Back in 2016, I posted an inordinate amount of entries detailing my frankly ridiculous search for the location of a photo of the Lunachicks, which culminated here, should you care. The photo above of the band above was not the photo in question, but taken from the same shoot. This shows the Lunachicks on the Bowery at Bond Street, just steps away from the former site of CBGB, and was snapped by one Joe Dilworth in 1990.
The charts may not be chock full of actual rock bands, anymore — their place taken by poorly-enuciating hip-hoppers and tempestuous pop twits — but flip on the streaming service of your choice, and you can avail yourselves to any number of hoary rockumentaries from all over the rock spectrum. In doing so, you're bound to hear lots or purple-prosed hyperbole and/or wildly exaggerated anecdotes about the band’s antics from a previous, more hedonistic age (and probably a soundbite or two from Dave Grohl), but lemme tell ya – the Lunachicks ain’t stretching the truth, in this trailer below.
Being a fellow native New Yorker, I had the immense privilege of seeing The Lunachicks perform many times, back in the `90s, but the show that …er… “sticks out” the most (this is an awkward turn of phrase, given the anecdote I’m about to unspool) was their opening slot circa 1990 for the Rollins Band at the Marquee Club on West 21st street in Manhattan. ADDENDUM: I just learned, via the Instagram page of Michael Wingerm, that this particular show was 34 years ago TODAY!!!!
In the trailer below, you’ll hear bassist Sydney “Squid” Silver mention a host of indignities the band had to weather during their dues-paying years, and I caught some of that firsthand, that night. Already a curious anomaly for the times (even at the dawn of the pre-Riot Grrl `90s, the notion of an all-female punk/hardcore/grunge/noise/metal/scrumrock band was still largely diminished as something of a lesser novelty), the Lunachicks usually had to do way more than simply “win over” a blithely disinterested audience that was otherwise there to see the headliner. They had to leave an indelible impression, which they usually did. Later that evening, in fact, Henry Rollins would endearingly thank the Lunachicks for allowing the Rollins Band to “to close for them.” Rarely did anyone walk away from a Lunachicks show feeling indifferent.
But in the middle of the Lunachicks’ own rollicking, high-voltage performance, that night, there was a bit of a commotion in the crowd (and not just the usual pit scuffle). The band even stopped mid-song to get involved. I was standing over on the right, and only saw what looked like a wolfpack of skinheads suddenly close in on someone and beat him senseless. The guy was pulled out of the scrum ... strangely with his pants around his ankles, and roughly frog-marched/dragged out of the venue and tossed onto the unrelenting concrete of the sidewalk. It was quite a scene.
From the stage, one of the Lunachicks called out thanks to the skins. As it turned out, the recipient of that rigorous beat-down was none other than one Dino Sex, erstwhile naked drummer for GG Allin's band, The Murder Junkies. As detailed in disquieting minutia in Todd Phillips’ excellent-if-repulsive documentary, “Hated: GG Allin & The Murder Junkies,” Dino could charitably be described as being not quite right in the head and was deeply obsessed with the Lunachicks. Dino had shown up at the Marquee that evening and was so caught up in the erotic rapture from watching the mightly Lunachicks play that he felt obliged to drop trou and commence masturbating right in front of them. Neither the band nor the skinheads in the crowd were especially enthused about this display and -- as they were wont to do – the skinheads responded accordingly.
While bloodied upon his forced exit from the Marquee, Dino did survive the experience more or less intact. The last time I saw him was years ago. By this point, he had taken up a side-hustle as a bike messenger. Calling it a “side-hustle” is actually kind of generous, being that playing drums for the Murder Junkies — naked or otherwise — probably wasn’t the most lucrative of vocations. In any case, Dino had taken to dying his hair — both on his scalp and his now bushy handlebar mustache — jarring shades of flaming orange and neon green, making him fairly hard to miss.
I went on to see the Lunachicks quite a few times after that, and — again — it was never just another gig. I don’t believe they ever got their proper due, but I’m super psyched they’re finally getting recognized with this doc.
Check it out.
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