The Crash Live – by Steve Murray
The Crash Live – by Steve Murray
Like the far-off roar and screeching tires of the ’73, eight-cylinder Monte Carlo at 2 am somewhere out in the blackness, I had heard rumblings of the CRASH long before I saw the beast up close. A friend had mentioned this mystery band that’d been doing something of a residency down at Kelly’s Olympian—a joint whose slightly decrepit marquee tends to feature acts with names like MUDDY RIVER NIGHTMARE, KODIAK PISTOLA, and BLACKOUT RADIO. A place permeated by the reliable scent of stale macrobrew, problematic plumbing, and a touch of Pine-Sol. A dive that always gets a friendly tip o’ the cap from Portland’s own BARFLY publication. My kind of place.
But somehow I never made it down to any of the shows. Always some conflict, and besides the parking sucks down there.
But one sublime summer afternoon I happened to turn up at a block party: a perfect blend of sunshine, sumptuous eats, great folk, Lotsa beer, and a fella in the backyard with a funny cigarette wrapped in American flag rolling paper—to whom I promptly introduced myself. Ahh yes, I mused, a spontaneous sanguine free-ride the midst of life’s grinding gears. Just as I was taking in the pure satori of it all, a subtle stealth-like transition began to transpire. The previous hour’s musical entertainment ceded the bandstand to what seemed to be a scruffy crew of middle-aged men. One with a graying goatee and flashing eyes clutching a Fender P-Bass, a larger bloke assembling the gigantic Drumkit of Doom which seemed to include everything but John Bonham’s gong, and an oddly-charasmatic bald character, wrangling an Orange half stack and a small pile of guitars, with the subtly-ominous smirk that one might attribute to an arsonist who’s just hatched a new idea for a “project.”
Intrigued, I took an up-close seat for this curious assemblage. After a dubiously-long tuning session and some scatological pre-amble, a vociferous clamor exploded forth, wilting the season’s fresh flowers within several lots’ range and sending small children whimpering for their parents’ assurance. I confess to being slightly bewildered, repulsed, and magnetically drawn in simultaneously. This was not the stuff of “Dad Rock”—polite, meticulous, neutered cover tunes from the Creedence Clearwater back catalog. This was the audio equivalent of burnt tires and acetone. It left my mind scrambling for answers: what mental/ musical file does this belong in? And, as I took another drag from the red, white, and blue, the answer rang out like a chorus of broken bells. Ahh yes; the rocket propulsion of the MC5, the greasy come-hither of Iggy and the Ashton brothers, the peyote-induced incantations of Patti Smith, and the lumbering ramshackle beauty of Crazy Horse—somehow all infused into a delicious cocktail of absinthe and gasoline.
Suddenly I was in the clutches of the black Bacchanalian demon and, after a half hour’s luxuriating in the filthy glory of it all, I found myself propelled to a neighbor’s basement to fetch a Les Paul and a Swollen Pickle fuzz pedal. Once the band accepted my self-generated “invitation” to join in, I endeavored to surf the wave of sturm and drang hot lava that tossed me sideways and licked up around my ankles. Pure, unbridled, heathen ecstasy with a Pabst Blue Ribbon finish.
Since that sun-dappled afternoon of fire, intoxication, and mayhem I have had the pleasure, numerous times, of drinking from the mysterious ram’s horn that travels everywhere the Crash lurks. Make no mistake—with Monster Scott on feral drums, Matt Bastard’s growling 4-string providing incessant low-down tumblecore, and Woz Ass, brandishing the blow-torch guitar of Detroit Steel, you are in for a dangerous ride.
Take a listen, if you dare. But be forewarned: this is no turtle-waxed, smooth-gliding Caddy, friend. This is a bored-out rat-rod with suicide doors and no seatbelts.
Life is short, chickenshit; climb in, and let’s go!
Steve Murray, Audio Pugilist
Portland 2010
Like the far-off roar and screeching tires of the ’73, eight-cylinder Monte Carlo at 2 am somewhere out in the blackness, I had heard rumblings of the CRASH long before I saw the beast up close. A friend had mentioned this mystery band that’d been doing something of a residency down at Kelly’s Olympian—a joint whose slightly decrepit marquee tends to feature acts with names like MUDDY RIVER NIGHTMARE, KODIAK PISTOLA, and BLACKOUT RADIO. A place permeated by the reliable scent of stale macrobrew, problematic plumbing, and a touch of Pine-Sol. A dive that always gets a friendly tip o’ the cap from Portland’s own BARFLY publication. My kind of place.
But somehow I never made it down to any of the shows. Always some conflict, and besides the parking sucks down there.
But one sublime summer afternoon I happened to turn up at a block party: a perfect blend of sunshine, sumptuous eats, great folk, Lotsa beer, and a fella in the backyard with a funny cigarette wrapped in American flag rolling paper—to whom I promptly introduced myself. Ahh yes, I mused, a spontaneous sanguine free-ride the midst of life’s grinding gears. Just as I was taking in the pure satori of it all, a subtle stealth-like transition began to transpire. The previous hour’s musical entertainment ceded the bandstand to what seemed to be a scruffy crew of middle-aged men. One with a graying goatee and flashing eyes clutching a Fender P-Bass, a larger bloke assembling the gigantic Drumkit of Doom which seemed to include everything but John Bonham’s gong, and an oddly-charasmatic bald character, wrangling an Orange half stack and a small pile of guitars, with the subtly-ominous smirk that one might attribute to an arsonist who’s just hatched a new idea for a “project.”
Intrigued, I took an up-close seat for this curious assemblage. After a dubiously-long tuning session and some scatological pre-amble, a vociferous clamor exploded forth, wilting the season’s fresh flowers within several lots’ range and sending small children whimpering for their parents’ assurance. I confess to being slightly bewildered, repulsed, and magnetically drawn in simultaneously. This was not the stuff of “Dad Rock”—polite, meticulous, neutered cover tunes from the Creedence Clearwater back catalog. This was the audio equivalent of burnt tires and acetone. It left my mind scrambling for answers: what mental/ musical file does this belong in? And, as I took another drag from the red, white, and blue, the answer rang out like a chorus of broken bells. Ahh yes; the rocket propulsion of the MC5, the greasy come-hither of Iggy and the Ashton brothers, the peyote-induced incantations of Patti Smith, and the lumbering ramshackle beauty of Crazy Horse—somehow all infused into a delicious cocktail of absinthe and gasoline.
Suddenly I was in the clutches of the black Bacchanalian demon and, after a half hour’s luxuriating in the filthy glory of it all, I found myself propelled to a neighbor’s basement to fetch a Les Paul and a Swollen Pickle fuzz pedal. Once the band accepted my self-generated “invitation” to join in, I endeavored to surf the wave of sturm and drang hot lava that tossed me sideways and licked up around my ankles. Pure, unbridled, heathen ecstasy with a Pabst Blue Ribbon finish.
Since that sun-dappled afternoon of fire, intoxication, and mayhem I have had the pleasure, numerous times, of drinking from the mysterious ram’s horn that travels everywhere the Crash lurks. Make no mistake—with Monster Scott on feral drums, Matt Bastard’s growling 4-string providing incessant low-down tumblecore, and Woz Ass, brandishing the blow-torch guitar of Detroit Steel, you are in for a dangerous ride.
Take a listen, if you dare. But be forewarned: this is no turtle-waxed, smooth-gliding Caddy, friend. This is a bored-out rat-rod with suicide doors and no seatbelts.
Life is short, chickenshit; climb in, and let’s go!
Steve Murray, Audio Pugilist
Portland 2010
Like the far-off roar and screeching tires of the ’73, eight-cylinder Monte Carlo at 2 am somewhere out in the blackness, I had heard rumblings of the CRASH long before I saw the beast up close. A friend had mentioned this mystery band that’d been doing something of a residency down at Kelly’s Olympian—a joint whose slightly decrepit marquee tends to feature acts with names like MUDDY RIVER NIGHTMARE, KODIAK PISTOLA, and BLACKOUT RADIO. A place permeated by the reliable scent of stale macrobrew, problematic plumbing, and a touch of Pine-Sol. A dive that always gets a friendly tip o’ the cap from Portland’s own BARFLY publication. My kind of place.
But somehow I never made it down to any of the shows. Always some conflict, and besides the parking sucks down there.
But one sublime summer afternoon I happened to turn up at a block party: a perfect blend of sunshine, sumptuous eats, great folk, Lotsa beer, and a fella in the backyard with a funny cigarette wrapped in American flag rolling paper—to whom I promptly introduced myself. Ahh yes, I mused, a spontaneous sanguine free-ride the midst of life’s grinding gears. Just as I was taking in the pure satori of it all, a subtle stealth-like transition began to transpire. The previous hour’s musical entertainment ceded the bandstand to what seemed to be a scruffy crew of middle-aged men. One with a graying goatee and flashing eyes clutching a Fender P-Bass, a larger bloke assembling the gigantic Drumkit of Doom which seemed to include everything but John Bonham’s gong, and an oddly-charasmatic bald character, wrangling an Orange half stack and a small pile of guitars, with the subtly-ominous smirk that one might attribute to an arsonist who’s just hatched a new idea for a “project.”
Intrigued, I took an up-close seat for this curious assemblage. After a dubiously-long tuning session and some scatological pre-amble, a vociferous clamor exploded forth, wilting the season’s fresh flowers within several lots’ range and sending small children whimpering for their parents’ assurance. I confess to being slightly bewildered, repulsed, and magnetically drawn in simultaneously. This was not the stuff of “Dad Rock”—polite, meticulous, neutered cover tunes from the Creedence Clearwater back catalog. This was the audio equivalent of burnt tires and acetone. It left my mind scrambling for answers: what mental/ musical file does this belong in? And, as I took another drag from the red, white, and blue, the answer rang out like a chorus of broken bells. Ahh yes; the rocket propulsion of the MC5, the greasy come-hither of Iggy and the Ashton brothers, the peyote-induced incantations of Patti Smith, and the lumbering ramshackle beauty of Crazy Horse—somehow all infused into a delicious cocktail of absinthe and gasoline.
Suddenly I was in the clutches of the black Bacchanalian demon and, after a half hour’s luxuriating in the filthy glory of it all, I found myself propelled to a neighbor’s basement to fetch a Les Paul and a Swollen Pickle fuzz pedal. Once the band accepted my self-generated “invitation” to join in, I endeavored to surf the wave of sturm and drang hot lava that tossed me sideways and licked up around my ankles. Pure, unbridled, heathen ecstasy with a Pabst Blue Ribbon finish.
Since that sun-dappled afternoon of fire, intoxication, and mayhem I have had the pleasure, numerous times, of drinking from the mysterious ram’s horn that travels everywhere the Crash lurks. Make no mistake—with Monster Scott on feral drums, Matt Bastard’s growling 4-string providing incessant low-down tumblecore, and Woz Ass, brandishing the blow-torch guitar of Detroit Steel, you are in for a dangerous ride.
Take a listen, if you dare. But be forewarned: this is no turtle-waxed, smooth-gliding Caddy, friend. This is a bored-out rat-rod with suicide doors and no seatbelts.
Life is short, chickenshit; climb in, and let’s go!
Steve Murray, Audio Pugilist
Portland 2010