Demo Release: Untitled, 1998-not in circulation

1. Yank my crank
2. Zoran the mad man
3. You are a loser
4. Steph
5. A punk like you
6. Shitfaced guru
7. Geraldine's a homosexual
8. I'll wait for you

*Justin Ho on guitar and some vocals

I honestly can't remember too many details about this demo. I doubt we even have a working copy between us, with the last known piece of the 100 we made rumoured to be in the hands of Funky.

And when I checked with him very recently, he tells me that it does not exist anymore. Fucking existential crisis! I'll kill him if I find out he threw it away knowingly.

I am pretty sure Justin wrote Yank my Crank and Steph. I don't know who Steph is but legend has it that Steph was a rather heavy crush Justin had. Mind you, Steph is a contraction that could very well mean Stephen.

Shitfaced Guru, by virtue of its title, can only be Aaron's.

I know Geraldine is a Homosexual is mine, inspired by none other than Screeching Weasel's 'I want to be a Homosexual'. I have a sneaking suspicion that A Punk Like You is mine too.

Zoran the Madman has the most interesting story of all.

Some time ago, the three of us got a job painting up a house that some guy named Zorban or Zoran was going to move into.

Zorban was a friend of Aaron's lecturer. So, the most logical thing to do when he needed his walls painted was to go to an art school and find some painters.

Aaron roped Justin and I in to make some quick bucks.

It was a semi-detached unit, not too big but had lots of surface area and a small backyard. Youth is invincible and we replied accordingly when Zorban asked whether we wanted to do half today and come back tomorrow to finish it.

"No problem, we'll finish it overnight tonight."

So we got to painting. It looked easy at first. There was only one colour, white, and the simple instruction was to paint everything. We started out being perfectionists in the living room. Aaron carefully painting the skirting while I started on the ceiling. Justin was stroking away at the walls with gusto.

By evening, Mr. Zorban came back we were still in the living room. He took a cursory inspection of the job done so far and seemed to be satisfied. What do you expect? One in the three of us is a fine arts artist!

"Hey! Hey! You see the holes here in the corners of the ceiling?! Slap the paint in! Slap it in! Make sure you fill it with paint! Slap it in!"

For some strange reason, Zorban talks at the intensity and volume of shouting. He should start a punk rock band.

He demonstrated by stuffing a whole load of paint into one of the many small holes and smirked when it looked like the patch was seamlessly covered.

"Ok, ok, no problem." We said. Zorban then left for the night.

Gravity is universal and the slapped-in paint soon became dripping rain after a few moments. I admit I must have faulty pattern-recognition because the more it dripped out, the more paint I slapped in and the more it dripped out and the even more paint I slapped in, and so ad infinitum.

Soon, the floor was covered in patches of white paint with the combined drippings and the flecks spewing from my vigourous slapping. Aaron and Justin added to it by singing and bobbing their heads along as they painted.

Funny how we didn't think of covering the floor with newspaper until now.

Instead of the usual ceramic tiles one finds in these parts, the floor was covered by a strange dark-grayish rubber flooring. It was cut to the size and shape of the room and was laid to fit snugly. We had turpentine so what the hell, we'll clean the paint at the end.

Aaron and Justin went out to tah-pow chicken rice for dinner and came back back finding me out front mindlessly chucking a sharpened stick I found into the garden soil. "Eh, you angry ah?" Aaron asked.

I wasn't at all. I just got fed up of fighting the stupid holes that refused to get slapped in and just waiting for dinner.

We worked our way through the rooms and by 4am, we were delirious. I found myself trying to paint the bathroom near the backyard and I shouted for Aaron. The bathroom walls were covered with small, boring white squared tiles up halfway. The rest and ceiling was surface.

"Eh, this one halfway up covered with tiles, the rest is wall. What should we paint?"

"Just paint the wall lah."

"Then if the fucking thing drips we got to scrub the tiles right?"

"...yeah, then how?"

"He said paint everything what. So paint the tiles also lah."

We started laughing uncontrollably. Fuck it, we painted over everything including the tiles. I remember us laughing hysterically and uncontrollably as we slapped white slabs of paint all over the bathroom. That, is the true meaning of delirious. The bathroom ended up looking like we filled a bomb with paint and set it off.

We collapsed in the living room by 6am and went to sleep. We didn't know whether we were done and frankly didn't care.

Justin stirred to life around 8 and woke us up. The place was a nightmare. Ok, time to clean up.

Most obvious was the paint on the rubber, grayish floor. We tried to get rid of it by pouring water and scraping it with those things teppanyaki chefs use. Doesn't work quite well, the paint has set into the rubber.

When we poured turpentine on it, the colouring of the rubber dissolved too, so we got a patch of light gray amindst the surrounding darker tone. Shit! how the hell were we going to clean this up??? We did think of dousing the entire floor with turpentine to get a uniformed colour but there just wasn't enough of turpentine.

Zorban came in around 11 in the morning. The floor must have certainly caught his eye first. Permanent splotches of light-dark gray over his precious rubber flooring. We followed behind as if we were waiting for our exam results as he inspected room by room, with his eyes bulging out and jaw permanently agape. There was no other emotion on his face.

"Its all painted. Can we have our money?" Aaron asked.

It would not do. We had to scrape off all vestige of the white on the floor. I think Zorban came to terms with the madly-whitewashed everything else and the still visible holes. Afterall, we could continue to slap it in and ruin the flooring for good. You have choose.

Zorban brought us more turpentine and we flooded the floor with water and started scraping like crazy. Out came a mop and Aaron started using it like a shovel. On and off we splashed pails of water on the floor - someone read that the paint was soluble. Zorban left for lunch.

Suddenly I heard a loud 'Argh!' coming from the living room. Justin and I rushed there to find Aaron kneeling amidst the water with his hand on his chest.

"I think I have a heart attack!"

He was really suffering with a pained expression and looked like he could keel over very soon. The three of us slumped right there in heavy breaths. At least its almost over.

Zorban came back. Still expressionless, he peeled off $450 worth of $50-buck notes and handed them to us.

We were filthy. Hair and clothes covered with paint, sweat and grime. We stunk a strange sour-emulsion-turpentine-ish stink. When we finally started ordering food with wide 'we did it' smiles at the local canteen, the hawkers must have thought that we were, at best drunk construction workers, and at worst escapees from the mental institute.

The next afternoon found us busy pissing away our hard-earned $150 each at Tower Records.

We ran out of money the same day. I'd imagine and I thought Zorban might need some rectification work on the painting of the backyard bathroom. But we never heard from him ever again.

P/s:
If I find the demo in my room somewhere, amongst the antique cassettes, of which there are many, I will update this page.

Update - 6th April 2010.

I found our demo.

Dug out my old tape recorder, something I haven't seen for a long time. I am surprised that electricity can still run through her veins.

I used to record raw material in my room with it and have a large pile of blank tapes for this purpose.

With its cheap paper jacket missing, the demo was snugly hidden in a nondescript case and completely unmarked - the way we could afford it back then.

I played every suspicious tape until I found it. Well worth the time.

Let's begin with the eulogy for Zorban's house.



Zoran the Madman (Justin, Aaron)
Did we all paint Zoran's house? A hundred bucks! Oh yeah!
Did we all destroy his house? Look at the floor! Oh yeah!
Did we all go crazy? Beyond reason? Oh yeah!
Did we all clean up the mess? Yes, we did. Oh yeah!

Did we really do this by ourselves? Monday was a blessing in disguise. Did we really do this by ourselves?

We're gonna kick your ass tonight!

Can we really do this by ourselves? Monday was a blessing in disguise. Can we really do this by ourselves?

We're gonna kick your ass tonight!

(stick around to the end to hear an imitation of Zorban by Aaron)

The memories start getting seriously sketchy right about here.

I remember us playing a gig at a place called Area 51. It was a pub in one of those shophouses in Little India. We got there around 7 in the evening for our 8pm slot - we opened. A construction barrier with a crudely sprayed 'Area 51' on it was placed in front of the performance area.

The place was dismal. Very few people in there. Small pockets of 2-4 at were sitting at the tables dispersed around the place. Well, we gotta do what we gotta do. We told oursleves heck, just treat it as a jamming session. So we jacked in and started hollering.

The number of people in here barely changed after we ended our set half an hour later. Sweat dripping off our hair, we gathered at one of the tables and ordered some beer. Might as well since this place blows. We were surprised we had to pay...we were already playing this one for free!

As the next band got on, a sudden realization struck us. The other people in here were the bands in tonight's lineup accompanied by their girl/boy friends! It was a band-watch-band situation! Not funny. I am pretty sure that the pub knew we bands wanted exposure and baited us to play for free. Then charged us for the drinks while we waited or watched the other bands. We were in fact the bloody customers!

The first time we ever got paid for a gig also happened at a pub. I can't remember where it was but I remember scenes of it. This one rocked.

Joe from the Pagans was there that night and he came right up to the front to watch us while we played. During our last song, I noticed he had a real weird look on his face as he stared at me, like he was trying to figure something out.

After our set, I passed him by somewhere in that pub and he said 'Nice set'. I thanked him and carried on, suddenly remembering his look. I kept wondering what he was puzzled about. I traced my mind and realized something. During that last song, I skipped a verse and while Justin was playing the tune for the verse, I was playing the tune for the chorus! I never realized it then! It must have sounded like gargle coming out of the speakers.

...and thats why sound balance is important.

Aaron collected the money and I remember the three of us huddling up in a religious silence and staring at the 2 $50 notes with wide eyes, as if we have never seen money before.

We played at Lasalle twice. They were a couple of years apart. The first time was during Aaron and Justin's foundation year where some students decided to organize a gig for whatever. There was always some cause or theme associated with a gig event. Most times, there is no link at all between the bands and their material to whatever the cause/theme. Sometimes they don't even make sense to me.

The second time we played Lasalle was the first time I met Jeremy. The gig was held in the Cultural Centre (I think) and his band was called Jade Adversaries. I was pretty impressed with his playing and one of his songs I heard there. I thought it was called Classic and that he was singing about groping a chick in the backseat of a car. Jeremy later clarified vehemently that it was called 'Carsick' and it was about SOMEONE ELSE groping a chick in the front of a car.

I like the 'grope-a-chick-in-the-backseat' idea and so I wrote a song called "Get in the Backseat". You can hear it on We Nearly Killed Each Other and the better bits of it in the short local interactive movie, Bah Zhang Joe.

By 1998, we had enough of what we thought was good material to go record them and make a demo.

Ah Boy charged some $35 an hour for recording and mixing. We carefully budgeted the hours we thought we needed and started finding ways of raising the money. I can't rememeber how we raised the money for this but it must have been some combination of borrowing from folks, saving allowances, ang-pow money and working part-time.

Once inside the studio, we had no clue what we were supposed to do. For the first time we had to play the same thing over and over and over and over again because we were nervous and kept making mistakes. Recording in layers felt very alien to me. The drum tracks get laid first, then the bass goes in and listens to the drum track already laid on the headphones and records to that and so forth.

It took quite a few more hours than we anticipated to finish recording and mixing. This also meant it took quite a few more dollars. But it got done.

Update 16th June 2010:

I found this, along with several other band passes, in a previously forgotten corner of my desk drawer.

I think the aforementioned pub/club we got paid to play for the first time is called Core Club.

Update 23rd June 2010:

Freshly found old photos.

Turns out we were not at Roswell after all, the place we played is named Area 22, not 51.

Youth Awareness at The Substation 1997.
At the area today known as Timbre and sometime ago as Fat Frog. This is the one where the drumstick incident happened.

The scene during those days was very energetic, fueled almost completely by passion. In that period, gigs were held frequently at the Substation. People were raising funds to organize gigs with no thought of profit. Most times, they had to cough up to make the difference. Ah Boy provided the amps and sound equipment for most of the Substation events, charging the bare minimum so that gigs could happen. And the bands, we played for free.

Lots of denizens wrote zines - often featuring local bands - in their spare time, charging maybe a dollar or two for each copy, most of which went into funding these events and creating exposure for local bands. It was quite the experience watching the scene in its infancy trying to lift itself up and the people driving it with pure passion and conviction. Few cared about money then.

We always played, or butchered, one or two covers on our sets. My favourite cover was a punked-up Rainbow Connection, the one sang by Kermit the frog.

We were very inexperienced then, with no clue what sound balance was. Without caring how loud Aaron's drums were during soundcheck, Justin and I kept clockwising the volume knob until we could hear our respective instruments clearly. I am pretty sure that there were instances where I could hear myself only, with Aaron's frantic pounding a distant echo somewhere behind me.

Ah Boy always came up to stage yelling too loud, too loud. And the retort was always can't hear, can't hear. Monitors weren't quite that effective for me.

I always had huge, bird-like butterflies in my stomach before our set came on. Sitting there and watching other bands play, my insides would go hollow, like having gastric issues. This always lasts through final soundcheck up until we started. Then adrenaline will take over and I'll knock myself out.

I have 3 fragilities in my performances. Sometimes I get too carried away and start shouting, even when I should just be singing. Some people liked the energy but most just shake their heads and wonder what this idiot is hollering about. And of course, I became hoarse very quickly.

Added to this is the fact that I often forget my own lyrics - I just mumble along and sing unintelligible 'words' making sure each ending syllable rhymes with the preceding one. I think I got away most of the time due partly to the shouting as well.

And finally, when I get carried away with the song, I strum the bass like it was alive and I am trying to kill it. More than once I have broken bass strings mid-set and had to borrow a bass from another band. Now, those of you who know, know it isn't exactly easy to break a bass string. Or cheap either. And with the vigourous force and speed of plucking, I often get cramps mid-song at the muscle between the thumb and index finger. If you have ever seen me suddenly pluck note by note only once in a fast song, yup - hand cramps.

Aaron on the day he hit me.

One of the most memorable gigs we had at Substation was when Aaron lost control of his drumstick halfway through the song.

It sailed through the air and hit me on the back! It surprised me but I continued playing, wondering for a second whether I was having a back muscle spasm. I turned around to discover that there was no drummer there and Aaron a blur of blue running past me to pick the errant stick.

There was some laughing down there and the song sounded weird for 4 seconds with no percussion. Aaron picked it up and continued, almost seamlessly where he left off.

There was loud applause when the song ended. I was pretty impressed at his composure too.

Aaron wrote on our old website:

Seriously we don't remember what or when this gig is.
I only remember Justin complaining that we had a bad set but Louise and i weren't bothered.
I think we played either a Livonia or Oddfellows cover and Ramones's " She's a Sweet Sensation" or "Rock 'N' Roll Highschool" as cover songs.
Oh yah.........................my drum stick flew out and hit Louise during a song!
malu malu

Gigs those days were formidable affairs. They last from like 4pm through to 10 in the evening. And that is discounting the stage set-up and other logistics. It was for a good cause though, designed to give as many local bands as the organizers could a chance to showcase what they have.

Each band typically got a half-hour slot, and there normally was a lengthy wait in between performances as the previous band demobs and the next band sets-up and soundchecks. I never understood the bands that brought like 10 pedals and hooked them all up and start soundchecking every sound combination. This took hell of a long time and I rarely appreciate the subtle sound difference in the thick ruckus coming out of the amps on live gigs like these.

A 6 hour gig event meant that there were people constantly streaming in and out as the various bands played, some eating, some talking amongst themselves and even some napping when the band wasn't quite to their taste. But many stuck through to the end. It felt very Bohemian, almost like a commune of like-minded folks getting together for a common cause but each doing their own thing in their own way.

Once in a while the hardcore bands attracted skinheads who came in gangs to see the shows. I am not too sure why but it has ended in fistfights and staring/cursing incidents. I suspect they got high before coming in and when their music came on, drove them into a frenzy and they started making trouble. It usually starts with them moshing and slamming in front of stage and quickly develops into punching each other, then punching other people - who weren't even in the fucking mosh pit!

Subsequently organizers tried to ban skinheads from the gigs, which pissed them off and came anyway in larger numbers and this time with a serious agenda to make issues.

One funny offshoot of these shows is that our necks often hurt the next morning. Bobbing your head over a stretch of 6 hours requires a strong neck!

Our early gigs were very Substation-centric. I think that was because Substation was one of the few venues large enough and whose management actually supported us and charged minimally, if at all.

The scene grew rather quickly in those 1-2 years and soon, alternate gig venues were sprouting up.

Barely making it out of our troubled secondary school years, Aaron went off to art school and I continued a somewhat 'mainstream' education.

And we were still looking for a guitarist.

Aaron really excelled in his sphere. During his fine arts days, he represented his school at international events in Tokyo and Prague, fully sponsored.

We didn't have to go that far to find our guitarist. Justin was Aaron's classmate during their foundation year and when they got to talking, discovered that Justin could play the guitar.

Justin was short, but very proportionate in size. His tastes in music and heckcare attitude seemed to align with ours. His head of scruffy hair and wardrobe of slogan-ed T-shirts made him look like he could front us. But could he play?

We booked a session at the legendary TNT Music Studio. TNT was run by Ah Boy, and every old-timer/that-timer will know him. Ah Boy used to be a guitarist himself, playing in one of the early bands of that time. I think his band was called Transformer or something like that. Over the years playing there, we became good friends and often came in early or hung around after jamming to trade gossip and listen to his stories.

TNT was tucked away at the corner on the 4th floor of Parklane then. Gig posters, even some very oldschool ones - black and white but yellowed now - were pasted all over the plastic see-through exterior of the studio. Remember the bands like Four Sides and Stompin' Ground? Yeah, those were on the posters.

Ah Boy's studio, unlike Ah Boon's, was a real recording studio. He had professional gear in there to record music and in those days, he must have had the lion's share of the demo/album recording work from aspiring bands. Maybe he still has the lion's share.

Ah Boy himself was the sound guy who recorded and mixed the tracks and we must have spent countless evenings there arguing with him on the kind of sound we wanted and frustrated him continually with our weird ideas.

During the recording for Let's Cross, Ah Boy gave up when we wanted the L/R sound balance to shift quickly back and forth as the guitar riff played, in effect repeatedly making the tune come on in your left earphone only then right earphone and back again. Ah Boy got off his seat at the patchbay, scratched his hair hard in frustration, pointed at the vacant chair and told us to "do it yourself".

Anyway, our first session with Justin was good. He wasn't shy, which was important, and we seemed to be able to play the tunes together. Of course we weren't tight off the bat, it was our first session. We agreed that Justin was ok and onboard he came.

Justin.

Bit by bit we got tighter together and started writing new songs for our new band. One afternoon in the studio, we decided that we needed to confirm a name now - we have been invited to perform at the Substation! We have been thinking of names ever since Justin joined us and we never really agreed. We must have been setting up in the studio and itching to get on with the jamming when this question came up.

We stopped what we were doing to continue the great name debate right there. We were wasting time standing around with silent instruments. The clock was ticking our dollars down the drain. Finally Justin said "Ok, ok, how about Yank My Crank?"

"Ok, whatever."

"Yeah, yeah, ok, ok. Can we start tuning up?"

And we became Yank My Crank. We performed our first early few gigs with this name and Justin even wrote a song titled 'Yank My Crank' as a signature, the song we always started our sets with. We started getting playful slags from friends, fans and fiends.

"Hey guys, crack my butt."

"Nice set...Yank my dong."

"Heyyy! Here's the boys from Stuff my crank."

"Suck my dick."

Well that was enough for us. Some people liked our sound and energy but we were remembered more as the comedians of the line-up by virtue of our name. Now that's gotta change.

As one BigO journalist correctly noted, we weren't too great at coming up with titles and names. So, one evening after jamming, we somehow ended up near Wisma Atria. We sat behind Orchard MRT station, at the garden now known as ION with a complicated puzzle in our heads - what do we call ourselves?

Justin must have been mesmerized by Screeching Weasel's 'Hey Surburbia' when he said: "I don't care what the name is but it must have 'Suburban' in it."

And Aaron countered with "anything as long as it ends with 'Dammit'."

Anymore words I added would have made the whole damn thing a sentence.

Suburban Dammit.

We didn't call ourselves a punk outfit during the days of Firebase Musket. I guess a 'rock band' comes as close as it gets.

Nirvana's songs were simple enough to play. No surprise that grunge guitarists were called two-finger musicians. Once we figured out the 4-powerchord verse followed by chorus and repeat then bridge-chorus-shouting/smashing guitar standard template, we were off making our own songs.

My first song was called Premanath's Black Ice-cream. Of course I can't remember how to play it now, but if I concentrate hard enough, I can hear its tune in the back of my head. I combined new words and phrases like 'premalogical' and 'prema-black' for this song. I don't even remember what ice-cream has got to do with this.

Prem was our classmate. Tall, curly-haired and the blur-blur type.

We didn't know it was called Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder at our age but we thought Prem had some disturbing problems. He literally did not believe his own eyes. All of us used to leave textbooks under the space of our old-school desks. Some of us never took them home.

Not Prem. At the end of each day, despite having peered into the space to make sure he didn't leave any books there, he had to stretch his hand into the crevice to feel around just to be sure. He would sweep his hands to and fro in that empty void several times to make sure he was not feeling what he thought he should not feel.

Aaron noticed this daily ritual and one evening we hid behind the class door to catch him in the act. As he swept his hands underneath the desk, we sprang out screaming "Prem! Prem! You siao ah??! Are you crazy or what!"

Obviously embarrassed, Prem stopped doing this every evening. What he would do, was walk off with the rest of us and after some lengthy distance, make a U-turn back to class to check his desk again! We caught him at it. Anyway that was Prem's story and Aaron liked the song.

We started pumping out Nirvana-like formats and lyrics that revolved around girls we like and guys we hate. Obviously, being in an all-boys' school meant that there were more hate songs than crush. The crush/love songs we had, were often of unknown girls we caught a glimpse of at bustops and shopping malls.

Although we all enjoyed jamming together, our songs and the covers we played were not challenging enough for Josh. He was technically very competent and always tries to introduce licks and other complicated stuff into our compositions. I don't particularly enjoy long-drawn 2-minute solos.

I guess he got bored using only 2 fingers. Besides, Josh has always been the balladsy type. My songs make me want to stand and scream, while his makes my hair stand and teenage girls scream.

Aaron and I always thought that the song itself was the most important. Technicality, once competent, is optional.

This fissure in ideology grew larger and larger and by the time we graduated from secondary school, our ideas were so different that it was Firehouse and Screeching Weasel in the same band. We must come off kind of retarded when we scream idiocy and irritation in one song and become hopeless romantic love-smitten butercups the next.

The inevitable came. After 3 years together, lemowreck/band 97/Firebase Musket broke up.

P/s:
The final straw that broke our backs was the controversy of selling some songs on our demo to a record company.

We must have been only 15 when we signed up for the Yamaha Band Competition. It was the same year Josh failed his secondary 3 exams in general and went into the normal stream.

To perform in front of judges and finding ourselves short of a full-sound without a rhythmist, we got Damien to join us. He was a good friend but he never knew how to play a guitar.

We went for the audition as a 3-piece, Damien not being able to play by that time. We got in. We were 'band No. 97', so we called ourselves 'Band 97'. I had bought my first bass guitar by then. It was a black Fender Jazz (Japan). It cost me all my savings...$700+.

I sprayed a blue 'Band 97' across the hardcase of that and totally destroyed its sleek look.

We performed for the first time in front of judges. There was a band who had one guy just knocking on a cowbell with a drumstick throughout the song. Damien, who was in the crowd, told me he would rather die than play just the cowbell. I agreed that he should die if he only played just the cowbell. And the cowbell fellow played so hard that the cowbell broke from its flange midway through the song...and he had to hold on to it while he knocked with his head bobbing in time.

We laughed our heads off but lost the competition.

I remember us (Josh, Aaron and I) caught in the rain whilst we were at East Coast and we walked and walked until we reached the 24-hr place famous for Mee-Goreng Pattaya. Next to that was a 3-story block of apartments at that time called Block 77 and one of us saw the silhoette of a naked (?) girl - or so we imagined - behind the cutains. That prompted Josh's original piece, 'Block 77'.

One flyer we picked asked for aspiring bands to come by for an audition, to play at some event. We answered and found ourselves in a warehouse complex at Alexandra Distripark, near the West Coast Wharves. It was dark and quiet, the corridors of the building barely lit after normal working hours. We sauntered along, axes in tow, trying to find the right place.

We stepped through a darkened doorway into a brightly-lit studio. Mirrors lined the panels on one side, this looks like a dance/ballet place. We hooked up and played a Nirvana (our most practised, I think its 'Come As You Are') for the...auditor. We never ever heard from him again but I remember very clearly the creepy alleyways and corridors of the building.

Weezer was a new band at that time. Their hit song was "Buddy Holly". We played it a few times one evening at Ah Boon's and when we came out for a break, a middle-aged guy came to us and excitedly asked whether it was our original composition. We said yes.

He looked like he was having palpitations. "Hey, record it! Its a good song, you will make alot of money!" he said. We smiled mysteriously, finished our cigarettes and went into the studio to play it again for his benefit.

There used to be a jamming studio in Toa Payoh near Josh's place. They claim to be 24hrs and is near and across the Exxon petrol station. We booked 12 midnight. That was the only time in my life we jammed from midnight to 2am. it was FUN!

We decided it was time to release a demo. To show the world our talent, we recorded our original compostions on a mini tape-recorder in the jamming studio, made copies of that and passed it off as a demo. We named ourselves Firebase Musket at that time. I was to find out from Aaron - a fan of war - later that firebase musket was an actual codename for an American base in the Vietnam War.

Update - 6th April 2010

The tracks on our demo, based on the scribbles on a blank cassette cover I found in my room, were:

1. Impromptoe
2. Grand 0' Grandpa
3. Crown
4. Dolly Wolly
5. Myself
6. Fighting Spud
7. Butterstars Land
8. Lodge 77

And guess what, I found the remnants of Fighting Spud recorded in my room 15 years ago. And just for a taste, here it is:

I didn't like Aaron the first time I saw him. Fair and a little pudgy from his baby-fat, he looked like some Eurasian hoity-toity asshole. He used to live at Braddell Heights and we shared the same bus home. With his PE T-shirt folded like a chee-cheong-fun and hanging out three-quarters from his school haversack, he used to give me arrogant looks on the bus.

Similarly, I must look like an asshole to him. Strangely huge for my age, my red volcanic pimples 3-D-ing my face more than I like and long white strands of hair must have given him an absolute ah beng impression.

We stared at each other aggressively for a whole year on the bus until we found ourselves in the same class in secondary 2.

Joshua ended up in our class as well. Josh is, up until today, the most technically talented guitarist I know in person. According to legend, Josh's dad is an accomplished pianist who beat him if he failed to perfect-pitch and his brother David was a real pub musician, the kind that had like 4 instruments around him and switched around as the medley develops. Josh was also very passionate, having locked himself in his room to practice sweep-picking until he could do it. And he ended up being able to do it. At 14. I still can't do it.

It was the time of Nirvana. Kurt Cobain, Kris Novoselic and Dave Grohl. The time of 3-piece.

Drawn together by our love of music and hatred of stupid school rules, we decided to form a band. Josh was, of course, our lead guitarist. Aaron was initially on rhythm and I, having had the benefit of real lessons, stayed on percussion. James, a weird sort who loved rollerbalding played bass for us.

We soon found our allowances short. Aside from jammming and cigarettes, we were buying $30 Screeching Weasel and The Queers import CDs from Tower Records. It got so bad that we often left home to meet and hang out at Far East Plaza with less than $3 in our wallets.

We shared a bowl of mee-pok at times (found on the coffeeshop-like space on the second floor of Far East - at that time) and poured the soup into the bowl to soak up the taste and drink it, so as not to waste. We even hung around the Burger King at Peninsula Plaza (across the underpass) until someone vacated with leftover fries on the tray. Then we would quickly go sit there and eat the fries - pretending that we bought it.

We had a great idea! We were going to stage a concert to raise funds! Our band didn't really have a name at that time so we called ourselves 'lemowreck', the name of a real song played by someone else. We printed and cut 'concert tickets' for $1 each on A4 paper. The concert will be held in the jamming studio and anyone who had tickets could come in and watch us play. Not that we had original compositions at that time, but well, you could come in and hear Nirvana slaughtered - Live! Guess what, some girls actually bought them!

We used to jam at Ah Boon's, a jamming studio in Potong Pasir outside our school. it costs some $14/hr, give and take a dollar depending on room size. Today, it is a flat piece of land behind the opening of Potong Pair MRT station and I hear that Ah Boon himself is doing very well.

Ah Boon used to barge in while we were playing Nirvana and cut the master power switch, saying that we were too loud, too loud. He used to accuse us of banging so hard on his drums that he had to change the skins way too often. Yeah, like once in 3 years. Something must have possessed him to let his wife mind the shop while she was pregnant and we had endless speculations on the kinds of deformities foestuses acquire from exposure to loud punk/grunge music.

Angela and Olivia came to our 'concert'. Angela was Aaron's acquaintance from guitar lessons at Plaza Singapura and she brought Olivia along for the ride. Olivia is pretty but thats another story. What I remember is that Angela passed away in the UK from some rare infection. Aaron and I attended her funeral and we were disgusted to find her then-boyfriend (or ex-boyfriend) laughing around the funeral. Angela had sent me little cards and things like that ever since we met. If she held a torch, well, thats not the way to let a teenage guy know.

By and by, we found James' perfoemance lacking. We were getting better at what we do whilst he was still trying to pluck the bass with one finger and barely keeping time. We kicked him out.

We became a 3 piece and in one experimental session, Aaron and I decided to trade places. I slung the bass across my neck and Aaron, having taught himslef percussion, took the drums. It was liberation to be able to sing the songs and Aaron liked hitting stuff to time - so we stayed that way, all the way.

Its been awhile!

Too damn long since I jammed with anybody. I had thought Suburban Dammit was too far in its grave, just a memory to keep us warm if we do make it to wheelchair-bound status.

Scrolling down google the other afternoon and discovered that we're listed on the Singapore National Bibliography. And then a flood of memories came back into my head.

We formed Suburban Dammit in 96', a 3-piece band. Aaron and I have almost always been 3-piece. I don't know why. Too many cooks I suppose.

I guess we didn't see the value of too many folks - at the gigs those days, sound balance was as mysterious as Atlantis - some people say it exists, some say they can find it - well, it just gets too loud. And when we're recording, the same guy plays a few tracks. It never was a problem.

Besides, we were a punk band.

I used to shout myself hoarse at gigs and if we're playing a few days in between, Aaron always suggested some lemon honey drink. It doesn't work and makes lots of phelgm. We played alot of venues and our sound is characteristically raw in the early days.

Early days.

I started out around 11 years old. As a neighbourhood kid scampering around with other kids, I was a music addict since 9. I used to go down to the cassette shop and buy an album at least once a week. It used to cost $7, I think, for each tape.

Back then, my favourite bands/groups were A-Ha, Depeche Mode and Pet Shop Boys, in precisely that order. We had an Italian neighbour, Ricardo, who stood out amongst the rest of us with his height, blonde hair and handsome ang-mo features. He was the only child of an Italian divorcee who lived on the 10th storey, whose mom in turn lived on the 5th. Complicated affair but I assure you she is hot.

Ricardo introduced me to heavy metal. It did take quite a few listenings to 'get it' and after a few weeks, I was buying Man-o-War, Metallica, Motley Crue and Iron Maiden in lieu of wimpy Bros and Linear.

Then, somewhere down the line, Ricardo suggested forming a band. A great idea - despite the fact that none of us pre-teens could play shit. Ricardo put himself up as as the drummer, very likely after seeing Lars Ulrich on TV. Short and small Mamat became the lead guitarist - probably because Mamat sounded like Hammett (Kirk). Ah June, who at the time was my 'best friend' (I have not seen him for 18 years now) was the rhythm guitarist. That left me bullied into being the bassist although I wanted to be the drummer.

Someone told us that if you can play the guitar, bass is no problem. I spent countless afternoons trying to play the guitar. Funny-fingered positions, hell I had to lay the guitar flat across my lap to get the notes right, albeit with alot of weird finger spasms. It didn't help that there were 3 of us trying to learn the one guitar Mamat scrounged from god knows where.

Halfway through, hot mom decided to head back to Italy. Ricardo had to go too. It was a sad departure, my first band break-up; not that we were anything close to resembling a band.

We decided to forge ahead. I took on the drums and Rizal the retard from 2nd floor joined us on bass. Rizal had this weird wide smile and always looks moronic when he stares right into my eyes while he plays the bassline of Sweet Child o' Mine to show me that he could do it without looking.

I have no clue how to play percussion, so I did the most sensible thing. Lessons.

I remember paying some $100-200 per month for a personalized drumming coach. The lessons were held every Sunday afternoon at Ming Arcade, in Guitar Workshop's studio. My coach - I can't remember his name - was actually a celebrity drummer himself, playing for a band named Heritage.

By and by, beat by beat I got it into my system. Although holding on to the tempo, I was never a good drummer. Too much soccer makes 2 left feet I think. In my spare time, I laid her neck across my lap and fingered her. Funny how it worked out - Mamat, Rizal and Ah June gave up playing the guitar and I had her exclusively. I was playing a simplified version of Scorpions' Still Loving You while Ah June was still wondering whether I was fingering C or G.

When I was 12, I moved to Bishan. Into a new neighbourhood with no peers and into a new secondary school shortly thereafter.