The Alright of Spring.

As a particularly dreary Canadian winter concludes like the socially awkward party-goer who suddenly realizes at 4am that he’s overstayed his welcome, it occurs to me that we are a nation titillated by our unencumbered yearning for that ever-elusive promise of spring. The transition is horrendous at first: the snow begins to melt, revealing all of the dog turds and liquefied garbage that had been cryogenically frozen from the months before. Slowly but surely though, the days get longer, and the shorts get shorter. Spring time is electric.

Photos from the Mod Club in Toronto with Skull Fist on March 7th

 How about that moment where you optimistically opt to discard your bulky winter coat for a light, sensible leather jacket based on the favourable weather forecast. You’re at the bus stop and you reach into that breast pocket for the first time all season and what do you find? …Oh fuck yeah, brother, it’s a crumpled up 5-dollar bill and a half eaten roll of Mentos. In the moment, these items seem to have the value of a lost Picasso sketch and the missing evidence from a murder case. Thanks, universe! That is nature’s way of saying “Who loves ya, baby?"

Fatality returns to the Mod Club on April 12th opening for Destruction

As the seasons change, the fellas in Fatality and I have decided to make a few positive changes ourselves. For starters, we finally got a fuckin’ website. I haven’t been this excited since MySpace. Now, I know what you’re all thinking: “Spencer, that’s great and all, but I’m still not convinced that this whole ‘internet’ thing is going to stick around. It could be a fad!” Our bass player Adam Zlotnik would have none of this. That is why when he pitched the idea of getting a great functional website to use as a hub for all of our music, news, and social media, I said “Malarkey! Music fans interact with their favorite musicians one way and one way only, but by the telegraph, of course.” It was in that moment that Adam Zlotnik proceeded to grasp his iPhone 5 in his hand and pistol-whipped me on the head repeatedly while yelling the lyrics to “Video Killed the Radio Star”.

You can find everything Fatality at www.Fatality.ca. So take a look and see what you like. Everything’s on there: our tunes, videos, tour dates, photos, podcast, and even this blog! Neato!

New website: www.fatality.ca

Oh yeah, we are also doing a hometown show opening up for world-renowned thrash legends Destruction on April 12th at the Virgin Mobile Mod Club in Toronto. Joining us will be Krisiun, as well as one of my favorite metal bands in the whole wide world: Exmortus. I have blathered about them at length in previous blogs about getting to know them while we did a string of incredible shows with them across California. We hope one day for their forgiveness for us clogging their toilet with a human Mars Bars and covering their floor with sewage last summer.

So enjoy the spring and be sure to make the most of it… Make love in a garden. Plant a tree. Forgive a foe. Or just embrace the simple joy of peeing comfortably outdoors.

And lose some weight,

Spencer “Springtime for Shitler” LeVon

www.fatality.ca

The Dead of WinTour

What is it that I love about the East Coast of Canada? Why do I always come running back there with such affection? Could it be the fresh ocean air, the endless hand-rolled cigarettes, or could it be the friendly and accepting atmosphere? There seems to be some sort of pungent energy that clings to the air like that of a great high school party where everyone got laid. It’s that work hard, play harder, get drunk and eat lobster, call in sick to work just to air guitar and masturbate side of the country that I have grown to love and truly respect. Fatality is ecstatic to announce the “Dead of WinTour” which will be taking us from Montreal to Halifax between January 31st and February 8th to help bring a little bit of heat back into the heart of a frozen country.

I have always felt right at home on the East Coast. Any spot that was built on the shoulders of the working class seems to be effortlessly infused with a true character of honesty, hard work and a population that drink like a school of chronically depressed halibut stuck in loveless marriages. It’s a value system that revolves around the importance of keeping your word, the power of a hard day’s work, and a commitment to cherishing friends and family. The pot isn’t bad either.

There is no such thing as getting “too drunk” in the Maritimes. It’s gotten to the point where I once overheard a guy from Nova Scotia describing throwing up as “backwards eating.” This is my kind of place!

I can’t wait to crack a few Pilsners, pile into the tour van and start out on what is to be a bachelor party on wheels filled with great friends, loud music, questionable food choices and undoubtedly a few well earned dry-heaving sessions behind an Arby’s in the mid-afternoon somewhere off the TransCan in New Brunswick. Through all of the decadence we are sure to encounter, we still pledge to play every moment of each set with a great deal of professionalism, intensity and passion in order to fully share our fun loving brand of heavy metal music.

I am getting my Guess Who cassette tapes ready in anticipation for a Canadian winter road trip for the ages. Please be sure to subscribe to the Fatality Podcast and warm up to some audio of great conversations and stories from the road as well as a first hand look at what actually happens inside and outside the tour van on our many adventures.

Spencer “Dr. Long-John” LeVon

Dead of WinTour dates:

Jan 31 – Montreal, QC @ Café Chaos

Feb 1 – Quebec, QC @ Bar La Source

Feb 2 – Edmundston, NB @ Black Jacks

Feb 3 – Fredericton, NB @ The Capitol

Feb 4 – Saint John, NB @ TBD

Feb 5 – Moncton, NB @ Esquire Tavern

Feb 7 – Windsor, NS @ Windsor War Memorial Centr

Feb 8 - Dartmouth, NS @ CD Heaven (All Ages)

Feb 8 – Halifax, NS @ Gus’ Pub

Towards Disastour Blog Vol 13: Post-Tour Blues

After Vancouver we had another week and a half on the road before returning safely to Canada with a lifetime of memories and an excessive amount of duty-free booze.  We had the Labour Day weekend to reacclimatize ourselves to society as the high of being on the road faded and the post-tour blues set in.  The post-tour blues are common among many of the touring musicians that I have talked to. It is a time of reflection, backtracking and tedious boredom. Not only do you have to come to terms with the fact that you aren’t a rock star, you also have to make peace with all of the compromises and sacrifices you made just so you could have a successful summer. After 2 straight months of being accepted and welcomed among strangers and friends old and new, the parties, the after parties, the noise and destruction, the mooning of hitchhikers on the I-5… you must come home and realize that you are just a dude. No more, no less.

A few days after getting back home I found myself busy working as a piano tuner in the Toronto area. My first call was from a gentleman named Arif who needed a tune-up on his upright piano. As it turned out he lived in my neighbourhood, so I happily agreed to head over the next morning with my piano tools and a monolithic fuckin’ Tim Horton’s coffee. As I approached the house I saw the 2 of the most beautiful women I had ever seen in my life exiting. A fellow wearing a NOFX t-shirt and pyjama pants greeted me at the top of the steps. “Who the hell is this dude?” I wondered. You can usually tell a man’s worth by the amount of beautiful women in his general vicinity and no, Ted Bundy, dead ones don’t count, that’s cheating. He showed me to his piano and after a few friendly words, I got to work thinking that this guy looked all too familiar. Halfway through the job I looked up on the wall and saw a gold record: Protest the Hero.

Fatality had opened for Protest the Hero a few summers earlier and having seen them perform, I have to say that I find them to be one of the most professional and exceptional live bands out there. I recalled needing to take a piss during their set on a big outdoor festival stage surrounded by wilderness. I went walking to the tree line in the distant darkness 150 paces left of the stage and I accidentally trudged into a marsh like a bumbling asshole. Try bouncing back from that socially: being in a public place with hundreds of people after getting soaked up to your waist in swamp water, lily pads and otter cum. I don’t think even Johnny Depp could charm his way out of that one!

I talked with Arif about life after tour and how getting home, I couldn’t help but feel like a fuddy-duddy after the infinite momentum and night-after-night excitement of tour life had grinded to a halt. You ought to see me on the first day I get home from a long tour, trying in vain to make my cats watch me play the acoustic guitar with my shirt off, crying. He had a good laugh and told me that that is the price of admission for such an amazing and unique experience. He told me about an article he had read about Buzz Aldrin and how his life turned to shit after he walked on the moon in 1969. I guess after walking on a giant space rock and watching the shimmering twilight of the cosmos from 384,400 kilometers above everything you have ever known, somehow waiting in line for an Arby’s cheese melt loses its allure pretty quick. Upon coming home to earth, his mother (would you believe her name was Marion Moon?) committed suicide due to the instant overwhelming celebrity of the family; he then destroyed his marriage and became a miserable alcoholic. I would have thought it would have been the other two that lost it: Neil Armstrong from the pressure of being the first to walk on the moon, or Michael Collins for literally being the most isolated man in the universe.

Tour to me is like going to space. You load up your spaceship with all that you will need for your extended stay, you strap in and shoot across the globe to uncharted territory with nothing to protect you but your sheer determination, creativity and passion. You are isolated from all that you hold dear, and you make the choice to sacrifice all that you once knew just for a rare chance to chase that ever elusive 45 minutes of magic that has gotten you out of bed since you were a child. And, like most astronauts you are always trying to get as much Tang as you can get your hands on! In my eyes, for the most part, humans are all the same. I feel as though we are all just trying to find that delicate balance between our inner demons and our dreams. How can we make this trip to the moon last forever? What kind of magic are we chasing?

Spencer “Back to the coal mines” LeVon

Towards Disastour Blog Vol. 12: Oh, Canada!

How come there are so many gorgeous people living in big cities? Do all of the attractive people in each part of the country just decide to live within the same 10 blocks of each other at all times? Do they do it just so they can be close enough to one another to share jeggings and hair care tips? I love the looks on everyone’s gorgeous and well-maintained faces when we pull up in our huge tour van and the door swings open to let loose a pile of degenerate Canadian degenerate slobs.

When we are driving through an area highly populated by the genetically advantaged, like all groups of men in each other’s company, we always start yelling the vilest shit. The kind of irredeemable comments that would make you lose your job mopping up a porno theatre. This is particularly so when the windows are rolled up and everyone is in a good mood. It’s kind of just what guys do, because deep down, all men are monsters. My favourite moment is when someone in the van sees a pair of nice legs further down the road and comments on them, only for them to turn out to be that of a man, or worse: it’s a girl that’s way too young.

That’s an awkward moment ain’t it?

“Dudes look at that girl all the way down the street at the cross walk. That chicks a 10!”

“Bro, I’m pretty sure she IS 10.”

Good from far, far from good.

Seattle is one of those places where all the people are beautiful, but the weather sucks, so no one gets to goddamn enjoy it! Maybe that’s why Kurt Cobain was so troubled: instead of the women of his era wearing yoga pants and tube tops, they all wore long johns, flannel shirts and jeans. They all looked like Al Borland from Home Improvement with tits. We played at a small bar called “the Kraken”. The stage was so small that when I leaned back during our performance, Mason's jittering crash cymbal would bite at me. At one point I remember getting too much momentum towards the end of the stage and my legs failed. I have the grace and balance of Bambi on a frozen pond. As I was careening towards the edge of the stage my stupid legs buckled and I clumsily went flying off the stage, hit the floor in a front roll and ended up flying out the front doors of the bar with my guitar around my neck!

I was so exited to hop across the border into Canada for 36 hours and a gig in Vancouver. I may have had to do 2 border crossings in 3 days, but hey, they know how to make coffee the way I like. Everyone split up all over the city except Mason, Adam and I ended up spending the night at my cousin Colin's place. He is endlessly interesting because he was a professional nightclub musician and comedian in the 70’s, travelling all across Canada as a one-man band. It goes without saying that he has a ton of great stories. I remember him asking me what the difference was between our first album Beers from the Grave and our new album Psychonaut. I told him, “the main difference is that as I get older I have a greater wealth of experience, therefore I have more to write about and wield more colours to paint with. My first album is full of songs that were basically written about my dick.” He looked at me, took a pull on his cigar and said, “Short songs, huh?”

Never too old for a dick joke.

The next day we went for a walk along the Seawall. Me and Mason took turns making fun of the corny boat names and punished each other for a few kilometers with potential cheesy boat monikers. “Hey, how about 'Yacht-zy…'” "Ugh. 'What are you talking a-boat?'" Just then, out of nowhere I felt a drip on the top of my head. In my heart of hearts, I knew that it was either bird shit or a drop of water from a leaf in a tree above me. Being a rare clear-skied sunny Vancouver day, the odds were against me. Trust me when I say that I have never prayed for rain so badly in all of my life. I ran my hand through my hair and looked at my hand, and it was definitely the excrement of another species. Birds really are a bunch of son-of-a-guns. Through millions of years of evolution they possess the power shit and piss a substance that looks like cum out of one hole. I pray for mankind to go through that kind of evolutionary progress, because it would save a lot of time in the morning and it would stimulate the economy. And they can fly! I had no idea how to react to getting shit on, as we were walking around in daytime public. I got about 10 strides in until I had to confess and subject myself to the laughter of my brother and bass player. “Hey guys, I just got shit on!” I incoherently yelled as I lumbered into the first business I could find, which turned out to be a very fancy seaside steakhouse. At the front desk there was a greeter, 2 beautiful waitresses and a couple of the bar tenders, all female, just hanging out, shooting the shit after the lunch rush. I needed to come clean, so to speak. I look at one of them very earnestly in the eyes and confessed as though I needed help hiding a body: “I just got shit on by a bird, do you have a washroom I can ruin?” One of the beautiful waitresses pointed me down the pristine hallway where I kicked the door open and took a whores bath in the sink.

What a way to start the day. After that encounter with the bird, the rest of my day seemed way more tolerable. I should start my days by getting pooped on more often. The rest of the day becomes far less shitty *rimshot!*. Be sure to tip your waitresses, folks!

Rough Approximation of Douchebag in Question

Our gig in Vancouver was at a place called the Astoria. An old joint on East Hastings Street, where our van was vandalized with yogurt 2 years ago. When we got there, for whatever reason the bands were all setting up on the floor in front of the stage. This made us susceptible to drunken buffoonery by the audience which would inevitably fuck with our set and equipment. One guy in particular was driving me up a wall. As we were performing, he kept bombing the "stage" and taking out my microphone. He cheekily unplugged Mason's fan like that guy in the movie Airplane. He then started walking through the stage to take a short cut to the washroom and "accidentally" kicked out our power (Jury's still out on that one). Finally he came charging towards me again near the end of the set and I grabbed him by the neck and threw him back into the darkened audience. After we played I asked someone who was working at the bar who the hell that dude was and why he was being such an insufferable prick. And he said “Dude, that guy is one of your biggest fans. He has been looking forward to seeing you for 2 years and has been promoting the shit out of this gig!”

After our set, we were just hanging out and relaxing by the bar when all of the sudden a fist fight broke out on the floor. I saw one gentleman out of nowhere start to absolutely sucker-punch a dude with a series of drunken haymakers. Then like all bar fights, friends of the brawlers and brave bystanders hopped in to try to pull them off each other. Before long, the fight resembled an aggressive rugby scrum as a cartoonish tornado of fists began shifting all over the room until it ended up on the floor space where our gear was sitting. The group began inadvertently stomping inadvertently all over Eytan’s music equipment in the process. Just as soon as everyone involved was finally thrown out, a second fight broke out near the bar. I couldn’t believe it. The rest of the Fatality guys and I stood there; feeling annoyed and we began anxiously singing “Oh, Canada.”

We couldn’t wait for the next day to get back to the USA where everyone had been so pleasant for the past 2 months.

Spencer “ A lover not a fighter, also not a lover” LeVon

Stay up to date with photos from the road on our Flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/98333748@N04/

Tune in to our tour Podcast at: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/podcast/fatalitys-backseat-levoncast/id640852941

Also check in weekly at www.deadrhetoric.com for the latest tour blogs!

Towards Disastour Blog Vol. 11: Gettin’ Stupid in the Santas

I drove up to Santa Barbara with the girls from the police raid incident feeling silly, harebrained and bug-eyed. It was a nice change of pace to be in the company of women after being stuck in the pressure cooker of stink and testosterone that is the Fatality/Zombie Holocaust tour van night after night. Another fine facet about rolling with women is that I got the opportunity to go shopping for a brand new pair of used jeans because my only pair of forlorn trousers were torn into taco meat live on stage in Pomona. I hate shopping for clothing. Women seem to do it for sport but for the most part I can’t stand it. My whole goal is to spend as little fucking time in the store as possible: I find my size, grab a handful and glide purposefully to the change room for further analysis. I grabbed a comical stack of potential pants candidates and selected the one pair that fit my peculiar stubby legs. When we got back into the car and were pulling away I looked at my new denim dwellings and exclaimed, “Shit, I think I just bought girl jeans!” “How do you know?” the girls inquired. “Because the brand on the back tag says ‘The Flirt’ in fruity writing.”

The venue was among the most interesting places we have played on this tour. It was a hookah bar that was BYOB, littered with comfortable couches, black lights and had vintage posters plastered from wall to wall, which gave it that warm welcoming feeling that you would get from hangin’ in your stoner friend’s attic in high school. I was expecting a relaxed and chilled out crowd to match the serene setting but as soon as the show started, a ton of people came out and the crowd just exploded and went apeshit. Couches wrapped around the floor of furious mosh pitters and acted as the ropes of a wrestling ring as these crazy beach town party animals tore the place to shreds, pillow fighting, bouncing off the walls and carrying on in elation and positivity like brothers and sisters with huge smiles on their faces. Zombie Holocaust were electric as always and I could tell that everyone was blown away by the precision and proficiency of Exmortus, including yours truly.

The following night we played in the next big beach town north called Santa Cruz and I was accosted by assholes from start to finish. I am not dismissing the town of Santa Cruz; it is actually an awesome place to party. I am purely reacting to the individual weirdos I encountered that night who seemed to be sent from another dimension to pester me. We were performing at a huge concert hall on the downtown strip called The Catalyst, and I remember getting heckled by a big burly drunk fella right as I was in the middle of pandering from the stage about enjoying my time in Sunny California. He drunkenly misheard me, thinking I said “Southern California” and like a buffoon interrupts me to belch: “Whaaat?! Where exactly do you think you are right now?” Trying to call me out on my geography. It drives me up a wall when people shout at performers during a show. I find it inconsiderate and impolite, on par with someone drinking your last beer and then breaking the bottle against your temple. Nine times out of ten it is because the person is hammered drunk, trying to incoherently participate, but every once in a while you just get a real bona fide, genuine, know-nothing, mouth-breathing, certified, top shelf, dimwit, low watt, dumbfuck, blithering zero. This piece of merde qualified for both categories. I pleaded with him saying: “This might shock you sir, but I am not a geography major, I am just a drunk Canadian with a guitar and microphone.” He shouts, “Where are you from?” I snap back with “Toronto, you asshole. Any more geography questions? It’s not like I’m doing anything right now.” The crowd had a good laugh at his expense. For the duration of the set, just to fuck with him, after every song I would shout out something like “Thank you Chicago!” everyone in the audience got the joke but him. You would just hear a faint voice from the other end of the room: “Whaaat!?” like the oblivious ghost of distracting moron's past.

The downtown strip was just pandemonium that night. I went for a walk to clear my head and stretch out a little. I came to a nice street corner with some grass, a lamp and some bushes where I momentarily took sanctuary. Out of nowhere I saw a pretty blonde girl riding a bike veer off the sidewalk into traffic and get struck by an SUV. She got up and limped off the street while a man hopped out of the car to see if the girl was alright. “I’M FINE! I’M FINE. DRIVE ON,” I heard the girl say in some sort of drug-addled belligerence and biked off into the distance. I remained under my tree as I saw a peculiar looking man dressed in a white t-shirt, white shoes and white sweat pants pattering towards me. You know that feeling when you see a suspicious character walking towards you in public when you are trying to find your own space and you just think, “Oh no… This asshole is about to start talking to me.” He looked me with an arresting dullness and murmured “That’s Catherine for ye, I sometimes jus’ d’know what gets into her…” I just walked away mid-sentence like a jerk.

When I got back to the venue, Adam Zlotnik was engaged in an interminable conversation with a cracked-out gentleman asking him “When was the last time you got robbed?” We just stared him in the eyes and said, “Now what kind of fucking question is that?” Thank goodness Dr. Douche the geography expert came along and hit it off with the crackhead like peaches and stupid cream. They’re getting married next month and are registered at Hooked on Phonics.

Check please! Everyone get in the van now. With both of these deplorable dillweeds lost in conversation I felt like I was floating in a punchbowl with 2 turds. 3 if you count Adam.

Be well,

Spencer “the Flirt” LeVon

Stay up to date with photos from the road on our Flickr page: http://www.flickr.com/photos/98333748@N04/

Tune in to our tour Podcast at: https://itunes.apple.com/ca/podcast/fatalitys-backseat-levoncast/id640852941

Also check in weekly at www.deadrhetoric.com for the latest tour blogs!