Alice Donut: Two Shows in 2025 (Brooklyn, New York)

By SoDak and Jonnie Dames Rio

April 25 and 26, 2025, the two of us saw Alice Donut play at the Brooklyn Monarch. For both shows, we were at the front of the stage, sharing this moment with other fans. After the second show, we jotted down some general reflections about the build-up to the shows and our experience. Over a year later, as we prepare to post these reflections, we learned of Chet Mazur’s death on August 8, 2026, following a hit-and-run by a driver of a USPS truck. Chet was featured on several Alice Donut record covers and in videos by the band. At the shows in 2025, Chet graced the stage, dancing, rubbing himself, and singing along to classic Alice Donut songs. His kindness was on full display.

There are bands whose significance only grows as the years pass. Alice Donut is one of them. From hearing the first record to seeing them long ago to watching the documentary, there are many entry points to the world of Alice Donut. Their songs are catchy, while being tragic, demented, and scathing critiques of the inhumanity that festers from the capitalist world system. The odd time signatures and twisted sections in songs add to the quirky and cerebral curiosities. While they officially disbanded in 1996, only to reunite from time to time from 2001 on, CDs and LPs kept their unconventional music present in our lives. The documentary Freaks in Love (2011) helped satiate some of the yearnings for more Alice Donut. It also seemed to promise that while the members resided in different states, they continued to play music, which would manifest in new releases. Every now and then, such as in 2014 and 2017, Alice Donut played shows. Thus, in November 2024, when they announced a show at Brooklyn Made, a small club in Brooklyn, New York, anticipation was high. While chatting on the phone, SoDak informed Jonnie Dames Rio about the show. Anticipating that the concert would quickly sell out, Jonnie Dames Rio (due in part to his excitement as well as extreme lack of impulse control) purchased tickets during the phone call. As predicted, the show sold out quickly. A second show was added. People from all over the United States and European nations booked flights and hotel rooms, eager to experience this rare event. Then we waited and wondered. What would Alice Donut sound like after all these years? Will it be worth the expenses and time? 

In February 2025, refunds for tickets were issued, as the club Brooklyn Made closed its doors. Would the shows even happen? Would travel plans have to be changed? Could they be changed? News that efforts were being made to secure another venue circulated. Would we be able to obtain tickets for the shows at the new club? Will we just have to listen to the records and forget about sharing this experience? Holy shit, Victims Family was announced as an opening band on one of the nights. Can we get tickets for that night? This must happen. Fortunately, tickets were purchased for both nights, thanks again to Jonnie Dames Rio, at the Brooklyn Monarch, a larger venue. We must listen to the records and rewatch the documentary before the shows. We need to make sure the flights and trains get us to the venue with plenty of time. We cannot miss a moment of these shows. 

On April 25, folks are trickling into the venue. The guitar players from Alice Donut are in the crowd talking with friends. The crowd is mixed, as far as ages, but leans heavily toward being older. Many of the younger folks are attending the show with their parents who grew up with Alice Donut and are sharing a cherished moment with them and perhaps a view of their parents that they have never seen. While not knowing anybody else in the crowd, it seems as if many of the older folks are being transported back to their younger days, giddy with excitement, effusively energetic, adding to the effervescence of the event. Nasalrod takes the stage and explodes into action. The balding singer is constantly doing jump kicks. His voice is great. They are quirky and perfectly fit the bill. Impressive performance. Victims Family up the ante with their jazzy, punk driving songs. The bass notes vibrate through everyone’s body causing us to bob our heads while smiling. The show moves along quickly. The folks next to us are looking at the set lists that were taped to the stage. We grin as we see the selection of songs. A couple from Washington state mention that seeing Alice Donut was on their check list of bands they had to see. A guy from Albany, New York, tells us that he saw Alice Donut dozens of times in the 1990s. A woman from Chicago who is bouncing up and down during every song throughout the night saw Alice Donut play on one of the previous reunions. She is ecstatic. 

Alice Donut takes the stage appreciating the excitement. Like all the bands, they are older, much grayer. They take in the moment, get prepared, and kick into their set. At the start, guitar picks are dropped, an amp stops working, a story is told, and glasses are held in place while rocking out. As the band finds its legs, momentum is built. The embrace between the crowd and the band is felt. Goosebumps appear repeatedly, as specific songs are played. Alice Donut plays additional songs not on the setlist, so we are thankful to hear more than anticipated. Chet stalks the sides of the stage as if building up the courage to join the band mid set. He struts on the stage (where he belongs) weaving in between members of the band. While he looks older, there is no denying that his is the face on the cover of Mule. Perhaps not as provocative as his performance art pieces opening up for Alice Donut in the 1990s, his presence brings a sense of completeness to the show. Tears well up, as we are here, because live music is special. We share this emotion, this creation. We feed off each other’s energy, singing along. The moments pass quickly. We are so fucking happy. Fortunately, we have tickets for the next night. 

The next day, April 26, Dave Giffen, one of the guitar players is crossing the street. We are talking with a couple wearing Alice Donut shirts. Dave smiles and nods. Another friend, who has never been to a punk show joins us. Reunions abound within the venue. There is much to catch up on. We meet new folks, who we start calling friends. Many people are also here for the second night. A couple tells us they used to see both the opening bands, Babe the Blue Ox and Very Pleasant Neighbor, all the time in the 1990s. They promise us, we will be impressed. Babe the Blue Ox are awesome, with their two percussionists. Everyone in the band sings. They still play regularly, and it shows—they are tight. One of the drummers from Babe the Blue Ox also plays in Very Pleasant Neighbor. They put on a solid set. A British woman gets really excited when she sees that Alice Donut is playing “Mother of Christ” and “Cain.” “Mother of Christ” is her third favorite song. We wish that “Bottom of the Chain” was on the set list—there are so many songs we want to hear. The photographers are moving back and forth to position themselves to document the performance. 

Alice Donut seems more self-assured as they take the stage. From the first note, they have even more drive and energy. The guitar players are exchanging smiles. Sissi’s bass tone is excellent, with a slight rumble. Tomas is taking in the entire experience. Stephen steps out from behind the drum kit to play “War Pigs” on the trombone. The crowd is ecstatic, as old punkers start to slam, but as older adults. Arms are in the air, pounding to the beat. With each song, the crowd is getting louder, losing themselves, singing along, not wanting this moment to end, while trying to make the most of what is happening, as we never know if this will be the last time we get to see this band. Hopefully, there will be more shows. (In 2026, they played two shows in San Franscisco.) 

In 2025, we were there for Alice Donut. It was awesome to share these moments with dear friends and so many others who are in the Alice Donut family. Much thanks for these experiences. 

Governor Cox Crawled Out of Trump’s Asshole to Celebrate the Desecration of the State of Utah

By the Infidel Cowboys (Lusk, Wyoming)

The following is a work of “fan fiction.”

As part of his political civility campaign, Governor Cox often travels to Washington DC, believing he can temper the rhetoric and style of the fascist in the White House. In this, he constantly ingratiates himself, hoping to advance his own reactionary agenda in Utah. In July 2026, he spent days inside Trump’s colon, eating endless shit. This was not a one-off event, as politicians regularly service the president, giving him rim jobs. 

Inside the Yellow Oval bedroom in the White House, Trump removed his suit. His boxers were damp, as the fabric absorbed his sweat and anal leakage. He rang a bell, letting his staff know that they should send in one of the lapdogs waiting outside. Cox bounded through the door, eager to make his servitude known. As Trump positioned himself on the bed, with knees and hands on the mattress, Cox moistened his lips and peeled the dank underwear from the “boss.” He stepped back to admire the man who constantly makes exaggerated claims of grandeur, thinking “Trump is/has the biggest asshole in the world, and I am a masterful analingus. Now, let’s get to work.”

Cox knew he did not have much time given the impatience of the Commander in Chief, but he wanted to run his tongue around the giant booty rather than simply plunge it into the stinker. The random, wirey, white hairs tickled his lips. Coating his palms with Astroglide, he parted Trump’s ass checks and gently ran his fingers over the swollen hemorrhoids. While the President’s backdoor was messy, the water-based lube made the process easier and, perhaps, a little cleaner. As Cox, spiralled his tongue around the outer edges of the Head of State’s distorted cherrio, the President demanded satisfaction, compelling Cox to vigorously lick the gapping orifice. His nose and tongue flitted in and out of the anus. When he came up for air, he looked like a Saint Bernard at a water bowl. His jowls were covered in saliva, lube, fecal matter, and flecks of toilet paper. 

The Chief farted and then grunted, “More, damn it.” Cox had to take a minute to catch his breath, so he proceeded to fist the President. Despite the loose rectal muscles, this action generated great orgasmic pleasures for them. Finally, on the verge of exploding, Cox ravenously returned to the trough. He squeezed his bald head past the sphincter and mowed down on the partially digested McDonald’s Big Macs, Filet-O-Fish sandwiches, and Quarter Pounders. He kept chomping and climbing his way up the President’s colon, until he was fully immersed in the cavity. He was surprised to discover that this time he was not alone. In one of the semilunar folds, Rudy Giuliani was cleaning the crap from his glasses, rehearsing lies to tell the judges. In another fold, Kristi Noem was practicing taxidermy, mounting a dog that she shot. Macro Rubio was drinking watery stool. Further up, in the columns of Morgagni, Kid Rock was masturbating, adding more mucus to the membranes of the large intestine. It seemed that most of his staff were present—no wonder Trump always appeared bloated. By eating the President’s ass, Cox found his people. Tucked away, he stayed in place for a few more days. 

Finally, on July 13, 2026, Cox crawled out of Trump’s asshole to join the tyrant and the other goosestepping suits for the proclamation to reduce the size of Bears Ears and Grand Staircase-Escalante national monuments by approximately 90 percent, undoing the land protections that had been established through decades of mobilization. In the inverted world, the despot claimed that this was a victory for the people, indicating he was “giving it [the land] back,” which actually meant he was going to let extractive companies lay waste to the environment. This order dissolved the Bears Ears Commission, which consisted of a tribal-federal body to advance co-stewardship over ancestral lands for five Indigenous nations. 

With a shit-eating grin, Cox wallowed in the moment. The state of Utah had spent over 6 million dollars of taxpayer monies in the last ten years to pursue legal actions and craft a public relations campaign to seize federal lands. These actions were pursued despite the Utah constitution stating that the people of the state “forever disclaim all right and title to the unappropriated public lands” within its borders. 

Cox stood there dreaming about the expropriated lands—finally these holdings and the resources they contained could be exploited. His development and industry friends were going to be so happy. The state legislature had allotted 20 million dollars to help seize federal lands, so the funds would have to be used to “convince” the public that the elected officials had the people’s interest at heart. He immediately put out a press release indicating that “The State of Utah welcomes new federal action that modifies the boundaries” of the national monuments, indicating that the previous protections resulted “resource degradation.” Now, the “natural minerals” can be liberated for economic development. 

He felt immense pride, as everything was going his way. He would continue to impose his “Operation Gigawatt” plan to double energy output within the state by turning Utah into a uranium wasteland, connecting mining, manufacturing, testing, energy, and depository operations within beehive country. More public relations money would have to be spent to convince the public to embrace this toxic future, so a few folks could get rich, especially in an era of less regulations of the nuclear and electrical industries. As Cox smiled for the cameras, he burped, vomiting up some excrement. Knowingly all the other sycophants, nodded at each other, as they were all full of shit. 

The Peace We Allow Ourselves: Bourbon & Rosewater

By Jack Rafferty

The album Bourbon & Rosewater (2011) by Jerry Douglas, Vishwa Mohan Bhatt, and Edgar Meyer is one of those records where I don’t really recall when I first heard it, but it has been one that I have relied on during times of stress and hardship in my life. Oddly, this album was my introduction to Jerry Douglas, and stood out to me when I discovered it, given its blend of bluegrass and traditional Indian music, with three virtuosic musicians coming together to perform such alchemy. I had never really heard anything like it. 

As of writing this, it has been a while since I listened to Bourbon & Rosewater. Upon revisiting it, some of the compositions seem to meander a bit, though I do think there is a good deal of distinctiveness on display here, and these notes still resonate powerfully with me. I do think that Edgar’s work is unfortunately rather buried in the mix, but otherwise the sound is wonderful. There is a flowing rhythm that has a meditative quality to it, which reminds me of the river depicted on the cover, flowing between the two lands from which these musical traditions call home. The interplay between the gorgeous acoustic notes bringing these traditions of music together is beautiful. The many memories I recall listening to it, good and bad, serves to remind me of how integral this album was for a certain time in my life, and I am very appreciative for its presence during those times. 

This album was the one I would always go to when I needed something to soothe me, particularly on hard nights working in the backcountry. We used to do eight-day hitches, and my stubborn ass would get tired of setting up and taking down a tent every night, so some nights I would just elect to sleep in the back of the truck cab. The nighttime temperatures were typically in the 90s, and I would have to keep the windows closed to keep the bugs out. This was not long after having injured my septum, so breathing in the best of conditions wasn’t great. Those nights felt like being buried alive above ground, and I would struggle to make it through each passing minute. It was times like these that I would pull out my cracked iPod, blow the sand out of the aux port, plug in my frayed headphones, and play Bourbon & Rosewater. Almost instantly it would make me feel better, and it put my mind more at ease. I would listen to the record on repeat until eventually my body would relax enough to fall asleep.

Another memory I can recall is camping in the Uinta mountains, lying near a fire while I played this album. I had been going through a rough spot in my life. Being able to simply watch the stars gently mingle with smoke between the trees, while the dobro and mohan veena notes softly played, was enough to ground me in that moment and induce a sense of great humility to the natural world, and my small place within it. A sort of significant insignificance overwhelmed me, as I felt infinitely small yet meaningful at once. There was a clarity and presence to that night that I remember well, and thinking about it now, amid such global catastrophe and interlinking crises, it serves as a reminder to allow myself peace when I can, not as an escape, but rather as an embrace of this life, this material existence, and of resolutely building the strength within myself needed to soberly face down such issues in community with others, to struggle for a better world. 

Most of my memories associated with this album are entwined with the natural world, of big skies, lichen-covered rocks, petrichor, the smell of dust and cheap beer, woodsmoke, and the sound of a light breeze in raven wings. Rough nights and cold mornings. The sight of ponderosa pines and the song of canyon wrens. Listening to it is like returning to the earth, when lately it feels increasingly difficult and painful to bridge that rift. In a way, it still helps me tear down emotional and physical barriers that alienation builds between myself and the world. What it gives me I cannot fully explain, because it is so inextricable to my lived experience that joined with this music, and not just the music itself. I am indebted to it as a result, as it allows me to hold on to these moments, to continue to walk in the murky light of their recollection, and embrace the lessons that they taught me. I am grateful for the relief it has brought me in times when I needed it, and I revisit it now as I would an old friend, warmly and with a smile, and the desire to wander off into the trees for a while, and watch the stars once more. 

Film: Who the Fuck Wants to Play in Rapid City, SD

A dear friend, Jack Batchelder, of this music blog made a documentary about the punk rock scene in Rapid City, South Dakota. It is currently available at the following link. Enjoy. 

https://player.mediadelivery.net/play/704006/1cf22d53-4933-42a0-b53b-70ea14023df8

Memories of the State Fair

By SoDak

July and August always make me think about loud music, carnival rides, and the sickening scent of sugar, sweat, grease, and farm animal shit, even though it has been decades since I experienced all this together. The Rapid City Central States Fair, in the 1970s and early 80s, was overwhelming, as far as the sounds, sights, and smells. As a young child, my family spent much time looking at the 4-H exhibits, which consisted usually of animals in cages or pens. We attended the rodeo to see our cousins ride bulls and rope calves; and, sometimes, we got to see the demolition derby. My parents would give my brother and me a few tickets, so we could enjoy riding the Octopus/Spider, the Tilt-a-Whirl, and the Zipper. My father would play a few games, such as the ring toss or ballon darts, trying to win a silly toy or stuffed animal. He generally won when shooting the BB gun at the red star. Our fingers were sticky from eating cotton candy.

By the time that I was ten years old, my parents would drop me off at the entrance to the fair, so I could meet up with friends. We skipped the buildings with all the chickens, ducks, turkeys, pigs, sheep, and cows, making our way to the rides and games. The fair always consisted of quite a cross-section of the population, as folks from the rural communities mingled with everyone from the city. By the late 1970s, with deepening economic stagnation, there was a sense of desperation among many of the attendees and the carnies. Hard times were ever present. The fairgrounds seemed more dilapidated. My shoes stuck to the concrete due to the spilled beers and sodas. I collected aluminum cans from the neighborhood parks to trade for some extra money to supplement cash from delivering newspapers. 

As far as rides, the Viking was the main attraction. The swinging ship, in and of itself, was not the most exciting ride, but the music was always the loudest. There were big, mounted speakers, blasting hard rock and metal songs. I often stood close to the ride, in a spot where I could feel the vibrations from the tunes. I viscerally recall hearing “Highway to Hell,” “Back in Black,” “Fooling Yourself,” “Come Sail Away,” “Paranoid,” “Living After Midnight,” “Breaking the Law,” “Black Dog,” “Immigrant Song,” and “Rock and Roll” blaring over the sound system. This was one of the many spots and moments when I fell in love—with music. While riding the Viking, I got instant goosebumps when hearing Dio’s “Rainbow in the Dark” followed by “Holy Diver.” His voice was fucking incredible. These two songs made me obsessed, as I had to track down the record, so I could hear these tunes whenever I wanted to, which was continuously in the summer and fall of 1983. I think this was the same year I started giving the horns as a greeting and when saying goodbye to friends.  

Everything seemed sketchier and more dangerous on the midway, where teenagers played various games of chance. Dollar bills were shoved to the bottom of my pocket, as my parents warned me that if I was not careful someone would try to pickpocket me. Everyone seemed to be smoking cigarettes, and cigarette butts covered the ground. At each booth, the carnie would be playing loud music, adding an exciting edge to the experience. The prizes had changed, reflecting cultural shifts, as rock gods reigned. Among the roach clips with feathers, there were carnival mirrors with band names and album covers that could be won. At the time, I had no idea what the roach clips were for; I also did not know that the carnival mirrors were coke mirrors. I just wanted to a glass mirror adorned in rock imagery. The mirrors came in three sizes, 6" by 6", 8" x 8", and 12" x 12", with the larger sizes reserved as premium prizes. As I observed the games, I starred at the mirrors, almost overwhelmed by the possible prizes, as there were ones with images of AC/DC, Judas Priest, Rush, Rainbow, Led Zepplin, Black Sabbath, Van Halen, Ozzy, Kiss, Bob Marley, Yes, Queen, Journey, Styx, Boston, Pat Benatar, Grateful Dead (at the time, I had never heard their music, but I liked the imagery), Quiet Riot, Def Leppard, and ZZ Top. I wanted as many of them as possible. After popping many ballons with darts, the carnie grabbed a mirror and handed it to me; I did not get to select the mirror—perhaps this was due to being a minor and not having any parents present. The cover of the first Loverboy record was on the small mirror. I thought fine band and record, but I wanted something more hard rock. Dejected, I stood there, as I did not have enough cash to keep playing the game. I also did not know how long it would take to win a desired large mirror with Rush on display. 

In the following years, I avoided the games with mirrors as the prize, as I did not want to waste money on the long con to finally get a large mirror. Instead, I wasted money on the games where the prizes were rock shirts, which you could select the desired band. In the mid-1980s, I won a cheap-ass Ratt t-shirt, which I wore for years, until it was threadbare. A couple years later, I saw them perform at the fair, even though this was still during their ascendency as a band. 

Today, as the summer heats up, I still get chills, whenever I hear:

When there’s lightning

You know it always brings me down

‘Cause it’s free, and I see that it’s me

Who’s lost and never found

I cry out for magic

I feel it dancing in the light

It was cold, lost my hold

To the shadows of the night

No sign of the morning coming

You’ve been left on your own

Like a rainbow in the dark

A rainbow in the dark.

Please turn it up, the louder, the better.  

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