February 16, 2009
I'm a Living Sickness
Imagine the dankest, darkest bar you can think of, existing in the basement of some other dank, dark bar. It's filled with unsavory characters who are only there to fight, fuck, or both. The only beer on tap is Old Style, and if you tried to order anything with fruit juice in it, you'd be shown the door. There's only one waitress, and she's 63 years old and wearing a halter top. She could kick your ass without removing the cigarette from the corner of her lipstick-smeared mouth. The smoke haze is almost too thick to see through, but you can just make out a motley crew of mop-headed thugs in the corner, blasting away on instruments in between swigs of fortified wine. They're called The Dwarves, and 4 years later they'll release the punkest album of all time. But for now, in 1986, they're just happy assaulting you with sick, dirty garage rock.