Article written by Mickey Jacobs.
Long Beach, CA — Something like two weeks ago I was invited to a show in Long Beach commemorating BCGs new EP Angel Lust among other things. Upon arrival, I was greeted warmly by producer-slash-ringleader-slash-fanatic Luka Fisher. His garb: red jacket, white shirt generously unbuttoned, and black pants with combat boots seamlessly match the many banners emblazoned with the BCGs’ logo that hang throughout the warehouse. The blatant misappropriation of Nazi iconography suggests that this will be a historic event. Heil BCGs. Heil Luka.
As I enter the venue referred to fondly as The Bucket, Hart Fisher (no relation), horror author, poet, and general antagonist is busy berating the audience for interrupting his catharsis. In between healthy slugs of cinnamon flavored whiskey, Hart waxes on such topics as loss, pain, and testifying against his girlfriend’s murderer. With some prodding, he reluctantly wraps up the reading, used to being silenced but never happy about it. Later, he and I discuss James Ellroy and although I’m five bucks short, he sells me his book anyway. Hart inscribes the words, “You’ll thank me for the new scars” in my copy and I don’t doubt that I will.
With Hart’s performance concluded, the room was primed for BCGs, guests of honor and perhaps the most marketable group that indie label Records Ad Nauseam has to offer. Of course they’d kill me for saying that. For around sixty minutes BCGs are an aggravated dance machine, full of rage but never blinded by it. Amidst throbbing synths, syncopated bass lines, and other noise, frontman Joel Zimmerman pouts, convulses on the ground, and shouts slurs into the crowd; behavior unbecoming of his smart suit and matching fedora. They launch into “Sid and Nancy Boi,” the first single off Angel Lust, a bratty ode to angst and apathy that had moshers bouncing fervently to the chorus, “Let’s do drugs I’m so bored / Sex is lame just hate and destroy.” Lines like that, coupled with their aggressively poppy sound, inform a beautifully subversive persona that Zimmerman, Mikey Cabral (bass), Jose Roldan (guitar), and Francisco Hernandez (drums/synth/keys) are fully committed to at their respective posts. Played live, the album seduces with upbeat riffs wholly deserving of mainstream airplay, then attacks with digs at homophobia and self-mutilation. In case there was any doubt, the song “Kill Yourself” whose chorus is its title spelled out, secures BCGs’ place as Satan’s favorite disco band.
Finally the closers, a two-man wrecking crew, took the stage. His face shellacked in glitter and eyeliner, Terminal A’s Colin Peterson began his set with a confession, “I’ve been in love a thousand times and I don’t think it’s ever going to work out.” This brand of sincerity is indicative of both the band and the label as a whole. The moment the music starts, he’s a man on a mission, tearing through the crowd like a heat seeking missile for any poor souls in the audience unwilling to surrender their inhibitions. If, perchance, you happen to be one of these people, you’re in for a treat. Peterson does his goddamndest to light a fire under your ass, to make you feel what he feels, which can entail seizing at your feet, grabbing you by the collar, or repeatedly slapping himself in the face. The group’s only other member is lead guitarist, Lee Busch, who represents a stoic juxtaposition to Peterson’s antics, hammering away at his instrument, literally beating the sound from it. A silent partner who couldn’t be louder.
Among the the manic twentysomethings colliding into each other, somebody’s seven year-old wanders unattended through the chaos. Elsewhere, a white-haired woman pushing eighty watches the proceedings from an armchair. Such a broad spectrum of viewer is a testament to the sheer accessibility of these bands and their message. Ours is a generation addicted to irony, unwilling to recognize any idea that presents itself without pretense or gimmick or caveat. A generation with nothing to say. In addition to, in its purest form, entertainment, the contributions from Luka Fisher and Records Ad Nauseam provide a brief but refreshing departure from the sarcasm and the eye rolls and utter lack of opinion. This is something you’ll remember as you unknowingly track glitter into your day job the following Monday.
All images in this article were taken by Isabella Clarke for Unraveled.