“Browbeat was, to my knowledge, the first xerox-punk fanzine in the United States. It was David and me and Greg. And Sharon Ehle too. Debbie Dub/Durham was gonna be a part of it, but I think she was out of town that spring and summer. We were totally ripping off Sniffin’ Glue from England. We had copies of those in hand, probably from even their first issue, maybe. Browbeat grew out of boredom. I don’t remember how many copies we printed but it was something like 200, 250, 300 — it wouldn’t have been anywhere near as many as 500, and I was paying the xerox bill, ’cause I had a job. I can’t imagine I had more than like $50 bucks in all of life to piss away.”

• Bart Bull (We Are The Consumers)

“Although Phoenix was a bit behind the curve when it came to exposing a fluid punk/underground culture, it is interesting to note Bart Bull’s claim that he and David Wiley from the Consumers created the world’s first xerox-copied punk fanzine called Browbeat in June 1977. It’s first and only issues predates L.A.’s Flipside #1 by a month or so. I am not quite sure who was featured or what was written. The Browbeat name lived on years later as the name of Wiley’s local music column that appeared in the Phoenix New Times.”

• Vil Vodka (Because I Wasn’t There)

“There’s no question that David and Greg and me created Browbeat in direct imitation/competition with Sniffin’ Glue… but first, way before us and, really, more important, if only because it was first and even less anchored to any apparent existing reality, was KDIL Blues Licks.“

• Bart Bull (We Are The Consumers)

Bonus:

BROWBEAT: A COLUMN
Gothic thrashmongers TSOL crashed into town last Saturday for a packed and rowdy summer’s eve show. It’s the best time of year, spring air in the bloodstream, young men anxious to lock horns, let off some steam. Aggressive music breeds aggressive behavior, yes, but why not fight the things that matter.Take on apathy, the power structure or the media for starters. Throughout the recent local past nobody — but nobody — has manipulated more attention than THE FEEDERZ. Just when their music, a cleverly crafted hodgepodge of infected styles, was reaching an international level of acceptance, commander-in-chief FRANK DISCUSSION has announced that neither the band nor the concept nor that upcoming EP exist. A final performance is being considered. Frank then plans on selling his history-laden equipment and exiling himself from music for the time being. Other members will continue with their own projects.

Last week’s debut of PARIS 1942 was every bit as interesting as it promised to be, with each member turning in virtuoso performances of their extraordinary brand of rock’n'roll. Yes, rock’n'roll of the droning, hypnotic variety, oozing with life. As tired a cliche as ‘rock’n'roll’ is, there are those determinedly dedicated to redefining the term, two examples here in this group and openers MEAT PUPPETS. Commenting afterwards, MO TUCKER was pleased with her first live performance in over a decade although she said no one could hear anything onstage. “It was like a swirl of music,” she laughed over the phone as young voices demanded her attention in the background. The group plans one or two more local shows before heading to the West Coast for a pair of dates.

Big news this week is that THE CLASH and THE ENGLISH BEAT suddenly decided to include Mesa Amphitheatre on their upcoming cross-country tour, Sunday, June 13. Stay tuned . . . Two days later another English outfit, THE ANGELIC UPSTARTS, will be paying a visit for a special Tuesday show at the Dog. These guys were one of the original skinhead hands. . . In the meantime there’s still much to choose from. This Friday JFA, SOYLENT GREENE and FATAL ALLEGIANCE do the Dog and Saturday CONFLICT and MEAT PUPPETS at the same place. Sunday a holiday Merlin’s appearance by VITAL SIGNS.

ALSO COMING UP: From Texas, THE BIG BOYS and THE BUTTHOLE SURFERS . . . BATTALION OF SAINTS, San Diegans of the thrash variety, June 5 at the Dog. . . DREAM SYNDICATE and pholksinger PHRANC . . . instrumental rock lunacy from AFRICA CORPS with performance artist DEVIATION SOCIAL. . . THE MINUTEMEN and THE DESCENDANTS, two of the most unusual uptempo bands . . . a definite July date for controversial SF rockers DEAD KENNEDYS.

BRIEFLY: The KILLER PUSSY record party was a stunning success complete with a tiered pink poodle cake, freshly cut bouquets and copies of the EP that is available around the Valley and selling well. Over in L.A. it’s slipped into influential station KROQ-FM’s regular daytime playlist. The band is currently planning some followup live dates there . . . Circus Circus in Las Vegas (where else?) set the scene for guitarist PAUL B. CUTLER and effervescent vocalist DINAH CANCER performing the proverbial marriage vows (the bride wore black?) . . .45 GRAVE begin working on a debut album this week. . . Another month for the MEAT PUPPETS LP; the work is complete, now rabid fans will just have to wait. Meanwhile, one selection will be appearing on an SST Italian compilation . . . Songbird BONNIE SOLDER has flown to California, opting sand, surf and Big City Life for up-and-coming primate rockers THE VERY IDEA OF FUCKING HITLER, who plan to continue as a trio. . . New faces: CAUSTIC WEAPONS, CONSTANT COMMENT, THE SECRET IDOLS with PIK RORTER and someone named VANYA from Finland. . . The Tucson cassette compilation “Valley Fever” is out and about, along with new tapes by JACKET WEATHER and a former member of SERFERS, whose name escapes me at the moment, all on Iconoclast Intl . . Local electronic strategist DAVID OLIPHANT has released a cassette, with some unique packaging, of various works including a sampling of DESTRUCTION. Seek it out. . . Lastly, linear avantjazzrock comrades KNEBNEGAUGE have moved to the Bay Area. Greener pastures some would say, but when was the last time they looked in their backyards?

-David Wiley (New Times Weekly, 1982)

My first reaction to punk rock was a triumph of misanthropy. In high school, people outside of my immediate circle were like demons to me; I avoided them whenever possible. Punk rock seemed like a chance to explore my reject status with like-minded outcasts. How naive I was.

The punk rock scene turned out to be just as exhausting an emotional game as high school. I spent more effort trying to figure out why people were doing what were doing than I did figuring out what I needed to do. For me, “the scene” was a waste of time.

You can’t say I hadn’t been warned. Back in the late Seventies, the New Times Weekly used to publish a veritable society column devoted to the local punk scene. The “Dewey’s Webb” feature was probably first conceived as a nod to Phoenix’s disco-era nightlife, but soon scribester Dewey Webb’s own interests took hold. As he began to fill it with the doings of his cronies, Dewey’s pieces became an unabashed advertisement for punk.

Dewey eventually moved on to bigger things, though on occasion he’d return to his roots for the odd [where-are-they-now piece.][link2] But his early work best evokes that nascent period when a night of getting beat up by biker chicks still managed to carry an air of sophistication. Here’s a sample:

[link2]:

http://www.phoenixnewtimes.com/1991-11-06/news/the-life-and-death-of-the-partyphoenix-s-punk-progenitor-reaches-the-end-of-the-line/

The Exterminators, new pock-mark on the face of punk, are master-minding a When Punks Collide battle of the bands, according to lead screecher Johnny Macho. The Exterminators’ local exposure (of the decent variety) so far has been limited to a poorly publicized Zoo break and high decibel home-wrecking on the private party circuit. The Dils, L.A. punks ferreted out of a back street Hollywood dive, are expected to cross state lines to appear at the punkathon, tentatively scheduled for February at the Tempe National Guard Armory.

On other punk fronts, Consumers’ bass player Mike Borens waxed enthusiastic over their new show, which has yet to be unleashed on the public. “It’s a 1970′s return to normalcy! We’ve gone beyond punk — we’re the first of the Pap Rock!” As a concession to normalcy Borens has pruned his fright wig into a more conventional collegiate coif. Part of the act? “Nah, I had to get a job.”

Former Mesa bombshell Liz Renay is the latest Valley star in the heavens with her lead role in “Desperate Living.” The comedy is John Waters’ (“Pink Flamingos” and “Female Trouble”) latest exercise in poor taste and his first feature sans gargantuan cult heroine Divine. Fifty-one-year-old Liz, a mid-life sex kitten, has a checkered past that won’t quit. She left the Valley after being crowned Miss Stardust in a pageant sponsored by a girdle manufacturer. In the late Fifties she exploded into the headlines playing den mother to the mob and by being grilled in connection with a gangland murder. The blond on a bum trip was sentenced to three years in the clink on a perjury rap in the early Sixties but bounced back into the news some years later by streaking Hollywood Boulevard at high noon. Liz’ last Phoenix appearance was a couple of years ago at an East Washington burlesque house where she and thirty-two-year-lid daughter ‘Baby’ Renay did a mom-daughter strip act.

The Exterminators and the Consumers may pay lip service to violence but they got more than they bargained for when they made their Tempe debut at Lil Abner’s. The bloodbath started early on during the Exterminator’s set. As he is wont to do, crooner Johnny Macho leaped from the stage and launched into his canned epileptic choreography shtick. A well-oiled biker of mammoth proportions who didn’t cotton to this New Wave Fred Astaire lumbered onto the dance floor and began pummeling John Boy before a couple bouncers interceded. Minutes later Big Bruiser returned for round two, this time seizing upon Sealo’s Frank Discussion, who demonstrated his kick-boxing prowess before bouncers intercepted once again. When the Consumers took the bandstand, a pair of Motorcycle Mamas decided to prove to the audience that a woman can be tough. Their knock-down-drag-out rough-and-tumble slug fest didn’t cut much ice with the bouncers who broke up the melee. Next at bat was a disgruntled character who had unsuccessfully auditioned for the Consumers not long ago. His sour grapes had long since turned to wrath. He exhibited his consternation by yelling obscenities and making ominous gestures with a knife. Our final contestant stormed the stage and walloped the guitarist for no discernible reason. Her next trip to the stage was with more larcenous intent. As the band prepared to call it a night, she enlisted the aid of her boyfriend to pin the guitarist’s arms while she absconded with his guitar and rushed for the exit. Vigilant bouncers nailed her and the ax was duly returned.

Dooley’s was the scene of the wildest night in many moons as the Runaways and the Ramones turned the macramed cavern into Bacchanalian Bandstand. Eschewing the slobbering cretin image generally associated with punk in favor of basic black leather, the Runaways took the stage looking fresh from an escape from a correctional facility. Lead thrush Joan Jett cooed “Don’t be shy,” spurring a mass exodus to the dance floor that didn’t break up until the show was over. Although they didn’t break any new ground musically and their lyrics are strictly rock-style Dick and Jane, the girls whipped the audience into a lather with their high-kilowatt performance. Joan worked herself into a state of heat as she wailed through teen laments of square parents, reform school riots, and teen lust in El Lay. With the Lennon Sisters in dry dock, the Runaways are easily the most interesting girl group since a trio of Playboy Bunnies masqueraded as the Carrie Nations in “Beyond the Valley of the Dolls.” The Ramones seized upon the audience’s frenzy and parlayed it into near mayhem with their Fun City brand of punk. Fueled by a spectrum of pharmaceuticals running from A to Q, the dance floor crowd was a sea of shades jerking cheek to cheek. But the whole show wasn’t on stage. Economy-minded BYOB-ers transformed the men’s rest-room into a makeshift bar. When Dee Dee Ramone answered a call from nature, punk molls were left in the lurch as their dates dashed to the can to meet the teen sensation. Ubiquitous Erica, still wearing her “Story of 0″ drag, spent a good deal of the evening evading bouncers trying to censor her errant mammary. She did find time to flash a few unsuspecting ringside patrons and cruised Dee Dee. Unsuccessfully.

New Wave fans and necrophiliacs might as well make alternate plans for February 20. The final shovel of dirt has all but been thrown on the alleged Dead Boys concert at The Zoo. Those who know claim that there was never any truth to the story. Zoo personnel are fielding phone queries about the alleged concert with some of the vaguest and most evasive answers heard this side of a politician in election year.

Chalk up ASU’s “Desperate Living” premiere as a misguided fiasco. The Cultural Affairs Board scored a coup by unleashing the recently released underground side-splitter before the local midnight movie circuit could get its meathooks into it. So far, so good. Then insaner heads prevailed and Phoenix’ foremost punk faction, The Consumers, were booked to do their thing as a prelude to the preem. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Eligible bachelor Frank Discussion showed up wearing an Ethel Mertz housedress with “DIE” spray-painted on it, topped by a premature Easter bonnet. (Girls: Take him, he’s yours.) Fashion plate Lisa Ramaci and side order Sharlene Celesky shlepped through the throng in Gay Nineties widow’s weeds, and in case anyone wondered, explained “This is our French whore look.” Avoiding the Halloween rush, girls? The Consumers did a half-baked pre-screening warm-up and their effort to add new dimensions to their act by distributing 3-D glasses to the audience fell flat. Grasping at straws, the tone-deaf wimps carted a large cake on stage and started flinging it all over the place. The Three Stooges did it better. When the house lights went on at the conclusion of the movie, the high drama began. Neeb personnel, aghast at beer bottles strewn from here to eternity and the crumby aftermath of the pastry melee, demanded that the band clean up the stage. Never ones to clean up their act, The Consumers refused. Highly vocal negotiations continued and a source close to the band reports that ultimately no money changed hands due to the punk breech of contract.

Phoenix’s fave boys’ choir, The Consumers, may not be long for this Valley. After too many moons of paying their dues in a town without pity, they’re lashing out of Desertville and making a stab at stardom. Opportunity rocked at their door in the guise of a two night stand at Hollywood’s musical trend palace, The Whiskey (nee “A Go Go”). Nonetheless, they’ll have to beat off some mighty stiff competition — sharing the bill with them are The Alleycats, Word, and The Dils, heavyweights all. There’s no small irony in this talent line-up. Back in February The Consumers produced a concert at the Valley Art that answered the musical question “What’s there to do on a Saturday afternoon?” In addition to the defunct The Liars, they do some wheeling and dealing with the LA-based Dils and convinced them the Tempe exposure would do them good. After agreeing to take part in the punk package, The Dils pulled a last-minute no-show, with little or no advance warning. Courteous Consumer Mike Borens (or “Bill Fold,” as he called himself at the time) remarked “The Dils sure live up to their name.” He wasn’t talking pickles.

And finally … rival punks The Liars have disbanded after their last gig at The Zoo had the minuscule audience making tracks for the exits en masse. Evidently working under the assumption that their ill-fated imitation of art was a case of the whole being considerably less than the sum of the parts, the drummer has defected to the Consumers and the bass player to The Exterminators (don’t these kids realize the tragic consequences of this incestuous cross-pollination?) The lead singer has reportedly packed up his fifty pairs of sunglasses and headed to L.A. with the remainder of the band where they’ll regroup as The Yvonnes.

-Dewey Webb (New Times Weekly)

Back in 1977, the Phoenix club scene was a typically undistinguished landscape, lousy with wannabee progressive rock and disco bar bands, clinging tight to its local kids made good, like Stevie Nicks, Alice Cooper & The Tubes. This excerpt from an old local music rag of the day tells the sad story:

“Smokey [is] far better at playing funk and jazz than they are at rock even though they insist on cranking out such classics as ‘Takin’ Care of Business’….Once merely a Yes-copy, Be has expanded their style to include more basic rock and funk…well worth the price of admission (provided it’s under a buck and a half)….Once a cult-rock band with lyrics about shamans and devils, the defections of a very talented singer and lead guitarist left [Autumn People] in more of a space-classical mode.”

• Larry Schweikart (Sounds)

You can imagine then how angry I was to pick up the Phoenix New Times one afternoon and read the following:

It’s Wednesday, October 26, in the musically momentous year of 1977 and it’s too late. You blew it. The Consumers and The Liars played the Zoo last night, the New Wave began pounding away at the distant desert shore of Phoenix and you … weren’t … there … You might as well forget about being in the local musical vanguard; you might as well stop trying to claim you’re on top of things. It’s all over – and you’ve blown another chance at boosting your status immeasurably…

How does it feel to know that you’ve missed something that’s going to change the shape of things to come for quite awhile, something small and obscure and almost beneath notice but something so torqued it promises to twist the lives of everyone it touches?

• Bart Bull, “Even in Arizona: PUNK ATTACKS!” (New Times Weekly)

I had really wanted to go to that show. I had tried to scam my way past the bouncer, but at seventeen, I had no idea how to navigate Phoenix night life. So I sat down and wrote Bart Bull an angry letter, damning him for his smugness and whining about being left out. And that’s how I met Bart and his roommate David Wiley.

David sang for the Consumers. He wrote me back immediately, included his phone number, and invited me over to get high and listen to records. I learned I’d been following David for months in “Sounds,” where he reviewed punk records under the name “Canker Phelge.” As for Bart, he was an editor there. Between the two of them, they had contributed probably ninety percent of everything thing I knew about the punk scene up to that point. Now, they proceeded to turn me on to all the records that I’d had only read about.

David moved to California shortly thereafter, only to reenter my life a couple years later. In the meantime, Bart stayed in touch. He used to push me to start up a band. The Atomic Bomb Club had not yet started, and all I was doing at the time was noodling with a few high school buddies. None of them had any interest in punk rock or any desire to perform live. But they finally caved in to my pressure and allowed me to present ourselves to Bart as “Elmo & The Electrocutions.” There, in the safety of my mom’s guest house, we jammed impotently for about an hour. Afterward, Bart mustered enough grace not to make too much of it.

Bart had an annoying (to me) habit of inviting me to party with him after every show we’d attend. I would turn him down every time. After-parties — even with the coolest folks in town — were entirely out of the question for me. I hate parties to this day, even get-togethers with my own family. In this respect, I was always a complete failure at being a rock star. Bart eventually got the message, dismissed me one night with an exasperated “fuck ya!” and permanently rescinded the offer. Soon afterward, I moved to Tucson, started school, and lost touch with the Phoenix scene. Bart continued to pursue his journalistic ambitions and eventually moved away.

Decades later, Bart called me one day out of the blue. He was married to Michelle Shocked at the time, and wanted to know whether or not my record label, Rykodisk was worth a shit. I gave him a non-committal description, and as soon as he rang off I called my label guy. He was happy to share his thoughts on whether or not he thought Michelle and Bart were worth a shit.

More recently, Bart has taken a stab at chronicling his contribution to Phoenix punk on the We Are The Consumers blog. But that site’s now two years moribund, though Bart continues to be prolific elsewhere. His boosterism from the “New Times Weekly” and “Sounds” makes for great reading. Though somewhat dated, his Lester-Bangs-meets-Julie-Burchill-at-Woody-Creek-Tavern style really captures the spirit of the times. I hope he posts more of it.

As for David, he returned to Phoenix in the mid-80s, and dabbled in local promotion and rock journalism, but nothing really caught fire for him. The last time I remember seeing David before he died in 1986, he was waiting tables at a Tempe restaurant. But in his 1977 heyday, the rhetorical fire burned hot. Here then is “Canker Phelge,” in all his glory:

REPRESSION!! Repression is the word of the day. Repression of our music on the airwaves, those sacred media tools that inevitably make or break. Repression! Ignorance!! What more do they want? Cover stories on virtually every national ‘zine, not to mention Sounds and New Times locally. And still they choose to ignore the ONLY thing happening in modern rock ‘n’ roll with any validity. That’s right, the ONLY THING. Call it what you like. Love it or hate it, you just can’t ignore it any longer. If you close your eyes it will not go away.

Obviously, in this town anyway, the only way you will find out exactly how great this music is, how vital and important it is in relation to the modern world, how it can creep in and liven your very existence, is to buy it. That can be a problem too. You may have to order it; any record store that carries imports can get a wide variety of import and some domestic new wave LP’s and 45′s. (I’m talking about the relatively obscure stuff, like DEVO or THE DILS. You can find new LPs by STRANGLERS, TALKING HEADS and others anywhere.) Whatever it takes. Demands, threats … violence … We mean business. It’s time the people in power became aware that this is not a passing phase. Turn off your TV’s, Phoenix is BURNING!

Everybody knows about the stuff they play on the radio, on Top 40 radio, because everyone who’s remotely in touch hears it just about everywhere. I mean, I could discuss at length the social merits of “Jet Air-liner” or add some cute little anecdote about the new mass-murderer of rock’ n’roll, Shaun Cassidy-or how about a list of hates and loves from those ancient sea cows Crosby Stills etc. Nah — that’s boring. That music’s just there, there’s little we can do about it. It’s there whether we enjoy it or not, and if you want to find out about it tune your radio to any number of stations for a full survey of what America likes. If that dictates your tastes you’re a stretcher case and should read this column faithfully (twice! three times!) every issue.

45′s, believe it or not, are back in vogue thanks to the efforts of those involved with the new wave. It’s the perfect medium for a short statement without all the hassles of an album. Some groups and individuals even form their own labels, avoiding big company pressure, and give the artist complete control. More time and care is put into the product, so that most singles now are more than just a song pulled off an album because it’s commercially viable, it still happens, but the music I’m talking about generally doesn’t sell much at all. It is picking up rapidly, through word-of-mouth and the printed word: radio has yet to recognize its potential. Distribution is a problem. but most can be purchased or ordered through any store carrying a decent import LP selection. Almost all are stereo, are excellent recordings and have picture sleeves.

SURFING IN FROM CALIFORNIA come THE WEIDOS, THE DILS, THE GERMS, THE ZEROS and CRIME. THE ZEROS are from San Diego. They try to look real tuff. One of them looks like Donny Osmond, blows the image. They’ve been called “the Mexican Ramones” but while their sound may resemble the Ramones’ stark metallic drone they lack the wit and punch that separates the Ramones from all this other stuff. B side: “Wimp” is limp. A side: “Don’t Push Me Around” (Bomp 110) has kind of a neat riff but the lyrics are dumb and it gets boring real fast. Save your money for THE WEIRDOS’ great maxi-45, “Destroy All Music”/”Life of Crime”/”Why Do You Exist” (Bomp 112). Hot stuff here. Almost captures the controlled hysteria a la the Three Stooges that reigns during their performances. They look great, where are they coming from exactly? Hollywood alley chic with a cheap perfume aura. They take the Theatre of the Absurd conception to a new height (or low, depending on how you look at it).

Fast faster fastest… THE DILS are aiming for the latter. They pack so much energy into 21/2 minutes it leaves you breathless. They play like they’ve been on an amphetamine binge since they were born. They shun drugs, by the way, and also concentrate on message numbers like their first single “I Hate the Rich” and “You’re Not Blank (So Baby We’re Through)”. They have other songs like “God’s A Korean,” etc. etc. They’re on fire. Primitive, yes. I hear Chip Dil bashes the pure piss out of his guitar. On the other end of the primitive spectrum lie THE GERMS, who have been billed as “L. A.’s most despised band.” Cute names: Lorna Doom, Bobby Pyn, Donna Rhia (who’s since been replaced by Cliff Hanger) and Pat Smear. If you enjoyed the first couple Velvet Underground albums, the Godz, the Fugs and think that John Cage is a real mover, this is essential. Especially the “Germs Live” side, which most of my friends can’t stand. All these marvelous records, as well as all the others I’ve mentioned in the past, are available by mail from BOMP Records, Box 7112, Burbank, CA 91510.They’re prompt as hell, they’re reasonable with their prices and they will rtd a tree catalog on request.

CRIME’s second 45 (missed the first one, -eh? — you’re not alone) is pow’rpacked with their trademarked jagged, sputtering feedback and dark lyrics delivered in stabbing thrusts. They aim for the brain. They infect your lilywhite soul with composed sloppiness. “Murder By Guitar.” “Frustration,” the A-side, has thoughtful lines like ” all you hippies can fade away … ” Hmmmmm…good beat, danceable…I’d give it an easy 94. For more of the same try “Baby You’re So Repulsive” and “Hot Wire My Heart”, their first one. Both can be had from CRIME, 537 Jones St., Suite 9062, San Francisco CA 94102, which is also their fan club address. Which criminal’s your fave? Johnny Strike? Brittley Black? Ron the Ripper? Frankie Fix? They’re all so special.

• David Wiley (Sounds)