COLOR ME CHISELED

COLOR ME CHISELED

Born to Booze

We are the road crew (and we hate our liver)

Kirk Podell

Welcome to another round of Born to Booze, where we engage in some lighthearted alcohol abuse. In this special edition, our resident bartender/musician Kirk Podell (Subversive Rite, Anti-Machine, Neo Cons) embarks on a harrowing journey down 1-95 from NYC to Baltimore with Oil Bois the Chisel. Will he survive? There’s only one way to find out...

I must come to terms with myself and admit the inevitable truth. I am an Anglophile.

It started as a teen with my obsession with UK82 punk and skinhead culture. I should have admitted it when I tried to become a mod, abusing a VHS copy of Quadrophenia so badly the tape snapped. Or when I failed to grasp “futbol” as a young L.A. hooligan. Or when I tried to collect every Stranglers single before I turned 18. Regardless, I have to take responsibility for my previous actions.

My friendship with the Chisel, who dropped a punk masterpiece in February with What a Fucking Nightmare on Pure Noise Records, is thanks in part to one of my oldest friends, a true “Geordie” named Aidan O’Kane. His “mates” were visiting the States almost a decade ago, and he asked me to “sort them out.” In walked a fresh-faced Callum Graham, the vocalist of London’s finest punk export since the soul of Mickey Fitz left this earth. We tore up the whole weekend, and a cross-Atlantic friendship was born.

Now it’s January 2024, and the Chisel and I have picked up right where we left off, with the band kicking off a series of U.S. dates with shows in New York City and Baltimore.

DAY 1: WEDNESDAY

The band arrived a couple days before their sold-out Bowery Ballroom gig with post-punk faves Home Front and Canadian Oi! Bois Bdton Armd. As the boys approached from the air, my phone was lit up with notifications from the WhatsApp group chat— providing me with a glimpse into a spit-and-sawdust in the sky:

*buzz* Four double whiskeys and a half a bottle of wine deep

*buzz* Stewardess poured too much coffee "buzz* Ordered a gin and tonic to take the edge off *buzz* Already on it :)

This went on for hours. They made it through customs (somehow), and we met in Manhattan for a veggie burger at Superiority Burger. I let everyone tell me about their travel day.

“Can’t believe we’re here for only five days. This is like the time I played three shows on three continents in three days,” guitarist Luke Younger, also known by his electronic project HELM, tells me with a smile. “Played a show in London, woke up, flew to Toronto, played another show on a layover, flew to Cairo, played in Egypt. I don’t think I slept the whole time—it was amazing."

From there, we headed to Josie’s on 6th, which I have always touted as the best Guinness in the city— a risky move with Brits. There we’d meet up with Charlie Walker, aka Chubby Charles (of Chubby & the Gang, and too many other bands to count), the self-proclaimed “only skinhead left in England.” It’s a designation now heavily debated on account of his recent look—take the voice of Roi Pearce from Last Resort and dress him like Dennis Hopper in Easy Rider. It’s jarring, but somehow it works. For dinner, Chubby opted for “some working-class food,” which translated to “I have to have a chopped cheese right off the plane, mate.”

DAY 2: THURSDAY

I wake up to the incessant buzz of that group chat.

*buzz* Kirk where do we eat around here

*buzz* Anyone seen Charlie

*buzz* Hey mates, it’s Charlie just getting back now, I know it’s 10 a.m.

While I prepped for the weekend, the boys explored Brooklyn and met me at the Brooklyn bar Anchored Inn. We had a midnight reservation for Chrissy’s Pizza, and I was determined to make it—even with this motley crew in tow. Once they arrived, drummer Lee Munday was on the hunt to recruit someone to play pool. Munday, who had a stint in massive emo darlings Mooseblood, has a snooker table at his job, so the man is a beast. We spent hours watching him whup all of us mercilessly until it was time to hit the next spot.

Otto’s Shrunken Head is a tiki bar that’s been riddled with freaks and seedy NYC underbelly for decades—the perfect place for us to step things up a notch. When we walked in, now 11 people deep, it was industrial music night. Scores of folks in colored dreads, rubber, and Matrix outfits seemed to all crane their ball-chain-laden necks toward us like someone had stopped the proverbial record player. Hey, look! The cast of an early Guy Ritchie movie stumbled into our rubber party! The attention turned even more as the DJ loudly went, “Where’d all you skinheads come from?!?” and proceeded to play the Partisans on full blast.

After sharing a scorpion bowl and other weird libations while soundtracked to the blood rave from Blade, we stormed on over to Chrissy’s. Hopped up on sugary drinks and enough rum to kill a horse, Charlie kept screaming “SKIIIINHEAD" in the style of George Wilson from Dennis the Menace. Once we arrived, the evening unfurled like the Last Supper for punx—drinking an apocalyptic amount of blood orange rum punch and beer. The server kept bringing over trays of shots like they were unlimited breadsticks from Olive Garden, and eventually three amazing pizzas.

Amaury Benitez, aka Momo, bassist for the Chisel/ Rixe/Asphalt, finally joined us two days late and an hour into dinner. I can be a bit of a punctual tight-ass, but I let the Frenchman slide as, in France, arriving on time to a dinner party is considered rude. The table kept growing: The full count was two Dutch skinheads, an English exchange student, our expat friend Pancho, a visiting Swedish punk, the Chisel crew, their manager, our incredible driver Garret, and the pair of Joey Snax and myself from CREEM, America’s Only Street Punk Magazine. This crew, and some other tagalongs for good measure, all crammed into one table, screaming at the top of our lungs.

Everything after hour 3 is a blur. I made it back to Brooklyn, lost the Dutch guys on the train, and woke up on my couch with a note from my wife that said, “You came home screaming ‘Young Americans’ by David Bowie and woke the whole building up. Please take out the dog."

DAY 3: FRIDAY

With a hangover the size of Pangea, the weekend was ready to begin. The boys had a live session on WFMU at 11 a.m., which would be a good warm-up for them and give me a little time to sleep in.

*buzz* Mate can you grab me some drumsticks, don’t think I have time before soundcheck

Reluctantly I said yes, because I know that, in an unfamiliar town, people have done the same for me. So, with a crippling hangover, I headed to the Guitar Center, which, I would soon learn, is the last place you want to go after drinking for two days. A 10-minute task turned into extreme punishment: “What kinda kit do you play?" Dear Lord! Just let me buy some drumsticks!

After an actual 24-minute conversation with a sales associate/possible Antiseen roadie, I was on my way to Bowery Ballroom, making it just in time for soundcheck. Their soundcheck was on fire—maybe a preshow warm-up had helped, or maybe six hours of sleep in two days had sent Charlie into such a manic state that playing guitar would be the only thing keeping him alive. The band finished up, and we hit a pub with Victor from Rixe/Lion’s Law and all of Bdton Armd to shake off last night’s cobwebs.

The gig was packed. “No Gimmicks,” the true opener of the new LP, sent the crowd into a frenzy. Up in the balcony, I could see Ted Leo grinning from ear to ear—his ’90s band Chisel (no connection) had given THE Chisel their blessing to take the name and run with it. The set culminated with a version of Elton John’s “Saturday Night’s Alright for Fighting,” with Fiz from the New York Hounds and Loosey doing guest vocals, and the entire room singing along arm in arm.

With this, something I’ve always said was solidified: Oi! music is just pop punk for union guys. I don’t see any difference between a Lagwagon song about hangin’ with your best buds and a song about punching the clock in and out. Everyone deserves a good time no matter what your trade, but I’d take an Oi! show over Lagwagon any day.

After the gig, we planned to meet at the hotel at 11 a.m. the next day. Everyone split up—some heading to a DJ night, others to become creatures of the night, and others to bed.

DAY 4: SATURDAY

At this point I’m dead. There I was, in the lobby of the Holiday Inn Express on Delancey at 11 a.m. sharp. I’ve reached the moment on tour where you either hit the wall or keep progressing—your body and mind are mush, but they start to acclimate to irregular sleep and erratic meal times. “Thank God I grabbed my sunglasses,” I muttered aloud. I saw people in the lobby look concerned. I didn’t look well, but I was determined to keep up.

THE SERVER KEPT BRINGING OVER TRAYS OF SHOTS LIKE THEY WERE UNLIITIITED BREADSTICKS FROM OLIVE GARDEN.

We piled in the van to Baltimore to attend Flatspot Records’ “Disturbing the Peace” Festival, where Biohazard would headline one night, and we’d have to contend with the maniacs watching the RavensChiefs NFC Championship. It was going to be, as the English say, “a lot.” The ride was mostly quiet, with a spattering of conversations pertaining to last night’s mayhem. It was at this point that I realized that Charlie had not slept AGAIN, and as his banter grew funnier and funnier, everyone seemed to be coming back to life.

We stopped for gas and snacks about two hours outside of Charm City, where I witnessed what I call the “gas station gaze.” In a hungover daze where snacks are abundant, you start investigating every option, mulling over what would be good in the van, coming up with positives and negatives for each but ending up with crippling indecision. Add seven other men to the equation, especially men from overseas who are now in a land of exotic snacks, and it becomes a drawn-out saga. It’s like losing your friends in a haunted house made from Doritos and Sour Patch Kids. Eventually we emerged from our snack paralysis and checked into the hotel, and in classic fashion hit the nearest pub to make a game plan. The Chisel were playing a reasonable 7 p.m. slot the next night, but tonight was a midnight show. “Slow and steady wins the race,” Cal tells me, sipping from a Guinness the size of his head.

We finally made it to Baltimore Soundstage, and I realized I was going to have to sit through one of my most despised bands ever: H20.1 find Toby Morse to be one of the most insufferable people in hardcore: a yoga teacher and high school guidance counselor, who couldn’t pass the exam to be a cop, fronting a band. I hate-watched for a bit, downing enough overpriced concert beers for them to feel a little more bearable, before heading to Ottobar.

The vibe at Otto wasn’t “tense,” per se, but there was an air—let’s just say lots of dudes in three-letter organization affiliated hoodies and shirts. Los Angeles’ Section H8 opened the show, and the place exploded. Two days of drinking and men built like football players are always a fun combo. It was now 12:30 a.m., the venue curfew was 1:30 a.m., and there were two more bands. Bracewar, a band whose name I hadn’t seen since someone in their T-shirt spin-kicked me to the ground about 15 years ago, were next, and the crowd grew even more rabid.

The Chisel took the stage at 1:15 a.m., and it was a faster set then the night before—no stops, no tuning breaks, just 20 minutes of pure aggression. It seemed to have a calming effect on some people. At one point, Cal took a Bible off the stage floor, taken from the hotel earlier, and screamed, looking like a preacher incensed by the state of this planet. He threw the Holy Scripture into the crowd, who ripped it to shreds like a pack of ravenous pit bulls might devour a live chicken.

The dust settled and we went backstage, where our friend Gerrod had a bottle of Malbrt for us to drink. I made everyone try it. They absolutely hated me for it, but it’s required to experience it once. They cleared the bar, and as we headed out, a few scuffles that began during the show continued outside. We loaded out as fast as possible, driving back to the hotel in the haze of awful liquor and free backstage Natty Bohs.

“One more day,” I said, before drifting off to dream of Paul Weller dabbing my forehead and telling me everything was going to be okay.

DAY 5: SUNDAY

Waking up on the floor of a crowded hotel room is a disorienting and sobering kind of body alarm. Luke had been up watching Instagram reels loudly; Lee was snoring. Momo and Charlie were nowhere to be found. Cal and Dom had their own rooms.

I grabbed my phone to check for a text from my wife and to see what a venue had done to my bank account when...

*buzz* Hey guys it’s momo, I just left some girls house and my phone is at 1 percent should I take the bus to you

It’s Sunday in Baltimore, on the day of one of the biggest football games of the year, and the home team is home. YES MOMO, get here now.

My internal monologue was racing: When was the last time I drank water? Is Momo getting pimped out? How does Charlie do this on no sleep? HOW DO I DO THIS ON NO SLEEP? I climbed into the tub like a paralyzed war vet and took a shower like a scene out of The Crying Game.

Lee, Luke, Dom, and I ambled about until we found a breakfast place to bring us back to life. Our server came over with our lifesaving Bloody Marys and crab cakes Benedict.

“Can I ask y’all something?” she sheepishly questioned. “Anyone tell y’all you talk like that Harry Potter?”

I almost spit my drink out.

“No, ma’am, that is a first,” Luke quipped back politely. I headed back to the hotel to nap.

*buzz* “It’s momo, phone is back on almost to holiday inn”

Ten minutes later:

" buzz* Hey momo again I went to the wrong hotel, is there a game happening today? I think I’m by the stadium

My man had survived the whole day, got his phone back on, and ended up next to one of the biggest NFL games of the year. Their set was at 7 p.m., and now it was 4:30 p.m.. He needed to make it to the hotel, or we were in trouble. After some friendly navigation and sheer luck, Momo finally arrived about an hour later. With the venue a 10-minute walk away, it was smooth sailing from here; one more set, one more night.

Biohazard had the big dressing room, so they crammed us common folk into one room, which was kind of more fun—everyone from all corners of the East Coast hardcore scene running amok. Baltimore’s own Gut Instinct had been added to Sunday night’s bill as well, so the locals were even more excited before the Chisel took the stage. Hordes of older guys in Biohazard gear looked extremely apprehensive as the boys took the stage; the Chisel stood out like a setup for a joke: “Three skinheads, a noise musician, and a longhair walk into a room.” But this was no joke. Cal commanded more than a thousand people like a general going to battle for his own personal cause. Twenty-five minutes later, it was over. We watched Biohazard (who have always been good at what they do and still are), letting out the weekend’s energy. Soon the house lights went up and the weekend was over. Just like that.

After the show, Momo and I talked the venue into giving us a case of beer. We ordered some mediocre late-night pizza and headed to the hotel, all of us this time, ready for a real night’s sleep. Tomorrow was back to New York, either to head home or to catch flights home, but not before a photo op of “the pits” from The Wire. As we left Charm City, that drive through West Baltimore had everyone’s already-depleted serotonin feeling some type of way.

“What a fucking nightmare,” I uttered without thinking, looking at a burned-out building.

“It is,” Cal agreed without knowing what I was referencing. “The world is.”