Two Man Advantage

Don’t Label Us (Go-Kart)
by Jon Sarre

Back when I booked punk rock bands, I put these guys on at their buddy Rich Black’s suggestion. They pulled into town all the way from New York Fucking City. I was still new at the job and I hadn’t learned that the support bands are completely unreliable when it comes to hangin’ flyers for shows (flyers which I’d made and gone to goddamned Kinkos and paid for). The only ones that made it up were the ones I’d hung. Hence no one showed up to see Two Man Advantage ‘cept me, the sound guy, the undeservin’ openin’ bands and their friends. It was a financial disaster, but we all had a great fucking time. The rest of the city missed out on it, that’s all. Two Man changed into their hockey gear, drank beer, and forced everyone to sing along until we were all too drunk. Then I stole money from the club so I could pay ’em. You should pay for true entertainment. Sometimes, at least.

The first Two Man Advantage release was a punk rock record about hockey, playin’ it, watchin’ it, and drinkin’ beer to it. On this new one, they’ve developed more varied interests, so only the bulk of the material is about hockey and beer. Let’s see, there’s one about a car (“Hot Rod GTO”) and there’s one about how Drunk Bastard (a bear of a man who spits beer all over himself for yer and my enjoyment and, uh, designs buildings as a day job, or so he claims, ‘cept he’s a natural fuckin’ punk rock singer, but that’s just to relieve the stress of architecture, which has the highest suicide rate among the “professions,” don’tcha know) considers himself, or the guy over at the next bar stool, an “Opinionated Motherfucker,” but mebbe he’s just talkin’ about hockey opinions, and then there’s another one called “Broken Bottle Rock & Roll” which is pretty self-explanatory. It’s also nice to see they wrote one about their roadie, the Rookie (“Headhunting”), cuz he plays the important role of runnin’ around with a hockey helmet, goadin’ someone to swing at him, most entertainin’, unless yer the one he’s fuckin’ with. Hey, what’s hockey without a fight? Or a drink? Or just bein’ plain old obnoxious? You don’t even have to be a hockey fan to appreciate that.
(PO Box 20 Prince Street Station New York, NY 10012)