Thurston Moore and G.G. Allin ?!?!?!
 

For anyone whos intrested i will post the link to the sonic youth website page with the flyer

http://www.sonicyouth.com/mustang/cc/100686.html

So ever since i posted this i have been researching info on this gig . Haven't found anything yet but i did find 2 things i thought were intresting .

One was web fax that had expired some time ago but still had the jist of the fax in the send confirmation that Thurston Moore and Steve Shelly were doing some kind of G.G. Allin tribute concert shortly after his death .

I don't find this hard to belive since Thurston obviously does do tribute like the one he did for Sonny Sherock .

But once again i would need some kind of inside verification on that one seeing as it could have been a rumor .

The second is just funny ill post the link to the interveiw with Thurston and post his comments on here .

TW: Bands with names like the Trillobytes, the Sheen Machine (featuring Emilio Estevez) and Willy’s Wankers from Britain. Tell us about some bands we might not have heard of out on the West Coast.
TM: There’s this whole New England thing we’ve been cultivating, called the Pepperidge Farm scene. It’s a bunch of GG Allin’s bastard children. They’re rebelling against their father by becoming Young Republicans and starting these Homeland Security Core bands. I just produced one called America’s Buddies, another called Kondoleeza’s Kids and this band called Chunk Suck from D.C. I wasn’t aware they even had music down there, so these guys really floored me. If you listen closely to the D.C. records, you’ll hear a kind of desire to make a musical statement, but it’s extremely obscure.

http://www.thewavemag.com/printartic...rticleid=22658

awwww yeah

The gig review was 2nd on the google list after this thread.

The Village Voice #42 (V.31) - 21-OCT-1986

Swing Shift/Crackin' Up

Illin' on 24 oz. Jolt October 6 only made it worse. G.G. Allin, this New Hampshire loser, appeared at the Cat club, wearing only a jockstrap and cowboy boots. He started shouting the moment he came out, after shitting in his hands and wiping it on his chest. Then he bashed the microphone into his mouth, nose, and eye sockets, a shiny red mask spreading across his face. He stretched his jock aside and pulled hard on his little dick. He broke bottles on the ground and rolled in them. Back up on stage now, there was other stuff on the floor (vomit?), and his butt and legs, besides his face, were bleeding. On his back, sometimes doggy style, Allin would shove the microphone into his anus.
Then he went into the second number.
Seeing the band try to work through the songs, sing the choruses, was not a little comic. This had nothing to do with music, which was nothing anyway. This was obscenity: "You should be raped. Fuckyoufuckyoufuck." Another 15 minutes, and the club pulled the plug. Allin disappeared, came back, shit on the stage's edge, picked it up and threw crap into the audience. He pitched bottles into the crowd. Bouncers glared, but they were frozen, perhaps not knowing who to hate more, the taunting audience or Allin. His eyes were popped and blackened. He caromed through the club, screaming, arms twirling. Two bouncers nearby wanted him out but did not want to touch him. Finally they swallowed, each grabbed an arm, and escorted Allin out a side door.
Maybe the guy figured, This is my New York show. It is important for me to do the right thing. Make them think: I saw something. After all, Allin's played across the country, doing assaultive things for years now, and this evening, also, fit into a lattice of show-biz gestures. It, too, was entertainment. Except that, Monday anyway, we were watching a guy who for at least one night didn't care if he died, maybe wanted to. And didn't mind hitting others with bottles, or shit, on the way out. Before the show, according to the booker, Allin pulled a knife on a woman backstage and tore her jacket. There was no pacing (I've got to go, I want it now), no role-playing like Karen Finley, nothing like the beat or the blare of Iggy that meant we are all going over the edge together. Not even Sid singing "My Way." Allin was alone, like the guy biting the chicken's head. Unlike watching Buddhist monks set themselves on fire in protest, or The Gore Girls, or even an autopsy, Allin's were gestures with no ripple. The club, the band, the audience, everyone exploited the guy. By watching, by not leaving, and maybe by writing about him, I know that I'm exploiting him too. I hope I haven't made you wish you were there.
Perhaps you've seen a terrible car crash. Lots of people left the club, but a wreck draws a rapt audience, and those who stayed were transfixed. During a song called "I want to Rape Your Cunt," he tried to fuck a female friend in the broken glass. They ended up wrestling in slow motion. A woman ran bleeding to the restroom, hit with a microphone stand. Allin's female friend went from table to table, swigging the remains from every bottle or glass she could get her hands on, like she was plucking change from a row of pay phones. I felt like throwing up then. Writing about this is not helping. See you in hell.

RJ Smith

“After the set I snaked backstage to say hello. The band was hurriedly packing up, eager to get the hell out, when GG stumbled in, covered in blood and shit, shards of glass still embedded in his back. ‘What’s the mattah?’ he asked earnestly, in a stately New England twang that would do the Kennedys proud. ‘You guys pissed at me?’ Somehow he managed to get a cab to the Port Authority, where he caught a bus to his home in New Hampshire, still naked but for the jockstrap, still covered in shit and blood, and not ashamed. The cops left him alone because they thought he was a victim.”
— Mike Edison, describing the infamous Cat Club show, Screw magazine, 1986

fucking a, GG is better documented than Ben Franklin.

Dear Editor,
It seems like I’ve been the topic of discussion in a couple of the last issues of your paper [“Crackin’ Up,” RJ Smith, October 21; Letters, November 4]. Well, here’s what I, G.G. Allin, have to say. Print as is. Don’t edit this. RJ had his say. So now I get mine.
I am the blood and guts. What I do on stage I do everywhere I play, not just NYC. I do wanna fuckin die on stage. I’m serious. Every time I step on stage could be my last show because I’m not affraid of nothing. I go over the edge. Others just talk about it. But I got the balls to do it. I don’t care if everyone hates me cause I’m only doing it for me. Fuck you. I am self-destructive. I drink too much and do too many drugs. So fuckin what. I like the danger of bleeding, cutting myself, beating myself, pain, and total abuse any way I can.
I’ve been carried off stage on stretchers. I’ve been hospitalized many times after gigs for blood poisoning, broken bones, crushed nerves, etc. But it doesn’t fuckin stop me. I’ll never stop. I’ll take on anybody. I shit on you and piss on you. So what. Next time I’m in NYC and RJ cums to my show he can shit on stage and I’ll eat it. I’ve eaten my own shit and drank my own piss on stage, and things up my ass are welcome. I’ll rape any bitch I wanna rape, RJ, so fuck you. Go vomit. I just did.
Drink, fight, and fuck.
G.G. Allin
Manchester, New Hampshire

hi Jim,I've tried to write sometimes,please send me PM we can talk

I keep replying to you I'm not interested! Thanks!

I hesitate to say so, but the man did produce some surprisingly good music. There was even some "accessible" stuff. He was just on a mission to be as disturbing as he could be. He called it "art."