Wait Until Dark: My Psychobilly Life pt. 1
By Brent Waroniecki
May 10, 2004

It was the rumbling drums. The guitar with a twisted mix of distortion and twang. Vocals with spit and snarl, or rapid fire rockabilly hiccups, ranging from zombie deadpan to a growling approximation of a British Screaming Jay Hawkins. But more than anything it was that slap bass: the lightning fast thumping, the blend of notes and click from an instrument pushed way beyond its intended use. I was hooked the moment I heard Psychobilly, and as of this writing it’ll have been my musical mainstay for eleven years. I’ve seen it grow from one of the world’s most obscure music subcultures to a sound and image on the verge of a mainstream outbreak. I traveled around the world to be a part of it, hosted a radio show devoted to it for three years, and spent countless hours waving the Psychobilly banner for all to see. And now, after all the time, money, and times mostly good and sometimes bad, I’m sick to death of Psychobilly.

It may seem strange to start a column devoted to a musical genre by claiming to hate it. And to be honest that’s not really the case for the music as a whole… there are a number of shining examples that I’ll be covering in future columns. And just to be crystal clear right off the bat, I’m not “over” Psychobilly due to its emerging popularity and growing numbers of devotees. Just the opposite in fact, I’ve done a considerable amount both publicly and privately to help it grow. I originally wanted this column to be another forum to tell the world about this music that’s been such a big part of my life, but recently I’ve come to revelatory conclusion that I no longer care about the Psychobilly that helped sustain me all these years. It’s time for me to move onto something new. Before I get to that, let me explain how I got to this point…

First a little background on my Psychobilly pedigree. After tiring of the oppressively PC dogma of the early 90’s punk scene, I got my back to my roots. I always saw the connection between the ‘50s and ‘60s music I was raised on and my beloved Misfits, Ramones, and many others (even if my parents couldn’t… but that’s kinda the point, right?) Anyway, that led me into rockabilly and frequent trips to LA in ‘93 for shows, girls, and general hanging out. Problem was I turned out to be an amazingly bad Rockabilly: I didn’t have the hair, clothes, or cars required for that scene, and more importantly I didn’t have the money to get all that stuff. And I as much as I love good ‘ol rockabilly (and still do), I was 19… I still craved the energy and abandon of punk. All I got was a lot of primping and preening and swing dancing. After bemoaning the lack of excitement in freeze-dried rockabilly for the umpteenth time, a friend in LA made a mix tape of some Meteors and tracks off the Stomping at the Klubfoot series. I was intrigued to say the least; I’d heard of the Meteors back in high school from one of my hometown’s scariest characters. He had to be one of the nation’s first Psychobillys, but my scrawny teenage self wasn’t about to ask this sleeved, flattop’d wrecking machine for a mix tape! (We became friends via the Psycho scene years later, but that’s for another column) So after this first exposure, I made it a point on my next LA trek to look for Psycho discs at every record store I could find. Today you’ll find whole sections devoted to Psychobilly in your better records stores; in ’93 I got a lot of blank stares. Or the always popular “the Cramps section is over there”, which got a “yeah, but…” from me, and then the blank stares. The Cramps are great, always have been, always will be… but they’re not Psychobilly. I hear gasps out there… they themselves have denied the label vociferously over the years, and who am I to question Lux and Ivy? They’re undeniably an incredible influence on Psychobilly throughout its history, but what I sought back in ’93 was decidedly different, and for the most part, a European phenomenon.

After finding CDs of two Meteors records and the first two Guana Batz albums, I was obsessed. This was before I had Internet access, and even when I got it there was sparse info on Psychobilly. I bought and devoured whatever I could special order or find used, and spending every nickel on what few discs were available via Hepcat Records mail order. Despite the expense and sometimes frustration, I was having a blast… it was like finding punk all over again. And none of the expensive dress-up of the rockabilly/swing scene: boots, jeans, t-shirts, and a couple different choices in jackets and I was good to go! The Sharks’ first record exhorted me to “Take a Razor to Your Head”, so there went the greasy sides of my pompadour… so much easier on the pillowcases. Now I had the look down, the discs were spinning day and night… I just needed some friends to enjoy it all with. I was getting the same blank stares from a lot of the rockabilly folk that I got at the record stores, even the though the Rev.’d up rockabilly of Jim Heath and Co. had warmed some of them to more aggressive retro sounds. To pursue my obsession I knew I had to get out of Dodge, which in my case meant getting outta Fresno. By the summer of ’95 I was on my way to film school in San Francisco, and about to become a part of the then embryonic Psychobilly revival. Little did I know that this small Bay Area scene would help to breathe new life into a genre thought to be on its last zombified legs, through the bands that came from it and the European bands it would support.

Don’t worry folks; this isn’t my version of the Wonder Years… all this back-story will help bring the point of this column into sharper focus. After I wrap this up, I’ll focus on the Psychobilly bands that I think are bringing something new to music that seeming to be growing and stagnating at the same time. Wait Until Dark will also focus on other arts, literature, and pop culture that I believe contribute to a healthily Psychotic viewpoint… and, Amelia and Forrest willing, you’ll get wrestling and lots of it. And not just the stuff you see on TV now… the really bloody, weird stuff from the fringes. Trust me, you’ll like it…