Posts by Lightouts :
Great diary of the Revolting Cocks’ 1990 Tour. Complete madness.
Cocked and Loaded by Jason Pettigrew
Here’s an excerpt:
The Almost Last Hurrah
DATELINE: DENVER (A.P.) There is a tradition in rock and roll that is followed by everyone from the most hideous death metallers to little fart-bubble biters like Billy Joel. The last night usually means a total disregard for protocol, professional attitude, law, order, safety and the Constitution Of The United States. (which means it’s not that much different from any other night this month.)
Sean and I decide that we’re going to have fun till Daddy (Tomcala) takes the T-bird away. The kind folks at the Gothic Theatre have furnished lots of tubs of ice so we can annoy everybody. And I have to deal with Barker’s indiscretions from Austin. Sean decides to bombard Mark with ice during “Beers, Steers And Queers.” A little innocuous, no big deal. By the middle of the set, we have graduated from ice to cups to projectiles. When Reznor walks off between songs, he dumps half a bottle of beer on my crotch. So I strafe him with ice. While he’s acting like Trent Reznor, Rock Guitar God onstage, I walk onstage, remove Trent’s hat, dump a bottle on his peachfuzz head, replace the hat and walk away. A lot of the Denver crowd has to be wondering who this dick is that keeps wandering out and disrupting these fine men, but I think I got some applause.
Barker decides he’s tired, so he lies down onstage. I’m standing over him and ask if he wants a beer. He responds by opening his mouth. I retort by pouring it on his glasses, his hair, his chest and other places where it’s hard to taste. When I get back home, I will get t-shirts made with the Flintstones wearing long hair and glasses for the first FRED INTO GOLD tour.
Some of the ice I’m throwing at Reznor misses and I connect with Al, who up until this point seems totally oblivious to the shit being perpetrated. We save all our abuse for the encores. Fritz comes out to strap Trent up with several yards of duct tape across his guitar, boots, hat, groin and fingers. Ward seems to have a force field around him; I can’t get anything to connect on him. At the final chord of “Public Image,” I take this opportunity to bombard Barker with an ice storm. Tomcala is not amused and knocks the remaining cup out of my hands (I told him to let me know when the Skatenigs go on so I could see them one last time. He didn’t, so fuck him).
Back on the bus, Chris is playing his Fall CDs for some women who wouldn’t know Mark E. Smith from a locksmith. One of the ladies, a blonde cleavage clichè, sidles on up to Trent. Reznor looks at me and says in a tone louder than regular conversation levels, “Skagathon. I’ll pay for the cab. Let’s get out of here.” Chris agrees and we’re out of here. We have proclaimed the evening “Let’s Torture Tomcala Time” and proceed to infest his hotel room with people. Ward and I are sitting on the floor talking to Billy Skatenig and some fans. Al walks over and crumples over my shoulder. I look at Jeff and deadpan, “Dead bodies everywhere.” Tomcala tries to initiate a “colorful barf” contest with a mere $50 prize. He gets no takers.