This One's for Bucyrus
An introduction to this sound recording, by Kenneth P.W. Rainey The misery of growing up in Central Ohio was mitigated somewhat by the company of a pair of similarly miserable souls. We met at Columbus' performing arts high school, Fort Hayes, where we studied under a man who was the principal bassoonist of the Columbus Symphony Orchestra. As nothing can command the respect of teenage boys quite like mastery of the oons, finding new ways to annoy him became our raison d'être. Armed only with guitars, we sought to make the veins on his forehead explode. Having delighted in the musical torment of a common enemy, we decided to band together and share our unhappiness with others. We were bored suburban teenagers with a desire to play loud, fast, numbingly cretinous music. And we did. In a basement in a godwaful suburb north of Columbus, to an audience of two mongrel dogs. We began composing hymns of teenage suburban misery. Our oeuvre fell into four categories: 1. songs about bands that were more successful than us and, therefore, we hated; 2. songs about girls that did not like us; 3. songs about being broke and miserable; 4. songs about revenge. We didn't have two nickels to rub together (see lyric theme #3), so we were never able to see the inside of a real recording studio. We tried to make a DIY record several times, but were never happy with the quality of the recordings, and the raw tracks always languished in an incomplete state in the bottom of somebody's sock drawer. Our best attempt at recording our stuff was in early 1991. We borrowed a whole mess of equipment from everyone we knew and holed up in a warehouse on the north side of Columbus with a case of Jolt Cola. In all, we recorded drum and bass tracks live for about ten songs, but we could never get the slick vocal sounds or the beefy guitar tones we craved. Once again, the tapes sat idle and unfinished in the aforementioned sock drawer for a couple of presidential administrations. Not too long ago, Jose and I decided to spend some time wallowing in latent adolescence, and took our humble homemade tracks into Mike Hagler's Chicago studio to see if they could be salvaged. Mike took our dinky homemade tracks and honed them into radio-friendly, arena-ready rock. That the result is in any way listenable is testament to Mike's knowledge of the black arts of recording. So here it is. A beautiful shiny plastic monument to our wasted youth.