Wednesday, April 9, 1986
Daily Nebraskan
Page 7
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I arrived in Omaha at 12:4") p.m.,
looking for a stiff drink. I wasn't
thirsty. In less than 45 minutes, I was
going to do something painfully per
manent. My friends and colleagues promised
it would be painful. I knew it was per
manent. It was a tattoo.
You have to go to Omaha for a tattoo
nowadays. Lincoln doesn't have any
practicing tattoo artists. So myself,
Wire Editor Michiela Thuman and Edi
tor Vicki Ruhga sped to Omaha to get
tattoos.
Thorn
Gabrukiewicz
I wanted a design on my left arm,
Michiela a rose somewhere on her
body. Vicki was along for the ride.
W'e entered a modest, older South
side neighborhood near 35th and F
streets. Once there, we found the home
of Dick "Tornado" Warsocki, tattoo
artist. Toys, a child's bike and an old,
black truck littered the yard and drive.
More toys occupied the sagging porch.
Warsocki and his daughter, Jenny,
watched from the front door as we
approached the dusty, brown-brick
house.
We knocked and were ordered to
"come on in." There we found a large
man dressed in faded Levis and big
black kicks. A T-shirt covered a slight
beer-belly; tattoos sprang from his arms,
contrasting fiery red hair. A cap with a
tornado logo sat askew on his head.
Warsocki, who conducts his Derma
Graphics business from his dining room,
set out three chairs. In a gruff voice, he
ordered us to save him the chair at the
head of the table. Warsocki's portfo
lios, books and 1 4-by-1 7 artist paper of
tattoo prints were scattered across the
qpiqeicg
table. He invited us to look while he
readied the equipment.
The equipment consisted of medical
supplies, colored inks, electronic giz
mos and what looked like a cross
between a fountain pen and a doorbell.
It was the electronic needle. It would
put the ink under the skin with a series
of electronic shocks; an engraver, of
sorts.
I chose a lion in a leather jacket
(sassy, but not too precocious). Michiela
found the rose she was looking for.
"Hell, let me do the rose freehand,"
Warsocki said. "I can do one much
better freehand."
I was to go first, to feel how much
pain was really involved. Sitting in a
hard wooden chair, Warsocki began
drawing the lion on my arm with a ball
point pen freehand. He couldn't find
his stencils.
Ten minutes later, a lion appeared
on my arm.
He pulled the electronic needle from
a sterile solution bath. His equipment
was kept in a battered black footlocker
beneath the dining room table. The
locker was plastered with business
cards from other tattoo artists. War
socki had just returned from a tattoo
convention in New Orleans the week
before. It was a good time, he told us.
. "I'll do a short line to show you what
it feels like," he said.
There wasn't the searing pain I
expected. Blood didn't ooze from some
invisible open wound. Getting a tattoo
was like getting shocked by your little
sister when she scooted across the
shag carpeting. Only this was con
tinuous. Warsocki said little. He answered
our questions and occasionally repri
manded his toddler daughter, Jenny.
"I'm working now honey, so go play
in your room. Daddy has to work."
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Thorn GabrukiewiczDaily Nebraskan
Warsocki tattoos a rose on Michiela's right ankle.
The burly man pointed to the bed
room and Jenny, with the same fiery red
hair as her father, went.
Warsocki explained how he got his
first tattoo. It was in Hong Kong. He
was a young Marine during the Vietnam
War. And like a potato chip, he said he
couldn't have just one.
"My mother had some advice for
me," he said. "Don't get killed, don't
marry an Oriental girl and don't get a
tattoo." I was nearing the end of my
time and 1 had been pretty good, so I
had to do something.
After the war, Warsocki bought some
tattooing equipment from his uncle. He
began to learn. He tattooed his left
forearm.
I asked what kind of ink was used in
a tattoo. Warsocki said it was basic
India ink mixed with something.
"With what?" I asked.
"Hey, that's my business," he said.
Trade secrets abound in tattooing.
Warsocki finished the lion in a little
more than an hour. It wasn't painful,
but it wasn't pleasing either. An hour
was enough to endure. Warsocki showed
us a tattoo on his right shoulder done
by another artist in New Orleans. It was
Warsocki's own design an eagle in a
blue-and-black pattern that looked
three-dimensional. It took eight hours
to complete. Warsocki admitted eight
hours was enough for him.
See TATTOO on 8
Don't cross out cut-outs
Cut-out records are sad things. You sort of
hope they'll follow you home. I mean, they're
cheap, humble, unpretentious and, for all you
know, they might be great.
Probably they won't be great by everybody's
standards, not like The Clash's "London Calling"
or Talking Heads' "Speaking in Tongues." Those
albums wouldn't be caught dead in a cut-out
rack. Probably they won't be completely noxious
either. Notice, for instance, that nothing by The
Grateful Dead is ever in the cut-out racks. Dead
heads must make oaths not to let that happen.
I3f J
Charles
Lieurance
There are some though, that people should
know about that have hung around, looking for
lorn and dejected under the humiliating sign
that says "$2.99."
Here's a few:
"Don't Follow Me, I'm Lost Too" by
Pearl Harbour and the Explosions
1 see this in cut-out bins, used racks, trash
cans, the back of record collections every
where it shouldn't be.
This San Francisco group with a Filipino lead
singer who belted rockabilly tunes like a cross
between Patsy Cline and PresleyHollyCoch
ran, made one album before this that you could
smell in the next county. The bad rep they got
from that must have rubbed a little stink on this
one too. Unfair.
"Don't Follow Me" is ecstasy, a bouncy (some
times frantic) collection of all-but-forgotten
rockabilly tunes that Pearl Harbour sings as if
she's got a legion of incubi crawling up her dress.
"Fujiyama Mama". . .
Oh, I was going to list the good tunes, but
they're all fantastic.
If you're one of those who believe rockabilly
will never be produced with the same sense of
fun it was in the '50s at Sun studios, this'll make
you swallow your cornpone with a little more
modesty. A buck at most.
"Hurt Me" by Johnny Thunders
Ex-New York Doll Johnny Thunders decided to
Put together an acoustic album of great Doll's
hits, favorite covers and some solo classics. This
could have been a wretched idea and maybe
that's why it pops up for $3 once in a while,
sometimes less.
I mean, Thunders isn't known for his subtle
charms; he's known for turning Chuck Berry riffs
into electric hamburger.
But this works like a charm. Thunders comes
off sincere and stark, like a moody version of
Jonathan Richman. The whole set-up sounds a
lot like Springsteen's "Nebraska," as far as pro
duction goes.
Thunders performs Barry McGuire's "Eve of
Destruction," Dylan's "It Ain't Me Babe," The
Doll's "Lonely Planet Boy" and seemingly every
thing else that came to mind. His forced tenor
may be a bit of an acquired taste but it's worth
acquiring.
"Celebrate the Bullet," Selecter
This ska two-tone band was even well received
on their first LP, "Too Much Pressure." Still, the
LP's priced at $3 most everywhere cut-outs are
sold.
If this won't follow you home, drag it by the
off-beat crooked rhythm. Selecter, fronted by
Pauline Black, has put out a shattering piece of
political manifesto. Every song is filled with
complex political details, ironies and views. No
empty sloganeering here.
The title-track boasts one of the best lead
guitar riffs I've heard since the Au Pair's "Diet."
The production is dense, atmospheric, dizzyingly
layered and the music goes from speedy, inspired
ska to slow, dirge-like reggae.
If rastah beat's not your bowl of gartfa, this
might not lively up yourself, but otherwise it's a
don't miss.
Psychedelic Furs, Self-titled
What on earth is this doing in cut-out racks at
both Dirt Cheap and Pickles? Well, I won't com
plain. I have two copies already, but I can always
give them as Christmas gifts to my friends in
Borneo who might not own them.
You either know this LP or you don't. Richard
Butler, lead singer, sounds like Iggy Pop after a
tracheotomy with a blow torch and the saxes and
guitars have some of the most startlingly original
interplays on vinyl.
The songs, especially "Flowers," "Susan's
Strange" and "We Love You" are intelligent,
poetic psychedelia, doused in double-meanings,
lyrical eccentricities and angry social criticism.
Listen to these lines:
"Make a god of politicsMake a god of
peaceWorship them with automobiles
Worship them with streets. . . "
Well, maybe it doesn't make sense to you,
but.
There are a lot more aural treasures out there.
A lot more. First come, first served.
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Andrea HoyDaily Nebraskan
Johnny Reno, in a characteristic packed house at the Drumstick on
high energy show, stormed through Monday night,
sax-souped favorites and several tunes Reno and the Sax Maniacs will play
from his albums while playing to a the Drumstick again tonight.