How To Get Trashed In The City Of Lost Wages. By Ron Bally LAS VEGAS. SIN City. A pathetic, creepy place. Zombie-like tourists spend countless hours aimlessly cruising the Strip and hopelessly searching for a pot of gold at the end of the neon rainbow. Overweight losers with free buffet plates in tow, senior citizens clutching plastic tumblers half-full of quarters, young couples hoping to spice up their dull small-town existence and so-called nuclear families in quest of any circus-like freakshow, converge there daily. Are these automatons really having fun while consistently losing? And how many millions of visitors really give a rat's ass about the fabulous entertainment Vegas has to offer? Not many if the packed gambling joints are any indication. But the trashounds that attended the Crap Out '96 Garage Fest from July 18 through 20 genuinely did care about the musical entertainment. Imagine 15 bands over three fun-filled nights--one helluva raucous garage-punk extravaganza. This was true "alternative" music the clueless Lollapalooza boneheads out there wouldn't understand. Having missed Thursday's opening festivities, we heard from those less gainfully employed that the Oblivians, slop-blooze pill poppers from Memphis, and the Henchmen, Michigan's stripped-down teen geek trio of bass, drums and organ, blew the roof off the Fremont Street Reggae and Blues Club, igniting the fireworks for the weekend booze 'n' schmooze bash. Other high-octane performers included Austin's lo-fi rocket gearheads, the 1-4-5's, organ bashers the Royal Pendeltons and the sultans of Memphis twang-surf, Impala. Nearly 300 garage pinheads sporting bowling shirts, imitation Buddy Holly eyewear and beer-filled paunches, and sultry sex kittens strutting around in retro-'50s cocktail dresses and Bettie Page hairstyles, littered the dance floor Friday evening in restless anticipation of the Infections' auspicious debut. The Infections, out of San Francisco, include former members of the snot-punk outfit the Rip-Offs, notorious for insulting and fighting with their audiences and obscuring their identities by wearing black nylon stockings on their heads. The Infections carry on the Rip-Offs bad-boy reputation with the same type of sonic assault, sans the corny hosiery. Lead vocalist/bassist Greg Lowery wore wrap-around shades with lenses emblazoned with "Fuck Off" as the band steamrolled through a stomping 45-minute set of 1977-style phlegm-punk. Sorta like Crime meets Johnny Thunders' Heartbreakers on a weekend amphetamine bender. Performing in front of a grinning Tiki-god backdrop, Southern California's Bomboras stormed the stage with raunchy, in-yer-face '60s surf-based instrumentals and occasional frat-boy vocal histrionics. The three-guitar, organ and drum onslaught brought the friggin' house to its knees. Hail Tiki Gods! Bow to the chiefs of reverb-drenched '90s garage surf! The ass-shakin', bikini clad go-go dancer didn't hurt, either--especially after she removed her bikini top midway through the act. Clubgoers erupted into an orgiastic volcano of groove, replete with flying beach balls and Silly String for the masses. When they ignited the organ into a flaming poo-poo platter as a lede into the Cramps concert staple, "The Crusher," with organist Jake Bombora stomping around in a Blue Demon wrestling mask like an escaped mental patient, I started to feel confident that things were getting completely out of hand. Friday's headliners, the Makers, who travel to gigs in a hearse, whipped the crowd back into a state of disorderly conduct with their savage brand of explosive juvenile delinquent garage-punk gangbusting. Lead growler Mike Maker personified a psychotic grown-up Haji from the '60s Johnny Quest cartoon, stalking the stage like a snarling Tasmanian Devil--very cool, out of control and prepared for any confrontation. Unearthed in Spokane, Washington, the Makers sound similar to fuzz-punk originators the Sonics and Chocolate Watchband, had their predecessors been whacked outta their skulls on PCP and cheap tequila. No plagiarism here--just a ton of energy and a couple of chords. A serious mosh pit developed near the end of the set, and both audience and band became a reckless, ugly mess. Among the sacrificial victims were a wall-mounted Tiki mask and a drum set. Saturday's hoe-down opened with Tucson's own trash-rawk goofballs the Fells, who looked tight and nervous as they launched into a sloppy, hyperkinetic set that included faves "When I Die" and "I Don't Need You." During "I Messed Up Over You," the Fells tore around the stage like pit bulls on crack as they pumped their instruments with angry, venomous intensity. The band departed after 40 minutes of slovenly, maniacal trash-garage meltdown. The Drags, from Albuquerque, followed with 15 twisted scuzz-punk ravers including the menacing nugget "Somebody's Gonna Get Their Head Kicked In Tonight." Their cover of Billy Lee Riley's "Flying Saucer Rock 'n' Roll" was a spastic greaseball gem that would make a tweaked-out Jerry Lee Lewis cringe with jealousy. The band tore through the remainder of their stint with devil-may-care attitude that featured the Pretty Things "Roslyn," a wicked R&B/fuzz-punk standard. The show stopper was a filthy original entitled "I'd Like To Die," an aural pleasure hauntingly similar to "Good Times" by Aussie sleaze-blooze monsters, the Beasts of Bourbon. Reigning garage-punk kings the Mono Men, from Bellingham, Washington, performed a competent, routine brand of trash 'n' roll, but lacked the energy and lunatic intensity of The Drags and Makers. Austin's Lord High Fixers, featuring ex-Big Boys guitarist Tim Kerr, shook the rafters with a fuel-injected gumbo of garage, punk and blues. The band locked into a more adrenalized, rhythmic groove than the Mono Men, with swank guitar pickin' and Mike Carroll's soulful howling. Kerr back-flipped several times into the seething frenzy assaulting his hollow-bodied guitar as he body-surfed above the crowd's outstretched arms. For their closing number, they pummeled The Who's "Young Man Blues" into a Whiskey-soaked speedball of drunken religious fervor as Kerr and six-string partner Andy Wright traded-off on some nasty solos. Crap Out's final act, the Cheater Slicks, disappointed with a noisy, treble-lickin' slew of Cro-Mag thud punk resulting in the premature exodus of an audience in search of the best early morning buffet offer. The biggest frustration of Crap Out '96 was the noticeable absence of any foreign bands, especially Japanese trash-punk luminaries like Teen Generate, Super Snazz, Jackie and the Cedrics and Guitar Wolf--all past participants of the Garage Shock festivals held annually in Bellingham, Washington. That notwithstanding, the fest was a reminder to all who cared to listen that rumors of punk-rock's demise have been greatly exaggerated. See you next year.

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