Dammit

Context:  Here's a thing that I wrote almost a month ago.  I finally gathered the wherewithal to give it a half-assed edit and post it.

March 5^th, 2020—9:30am

     I am currently sitting in the observation area of a crematorium with my daughter and my niece. Dopesmoker, by Sleep, is playing on the headphones and is accompanied by the roar of the oven on the other side of the window.

     The past three weeks have been difficult to say the least but at least I'm here to see my mother off to the very end.  It's a two to three hour process to reduce the person that gave birth to me down to a cookie jar full of calcium.  She went fast and there was little pain once the meds kicked in.  I'd much rather have that for her than the long drawn out struggle that was lined up in front of her.

     I stepped back from the planning of the arrangements in order to give other family members that showed up to help something to fill their time and help to express their own grief by lending a hand. Stepping back will also give me a minute to gather some much needed solitude.

     Over the next three days, I'm going to be surrounded by people that want to express their own grief and sympathy in my general direction and I have no idea how I'm going to handle that because I don't know where to put my own truckload of grief.  There are only so many times that I can hear, “I'm sorry for your loss,” before it starts to turn into background noise.

     Having a very low tolerance for human interaction is probably not the best place be through all of this and will wear on my patience by the time this is all over.  Trying to hold it together until this is done has been nearly impossible.  The quiet moments through the day are when the weight hits me hardest.  Trying to get through to the next day and the one after that.

     Things will slow down.  Old routines will reemerge.  Trying to remember will become the challenge as time moves on.  On my phone, I still have the last voicemail that she left me.  I haven't been able to bring myself to listen to it.  And that's okay because it will take me a while to find that stupid headphone adapter so I can plug my iPhone into my stereo and make a proper recording of it.

     Blackstar, by David Bowie, is up next and I'm sure I'm about to turn into a puddle because I am a glutton for punishment.

March 7^th, 2020—7:00pm

     After a whirlwind three days of visitations, a service and a luncheon, the job is done.  I'm sitting alone in my house and don't know what to do with myself.  I've been operating through this weird, bleary eyed exhaustion over the past few weeks and now that I have a moment to relax I can't.

     By the end of the first night of visitation, I was light headed and in a daze.  So many hands were shaken and countless hugs were received.  I saw a lot of faces that I hadn't seen in years and a lot more people that I had no idea who they were.  The entire evening went by in a blur.  At least Onion Maiden was still open by the time I was back in the area because there was no way I was going to function long enough to make anything to eat.

     Friday was the long day with the two hour visitation in the afternoon followed by a two hour dinner break and another two hour session in the evening.  It was such a flurry of activity that I didn't have a chance to actually talk to anybody in a meaningful way and can't really remember anything that happened during the two visitations.

     One of my relatives that lives near the funeral home offered to have everyone over for dinner so we wouldn't get stuck at any of the nearby restaurants.  I'm grateful that he did that so everyone else was taken care of but I needed to duck out in order to get away from the masses for a few minutes.

     That plan went to shit almost immediately.  My desire to have a quiet table for three suddenly became a table for eight.  I ended up having to stay in character over dinner instead of being able to decompress for an hour or so and to return to my natural state of being a miserable prick for a while.

     Earlier today was the last hour of visitation followed by the service and the luncheon.  Even though it was only a few hours ago, I can't really remember any details of the events.  Exhaustion and trauma are funny that way.  More than likely, it will all start coming back to me over the next few days and weeks once I have a chance to catch my breath.

     After lunch, we had to go back to the funeral home to pick up the last of the flowers and give her one last ride home.  Over the past few weeks while she was in the hospital her main goal was to make it back home so she could spend the last of her time with her family and friends but she never made it home.

     Trying to put this into words has been like pulling teeth.  My brain doesn't want to do anything besides shut down and not think about anything for a long time.  I find myself staring at the floor every so often and I have to shake myself out of it to try to regain some sort of focus.  There is really nothing to say and nothing that can be done about any of this.

     The feelings of my own mortality and the streamlined manner in which I live that this has stirred up has been less than helpful.   I can't blame anyone other than myself for getting me to where I am.  Sitting in a house by myself not knowing how to process a traumatic brain injury's worth of grief and sadness.  Not really feeling anything because I am feeling everything at once.

     Fuck it.

Hmmm... Where Did I Leave My Guillotine?

     Beings that I am a well known and notorious party animal, last Saturday night I could be found rocking out with my calculator at home doing my taxes.  That's how I roll with my life of excitement.

     Even with my usual charitable donations to Planned Parenthood and the ACLU, among others, my refund came up about $500 lighter than it usually is.  One new wrinkle was that job expenses, such as union dues and costs of uniforms, can no longer be claimed as deductions.  Other credits were smaller than in past years as well and will probably get smaller in upcoming years.

     This is proof that the pigfucker tax cut that was passed a few years ago was complete bullshit.  I only ended up with an extra ten dollars in my paycheck and now my tax refund is a third smaller than it has ever been.

     That extra ten dollars in my paycheck has been more than lost to the yearly increases in health insurance costs that get sucked out of my check.  I am hanging onto the middle class by my finger nails and, along with a lot of other people, am forced to bear the brunt of this system of corporate socialism that prevents us from living lives that are more than being a cog in their machine.

     I guess I missed the meeting where it was decided that our Capitalist overlords needed to somehow be more comfortable.  The snake oil of trickle down economics never seems to go away no matter how many times it's been proven to not be beneficial to the working class.  That's not to say that it doesn't work.  Trickle down economics works exactly as designed.  The wealthy pay less in taxes and then put that money in their pockets.  That's it.  The snake oil part of the equation was when everyone bought the lie where they were supposed to hire more people and redistribute this money to us underlings.  As if a greedy pigfucker was going to spend money that they didn't need to.

     And it's only going to get worse for everyone.  Fuckface Von Clownstick's latest budget proposal contains cuts to every social program and government department that helps us look after our fellow humans.  But of course there will be more money allotted for military spending, wall building and forcing things in Space.

     Recently, Pete Buttigieg stopped speaking in empty platitudes that made no sense just long enough to claim that union workers would lose their health insurance plans under Medicare For All.  And he said this as if it were a bad thing.

     My wages have stagnated over the past twenty years due to the cost of health insurance.  I have damn near $100 a week taken out of my paycheck to pay for it.  And I'm sure other people have more taken out.  Imagine how much weight would be taken off of our collective shoulders if we had that money in our bank accounts instead of it going to Highmark or UPMC.

     What the mayor of Podunk, Indiana is trying to do is conflate health insurance with healthcare in order to scare people away from Medicare For All.  They are two different things and he is lying.  I'm sure that some of his corporate masters that are funding his campaign are executives from the insurance industry which would be no surprise.

     This is being said with a straight face to make people think that they are having the ability to choose taken away from them.  The other side of that coin is that it's a choice people should never have had to make in the first place.

     The past several contract negotiations that my union has been involved with all had extremely regressive company proposals that would have destroyed the lives of the rank and file.  Once the union agreed that the membership would pay more in insurance contributions, the company took all of those proposals off the table.  Labor could make larger gains for their members if they weren't tied down over the cost of health insurance.

     One of the other lies about Medicare For All is that all of the employees that process claims and work at call centers would all lose their jobs when private insurance companies are no longer needed. There will be a need for claims processors and call center workers when Medicare For All is up and running.  Except this time they will potentially be union government jobs with pensions and other benefits that a private company would never agree to.  The main difference will be in not ruining someone's day by denying a claim because a form was incorrectly filled out.

     As for the cost of Medicare For All, who gives a shit.  I'm tired of all of these so called Christians refusing to alleviate the suffering of their fellow man because we might have to cut the part of the budget that pays for the cages that we keep the children in.  If my tax dollars went to actually helping people and would prevent them from losing their house because they got sick instead of blowing up brown people with robots on the other side of planet, I would be perfectly fine with that.

     How is it possible that after all these years people still don't want to come to grips with the fact that the profit motive behind private insurance leads to them never wanting to pay a claim because it cuts into their profits.  The Red Scare bullshit from the 1950s worked way too well and was then used as a cover for insurance companies to make money.  Wanting everyone in the country to be able to go to a doctor without going broke somehow became the equivalent to screaming “Death To America!!!” If the con was that easy to pull off, no wonder education budgets always get cut.  Keep people stupid, keep them from thinking, keep them in line.

     And of course filling out paperwork, arguing on the phone all day with the insurance company and paying copays for every office visit is the perfect prescription for someone that is sick.  Nothing makes me feel better than trying to force a company do the thing that they are paid to do.  What would people do with all of that extra time on their hands?  That's right, they would recuperate.

     This system of sucking every last penny out of the pockets of the working class and less fortunate is not sustainable and is very close to imploding.  It has used our labor against us and will spit us out when we are no longer viable.  We will all be held upside down by our ankles and shaken until all of the loose change has fallen out of our pockets.

     Maybe it's time to bring back the guillotine.

Trying To Rise Above The Noise

     Recently, I've been thinking about the divisions in the punk scene and those who take it upon themselves to determine what is “punk” or not.  Everyone, including myself, seems to have their own set of arbitrary rules that they think everyone else should adhere to.

     If a band or person falls outside of these rules they are immediately dismissed and met with derision.  I find it odd that a style of music that was based on coloring outside of the lines turned into a scene that quickly chastises a band for coloring outside of the lines.

     I always think back to when I was in high school and the MTV trust fund punks that I went to school with had the great Rancid v. Green Day debate.  Those bands were on the “Modern Rock” radio station so frequently that I was worn out on both of them.  And neither one of those bands ever really spoke to me to begin with.

     When I gave a bit of a chuckle and an eye roll at their argument, they looked down their noses in my direction and asked me what I was listening to.  This group of people that threw the word “poser” around as if it were a slur gave the blank stare of cluelessness when I said Black Flag.

     At that time, I was working my way backwards from the Rollins Band.  Since I was only eight years old when Black Flag broke up the band was unexplored territory for me.  I had recently discovered Damaged and was mainlining all thirty five minutes of that record directly into my brain at all hours of the day.  Between “Ruby Soho” and all of the singles off of Dookie, those songs were not for me and none of them were any competition for “Rise Above” or “Room 13.”

     I was developing a taste for the extreme and more out there end of the spectrum that was far away from the radio friendly/MTV informed world that these kids were living in.  These uptight pricks also gave me my first taste of class war.  I didn't know how to give form to the thought at the time but now that I look back on it, it was definitely a bit of class war.  They would come in on Mondays with tales of kayaking, rock climbing and skiing while I sat in my room all weekend reading, writing shitty teenage poetry and listening to the CDs that I bought with my lunch money.  Those CDs were more nourishing to me than anything that could be served in the school cafeteria.

     Their dads were corporate lawyers and plastic surgeons and had no trouble throwing money at the tuition involved with going to that school.  My dad was a union wage slave that put in several hours of overtime to send me to that school and for some reason I was looked down on for that.  That's when I learned that rich people were fucked and I quickly withdrew from them.  They could keep their spikey jackets and shitty music, I made my way to the library to hang out with Sartre, Camus and any poets I could find until graduation.

     Years later, the faces have changed but the arbitrary rules and cliquey bullshit still persist.  There seems to be no way to bridge the gap between the punk bands in Pittsburgh that are interested in playing shows and building something sustainable and the bands that have a destructive, scorched earth approach to playing music.

     I have noticed that there's a part of the Pittsburgh scene that will only pay attention to bands that exist long enough to play approximately five shows and put out a demo tape.  During those five shows they'll destroy the venues and PA equipment before they fizzle out.  At some point, no one will want to host these shows and no one will want to bring their PA equipment to be doused in PBR and stomped on.

     The prevailing attitude seems to be that if you didn't want your PA equipment broken, then you shouldn't have brought it.  Which then leads me to wonder how there can be a show without a PA.  I guess that wasn't taken into consideration.

     If a band is around long enough to put out more than one record, they usually end up in a no win situation with the naysaying gatekeepers.  If they put out a record that sounds too similar to their previous work, they get slammed for putting out the same record over and over.  If a band decides to keep themselves from getting bored and puts out a record that sounds slightly different they get hit with the “What happened? They suck now” nonsense of the walking YouTube comments that only rent their music from some bullshit streaming service and never created anything in their lives.

     And how dare a band capture a decent sounding recording.  If there's anything close to a  distinguishable bass line on a record, the shouts of “Sell Outs!!!” rain down.

     It is really difficult to create something and then to be willing to share it with the rest of the world. That's why I try not to pass judgement on a band or a record.  I always ask myself the question, “Well, what band am I in?” instead of saying “Well, that sucked.”  Since these opinions are all subjective anyway, the worst I'll say is “I guess that wasn't for me” and move on to something that I really enjoy.

     One of the things that has always bothered me is the hyper competitive nature of music in Pittsburgh.  It's not sports.  There's no ranking system.  And don't we all want to get away from the every day jock bullshit that drew us to Punk in the first place?

     After all these years, I am still most comfortable listening at home.  Watching the needle land in the groove and take off at 33 and 1/3 RPMs while the music comes pouring out of the speakers is still one the most satisfying experiences that I can have.  It sure does beat catching an elbow to the head and getting sprayed with some sort of booze while trying to take pictures.

     It's been well over a month since the last time I went to a show.  I have gotten really good at talking myself out of going to several of them in the past few weeks.  I'll have my bag packed and camera charged to head out the door but through the course of the day I'll eventually convince myself that I would be better off staying in than putting up with the crowds and getting home at a late hour.  I really would have liked to have seen some of those bands but could not bring myself to venture outdoors.

     Not wanting to put up with the hassle might be part of getting older.  Either that or I'm coming to grips with no longer giving a shit and no longer being in denial about it.  Outside of the confines of my own head, none of it means anything anyway so fuck it.

     I'm not sure what could be done to close the divides and turn around the attitudes in the Pittsburgh scene and I'm also not sure if it even matters.  I'm probably the only person that thinks of this shit as if it were important but the things that keep me alive usually do draw my focus.

Sad Boy Hates His Day Job Part 666

     Having been American Dreamed into a mountain of debt that I will more than likely never pay off, being able to walk away from my bullshit office job is becoming more and more unlikely.

     I end up spending most of my time teaching management how to do their jobs.  It is indescribably disheartening trying to politely explain to an idiot that gets paid more than I do that they are, in fact, an idiot.  Bill Hicks once said something about teaching dogs card tricks.  It is very much like that. The corporate culture of failing upward is in full swing.  Being able to hear someone's blank stare over the telephone or an email is not something that I ever thought would be possible but it is a regular occurrence now.

     It doesn't help matters that the building that I work in makes no sense either.  The diesel exhaust for the power generator is right next to the outside air intake for the ventilation system.  This means that every Tuesday when the generator is tested, the building is filled with diesel fumes and makes me want to succumb to the sweet relief of carbon monoxide poisoning.

     I used to take every opportunity that I could to stick my nose in a book while at work but lately the place is so exhausting that I end up sleeping for a few minutes instead.  As much as I would like to read the collected writings of Eugene Debs, I can't keep my eyes open anymore.

     That seems to be a large part of the Capitalism/wage slave cycle that I'm stuck in.  The job keeps me worn down to the point that I can do little else other than show up at a desk at 7am.  Keeping the brain dull and the body in decline.  After twenty years, my lower back has been destroyed to the point where I have trouble walking without intense pain.  My chiropractor has probably been able to put an addition onto his house with the amount of times I've been through his office.

     And yet I still show up every day like an idiot.  Instead of taking a cue from my coworker who got themselves a six month “disability” vacation because they lost a fight against the candy machine in the break room.

     I keep having flashbacks of family gatherings where all of my uncles would sit around talking about their day jobs for the entire afternoon and over the years it turned into my cousins doing the same thing.  Two generations of people that were unable to identify as anything but their source of income.  That's one of the reasons that I stopped going to those things.  The main reason being the not so casual bigotry but also not wanting to talk about my employment when I'm not getting paid for it.

     One of the few upsides to my mountain of debt is that I can at least claim some sort of ownership to my house.  With home ownership I am somewhat protected when the crosshairs of gentrification are aimed at my neighborhood.  As much as upkeep and maintenance are a drain on my psyche, my mortgage payment will stay the same while everyone else's rent doubles.  I'm already getting offers in the mail on a weekly basis from scumbag house flippers that want to buy my house.  Gentrification has always made me wonder where people go when they can't afford to live anywhere.

     Due to the ever changing media landscape, I would have trouble spinning the writing/photography thing into a sustainable source of income.  Everything is freelance since these digital media conglomerates are buying up every outlet and laying off the the staff positions that have steady paychecks and health benefits.  On top of that, the world is already filled with an over abundance of writers and photographers that want to get paid for covering music so finding my way in as a hobbyist would be a challenge.

     And I'm pretty sure that the world doesn't need the opinions of yet another rapidly aging white guy.  I don't say that begrudgingly due to the fact that white guys have been the predominant voice over the past several hundred years.  It's been well past time to broaden the spectrum of voices that have a platform.

I'm saying that I more than likely missed my shot.  I should have wholeheartedly dedicated myself to this enterprise back in my early twenties when I could survive on half a pack of ramen noodles and three drops of Pepsi for a week and I was the only person I needed to look after.

     Instead, I opted for the safe route that landed me where I am and with few options besides sitting here filled with varying levels of existential dread.

Brooklyn Bound With Killer Of Sheep

     Back on December 28^th, 2019, I was invited by Killer Of Sheep to get in the van and head toward Brooklyn, NY where the band was going to open for Poison Idea.  Killer Of Sheep was booked to play the first of two shows that were serving as the farewell to Poison Idea because after over thirty years of service, the band was hanging it up.

     This was the first time in years that I was traveling with a large group of people.  I had to remember how to live collectively and also as a passenger.  I can't even remember the last time I was in a vehicle and wasn't driving.  Luckily, the social anxiety was held at bay by the task at hand.

     Since we were traveling on the Saturday after a holiday, every single rest stop was overcrowded with people that had no idea what the fuck they were doing.  I was the third person in line at the coffee place that shall not be named and it took almost a half hour to get through the line and get the coffee in my face.  The person in front of me spent his time playing video games on his phone and had no idea what he wanted to order when he got to the counter.  While he was discussing out of season menu items with the employee, he decided to jam his hand down the front of his sweatpants and proceeded to (what I can only hope) adjust his junk for an extremely long time.

     I shocked the cashier when I knew what I wanted and had the exact change plus dollar tip ready to pay for it.  I thought that might speed up the process of getting me out the door but to no avail.  I had to wait for them to make the four overly complicated drinks that “Hand In Pants” had ordered before they would hand me the iced coffee that I had ordered even though they had poured it and left it sitting behind the counter until my number was called.

     Due to an excessive amount of traffic, we got to Gold Sounds later than planned so I was not left with any real amount of time to roam around the neighborhood to take pictures and potentially find a record store.  The no record store thing probably worked out for the best since there might not have been enough room in the van to bring back what I'm sure would have been a comically large purchase.

     Mati, was the first band up.  From what I remember, they were pretty good.  I couldn't really focus on what they were doing since I was trying to figure out how to get around the lighting issues that I was having.  There was just enough red light being used to wash out the pictures I was getting.  The more I do this, the more I learn to despise red lighting.

     I was happy to see Killer Of Sheep get a positive response out of the crowd when they played. Sadly, they had to drive eight hours to get away from the typical Pittsburgh indifference but the New York crowd seemed to be into what they had to say.  Poison Idea singer, Jerry A joined them on stage to cover “Circle One” by The Germs and absolutely crushed it.  Every time I see Killer Of Sheep play, I feel fortunate that I get to witness it and am grateful that I'm included to tag along.  It might seem like a minor thing but it does mean a lot.

     Deathcycle played next and brought even more red lighting with them.  It was time to switch to the flash so I could at least have some sort of workable pictures.  Deathcycle played an abrasive flavor of punk/hardcore that could easily clear a room.  Their singer bounced around the crowd like a pinball while screaming his head off.  I was an instant fan.

     Philly punk legends, YDI (pronounced “why die”) were the last opener.  I had first encountered YDI on the soundtrack for the American Hardcore documentary and it took me a few minutes to connect the dots when they started playing.  By the time they were done, I was smitten.  They even threw in a State Of Alert cover to completely win me over.  At the end of the night, I made my way to the merch table to pick up their record but had missed my chance since they had sold them all.  Luckily for me, it was a reissue that is readily available through mail order from the mighty Southern Lord.

     Poison Idea came out with a blazing cover of the 13^th Floor Elevators' “You're Gonna Miss Me” and almost brought me to tears.  Since the passing of Roky Erickson, I never thought that I was going to be in a room while that song was played live.  Let alone standing stage left, next to the guitar player while it was happening.  I saw the song on the set list before the band came out and it still leveled me even though I knew it was coming.

     Poison Idea was one of the many bands that I was aware of but never really crossed paths with over the years.  I had a few of their records but never really spent much time with them.  There are way too many bands, way too many records and not enough time in the day so some bands fall through the cracks.  Recently, I did start to spin the records and give them more attention and now I've got the entire Poison Idea back catalogue to play around with.

     It is interesting to be in a room full of die hard fans watching a band and observing everyone losing their collective shit.  Poison Idea meant a lot to these people and they made sure the band knew it before the end of the night.

     After waiting for the crowd to filter out into the night, we threw the gear back into the van and hightailed it out of Brooklyn.  It was funny to see the New York traffic alert LED signs warning drivers to avoid Times Square due to the impending doom of the New Year's Eve events.  You don't have to tell me twice.  The dirty Elmo vs. dirty Spider-Man fights are enough to make me stay far away from Times Square.

     As far as I could tell, the drive home was uneventful.  I made sure to pass out as soon as I could in case I was needed to drive for a stretch but my number didn't get called.

     Even though it was only for a day, I was glad to see that I could still get in the van.  After several years away from it and becoming needy with my preferences in my old age/solitude, I had my doubts. Many thanks to Killer Of Sheep for having me along.

London Called And I Heard It Loud And Clear

     Back on December 14,2019, I was lucky enough to be invited along to take pictures at Mr. Smalls Theater when, The Clash tribute band, The Guns Of Brixton reconvened to celebrate the fortieth anniversary of London Calling being released.

     The Guns Of Brixton is loaded with players from various bands from different parts of the Pittsburgh music scene.  Witnessing load in and sound check immediately made my aching back appreciate that I was only there in a capacity to take pictures.

     There were four guitar players, a bass player, three singers, two drummers, a keyboard player and a horn section with four or five people.  Damn near every microphone and wedge monitor that could be found in the building was put to use.

     The reasoning behind showing up with a small army's worth of musicians was due to the task at hand of playing London Calling from beginning to end.  The Clash spared no track on the mixing board when London Calling was recorded and it was jam packed with so many sounds that if you listen to the record carefully, you can hear the kitchen sink in the mix.

     Beings that I wasn't even ten years old when The Clash broke up, I did not have the opportunity to see them on the two occasions that the band came through town.  I have heard mixed accounts of both shows from different people that were there so I'm glad that I still have the mental image intact of what I think it would have been like to see The Clash at the height of their powers.

     Joe Strummer never came through Pittsburgh with The Mescaleros and I did not have a chance to travel to Cleveland or Washington DC when they toured in the late 90s.  Any excuse that I had for not making those trips was rendered immediately regrettable when the man passed in December of 2002.

     The Guns Of Brixton opened the show with a set of songs off of The Clash.  A few songs in, it became evident to me that the hours of practice over the weeks leading up to the show were hours well spent.  I was able to steal a few moments from taking pictures to close my eyes and let the music sink in while I listened.

     Eleventh Hour hit stage next and played Give 'Em Enough Rope from front to back.  I'm not sure who anybody in Eleventh Hour is but the way they attacked those songs, I will definitely try to track down what they do on a regular basis.  They were another example of what can be accomplished after several hours of practice.

     After a brief change over, The Guns Of Brixton came back out to fulfill their mission of playing London Calling.  From “London Calling” to “Train In Vain,” being in a room while those songs were being played live was mind bending.  I have several hours of Clash bootlegs, from almost every era of the band, and none of them have the dynamic range compared to actually being in the room while it was happening.

     As much as the glut of cover bands in the Pittsburgh area drives me crazy, that is not the intention of The Guns Of Brixton.  They aren't going from watering hole to watering hole playing the greatest hits to scrape together beer money.  They get together once every several years to honor Joe Strummer and The Only Band That Matters.  Whether people were in the band or in the crowd, almost everybody in Mr. Smalls that night had The Clash in their DNA and needed to hear the music treated with the reverence it deserves.

     For me, Joe Strummer and The Clash loom large over my life and who I am as a person.  If the man were alive today, I can't help but think that he'd be leading the charge against the awfulness that seems to be surrounding us.  In his absence, it's up to all of us to figure out how we're gonna come while they're kicking at our front door.

Poison Idea At Gold Sounds On December 28, 2019

     Here are pictures that I took at Poison Idea's second to last show.  It took place at Gold Sounds in Brooklyn, NY on December 28, 2019.  The lineup was Poison Idea, YDI, Deathcycle, Killer Of Sheep and Mati.

Poison Idea:

YDI:

Deathcycle:

Killer Of Sheep covering "Circle One" by The Germs with Jerry A from Poison Idea on vocals:

Killer Of Sheep:

Mati`: