Juke Box Zero

August 6, 1999

(Inside Arlene Grocery, a venue for up-and-coming bands, located at 95 Stanton Street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side.)

The dark air in the club was hot and swollen, pregnant with smoke and sweat. The crowd of firm-bodied twenty-somethings were pressed into each other’s sticky bare skin like a million warm Gummi Bears stuffed into a Dixie Cup.

With each tuning pluck of tight guitar string metal, the kids quivered in intestine-stretching anticipation of what hopefully would be a kick-ass performance from this next band.

A few moments later, they were ready. The front man for Mental Chum stepped up to the mike.

Silence.

(Somewhere, a dog barked.)

The snare drum snapped, the bass guitar boomed, the shiny cymbal crashed, and the most horrible voice you’ve ever heard clawed its way out from this big, ugly lead singer.

"WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!"

What he screamed after that, I couldn’t decipher. His slurring syllables were made even more impossible to understand by the deafening screeches of his ripping random chord progressions. He played his guitar with all the subtlety of someone grating a block of cheese.

"BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH"

"WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!"

With a big, black combat boot, the lurching long-haired singer defiantly kicked the amplifier. The crowd wailed their approval.

Juiced by the positive vibe, the leader of Mental Chum dropped his guitar to the stage and ripped off the big, baggy white T-shirt that hung way below his waist, revealing a belly that was whiter than David Duke after a winter in Norway. The crowd roared. Now even more pumped, this most mental of all the Chum grinned maniacally, widened his stance, then raised both arms over his head and gave everyone two middle fingers. The crowd roared again.

But this time, the tone was slightly different.

The sound of someone laughing was distinct. In a matter of moments, the whole crowd had turned on the band and was laughing hysterically.

"HEY!" the singer shouted. "HEY!"

Some of the crowd quieted down.

"HEY! SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOD DAMMIT! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!"

The rest of the crowd went still.

"WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?!!! I’LL COME DOWN THERE AND KICK ALL YOUR ASSES!!! NOBODY FUCKS WITH MENTAL CHUM!!!"

The crowd stayed silent. Then one girl giggled.

"WHAT’S SO FUCKIN’ FUNNY?!"

"Hey Rock Star" an emotionless male voice called out from behind me.

"WHAT?!!!"

"Your fly’s open."

		Juke Box Zero
		August 6, 1999 (Inside Arlene Grocery, a venue for up-and-coming bands, located at 95 Stanton Street in Manhattan’s Lower East Side.) The dark air in the club was hot and swollen, pregnant with smoke and sweat. The crowd of firm-bodied twenty-somethings were pressed into each other’s sticky bare skin like a million warm Gummi Bears stuffed into a Dixie Cup. With each tuning pluck of tight guitar string metal, the kids quivered in intestine-stretching anticipation of what hopefully would be a kick-ass performance from this next band. A few moments later, they were ready. The front man for Mental Chum stepped up to the mike. Silence. (Somewhere, a dog barked.) The snare drum snapped, the bass guitar boomed, the shiny cymbal crashed, and the most horrible voice you’ve ever heard clawed its way out from this big, ugly lead singer. "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" What he screamed after that, I couldn’t decipher. His slurring syllables were made even more impossible to understand by the deafening screeches of his ripping random chord progressions. He played his guitar with all the subtlety of someone grating a block of cheese. "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH" "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH" "BLAH, BLAH, BLAH, BLAH" "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" "WE ARE MENTAL CHUM!!!" With a big, black combat boot, the lurching long-haired singer defiantly kicked the amplifier. The crowd wailed their approval. Juiced by the positive vibe, the leader of Mental Chum dropped his guitar to the stage and ripped off the big, baggy white T-shirt that hung way below his waist, revealing a belly that was whiter than David Duke after a winter in Norway. The crowd roared. Now even more pumped, this most mental of all the Chum grinned maniacally, widened his stance, then raised both arms over his head and gave everyone two middle fingers. The crowd roared again. But this time, the tone was slightly different. The sound of someone laughing was distinct. In a matter of moments, the whole crowd had turned on the band and was laughing hysterically. "HEY!" the singer shouted. "HEY!" Some of the crowd quieted down. "HEY! SHUT THE FUCK UP, GOD DAMMIT! SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" The rest of the crowd went still. "WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING?!!! I’LL COME DOWN THERE AND KICK ALL YOUR ASSES!!! NOBODY FUCKS WITH MENTAL CHUM!!!" The crowd stayed silent. Then one girl giggled. "WHAT’S SO FUCKIN’ FUNNY?!" "Hey Rock Star" an emotionless male voice called out from behind me. "WHAT?!!!" "Your fly’s open."