Poor, Proud, But Independent

The genesis of Broken Note came in 1992, when Avitia, then playing bass for 30footFALL, couldn't muster up any label interest in the band. "I was working at a law firm downtown. I was making pretty good cash," he recalls. "So I figured, why not front a couple hundred dollars and put out a tape?"

Without so much as a cautious forward glance, Avitia dove headfirst into a youth-oriented hard-core scene that revolves around Fitzgerald's and Emo's Alternative Lounge. Relatively clean-cut and soft-spoken, Avitia's weekend alter-ego is now "Crazy Tony," the mad soul behind the bullhorn who often takes to the Fitzgerald's stage screaming immediately prior to sets by his Broken Note acts.

In 1994, Avitia followed Menkin's lead and released his own compilation, The Coolest Shit in Texas. With the help of regional distribution, only a few of the 1,000 CDs and 5,000 cassettes remain. More recently, Broken Note has released cassettes from NonStop Bombers and Taste of Garlic and a new Texas music compilation called Noncompliance: A Collection of Thoughts and Ideas from No Particular Place or Time....

In an effort to pool the resources of various indie labels around town, Avitia has assembled Broken Notes, a monthly mailer he lovingly describes as "shameless advertising and keen insight aimed at the 21st century." To be part of Broken Notes, labels pitch in small amounts of cash to advertise their latest product, shows and band news. As for the future of his label, Avitia says, "I want to go in different directions; I want to expand into different styles of music. I love blues; I love jazz; I love rock; I've been to the symphony five or six times. I just love music."

Avitia says he wants to be around when -- and if -- the Houston hard-core scene ever truly explodes. And whether that happens or not, he adds, has as much to do with the groups as it does with the labels. Unlike Menkin, Avitia's responsibilities with Broken Note bands sometimes spill over into management, but he can't help groups that won't help themselves. "Being in the same band for three years and never getting out of town is the main thing that's hurt a lot of bands in Houston," Avitia says. "They won't tour."

Trying to lead by example, Avitia is hitting the road on his own for a few weeks this spring for a short grassroots label campaign. "In all the bands that I was in, I always wanted to go on tour, and I never made it out," he says. "So this year, I've decided I'm going to take about three weeks and go west -- go to three or four cities and plug away at record stores with my stuff."

Five years ago, Marc Reed thought he had a future as a nightclub owner -- that is, until the city of Beaumont decided otherwise. Right across the street from the only porno shop in Jefferson County, Reed's Fuzzgun enjoyed its brief, outrageous run. Largely, the live music club catered to the hip, skate-punk underground -- or what passed for one in Beaumont -- and the remainder of the town's bored teenage masses.

"Basically, there was like three bands in Beaumont when I was growing up," says the 25-year-old Reed. "A friend of mine's brother had this band, Train in Vain, and there was nowhere for these guys to play. I remember we did this Halloween party at the local Elks Lodge and 400 people showed up. I just couldn't believe it. And so we took the money we made and decided to use it to start a club."

Reed and his pals in Train in Vain found an old restaurant a real estate agent was desperate to unload, boarded up the windows and hollowed the place out. Two weeks later, Fuzzgun opened its doors officially with a show headlined by the Houston-area thrash-metal act deadhorse.

"When I opened it, I wanted it to be a college hangout -- nothing too weird," he says. "The first night, there was a line out the door to get in."

Soon Fuzzgun was hosting bands from all over Texas, as well as the occasional national act, and developing a reputation among the kids as a pretty wild place to hang out. "It was considered a crazy place; a club where you could go to see someone stick something into his ass. And we were on the street where all the hookers and transvestites were out, which added to the stigma."

Things really started to get out of hand when Reed handed over booking duties to a friend with tastes that tended toward the extreme. Fringe punk bands started making their mark on Beaumont with shows that straddled -- and sometimes crossed -- the line of what normal God-fearing folks would consider decent behavior. The kids loved it, but in the eyes of the parents who dropped their kids off at the club on weekend nights, it was way too much. After one soused performer too many pulled his pants down on-stage, police raided the place.

"It was definitely the beginning of the end," Reed says. Two years after its auspicious debut, Fuzzgun closed.