HEART OF
THE HARBOR
Morrissey
The town of Wilmington, CA is situated in the heart of
the LA harbor. Affectionately known as the Fart of the
Harbor, Wilmington seems to be best known for its rival
East-side and West-side gangs, its ladies of the night who
come out at 3 PM, and the putrid smell being pumped
out by its many oil refineries and other polluting indus-
tries. Considering all of this, it makes perfect sense that a
totally illegal punk rock club could operate within the city
limits and not have any problems with the infamous
LAPD. The place I have in mind is a small recording stu-
dio situated next to what looks to be an auto disman-
tler/pick-your-part yard. To local LA rock fans it's called
the PCH club, but there is no sign outside to let the out-
sider in on this. Shit, if not for the crowd of kids,
wannabes and would-be hipsters waiting to get inside its
cramped quarters last week, even I, a resident of the har-
bor area, would have passed it by more than once.
Anyway, the crowd was there because Olympia,
ROCK
BLOWOUT!
Washington had come to town in the form of the bands
Unwound and The Real Tight Bros From Way Back
When. From time to time I had heard the musical mean-
derings of Unwound in the homes of my more emotion-
ally wrecked friends; since they sort of sounded like
Fugazi, I decided to head out for a look-see at their live
show. The only problem was that I began to feel serious-
ly ill as I drove down PCH toward the club. Being the
smart guy I am, I attempted to alleviate my troubled
stomach with Budweiser and Taco Bell after I parked on
the unlit street behind the club. Accordingly, by the time
I paid my five bucks to get in, the place was packed like
a sardine tin and I needed to find the comforts of the
latrine on the double. Upon finding it, I let loose the vile
contents of my intestines just as The Real Tight Bros were
setting up. Being excited to see this band that features
members of metal monsters Karp and Behead the
Prophet, I flushed and quickly returned to the surging.
UNIFOUND
crowd. Little did I know that the toilet was doing a little surging itself...
Well, The Real Tight Bros From Way Back When turned out to be
the boys to watch that night, putting on a microphone-swingin', tam-
bourine-spankin' and all around good-feelin' performance for all who
squeezed up front to watch. Being a five-piece band on a stage meant
for three, these bros looked about as crowded as their long-ass name.
Nevertheless, not a soul in the house was doing the old emotional
head-bobbing routine, choosing rather to pump their fists in the air to
this band that sounded like a mix between the MC5 and AC/DC. Of all
the bands I have ever seen live, these are the guys I would choose to
have play on the front lawn for my 25th birthday. If you happen to
spot their unusually long name on the marquee of your local dance
hall, by all means drop everything and git yer ass in there. You won't
be disappointed.
Unwound was next on the bill, and at first I thought that more peo-
ple were coming into the club to see this very well-known trio; then I
realized that something was bringing all the people up from the back
of the room. By the time I smelled the stench and heard a girl say there
was shit and piss all over the floor due to the toilet being clogged, I
knew my ass was the culprit. The odor was horrible; it was in the air
and on people's feet who had been in the back. Yet the band played
on. Soon it seemed as if we were watching Unwound perform inside
of someone's butt: hot, smelly, and gross. But the band wasn't mak-
ing fart noises with their instruments; that is, of course, unless your
farts sound like Unwound's swirling, very intense to very mellow
musical style. Truthfully, all I wanted to do was get the fuck outside,
but the head-bobbers were going full force. Shit-smell or no shit-
smell, these kids weren't budging an inch. By the time the last song
dragged itself out, I found myself crawling out the door, my lungs
greedily sucking in the air surrounding the town I had once hated
breathing in. I made my way to the truck, only to find a big dent in
the hood and a busted-out passenger side window. Understandably,
I figured it was the result of some gangster kid looking to steal my
radio, but then I noticed a brick on my seat with a note attached. It
read, "This is payback, you asshole. Next time you see an 'out of
order' sign on a toilet, please do not attempt to make it work."
Damn, I thought. I never saw no sign. -Andy Harris
THE REAL TIGHT BROS FROM WAYBACK WHEN
88 THRASHER