Getting Personal

Nouveau punk rockeros need love, too

Roy Berry (Lucero): "I hit things with sticks, drink on the job, and I'm a bit tattooed. My name is Roy, I'm the drummer for Lucero, and I have my own army. I enjoy the in- and outdoors, audio experimentation, doing things that I haven't done before, intending to read more than I do, and drunken text messages. Seeking a sweet, hot, occasionally surly female logician who's possibly a well-disguised vampire (18 to 38)."

Tim Fite: "SBM (single bloodless male) Tim Fite seeks kind-hearted female hemophiliac for life-fulfilling symbiotic relationship. Must be generous, open minded, O-positive and willing to go on dates that cost less than a dollar."

Aaron Marsh (Copeland): "Hi, my name is Aaron Marsh. SWM seeking a girl who can share in my affinity for Woody Allen films and Allen's bleak outlook on life. Enjoys dark guitar tone, creepy artwork, haunting music and dark…umm…puppy dogs."

The Abattoir
The Abattoir

Marty Larson-Xu (Rock 'n' Roll Soldiers): "My name is Marty and I love to party. Any girl is good for me as long as she is willing to go out and drink. I love to eat -- burritos, Thai food, bananas and candy play a huge role in my life. I also love college girls and prefer if they have nothing to do with the music/entertainment industry."

Simi Sernaker (Suffrajett): "Hi, my name is Simi. I like long walks in the woods, help with my koi pond, boys who eat bacon and guys that know how to rosin my bow. Must love soup."

Tripp Underwood (the Unseen): "SPRD (single punk rock dude) seeks leather and spikes counterpart. Hobbies include drinking, making old people and mall security guards nervous, and smashing the imperialistic state. I'm into tattered clothes, outrageous hair, obnoxious behavior and blaming the government for my lack of employment opportunities. If I sound like the guy for you, call 888-8889. But not after ten, 'cause my mom goes to bed kinda early."

The Abattoir

No more Mr. Nice Wack. Starting this week, we proudly announce our intention to put an end to our habit of preaching to the choir, taking shots at only the most obvious of barrel-dwelling marine life. No, Wack is opening The Abattoir with the express purpose of goring only musicís most untouchable sacred cows. So pull on that apron, sharpen that poison pen and get ready for a blood-lettiní! ó Scott Faingold

As I sit here with the blade of my knife held to the throat of Jack White, driving force behind the inexplicably popular white-boy-blues train wreck the White Stripes, I beseech you, their fans, to explain to me why this fool should be allowed to live. I beg of you -- why in God's name do I even know who this pallid troubadour is? Back when they were playing Rudyard's it was all cool.

"Hey, have you heard of the White Stripes? No? Well, I just caught 'em last night at Rudz, and they rocked."

"Oh, really? What are they like?"

"Just a guy and a girl. He sings and plays guitar, and she plays drums. It's kind of a bluesy, garage rock thing, à la Blues Explosion, but less funky, and more Mississippi Delta-ish."

"Oh. I guess that's okay."

Boom. That's the end of the White Stripes discussion.

In a just world, the story would be over, but in our world these folks are wildly successful rock stars packing stadiums as far away as Brazil! (At least that might help explain the marimba and the stupid-ass hat.)

It wasn't supposed to be this way. They don't belong. Their songs are boring. Meg is, hands down, the worst drummer of all time -- and not in a Shaggs kind of way. In a two-person band, Meg is baggage. And Jack looks like Tim Burton's idea of a dead mariachi. It wouldn't be so bad if I didn't have to hear about Jack's gallivanting about with the likes of Karen Elson and Katy's own shiny-faced drama queen Renée Zellweger. Why, God, why?

Who decided that this scrawny, gaucho hallucination with the John Waters mustache and his ghostly, half-breed, talentless homunculus belong anywhere but beneath my blade anyway? I'm not sure who was responsible, but when I find out, they'll be next in line at The Abattoir. -- John Cramer

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