NEW BEATS

NEW BEATS

House Of Schock • House Of Freaks • Roscoe's House Of Chicken 'N Waffles • Krackhouse

The House That Schock Built

If a building collapses, it makes sense to try to build a better one, right? The thought hfiust’ve passed through Gina Schock’s mind as the Go-Go’s, the allfemale quintet she had played drums with for nearly a decade, began to crumble with the departure of guitarist Jane Wiedlin. Amid reports of personal problems and internal friction within the group, the Go-Go’s subsequently disbanded, leaving Schock to ponder her next move.

“Right after the Gd^Go’s, I didn’t know what I wanted to do,’’ Schock admits, her crystal blue eyes peering over the top of a pair of dark sunglasses. “I wanted to have something as close to the Go-Go’s as I could, because that was a comfortable setting for me. So I tried to put a band together that would be five people and soon discovered that it was too much of a pain in ihe ass. It was just too hard to de^l with four other people trying to make decisions. After eight months of trying various players out, I came to the conclusion that I wanted to find just one other person that I could work with.”

That person turned out be a seasoned bass player from New Orleans named Vance DeGeneres, who had played with a number of bands in the southeast before relocating to Los Angeles. As the newly-formed duo began writing songs and cutting demos together, they realized that their cozy duplex was much more comfortable than a huge mansion. House Of Schock was born.

“We work together really well,” Schock enthuses. “If he comes up with an ided that I don’t like, I tell him right away, and he does the same with me. In the GoGo’s, it was like you had to worry abbut hurtin’ this one’s feelings and people would take sides.. .with this, ill the bullshit is cut out and we just get down to business.”

Though the songs on their self-titled debut album aren’t completely removed from the type of buoyant ditties that brought the Go-Go’s success, Schock and DeGeneres craft pop tunes that are at once catchy and distinctive. “It’s rock ’n’ roll music, but I think it’s pretty interesting because it’s not typical, out-andout rock and roll,” Schock explains. “Nor is it typical pop, because it has an edge to it. I don’t think we sound like anyone else. I know my voice doesn’t sound like anyone else.”

“Yeah,” DeGeneres chimes in, “it’s got a little bit of that Ethel Merman quality to it.”

Since Schock handles all lead vocals on the album, she’ll be stepping out from behind the snares and cymbals to front House Of Schock when they hit the road with keyboardist Jim Biggs, drummer Steven Fischer and guitarist Chrissy Shefts (all of whom played on LP) sometime this year. It’s an opportunity she places somewhere between exhilarating and terrifying.

“I’m always nervous before I go on,” she admits. “You can’t help but be nervous. You’re just gonna go out there and bare your soul in front of ail these people with something that you’ve worked on for the last three or four years, and they’re gonna be the barometer for you, whether they like it or not. It’s a scary thing.”

To prepare, the band has been employing the same all-work-little-play strategy they used in the recording bf their debut LP, rehearsing up to seven hours a day to hone their live show.

“We could complain about this,” DeGeneres says, “but then again we could be working at the Federated, too, so we’ll take this any day.”

C. Capulet

These Boys Are Pretty Kinky!

“You’re in that weird band, arncha?” asks the waitress. For once Bryan Harvey and Johnny Hott have nothing to say. Johnny quickly recovers by pointing accusingly to a nearby innocent bystander and disavowing all knowledge of weirdband membership. This accusation is a recurring problem for Harvey and Hott, who make up the unclassifiable House Of Freaks. So in between Bryan’s waitressbaiting and Johnny’s repeated advice about parsley’s nutritional value, we try to make sense of this completely original duo.

Both played in bands in their Richmond, Virginia hometown. “We knew of each other before we actually played together. We liked each other personally,” says Bryan. “Actually, you liked me,” Johnny drawls. “I thought you were an asshole.” They were brought together by a mutual interest in early Delta blues— Blind Lemon Jefferson, Robert Johnson, Charlie Patton, as well as “early House Of Freaks. ‘Rubber Freak’ was our favorite”—and the inevitability that every mOsician in that town of 220,000 will eventually play together.

The duo proved ferocious: Bryan shrieking and moaning out antebellum/ post-nuclear vocals while playing swampmucky guitar. Meanwhile, Johnny whomps a wild beat on his minimalist drum kit. They have no bass player. They don’t need one. “We couldn’t find one,” admits Bryan. “But we were listening to it without the bass and decided, ‘Hey, this is kinda cool’ ” Soon, they hoisted their handkerchiefs onto sticks and headed west to get closer to the record-industry action. And anyway, “No one in Richmond liked the fact that we didn’t have a bass player. They were worried; it was kind of upsetting for them. And they didn’t like the name.”

It could have been worse. It could have been any number of spooky William Burroughs-style cutouts: Pigdump was an option for a while. The Summer Gun Wizards. The Clear Natural Forks. Bodywhipped Pineapples. But a search through a book of circus posters suggested House Of Freaks. “Johnny and I were talking about going to the Virginia State Fair, which brings people out from the sticks to show their pigs and their chickens. And a lot of these people are scarier than the freak shows. You know, guys with one eye hanging out. So we were really into that macabre aspect of a carnival, and we just thought it was a cool name.”

Los Angeles has proved itself a far better home for House Of Freaks than Richmond. In little more than a year they have built up a steadfast following and earlier this year put a record out, Monkey On A Chain Gang, on Rhino. Their second single, a lilting, beautiful tune about the despair and resignation to impending nuclear doom called “40 Years,” was released this April. “I don’t care if we don’t become big rock stars, whatever,” insists Johnny. “We’re not too interested in that. If I couldn’t get onstage and play, I’d be doing it in my living room.” Fortunately for us, they don’t have to.

Arion Berger

A Reason To Cross The Road

Let’s talk fat. Real fat. Not Meat Loaf, but chicken. As in chicken ’n waffles. As in Roscoe’s House Of same. Their two Los Angeles locations (1516 Gower St. amidst Hollywood’s prime sleeze and 4907 Washington Blvd., which finds the immortal bird nestled between gas stations et al onna way to LAX) serve up the best, most lard-laden platters o’ wings ’n’ wheat this side o’ Jackson, Mississippi. No mean feat, that.

Chicken ’n Waffles, whatever else it may be, is poetic food. Just dig these selections from the menu if you’re a nonbeliever: “Scoe’s Special—1/4 chix smothered with gravy & onions, 2 waffles, our own mix.” The lump in my throat is not merely a cholesterol-craving one, though the combo of fat, butter and hot (it must be hot) syrup flooding the plate’ll sure satisfy such a desire. Don’t believe me? How about the “Stymie’s Choice” (a fave of those unwilling to sully their chix w/syrup)? “Sauteed chicken livers or giblets (A choice! How fuggin’ hospitable!) with grits, eggs and fluffy hot biscuits.” Yep, ’Scoe’s runs the gamut, from chicken to eggs. And back!

First thing you notice ’bout the place is the lack of hipoisie paraphernalia. Stevie Wonder might just eat here every time he’s in town, but you’d never know it by lookin’ around (no statues or anything). Also no classy sloganeering a la Mr. Jim’s Famous Pit Bar-B-Que, which, though honest enuf w/their “You need no teeth to eat Mr. Jim’s Beef” (s’true!) tagline, loses points for spelling Bar-B-0 wrong. One thing you won’t find at Roscoe’s is BBQ—just chix fried and/or smothered (almost suffocated) in that famous gravy. Potatoes come in it too. Heck, for a mere 35®, you can get a heapin’ dish of gravy ALL BY ITSELF. Good ol’ gravy—willing to do it all for you.

Somewhere along the line, the waffle 1/2 of Roscoe’s equation musta slipped my mind. What can I say. I feel downhearted. Way d-o-w-n. As in the feeling you get when yer down to that last bite of waffle. Guess what, tho’! You can have another!!! A bargain at $2.30 for one the size of your head. Actually, it’s hard to find a non-bargain on the 2-page menu (well, a buck-ninety for a side o’ string beans is a bit high), so you needn’t worry about eatin’ plenty—which you will. But you’ll get to feel ascetic at the end when they bring around yr. check w/a wet-nap & hard candy. Say “I’ll skip dessert, thanks” and get a tub o’ gravy to go.

David Sprague

Roscoe’s House of Chicken ’n Waffles

Pipe Dreams

Krackhouse: In the age of Ronnie Reagan’s rampant drug paranoia, the name itself is an invite to something different, something dangerous. New York’s Lower East Side has a long tradition of bohemian poet/art bands that reaches all the way back to the Fugs in the early ’60s, whose name was a Norman Mailer euphemism for copulation and who sang such socially-relevant tunes as “CocaCola Douche” and “New Amphetamine Shriek.” Krackhouse are just the latest bunch of grungy New Yorkers to challenge society’s mores by spitting in the wind.

At the center of this mania is Mike Sappol, who plays 6-string bass, sings, makes the tape loops and toys with various electronic and percussive gadgets, now in its “second year of corporate existence,” Krackhouse has had a revolving set of personnel that at various times has included guitarist Chris Cochrane, bassist/organist Kramer and local underground DJ and tape manipulator Matt Ostrowski. At other times, Sappol has gone it alone as a sort of “half-man band” accompanied by tapes and metronomes. “I have trouble with drummers,” he explains. “They like to hit things.”

So far, Sappol’s labors have yielded The Whole Truth, an LP released on New York indie Shimmy-Disc last year, and a couple of tracks on compilations, including two songs on ROIR’s recent cassette collection of New York noise rock, The End Of Music As We Know It. The ROIR tunes are typical Krackhouse: “I Ride A White Horse Against UFOs” seems like one of the more outlandish epics from this week’s Weekly World News punctuated by discordant bursts of chaotic noise, while “Rock ’n’ Roll Lifestyle” is a “Revolution #9”-style sound collage that asks the timeless rock question, “Why should I see for miles when I can’t see six inches in front of me?” Other topical Krackhouse fare includes “Ken-L-Ration Generation,” “Burger King Town” and “Dream Wingo Life.”

“I like to have fun,” Sappol says, “and things can get pretty silly, especially when we play live.” Krackhouse performances have been known to feature the ensemble of the moment adorned in dime-store Santa Claus beards and string mop “wigs”—shades of the Fugs’ Tuli Kupferberg mooning the audience from behind a Superman cape.

As for the name, Sappol says he “didn’t think too much about it. I was just kind of sick of all the crack hysteria. It’s hard to believe people don’t have anything better to get excited about. I mean, don’t knock it ’til you try it.”

Krackhouse. Just say yes.

Jim DeRogatis