“Heterosexuals Have the Right to Rock!”
One band’s journey to play a show with the Mentors

It all started on the computer a few months back. Some kid from Connecticut got in touch with my band Chesty Malone and the Slice ’em Ups to ask us to play a show with the legends of sleaze rock, The Mentors. I hadn’t heard of The Mentors for years and since their singer/drummer El Duce is long dead I didn’t see how it could be possible. But lo and behold they had recruited a new singer and a new drummer named Mad Dog Marc Duce and Moosedick respectively and are indeed keeping the dream alive.

Of course we said yes. Did we really have a choice? This was the band that penned such feel-good classics as “Golden Shower,” “Suck For Rent,” “Woman From Sodom,” and of course the immortal “Heterosexuals Have the Right to Rock.” This would boost our stock in the obscure/unknown punk rock world for sure. Hell yeah we were in.

Then a scant two weeks before the show we got the call from the kid in Connecticut. The people who run the venue where the show was supposed to happen had figured out who The Mentors were, and they were not down, and thus had cancelled the show.

“That sucks but can’t you just find another venue?” I asked.

“No, it’s too short of notice for a venue change,” was his shortsighted reply.

Not being one to settle for such mediocrity, I immediately got in touch with The Mentors myself and re-booked the show down here in New York City. I then set about getting some local NYC bands to play the show with us. Apparently I’m not the only one who can’t get enough of The Mentors’ timeless anthems because I had no problem getting The Blame and The Blackout Shoppers to join us in opening up for the rape rock kings.

We spent the next week and a half promoting our asses off. Of course there were hurdles along the way (like finding out that The Mentors didn’t have any equipment beyond their guitars two days before the show) but we were steadfast in our determination, and finally the night of the show was upon us!

We got there early and got set up. Then we waited for the Mentors’ arrival. And we waited. And waited some more. We were some waiting motherfuckers. Normally I don’t drink before a show but I was taking full advantage of my unlimited free beers as the promoter of the event that night. Let’s just say I had some nerves that needed calming.

The Mentors still had not arrived when The Blame took the stage. I tried to enjoy myself in a nonchalant kind of way, but inside I couldn’t stop thinking about how the door guy’s and the soundman’s pay was going to come out of my pocket after I refunded everyone’s money when The Mentors didn’t show. But The Blame were pretty great in their usual old school UK punk rock style. Raised on the streets of New York indeed. They also did a pretty cool Dwarves cover.

Next up were The Blackout Shoppers. Still no Mentors, but once again I valiantly attempted to get into it and pretended to be as carefree as a virgin at a eunuch festival. Shoppers were definitely kicking ass when I walked outside for a quick breath of stale air.

Suddenly a yellow cab pulled up in front of the club and four rather degenerate-looking older dudes staggered out of it. A couple of them were grunting in a distinctly Neanderthal sort of way and the other two were vacantly staring in our general direction. They were not wearing their trademark executioner hoods, but there was no doubt that The Mentors had at last arrived!

I went back inside to catch the rest of the Shoppers’ set and was pleasantly surprised to catch a perfectly timed Misfits cover. Fun was had by all. I then retired to the men’s room for some much needed relief and what I saw in there made me both laugh and wonder what the heck is wrong with some people.

Now I ain’t no stool pigeon and I ain’t naming names either, but when I entered the men’s room there was a collection of older type dudes blatantly and openly snorting some not-so-legal substances right there at the sink. They didn’t even bother hiding out in one of the stalls. I dutifully informed them that what they were doing was illegal and if convicted they’d be facing some time. Then I walked over to an empty urinal and took care of business and left.

Next up was my band, Chesty Malone and the Slice ’em Ups. Obviously we were something akin to the second coming, winning the lottery, losing your virginity, the end of the world, etc, etc. Of course I may be just a tad biased so you should probably ask someone else for an honest opinion about that.

Then the moment the two maniacs who’d been there since we opened the doors, who were wearing their own executioners’ hoods had been waiting for — Pope Heathen Scum, Sicky Wifebeater, Moosedick, and Mad Dog Duce (tell me those aren’t some of the best punk names ever), AKA The Mentors, took the stage!

They were fucking hilarious and their tunes were actually pretty catchy too. Heathen Scum, who off stage was a rather articulate and friendly man (whose brother and young nieces were also in attendance), supplied most of the offensive/hysterical between-song banter. After my band finished up, he approached our female singer and very politely told her, “I really enjoyed your band. You have a wonderful voice.” Then right before they played “Golden Shower” he announced in a gravely wrestler-style voice, “See that chick from Chesty Malone with the nice white blonde hair? She’s actually a redhead until I peed on her!” When they were done with their set he immediately profusely apologized to her, explaining how it was all just a joke. Talk about a dichotomy.

This was all on a lowly Tuesday night. Who Says New York’s Dead? Obviously they weren’t at the Fortune Cookie that Tuesday night. Fuck ’em, they were probably out in some ironic bar in Williamsburg ironically drinking cans of PBR talking about how great their friends’ Cajun/Gypsy/punk/electro/douchebag band is.


Your friend,
Anthony Allen Van Hoek