Moist Newsletter 5: Late Summer 1994

Well here it is, July, and MOIST is about to get back on the road, sweating and cursing at the elements this time for an extended tour which should keep us uncomfortable and sarcastic well into 1995. Not for us, the simple summer pleasures of laying in the back yard wearing nothing but a smile and a close friend, pitching lawn darts at the neighbours cat and bobbing for worms in a large inflatable wading pool full of Cuervo. Actually we prefer to spend as much time as possible indoors withering under florescent lights in cheap pest ridden hotels where color TV, friendly service and a free continental breakfast usually means watching several hours of stimulating infomercials before wrestling three hundred pounds of leather and gristle named Bubba for a coffee stained mug of orange Koolaid and half a moldy donut. Luckily in the last two months while we've been waiting for Dave to stop whining and heal we've managed to avoid lengthy stays an flea bag motels by sponging off our friends and staging live ins at the homes of government officials we dislike, masquerading as the supporters of disgruntled postal workers with automatic weapons who could snap at any moment. To be honest, not all of our spare time has been spent performing selfless community service, and annoying people we care about. We've also managed to film a video for a second single, the title track from our recent album Silver, which debuts July first on Much West and can be requested thereafter on muchmusic whenever you feel the urge. Aside from that we've been writing, rehearsing and grabbing every possible opportunity to lay around and enjoy some time off. "How" you ask expectantly. "Well" we say eagerly, sensing a captive audience with nothing better to read. "Read on". Stan (road manger and mother figure) - Kicking back on the porch with a good stiff bowl of cream of wheat and yelling obscenities at neighborhood children who seem to be having too much fun. Graeme McDonald (stage tech and head piss tank) - Disappears for days at a time with bull whip and beaten up brown fedora, returnss with cracked pilsner flask claiming he's found the holy grail. Keith Maryanovich (manager and general whipping post) - No time off allowed. NEXT. Mark Makowy (guitarist, bureaucrat and master of delay) - Just returned yesterday from last tour. David Usher (vocals) - spending quality time with hair brush and dental floss.

Paul Wilcox (drums and cheap one liners from old movies) - What ever Paul does in his spare time is far to depraved to mention in polite conversation with the Queen.

Kevin Young (keyboards and all consuming paranoia) - checking all household appliances to see that they are turned off, unplugged and wrapped in fire proof blankets before collapsing in fetal position to worry about them. Jeff Pearce (bassist and moral indignation) - Sipping gingerly on the blood of a freshly slain lamb, snacking on houseflies and watching "Blood on Satan's Claw" repeatedly while waiting for his master.

Incidentally, 4 sarcastic comments, 3 small animals in great pain, and 2 stolen tins of gravy are all that stand between Jeff and the largest open pit barbecue this side of the Nellis nuclear testing range in Nevada. That's right, Jeff is going to Hell, nine points away and closing the gap as quickly as possible. Even as I write this he is outside digging up a major road with a back hoe and forty jackhammers manned by a legion of the undead. Remember how Jimmy Stewart's guardian angel in "It's a Wonderful Life" said "every time you hear a bell ring, an angel gets its wings"? Wrong. That is the sound of Jeff's morality being chopped off at the knees and thrown into the fiery pit...but I digress.

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