Friday, Fabruaty M, IMS Akts^entertainment
Take a coffee break; see Coffin Break
I Grunge band to play Red & Black Cafe
If either caffeine-fueled mosh ses
sions or shorthaired grunge bands are
your thing, be sure to get to the Red &
Black Cafe Saturday evening.
There you’ll find Coffin Break, in
all probability with their shirts off so
you can see their tattoos.
Coffin Break has played twice be
fore at Duffy’s. The Red & Black will
be a “good intimate setting” for the
band to play, said David Lee Rabe,
promoter of the show.
Rabe said he hoped the fact that the
Red & Black does not serve alcohol
wou Id not affect the band ’ s reception.
“If people have to drink to enjoy
music then something’s wrong,” he
said.
Last year, Coffin Break released
“Thirteen,” the latest addition to their
five-year recording history that began
with a demo tape and has included
such high points as winning a spot on
an album of Kiss covers with a one
minute version of “Deuce.”
On “Thirteen,” Coffin Break de
livers tight, well-executed thrash
-44
If people have to drink to enjoy music then
something's wrong.
-Rabe .
local promoter
punk. The sound, they have said, is a
mixture of the band’s Seattle roots
and other more mainstream influences,
such as The Jam, the Beatles, Elvis
Costello and the Who. Possibly the
Courtesy of Epitaph Records
Coffin Break Cover
w w
mod influences account for the fact
that only one member of the band has
long hair.
This mix of influences gives Cof
fin Break a curious sound, at times
reminiscient of Iron Maiden. That
sounds like an insult but isn’t. The
guitar breaks, especially, have the
compacted clarity of Dave Murray, if
not all of the force.
What gives Coffin Break real force,
though, is David Brook’s drumming.
More than a background, the beats
push the songs forward and fill them
out.
The lyrics on “Thirteen” cover
fairly predictable subjects, but it is
impossible to make out what the singer
is saying anyway.
— Matt Silcock
Courtesy of Epitaph Records
Coffin Break will play at the Red And Black Cafe Saturday.
Lack of cockroaches indicates coldness
People are always whining aboul
the weather, claiming the heat or the
cold or the rain or whatever else is so
bad. I don’t listen to them; it’s usually
not that bad.
But last week I listened. It was
cold, damned cold. I have suffered
through complaints about the cold
since last fall, but there was no mis
taking the coldness of last week’s
cold—a cold so cold it made one long
for the simple, lost days of mild frost
bite and subzero wind chills.
How did I know it was an authentic
sort of cold?
I knew it because there were no
cockroaches in my kitchen.
I have this thing about the cock
roaches in my house. I don’t like
them. They come out to prowl and
munch each night, but my repulsion
did not reach its height until they
started singing and dancing on the
counter in broad daylight.
It is the constant sight of their
blissful revelry that brought about a
gradual change in my demeanor,
moving me from mere disgust to out
right vilification. It is not an obses
sion or anything, but my roommates
have become concerned since I began
10 siaiK me oeasts at mgiu.
Understand, I am into animal rights
and vegetarianism and all. But with
belligerent roaches taunting me, I draw
the line. The attitude of casual defi
ance, the carefree sampling of my
thoughtlessly uncovered foods and
the raucous gatherings of family and
friend roaches bother me.
Somehow there seems to be no end
to them. They crawl into our apart
ment from above and below, and for
each one squashed, two more appear
the next night in a Hydra-like progres
sion. But this has become an epic
struggle, and I sometimes hear a Greek
chorus singing as I wield my sword
like hand, chopping down the foe.
I hunt them at night. Whatever I
enter the kitchen and flip on the light,
I run to the sink, both hands poised in
killing position, and fell at least one in
every encounter. But they just keep
coming.
Then last week, there were no
roaches in sight. In vain, I dashed
about the kitcnen, feverishly hoping
to uncover a new feeding and breed
ing ground. Even their occasional ref
uge, the bathtub, yielded nothing.
In curiosity or mad hope, I turned
the faucet, half expecting to see a
stream of roaches pouring out. In
By that standard, last week was frigid
stead, the entire house shuddered, and
a pale, ghastly visage burst out into
the bottom of the tub.
It was the head of a cockroach
glaring at me with all the hate in the
world. I froze for an instant, and it
began to sprout waving, icy tendrils
that grew slowly toward me. Still
unable to move, I was saved just
before they reached me when a single
drop of water fell from the shower
head and shattered the gory th ing, like
a rose dropped to the floor after being
frozen in liquid nitrogen.
Now that was cold.
It’s wanner now and the roaches
are back. It’s still a bit cool for I often
spy little puffs of cockroach breath
rising in the air as my fist descends
with lightning speed. But this is noth
ing like the cold of last week.
I mean, I know something about
cold.
When I was 17,1 moved into the
basement of a guy named Mike
Nowalls. He lived in a run-down house
in a run-down section of South Omaha.
No matter how warm the water; regardless of how long it ran, the metal floor of
the shower stall remained burnlngly, seerlngly cold — cold as cannot be
Imagined, a cold that was fire and Ice all at once.
I - ■ ri— ‘ in m
, ■„ , ■J
David Badders/DN
Though three stories high, his house
had no walls inside. And the exterior
walls, uninsulated, were not exactly
thick or shielding themselves.
A friend of mine also lived there
fora brief period. The three of us lived
in the basement next to the furnace
since it was the middle of winter and
damned cold.
Each of us had a col and a sleeping
bag on a different side of the furnace,
which had been rigged (illegally if I
recall) to blow warm air out directly
above us.
I basically lived inside my sleep
ing bag since it was the warmest place
in the house. I read in it, wrote in Hand
listened to scratchy records while in
it.
With practice, I could drag myself
along the floor to a hot plate and cook
and eat plain-label macaroni and
cheese—all without leaving the sleep
ing bag stretched across the cot.
I learned quickly to put next-day's
clothes, gloves and all inside my sleep
ing bag to keep them warm.
But there was one thing for which
I could not prepare: showers. Each
morning I would put it off as long as
possible, as I was snug and warm
inside the cocoon of my sleeping bag.
Finally itcoukl be put off no longc r.
1 would gather my clothes and a towel,
crawl out of the bag and dash toward
the stairway, a timber frame like the
rest of the house.
By the First stair, I could see my
own breath. But things were in motion
and mauers decided. There was noth
ing to do but carry things out to their
cold, gruesome end.
By the top of the stairs, I was numb
to the cold. Shedding layers of cloth
ing did not add to the coldness. Nor
did standing there naked under a dim
bulb for what felt like hours while
waiting for the water to reach even the
tepid level.
But then a newer, more cutting
coldawaited. For no matter how warm
the water, regardless of how long it
ran, the metal floor of the shower stall
remained bumingly, seeringly cold
—cold as cannot be imagined, a cold
that was Fire and ice all at once.
Now that was cold.
And for all its squalor and Filth, I
never saw a single cockroach in that
house during the interminable, end
less month I spent there.
Bryan Peterson is a student at large and a
Daily Nebraskan Arts and Entertainment
columnist.