"Can we, as a country, all
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xmag.com
: June 2002: Ass
Machine
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Ass
Machine
ON
THE SIXTH DAY, GOD CREATED MAN, and from his rib
was born Woman.
Nobody
knows who the hell is to blame for ASS Machine.
Hailing
from the humid "Leather Clubs" of San Francisco's notoriously
gay Castro District, and counting among their diehard
fans such notables as Camille Paglia and Sir Benjamin
Chester, ASS Machine has churned out seven full-length
albums for indie music label Silence = Freedom
since their founding nine years ago. I first heard about
the band from a friend, who called me drunk at four o'clock
in the morning and screamed, "It's Cruisin':The Musical!
You've got to see these guys!"
What
is ASS Machine? That's hard to say. More of a phenomenon
than a simple band, the Machine is made up of the stunningly
handsome and frequently baby-oiled front man Hotboy;
DAT-molester and Moog-
terrorist Bottom Feeder; and Honey Bucket,
an HIV-positive bass-manipulator. All are militantly homosexual
in ways that normal people would find extremely unpleasant.
Coming from the lunatic fringe of the gay S/M community,
ASS Machine's lifestyle is a sweaty, leather-and-stud-packed
Homo Utopia, stuffed to the brim with "glory-holes," "touch-parties,"
and unspeakable depravity. No Girls Allowed. They've done
everything from produce pornographic videos to auction
their jockstraps on eBay, and over the years, they've
built a fanatical, almost political following among the
S/M and leather scenes. Their music runs a disturbing
steeplechase 'round industrial dance and grease-dripping
disco, splashes through the pool of techno-metal, and
then, when you thought the race was over, jumps the impossible
hurdle of "Dark Show-Tunes."
Their
lyrics are a monument to sexual periphery. Every song
is a lesson, schooling the listener in Leather-Sex. In
the song "Strong Man," Hotboy sings over a jolting House
sound:
Give
a little, drink a little, yeah/
Strong
enough for you, yeah?/
Am
I a man strong enough for you?
The
Machine's bludgeoning heavy-metal hymn "Shit-Kiss" is
a disquietingly tender ode to a boy who "writhes in my
body-trash/hugging the filth." One of the band's numerous
anti-woman anthems, "Cock Walk, Cunt Crawl," begins with
the line:
Killing
a woman's like killing a rock/
Only
Man is human, take a look for the cock.
LEATHER
SEX AND HARD S/M have been a part of the urban gay scene
since the beginning. It's a bar-culture, populated by
Bears, Boys, Bottoms and Tops, Slaves and Masters, Daddies,
Jocks, Cow-Pokes, and Body-Builders; men sexually obsessed
with "mansmells": body hair, fluids, and pain. There is
no Playgirl for this crowd, no airbrushed photos
of half-erect fashion models, no celebrity gossip. Magazines
like International Leatherman, Power Player, and
Hard Garbage report on the scene, filled with ads
for "Bear Sex Party" videos and "The Perfect Exposure
Sling." Every issue contains several pages of personal
ads running the gamut from the tame "Slave Wanted" to
the outrageous "Piss in my Shitter."
I
CAUGHT UP WITH ASS MACHINE at Silverado, a notorious
gay bar in downtown Portland, as they prepared for their
upcoming show. Hotboy sauntered in the door clad from
head to toe in brown polyester, his plentiful muscles
rippling. I found it difficult to watch him move; he
appeared cut from marble, statuesque, almost cartoonish
in his beauty. I think of the things this man does behind
closed doors, and my brain boggles. The average woman
would gladly lick his chocolate brown Beatle Boots,
but if the words he writes are any indication, it's
he who does the licking...and it isn't chocolate.
Hotboy is trailed closely by Bottom Feeder, a gaunt,
unshaven "sub" in brown leathers. Feeder's half-grown
beard is sprinkled with beads of moisture, and I cringe
thinking of the possibilities. Honey Bucket is absent,
supposedly "on a date."
After
the introductions and a round of ice-breaking tequila
shots, I wondered aloud how such a group might have
ended up touring the country together.
"In
1993, the gay scene in San Francisco was nothing but
a bunch of faggots," Hotboy explains. "We were strong.
It made us sick, so we decided to form a band made up
of guys we knew and write songs about our lives. Feeder
had been DJing at the Stockade, a leather bar near my
house, writing a lot of Hard Disco on an old Etonics-909
sampler. He was one of my sex partners, so we got together
with a couple guys we knew played, did some shitting,
some push-ups, and wrote some songs. The rest is history."
"Shitting"
is something ASS Machine mentions in its lyrics often,
and I had been quite curious as to what it was exactly.
It seemed hard to believe that it wasn't some esoteric
homosexual code-word or a
flagrant misdirection of some kind. No such luck.
"Shitting
is a thing that guys do when they're gay," Bottom Feeder
says. "They may deny it to your face, but believe me,
they do it. To me, it's always been a combination of
certain Eastern meditation techniques and good old-fashioned
American elbow grease. First you squat down low to the
ground with your legs at a 90-degree angle, concentrating
on the Earth underneath you. Then you visualize yourself
empty, you know, devoid of any substance at all. Then
you relax your sphincter muscles until your bowels release.
It's usually done on the floor, but it can be done anywhere."
A
perfect explanation. Hotboy elaborated. "Shitting
is a really personal thing. Everybody does it for
different reasons. I do it to sort of gain control
of my body from a gay perspective, you know what I
mean?"
I
don't. In fact, ASS Machine seem cut from an entirely
different sexual cloth, as if they popped through
a dimensional portal somewhere and were forced to
adapt to our customs as best as they could. Other
than "shitting," ASS Machine is keen to tell you about
"pitting," where one man licks the sweat from another's
armpit; and perhaps most unsettling of all, "oil and
soil," which is better left to the imagination.
"We
do what we like," says Hotboy, "and we like to fuck
other men. Sometimes we do it in ways you wouldn't
understand. That's what we do; that's what we're about."
THE
MEN BEHIND THE MACHINE are no strangers to controversy.
Over the years they have been banned from every major
radio market, blacklisted by nearly all of the nationwide
motel chains, and publicly demonized by everyone from
militant AIDS awareness group Project Action to 80's
anti-music
stalwarts the Parent's Music Resource Center (PMRC).
Pat Robertson has come out against them on the 700
Club, calling ASS Machine "the most immoral band in
the world." Senator Joseph Lieberman, Al Gore's vice-presidential
running mate and old-school censorship advocate, has
campaigned to have the Machine's music legally classified
as obscenity. In a recent speech before the Senate
Subcommittee on Popular Culture, Lieberman, foaming
slightly at the mouth, referred to the band as "the
fucking Antichrist."
"Lieberman's
an idiot," Bottom Feeder says offhandedly, stirring
his drink. "Of all the people in the world, whose
idea was
it to have a scrawny little feminine Jew act as our
judge and jury? Now, Jesse Ventura, on
the other hand, he can discipline me whenever he wants!"
Also
riding shotgun on the Bash
the ASS Machine Train are several high-profile feminist
and women's-rights organizations. There is even an
Anti-ASS Machine band called Outraged, made
up of a ragtag group of transgender feminist musicians
who take issue with ASS Machine's attitude toward
the fairer sex. One of their songs is "Glass Machine,"
the story of an extremely masculine steel worker who
gazes in the looking-glass and discovers his "inner-equality-treater,"
becomes a vegetarian, and renounces his former "anti-vaginal"
lifestyle. Keith Jameson, Outraged's lead singer,
spoke to me in a noticeably tense telephone interview.
"ASS
Machine's music is a form of rape," he said in a strange,
high-pitched voice. "When someone says they don't
like women, that's just like rape. It's thought-rape."
Hotboy
chuckles when I tell him about Outraged. "Yeah, that's
funny. Rape. I've got no problem telling people how
I feel about women, because I fucking hate women.
They're weak, stupid, ugly, whining creatures. I'm
a homosexual. I'm into masculinity. I believe that
Man is God's greatest creation. Strong, muscular,
hairy, dominating, hard-cocked Man."
Bottom
Feeder goes even further. "If women were eliminated,
think about what that would mean. No more weak femininity.
No more soft bodies, flowery perfumes, or stinking,
bleeding vaginas. If we wiped them out, all that would
be left is men. I like that. I support that. I am
definitely a misogynist."
This
sort of brutal honesty does not sit well with the
mainstream gay community. Local activist and director
of Project Unity Reggie Carlson is one of the majority
of "average" gays who take offense to the band's all-or-nothing
attitude. He reluctantly spoke with me over drinks
at Starkey's, a low-key gay lounge in Southeast Portland.
"I'm
not saying these guys shouldn't be allowed to do their
own thing, as long as they obey the law. It just makes
me uncomfortable that they don't equate the Gay Struggle
with the Feminist Struggle, when we're all fighting
for the same thing; equal treatment and recognition
from the White Male Patriarchy."
Hotboy's
venomous response to Carlson startles me. "Do I look
like a fucking weakling to you?" he bellows, knocking
over his chair and flexing his massive chest until
cords pop out of his neck. "Do you think I have trouble
taking care of myself?"
Bottom
Feeder diffuses the situation. "What Hots means is
that we have absolutely nothing in common with those
people. We would never allow
ourselves to be victims of any kind of discrimination.
We're men. Strong, capable men. Men stand up for themselves.
Those activist people, the women and the faggots,
they're weaklings. They're born victims."
ASS
Machine's unflinching misogyny and Social Darwinism
go hand in hand, but Hotboy shows little interest.
"People should mind their own business. If anything,
they're begging for a fight."
SPEAKING
OF FIGHTS,
ASS Machine's live performance has gained a well-deserved
reputation for degenerating into chaotic violence
as often as it does group sex or sadomasochistic revelry.
Over the last nine years, they've been prosecuted
in Virginia and Maryland for obscenity, in Oklahoma
for public indecency, and in Iowa for inciting a riot.
Protesters have gone as far as firebombing auditoriums
in order to prevent the band from playing. Every member
has endured at least one
broken bone as a consequence of playing a live show,
culminating in the infamous San Francisco Homo-Coming
Riot of February 21st, 1999, where Bottom Feeder lost
three teeth and the feeling in his right foot.
"I
got attacked by this gang of lesbians," he says. "They
were beating me with clubs, and I kept thinking, 'What
the hell are they so upset about? Why do they care?,'
then I blacked out."
The
band was burned-out. "Back in the 90's we played discos,
rock clubs, you name it," Hotboy says. "It was hell.
Every night we had to deal with psychotic feminists
chaining themselves to the doors of the club. People
slashed our tires, broke the windows on our van. Every
third show turned into a riot. It was a wide-awake
nightmare. Something had to give."
What
'gave,' surprisingly, was Feeder's burgeoning interest
in the Internet. He was convinced that electronic
communication was the answer to the band's problems.
He tinkered and experimented for several months, and
in August
of 1999, convinced that their fans were ready, ASS
Machine opened "The Machine Shop."
"Machine
Shop is our way of being able to play to our fans
without the
hassle," says Bottom Feeder, the band's designated
'Shop Steward.'
"Now,
in order to see ASS Machine live," Feeder says, "you
have to be on
the list."
In
the Machine Shop, fans are notified of upcoming shows
via encrypted email. Through a method pioneered by
the early-nineties LA rave community, the show's location
isn't disclosed until a few hours before the band
takes the stage. New fans are given passwords and
put through a relentless screening process before
being given the keys to the kingdom. By weeding out
the haters, ASS Machine is guaranteed an audience
of fans instead of those who would
disrupt the night's festivities.
Tonight's
venue is "The Underground Railroad," an infamous in-crowd
Leather hangout in the sub-basement of an auto-parts
plant on Swan Island. About two hundred men are scheduled
to attend, and each must present a
bar-coded invitation in order to be admitted. I am
considered a guest of the band and, with their blessing,
I'm ushered through a series of checkpoints.
My camera, notepad, and pens are confiscated, and
I'm subjected to an exceptionally thorough strip-search
before I am permitted to enter the main chamber.
"Every
show since Machine Shop has been super-cool," say
Hotboy. "No women, no weaklings, no trouble. It's
better this way. We'll never play in public again."
A
FOG MACHINE fills the small, dimly lit club. The place
reeks like an unattended locker room; honestly earned
man-sweat and rank fart-smells permeate the air. The
majority of the men are squatting on their haunches
as if waiting for a signal, and they are rewarded
as the DAT blips on, beginning the opening strains
of "Shitter." ASS Machine takes the stage with a mandate
unlike any musical performers I have ever seen, stalking
to their positions with a palpable menace. Bottom
Feeder's keyboard roars to life with a dozen notes
at once, and Hotboy roughly caresses his microphone,
leaning into the yellow spot which flashes on, a foot
in front of him. He is a prince among men, unattached,
uninhibited, and untouchable. His chest gleams with
oil.
What
better life, than the life of a Shitter? comes
the opening line, reverberating through the dank air
alongside the incredible density of Feeder's music,
and it's a question I find myself unable to answer.
The audience trumpets a sloppy organic cheer, emptying
their bowels on the black plastic tarpaulins that
litter the floor.
This
is ASS Machine at their best, a swaggering homosexual
cyborg of a band, pistons working in perfect time,
all systems oiled and primed to crush the opposition.
The primitive stench of fresh male sweat and steaming
shit combine with the careening beat, a sensual ambuscade,
attacking me and pumping blood through my veins. Watching
this display of unbridled masculinity makes me feel
stronger, more powerful, and more virile than I have
in years.
Give
me the life, give me the life of a Shitter!
And
there isn't a woman in sight.
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2002 X Publishing, Inc. All rights reserved. copyright | trademark | legal notices |
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