THE MAGAZINE THAT DOESN’T KNOW WHEN TO QUIT!

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Slash: Tell us about the clubs in N.Y.

Lux: CBGB's is really the only club.

Slash: What about the "downtown bands"?

Lux: My personal opinion is, I think it's a good thing to keep those damned art-rock bands separated some place where they can drop out of art school and work out their neuroses! They don't know anything about rock 'n' roll. You can't dance to their music and I couldn't care less about it. I'm not interested in music you can't dance to. Get them out of the bars and put them in a loft!

Ivy: There are a lot of bands trying to get in at CBGBs but the art bands are keeping them out, they're cluttering up the place. They should call their music what it is. They should play for the artists in Soho. 

Lux: This "new wave," I don't know what it is. When rock 'n' roll changed to rock, it became acceptable. When punk rock changed to new wave it became acceptable and all these muck people started moving in.  Robert Christgau from the Village Voice despises us, so he won't write anything about us except snotty remarks and put-downs. He does not understand a goddam thing on what this band is about in the least. A hundred people told me the show we did at CBGB's was the best they'd ever seen and the review in the Village Voice called it "calculated ... sterile ... boring ... "

"They were such hicks, these goat-ropers from Kerrville"

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THE THING THAT CATCHES YOUR EYE IN THE DIMLY lit, smoke filled room is the gilded dragon, suspended above the bar and tables. The smoke, reflected from a few well placed lights, suggests an incense burned to the gods that have no knowledge of you or I ... but the eye of god is not important here ... there is another eye (i), and this eye (i) gazes into the op-art syndrome ... through the scene that changes, though things die ... there is a girl. She is wearing funny clothing. She is wearing an outfit that is called an Op-art outfit ... Op being short for Optical. But still it moves, one can follow the bouncing ball, as it were, follow the polka dots, spaced just right, oh yes, spaced just right, etc. the tune is not music, rather a pulsing something that pulsates, a throbbing that continues to throb ... she moves, and the stripes and circles move with her ... unreal images splattered upon a moving canvas ... and now, the whole floor is aflame ... moving in unreal movements, while dancing girls, oh so young, pantomime the act before its meaning ... resurrect Van Gogh, in sun-splotched splashes ... yielding to the dance the age demanded, and so, one after another the pieces fall into place. the age demanded ... this needs no introduction ... and yet, there is a girl with tight thighs who has forgotten what it is to touch while dancing ... until she remembers and the movement stops. frozen, like a firefly trapped in amber, there is a sound that goes beyond all motion, it ripples off the walls like silent laughter, settles like darkness of an ocean. here, at least for one, the eye emerges belted by the bass drum's throbbing pedal. we cannot understand what they are doing ... but we like it, are drawn to it like a magnet ... it makes no sense, which is nonsense ... still it moves.

welcome to the night scene ladies and gentlemen welcome. don't mind the freaks. their screams are adequately covered by the sound of heavy feet ... running swiftly.

Having joined a psychotherapy class for couple of weeks, Roky enrolled in the prison band. There was an existing traditional country band but Roky started a rock band, calling it the Missing Links. Although the lineup varied, the most stable one featured Roky backed by a collection of truly crazed and sick individuals. Roky's new friend John Walcott, second guitar (shot and killed his father, mother and sister while high on glue; Roky wrote "For Jimmy" in Openers for him), Charles Hefley, bass (raped a policeman's daughter, stabbed her with a screwdriver and killed her two infant sons by throwing them into the Trinity River; he later won custody of his own two children and disappeared, and is still at large), a deaf tambourine player (participated in the gang rape and murder of a twelve-year-old Houston boy and stuffed his body into an abandoned refrigerator) and a drummer (shot and killed an impound clerk after his car was wrongly towed).

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