Antiworld,
Statch and the Rapes, All Out, The Commies
Paris
Theatre
6 SW 3rd
Ave., 224-8313
6 pm Sunday,
Oct. 29
$5 advance,
$6 door
Another State
of Mind
222 W Burnside
St., 224-8259
www.deathrock.
com/antiworld
Considering how desperately the branches of all subcultures
rely upon their roots for nourishment, it's almost unthinkable--but
many descendants of the punk and gothic diaspora don't know
their deathrock. Yes, deathrock, the wicked mix of pasty-faced
horror and pre-hardcore punk birthed by bands like Christian
Death, 45 Grave, Voodoo Church, UK Decay and Alien Sex Fiend.
You know, the bands that helped invent goth, while
maintaining the serrated edge of late '70s punk?
Er, apparently many young darklings don't know.
If they did, Antiworld--singer Connie "Grandma Fiendish"
Wallace, bassist "Forty Five Frank" Schaefer, guitarist
Gary "Ravenscraft" Fiendish and drummer Greg "Dr. Jack Nowhere"
Segal--would be more popular. Instead, their sets of costumes-and-makeup
zombie punk can provoke bewildered stares.
"People don't know what to do with us, I guess," says Connie.
"We're an oddity--we have one foot in goth and one foot
in punk--and instead of getting shows on both ends, we get
none. Unless we book them ourselves."
Which they do. But this DIY survival technique has, at
times, backfired for the band, since booking agents don't
always think to call them for gigs, even ones with similarly
spooked artists like the Damned or Misfits tributarians
Plan 9. A friendly reminder is sometimes required to tell
promoters that yes, the 5-year-old Antiworld is still alive
and kicking.
Which they most definitely are. Not only are a new 16-song
CD (The Horror of It All) and two-song video (Creature
Features) ready to be unleashed, but the band just filmed
a cameo for cult B-movie director Damon Foster's upcoming
film, Devils, Dragons and Vampires. Combine that
with appearances on numerous recent deathrock compilations
and it seems the entire scene may be getting an infusion
of fresh blood. In fact, Antiworld recently took part in
a Long Beach, Calif., deathrock event where the mohawk boys
and makeup girls actually mingled, with none of the leery
cold-shouldering or cross-club sneers common in today's
punk-goth DMZ.
If there's a place Portland's estranged clans can meet
for a quick history lesson, it's at Another State of Mind,
the '70s and '80s-focused punk/goth/horror store on downtown
Burnside Street. There you'll find proprietress Fiendish
and Frank sitting, surrounded by a selection of clothing
and collectibles that would please both Sid Vicious and
Morticia Addams, looking like sage elders of the studs'n'skulls
school of deathrock knowledge.
"I think it's very important for people--whatever scene
they're in--to keep the history end of it there," says Frank,
"so people can research it and see where it originated,
how it got from there to here."
"If they're truly interested in the music, they'll seek
it out," Connie concurs. "If not, they'll go back to the
mall."
Which would be really scary.
Sometimes, though, mall types come to them, with risible
results. Like the day when some of the Insane Clown Posse's
corporate flacks asked if they could set up a life-size
ICP display in Another State of Mind to advertise the goony
rappers. Connie politely declined. But when Limp Bizkit's
own flacks wanted to drop off a batch of promo tapes--tapes
that could easily be recorded over with, say, oh, Antiworld
songs (for their own promotional purposes, natch)--Frank
told the bro: "Yeah, we'll take 'em."
"And me and [Connie] looked at each other," he recalls,
deadpanning, "and we both thought: demos."
They've also got full-length albums, of course, which allows
Antiworld to stretch out with more tales of crawling eyes,
wasp women and wailing banshees. Hell, when you're talking
horror themes, there's no shortage of subjects to plunder.
"You could make a career out of [H.P. Lovecraft's] Pantheon
alone," proclaims Greg.
Although, Gary admits, "you'd probably run out of angles
to take on it."
Being fans of both dead things and the Dead Boys, however,
perhaps we'll hear a "Cthonic Reducer" from Antiworld sometime
soon...?
Uh, maybe not.
Regardless of their ingrained taste for the brains of today's
spooky youth, Antiworld has no desire to haunt the town's
stages every damn day.
"We purposely don't play that much," Frank says. "When
we play, we want people to feel like it's kind of an event."
However, Connie warns, "I'd hate to become one of those
'Halloween' bands...end up only playing at Halloween superstores
or something."
"Do the haunted-house circuit," Frank says wryly. But then
a skewed smile brushes away the sarcasm, and he adds: "Hey,
Elvira did it!"
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