THE FLYING OF FEAR

Like most people, I’m afraid of lots of things. High on my care-list are new Rush albums, pointy sticks, and my kids growing up to be just like me. You know, your usual stuff.

I’m generally not afraid of the mail, except for that one chiropractic flyer, but last week (as I write this) I got an interesting package from Slash Records—it was full of Fear. Specifically, it was a copy of Fear’s first record, which—just for the record—is called The Record. You can probably buy it at a record store.

“Look,” I said to my wife, A. “They’re a punk group.”

“How can you tell?” she asked. Isn’t she something, though?

“It’s because of their names. See: Lee Ving on vocals and guitars. Philo Cramer on guitar and vocals. Derf Scratch on bass and Spit Stix on drums. These are punk names; I’m almost sure of it.”

“What are you going to do with it?”

“Hmmm...I dunno. I guess I’ll just put it away and listen to it when there’s a hard frost in Heck. You know how 1 feel about these mischievous punk bands, hon.”

“That’s my rock critic,” A. smiled, patting my shoulder approvingly.

Well, a couple of days later I was down at CREEM for my therapeutic whining session and—this is so much like life, isn’t it?—one of the editors proposed that I see the faces of Fear that very evening. Yep, they were in Detroit, by incredible coincid,ence, or maybe by the Renaissance Center. Naturally, I accepted; I always accept. I’m whore-ible about these things.

When I got home, though, I realized straight away that I didn’t know much about Fear. I knew they were “famous for their between-song drivel, ethnic slurs, homo humor and apocalyptic attitude.”" For a minute there, I thought they were the whole editorial department until I realized I was reading Fear’s bio. I took a chance (life is short) and listened to the album (I mean, of course, The Record), but since I didn’t turn the volume above Mister Rogers’

speaking voice, I didn’t get what you might call “the full effect.” Or what you might call “incredible torture,” depending on how you look at it. I heard a pretty funny line in “Let’s Have A War” (“...and blame it on the middle class”), but the mix is muddled enough to obscure a lotta lyrics, especially when you’re listening at half a bel. In any case, I still didn’t know much about Fear.

Now you might figure that woe was me, but luckily my friend Andy came by. Andy knows a lot about music, especially what they call “new music.” (I’m not sure why it’s called new music, but I guess I never really knew music.) Well, when I told Andy she had a chance to see Fear, I saw a little Fear myself (as in: “They’re a punk band.” See, I didn’t even have to tell her, so I knew she was an expert.) I suppose it was a little much to make her drive, too, but what do you expect from a guy who’d take this assignment in the first place?

Well, we got to the club, which wasn’t anywhere near coincidence after all, and were shown into the chamber of Fear. All members were accounted for except Philo, who wasn’t feeling well. Really, he couldn’t tell sandpaper from squeezably soft Charmin.

Lee’s the Lee Der of the group, so I addressed most of my questions to him, but, to be honest, Spit and Derf were more up-front. None of them are exactly matinee idols (I checked with Andy), and they all dress like you’d more-or-less guess. Don’t be deceived, though: Slash had more advance orders for The Record than they did for the Blasters’ disc. Or, as we say in the Biz: Wow.

They wouldn’t tell me their real names, even though 1 chided them about their pseudonyms, i.e., “Don’t you feel like a bunch of jerks with names like that?” I mean, tell the truth.

“Well, then, am I right to presume that you want to destroy the fabric of modern music, as we know it?”

“Sure; definitely,” Lee replied unpredictably.

“Elaborate.”

“There’s sportsmanship in our shows,” Spit said. I congratulated him enthusiastically. Talk about Terra Firma.

“People either hate us a whole lot or they like us a whole lot,” said Lee.

“I think you’re on the right track.”

“I think a misconception that a lot of people get is that they don’t see us, they think we’re from Frisco, they think that we’re gay. I remember handing out flyers for one of our shows... (people said) ‘Drop that; those people are gay.’ ” Spit offered. It’s obvious those people have never seen us play.”

“Why in the world would they say that?”

“Well, we rag on gays a lot when we play, so people would say: ‘Why are they doing that? These guys must be gay,’ ” Mr. Ving answered. “We don’t give a shit. Gays are great to poke fun at. They’re a great source of humor; they should be harangued a little more.” I started to get the idea of this sportsmanship, then reminded them what everyone knows about homophobes, but they didn’t seem to care an airborne intercourse.

This homo humor is pretty dull stuff, anyway. More interesting, perhaps, is the band’s relationship with the late John Belushi. Fear’s big moment, media-wise, came late in 1981 when they played Saturday Night Live, climaxing the show with an incredibly unbelievable, fascinating and totally amazing bunch of chaos. When I talked with them, they were en route to NYC to play a memorial concert for Belushi.

“He was a friend of ours—we were all good friends of his,” Spit told me.

“We were blood brothers,” Lee said. Not literally, I hoped, wondering if I should check his pulse.

“We recorded a song that we wrote that was—at one time—being considered for the film Neighbors. It didn’t turn out that way, but in the process we spent two weeks in the studio. Eventually, we convinced John to sing. It’s a really terriffic cut—it exists somewhere on tape.”

From what I’ve read about Belushi, he was something of a frustrated musician, which brings us back to Fear. I don’t know if they’re frustrated, but they’re sure as shootin’ lousy musicians. Lee Ving anticipated this before the show when he told me: “Who says we have to be musicians at all?” Not me, pal, I got in free.

It’s still not clear to me why four people who really can’t play do play, but Fear seem to enjoy their career. Their audience, who wear the adjective “hard-core” with justifiable pride, went through all manner of pushing and shoving during their set, which led me to conclude they’re a swell bunch of people I’d like to have over someday. No kidding, I’ve never seen anything like it outside of that episode of ChiPs a month or so ago (you remember: the dreaded “Punk vs. New Wave” yawner that had you rooting for the Eagles, AC/DC, anybody.) Anyway, this Fear concert was just like the fucking TV show! Slam, bang, drool, crash! Dija ChiPs!

The conclusion? Fear are funnier than they are talented and scary as burnt toast. To quote their bio again: “...to truly understand the FEAR attitude takes a quantum leap of consciousness not commonly found this side of Tibet.” Want Tibet? I’m Lee Ving, too.