Editor’s Note: Charles claims he first really learned about himself when he was sixteen-years-old, lost and ravenous in a sweat-dreadful summer that saw him getting drunk in the streets of Los Angeles, sucking dick in a park blocks from his boyhood apartment, making out with a married woman in the alleys of County Offaly (IE) and watching the complete works of Richard Kern on VHS on the recommendation of the same punk-blasted video jockey who convinced him (that same week) that he didn’t really want to rent anything by Fellini when he could see Pasolini’s much-maligned “masterpiece” Salo which he watched three times in one day, breaking only to eat, shit and try and make his way through Nekromantik (which he eventually did and now “proudly” owns on Region 2 DVD).
So, of course, he loves Lydia Lunch and, OF COURSE, he loves Pissed Jeans because there’s nothing sexxxier than mean and ugly, baby. There’s no turn on like noise and fear. And it should come as no surprise that the morning after the two artists (the former sharing the stage with death-trip/no-wave luminaries Bob Bert and Weasel Walter as part of her Retrovirus incantation) laid decided and endless waste to Knitting Factory’s stolen stage, Charles woke up blistered and shaky in black socks, clutching a purple wig like a lover or the plague.
We hear tell from less invested men that the show was fucking great and that Pissed Jeans played some apocalypse jam dedicated to Brexit after tearing ass through “Bathroom Laughter,” “False Jesii, Pt. 2” and “Sam Kinison Woman.”
I guess we wish we were there?
Now please dig, if you will, his pictures.
Rockit.
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