LOLACAB: Saturday Night with X-Cops

Welcome to Open Up and Read, the newsletter from music journalist Jason Brow. Thanks for reading. Tell your friends to subscribe at OpenUpAndRead.com. You can also toss a few dollars his way via Ko-Fi. Be kind to cats. Music is the best.

A woman in a burqa thrashed in the pit.

As X-Cops ripped into “Welcome to New Jersey,” the crowd that had gathered at TV Eye that Saturday night parted. Longhaired heshers, hardcore kids in black hoodies, a dude sporting Al Jourgensen-esque cyber dreads and other freaks engaged in the primal tradition of stomping around in a circle. 

And that woman in the burqa was there. Swinging her elbows. Singing along. Didn’t seem like anyone fucked with her. Everyone was having fun.

Earlier in the night, when Belushi Speed Ball blanketed the floor with rolls of toilet paper (a feature of the metal band’s performance), I saw fans twirl these single-ply streamers in an inspiring display of rhythmic gymnastics. When vocalist Vinny Crastellano¹ distributed trash bags to the kids up front, a Black woman picked up two and commanded the floor. The bags inflated as she spun and flailed joyfully.

Throughout the night, a punk with a mohawk camped out near the stage. She wore an X-Cops hoodie, likely just purchased from the merch stand. I’d wager she was born not long after X-Cops put out 1995’s You Have the Right to Remain Silent…, their only full-length album. When the band played, I’d see her singing along. She knew every word of every song.

I wish the crowd had been bigger (I imagine so did the bands). Maybe it was because it had been a hard January. Or maybe it's because the venue is hard to get to if you don’t live on the L line?

Maybe it’s because not many people know that X-Cops is actually GWAR?

That ignorance has plagued the band from the start. The side-project sees the alien barbarians switch their foam latex for police uniforms. Beefcake the Mighty, Balsac the Jaws of Death and Bonesnapper the Troll are gone with Sheriff Tubb Tucker, Lt. Louie Scrapinetti and Sgt. Mason “Zipper Pig” Zypygski taking over.

While it wasn’t packed from wall to wall, those there filled the room with enthusiasm. Everyone was happy to see the X-Cops. I think the woman in the burqa shouted the name of “Kinderhardened,” one of the songs from X-Cop’s new EP, XCAB.

The crowd cheered on the X-Cops as they badgered the two escaped convicts, all while blasting through their songs like “Cavity Search,” “Light ‘em Up” and “Beat You Down.”

It wasn’t lost on me how we were a bunch of misfits cheering on the police.

The Muslim woman in the pit. The stoners in the back. The Black woman dancing freely. The Latino kid who lost his shit (and his phone, which I handed back to him) during Belushi Speed Ball. The queer/gender non-confirming bartenders serving drinks outside of the main hall. More than likely, everyone in that room had a bad encounter with a cop—be it surveillance, prohibition, disproportionate incarceration, or outright harassment.

But X-Cops sing about police brutality but in a way that GWAR sings about slaughter, drugs and necrobeastial anal buttsex. We are in on the joke. This night was for venting frustrations. X-Cops do cavity searches the same way GWAR kills celebrities and politicians: with over-the-top abandonment, much to the cathartic glee of the paying audience.

When discussing X-Cops in the Let There Be GWAR compendium, Bob Gorman and Roger Gastman said the band gives their audience “a chance to rock the fuck out and a direction to aim their middle fingers while doing so.”

I didn’t see a lot of middle fingers that night, but I did see a lot of laughing. X-Cops make it clear that they aren’t heroes. They’re corrupt. They’re violent. They’re excessive. They’re incompetent. They’re every single asshole cop stereotype, every shitty speeding ticket, every stop-and-frisk, every asshole swinging a club down on a student protestor’s head. But they’re also fuckups. They’re also not real.

There were moments in the show when the band broke character. When Sheriff Tubb Tucker praised the current president, Casey Orr dropped the mask for a second. It was Casey’s voice who admitted how much “we’re fucked.” Later, when Lt. Scrapinetti mimicked Elon Musk’s recent Nazi salute, it was Mike Derks who mocked those coming to Musk’s defenders by claiming that he too was “autistic.”

We laughed at the cops on Saturday. And on Tuesday, ICE launched raids in NYC.

It’s only January, and people smarter than me will probably explain how we’re just on pages 2-3 of the fascist playbook. In the days since the X-Cops show, the current administration has ramped up its attacks on undocumented immigrants and transgender Americans. They’re eroding civil rights and whitewashing history. They want to build a concentration camp in Guantanamo Bay.

This initial bombardment is meant to overwhelm our senses and defenses. It’s intended to sew despair and panic, to leave us feeling helpless and hopeless. We’re meant to give up, to comply. To get down on our knees with our hands in the air. Don’t resist.

Right now, mockery feels like such a fucking waste of time. During the current administration’s first go around, everyone made fun of them. There were silly names. Celebrity impressions on Saturday Night Live. Childish insults, like we somehow could shame them over their blatant corruption. Like we could somehow meme our way out of their authoritarianism. Like they weren’t already in on the joke. You say we’re corrupt and inept? We know—isn’t it great!?

Right now, mocking the oppressors feels pointless. But as I was writing this, a line popped up in my head. Of course, it’s from GWAR: it can be found at the start of their concert VHS, Tour de Scum. Members of the right-wing Morality Squad have disrupted a GWAR show from starting. They object to the band’s filth and depravity. Their leader, Edna Granbo, bellows out:

Laughter does destroy fear. It won’t stop the fuckers. You have to do more than that. But if that boot is going to stomp your face forever, smile back at them. They need to knock out every tooth to stop you from grinning.

Shortly after the show, someone on my feed shared a quote from the Jan. 21 edition of Dan Savage’s Savage Love column. Not everyone likes him, but I think his reflection was harmonious with my other thoughts:

So, when you’re buried by trash, pick some up and dance with it. Find a friend in the pit. Throw up the middle finger. Smile while you fight. Keep moving. Keep laughing. 

¹I’ve seen his name spelled both Crastellano and Castellano.

The Grammys are on Sunday. In the wake of the past month, following fires and ICE, the show feels extra superfluous. I caught a commercial for it stressing how “music brings us together,” but this message of unity rings false (especially since one of the projected winners is a song whose chorus is “They not like us”).

Like the Super Bowl happening a week later, the show is full of repeats. Will Beyoncé finally win Album of the Year? Will they reward a mediocre Taylor Swift album? Will they actually air any of the Rap categories? How annoyingly hyper will Trevor Noah be as the host?

There are a few interesting stories going into the show, though. Will they give any major accolades to Charli XCX or Chappell Roan? (or will they take home a few consolation prizes in the pre-show) How much will Kendrick Lamar’s “Not Like Us” dominate? Will this ceremony be another step in Doechii’s rise?

I hope Gojira’s Olympic appearance wins Best Metal Performance, though.

January is always a dead month for new releases. With the month over, the year can begin. Deafheaven and Viagra Boys have new albums coming out. February has Drop Nineteens, Guided By Voices, Bartees Strange, Doves and Patterson Hood*, amongst others.

Fake Fruit released MUCHO MISTRUST in August. The Bandcamp writeup calls it “visceral indie rock,” but to me, it falls more within the sparse punk of Wire and Minutemen.

You know how Chrissie Hynde was deeply involved in the UK punk scene of the 1970s? But that one Pretenders song you know (“Back on the Chain Gang”) makes it sound like it was strictly yacht rock, and you’re like, where’s the badass punk*? Fake Fruit is that. It’s good shit.

*update: The first Pretenders album is actually kind of sick.

Trauma Angel: This music newsletter makes me want to write better. It’s poignant, vulnerable and sharp.

Doom and Groove: My friend and former coworker James Crowley (hire him) writes about music, life and comedy. He is a prolific reader and prolific writer—and he has good taste. He’s also putting on a comedy show in Queens called Ugly Flamingos on Feb. 06. Come out if you can.

*Barring a catastrophe or a last-minute editorial decision, I’ll have news about an interview I conducted with Patterson Hood in the coming weeks. I also spoke to Dixie of Weedeater about Steve Albini. Coming soon.

In the meantime, if you haven’t already, follow me on Bluesky and Instagram.

 This has been Open Up and Read, the newsletter from music journalist Jason Brow. Thanks for reading.

Tell your friends to subscribe at OpenUpAndRead.com. You can also toss a few dollars his way via Ko-Fi. Be kind to cats. Music is the best.