Dagobert's Revenge

The Brickbats


Creepy Crawly: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Undead Rock and Roll Music
An Interview with DW Friend of The Brickbats
Brickbat Links

Creepy Crawly: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Undead Rock and Roll Music

“Yo, I got some crazy good music.”
- The Jerky Boys

How many vampires are too many vampires? How many vampires does it take to screw in a lightbulb? How many vampires can you put in the back of a taxi-cab? And how many bottles of Jim Beam when they require to sustain themselves? Are vampires people too? These are just some of the many questions that will spring to mind upon hearing the Brickbats latest full-length release, Creepy Crawly: The Unauthorized Autobiography of Undead Rock and Roll Music, The Brickbats are well-known for their vivascious, exuberant, playful, animated punk/goth/metal-ish mortuary rock, in the spirit of Ozzie, Kiss and Judas Priest except a bit more jocular in tone and 100 times less likey to make some dumb kid from Nevada blow his face off. This, coupled with their hilarious stage antics, is what has made the Brickbats celebrated local icons in NYC, and it sure makes for a jolly good show. Bearing this in mind, their new CD is far from disappointing. Written like a tell-all trash paperback (and I do mean trash) starring “Corey Gorey (Singer/songwriter) as The Fly”, “Paul Morden (bass player) as The Werewolf”, and “D.W. Friend (drummer) as The Creature”, each track on the album sports a Chapter # and a former title. (One might be forgiven for asking if it’s not also rock & roll’s obituary.) It starts off with the vengeful “Funeral Drive”, about locking some poor girl in a coffin, throwing her in the back of a hearse and taking her “on a ride down the cemetary trail” because, “you shoved your pristine face in the dirty crotch of ruin.” This is followed by “She Walks at Midnight (formerly titled Collect Call from Evil Queen)”, depicting the horror of a sad young woman who drinks too much and tries to put her arms around you, then the aforementioned “Too Many Vampires” (formerly titled Remember Frankenstein)”, the song on this album most worthy of singing in the shower. Afterwards we hear the charming, clever “Run For Your Love Life”, so catchy and pop it could almost be playing on malt shop jukebox. In the Crampsy “Undead Rock & Roll Music (formerly titled Halloween Party Soundtrack)” Mr. Gorey describes his own audience. ‘You like monster music • You like dead looking girls • That underfed big band music • That lurks in this dark world.” Is that something you kids can really identify with? Or does that not accurately describe your unique state of frustrated, cheerless, nihilistic despondency? Then try “Entrails of a Fourth Grade Nothing”, which graphically describes an act of Hari-Kari by an angst-ridden high school student. (I smell a lawsuit.) For more meloncholia, languish in the surf-gloom of “Earthlings”, in which Mr. Gorey proclaims: “The world is square • so ask me if I care • fuck the world, you might as well • Your crotch is pointing straight to Hell”. Then move onto “The Worst Thing (formerly titled “Yes, Virginia, I Do Know All)”, about that introspective, self-absorbed, neurotic, dereistic poet/painter/musician wannabe we all know and what we wish we could do to them. And for those of us who know the agony of megalomania (myself included), “Hysterical” is a journey into the heart and soul of a closet poseur, someone who has achieved a limited amount of success but is still deep down in side, plagued with feelings of inadequacy. The first time I saw the Brickbats live, I was astonished, bedazzled, awestruck, flabbergasted. “I’ll be damned!”, I said to myself. “That beats the Dutch!” When I finally met my idols in the flesh, I was speechless. And when I heard their CD I said “Will wonders never cease?” The Brickbats are won of the greatest, most entertaining rock bands I’ve heard this decade, and I don’t think I’m wrong in declaring Mr. Corey Gorey the voice of our degenertate generation. And they’ve been keeping busy. They’re also on a bitchin comp album called The Curse of the Hearse, along with scene heroes like Secret Cervix, Piker Ryan’s Folly, The X-Possibles, Romanticide, The Late Guys, doing a version of the Brickbats’ own “Dr. Acula”, Angelsin, who admittedly “suck cock”, and Stiffs Incorportated. It features the Brickbats doing Larry Clinton’s “Satan Takes a Holiday” and it weren’t for those irksome X-Possibles (the musical equivalent of meddling teenagers) would be absolutely perfect. As your Exalted Grand Master I encourage you to aquire both of these articles and to follow the Brickbats wherever their slimy trail leads you.

Buy Creepy Crawly at amazon.com

Gettin’ Friendly with D.W. Drummer for the Brickbats & "Captain of Ship"

It was a balmy summer night, a Friday, many months ago. My pal Brian and I had finally peeled ourselves out of bed at about 9 p.m. and, despite our exhaustion, lurched our half-dead bodies out to the Pyramid on Avenue A, cuz Brian insisted we see all the New York goth clubs while he was in town. The big burly bouncer felt us up at the entrance and marked our hands with big Xs that wouldn’t wash off for a week so that the bartender would know we were underage. A really shitty band was on stage, led by some slut with purposely shredded stockings who kept on doing this annoying cat imitation and who introduced her drummer as “the father of my baby, tee hee hee.”

“So far the New York goth scene really sucks”, Brian whispered. I don’t know what he was expecting. After they were through, I went up to the bar to get a Sprite, and when I came back, the headline act, “The Brickbats” were already setting up. Fake cobwebs, cardboard tombstones with stupid fake epitaphs, and a string of jack-o-lantern lights decorating the drum set.

“This is gonna be cheesy”, I said.

“I know”, said Brian excitedly. “I can’t wait.”

A short while later, three men dressed like the loot in a grave robbery came out, grabbed their instruments, and went completely insane. The air was filled with flying insults, wisecracks, and shouts of “I love Rock and Roll!” I swear the bass player, Paul Morden, was having an epileptic fit. Then he bit down on a paint pellet, squirting it all over his face and his worm-eaten clothes. It was beautiful. The undisputed Captain of the Ship, however, was sitting behind the drum set providing a running commentary. I don’t remember any of the songs, but they were great, metally goth-punk horror ballads seemingly inspired by USA’s Up All Night. After the all-too-brief set, the drummer, D.W. Friend handed out copies of The D.W. Friend Club Magazine, so of course I snatched one up. A few weeks later, I interviewed the man who describes himself as “undead rock and roll’s most outrageous performer.”

D.R.: What's a Brickbat, and when did you first realize that you were meant to be one?

D.W.: It's so nice to meet you, and I'm really glad we have this time together. What is a Brickbat...yes, yes. I could hit you over the head with it, but I won't because I like you.

D.R.: What inspires you?

D.W.: When I see the look on Mister Paul Morden and Corey Gorey's angelic faces, a tear forms in my eye. Three beautiful men creating such sensitive and caring music together is the most natural thing in the world. Don't let no Bible-Belters tell you no different.

D.R.: Who do you consider your God?

D.W.: What should I say? I love ALL Gods. False Gods, Gods of Thunder and Rock and Roll. And don't forget the God of Hellfire--'cause he brings you fire. He'll teach YOU to burn.

D.R.: What if you had a blowhole? Y'know, like a whale or a dolphin. I mean, what if?

D.W.: I could spend all day thinking about that, but as I enter the bathroom and inspect my rear I find nothing out of the ordinary. This reminds me of a funny story. (D.W. closes his eyes and giggles to himself quietly for 5 minutes.)

D.R.: Would you say that you and Paul Morden have a "sycophantic" relationship? (Or maybe a "sicko-phantic" relationship?)

D.W.: Absolutely not. If I understand "sycophantic" correctly, absolutely not. No, we are both straight.

D.R.: If YOU had a cum-stained dress, what would YOU do with it?

D.W.: I'd put it with all the other cum-stained dresses. I'm currently wearing the fall collection. Smell. (Extends arm.)

D.R.: Someone told me that they saw you at the dog fights once. Is that possible?

D.W.: In this topsy-turvy world anything is possible. I once heard a song, sung by the angel Gene Simmons, "When you wish upon a star..." (D.W. prances around the room humming.)

D.R.: Can you think of anything that's really worth an arm and a leg?

D.W.: Just another arm and a leg, but bigger. I wanna kick ASS!

D.R.: Are beavers rodents?

D.W.: Some of my best friends are beavers, and I don't think they would lump themselves in with the rodent class.

D.R.: In your opinion, is Satan in the driver's seat?

D.W.: No! Satan's on my right, in the passenger side of my DeLorian automobile, screaming, "Hey Frehley, Frehley, let's not be silly, there's a life out there to steal." He realizes he has the wrong car, but he refuses to leave. Satan hates to admit that he's wrong.

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