I hope it doesn’t come as much of a surprise to anyone that, much as I love hardcore, I have an equal love for rock n roll. As in, actual rock n roll from the era where if you listened to it your parents thought you were destined for juvenile delinquency then jail. In other words, what kids parents thought hardcore was gonna do, back before most of hardcore got soft. You had Elvis, back when he was every mothers terror and not every mothers childhood fantasy…


You had Johnny Cash, back before every hipster started throwing him a pity party…



(Seller bri-dal has a bunch of various Cash Sun Recordings ending today, btw, all dirt cheap.)

But top of the heap in my eyes, despite who got the massive sales and the late in life fame, was The Killer. Jerry Lee Lewis.



Even today, Jerry Lee still seems dangerous. Kicking over his piano stool, hair flopping in his face… he actually LOOKS like a crazy man. Which, of course, if even half the legends about him are true, he was. As my friend Nathan once said,
“No one holds a candle to “The Killer” who earned his nickname after shooting two bandmates, having two wives die under suspicious circumstances, and being found scaling the walls of Graceland with a loaded gun yelling “bring that fat fuck out here and let’s settle once and for all who the real King is!” Suffice to say he is and has always been my hero.”

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