Schlong, Three Finger Spread, and Mike

By SoDak

In May 1992, several dozen friends crowded into the basement at the House of Edge to see Schlong play. It was their second time performing in Rapid City. We loved hanging out with Dave Mello (who previously played in Operation Ivy), Pat Mello, and Gavin MacArthur. They were as quirky and funny as their songs, which were filled with odd time signatures. As the local band Junk was wrapping up their set, an eviction notice was served, so the event turned into a final hoorah for shows in this basement. Schlong quickly set up, not sure if the concert would be shut down by the police. We had been listening to their new record Waxy Yellow Buildup (1992), memorizing the lyrics. As soon as the frantic, seemingly chaotic songs started, we locked arms around each other and danced around the room. When Schlong played “It Sucks to Be Fucked By Jesus,” it turned into a big sing along.

I got a letter from Jesus Christ.

It said get down on your knees and close your mind.

Don’t mind all the blood and pain.

It’s just part of the game.

I am a punk, a fucking punk, fuck you Jesus.

Joining the band, we erupted into a choir of sheep noises, just before the chorus.

Ba ba blaaaaaaaa.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

There were more animal noises. We continued to sing:

So I got down on my knees.

But little did he know I had my long fucking knife.

Stuck right into his dick, but he didn’t have one.

This was followed by yet more animal noises, including some oinks, before the rememberable chorus.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

It sucks to be fucked by Jesus, it sucks.

Quickly, the lyrics set up a fight with Jesus. The room exploded as Schlong incorporated riffs from the Rocky fight song just before the ending. Smiles abounded as sweat was shared. 

Along with the Waxy Yellow Buildup record, there was a bonus seven inch, a split between Three Finger Spread and Nuisance. Both bands on this record were brilliant. Three Finger Spread was an acoustic side project of Schlong. In 1994, they released an additional split seven inch with the country punk band Elmer. Many of us were obsessed with these recordings, given the sarcasm, dark humor, and catchy songs. Three Finger Spread incorporated mandolin, banjo, violin, and guitar, with sing along choruses in high-pitched voices. “Phone Me, Bone Me” was about shoving a phone up the butt. During the song, they made funny noises, as they mimicked dialing a phone number. “Kitty Kat” was about a situation where the narrator was jealous that a loved one liked the cat more than him. He pondered if he run over the cat, would they still be together. “Gone, yes, she’s gone. There goes your pussy cat. Gone, yes, she’s gone. I saw its little head go splat.” The short song “Shit Shit” included the catchy lines, “fire here, fire there, burning all your pubic hair, burning everything in sight.” An additional gem was the song “Pisstoy” about the vampire Christ, which culminated in a sing along: 

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Come to my church, come to my church.

Fuck you and your fucking church.

Get down on your knees to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

Get down on your hands to pray.

Ain’t going pray in your fuckin’ church.

We made cassette tapes of these songs to circulate. As we drove through the Black Hills, heading out to hike, we would sing along, imitating the twisted Three Finger Spread voices. It was quite joyous, uplifting our spirits. 

In June 1993, Three Finger Spread was added to a show at the VFW Hall. Accompanying them on this tour was Geoff Templeton, the bass player from Motherload. We were quite giddy, excited to see them play. While talking with the band, they encouraged my friend Mike to drive home to get his violin to join them on stage. They told Mike the key and showed him the chord progression, then set off into each song. On that day, we had a punk rock jubilee, clapping our hands, stomping our feet, and singing with the band. In addition to the aforementioned songs, they played “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” with the line “don’t bend over, I know you know better”; “Will You Go Out with My Mom,” with the lines “maybe I should buy some Preparation H, maybe I should buy some Advil, oh no, I better make myself a cup of coffee, maybe I should masturbate”; and two cover songs, including Slayer’s “Epidemic” and Journey’s “Just the Same.” From the soundboard, we recorded this performance, allowing us to circulate another tape of Three Finger Spread. 

For weeks, following this performance, we were elated, constantly talking about how much we loved Three Finger Spread. In late July, as evening was approaching, we headed into the Black Hills to watch the sunset from the top of a limestone outcrop off of D Road, hoping to see the Perseids meteor shower that night. We hiked up the hill, climbed the rocks, and spread blankets. From there, we could see the meadow to the north and the winding road through the Ponderosa Pines to the south. In the distance, a motorcycle was churning gravel through the curves. Above the whine of the engine, we heard someone singing. We recognized the voice; it was Mike. As he was riding his rusted Honda, he was singing the versus and choruses, first “Phone Me, Bone Me,” then “Pickin’ Up the Soap,” and finally “Pisstoy.” We stood up to watch him make his way to our location. Smiling, we joined him, yelling out, “Come to my church, come to my church. Fuck you and your fucking church.”

After Schlong’s fourth show in Rapid City, in April 1994, they obliged our request to also play a Three Finger Spread set. We provided them with acoustic instruments, gathered in a small side-room in JJ’s Rose Arcade, for a punk rock hootenanny, until the club closed. Thirty-one years later, I can still hear Mike’s gleeful voice in my ear and see his huge smile.

Conferring with the Moon

By SoDak

In the 1990s, I worked at a group home for youth who experienced sexual and physical abuse. The job was important, but it was heartbreaking and stressful. My shifts varied between eight to fourteen hours, always ending at 10 PM. At this time, I completed my notes regarding each child and an assessment of the day. The trauma that the kids had experienced filled my mind. I was exhausted by the time I got into my car to make the half-hour drive home. Down the winding road, I had to be alert, given the open grazing in this part of the Black Hills. I feared hitting a cow on the pitch-dark nights. William Ackerman was a constant companion, as I often listened to his record Conferring with the Moon (1986). His acoustic guitar playing captured my mind, calming me as I followed the notes and chords. The title track opened with his gentle playing, before Chuck Greenberg on the lyricon joined him. This wind synthesizer lifted the emotion, creating a feeling as if soaring through the trees. Michael Manring played the fretless bass, grounding the experience, with underlying notes. As the song progressed, a violin became intertwined in the journey. I would stare out the windshield, mind swirling with the song, as I searched for the moon. This instrumental guitar music carried me home. On many nights, Mike, Jerry, and Rich would swing by to pick me up around the time I arrived at my house. We would head back into the hills to hike, and, in the summer, we would plunge into Sheridan Lake under the night sky, washing away the fatigue and some of the sorrow. William Ackerman remains my favorite “new age” guitar players, always reminding me of the times shared with dear friends, following long days working. 

Playlist for an Esophageal Biopsy

By Jack Rafferty

I recently had my third endoscopy operation of the past year, since being diagnosed with a pesky chronic condition, Barrett’s Esophagus. The doctors need to go in there and make sure there aren’t any precancerous cells fucking about. Now, while I certainly wasn’t jamming to tunes while under the cloudy, euphoric influence of Propofol, I’ve since envisioned some tracks that I think fit the experience. 

Cattle Decapitation, “A Living, Breathing Piece of Defecating Meat.”

There’s something about the bodily horror of perceiving potentially significant health problems crawling around in your mortal shell that really brings songs like this to mind. The ugliness of the sound is cathartic when thinking about your insides betraying you. The lyrics, “When I try to speak through my spurthole, I simply choke on the mucus like aaaaghghghgaaah,” seem fitting when thinking about my esophagus full of scar tissue. I usually keep Cattle’s lyrical content at arm’s distance due to the misanthropy throughout a lot of it, but few bands capture the feeling of disgust with the world better. 

Slipknot, “(sic).”

While I haven’t listened to Slipknot much in recent years, there are few things that satiate rage for me like their first two albums. I was an angry kid, and grew up listening to them, so I think that has a lot to do with the staying power they have had in my life. They got me through a lot of dark shit, so I guess it is fitting that they would be here. There’s a lot of tracks that would work here, but “(sic)” has always been one of my favorites. 

Mischief Brew, “Coffee, God, and Cigarettes.”

To brighten things up a bit, Mischief Brew’s cheery and witty tune about the dour topic of addiction and the vices we sometimes swap to unhealthily cope with it by attempting to replace it through hypocrisy and denial and not heal from such struggles doesn’t exactly apply here. However, now that I can’t drink anymore (or have coffee or cigarettes), I guess I’m just left with living a healthy life against my will. It’s good for me in the long run, but that doesn’t mean I have to be graceful about it. Just because it’s good for me, doesn’t mean I have to like it!

The Pixies, “Where Is My Mind?”

I feel like this song is fitting in the context of being put under and coming out of it. The feeling of being lulled into a black void and brought crawling back from it, the disorientation, makes me think of this song. “With your feet on the air, your head on the ground” explains it pretty well. There is something eerily off putting about this song, where it has a slightly happy, slightly melancholy melody to it, with those ethereal backing vocals. I think about death often, almost obsessively, and certainly to a fault. I sometimes wonder if falling into death would be like the few seconds of euphoria you feel on Propofol before gliding off, only with the addition of a shitload of DMT being mainlined at the last moment. There’s plenty of songs that would fit a moment like that, but I feel like the guitar riff for this song, coupled with the haunting vocals of Kim Deal, would be appropriate in such a moment. 

Phalanx, “Sajo.”

Back to some pure rage. Phalanx knows exactly how to bludgeon the fuck out of your ears, short and sweet. Just like the next one. 

Knocked Loose, “Deadringer.”

My tombstone was made at birth

My coffin is on my back.

Not much to be said for the inclusion of this one. Just crushingly heavy. Makes you feel like a concrete wall is falling down on top of you, but in a way that makes you feel better. 

Blaze Foley, “Picture Cards Can’t Picture You.”

Along with the anger toward things we cannot control, there comes a sense of calm at times, and a level of acceptance, that allows us to focus on kinder thoughts amid terrible happenings. Throughout my grappling with troubled thoughts, I can always think of my partner, and know that no matter what the future holds, I’ve had the time that I’ve had with her, and nothing can take that away, which is a balm. It’s tough to pick a single song that Blaze wrote that encapsulates that feeling, let alone any song, but I think this one fits best. 

Peter Oren, “Anthropocene.”

How will we escape this lunacy?

How will we escape this hell?

How will we escape this hell they paved?

How will we escape this hell?

How will we escape this hell we made?

How will we escape this hell?

Considering certain extents of individual struggle within a much larger context of dread and suffering across the earth makes one consider deeply the frailty of all things, and cultivates the desire to want to make the most of what little time we have here to help others while working to dismantle the systems that destroy the lives of so many, that destroy the very conditions that make the planet livable in the first place. Peter Oren reflects this sentiment perfectly throughout his entire album Anthropocene, but particularly nails it on the title track. 

Pink Floyd, “Time.”

Speaking of life’s frailty, I feel like a good one to send us off is one of my favorite Pink Floyd songs (even though I do hate all the damn clocks at the beginning), which always makes me ponder how ephemeral our short time here is. However, this song over the years has transformed from making me feel gloomy to just making me feel humbled and present. Overall, this health thing is rough and something we all struggle with to varying degrees. It sucks to have to deal with, but it’s at least something I can live with, and isn’t utterly dire as it currently stands. I can be angry about it, but it is here to stay. I need to do what I can to make the best of it, continue putting my energy into whatever good work I can, and just be present in my humanity and the humanity of others as long as possible. 

And you run and you run to catch up with the sun but it’s sinking

Racing around to come up behind you again

The sun is the same, in a relative way, but you’re older

Shorter of breath and one day closer to death.

Bill Chamberlain

By SoDak

Punk rock lifer Bill Chamberlain of The Pist, Brutally Familiar, Behind Enemy Lines, Mankind?, Caustic Christ, React, The Dissidents, and many other bands died on July 17, 2025. This past week, I have been spinning many of the records on which Bill played guitar. He wrote simple, straightforward, catchy riffs that set up the vocals. The couple times that I saw him play, with both The Pist and Brutally Familiar, he was very engaging and energetic. In 1993, he played guitar on seven-inch records by The Pist, Mankind?, and Brutally Familiar. Give these records a listen, enjoy the riffs, and sing along. My favorite of the three records is Brutally Familiar, especially the songs “T.V. Land” and “Cops Suck.”

The Pist, Destroy Society (1993). 

Mankind?, Won’t You Join the Army Now So You Fight…And You Can Die (1993).

Brutally Familiar, T.V. Land (1993). 

We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll: My First Time Hearing Black Sabbath

By SoDak

My neighbor Tim was five years older than me. He was wild, always in trouble with his parents, teachers, and the law. He had a paper route, affording him the ability to buy some records. The others he acquired through other means. He introduced me to AC/DC and Ted Nugent. The way Tim sang along to “Cat Scratch Fever,” “Wang Dang Sweet Poontang,” and “Big Balls” was very creepy and seemed dangerous. Nevertheless, I loved flipping through his records, as we listened to various gems. One day, in 1979, when I was seven, I saw We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll in his collection. Tim readily shared his records, so he told me to take it home to give it a listen. 

It was October, starting to cool off, in South Dakota. I was eager to spin the record on the cheap rummage sale stereo on top of the dresser. I set the needle on side A, curious when I heard the thunderstorm and bell. Then there was the guitar. What the fuck? I stopped the record, not sure how I was going to approach listening to this record and what to make of the few notes that I heard. I opened the windows to feel the cool breeze from outside. I repositioned the speakers, so they were facing each other. I turned off the lights, turned the volume up, restarted the record, and laid on the ground so my head was between the speakers. The world of music, as I knew it, changed. As I listened to “Black Sabbath,” I internalized what I was hearing, including the “figure in black which points at me.” It was chilling, but necessary to experience. I flipped the record over to be mesmerized by the antiwar song “War Pigs.” All these songs were heavy, with plenty of psychedelic and jazzy aspects thrown into the mix. I listened to sides A and B a couple more times, before moving onto sides C and D. I was struck by the variety of songs, from “Tomorrow’s Dream” to “Changes” to “Sabbath Bloody Sabbath” to “Laguna Sunrise.” I lost my shit listening to “Children of the Grave”—the riff, the fucking drums, and vocals. It was perfection, as another antiwar, revolutionary song. My mother opened the door; I was crying due to being emotionally overwhelmed. She saw that I was joyful, so she quickly left the room. “N.I.B.” just made me want to hear everything again. I was headbanging before I ever heard of the term. It was natural.

The collection We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll was released in 1976. Most of the songs were from the first four records, with one track from Sabbath Bloody Sabbath and one from Sabotage. I reluctantly gave the record back to my neighbor Tim. As soon as I saved enough money, I bought Master of Reality, because of the song “Children of the Grave.” I fell in love with “After Forver,” “Into the Void,” and “Solitude.” I really appreciated the inclusion of the instrumental song “Orchid.” My Black Sabbath collection continued to grow—vinyl, cassettes, and CDs. Every time I saw a copy of We Sold Our Soul for Rock ‘n’ Roll, I bought it, so I could give it a friend.

I saw Black Sabbath play three times. The first time, Sabbath opened with “War Pigs.” I instantly had goosebumps, welled up, and remembered the first time hearing Sabbath.   

Holy Fuckin’ Shit Local Teen Has Mind Blown

By Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B

In the days of before, that time in my life when I was sticking my toes in the waters of adulthood, when everything was a first, I heard Black Sabbath for the first time. I was sitting in the passenger seat of a friend’s El Camino in the middle of a pine forest, parked next to the creek where I spent a lot of time fishing and talking with my father as a lad. My friend and I were fairly new adherents to the thrash metal sound that had popped up a few years earlier. We were obsessed with Metallica, who had not yet turned to shit, Metal Church, Exciter, Anthrax, and Slayer. I lived in an area where access to heavy music was difficult. FM radio had only happened a few years before; cable television was not the norm, and, for kids like me, it wasn’t available since I lived outside of town in the mountains. The nearest record store was almost an hour away, which was an insurmountable distance due to not having a driver’s license and parents who didn’t understand my musical needs. It seems incredible that I had Exciter records a few years before I obtained my first Black Sabbath album. I assumed Sabbath had a dated sound that had nothing at all to do with the metal I was mail ordering through ads in magazines.

My friend, the El Camino commander, had a youngish father who was into Sabbath, so my friend decided to bring a cassette copy of Paranoid on one of our poorly planned camping trips. I may have been one or two beers into our music listening night when he put Paranoid into the cassette deck. In that moment, the walls I had constructed in my brain crumbled, and my musical journey took a giant leap forward. I couldn’t believe how fucking heavy it was, heavy and accessible. This was such a monumental moment for me that I can still remember almost everything that happened that night, and the excitement I felt when hearing “War Pigs” and “Fairies Wear Boots” for the first time, sometimes I still feel it.

I have a hard time naming favorite songs, albums, and bands, and, when I do, they never match reality. For example, I frequently name Iron Maiden as one of my top two favorite bands, but the reality is that I listen to The Fall, CAN, and New Model Army more than Maiden. Nostalgia is powerful, and for that reason Maiden will always be one of my favorites, but Black Sabbath will always be my favorite band, Paranoid my favorite record, and “Planet Caravan” and “War Pigs” in the upper echelon of my favorite songs.

As a side note, I am writing this after Ozzy’s death. Other than a handful of songs, I haven’t been a fan of Ozzy’s solo career. The duet he did with Lita Ford is among the worst songs of the 1980s. His concert series, Ozzfest, in my opinion, did a lot of damage to heavy music, by promoting shitty pseudo-metal bands. I have mixed feelings about Mr. Osbourne, but I cannot imagine “Planet Caravan” without his voice. For that, I will remember him fondly.