Dave Brockie, 1963-2014

(c) Daryl Parson
(c) Daryl Parson

[I was going to put something up here, the one of my friends posted the following on facebook. It sums up today’s news perfectly and is way better than anything I could have written at the moment.

Full credit (words and patch photo) to Daryl Parson, reproduced here with permission. MOSH]

It’s no secret that I’m a big fan of the legendary Scumdogs of the Universe, Gwar. When I first heard them nearly twenty-five years ago, their unique brand of obscenity, thrash and over-the-top gore appealed to my nerdy teenage mind. (And still does to this day!)

With theatrics holding to the tradition of Grand Guignol, Gwar were often imitated but never equalled. It takes more than a costume and a few silly songs to sustain a band for three decades. They had talent, both in musical ability and in their songwriting. Even without the latex, they were a measurably good band.

I am, and always shall be, proud to wear their backpatch.

Although I only caught them live once in 1992, their show had a life-changing effect on me. It was my first indoor gig, and I am happy to say that Oderus Urungus kicked me off the stage before ejaculating his filthy jism over my face. I deeply regret not seeing them again, even when I had opportunity to.

We always feel that there’s one more chance to see our idols. The Music grants a form of immortality – souls suspended in vinyl – so part of us believes our favourite artists will last forever. Yet they are just as fragile as any of us, and it was with great sadness and heavy heart I learned of Dave Brockie’s passing.

GWAR (Photo credit: Iain Purdie)

Despite the deliberate dumbness of Gwar’s image, their lyrics were always clever. Witty use of rhyme and vocabulary to describe all kinds of intimate travesties. There was clearly a keen intellect behind the concept. A filthy-minded, perverted intellect, but keen nevertheless.

Outside of the band, Dave Brockie proved himself time and time again to be a thoughtful writer. His memoirs, serialised online, were heartfelt, humble, honest and hilarious. And even when wearing the mask of Oderus, he was able to pinpoint the absurdity of global politics and the hypocrisy of man.

And of course, he was an immeasurably talented artist. Even his simplest doodles possessed an energy and vitality which far belied the subject material. Brockie and the Slave Pit crew have created an amazing world of sickness, depravity, and humour. And I hope this legacy continues, in some form, without him.

The Universe has lost it’s finest Scumdog. And we in turn have lost a witty, creative, intelligent man.

Dave Brockie, 1963-2014

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