By Terrence McCoy
By Allie Conti
By Chuck Strouse
By Scott Fishman
By Terrence McCoy
By Ryan Yousefi
By Ciara LaVelle, Kat Bein, Carolina Del Busto, and Liz Tracy
By Pepe Billete
Unlike a year ago, this autumn seems to be devoid of rampant censorship. Thank goodness, 'cause the F-Boyz are back in town. Long before there was a Marilyn Manson and the Spooky Kids, Methadone Actors, or Human Oddities, there was F-Boyz, the most musical dick waggers to ever rock a public rest room. Originally known as Bon Jovi, the F-Boyz formed in 1987 in Frog City, drawing inspiration from MTV, lawn mowers, and lots of nicotine. No wait. That's libelous. Let's make that MTV, lawn mowers, and lots of good dope. After some "rehearsal," Seaweed (vocals), Matty Luv (guitar), Scooter (bass), and Aesop (drums) passed out. Then they played a block party, then a Special Olympics thang at a high school ("Retarded kidz just love the F-Boyz," the band says), and finally moved into the club circuit, hitting every decent rock venue in SoFlo. When the Boyz played FIU, the Jesus Students' Fellowship screamed, "We demand that these bands be banned from ever performing at the university in the future." The F-Boyz were achieving success, moving up to bigger shows, and so, complaining of boredom, they threw their MTV, lawn mower, and dope in a truck and moved to San Francisco. Out in earthquake country, they've been releasing more stuff, playing more shows, watching more MTV, mowing more lawns, smoking more dope. And now...they're back, playing Churchill's Hideaway this Saturday. You'll never hear a band sing more passionately and movingly about fish sticks and macaroni and cheese. Or is that cheese and macaroni? Also on the bill are the ever-amazing Quit and Kreamy Lectric Santa, the new band put together by Sir Bo of the defunked Prom Sluts.
Finally! Rooster Head, recorders of two of the best rock albums of all time, with a third nearly complete, are playing out, in some form, Sunday at Yesterday & Today (4:00 p.m.). The Source, now a trio, will also perform.
And the Source has taken over Tuesday nights at the Island Club.
They intend to stage one or two acoustic acts each week beginning about 10:00 p.m. Acoustic types interested in showcasing should contact Joe or Patty at the Island Club.
Melbourne (Florida, not Australia) trio the Screaming Iguanas of Love have released a long-player named Wild, Wild, Wild. I have heard it. You should, too.
Peter Betan and Marc Berner are on their way to France for a series of shows. Betan is working on his new album, and three advance tracks indicate he's more worthy than ever of his long-deserved label deal. Others are beginning to pick up on what us locals have known for some time. Billboard, for example, recently raved his eponymous EP.
There are some of us locals old enough to remember seeing and hearing the Fat Chance Blues Band, which evolved into Iko-Iko. At Cactus Cantina's second anniversary bash October 28, the ol' Fat Chance Blues Band reunited, playing together for the first time in five years. "It was completely unexpected," says Iko front man Graham Drout. "[Drummer] John Yarling [of Little Nicky and the Slicks] put together [guitarist] John Wenzel and [bassist] Jeff Sanchez [both of Good Rockin' Johnny and the Wise Guys]. They asked me to join, but I have a gig on Mondays. I told them I could come over early." Drout did, and noted that, "If [harmonica player] Bob Hemphill [Big Art] was here, we'd have the whole band." In walked Hemphill, as if on cue. The fivesome played an hour-long set.
Forget about any permanent Fat Chance reunion. All the original members' current projects are thriving. Iko-Iko, in fact, will record a live album, Riding on the Rims, this Sunday at Tobacco Road. Shows are at 8:30 and 11:00 p.m. and tickets cost $10. Save that ticket stub, though, because it entitles the bearer to a copy of the resulting CD for a mere five bucks.
This Friday the Brickell Tavern hosts a release party for the Miami Sunburn Remedy compilation.
Guess my ass: From the man who put his brain on the line at the Chant concert, Charlie Van Tuggle: "My guess is that it's a big butt, with a tattoo covered by fishnet stockings. It is attached, no doubt, to a hungry man-trap. Reminds me of that time in the Philippines...."
Butthorn of the week: Time again to pay our dis to the Miami Herald. Y'all know the story of Danny Faries, the con and con man who was pulling a major credit card scam from the safe confines of the Dade County Jail. In the October 16 issue, New Times updated the story, mentioning a 60 Minutes report that contained factual error. Last Friday, the Herald revealed new information about the case. But notice a difference in one aspect of the reporting. From the New Times article by Sean Rowe: "Before leaving Miami [Faries] was profiled in a 1990 New Times cover story and a 1991 Tropic magazine article in the Miami Herald." From David Hancock's story last Friday in the Herald: "The exploits of Danny Faries...were featured on 60 Minutes on September 29 . The Miami Herald's Tropic magazine carried a story on Faries in March." Hello. Hello. Remember us, the rag that broke the story in the first place? Hello. And while we're at it.... Also in Friday's Final Edition of the Herald was a lengthy, front-page piece by Martin Merzer that emotionally lamented the passing away of the paper's First Edition, the one that came out the day before the State, Broward, Final, and other daily editions. A day-shift staff would produce the First, then the night shift would remake the paper for each ensuing edition. Merzer approached his topic as if it were the demise of an entire newspaper, like the corporate murder of the Miami News or something. In his affectionate analysis were references to the First Edition's fond nicknames: the Street (because it was sold only on newsstands) and the Bulldog (a traditional newsroom term for an early edition). What Merzer, in all his gushing, failed to mention was a third nickname used by Herald night staffers. They used to call it the Practice Edition.