Adam Schirling Dispatch #2

by Horror Sleaze Trash on May 14, 2012

A NIGHT IN WORCESTER
By: Adam Schirling, HST Correspondent-at-Large

Saturday the 21st of April saw me doing what I do best in the world, enjoying a cocktail or 3 and watching some old movies. But this was not to be a typical night, as I was preparing soon to make the 40 minute drive up Rt.146 to Worcester, Mass to check out “The Deadly Ladies of Northeast Trash” at Ralph’s Rock Diner. Still reasonably new to the New England music scene, it would be my first trip to Ralphs, which I took on advice from my good friend and Rick Ross clone, Frazzy, to be “a sweet fucking joint”. So, I packed some booze and a toothbrush, collected my two female companions, and began my journey to understand just what was Northeast Trash.

The drive proved uneventful, as 45 minutes is hardly enough time for me to get into trouble, though myself and my GPS had several verbal altercations, and I may or may not have called her a ‘robotic thundercunt’. She can be quite the condescending bitch. Finally, I found Ralphs, a bright oasis of glowing neon set back off a side road on the outskirts of the town.
The first order of business was to be food, and logically I had concluded that ‘Ralphs Diner’ would have food available. Entering the small doorway, and paying the appropriate fee to the doorman with fine hearty sideburns, he informed me that to the left, in which appeared to be an old rail car, I could find food, and to the right was the bar, with the nights musical activities taking place upstairs. We sat at the bar, where I ordered drinks and burgers for the group, and the lovely bartender, probably sensing we were no ordinary patrons, gave me a free beer, thus instantly making her my new favorite bartender in the world. The décor was simple, and bold, and harked back to a time of real diners and dive bars, not the imposters on TV food shows these days. The car began to fill with tattooed rockabilly chicks, and men in tight shirts with fedoras. The only blight to the atmosphere was the quintessential ‘Masshole’ at the bar, decked out in Red Sox jersey and loudly making every one know just how many beers he had, and he sure could use a ‘shot of Jager’. My friends, you know how I feel about such types, so quickly I finished my meal, before I shoved his Oakley softball glasses down his fucking throat.
I ventured upstairs, drawn to the sounds of fast music. There, at the top of the rickety staircase emblazoned in punk rock stickers, I entered quite the magical place. A small stage that resembled an old Vaudeville theater, was to my left, and the dark room was lit by Xmas lights and neon signs. I quickly breathed a sigh of relief, as it is known to my friends and family that the only light source I am truly comfortable in is dingy neon, no doubt a staple of my youth in Vegas. I walked in just in time to hear the opening song of local band “The Sinbusters”. Very loud, very fast, and very energetic, it was just what I expected it to be. The gloriously bearded lead singer and guitar player threw himself around the stage and floor with a fervor rarely seen in music these days, the raw energy from him and his band mates filling the air with a feverish intensity. Quickly I threw back several shots of whiskey and a beer, and succumbed to the pure heat of the set. Once finished, I made my way to the bar to meet with Myra, the lead singer of the “Evil Streaks”, the headline act of the night. I quickly found this gorgeous little bundle of woman, and she gathered her band to come downstairs with me for a quick chat about the music scene in New England and the future of their band. No worries, friends, you can check out the full interview on Drunken Absurdity this week, but I will tell you it was fucking awesome.

Interview over, I went upstairs in time to see the next band, “The Skeleton Beats” take the stage. Led by a sultry and voluptuous lead singer, another amazing set of high energy songs commenced. It was very easy to see and feel the 70s punk influences and late 50s blood bucket/rock and roll inspiration to this amazing group, and the lead singer, Amy, belted out some amazing vocals, which definitely gave justice to an earlier description I had read saying she was like a ‘female Eddie Cochran’. The room pulsed and sweated, and our friends Johnny D and Frazzy showed up, joining us for beers, shots, and more sweaty music. The next band up, the “Screamin’ Rebel Angels”, from NYC, took the stage and I was thrilled to see an upright bass start dishing out some sweet lines that really got people moving. Another gorgeous female lead singer, Laura, wailed out some amazing lines and the whole overall energy from the foursome was like a shot of adrenalin with a side of moonshine. This, my friends, is where trouble began to strike. For those that do not know, I am plagued by chronic reflux, and my daily intake of whiskey, beer, and a giant Ralphs burger began to take its toll, and I began to belt out horrible and disgusting, painful belches that thankfully were drowned out by the good tunes. Fear not friends, I quickly downed 3 beers to put out the flames, grabbed my girls butt, and soldiered on.
Finally, the “Evil Streaks” took the stage, and the cute little girl Myra who I had chatted with just an hour or two before, began to scream powerful vocals dripping with rock and punk training and rip incredible riffs into her Fender. The guitar player John began to make full use of years of great punk guitarists before him and jump and sweat about the stage, pure honesty pouring from his fingers. The bass player ‘The Rev’, who earlier told me his sole job was to ‘make people get up & dance’ certainly filled that mission as the room began to leap and sway with powerful bass lines, and the drummer, ‘Too Fast Jim’ (who I must admit I slightly judged at first meeting, for being older and just so proper and polite) tore into the kit with amazing speed and ferocity. Fully drunk now, and belching pure fire, and threw myself around like I used to a decade ago, and used my girls cleavage as my air drums.
Alas, the night was over finally, and our group retired to the local Denny’s for some pancakes and drunken tomfoolery. Getting back to the motel at near dawn, I finally succumbed to my stomach issue and vomited half-digested food and booze all over the bathroom, and passed out on the bed fully and drunkenly content, my foot still wanting to move to the beat that was still in my head. A wonderful night, I am now a loyal fan of all the bands there, and look forward to seeing them all again in the future.

Schirling Out

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