Strangle me with power cords.

Brutal last 10 or so days of shows. Don’t ever take for granted anyone that performs a shit ton, whatever it is they are doing. Your sleep is wrecked. Your eating is wrecked. Your energy levels are wrecked. Your pocket-book is wrecked. Your social life is wrecked. The having to be ready to play is constant upkeep, full-time maintenance and full time turning off your head. This is by far one of the hardest things I’ve ever had to do and pulling this off at 46 is no fucking easy task. Fuck, eat, drink, shit, die & sleep.

“My only relief is to sleep. When I’m sleeping, I’m not sad, I’m not angry, I’m not lonely, I’m nothing.” -Jillian Medoff, Hunger Point.

Austin Music Awards 2017 // WORM SUICIDE

 

Last year my horoscope read : “In 2017 you will achieve things that you have never attained in your life that were absolutely deserving.”

If I don’t land anything bigger this year than I will go ahead and credit tying for 1st place in the “Best Performing Punk Band 2016-17” category at the Austin Music Awards to being just that. Well deserved. Humbling as it is, indeed – I marvel at the fact that we got to say “fuck” about seven times upon receiving the award in front of 3000 people at the Moody Theatre that houses Austin City Limits Live during SXSW.

I’ve spent 30 years playing music, discarding to the wayside what most take for granted as a “normal personal life”, playing literally hundreds of shows in 18 months at a time, traveling across Texas and beyond crammed into a van that you hope makes it home at 5am so you can get ‘real rest’. To those stormy times when you had to use your last bit of energy to keep your knees from buckling on stage while finishing the last 3 songs when your body was well done and exhausted, well 4 songs ago. You just do it. You fight as much as you can, relentless as you can. You hold on to every one that supports you, to the fans, to your many brother and sister bands, to your merch team / band member wranglers, to the close personal people you love that weather out ‘the missing you’ when you are afar, when inside you know that you wish that you could ‘just be nearer’.

It’s those liner notes that no one gets to read, the names that people skip past and the faces that blur into the crowded dark venues that make you understand the blood and grit first hand at how taxing all this can be. I’ve sat kneeling, breathing heavily, sweating, counting how many times I have to ring myself in the head to just revel that this is what I am wired to do.

And thankful yes. Honored yes. Knowing that I may never see something like this in my life again, yes. When the party is over, and the doors are locked down, something has to matter in your head – and I am glad that occasionally the ‘fire’ of the fight is recognized, because it fucking damn well should be.

Thanks again Austin.

A portrait bruised just like you.

Was a great last set of shows we did across Texas with C.O.F.F.I.N. from Australia in 2016. Lots of miles, lots of booze and lots of drunk chatter. You may wait all of your life to find some of these high speed moments, but I am totally flattered that I get to experience them much more often than others.

It’s a ton of sweat and work to keep doing this as hard as we do but at this place where I am, I would not have it any other way. It’s all I have, and if it destroys me then that’s just what’s in the cards.

Thanks for all the support, the laughs and the good times.

Scott // Worm Suicide & The Devil Club

110 in 15.

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Worm Suicide 2016 by Dave Prewitt / DaveTV.org

It’s been a year plus since I’ve sat here, and it reminds me of how an old jar of pennies smells like blood.

I’ve performed at least if not over 110 punk shows in the last 15 months. I’ve learned how to gear up for on and off stage in about 3 minutes. I can juggle standing in leg braces, playing guitar, singing and wrangling a pint glass of beer to my face with 90% success (so far). I’ve ridden hundreds of miles if not thousands, in a tour van next to a 6 x 3 foot window constructed entirely of shattered glass, cardboard and grey duct tape. I’ve vomited several times in my lap after shows, I’ve also vomited out said van door in an uncontrollable bellowing spill of how “this is what punk rock is, about, and should always be”.

I’ve had copious amounts of alcohol thrown at me, on me, and all over my equipment. I’ve played with numerous acts that if told I’d have gotten to share the stage with 15 years ago, I’d say you were bat shit crazy. I’ve been felt on by women after shows that I knew I’d never see again. I’ve falling in an out of lust more times than surgeries I’ve had – and in relation to, directly or indirectly, I have fallen drunk off the curb into the street at 2:30am on a cold New Years eve in South Texas. I’ve drunk more shots of poor whiskey on stage than that were good for me. I have taken photos with fans in places and wondered “why in the hell are they taking a selfie with me, I smell like ass”. I’ve played arenas. I’ve played house parties. I’ve played on a floor of a bar that slung more meth than Walter White. I’ve been offered every illicit substance on the planet in a bathroom complete with a half-inch of standing water, or piss or a mixture of both. I’ve slept in places, on things that 45-year-old bones shouldn’t be sleeping on.

Scott_Free_DaveTv02

Worm Suicide 2016 by Dave Prewitt / DaveTV.org

I’ve been mad at my band mates. I have also known they are the maddest thing for me. I’ve almost collapsed from stage heat, lights, physical exhaustion and a combination of alcohol poisoning. I’ve played sick with the shits, hung over with the shits, with mexican food shits and probably other shits just related to damage to my body over the years. I’ve learned how to find that energy to play one more song when you knew your set was done two songs ago. I’ve gotten to experience the feeling of one person coming up to the stage and saying “man that was great!”, and knowing that even though you weren’t getting paid enough that night, it was well enough now to have gotten to play.

I’m lucky. I’m beat up. I have dreams of kissing old girlfriends at times. I miss a lot of things. I have to scream because it’s all I have. This is probably only half of what I thought to write about. Probably the other half I forgot, or drank, or drowned out, or drowned in.

I think it’s too much for some. And a lot won’t get it. And a lot may get it years after it’s all done. And I guess at that time, then it will be enough.