the backdoor men present:
mohawk combover
mohawk
combover
reviewed:
COOL
CLEVELAND
CREEM Magazine
Cleveland
Free Times
Cleveland
Scene
UtterTrash.Net
Forth Worth
Weekly
GoodNewMusic.Com
Corazine (Europe)
cdbaby.com
Village Voice
Pazz & Jop Poll
* * *
The smash 21st century comback album
from cleveland's notorious backdoor men.
THE LINER NOTES
From the Still-Smoldering
Banks of the Cuyahoga River
April 2004
Like any city, the Cleveland rock & roll scene has a soft white underbelly.
Circa 1977, when the Backdoor Men made their ear-splitting debut in the party room of a bland suburban Cleveland apartment complex, this netherworld of rock dreamers was populated with the good, the bad, the originals, the imitators, the serious, the comical, and the flat-out depraved. There were a lot of bands forged in the murky crucible of our rusting metropolis.
A few – most notably the Dead Boys & Pere Ubu – achieved “stardom,” at least as that term is understood within the narrow confines of “underground" rock & roll. Some, virtually ignored in their own day, passed over time into the realm of myth and still influence the teenage boys (and girls) who find comfort around the fringes. The late Peter Laughner (a good friend to the Backdoor Men), his former band Rocket from the Tombs, and the notorious Electric Eels come to mind.
Many others had a little something -- and still went nowhere, because rock & roll is a brutal game. The numbers don't lie. For every ten thousand bands, maybe a hundred have some unique talent, be it as players or writers. Of those, ten manage to sign “deals,” and nine get no support and fail soon after.
What happens to the rest? Instruments and cassette tapes, maybe even a self-issued vinyl single, gather dust in the attic. Clock-like, wives offer helpful reminders that "the rock & roll thing is over." The kids are unimpressed. Stuff gets thrown out. Memories linger.
Sometimes, though, there is a second act. On this disc, you'll find the second act of the Backdoor Men.
Originally the brainchild of Dan Cook and Terry Hartman and supported by a rotating cast of characters including the fairly constant presence of Cook’s little brother Chris and drummer Paul Nickels, The Backdoor Men plied the boards in Cleveland from 1977 until 1980, when they morphed into two separate units - Bomber's Moon (Cook) and Terry and the Tornadoes (Hartman). After flailing about in this fashion for a couple of years, the four reassembled for a last fling as Napoleon in Rags, only to disappear, seemingly for good, in 1987.
Their story echoes that of many of their contemporaries. Inspiration was high and musicianship was generally mediocre, save for the occasional player with real chops that passed through on the way to a better deal. Equipment constantly broke. Rehearsals were primarily opportunities to drink, argue, relentlessly chide one another, and get out of the house. Gigs were sparsely attended, often chaotic affairs, on equal footing with rehearsals as drink fests. Female companions were unenthusiastic, even malevolent.
A "tour" stretched from Sandusky to Columbus to Youngstown to Kent. Club owners for the large part were manipulative and dishonest. (On one memorable occasion the boys were promised “dinner,” which turned out to be a tray of day-old, leathery cocktail weenies. Drinks were NOT on the house, of course.)
Despite a mindset that could generally be characterized as "anti-success," the Backdoor Men had one thing going for them: They wrote a hell of a lot of songs. Cook and Hartman were surely among the most prolific writers on the scene. Their personal sausage factory churned out dozens and dozens of originals, a few of which even bled over into the repertoires of contemporaries like the Human Switchboard. If you came to see the Backdoor Men, you were gonna hear new stuff, nearly every time. Psychedelia, primitive blues, mid-sixties garage punk, pure pop - you name it, they wrote it. Some were dogs, but a surprising number were good, and a few were stellar.
Not that it made a difference. Despite the occasional home run – one 1980 gig, featuring a guest appearance by American League Rookie of the Year “Super” Joe Charboneau, brought in a thousand bucks – the years of toiling in relative obscurity eventually broke the lads down... In 1987 they played their final performance at Lakewood’s Phantasy Niteclub. They resigned themselves to the quickening march toward middle age, and figured it was over.
Turns out they were wrong.
As the year 2000 unfolded and the average former Backdoor Man stared fifty in the face (or the rear-view mirror), a confluence of events brought the lads together. It wasn't nostalgia. It wasn't death (thankfully). It was.... The Music. A desire to play just a little more... A long-pent-up rush of new material half-formed for years deep in the brain.... And of course, a desire to escape the friendly but occasionally stifling confines of life with the wife and kids, if just for a little while, and just hang out. Preferably somewhere dark and dank, with a small refrigerator handy...
And so it came to be. A history was revisited. Guitars were dusted off and restrung, and ancient amps were repaired. Battered, beer-stained drumheads were replaced. Friendships were rekindled, and new friends were made. Sins were rehashed, forgiven and forgotten. Drinks were of course consumed.
And the writing commenced. More than 30 new originals emerged, carved down to the contents of this record.
Ultimately, this disc is a tribute to the staying power of the ties that bound (and seem to still bind) The Notorious Cook Brothers, Terry Hartman, and Paul Nickels. Crank it up. We hope you’ll enjoy the results.
The Backdoor Men are grateful to many. The list includes wives (current and former), girlfriends, parents and children. Thanks also to all former BDM'rs - players, helpers and cheerleaders -- everywhere: Dale Crockett, Joe Kincaid, Al Johnston, Karl "Casey" Meers, Neil Price, Bill Hagan, Duane Bollmeyer, Byron Hahn, Doug Larcey, Dan Mantey, Mike Docy, Dave Lach, Jacquie Cohn, Carlo Wolff, Barb Paulsen, Don Bohn, Mike Steinberg, Everyone... God speed.
And we are particularly thankful to the bevy of first-rate players who floated to us and helped make this project truly come alive musically: Former Peter Laughner sidemen Don Harvey and Michael Hronek, the superb guitarist and general musical dictionary Jimmy Juhn, and young buck and Laughner archivist Derek Deprator, an extraordinary young talent who truly understands the roots of the music. Last but not least is Don Depew, who performed miracles at a very reasonable price in the comfortable confines of 609 Recording. He’s the best in Cleveland.
Handsome Productions, Lakewood, Ohio
Mohawk Combover:
The Lyrics
Take Me Away
(D. Cook)
Take me away
Take me away
Take me away
Cuz I can't take much more
Inside my room
Inside my room
Inside my room
You can't get to me
Outside those walls
Outside those walls
Outside those walls
Evil waits for me
Just one way out
Just one way out
Just one way out
If you don't come for me
Take me away
Take me away
Take me away
Cuz I can't take much more
Cultural Insanity
(D. Cook)
We heard the news on the radio
Sitting in our modest home
Unconventionally sitting and listening
And she said we might have known
(Chorus)
Cuz you were out of your element
In over your head
Trying so hard to appear well bred
You wanted a new life
Sophisticated friends
Don't you realize this is the way it has to end?
Has to end?
(chorus)
An incurable case of cultural insanity
An incurable case thanks to your vanity
An incurable case of cultural insanity
Cultural insanity.
The newscaster mentioned a breakdown last night
At an exclusive east side affair
We were suddenly filled with emotion
Overcome by despair
(chorus)
The doctors warned us to be careful
When they finally sent you back home
Don't let her go to the opera
Don't let her write any poems
(chorus)
Not Fed Up With You Yet
(Dan Cook)
Well I’m sick of nine to five
And you pushin’ me around
You give me all that jive
And I’ll put you underground
You tell me this and that
Well I know what’s goin’ on
You stinkin’ alley cat
I don’t need your stupid con
Don’t tell me what to do
Don’t tell me that we’re through
Just bring me a beer and a cigarette
Cuz I’m not fed up with you yet
You keep pilin’ on the shit
But you can’t break me down
I can take it take it take it
and I’ll never make a sound
You’re counting on my pride
that’s the wrong approach
I got as much of that
As a kitchen cockroach
Your preenin’ peacock pride
Your struttin’ and your swagger
I’ve seen the other side
The drinkin’ and the stagger
Don’t tell me what to do
Don’t tell me that we’re through
Just bring me a beer and a cigarette
Cuz I’m not fed up with you yet
Bus Station Gyration
(Dan Cook)
Bus station gyration
Fee fee fi fi fo fo fum
Big rock star’s just a fudge-packin’ bum
Shake a tail feather if you know what I mean
Ol’ Mitch Ryder’s just a bus station queen
Bus station gyration yeah
Jenny Jenny Jenny let’s go for a ride
I’ll take you for a walk on the wild side yeah
Here comes little bitty Latin Lupe Lu
Doin’ all the things her Father told her not to do yeah
Bus station gyration
Who’s the devil with the blue dress on?
Could it be ol’ Mitch just puttin’ us on
Now you’re down on your knees in the bathroom stall
Doin’ what's written on the bathroom wall yeah
Bus station gyration
Bus station gyration
I’m So Fucked Up
(Peter Laughner)
One and one is two
Two and two is three
Oh pretty mama what’s a happenin’ to me?
I’m so fucked up
I’m so fucked up
I’m so fucked up and I don’t have no place to go
To the left is east
And baby to the right is south
I’m so fucked up
And there ain’t no way out
I’m so fucked up
I’m so fucked up
I’m so fucked up and I don’t have no place to go
Fuck the French
(Don Harvey)
Don’t tell me that this spud I’m eating
Is really called a pomme de terre.
Antonin Artaud, Verlaine and Baudelaire,
Crazy fucking frogs with noses in the air,
Foucault, Sartre, and Genet are such a bore,
One more page of Proust and I’ll begin to snore!
You can fuck the French. Mais oui, Monsieur!
You can fuck the French. Avec plaisir!
Dubuffet, Matisse and Georges Braque ain’t my saints
I like artists who know what to do with paints.
Pictures by Rene Magritte should all be canned
Only keep the art that you can understand
Why do French Fries taste like grease?
Why do Frenchmen smell like cheese?
Why’d they call it gray poop-on?
How’d their country go so wrong?
Coq au vin and crème brulee and foie de gras
French cuisine sure lacks a little je ne sais quoi,
I love grits and corn pone ‘cause I’m from the South,
Rather die than put something French in my mouth!
You can fuck the French. Thank heavens, for little girls!
You can fuck the French.
Haut-Brion, Margaux, Cheval-Blanc and Lafitte,
Over-rated chateaux run by spoiled elite,
Bottles of their wine cost way too much to buy,
Swilling Mogen David gets me just as high!
Why do French Fries taste like grease?
Why do Frenchmen smell like cheese?
Why’d they call it gray poop-on?
How’d their country go so wrong?
Alice, Gertrude Stein and Ernest Hemingway,
Why did those fools ever leave the U.S.A.?
Why’d we send our troops during the two world wars?
Just to save the Eiffel Tower and French whores!
You can fuck the French. Le Soleil, ce’st moi!
You can fuck the French. Quest-ce que c’est un coup d’etat?
Marcel Marceau’s a goofball – wish he’d take a fall,
Edith Piaf’s singing drives me up a wall,
There’s little of French culture that I’d care to save,
So throw their goddamn poodles in the microwave!
Why do French Fries taste like grease?
Why do Frenchmen smell like cheese?
Why’d they call it gray poop-on?
How’d their country go so wrong?
Hallelujah I’m A Goofball Bum
(Terry Hartman)
The squares at school
Think that I’m a common thief
But they don’t pop goofballs
And they don’t blow reef
They walk the straight and narrow
And they toe the line
I hate their lives
Just like they hate mine
Well I got me a bottle of sweet sloe gin
And I can drink that shit till the saints march in
Hallelujah I’m a goofball bum
Don’t wanna go to school just wanna have fun
Hallelujah I’m a goofball bum
I got some bongos
And I can play like mad
People tell me
I’m not half bad
I don’t play none of
That calypso junk
Give me some Gibson white port
Dizzy and T Monk
I’ll wait till my old man
Goes off to work
Then I’ll get some money
From my mother’s purse
Hallelujah I’m a goofball bum
Don’t wanna go to work just wanna have fun
I’ll get my kicks till kingdom comes
Hallelujah I’m a goofball bum
Guess that’s all that I have to say
Hallelujah, anyway
Pure Heart
(Dan Cook)
There was a time this heart was open
Ready and willing to be loved, to be broken
It's been twisted and torn
Ripped apart and thrown away
I don't have a pure heart
But what I have is better than no heart
No heart at all
There's no good reason, you know it's a wonder
it beats at all, beats at all
It's been twisted and torn apart and broken
Thrown away, brought back again
I don't have a pure heart
But what I have is better than no heart
No heart at all
This heart's seen bitter days, cold and Lonely
Aching and breaking, coming back to life again
It's been twisted and torn
Ripped apart and thrown away
I don't have a pure heart
But what I have is better than no heart
No heart at all
Oklahoma Jack
(Don Harvey)
San Francisco, Cans of Crisco!
San Francisco, Cans of Crisco!
I’m hanging up my cha-cha heels
Putting away my cha-cha heels, now
Saying goodbye to my cha-cha heels
Bye-bye, b-bye-bye, b-bye-bye, b-bye-bye, b-bye-bye
San Francisco, Cans of Crisco! Ooo-who!
San Francisco, Cans of Crisco!
I’m hanging up my cha-cha heels
Saying goodbye to my cha-cha heels, now
Putting away my cha-cha heels
Say goodbye to my cha-cha heels
BYE-BYE!
It's So Strong
(D. Cook)
Your power to control
From deep inside of your hold
Keep your grip, never let me go
Your wish is my command
Exactly as you planned
I'm seeing behind the screen
You run the show
It's so strong, I can't breathe
It's so strong, you're killing me
It's so strong, your hold on me
Stumbling in a daze
Trapped inside of your maze
I'm lost inside the times I spend with you
I'm understanding all
You're about to fall
I'm falling too but not as hard as you
It's so strong, I can't breathe
It's so strong, you're killing me
It's so strong, your hold on me
Knockin’ ‘Em Down
(Terry Hartman)
Firecrackers in your head,
Pissed and lost and left for dead,
When they've got you so misled
Just keep on knockin' 'em down
Knockin' em down
You got to keep on knockin' 'em down
Knockin' 'em down
You got to keep on knockin' 'em down
They're makin' prophecies of doom
Waiting for the sonic boom
But there's fire in the engine room
Keep on knockin' 'em down
Knockin’ ‘em down
Keep on knockin’ ‘em down
Knockin’ ‘em down
You got to keep on knockin’ ‘em down
Everything is Killing Me (And there’s Nothing That's Worth Dying For)
(T. Hartman)
In this greasy spoon my stomach rumbles
And the water tastes like chemicals
And the table has not been cleaned
I put my elbows in someone's mess
and now my sleeves are soaking wet
If I could just get the waitress's attention
You know the object of my affection
The chicken fried steak
is an investment I can't afford to make
so I'll take soup
make it bean with a big side order of saltines
it's enough for nouvelle cuisine
but the waitress she's ignoring me
and everything is killing me
everything is killing me
and there's nothing that's worth dying for
nothing that's worth dying for
In this greasy spoon two captains of industry
are seated at the table next to me
they're eating steak and eggs
must be a couple of money bags
so the cook comes out he's got burn scars on both his arms
and I can picture him reaching in the fryer grease
pullin' out french fries and onion rings
and i got no ash tray, put my cigarette out in an old spaghetti plate
just what ya got to do to get service in this place
and everything is killing me
everything is killing me
and there's nothing that's worth dying for
nothing that's worth dying for
in this greasy spoon my stomach rumbles tumbles, grumbles
and the men's room's out of order
everything's out of order beyond all control
the sign says management will not be responsible
for lost or stolen articles
and I worry for my soul
But I steal the tip
left for the waitress by the businessmen
let's see what management says then
so what ya got to do to get service in this place
and everything is killing me
everything is killing me
and there's nothing that's worth dying for
nothing that's worth dying for
and everything is killing me
everything is killing me
everything is killing me
Well of Rage
(Paul Nickels/Dan Cook)
Spinnin’ round, fallin’ down
Hit the ground, hear the sound
Of my head splittin’ open
See the blood flowin’
All the time knowin’
You’ll soon be goin’
And nothin’ left showin’
I'm tryin’ to get a grip
But my hands they just slip
And I fall down flat, flat on my back
Can’t you see I’m not free?
Of all that shit you sold me?
Now my only hope’s at the end of this rope
Day by day
Night by night
Tryin’ to make it through
Before I lose the fight
All alone on my own
I just wanna go home
But there’s no home there
Nobody to care
You knocked down the walls
When you made us all crawl
Just like you had to do
When they fucked with you
My innocent blood
It's pourin' out in a flood now
Won’t even the score
I’m just one victim more
You coulda said “wait”
But you fed off your hate
And you took us all down
When you spread it around
Day by day
Night by night
Tryin’ to make it through
Before I lose the fight
Shit Outta Luck
(Dan Cook and Jimmy Juhn)
I’m way behind on union dues
Dog are losin’ ponies too
Boss is yellin’ for my head
Wife just wants to see me dead
I’m shit outta luck again
I’m shit outta luck again
Well I’m pissin’ blood, pukin’ bile
Teenage kids are runnin’ wild
Car’s broke down beyond repair
Got no hope no hide no hair
I’m shit outta luck again
I’m shit outta luck again
I’m shit outta luck
I’m shit outta luck
Go Home Party Boy
(Terry Hartman)
Go home party boy
Go home party boy
Go home party boy
There ain’t no party here
Somebody oughta take your keys
Somebody outgha break your knees
Throw you out in the air to freeze
There ain’t no party here
Don’t give us your sackcloth and ashes
Don’t give us your half empty glasses
Your cowboy chords and milk mustaches
There ain’t no party here
We’re writing a history
For those who haven’t got a memory
Or the eyes to see what could never be
There ain’t no party here
We’re serving up the Sturm und Drang
For those who got no other place to hang
And are looking for a world gonna end with a bang
There ain’t no party here
We’re watching you go down in flames
Kick the body in an unmarked grave
Put an asterisk by your name
And there ain’t no party here
Go home party boy
Go home party boy
Go home party boy
There ain’t no party here
End Of The Line
(Dan Cook)
It’s the end of the line when i treat you unkind
It’s the end of the line when you just run outta time
Get right with god the end is near
You can’t hold back those killin’ tears
I’m weak I’m sick there’s something wrong
You go ahead I’m not that strong
It’s the end of the line when i treat you unkind
It’s the end of the line when you get hit from behind
We were ready to roll but we couldn’t talk to save our soul
But we hung together, hand in hand formed ourselves a rock & roll band
The relief is sublime at the end of the line
You take yours I’ll take mine at the end of the line
Get right with God the end is near
You can’t hold back those killin’ tears
Just take my hand i won’t let you fall
Until i just don’t care at all
I’ll break you down, you wait and see
And drag you down right with me
It’s the end of the line when I leave you behind
It’s the end of the line it made us run out of time
The relief is sublime at the end of the line
It’s the end of the line a lie at a time
We were ready to rock we were ready to roll
But we couldn’t talk to save our soul
But we hung together hand in hand
Formed ourselves a rock & roll band
I feel my self dyin’ at the end of the line
Well I’ll send you a line from the end of the line
It’s like bein’ hit from behind at the end of the line
It’s so hard to define at the end of the line
Take my hand i won’t let you fall unless i don’t care at all
Then I’ll take you down, yes you’ll see down down down with me
It’s the end of the line
The end of the line
End of the line
Dedicated to Peter Laughner and d.a. levy.
Brave contrarian souls, long gone.