In the mid- to late-90’s I started photographing bands around Atlanta using black and white 3200 film with no flash. The results are high contrast, grainy, and look terrible on a computer monitor. But rather than leave them in a box, ignored, I’m dredging them out and scanning them. When possible I’ll find my old reviews from these shows and tack them on. Enjoy!
To continue with the, “these are people who died, died” theme of last flashback, here’s a few photos of the late, great blues guitarist Sean Costello, including a review (probably from the same show as the photos, but I won’t swear to it.)
BLASPHEMY
Our tirade on the strip trade generated nothing but agreement, as well as this cute response from degenerate JDP:
“Has anyone else noticed how all Republican Congressmen are appropriately named?
Pat *Swindall*.
Mitch *Skandal*-akis.
*Dick* Armey.
*Newt*.
Coincidence? I think not.
Blimey! If I’d changed my name to Rip Offenstern I’d be a senator by now!”
EAR PLUGS
Degenerate Press staff members headed to Northside Tavern Friday night to witness the return of the unholy spirit. His favorite medium thrashed and and grimaced as He forced young Sean Costello through hours of blistering electric blues.
Appropriately lit in red, the boy burned through scorching tune after tune, backed up by his Jivebombers. The stand up bass player grinned like a cheshire cat, Paul played an actual piano, hiding his face beneath the brim of his hat. The drummer pummeled the set, his face altering between the grimace of a determined boxer and the grin of someone getting the blowjob of his life.
And all the while the boy wonder’s fingers flew, getting more and more intense, sweat trickling down his face and his shirt soaked. Eventually the Dark Lord allowed the band a break but soon reposessed Sean and they were back at it.
Paul climbed out from behind the piano to do a long series of Harmonica tunes that sounded like the moans of the damned howling out into the rainy night. A pair of strippers were sucked in by the powers and ground against each other in the front of the audience, momentarily distracting the host of the fallen angel, but His powers were too strong and soon Sean was driven even further into the trance. Eventually my soul could take no more and I fled before the place spontaneously combusted.
If Sean Costello is the host of Satan, Saturday’s Hate Bombs show was the fire. They release the flames from the depths and provided enough heat to power the half dozen go-go dancing women in front of the stage. They kept cranking up the temperature tune by tune until they turned it over to a hesitant bunch of Clevelanders called The Cowslingers.
They admitted to having to work hard to compete before leaping into the fray with their country punk rockabilly mix. If Elvis were laying on a country barroom floor already dead while Bo Diddley and Chuck Berry were having a knife fight over his corpse, this band would be doing the action sequence soundtrack. Greg from the Loaf left too early, missing the grand finale of degeneration. A lovely blond was pulled from the crowd to play mariachi Bo Diddley beat during a rockabilly cover. The singer was overcome by her ability to grind and left the stage. The guitarist slid up to play against her and she turned the tables on him and ground him, literally, to the floor. He rolled about between her legs continuing the solo while she shook her thang in his face and the crowd howled in appreciation. The solo got longer and longer and the girl didn’t let up ’till her boyfriend dragged her off, to the disappointment of all around!
Hail Satan!
