FUCKEMOS
by laurie cockroft

A long time ago, the nation sat in awe as they listened
to their radio show being interrupted by a news flash
declaring that alien craft had landed and that an invasion was taking place. The newsflash was meant as a joke but the masses were duped and hysteria ensued to such proportions that th pranksters realized thi power of malleability in the citizens they touched.

Fuckemo's has tapped into that same power and propelled
their music and unique style (impossible to classify)
by creating a stir and scamming their way into one of
the hottest local bands in Austin. What was that scam
you may ask?

They used to be Wharthog 200 and had a considerably
hard time getting gigs. The sixth street club Emo's
refused them, and parties became their main vein.
They began to gather a following of fans and friends
that enjoyed the spectacle even if they hadn't rehearsed
in months and ended up falling over before the set
ended.

In a flash of inspiration, they changed their names
to FuckEmo's. This turned heads all over town
and as Emo's, the venue that locals called
"Free-Moe's" (because there was no cover charge)
began to charge a $2 cover. People felt a bit of a
'fuck emos' attitude simultaneously. The FuckEmo's
benefitted from this public resonse and drew the
usual Emos crowd out to the other venues to rebel
the $2 that sometimes meant their last beer.

A bandwagon effect took place an soon we all
became familiar with the unassuming lead singer
Russell, singking through a distrotion mic, no
frills, looking like he belonged behind the wheel
of a john Deere Tractor, beer in hand,
potbelly peeking out of his button up work shirt,
going from deep resonant monotones to screeching,
crewd-rallying peaks with little to no movement.
Sean Powell on drums - tattooed neck-to-toe fave
the other eextremem to Russel's serene rage.
Armand and Mike backed the team on guitar and
bass respectively creating a 'what the hell are
tehy doin' up there?' intrigue that caught on
like wildfire. For Emo's, it became apparant
that they must book this band and save face.
FuckEmo's had a home venue.

Armand and Mike hae been replaced by ( )
and Brian McGee on guitar (from Prettymouth).
This soon-to-be nationally known band, humble
as pie and pilled up to Mars (after winning
"Best Metal-Industrial Band - SXSW '97, Russell
accepted the award the award and gave his thanks
to Roche pharmaceuticals!) will be a happy
ever-after ending a saga of a band that should
have been thwarted as Warthog 2000. After just
finishing a tour of the West Coast and releasing
their (4th?) CD, their attitude and blatant absurd
lyrics are sure to set them on the road to a long
awaited conquest.

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NAME OF NEW BASSIST
DESCRIBE YOUR ACT TO GRANDMOTHER
WHAT ARE YOU HEADING FOR HERE
PENDING DEALS
NAME OF NEW CD
XANAX or VICODIN

Today, the Fuck Emos have come a long way from their Cavity days - a trip that several bass players didn't endure ("some quitting for health reasons, some getting kicked out for health reasons," says Rusty) until Mike Belyea took the position. Now, they've been asked to open for the Melvins at Electric Lounge, only there seem to be a few snags. Drummer Sean shows me a large red swelling on his hand. "See that?" he asks. Yeah, what is that? "That's the bone all stuck out - it's broken." Are you still gonna play tonight? "Oh yeah, of course."
So what doesn't kill or maim a Fuck Emo only seems to make them stronger. That night they plow through a set complete with strobes, Rusty's signature Satan-on-Rohypnol vocals, and party favors for the crowd; in this case a large collection of empty porn video boxes that will be continuously batted around until the majority of them end up back on stage, leaving the band knee-deep in porn. Tiny tokens of encouragement in pill form are passed up to the stage where an already hood-eyed Rusty laments, "Someone's gonna have to carry me out of here. You [management] guys aren't gonna kick me out after we quit playing are you? No, you wouldn't do that - you guys like us." ...more

More praise for Fuck Emos.........

SXSW 2000 Day Five: Sunday 19 March 2000

Th' Fuckemos (Austin, TX) Red Eyed Fly

The single dumbest, drunkest, punk band I have seen in years. Unbelievable, stumbling and incoherent.

Fuckemos

Airshow 2000

Man's Ruin

2000

¡¡¡Que rara banda son los Fuckemos!!!, tienen un estilo inclasificable mezclan el psicobilly con tintes de punk, algo de hardcore melódico, mucho rock y un gran sentido del humor.

"Airshow 2000”, es la última entrega de esta banda de jóvenes perdidos entre el alcohol, las drogas y la estupidez. Compuesto por 14 temas la banda se toma las cosas algo más en serio que en su anterior placa, esto sin perder en nada su estilo propio con la voz de R’ss’l (que mierda de nombre es ese!!!) algo gótica con distorsión que provoca entre risa y letargia y una base, dentro de todo, normal.

No son grandes músicos, de hecho creo que nunca fue su intención serlos, por lo cual su propuesta es de lo más honesta sin grandes pretensiones más que las de entretenerse y entretener. Aun así, estos personajes se dan el tiempo para hacer arreglos interesantes con teclados y trombones para algunas de sus canciones como es el caso del tema título; “Airshow”.

Temas a destacar en la placa, “Something Stinky this Way Comes”, “Amputeen” (que es puro Punk Rockers), “Lame that Tune” y el cover (a medias) de “Metal Gods” de los grandes Judas Priest. A ratos sonará repetitivoy muy a lo Butthole Surffers, pero para quienes quieran innovar con música extraña aquí tienen a Fuckemos, de lo más raro que nos ha llegado.

Si vienen a Chile, cosa que dudo, esperamos que cumplan su promesa y promocionen su concierto como “culiemos” así como señalaron en nuestras páginas en un número anterior, creo que eso los retrata de cuerpo entero. Rolando Gallardo A.

2002 - Revista

Acts Playing South by Southwest

SXSW Record Reviews

BY GREG BEETS

March 2, 2001:

Fuckemos

Airshow 2000 (Man's Ruin)

Many entertainers lament the fact that you can never please everybody. Especially if you're in a band called the Fuckemos. Much like raw monkey meat, the Austin quartet's loud and abusive Rohypnol rock is an acquired taste at best. But the Fuckemos can at least take solace in having a good shot at offending everyone with their fifth release. Airshow 2000 chooses its targets with about as much discretion as Lieutenant Calley at My Lai. First up on the highlight reel is "Amputeen," a graphic ode to statutorily suspect apotemnophilia, in which the reaper-like, pitch-shifted voice of Russell Porter intones, "Give me a backrub with your hot stub." Then there's "Yer Family," a tragic tale of boy-loses-girl-after-having-sex-with-her-entire-family, sung to a tune not unlike the 1985 Kiss hit, "Tears Are Falling." More bad Eighties rock references can be found in the title track, which borrows jet fighter imagery from Kenny Loggins' "Danger Zone" and Queen's "One Vision," only the jets crash and burn in the Fuckemos' version. The one song on Airshow 2000 that approaches rehabilitation is "C.U.C. Me," a synth-laden teen tragedy monster ballad that rivals Ozzy and Lita Ford's "If I Close My Eyes Forever" in terms of sheer overblown pathos. But nothing quite compares to the album-closing "Honky in the Sky," a race- and religion-baiting folk bomb co-written by ex-Leaving Trains bassist Whitey Sims and sung in an affected Kingfish dialect. Airshow 2000 is a chainsaw humor regatta floating on a sea of foul-smelling effluvia. In other words, for better or worse, more of what the Fuckemos do best. (Friday, March 16, Emo's Jr., 8pm)

Fuckemos - Airshow 2000

Weird guitar noises, goofy vocals, and lyrics that betray a sick sense of humor not - exactly a multi-platinum records kinda combo, but it'll keep my toes tappin'. If you like this kinda stuff, the Fuckemos do it as well as anyone these days. They remind me of bands like the Cows, Alice Donut, Killdozer, and Big Black. Fans of Chris Rock and HBO documentaries should check out "Toss't Salad." If you are one of the select few to whom these guys might appeal, go get "Black Helicopetrs" and "Celebration" (You'll be glad you did.) first, but you'll enjoy this one also

"Can Kill You" CD/ 34:16.
Um, ooh, aah, hmm, hrmph. Sometimes records come along that just sort of incite those sorts of words and the FUCKEMOS are one of those bands. In a way this is like really, really terrible but it's that very fact that also makes it exceptionally cool. See, it's like this; if the FUCKEMOS were played at 45rpm they'd have you hip-swingin' round the room, but they're not on 45rpm, they're hardly even on 33rpm, they're existing somewhere around 10rpm. It's like rock 'n' roll punk rock, but downtuned, demoralised and miserably energetic in a twisted sort of way. The vocals sound like the sort of drawled monotone that a serial murderer would speak in, and the inebriated brass section that sporadically appears gives the whole record an air of ominous comedy. As for the lyrics, well judging by the track titles I just don't want to know but let's just say that the FUCKEMOS are reading the same books as TURBONEGRO. Probably the musical equivalent of a really, really bad acid trip. (RR)
MAN'S RUIN

Fuck Emos
Celebration!
(Man’s Ruin)
Ah, the Fuck Emos. At one time or another, every noise-rock burnout has probably sat at the bar humming one of their songs while staring blankly at a half-empty pitcher. The current Fuck Emos lineup, which includes ex-members of the Cherubs and the Dicks, plays some of the most laughable and catchy noise-metal ever recorded. On the aptly-titled Celebration!, the Fuck Emos throw in their two cents on such high-profile issues as tennis, pills, smoking, pills, their usual gay schtick, and, of course, more pills. Their self-styled “Rohipinal Rock” isn’t some date-rape opus, rather, these guys have been gobbling up ruphies by the handful and Celebration! is what they just happened to spit up, bad guitar riffs and all. Celebration! is definitely a huge drunken step above all of this aggro-noise/metal crap that everybody is shaving their heads over these days. While Celebration! is available in the fabulous 8-song 10” vinyl format, opt for the 12-song CD. The four extra tracks are worth it. “I got a favorite sport / I could play for hours / So let’s hit the court / and then we’ll take a shower / Let’s play tennis!”
Richie White

Fuckemos "Celebration"- Man's Ruin Records

Don't play this album when your mom is around. Unless of course your mom is a bad ass biker chick who likes to smoke dope, pop pills and crack gay and lesbian jokes at church functions while swilling a sixer of Pabst. Oh, it wouldn't hurt if she was into The Mentors as well. Personally I don't think my mom would like this music. I live very far away from my mom and she has only come to visit me once in the past eight years. I take advantage of the situation by playing this album all the time, though I often wish I still lived with my mom or at least a little closer. I miss all the good food, the indoor heating, the well maintained plumbing and plumbing fixtures, and I miss all the hand me downs. Ahhh, those good ole' handme downs: furniture, old cars, appliances. I love my parents old shit!! The band Fuckemos love something too. They love the fact that they are not gay, and that they "won't be recieving no mail (male) today". It gives them reason to celebrate. Do you like punk rock, crazy organ sounds, and crunching guitars? Do you like scratchy, fucked up vocals, eeiry seagull noises from above, and beautifully meaningless lyrics that mock today's poignant social topics? I sure do. "We are birdies we fly south, we drop droppings on your spouse. We are birdies we fly high we drop dropping in your eye."

Fuckemos

CELEBRATION
Man's Ruin, 610 22nd St. #302, SF CA, 94107
mansruin@sirius.com

It is so passe to be heterosexual these days, that a strong "celebration" of being 'unhomosexaual' has not crossed my ears since Sloppy Seconds sung "I Don't Wanna Be A Homesexual." Fuckemos are, obviously by the name, so rowdy and rude, they can't maintain a working relationship with the clubs in their own town. This is all part of their charm. Also, is the swinging rhythm in their songs. I believe if you were to hang out at their pad, you'd see old Dead Boys flyers on the wall, but they'd be listening to ABBA. (3.5)

Fuckemos
Can Kill You
Man's Ruin
Low tone, Beat Happening vocals melt over the singer's teeth like microwaved Velveeta and Swiss. Your speakers will belch out a steady mix of what could be the most disturbing as well as cheesiest combination of song and verse of all time. It's unsure if these guys are out to destroy Emo-core or if they've got a problem with the Austin club Emo's, but it is certain, when enduring Fuckemos, you may have a good belly laugh, question the state of cultural and moral affairs, bust a rockin' groove, or all of the above. Finally Kozik's label finds an act which appropriately compliments a majority of his cartoonish, in-your-face artwork. It's like the Muppet Show on peyote. File under Moronico Satanica. Man's Ruin Records, 610 22nd Street #302, San Francisco, CA 94107

BLACK HELICOPTERS

The FUCKEMOS, from Austin, TX, are true masters of the absurd, delivering their type of psychotic isiocy, heavier and more deranged than ever. Imagine super early BUTTHOLE SURFERS, yet slightly more confused and a bit more tweeked.

THE AGONY CONTINUES...The third release in the "Man's Ruin Heritage" series brings you another crusted wad of filth and odure.

Possibly the best "Rock" ever made...tales of longing and depravity to which the Gods themselves are merely worms, burrowing blindly through the soiled sheets of the cosmos. File next to: HALL & OATES.

Celebration! (Man's Ruin)

In 1993, anyone disoriented enough to opine that Austin's Fuckemos would still be batting out product five years down the road would have been goosed out of the room in no time flat. And rightfully so. The Fuckemos divisive, love-or-hate appeal is grounded in the slippery idea of stumbling toward relevance by accident and against all reason. Celebration! finds the band continuing to evade the crash-and-burn with 12 cinderblocks' worth of slobbering drunk rock hilarity. Give credit to the pitch-shifting vocals of lyrical wünderkind Russell Porter for keeping things afloat with his terminally depraved wit. Though the music's ugly veneer combines bad heavy metal card tricks with careless, sneering boy-punk, there's a surprising pop sensibility beneath that crust. Meanwhile, Russ regales us with songs about everything from bird droppings and bladder control to playing tennis and bisexuality. This album will sound best thwacking off solid concrete walls, but even if your digs are a bit less Spartan, you can count on Celebration! to scruff things up a bit.
3 STARS - Greg Beets