Bomb Squad

"We made a special video and sent it to him, too," Bomber notes. "Spared no expense. We couldn't find any girls to be in it, so I just sang to a mop." Whether Springer (the Democratic Party's hopeful to run against wholesome Republican senator Mike DeWine in 2000!) has viewed the tape remains unknown. "Haven't heard from him yet," Bomber concedes. Such shameless self-promotion comes naturally to the affable fellow whose passion for lampoonery dates back to involvement in bands like the Rabid Aardvarks and a San Francisco-based group called Disturbing the Peace, which -- big fat surprise -- set out to do just that. These days, another Bay Area project with electronica pioneer Robomaster, dubbed the Mechanized Killer Bees, keeps the Bomber's creative hive humming as well.

Though his current digs in Salt Lake City may seem an unlikely nesting place, Bomber's life in Utah has its moments: Restoring "Old Nightmare," a custom flame-airbrushed hearse, and exercising his liver on home-brewed beer is time well-spent. (Bomber's tasty belly washes have names straight out of The Book of Mormon: Moroni's Trumpet, LDS or Lovely Damn Shit, Captain Nephi's Wheat and a full-bodied stout called The Curse of Lehi). Best of all, there's life around the family hearth with baby Zak and Mrs. Bomber, a regional manager for Victoria's Secret. "They wear regulation underwear here," Bomber notes.

Bomber's bandmates, the M-80s, share his penchants for music and mischief. Mayhem, who christened his bass in "an awful Boulder hippie band" called Social Intercourse, often sports a kilt on stage and claims he can blow bagpipes out of his arse, "like Shite Shillinghan of the McFarland clan." His rousing "Tom Shane" -- a tribute to the local, bland gemologist who claims to be "your friend in the diamond business" -- is a spirited mockery of a zillion too many radio ads he's had the displeasure of sitting through. "I hate him," Mayhem says. "I've been listening to his fuckin' voice since I was a kid." Despite a blossoming side project with buddy Rex Moser called Buck Wild ("a pretty straightforward Stray Cats meets Johnny Cash kinda thing") and his involvement writing music for James McElwee's experimental play Ignomoney, Mayhem's heart belongs to Bomber and Shit. "I'd marry them if I could," he says.

Shit -- already hitched to Mrs. Shit -- distinguishes himself as the third and final M-80, the self-described "missing link" adopted into the band nearly four years ago. An accomplished guitarist as well as a drummer, Shit's stint in a band called Bitch Magnet later led to his own ferocious three-piece, Godrifle, a much-lauded local punk effort which he fronted on vocals and ax duties. Bassist Tom Henderson and drummer Orestes de la Torre rounded out the trio, which issued an impressive and blistering self-titled CD in '93 on the Caustic Fish label. The elder brainiac of the M-80s (whose plastic bike helmet, when worn on stage, gives him the aura of a retarded person out to avoid a concussion), Shit holds a degree as Doctor of Philosophy from the Oberlin College Department of Physics; his thesis, titled "Dielectric Properties of Thin Film Sr TIO3 at Microwave Frequencies," sails entirely over most humans' addled pates, but it landed Dr. Shit a job that he currently despises: designing gigabit transmitters for the Start Up Communications company's research and development department. Among other high-tech multi-tasks, that department designs semiconductor lasers for DARPA, the Defense Advanced Research Project Association. "They should be shut fucking down," Dr. Shit contends. "You can quote me on that. I hope you do."

Such gusto from a day-jobber makes life in the thrash lane all the more appealing. It also helps good-time, rockin' folks like Bomber and the M-80s see their music for what it is. "So many bands worry about doing it right," Shit points out. "I'm not interested in getting signed and going national. This band is interested in playing the Cricket, and that's, like...that's it. It's about pure entertainment. It's not about an artistic statement. It's about what you want to hear when you want to get fucked up Friday night."