June 2025

---

Martin Atkins and I are in the main room of the Museum of Post-Punk and Industrial Music, recapping my appearance and settling the books. Surrounded by 20 video screens and a whole lot of makeshift lighting, he’s explaining the door take, as well as books sold. I tell him to take the door and just give me the agreed upon income from the books. We do some back ‘n’ forth: He’s schooling me about what he thinks is rightfully mine. While I am not rolling in mad loot ever, I do want the Museum to flourish and I’d rather leave money to at least help pay for the electric bill or the expansion expenditure the place is going to inevitably need. (Seriously: If this music genuinely means something to you, prove it by getting to Chicago right now.)

After a few minutes of going back ‘n’ forth, we sort out the situation. He looks at me and smiles. “Congratulations, Jason. You’re on tour!”

The thought of this amuses me. But the reality of it feels daunting. If anybody is going to write any book centered on the industrial-rock realm, where the hell else would you start the promotional campaign? Crib Death, Iowa? But where I was once an intrepid reporter and a geeky fanboy (waxing ecstatically over a French bootleg of a live Tackhead gig? That’s #branding), I now come back to the city with my own artistic wares to share. And it feels great.

I spend my first night in the Museum in my pajamas (boxer briefs and a shirt reading I’D RATHER BE SLEEPING). I start at 11:30 pm at the entrance: It’s festooned with a ton of Skinny Puppy memorabilia, as well as a tribute to the perennial Chicago industrial celebration Cold Waves and to the catalyst that sparked the event, the sorely missed Jamie Duffy. I inspect every inch of the place and pore over the minutiae. The Einstürzende Neubauten monitor room. Passport photos of David Yow. Tour laminates. Rare record pressings. Even rarer tour posters, and everything saturated in the heady aura of backstory. I make one loop around the place. I see my byline. I recognize photo shoots. I marvel at things and say outloud to no one, “The fuck was that?” 

I look at my phone. The time reads 4:46 a.m. I had better go to bed.

The next day is one of administration. My publicist handler tells me that I should go down to the Chicago Fine Arts Building and sign some copies of the book at Exile In Bookville. I meet co-founder and all-around amazing dude Javier and proceed to sign all 25 copies of the book. To my knowledge, these are the only copies in the city. I buy one from him because I am having a late lunch with Gerda Barker and I’m wondering if the shipment I placed 11 days ago will end up at the Museum in time. (I also buy the memoir from Gang Of Four vocalist Jon King. Seriously, support independent businesses!) It is lovely to see Gerda, even if she wants to stab the Apple Car Play program on my dashboard.

Later that night, I head off to Liar’s Club, the bar co-owned by Rights Of The Accused members Mike O’Connell and Herb Rosen. It’s the first of a two-night stand from The Skatenigs who some folks may remember as the direct support on the 1990 RevCo tour. Founder Phil Owen asks me if I want to come onstage and pimp my book. Instead, I talk about how his band was enjoyed by people of various creeds and color and sexuality: the same people politicians want to use as cannon fodder for their culture war. I also mention that Phildo was parading around with a latex strap-on pork sword with a canister of styling mousse in it approximately 12 years before that ugly dude in Rammstein took it to the bank. Four people laugh and the band start their set.

The vibe at Liar’s is really wonderful. I tell the doorman who I am and give him some postcards to spread around. He shakes my hand with gusto, thanking me for all those stories he used to read at that place I worked at for three decades. Jim Marcus is the MP3J, mixing all kinds of rivethead staples with other adjacent genres. I finally get to meet Adam “Vav” Vavrick, whose deep knowledge of beer brewing and the history of analog synthesizers — and the people who manipulate them — is quite majestic. We vow to meet in Philadelphia so we may visit the late Keith Emerson’s legendary Moog modular bank.

I also meet Marco Porsia, director of the stentorian documentary, Where Does A Body End, the definitive study of Michael Gira and his brooding ensemble SWANS. Marco runs out to his car to give me a copy of the Blu-ray. He shakes my hand and tells me that when he interviewed Bill Rieflin for the film, the late multi-instrumentalist had told him that I had sent him my cassette copy of Gira and co.’s 1991 album, White Light From The Mouth Of Infinity, and hearing it made him want to work with the band. Rieflin had never told me that personally: Hearing it now from a new acquaintance fills me with equal parts joy and regret. I last saw Bill in 2006, backing up Robyn Hitchcock as a member of The Venus 3…

The next day, I point the hooptie toward Decatur, Illinois, where Martin is organizing, coordinating and making everything happen for Millikin University’s Midwest Music Expo. At several junctures on the 150-minute trip, I hit three flash-flood downpours that approximate going 70 MPH through a car wash. Boo-fuk’n-hoo, Jason:  Martin has an entire stage rained out and now he has to figure out how to get 20 artists’ sets onto one stage at the local watering hole Lock, Stock & Barrel. I do get to see two micro-sets, though. Jaydoe Jaydoe is a rapper with great flow, animated delivery and some infectious charisma. Sweetmelk are a guitar and drums duo who somehow pack more velocity and acceleration into the annals of grrl-power with enough guitar abuse and decibels to make the noise-rockers come out to the yard.  

Back in the Millikin conference rooms, I discuss the making of the LORAH book and explain how music journalism is just as convoluted as bands crushing their molars over streaming services. I do contend that it is worth doing, but you have to be proficient in a couple more weapons (podcasting, video filming/editing, social media manipulation and emotional intelligence) to make it all work. The day ends with an address from Millikin grad and University of Richmond hip-hop professor AD Carson. He’s made a ton of records in straight-up DIY style (go visit his Bandcamp page) and he’s pretty untouchable in terms of maintaining his vision in both music and education. (C’mon, the man submitted his dissertation as a vinyl record.) It’s really great seeing aesthetics tower over conventional wisdom. I think about this while driving back to Chicago, nervously wondering if my box of books have arrived at the Museum.

Sunday has arrived.  Back at the PPIM, Martin and his team are getting everything together before noon. His assistants, Dylan and Anna, are seemingly two steps ahead of whatever Martin needs, from hospitality to tech support. If they have to reconfigure the room in less than an hour, they’ve already started it 10 minutes before Martin brings it up. When Martin wanted a background for us to banter in front of, Dylan fired off some photos of the book and added them to the monitor feed. Anna was wonderful keeping me sedate with water, 7-Up, donuts and having an alchemist’s knowledge of the espresso machine. These days, age and treachery could very well be vanquished by youth and skill. 

The event couldn’t have been better. The lovely Alana Waters-Piper commandeered her husband and son to commit the event to video. There were friends I hadn’t seen in decades that still retained their charm and their fifth-degree black belts in ball busting. (My old bud Pete Olson snuck into the green room, slowly sauntered up to me and bellowed his first words to me in over 30 years: “Oh, this must be the room where they keep the assholes.”) Old friends, new ones, longtime readers and some fans on the periphery showed up (why am I spacing on the name of the guy who is part of the prongs.org/ministry cabal?) and asked thoughtful questions. Laughs were had, passages were read and I expressed my gratitude to everyone for showing up. 

So yeah, I’m on tour (well, kinda). And I’m gonna come back there soon, because I need to hang out in James Van Osdol’s car for some spirited chat. I am grateful for Martin’s kindness and generosity, as well as him letting me hold his copy of the legendary Shellac LP, The Futurist and playing me scorching unreleased tracks from his tenure making PiL’s Flowers Of Romance. Clearly, these are moments that are far more soul-stirring than a parade of butt-rock radio dullards clambering upon the Oakley Sunglasses Stage at a Danny Wimmer fest. From now on, I’m having a well-listened life. 

My body wracked with joint pain and the sudden realization that I haven’t used a water closet for about 18 hours, I hustle to the back of the plane to enjoy an entire row of seats to myself. For the next four hours, I turn the area into a micro-office with phone-charging on the left, legal pads in the center and the break room area in front of the aisle seat which holds flight-size Oreos, artisan pretzel bites and a cup of Mr T’s Bloody Mary mix on ice. The flight attendant lets me keep the whole can. He must know who I am! Or he thinks I’m a sad bastard. 

Actually, neither theory is applicable. I am in pain but it’s completely ameliorated by the memories of old friends, familiar acquaintances, new friends, amazing serendipities, great book stores and greater food. I’m just tired enough to not try to accomplish any administration, so with torqued-up tomato juice in hand, I continue reading To Hell With Poverty, a memoir by Jon King, the frontman for the recently adjourned post-punk godhead, Gang Of Four. 

In one chapter, King discusses the addition of Scottish singer Eddi Reader who toured with the band during the promotion of their third album, Songs Of The Free. King enthuses about Reader’s amazing talents over the 50 dates she spent as a Gang member, but does not lament her leaving to join Eurythmics not long afterward. He succinctly ends the passage with one line: “Creative life is all about endings.”

This line forces my brain to detour from my physical wretchedness. As I ball up my hoodie to improvise a pillow, my thoughts rush like 50 jai alai  players aiming at me. I recall all those years celebrating the completion of each issue at the magazine and then watched with equal parts grace and sadness when collaborators (conspirators?) would leave the fold to pursue other opportunities in art, life and love. But when it was my turn to walk under the exit light, I thought I was going to fade out and merely put in time on planet Earth. I didn’t watch any of my dreams die, per se. I just didn’t have any dreams left.

But after a series of connections, reconnections and forces of nature, I feel oddly rejuvenated. Yeah, I got soft. Mainly because I didn’t have to deal with all of the machinations I fucking loathed. The space for hating needed filling up. So I’m gonna pile it up until my brain stem herniates. That’s why I’m not gonna whinge about dragging heavy baggage across a cold long-term parking lot at 2:30 am and driving another 45 minutes home to collapse into bed. 

I’ve been baking this cake for something like 30 years. These days, everything is icing. I’m almost thinking this website should have a favicon rendered as a spatula. We should aim to scoop out as much good as we can. You never know when the kitchen will close…

See you soon, I’m sure.

Hello Cruel World. Literally. I'm kicking off Club Doom at noon on Saturday as the first DJ at this year's Cruel World music festival at the Rose Bowl in Pasadena. If you're attending, say hi as I spin and hopefully set the tone for a day of dancing on the dark side. When my hour is over, I'm happy to share tales from the underground, talk about records and chat about the book. It's my second CW (first was in 2023), so I know it will be a great day, but sunscreen is a must!