I bid the Hen farewell as she joinedthe Frohburg ladies to Leipzig. Theladies take advantage of Men’s Dayto go off on their own to the big cityand do “lady stuff.” Perms?Shopping? Manicures? Whoknows? As The Chancellor and Iwalked across Frohburg at 10am, Icould feel the tremors start. Westarted seeing groups of men goingabout by trailer, bike, or by foot.Many men were dressed up in onecelebratory way or another. Somemen had dress-shirts with bow tiesand top hats. Some men had AlBundy “No Ma’ams” shirts. Somehad leder-hosen. It was as if all themales of Frohburg found a HappySchnapps Combo album and adoptedtheir dress code as the norm. Icould soon smell the first winds ofbeer and bratwurst as the smalllocal beer gardens and pubs startedwearing flowers and German folkhats. The grounds were full withHUNDREDS of men, all drinking,cheering, laughing, drinking, andjust being men! Every time a newtrailer would show up, all the hornswould begin honking and everyonecheered. It was like Pulaski PolkaDays, the Kewaunee Trout Festival,Milwaukee’s South Shore Frolics,and Sheboygan Bratwurst Days allrolled into one huge festival, but itwas ALL MEN!It was time. The Chancellorand I scouted out a fine spot forrhythm ruckus and hauled theChickenkit into the crowds ofmerry drinkers. Up on a deck in thebeer garden, I sat behind my set andpulled on the Chickenhead. A fewmen noticed and curiosity mounted.I raised my wings and wasabout to go into the opening drumsomething to yell about, it’s ruckusat ground zero! How do I GETthese gigs?!!At this point I wondered howthe Milwaukee Brewers weredoing. I wondered how their newRally Rabbit was doing. I figuredthat Mannertag was a much largercrowd than the Brewers can drawthese days. I’m quite positive thatMiller Park, being the stadium for ateam called the “Brewers” in a citynicknamed Brewtown, USA,couldn’t possibly sell more beer inone day than Frohburg onMannertag. I thought about howmuch trouble it would cause if theytried having a MEN ONLY day foreven one game. Under theChickenhead my beak smiled a littlemore and I rocked harder.I whirled the crowd up a fewmore times under that hot summerdown through the shallow stream!The singing grew louder. Freshlyopened bottles were handedaround. Little shot bottles were gettingknocked back here and there. Iwas rubbing shoulders with mennamed Dietmar, Jurgen, Werner,Otto, Rheinhold, and TheChancellor! I wondered what theladies were doing, but not for toolong. I was handed another beer.The next stop was the BurgGnadstein. After playing this exactplace last year, I felt comfortablewith the venue, it being a castle.The trailer slowed to a halt in theparking lot below and the menmarched up to the beer andbratwurst stand. Many other trailerswere on display as some menwalked around appreciating eachother’s transports. The Chancellorand I hauled the Chikenkit up to theIf you think about it, a huge crowd of drunken German men with a Rhythm Chickenin the middle giving them something to yell about, it’s ruckus at ground zero!overcrowding with men, men,MEN!We started at the Schutzenhaus,Frohburg’s rifle club. The parkinglot was transformed into a largeoutdoor beer joint. We started soakingup the Radeburger, once theroyal brew of King Johann! Inoticed how many men were alsoknocking back numerous tiny bottlesof those “shot sized” boozes.Everywhere we went the groundbecame more and more litteredwith those tiny empty bottles.Many men showed up on bikes thatwere decorated in various outlandishways. The Chancellor toldme how sometimes the bikers endup eating pavement quite hard, sohe never bikes on Men’s Day. I alsosaw a few guys with souped-upwalking sticks, complete withhorns and beercan holders! Thenthe antique tractor pulled into thelot with a trailer full of singingmen! Horns wailed, men yelled,and the real beering began. For thefirst time that day I stood back andappreciated the true traditional ageoldruckus I had been invited to. Itwas beautiful.After three or fourRadeburgers, we walked acrosstown again to the next meetingpoint, the Jagerhaus. This is wherethings really got swinging. Therewere dozens of trailers parked inthe field nearby; each gussied uplike bizarre floats in a drunkard’stown parade. There were hundredsof wild looking bikes leaning upagainst anything out of the way.There were a few trailers pulled byteams of horses, with the driverswearing top hats and bowties. Oneof my favorites was a small carriagebeing pulled by two donkeysroll when a roll of firecrackersstarted going off behind me. Ithought this to be a perfect intro soI waited, drumsticks high in the air.Of course, it had to be one of thoseONE THOUSAND FIRECRACK-ER ROLLS, and the things continuedgoing off for no less thanEIGHT OR TEN MINUTES!!! Mywings grew tired as I held my pose.More and more men turned to seewhat the motionless Chickenbehind the drums was all aboutwith his wings to the sky.After what seemed like a smalleternity, the fireworks ended and Iunleashed my thunder. Hundreds ofmale heads turned and gatheredaround to witness this new additionto the festivities. I sweated out agood dose of rhythms as my earsflopped around recklessly. I gave itmy all and raised my wings againto the sky. There was a roar unlikeany other. Hundreds of drinkingGerman men raised their beers andsaid, “HURRAAAAAAAY!!!” Irocked out a few more rhythms andhalted again in my triumphantpose. The cheers grew. I loweredmy head and pounded a few thudson the skins, then pointed to the leftside of the crowd. They yelled. Irepeated the blasts and called uponthe right side. They yelled. THUDTHUD THUD! (left side)YAAAAAAAAAAY! THUDTHUD THUD! (right side)YAAAAAAAAAY! I repeated thislittle charade, speeding it up eachtime, until I was pounding outanother set of chicken rhythms andtheir cheers blurred into one bigriotous yell-fest! If you think aboutit, a huge crowd of drunkenGerman men with a RhythmChicken in the middle giving themsun, and started thinking about myown ruckus juice. I was ready formore beer. I got up as if the showwas done, but they kept egging meon for more. Giving in, I suppliedone more round of my soundtrackfor chaos. This time when I wasdone there were a few beers handedto me! Accepting their gratitude, Ijoined the mass of drinking manhood.Beer followed bratwurst followedbeer followed bratwurst, andso on. More and more men continuedshowing up and the hornswailed, and the beer flowed. Afterfive years of hearing about thismythical event, there I was atMen’s Day in complete awe, but ithad only begun.After a good hour of beer,brats, and men, I was told it wastime to move on. This time we werewelcomed onto the trailer! Abouttwenty of us circled around the oldtractor, beers in hand, while the driverheated up the old engine. Heremoved the steering wheel column,inserted it into the side of theengine and gave it a hardy lurch.The old one-piston spat out,“PUTT! PUTT! PUTT! PUTT!”and it was running. The mencheered again as the driver put thesteering wheel back where itbelonged. The men started filingonto the trailer and each one washanded a freshly opened bottle ofbeer. Then the singing began andthe tractor and trailer began its ride.Just picture twenty-some men ridinga beer garden on wheels, drinkingand singing across ruralSaxony. It was madness. It was perfect!We rode through woods andover fields. At one point we werenearing a small bridge when thedriver pulled us off the road andcastle courtyard, to the same stagethat hosted my ruckus last time!This time, however, was different.Instead of a handful of men andwomen, the courtyard had aboutone hundred beer drinking men.That’s right, ALL MEN… but wait.While setting up my set I noticed anew song being sung, and this timethey were all singing it with moreheartfelt emotion than ever before.“Was woll’n denn die weiberheir?!!” they sang, and all directedtowards the middle of the crowd.Then I saw them, there in the middleof all the men, TWOWOMEN!!!! Eeeeeeeeek! As itturns out, the song translates to“What the hell are the ladies doinghere!” The women blushed anddashed out as the song continuedfor a few more rounds. Their infiltrationhad failed and the crowd ofdrunken men was pure again!I set up my kit on the stage andpulled on the Chickenhead. Theopening drumroll echoed like thunderin the stone castle’s courtyard.By pure instinct the men raisedtheir beers and gave a joyous bellow.My return to the BurgGnadstein was met with drunkenapplause as the Chicken earsflapped to the beat. I pulled thesame stint calling upon opposingsides of the crowd. They totallycaught on as the right and left sidetried outdoing each other, louderand louder. I felt like the ringmasterof some “Tastes great! Less filling!”debate in a land where MillerLite isn’t good enough to wash toiletswith. I pounded out a few moredoses of my Wisconsin beer-beatsand stood to take a bow. Onceagain, they demanded more. Mythroat was getting dry 5
- Page 6: so I quickly rolled out a barrel of
- Page 9 and 10: on at least a pack or more at oneti
- Page 11 and 12: traveled. I guess it’s sort of li
- Page 13 and 14: they’re worth huge amounts to som
- Page 15 and 16: The Twisted BalloonI am writing thi
- Page 17 and 18: But, if you’re going to ask Todd,
- Page 19 and 20: things decidedly that I shouldn’t
- Page 21 and 22: Squeeze My HornSo, yeah, these are
- Page 23 and 24: NARDWUAR THE HUMAN SERVIETTEVSMARGA
- Page 25 and 26: more detail. Did you ring it out? W
- Page 27 and 28: started out fast and furious, only,
- Page 29 and 30: introduce Bruce Banner, General Ros
- Page 31 and 32: ut as far as pulsations independent
- Page 33 and 34: Lazy MickNO MORE WAVESThe first tim
- Page 35 and 36: The staples of the Smogtownworldvie
- Page 37 and 38: on this lost dream, and yeah, Igues
- Page 39 and 40: By Petite PaquetPhotos by Chrystaei
- Page 41 and 42: WE WHIP A MULE’S ASS WITH THEY BE
- Page 43 and 44: the acoustic version of “March 22
- Page 45 and 46: er dude named Lloyd. He’s actuall
- Page 47 and 48: “Okay, I want you to do this thin
- Page 49 and 50: and there’s any sort of confusion
- Page 51 and 52: PROTECT PACthe first logical step i
- Page 53 and 54:
5)6)der around being useless in.Peo
- Page 55 and 56:
crazy as this sounds, I’m really
- Page 57 and 58:
time. How we got to here, why we st
- Page 59 and 60:
people. There’s bad people. Good
- Page 61 and 62:
Street and keep it generic.Nørb: M
- Page 63 and 64:
Nørb: Wait, maybe it was Superdrag
- Page 65 and 66:
BOYSKOUTinterview and photos by Kat
- Page 67 and 68:
Dan Monick’sPhoto PageI thought t
- Page 69 and 70:
BEEHIVE & THEBARRACUDAS:In Dark Lov
- Page 71 and 72:
despite the plethora of strummed op
- Page 73 and 74:
SONG TITLE: “Wire My Jaw” FAN-T
- Page 75 and 76:
their own. The lyrics are structure
- Page 77 and 78:
BEST SONG TITLE: “Mind Loot” or
- Page 79 and 80:
ally range around 3:25 minutes each
- Page 81 and 82:
have a little bit of pent up anger.
- Page 83:
sound that is no less haunting than
- Page 88 and 89:
Send all zines for review toRazorca
- Page 90 and 91:
doesn’t bother me much.” What
- Page 92 and 93:
Sex & Guts #4Edited by Gene Gregori
- Page 94:
fast forwarded through by 90% of th