Newlywed Noise Artist Betrays Expectations of Audience, Wife

by Dude Witherspoon. Originally published in Pshaw! Magazine

Stefan Grove, known as “Grunk” to his fans, was never one for routine. The lead vocalist and cash register player in the Montreal-based neu-noise ensemble FUCKFUCKFUCK has veered through a byzantine myriad of aesthetic and life choices – from burning his community college diploma, to eating glass on stage, to his 2005 “decision” to include “air quotes” in every sentence he would ever speak from then on, to his air-quoted dismissal of the same in “2006”. But this local legend shows no signs of being pigeonholed by mainstream critics, his dedicated following, and most recently and tellingly, his new wife Elise.

“All my friends said ‘Don’t do it, Elise!’, but I told them, ‘You don’t know him like I do’,” said Elise in an interview last week. “They were worried he would drag me down into a world of tour vans and intermittent heroin use. I was worried he’d do the same, but I was also thrilled by the menace of it all – little old me, being vanned across the country by this cool, denim-y music man.” She exhaled as a beaming relaxation welled up in her. “In the end, he took me completely by surprise.”

As if on cue, Grunk emerged from the kitchen, a tray of scones and assorted jams held aloft. “Wild jams – all hand picked. Try the blueberry – the thorns stung, but the reward was worth it. Right, hon?” A peck on the cheek of his contentedly startled wife tore open the afternoon – as well as this critic’s expectation of the man who only two months before had shot his bass player in the chest for accidentally playing the riff from “Ramble On” during a show.

Grunk sat down to explain himself somewhat. “Well of course, it’s a change of pace. But I don’t think anyone can call themselves a real fan if they didn’t see this coming.” As Elise got up to go to the bathroom, where she would be met by His, Hers and Yours hand towels, Grunk leaned in and whispered, “I put orange peels in the potpourri – let’s see if she notices”. Rest assured, this stalwart Midwestern bride did.

This new, domestic Grunk is nowhere more evident than in “Simon Says”, his latest contribution to FUCKFUCKFUCK. This 9 minute, 11 second aluminum assault of feedback, bandsaws and Argento clips played at inaudible frequencies is not only based loosely on the 1910 Fruitgum Company song of the same name, but is, as the opening diatribe says, “dedicated to my lovely blushing bride, Elise.” While the coupling of military marching sounds with the phrase “Simon says I love you” has won over this critic, many fans feel brutally betrayed.

"We're thinking of putting in a swingset - you know, just in case," he said, lightly patting Elise's stomach.

“You can’t be betrayed by a love song,” complained one audience member. “I paid ten fucking dollars to be punished for entering into the capitalistic, rapine relationship of performer and audience. I wore pants that threaten to render me a cripple. I’ve done everything I can to bleed the mindless obeisance of ‘listening’ and ‘dancing’ out of me. And fucking Grunk shows up all smiles and sunshine, then plays a fucking love song? I don’t care how many Argento clips he’s got – the stink of sentimental bullshit is all over this fucking shit!” After a few more minutes of fuming, he grew quiet, then conceded that while his expectations about the music were ultimately betrayed (as he’d hoped), they were betrayed in the wrong way.

But this Grunk follower is not alone in his uncertainty about Grunk’s new direction. “I honestly don’t know what to think,” says Elise, back from the bathroom in her and Grunk’s starter bungalow. “Deep down, I’d sort of planned on this marriage being a failed attempt to straddle the youth/adult barrier – ‘married’ on one side, ‘to a noise guy’ on the other. But Grunk’s been really sweet – did you know he’s gone vegetarian for me? I mean, he’d been vegan for ten years – that’s not a light commitment to break.”

When asked if she thought this sea change was a façade, if she’d seen any momentary cracks in the armour, or if he sometimes let slip a spurt of irony, her answer was too slow out the gate to avoid being interrupted by Grunk. “The only irony around here is used to take wrinkly-winklies out of my shirtsy-wirtsies!” A series of giggles and responses of “oh you” ensued from the both of them – if he wasn’t watertight, she was still plugging for him. Coming from the man who, only three months ago, shot his bass player in the chest for submitting a ‘forsaken/foreskin’ pun as a lyric, this horrifying display was almost too hypocritical and sudden a change for even a frontman to pull off. Almost.

This suspicion has helped FUCKFUCKFUCK immensely. Concerts are selling out well in advance, people are more intently focusing on the act to see if their beloved Grunk really has changed, and Montreal’s alt rumour mill has been grinding away without pause. “Grunk’s latest about-face is his most daring,” says The Weekly Whatever in its assessment of his newest angle. “If he has crossed over into normativity while maintaining a presence in the noise rock scene, he has paved the way for the gradual selling-out and homogenization of the once-primal scene – the ultimate audience betrayal, and undoubtedly the greatest piece of performance in the history of music, subculture, and Montreal’s historic noise scene.”

But is it truly the elusion of expectations it seems? By once again leaping the tiger pit of predictability, he may have inadvertently pigeonholed himself as an unpigeonholeable chameleon. The only way to avoid such a label is to take away any pretense of pretense on his part – i.e., to appear as though he has lost the meta-projection ability that made him a zine darling in the first place. In short, to avoid being pigeonholed as an anti-pigeonholer, he must pigeonhole himself as pigeonholed, albeit in a way not pigeonholeable in his previous pigeonhole.

“What the heckaroonie are you talking about,” replied the master when the accusation was leveled at him. “We don’t get many pigeons out here – more raccoons and seasonal deer. Oh, and one time – remember it honey? – wild turkeys. I don’t care what they say, those are majestic birds.” He and Elise then, after a short discussion, agreed to break vegetarianism “just for Thanksgiving,” considering the treatment of turkeys to place second in importance to the treatment of a wonderful meal.

I tried to press the pigeonhole issue further, but met with a picket-fence stonewall. Dinner plans were bandied about over top of my protests, and I was ultimately expelled from the living room in favour of a syndicated episode of The Wonder Years starring Fred Savage.

As the frosted glass door closed in my face, I heard the faintest snippet of Joe Cocker singing “what would you do if I sang out of tune?” – in the quiet house of the man who once wrote “Krystall-Cocked Twatgun”; on whose Ikea desk I spied what looked like a lyric sheet containing the phrases “Ogopogo A-Gogo” and “Banana Boats and Root Beer Floats”; and in whose unpredictable control lay the future of the end of music that is not.

Feh.

Canadian Ambassador to Homorocco Dismissed for Inappropriate Slur

Scandal erupted at a conference on global trade last week when the Canadian envoy verbally assaulted the economic minister of Homorocco. Amid a heated exchange on offshore fishing rights, the Canadian representative – himself the ambassador to the tiny, clean nation of Homorocco – referred to his host with an off-colour epithet.

Publishing statutes prevent the reprinting of the word here, but witnesses describe the slur as “a play on words on [the minister’s] adjectival nationality”, “deeply offensive to the tender Homoroccan sensibility”, and “a total burn”, prompting more than one conference attendee to audibly slap their index finger into a nook formed between their thumb and middle finger, or even shout “whoop whoop”.

At the time of the exchange, the moderator of the conference, the UN Special Secretary on Aid and Development, was warning the ambassador to “not go there”, but his warning was too late – witnesses later verified that the ambassador had, in fact, already gone there.

The invocation of the epithet resulted in widespread confusion and insecurity in Homorocco. In a public consciousness already made sensitive by years of repression by the recently-ousted Gaiwhad party, slanders from the outside world resonate profoundly in Homoroccan society.

To ease public unrest, the Homoroccan administration offered a rushed rebuttal the next day. By most accounts, the rebuttal was launched more out of resentment and self-defense than any attempt at reconciliation. Centered around the phrase “Manadian Buttbassador”, the rebuttal was interrupted by journalists’ requests for clarification as to the exact meaning and intent of the rebuttal. The Homoroccan administration’s press attaché stormed out of the event in a huff, issuing a second, more polished retort some hours later.

The second retort was seen as a more intellectual attempt to express displeasure and offence at the Canadian ambassador’s remarks. However, it failed to quell the sense that the Homoroccan government and nation failed to deflect the full brunt of the belittling. It has also been deemed not interesting enough to warrant reprinting here.

The Canadian ambassador has declined to comment or apologize, opting instead to “go nail some broads”.

Comedian Turned Father Finds Comfort in a “Different Kind of Laughter”

by Max Hartshorn

 

Funny how life works eh? A decade ago I’m headlining shows across the greater Moncton metropolitan area, doing sets far west as East Fredericton and as far south as Halifax North. Remember me Hubcap Comedy Festival ‘95 ‘96 ‘97? No? Best regional comedian three years in a row ring any bells? Thought it might. They say our country is rich in natural resources and my hometown is no exception. For years I mined Moncton’s vast reserves of comedy gold, coloring my skewed observations with a unique, semi-urban, small-to-mid-sized city flair.

 

Becoming the youngest partial manager ever of the downtown the Yuk Yuk’s and purchasing beer for the Don Rickles were just two of my many accomplishments (Oh Donny boy, the pints, the pints are calling…HA…just kidding). I had plans to hit the big time, Halifax? Toronto? New York City? but vowed I’d always remain true to my roots. Weekends spent piling miles onto my ‘87 Taurus, two, sometimes three meals a day on the road, pen and notepad always at the ready like some sort of a modern cowboy. It wasn’t always easy, in fact it was often very lonely, but I loved every second. It’s hard to explain but this kind of life made me feel, well, free.

 

Then something wonderful happened, several things in fact. I call the first Nikki. I was finishing up a set at Tapps in St. Johns when I saw her, and god damn if she wasn’t just the cutest little thing I’d ever laid eyes on. Those just-came-out-of-the-cold flushed cheeks and cherry red nose literally screamed to be held close, warmed by a hand, by a kiss. Her eye’s were glued to the stage, was she checking me out? It’s impossible to tell while your performing but I couldn’t shake the feeling she was staring a little more seductively than the average audience member, so I met her stare. “Today’s oil prices are slipperier than—oil itself!” A demure smile breaking into a light chuckle. They say if you can make a woman laugh…

 

I bought her a drink afterwards and well, I think you all see where this is going. Dating, marriage, before I know it we’re makin’ babies left and right. Each its own blessing. Each one filling my heart with joy and laughter.

 

I remember when I first heard the laughter, a piercing trill penetrating deep inside my soul. At first I thought one of the kids had woken up, Jeremy? Courtney? But they were fast asleep. Perhaps I left the T.V. on? No. The pipes? I plugged my fingers into my ears, imagine my surprise when the precious giggle remained. What delight! What a blessing! A child’s laughter just for me!

 

They say life’s a comedy and for me as a comedian that’s doubly true. My laughter was like the audience I’d always dreamed of having, in fact it was even better. It did more than snicker critical approval at my jokes, this was an all encompassing laughter that took me as a whole, smiled and said, “you’re alright kiddo.” A rich appraisal, it was a validation of my being.

 

I often seek solitude to let the laughter wash over me. It speaks to me through its many variations. What is mostly a solitary cackle erupts at times into a chorus of whimsy. On other occasions the laughter becomes hauntingly hollow and I am forced to come to grips with the fact that it may have no animus of its own. These times I wish it would stop. Attempting to block it out only makes it louder, faster, yet I keep at it. Like a man being chased by a car I fear that if I pause, give just a moments reflection, the laughter will overtake me, devouring me in its incessant shrillness.

 

The laughter is my forever vehicle. It is my pathway to new, untrammeled dimensions of consciousness. I know that when I finally transcend my mortal casing to join the great mystery of the sky, my laughter will be there, for it is much a part of me as anything. While at times greatly unsettling, my laughter has always been a light in the darkness of the Void. I count myself among the lucky few who have received such a magnanimous gift, even if I do not understand it fully. Perhaps this treasure will have further revealings. Perhaps I have been intended to transmit a message. I await! Gaia! What else have you in store?