Fatal Flying Guilloteens, The, One Man Show Live, and The Stuporstars: Koo’s Cafe, August 6, 2001 By Nam

It’s fucking Monday, and I am ready to rock!!! Fuck work, fuck sleeping, fuck good health, fuck everything else–I’m an eager teenage horn-dog on prom night for rock’n’roll, but first I gotta find this damn Koo’s Cafe! Santa Ana is located smack dab in the middle of the dreaded county of naranjas. Of course, I missed the off ramp and took a wrong turn at the exit, drinking those beers on the drive over wasn’t really conducive either. (“Did you know you just totally killed that curb?”) Yeah I’m filled with beer, piss, and raw spite for having to schlep all the fucking way over from Glendale, CA.

Why did I drive fifty miles down (on a work night) to the cesspool of humanity, to an all-ages cafe that serves no booze? Why am I insane? These are the few questions I pondered as I stepped up to bat at Koo’s Cafe for The Fatal Flying Guilloteens, The OMSL, and The Stuporstars. Thanks to my shoddy driving, I missed The Stuporstars but I’m sure they rocked as always. Be sure to catch them on Safety Pin Record’s tribute to The Zeros.

Koo’s Cafe is like a California Craftsman house ravaged by too many parties. I think perhaps that is the reason why this place is a cafe now, as opposed to a residence. It’s hard to find, but you just gotta look for the white picket fence.

So, I’m drinking more beer with Lowell and Alan from the Stuporstars in the alley by the dumpster, when these stupid chicks roll by and yell something like, “Oh, you like to party? I’ll put it up your ass!” Fucking bitches had no clue what they were in for. First I broke the bottle of Bud in my hand, my finger was bloody, and I was drunk, looking for a fight. “Lemme see you try, you fucking bitch!” I retorted as I walked over to their late model Honda sedan. Damn Orange County bitches think they’re so fucking tough. They sped away, and I thought I saw them park. I was waiting for a good fucking brawl–hair pulling, stomach kicking, good old-fashioned girl bar fight. All the while, I can hear Alan and Lowell laughing their asses off in the back. They never showed.

So, back into the heart of Koo’s, where the living room is the stage and everyone watched with quiet anticipation as One Man Show Live took the stage for the last time ever. Brett (on guitar) was cursing the gods as usual and everyone was looking for singer Joe. Brett suggested that I sing their signature home-wrecking tune, “It Don’t Matter.” “Ha ha mother fucker, I don’t know the lyrics! I’m drunk! Get Rick to do it!” Rick was too busy getting his mack on with some Asian hottie. Finally Joe appeared out of thin air with a giant bottle of Sunny D spiked with an entire bottle of vodka in each hand, and the band launched into a ferocious set of punkified rock’n’road-to-ruin; the small but receptive crowd got on that train headed straight for hell.

There was no stopping the One Man Show Live express. Their train kept a rollin’, and we just couldn’t stop our feet from moving to the antipathetic catchiness of the best band that never was to be. Yes, Los Angeles, you let the best band you’ll ever hear in a long time slip away because you were too busy carousing with costume-garage-punk idiots.

Now, embittered by the loss of One Man Show Live, I took to throwing the mic stand at The Fatal Flying Guilloteens’ singer when they got onstage. By this time, we had killed Joe’s double-barrel Sunny D, ghetto-ass screwdrivers. I couldn’t see straight and The Guilloteens had so much energy pulsing through that little house! I gave some skinhead dude one of my foam rainbow-sided sandals from the 99-cent store, and Rick kindly returned it. We proceeded to slap people with it as the show raged on.

I’m definitely looking forward to hearing more from The Fatal Flying Guilloteens, especially after listening to their debut record “The Now Hustle for New Diaboliks” on Estrus when I got back to the casa. In most recording cases, bands have a hard time capturing that intense energy they emit when playing a right-on raw set, but not these Texas youngsters. The Fatal Flying Guilloteens fuck shit up every which way they can–and they will. Punk rock is alive. It’s younger, louder, and snottier than ever before. The new breed is leaner and definitely meaner. There’s no pedestrian punk here, either you get it or go home.