A Chat with CHARMING DISASTER

Author/journalist Joel Gausten talks with Ellia Bisker and Jeff Morris of Charming Disaster about their brilliant forthcoming album, The Double, and the esoteric influences behind their sound and aesthetics.

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ALBUM REVIEW - The Path of Increased Indifference: Night School Field Trip

Hands down, the best NYC Noise band in 2025 is… from fucking Tampa?

Florida has always been an unlikely source of dark and heavy shit. How can such a sunny part of the country, best known for families vacationing and old folks retiring, produce the likes of Nasty Ronnie and the Tardy Brothers? I mean, all you need to do is look at photos of Birmingham, England from the late '60s to know it would eventually spit out a Sabbath. But the Sunshine State? Damned if I know. Yet, the place has never ceased to unleash musical menace upon the world.

Mix that Southern spirit with a heavy dose of late '80s CBGB grime, and you get The Path of Increased Indifference. The group’s latest album, Night School Field Trip, blends Killing Joke-meets-Bad Brains precision with razor-gargling vocals that fall somewhere between early-period Rob Zombie and late-period GG Allin. This is music for people whose late '80s/early '90s collections included first-pressing Pussy Galore, Unsane, and Helmet albums alongside piles of Foetus and Swans live shows on VHS. This is the soundtrack you put on while a Lydia Lunch movie plays silently on the TV right beneath the framed nudie cover of the first Boss Hog record.

Get the picture?

Now, take all that and add a few scattered Hardcore breakdowns and Geordie-esque guitar arrangements, and you’ll get some idea of what this maelstrom is about — short of listening to the thing yourself, which, if any of the preceding 200 or so words have appealed to you, should happen as soon as possible.

Night School Field Trip is some of the heaviest and most immediately satisfying music I’ve heard in ages. It’s both an homage to the sonic savagery of a bygone era and a hint at Metal’s future possibilities. Get it.

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A Chat with ANDY SKOVRAN (NJF/PLEASED YOUTH/NIBLICK HENBANE/SCROOGE/BROKEN HEROES)

Author/journalist Joel Gausten talks with New Jersey Oi!/Punk veteran Andy Skovran (Pleased Youth/Scrooge/Niblick Henbane/Those Unknown/Broken Heroes) about his long history in the scene.

Broken Heroes

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A Chat with PETER AARON (THE CHROME CRANKS/SAND IN THE FACE/SLUGGO/THE STABBING JABS)

Author/journalist Joel Gausten talks with musician/author/journalist/promoter/radio show host Peter Aaron (The Chrome Cranks/Sand in the Face/Sluggo/Peter Aaron-Brian Chase Duo/Young Skulls/The Stabbing Jabs) about his decades-long history in the music industry and his experiences writing books on The Ramones, The Band, and Ric Ocasek and co-writing a book with Richie Ramone.

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Words for Dave Allen

It’s absolutely appropriate that Dave Allen’s bass is the first sound you hear on Entertainment!

Jon is the brilliant singer and frontman. Andy is the sardonic mad scientist. Hugo is somehow simultaneously tight and loosely funky.

And Dave… Dave is the fucking engine.

Gang of Four would not have been the Gang of Four we love without him. Those first two albums are his.

Solid Gold. Greatest bass-drum interplay since Butler/Ward. It will never not stun me.

Dave splits. Gang of Four is never the same on record again.

Shriekback is fantastic, but Low Pop Suicide changes my life. What an album. What else can I say? Nothing. No scribe can adequately explain the power of Dave Allen circa ’92.

Coachella, 2005. I’m there. So is Flea, who’s watching Dave intently. The band’s on fire. For many of us, OUR Fab Four finally back in action. I focus on the bass throughout.

My journalistic endeavors pick up steam. Chats with Hugo and Andy span years. Dave is elusive, never re-entering the picture after he splits the second time.

Andy becomes the last man standing. Some of the output is damn-near perfect with fine players but missing the feel of the original fellas in the back.

Andy bows for the last time. We get Hugo and Jon back, but not Dave. The 2022 shows are magical. Sara Lee is sensational. The whole thing reconfirms everything I love about the band but still makes me wonder what could have been if... IF...

We’ll never know. We have the records. Listening to “Damaged Goods” as I type. Goddamn, what a band.

I hope Dave knew how much this music means to us.

The final two are about to tour. The Long Goodbye, it’s called. A silly name, really, since there’s no way this music will ever leave all the hearts it’s touched.

Thank you, Hugo and Jon, for keeping it going for one last run. I know you’ll honor Dave and Andy and every lightning bolt we’ve felt from every sound you’ve put to vinyl.

Now go out there and kick fucking ass.

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Words for Al Barile

You’d be hard-pressed to find a more welcoming space than the Boston Hardcore scene.

Of course, I had no way of knowing that at 10, when an older friend in my neighborhood in NJ turned me on to SSD and Slapshot. More than a bit militant, yeah? Intimidating, too. And I’d hear stories about Boston straight-edge guys beating people up for smoking and drinking. Whether fact or fiction (I suspect the latter), it was a lot for my young schoolkid mind to take in.

Fast-forward to 2009, and I move up to New Hampshire. Where are the shows? Boston. I start getting out to see what’s going on. Thanks to my old friend Drew Stone, I start meeting people: Mark McKay, Chris from SSD, Larry Kelley. Tough guys? Pfft. Nicest people ever. Even Choke ends up being a sweetheart. Who knew?

Eventually, I reach Boss Level: Al Barile.

He pops up in the comment section of my guest appearance on Drew’s NYHC Chronicles in 2021. I chain-smoke through the entire show. No threats of violence land on the screen.

I meet him at the private party the night before the official opening of Bridge Nine. He spots my SSD shirt and smiles. We get to talking. He’s immediately endearing and impossible to dislike. An everyman without a shred of ego. Gentle, in a way. He hands me a stack of SSD guitar picks. We see each other again a few times over the next year or so. Never a wasted moment or unpleasant conversation. I meet Nancy along the way. A wonderful lady.

Is there another couple on Earth more suited for one another than Nancy and Al?

September 2023. The SSD book party at a hotel in Boston. I run into Al and Nancy outside. Always the gentleman, he tells me how much he likes my YouTube channel. I ask him if he needs help with anything. He hands me his SSD guitar to bring in.

I become a roadie for SSD for the next two minutes. No words.

The night is fantastic. Many happy people and wide smiles. Al is in his element, signing books and posing for pictures. I can tell he’s basking in the well-earned glow of everything he and the other fellas in SSD contributed to this music scene that means so much to so many.

I can also tell he’s in pain.

Things are winding down. I hunt down Al and Nancy for a selfie on my way out. They’re exhausted but accommodating, because of course they are. Three minutes later, I’m in my car on the way home.

I never see Al again.

That guy mattered. And he is loved.

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Some Thoughts on This Whole "Extremities" Thing

 

Right, so Martin’s announced a special live performance of Killing Joke’s Extremities, Dirt, and Various Repressed Emotions at Reggies this November, thus delivering a social media shocker and, for many of us, prompting all the feels.

(And on Martin’s end, a couple of exclusive VIP package deals, because Martin.)

I was already way into the Joke by the time the album arrived in 1990. (“No Big Paul? Hmm … but that’s Martin Atkins from PiL there. This is gonna be interesting.”) My favorite album for 35 years and counting. I bleed that fucking thing.

Naturally, my fandom for the record (and anything else these scoundrels have ever conceived) — coupled with my musical and journalistic exploits — has led me to enjoy plenty of incomparable experiences over the years, including but not limited to:

* Getting an invite from Jaz to spend “a wild weekend” with him in Prague – an offer my budget and sense of self-preservation prevented me from indulging.

* Sitting and chatting with Mike Coles in a London pub.

* Enduring a colorful, hysterically funny, frequently combative, and perennially bipolar connection with charming charlatan and bona fide frenemy Paul Raven, who still somehow managed to endear himself to me even when threatening to relieve me of my life. (By the way, the guy’s still fucking with me from beyond the grave through methods that I won’t divulge here but are surely understood by anyone who knew him. I don’t miss him, as he's never really gone away.)

* Lee Popa filling my ears with more dirt than I can ever publish.

* Most significantly, meeting and gallivanting with beautifully brilliant and deeply fascinating female Gatherers — among the most extraordinary people I’ve ever known.

And then there’s Martin, the striped-shirted nutter I’ve known since I ran into him on the street in New Orleans 32 years ago. An Incredible Hulk behind the kit AND the scenes. (Don’t make Atkins angry … You wouldn't like Atkins when he’s angry.) An immensely kind, loving, and giving soul and one of the most temperamental twats I’ve ever worked with. A man who puts everything on the line in pursuit of THE THING that can make a hodgepodge of dozens of disparate strangers soar together on stage in front of thousands. A visionary, a mentor, a sweetheart, an occasionally disagreeable asshole, and an irreplaceable friend.

My life is richer, more explosive, and creatively deeper for having him in it.

But enough about him. I’m thrilled that Steven Seibold is going to handle guitar. The guy’s a walking chef’s kiss of musical expression. And he’s got the sound right. Don’t believe me? Listen to his work on “Laugh Track” off the second Damage Manual record.

He’ll do Geordie proud - and to emphasize that point using only the most subject-appropriate parlance, I wouldn't fucking write that fucking sentence if I didn't fucking believe every fucking word.

THANK YOU for doing this, Martin! It’s gonna be so fucking great.