Running ops against guerrilla insurgents in the dunes outside Fallujah? Chasing down CIA-trained terrorists in the treacherous hills of Afghanistan? Nope. You're just hanging out with the Bronx.
"We had just finished drinking at this bar in L.A. where we always go, and some guy got shot seven times right in front of us," says Joby Ford, guitarist for Los Angeles punk-rock Wehrmacht the Bronx. "They just blasted this dude, and then they turned around to shoot us. Half of us split, the other half of us froze. It's pretty gnarly, seeing someone with holes in his neck and his blood just flowing. But then this homeless guy from the neighborhood, Louis, came out of nowhere and got in the way. He pretty much saved our lives.
"I can't really tell you the name of the place where it happened," Ford continues, dropping his voice a little. "It's kind of a gang thing. I know that sounds weird, but out here that shit gets back around. I had a mustache then, but I shaved it and dyed my hair. Just to play it safe, you know?"
Playing it safe, though, is about the last objective in the Bronx's battle plan. The group is as reckless as Evel Knievel gone kamikaze; over the last two years, it has withstood a barrage of shots, assaults, collisions and catastrophes that have honed its bludgeoning edge to a machete-like sharpness. Ford and his crew's self-titled 2003 debut -- a joint release between their own White Drugs imprint and the major label Island Records -- is a mess of spastic, spittle-dripping conniptions. Its eleven songs are slices of cracked bone and electrocuted flesh that rival the direst dirges ever hacked up by Black Flag, New Bomb Turks and the Murder City Devils. As pulverizing rhythms and acidic riffs intertwine like razor wire, a wounded howl tears desperately out of some deep pit of the band's soul. The album is the sound of an animal gnawing off its own leg to get out of a trap -- a trap of numbness, self-abuse and dead-end despair.
Some bands have stories. The Bronx has bona fide war tales; it formed two years ago after its individual members -- Ford, singer Matt Caughthran, bassist James Tweedy and drummer Jorma Vik -- had spent nearly a decade in L.A. playing in various acts that were going nowhere. Ford was a transplant from Colorado; his family moved from Denver to Grand Junction when he was eight, and he remained there until moving to California for college. "Grand Junction sucks," he notes. "There's really not much of anything going on, unless you like hunting." He spent his adolescence pursuing the typical pastimes of a small-town kid: Smoking pot behind the school gym, seeing crappy local rock shows in churches, picking up trash around construction sites for extra beer money and ordering skate-rock compilations from the back of Thrasher Magazine.
Moving to the megalopolis of L.A., though, was like being deployed to a combat zone. "It was just overwhelming," Ford remembers. "The place is so huge. James and I played in some bands together, clearing out every single club. But after we started the Bronx, there was this period when all of our lives were changing. We decided to stop working and focus on the band full time. I'm still getting used to that, just living day to day and finding alternate ways of making money and surviving. But it was a pretty dark time, just one thing after another. Every day, some new disaster happened."
When asked what kinds of disasters he means, Ford pauses for a second. "Um...overdoses," he confesses reluctantly. "I don't really want to go into detail, but there was that. And friends dying. It was just a really gnarly time."