Custom Territory Story . . .

By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Sun Dec 4, 12:59 pm TT

Photos by Detroit Jack

Custom blades flicked, stainless exhaust pipes sparkled and combs greased back locks, as the Low Riders moved in on the Customs turf.

Hot mamas pushed their leather clad boys into scuffles with the Low Riders under a desperate envious M(.)(.)N as the territorial takeover ensued.

Slashed faces, sandwiched knuckles, chain whipped torsos and fisted machine metal did battle in the open air coliseum as anxious stilettos became bloodstained prizes.

Cedrics, Deuce Coupes and Hemi's fought the good fight, but, slowly, forced back into a dark corner of the lowly garage, tires deflated, pumps exhausted and engines blown, the victors claimed their silky prizes.

Fearful of being sold as Low Rider scrap, the customs banned together with their two-wheeled brethren to do final battle!

With the Banzai Hootenanny raging in the backdrop, race lines edged to and fro, as teams of slicked back grease charged through red lights uninhibited.

Finally, the death of Justine laid all in somber reminiscence of past and future, with mutual respect achieved, and an agreed upon territorial division, now, hopefully, the garage of futures past will live in solace and with the admiration of building one from the other.

Muscle Car Invasion!

By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Fri Oct 29, 9:59 am TT
Photos by Detroit Jack

It made absolutely no sense, that earplugs and gas masks would be standard issue upon entering Heavysick on the night I would see my good friend from Australia . . . , who had come to Tokyo for a one night off gig with a Japanese backing band.

I did however find it even stranger that several Dirtrucks were backed up to the service door of the venue off loading massive eight cylinder Detroit Muscle action power units, that were being wheeled inside.

"Hell Yeah!" was my first reaction. A bona fide mini hotrod show to go along with some high octane rock and roll!!

But, the masks?! Damo MC (my good mate from down under) was the headliner . . .

The room dark . . . , the stage unlit. A mechanical echoed voice comes over the house speakers . . . . "Don your masks! Don your masks!! Insert earplugs now! Insert earplugs NOW!! WWWWWOOOOOOHHHHHH! WWWWWWIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIHHHHHHHH!!

THE REVS WERE HORRIFIC!! THREE MASSIVE MUSCLE CAR ENGINES ROARED FROM THE STAGE IN VARYING RYTHMS . . . . A FORD 390, A CHEVY 396, AND A MOPAR 440!!

OUTRAGEOUS TUNING, SWEET FUMES OF INDUSTRIAL PRODUCTION SANG THE SONG OF FREEDOM DYING, AS THE ROOM FILLED WITH OIL LAIDEN SMOKE AND VIBRATIONS OF MAN MADE LUST . . . . . , WAAAAMP!!! WITH THE PUNTERS BACKED AGAINST THE WALLS, EMERGED THE QUEEN OF NOISE . . . . . MUSCLE CAR!

God Ra's Solar Attack!

By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Sun Aug 7, 9:59 pm TT
Photos by Detroit Jack

Earthdom being bombarded with magnetic solar flares cast upon them by God Ra, only heightened the calls to spread Heavy Metal Glue over surface of the planet in an attempt to capture and store the energy, to be returned in the form of impulse rays designed to counter the onslaught.

Taking center stage was the goddess of Eternal Elysium, who inhaled the bovril masses to guard them from the toxic Heavy Metal Glue scorching the green planet, as the final measure was employed and the preservation of mankind took precedence.

Only the kuruucrew, who are immune to the toxic glue, would not emerge from the magnetic rays, as they slowly atomized into the quantum fields of light, dwindling to a final few, as the absorbent glue was laid over the planet.

As the Heavy Metal Glue glowed with the energy of infinitesimal atomic particles, blackening the crust beneath, the planets sphere was stretched a thousand miles here and there in waves of volcanic eruptions of gas and granite, molten and magma, fissures and cracks that forced the goddess to hovel, on the dark side, in the Church Of Misery.

As the magnetic flares of God Ra dissipated with increasing retreat, the boundless energy stored in the glue burst out from Earthdom, following the solar trail back to its source. Magnified in the trillions, the burst sealed the god of the White Heaven at its core, and there to remain until billions of light years have passed.

Guru Guru Think!

By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Fri March 11, 3:47 pm TT
Photos by John Kessler


Guru Guru fortune seen beyond the radioactive dream, when Mani brought the powers that be, to a synergy strewn with bodies in black, salty graves.


Poisons seep into the eyes of nature, destroying temples with acid death.


Beyond the tracks of control from which it sprang, the music of forgiveness went unheralded amongst the mass of human objects no longer hearing that which withdraws.


Wild forces convened on the inventive stricken, who clutched their memories into the deep black, while Guru Guru Makoto Temple Of Acid Minds was lost amongst the history impressed on the minds of wanton objects.


Think!

Symplegades de Hard-Ons

By DETROIT JACK, Phallus Press Writer – Sun Feb 20, 11:47 pm ET

Photos by John Kessler

As we legged the sweeping case of stairs that dropped steeply into a punchbowl of bad boys high on grade school antics . . . , the only telling sign of sanity were the Hard-Ons roaming the proscenium.

Amplified poorly from the outset . . . , sound waves went forth without regard, as mastery of the pulsating instruments gushed the legacy built upon decades of sweat drenched arenas.

Felled to our knees, we were victims to the sonic sirens emanating from the rise beyond our sight . . . , and we prayed to the gods for deliverance from this battlefield of wounded hearts.

Bodies clashed amongst naked feats of hero worship, while tones of perfection graced the lengths of the auditory canals, exaggerated for purposes even the artist could hardly know.

No, not even Machiavelli would have attempted to foresee beyond the musical horizon of the three pillars of rock and roll . . . , and yet, with the treachery of Medea fresh in our memories, we gave of our souls with the promise of youth.

Spirited away in the chariot of the sun-god, the triumphant reign of the Hard-Ons exploded in firery waves of possessive movements, culminating in the death of a broken promise of love.

Hard-Ons are not for the delusional.

Rockin' Twirls, Custom Curls & Hot Girls!

By Detroit Jack, Phallus Press Writer - Sun Dec. 7, 7:51 am ET

Photos by Detroit Jack

At 11:45 am, December 5th, 2010, Yokohama Japan was hit by a massive tsunami, the likes of which have not been recorded since the great temple that once housed the Amida Buddha of Kamakura was laid waste. Cars piled up and dragged along the pavement as squealing could be heard around every corner. Swarms of lathered pedestrians crowded any refuge from the salty blasts, as those less fortunate were stripped by the waves that flowed between the bare thighs, which quivered amongst high powered rumblings.

"Why this . . . Why now?!", was a common reflection on this Bitch Attack from the deep wet saline rich void. As Mother Nature spread her vacuous expanse, more went in than came out, as the throbbing range of tidal pools sucked in all that was desired. Jackie and the Cedrics took the high ground in an attempt to satisfy the cravenness appetite of the Goddess who will not be named. They beat upon their drums, and leapt from the mount in attempts sooth the all too powerful one.

As if caught in a dream dance, her thoughts distracted by the rhythms cast at her, the gushing torrents subsided, leaving a powder white misty glaze on the face of the city. Though subdued, this event, along with the great Amida Buddha stand as testimony to powers of this Goddess, who has on more than one occasion reminded humanity, that mere mortals are no match to her salty twirls and custom curls.

Now, some two weeks on, makeshift memorials mark the areas on which the all powerful Goddess sprayed her mightiest mists of misfortune. White salty patches that are being preserved and decorated with images conjured up in the imaginations of those who survived.

Some have painted personal reflections of the Goddess herself, which can be seen at the various sites throughout city, while others simply present the twisted metal wreckage of the machines that failed to take flight.

Fever Pitch Hits Free Market Crash

By Detroit Jack, Phallus Press Writer - Sat Sept.11, 8:46:40 am ET

Photos by Detroit Jack

Tokyo Rockers cleaned out their nooks, crannies, closets and shoe boxes searching for the golden bullet to the top of the underground Free Market Crash that precluded an all out assault on communal harmony. Rockin' Punkers brought their molded straps and soiled treasures to lay bare on erected platforms so often equated with the offerings made to the flea market gods of the West.

A signed pair of Elvis' underwear was rumored to be on offer, though they never surfaced among the minion of guitar cases stuffed with the undergarments of the nights' acts. I personally had my mitts on a long red silky pair of cabaret stockings purportedly worn by one of the all too sexy Supersnazz members, though after further inquiry, they dropped from my clinging gloves when Super "Greg" Snazz lay claim to ownership. Yeah, sexy I guess . . . , but . . . ANYWAY . . .

Found among the offerings that documented the brief supremacy of the Nippon garage punk and roll underground were, a Teengenerate T-back here, a pair of Jackie & the Cedrics' &$#"$(# there! Must have had a good time in Spain!! A box of Thunder Roads chocolates with Jellybeans' on top, obviously rejected and put up for sale by a smoldering broken heart, a single rockabilly leopard skinned platform shoe, who the owner swore belonged to Mick Collins, and a tiger stripped leotard, which was priced at $2, but when my friend inquired as to the patron of ownership, no one would lay claim. My friend stuffed it in her bag for future ballet lessons.

When the Free Market Carnage had finally come to a head, the pints began to reverb from the stage. And, oh my, this was an ass kicking! Supersnazz are currently at their peak, which covers a twenty year climb to the pinnacle of their sound, that makes legendary those red cabaret stockings my friend (a Young Parisian) acquired from the free market offerings to the gods.

Further, when contemplating supreme triumph, this nights' punters' witnessed the crowning of thee supreme trio of Nippon garage rock, and those acclamations being so heartfully won by Sammy, Fifi and Fink, who are, were and always will be American Soul Spiders, Teengenerate, Raydios, Tweezers, Firestarter and beyond! They all out conquered this Free Market Crash and Burn: the likes of which one must truly travel East to bare witness.