If this featurette on Marky Ramone’s first band Dust doesn’t convince you they’re worth checking out, let me offer my endorsement: both Dust albums (1971’s s/t and 1972’s Hard Attack) are deliciously heavy, bombastic affairs you can’t not take with you on your next cross-country road trip or drive out to see Grandma. Hell, even if you’re just walking to the grocery store to pick up some motherfuckin’ grapes you’ll wanna blast “Learning to Die” in your cans and mouth the words to every baby and dog you pass on the street. We’re talkin’ killer stuff here.
America, stop sleeping on Dust. Please.
Another one that qualifies more as a nightmare, I think: I was living back with my parents and my father was holed up in his office working on something feverishly. I poked my head in to say hi and immediately noticed on my dad’s back an incredibly filthy red jacket. It was covered in dust or drywall or something gross. Numerous references to this soiled garment went unacknowledged. Suddenly my father looked up at me with a cold glint of death in his eyes. Papers simultaneously began flying all about his office.
I retreated back to my bedroom where I tried to relax in the wake of learning my father is potentially the Devil but the singer from G.B.H. kept skateboarding into my room at obnoxious speeds (this dream version of my parents’ house was an uncarpeted bunker). Eventually I threw a glass bottle at his face, which of course touched off this huge incident. We were both arrested and G.B.H. was yelling that he was literally going to kill me.