Everyone knows about the wildly popular Sunday gospel brunches that the House of Blues chain has put on for years. It's all good, but the folks over at the Galaxy Concert Theatre have decided to modernize the theme a bit—and voila! Punk Rock Brunch for people who like their Sunday-morning music a tad rowdier (but no less spirit-moving). Premiering this Sunday, the brunch is the first of what's planned as a monthly event. There'll be a house band (the kickoff will feature current and former members of Me First & the Gimme Gimmes, the Swingin' Utters, Cadillac Tramps, Manic Hispanic, Agent Orange, Joyride, 22 Jacks, the Grabbers, the Adolescents, and Los Infernos) playing two sets of classic punk covers; a full menu of your typical breakfast/brunch food fare; and many gallons of that old brunch staple, champagne. Which made us wonder: Do punkers imbibe froufrou drinks like champagne? Of course, we answered ourselves—real punkers would chugalug rubbing alcohol. A more pertinent question to ask would be: How many punkers does the Galaxy hope will make the brunch's 11 a.m. start time, when most punkers we know don't wake up until 4 p.m. every day of their lives? Really, though, it sounds like a lot of fun. We recommend opening with Dodge Dart's "Jesus Ain't My Friend." (Rich Kane)
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It took six years, but Skratch magazine's Marcia Taylor finally noticed that the Weekly "is home to one of the most overtly sexist music writers [she has] ever read in a publication not specifically aimed at male readers" (issue 66 of the local zine, on streets now). She is talking about Buddy Seigal (she spelled it "Siegal"), a man whose scorn for women, men, blacks, whites, retarded people, the swing revival, punk rock, the aged, the young and the infirm is, indeed, a kind of domestic terrorism. His fascination with genitalia, excrement and sexual acts bespeaks some childhood horror. His dark
interest in the anus accounts for the fact that around the Weekly, we call him "Butty" Seigal. His editor's job at one point was simply this: ruthlessly purge from his reviews all references to fecal matter. He once acknowledged in these pages that as a member of the group the Beat Farmers, he paid back cranky motel staff by hiding clams "in every unlikely nook and cranny of the room, left to rot and reek like Chris Farley's brown-eye." Do you see the full scope of what we're dealing with, Taylor? He is omni-insensitive. His personal porn collection is matched only by the FBI's. Of aging crooner Tom Jones, he once asked, "And what of the acrid sweat beading up on those testicles? What profane secrets are hidden underneath the Jones scrode? What sort of pungent broth of chlorine and mushrooms distills in that dank cavern of chicken-skinned flesh?" On another occasion, he noted that Ray Charles had said that the worst thing about being blind was that he couldn't tell if anyone was watching him when he jacked off. Buddy's response to this revelation (which appeared in this family publication a year ago) is worth quoting in full: "Since reading that, I have been haunted by visions and nightmares, as if his irrational phobia had somehow been transferred to my brain—as if he had laid an unholy whack-off-image curse on me. In my mind's eye, whenever I hear his name, I now see 'The Genius' squeezing and abusing his giant purple phallus, sweating and panting and moaning mellifluously, making noises similar to the call-and-response sections of 'What'd I Say' while he conjures up lewd images of God knows what kind of filth (what does a blind man suppose a naked woman looks like, anyway?). Ray Charles is no longer simply the creator of soul music to me; he's also the supreme chronic masturbator, an unholy icon of hairy palms and spinal curvature." Did Seigal not break the hearts of Baby Boomers everywhere when he said the Rolling Stones were "creepy, walnut-faced old codgers" who, as "55-year-olds . . . look asinine when strutting about in silk scarves and spandex"? Yes, he did. He described Jimmy Buffett's musical style as a "pernicious brand of dorkism," accused him of "drinking unmasculine cocktails," compared his "annoyingly nasal singing voice" to "the smell of stale urine . . . in most beachfront dive bars," said Buffett's "moronic, robotic fans—the so-called 'Parrotheads'—are dorkier than a whole Yasgur's farm fulla Grateful Dead hippies" who need to be told "that their mentor is a musical ass rash. I just did. You're welcome." Tom Jones' testicles?! Ray Charles penis?! The Stones are "codgers"? Buffett's an "ass rash"? Where were we? Oh, yes: Seigal's sexism. So how about it, Butty? When asked for comment, Seigal said, "Even though I have it from reliable sources that Marcia Taylor is a cunt, her article gave me a massive woody." (Todd Mathews)