Thursday, April 17, 2003
Copyright © Las Vegas Mercury

Music: Rebirth of cool

Rocket from the Crypt preserves garage-rock riot

By Newt Briggs

Way back during the summer of 1990--when Perry Farrell was still in vogue and grunge's teasing finger was inching its way toward our collective prostate--San Diego's Rocket from the Crypt was composing nothing less than the soundtrack for the apocalypse. With Stax horns blaring and guitars buzzing like a pissed-off swarm of Africanized honey bees, Rocket fused The Clash's rasping rebel rock with psycho-Motown soul and simultaneously returned rock 'n' roll to its most lo-fi roots: the garage. Fronted by John "Speedo" Reis, the band quickly became notorious--at least in the dive bars of Southern California--for its full-tilt, fire-breathing (yes, fire-breathing) stage antics.

Flash forward 13 summers. With more than a dozen studio albums under its belt, Rocket from the Crypt remains firmly entrenched on the crater-laden frontline of underground rock. Despite never quite crossing over to a mainstream audience (a brief stint with Interscope ended with the band pleading to be released from its contract), a decade of relentless touring has won Reis and company an ardent hipster following--a greaser revival often referred to as Speedo's Army. In fact, many a slick-haired rocketeer has taken the ultimate plunge and inked up with the band's emblem (an accessory that will still get its owners free admission into Rocket from the Crypt shows).

Although Reis insists he's nothing but a "dork who doesn't give a fuck about what anyone else thinks," his tattoos, bowling shirts and oiled-up coiffure suggest otherwise--that he's a steadfast barometer of the cool. As such, despite his lame-ass protestations, he's an ideal source for bad-ass-roots-punk perspective--a fact displayed in a recent interview/free association conducted by the Mercury.

Mercury: What would you say to me running a few things by you and you just saying whatever pops into your head?

"Speedo" Reis: Fire away.

M: Regime change.

R: McDonald's. No, Burger King. No, McDonald's.

M: The Donnas.

R: Shiny.

M: Al Sharpton.

R: Oh, man, I got a funny story about him.

M: Give it up.

R: I was in Chicago and I was outside the hotel getting a ride to the club we were going to play that night. So a cab pulled up and the door opened up and I sat down into the cab. As I sat down into it, I noticed there was somebody sitting in it that I hadn't seen hop in the other side. We're like shoulder to shoulder and I look over at him, and it's Al Sharpton. So right as I realize who it is and I'm sorta reeling back, this arm reaches in and grabs me and yanks me out of the car. Anyway, it's this enormous bodyguard--who I had apparently cut in front of--and he goes, "This is Mr. Sharpton's cab," and gets in and they drive off.

M: Were you like, "Do you know who I am?"

R: I didn't even have time to react. It was one of those things where I said to myself, "Damn, I should have like pulled off his wig or done something creative."

M: Was his hair just a wicked bird's nest or what?

R: I actually kinda like his hair in a late-period-James Brown way. I think it's pretty cool all straightened-out and wavy. But I guess when I think Al Sharpton I think, "cab stealer."

M: Right on. The French.

R: Cool.

M: How about girls that shave their nether regions?

R: Not cool.

M: Not cool?

R: No. Not unless they got lice or crabs or something. In that case: cool.

M: The Vines.

R: I really can't say anything other than that I like the name. I haven't really heard 'em at all. I heard one song on the radio and that was it.

M: SoCal pop punk.

R: [Groan] Flaccid eunuch--ahhhh--punk, I guess.

M: The Moral Majority.

R: Is neither moral nor a majority.

M: The oral majority.

R: Sounds far more promising.

M: Recreational drug use.

R: To each their own. And it's none of anybody's damn business.

M: Emo kids--you know, with the black Ts and mod haircuts and plastic-framed glasses.

R: I don't know. I just think it's kinda funny how they all look the same.

M: Don't we all.