The Beaumonts

The Beaumonts

The Grannies, Steel Tigers Of Death, Ball Bag

Sat Sep 16 2017

Doors: 8:00 pm / Show: 9:00 pm


$8.00 - $10.00

This event is 21 and over

The Beaumonts
The Beaumonts
There's something about Lubbock. Something other than the oppressive blue sky, the unavoidable cloud of shit-smell that occasionally engulfs the city, the flat, featureless landscape, or the preponderance of teen pregnancy, boredom, alcoholism, and God. There's music. Yes, indeed there is. The Hub City has spawned music like you wouldn't believe. Music loved by folks the world over. Even the real "King of Rock and Roll" came from Lubbock, and if you believe that (which you'd be a damn fool not to), then it ain't too much of a stretch to believe Lubbock is also home to the greatest country band that ever existed. That band is THE BEAUMONTS.

It wasn't too long ago that four of Lubbock's most loved veteran musicians decided the state of Texas country music was dismal at best, and horrifying at its worst. Somehow, over the last twenty years, it became acceptable for a group of frat-boys to show up in thrift-store AC/DC shirts, play half-ass Lynyrd Skynyrd tunes about drinking Lone Star and smoking weed, and call that "country." Well, good friends, THE BEAUMONTS didn't think that was "all that damn country" and decided to do something about it. What resulted was a juggernaut of essence, the trooest of troo cvntry, something akin to the creation of the universe, but with Telecasters. Behold, good friends, and delight in the majesty of THE BEAUMONTS!
The Grannies
The Grannies
Some people say the Grannies are the inevitable end result from a society that has abandoned its educational system and lost all contact with its morality and civic cohesiveness. The truth, of course, is much, much worse.

The old, now defunct Mission Police Station, San Francisco is as good a birthplace as any for a phenomena as degenerate and altogether fucked up as The Grannies. The blame could be laid at the feet of Fate, but Fate already catches a lot of shit just by standing around, and really wants nothing to do with something as mentally debilitating as The Grannies anyway. Somewhere between 30 and 163 years old, they were drawn to each other there in the fetid human-ish stew slopped together in the holding cells. Petty crimes involving Wild Turkey, electricity, naugahyde, Top Ramen, pigeon feathers ("fresh"), Drano, or some combination thereof would be the official reasons for the various Grannies' incarcerations that fateful night (yes, we know, Fate, you already cleared yourself, so piss off), if any official record existed. It became rapidly apparent that the group had been thrown together for a purpose (seriously, Fate, fuck off; you're just being a bitch now). That purpose was the overthrow of the Austrio-Hungarian Empire….um….hmmmm

Since they were - as usual - both much, much too late, and violently unqualified for the task they set for themselves, they plotted their escape from jail to kill the time. Some time later their nascent leader pointed out that they'd already been out of said jail for hours, maybe days, and were loitering in the beer aisle of the Cala on South Van Ness. The sale on Lucky Lager they discovered there led them to realize their true destiny: to Fuck Shit Up. All of it. And to do so very, very loudly.

The various parole officers/livestock handlers/monkey toilet trainers responsible for their whereabouts at the time all insist that not only did they not escape from jail, but were in fact forcibly thrown out after a day or two of rolling the more incapacitated and/or narcoticized vagrants and their homeless drunktank mates for wardrobe upgrades. Nonetheless The Grannies are certain some kind of daring escape occurred, and it is around this time when the original bass player, Scary Grannie, disappeared as well. The surviving members insist the weight gain they all displayed at the time was due to the Lucky Lager sale and not the greasy yet satisfying deliciousness of the bass player, which was, they say, pure coincidence, as was the brutally hallucinogenic episodes Vocalist Chair in particular descended into for weeks, or a long afternoon, depending on who you talk to. However, quickly displaying the instinct (we have to credit instinct, since they don't seem to have any higher brain functions to speak of at all) for avoiding the Rock'n'Roll cliche, they've managed to keep their drummer, GranHole Cover, alive for almost the entire time the band has been together, although he denies this during the brief moments he can be convinced to pay attention to anything that isn't shiny. Mmmm... shiny...

It was sometime around then when they located their new bass player, Dusty Titties, in the bathroom at the Zeitgeist, curled into a tight ball of slurred speech, nearly blind, and crying about "that fucking bitch Phoebe Cates." None of this prevented him from rolling joints with one hand while spilling Jack and Coke all over anything within seven feet of him, and The Grannies knew they'd found... something. And it was theirs. Back Slash, their defacto leader and Lead Guitar tormentor, at this point adapted the code name "Drunk." Chair; screecher, lecher, possessed of a preternatural talent for self-abuse, started singing because no one in the band could get him to shut the fuck up. GranHole Cover settled in behind the traps and, except for the times when he was dead, has been there ever since.

After spending some time terrorizing the San Francisco old guy punk scene, causing so much consternation that one of their regular venues was forced to become a lesbian folk singer disco cabaret cock-hater-club to avoid any further encounters with the old guys in the old dresses and the old school punkrock doing Rock'n'Roll things to your face whether your face was ready or not, they surfaced long enough to cut a record or three: THE GRANNIES "S/T" DT-001 in 2000,"Taste The Walker" DT-004 in 2002 and "Erected Lady Man" WT-002 in 2004. And it was good. Because, and here's the bitch: the rock is good. It's really fucking good. It's no holds barred, if we were talking about wrestling, which we're not, god dammit. But if we were we'd be talking about illegal atomic pile drivers applied to your little fancy-boy codpiece, we'd be talking about Jimmy 'superfly' Snuka launching a devastating, dismembering assault from the turnbuckle straight down onto your supine sense of decency and all that is holy, we'd be talking about Hulk fucking Hogan lifting his finger, suddenly invincible, terrible to behold in a retarded camp kind of way, mocking the balance of nature as he unloads two humungous fists of spine-crushing sonic mayhem at your doomed-from-the-start, never-had-a-chance skull.

But we're not talking about wrestling, so fuck that shit. They released their first 2 albums and a 7" on their own label, DEAD TEENAGER and then after acquiring 2 partners from Seattle that turned into rip-off artists, they then started a "new" and "less shitty" label called WONDERTAKER.

No, we're talking about the Rock'n'Roll, and the horrible crimes against it that The Grannies have committed time and time again. Their names are like a roll call of nuclear-powered fucked-up-ness. Their outfits are simply wrong. Like any self-respecting bacteria, they have grown as they've mutated, shuffling the lineup and expanding to 5 members, not one of which has even the smallest clue.
Dusty Titties was replaced on Bass by Soggy T. Baggins in 2003 and Buzzy Douchemore joined on second Guitar in 2003 and was replaced on The Grannies June 2005 headlining European Tour by Dentura Hogfloss. Confused yet? I certainly hope so, otherwise somebody high-up is not doing their job properly.

The Grannies have a saying: "if you give a man a fish, he'll eat for a
day. But if you knock him down and take his fish, you can sell it and buy some weed."

They have another saying: "Weed should not ever smell or taste like fish."

The Grannies have been around since before the dawn of mankind, but they still haven't figured out how to take a shower.

The Grannies are the best example of the benefits of an extensive and lengthy incarceration that the great state of Illinois has to offer.

The Grannies watched as the best minds of their generation were destroyed by madness. Because their generation is 150 years old, and that's what senility does. –Dr. Michael Huff / Austin, TX 11.2005
Steel Tigers Of Death
Steel Tigers Of Death
Seattle’s princes of punksploitation Steel Tigers of Death! is releasing a new full-length splatter-crafted out of the swaggering, engineered chaos experienced by ape-shit happy crowds in notoriously ecstatic recent live shows. They recorded their roiling, rip-it-up second album Precious Moments at the effervescently creative studio environs of the Vera studios helmed by Jeff McNulty (ofAndroid Hero). Precious Moments has all the piping hot raw power of their previous smattering of singles, EPs, and debut Steel Tigers Proudly Presents Steel Tigers of Death! but with a whole lot more power rock pout and smart-ass sass.

The band is still Remington Steel (drums), El Tigre (guitar), Brad Of (bass/vocals) and Michael Deth (guitar/vocals). “Yep, we like to think of ourselves as the ‘Classic Lineup,’” they say. “We also like to think of ourselves as ‘Handsome,’ ‘Talented,’ and ‘Considerably Younger Than We Actually Are.’” But on their second LP listeners can find musical magic behind the never-revealed-before-they-hit-the-stage matching outfits they’re known for wearing out (meant both ways) when playing live (for example, storming it at the 2010 Seattle Capitol Hill Block Party, and recently opening for Les Savy Fav, and playing out with
Venue Information:
109 Eastlake Ave E
Seattle, WA, 98109