ZEKE by Waleed Rashidi

I suddenly have the desire to beat the hell out of somebody. I now have the urge to tattoo all of my appendages... blindfolded... while stoned and drunk. I want to steal a 70-passenger school bus and drive it through the front doors of the nearest Marie Callender's. Actually, a Del Taco with a big blue letter "C" on its window would be just fine. I will laugh out loud, I will destroy and intentionally be malicious... all at once. To top it all off, I won't care about the consequences of my actions. I have gone bezerk and I'm doing just fine, thankyouverymuch.

What on earth would cause a well-mannered, easygoing, respectable middle-class male like myself to engage in such heinous activities?

I've got one explanation: Zeke.

And the aforementioned are the reactions I've had from being exposed to their tunes.

Hailing from the locales of the Northwest (I think it's somewhere in the same proximity where Eddie Vedder groans and sloshes about on a daily basis), this quartet of guitar-laden gearheaded hoodlums can really get someone revved for mass destruction.

But, the big question is how do they get themselves charged in the first place? Is there any pre-gig routine, any prayers to God backstage a la Stryper, any form of preparation involved whatsoever?

Drummer Donny Paycheck revealed his secret sauce and comments about his performance to the world via mumbling into my microcassette recorder during a post-gig interview outside the Roxy in Hollywood after opening for ALL. The cat is fairly low-key, semi-spaced out, slurring his speech into an incomprehensible babble and is a downright mess.

"I hate to play first... you need to be fucked up to see Zeke, don't you think?" he mumbles.

"Do you get fucked up before shows?" I ask.

"Me? No! Could you imagine playing that fast?" he responds.

"How do you build up such stamina to perform, then?"

"I don't know, a lot of hard fucking speed... good drugs," says Paycheck.

Cool contradiction! Must be the speed. So much for the effectiveness of Nancy Regan's "Just Say No" campaign.

The CD insert of their newest Epitaph release, Kicked in the Teeth, contains no lyrics or fancy photo shoot snaps (hell, who needs them anyways?) Instead, the panels reveal a restraining order against Paycheck and a hate letter written by what seems to be the ex-girlfriend of bassist Mark Pierce about why she hates him so much. Both are quite sadly amusing pieces to scan, and give the listener the much-needed insight into just exactly the type of shit these boys have stirred.

Did I mention that these guys are downright ugly? Sorry, no GQ poses or Mr. Universe pageant entries here; Zeke would rather leave their metal-tinged mops in the exact same condition since they started growing them back in 1980-something, complete with the grime, muck and sweat. I couldn't help but notice all the scars and cuts the 30-year-old Paycheck had while I was speaking with him face to face. Looks like hell.

But, allow me to re-emphasize: Zeke really doesn't give a rat's ass. It's a conviction that is easily conveyed in their music. Their style is way simplistic, bruisingly quick, 900% attitude, and paints pictures of... well... four ugly guys strumming their guitars and pounding their drums as fast as they can (or sometimes can't) stand it. Come on, Kicked in the Teeth has seventeen tracks, yet has a total time just shy of 21 minutes.

Paycheck's feces-flavored philosophy on the band thang: "It's not like we're trying to be good or anything, we're just doing what we do. Playing music to me is like taking a shit. If I gotta go and do it, I'll do it. If it's not happening and bums me out, then I get constipated."

His thoughts on their hometown?

"Seattle is a great place, they've finally embraced Zeke after a few years," says Paycheck.

Any day jobs?

"We're working-man rock. No, no - no day jobs; fuck day jobs! We eat Top Ramen to survive."

On the note of survival, the punk-rock grapevine reported that Blind Marky Fletchtone, guitarist/vocalist of Zeke, pulled a knife on Fletcher Dragge from Pennywise backstage. How lovely.

Now, if all of that ain't enough to make me steal a GSXR750, load up my .357 Magnum, buy another case of diet pills for a fresh batch of meth and scream "holy [insert fully-blasphemous expletive here] Jesus Christ, these guys are the most insane white-trash punk rock band alive!", well I don't know what is.