November 8, 2006

Why I Don’t Drink

The Candy Snatchers are from the Norfolk, Virginia / VA Beach region of the Eastern U.S. They’ve toured all over the place.

This post will be about the Snatchers’ early 1990s career, since that’s what I know and love. It started as a mild romp of nostalgia, then turned into one of those giant, painful, research-intensive projects that makes me wanna curl up under the covers. Doesn’t matter. Scroll down. I know y’all only want the mp3s, anyway.

My ol’buddy Squeaky (now web-publishing under the more dignified nom de plume “Sq. Dave”) has a blog called Rockin’ Monkey. He was probably the one who originally introduced me to the band, and especially their crazy live shows. Every time the Candy Snatchers played NYC, it had the feel of a violent but friendly homecoming party, an exotic mix of the city’s more open-minded garage kids, rockers and bonehead punx getting trashed and bumping into each other. One time an unknown group of Brooklyn crust-bums showed up at the Continental, overcoat-smuggling a huge dead fish. It immediately got kicked, swung and tossed around the dance floor until everyone found themselves covered in a rotten film of bloody fish guts. (One of the perpetrators of this vile deed can be seen on the back cover of the Pissed Off, Ripped Off, Screwed CD.)

Even aside from such audience participation, the band’s tried-and-true array of destructive gimmicks kept the bookers guessing. Depending on mood, singer Larry May or axer Matt Odietus would sometimes cut their own scalp, ‘70s pro-wrestler style – up by the hairline or wherever the blood would flow most effusively. Once, at CBGB, Matt bled out so much he almost fainted, and eventually had to be carted off to the ER with a t-shirt turban wrapped around his noggin. Larry would smash glass bottles at random. Willy used lighter fluid to set his bass on fire, with the aid of excited audience members who’d often get outta hand with the flammables and torch Willy himself. Drums were routinely collided with and obliterated.

The song, however, was Job One. At any given moment in the set, Larry’s mic might be out in the crowd, the cord wrapped around three people’s necks; Barry might have nothing but a snare and Willy could be down to his last string and in flames. But as long as any two band members were still in play (sometimes only one), the machine kept a-rockin’. I came to love those insane minimal interludes in the set – when any normal band would have stopped the show, the Candy Snatchers combine kept banging away like an injured, high-speed locomotive.

They take their name from a very cool, obscure exploitation movie. After you see it, you’ll know that an ear is worth more than a finger.

The guys in the group talked amazing amounts of shit to one another. Drunken rehearsals occasionally turned into alley fights; alcohol and drug abuse were omnipresent. (Since I’d opted out of the chemical scene, I probably only glimpsed the tip o’ the iceberg). If you want war stories, poke around here! But they were always extremely generous hosts, and great friends to me and mine. I’m getting a little misty… thinking back to my own band’s performance, in front of a packed beach bar full of Norfolk crazies who went apeshit when we got to share the bill with their hometown heroes. Magic moments.

I kinda lost touch after moving to the West Coast. I saw ‘em play a couple of times in L.A. and Long Beach, but the vibe wasn’t the same, mainly because their shows only drew sparse crowds of macho meatheads, and there wasn’t a chick in sight. Hey, go ahead and chalk it up to old age, but without ladies, there’s not much reason for me to leave the house.

Now Willy’s out of the band, pursuing a life of drugs. Matt is still the guitar hero (back in the mid-’90s he and his girlfriend Andrea published a really good rock ‘n’ roll ‘zine that I can’t find right now) and Larry’s killer vocal chords are well in the game. Sgt Stash is maybe the longest-lasting of a long series of drummers. Barry Johnson (a very cool guy) drummed on these songs, but is now dead. Over the last decade or more, the boys have put out a suitcase full of records. What’s below are from the aforementioned Pissed Off, Ripped Off, Screwed collection of great early singles, and the self-titled debut LP produced by Dean Rispler, who wrote a much better bio of the band than I just did: here.

The Candy Snatchers – “Pinto Pony”

The Candy Snatchers – “Buzzsaw”

The Candy Snatchers – “Motion”

The Candy Snatchers – “Nightcrawler”

The Candy Snatchers – “Pain Stains”

And here’s a beautiful little video to one of my fave May/Odietus compositions. ‘Twas filmed and edited way back in the day by Joanne (formerly of the Hot Corn Girls and Kill Fuck Kill):
The Candy Snatchers in “Why I Drink” (.mov file, 25 MB)

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While you listen, try drawing your own intestine using this ridiculous Flash tool.

Rick at 1:39 am

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