissed and anxious to gain some street cred by kicking this poor retard’s ass. It’s like 150 degrees in the venue. Bone Awl’s entire set sounds like nearly imperceptible permutations on 2003’s Bog Bodies and the last song they play is just “He Who Gnashes Teeth” and “He Who Crushes Teeth” staring at each other – not in a gay way – and playing a restless, fidgety instrumental that is almost too slow and yet too fast and if you look closely at “He Who Gnashes Teeth” you can see the sweat running off his face . “He Who Gnashes Teeth” drops his guitar on the floor and they’re done. It’s practically like someone hit me in the face with their second-hand copy of Molloy. “Mama say, mama saw, Ma ma coo sah.” [Stewart Voegtlin] 
type: reviews
keywords:
black metal,
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georgia,
no homo,
oi!,
skins,
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spuds,
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pabst,
wifebeater deckshoes,
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