The world's first Punk Jam Band, the Fuckin Shit Biscuits, got their start on KFAI radio and at First Avenue's Club Degenerate night in the early 1980's before half of you were born. Some of us are dead - most of us have evil deeds unfulfilled and are far to lazy, apethetic and curious to avoid hell. sigh! It may be a stretch of your faith, don't blame us, but you can autocruise life believing that evil is safe with the Fuckin Shit Biscuits.

Been playing and recording out of Minneapolis for a brazillion years. Probably over a hundred musicians have contributed to the band's live shows and recordings. We'll get around to listing them one of these days. Stay tuned for more complete bio.

The band was formed around 1981 by Ron Parker and Bill Bailey in St. Paul, MN in the dirt floor basement of a rundown, seven bedroom, gheto building located kitty corner from the Martin Luther King center. We were a group of naive, poverty and decadence bound white boys from Duluth, MN.

Marshal and Dale

It's comical to recall the opportunities for exploitation presented to the black gheto by a group of middle class, big eyed white boys. Our new home was being invaded so often I'd stopped getting out of bed when I heard burglars rumbling around the lower level floors. The burglaries ended when I started a series of afternoon drunken and nude appearances on the front lawn where I'd inquire in a voice loud enough to be heard up and down the entire block, "how all you niggers doing?" The obsurdity of these displays was cause enough for the locals to double over, wet their drawers and respect our dumb asses enough to put us on ignore. It probably helped that there wasn't much left to  steal.

Out Of The Ghetto into The Fire

Hatch Ave. was alive with cockroaches but it was the eight inch long centipedes fuckin up the sleep psyche. And despite them we needed a bass player to help fill out our punk drum and vocal duet. The qualifications had more to do with acumen than musical skill. Will the newcomer have our backs when shit hits the fan? First auditions were held at the Whiskey Junction where we pounded beer and whiskey. We walk out the door with several drinks each. Bass dude has done a fine job keeping up but Bill and I can see he's feeling a little to sure of himself. He'll prove himself to be the real thing before we get home.

In front of the whiskey junction Bill throws a dozen punches into a telephone pole that's covered with band posters--slap, slap and gawd damned slap. Every punch made me cringe. "Fuck these other bands," Bill said, "we'll kick their skinny dickless foreskin asses." Bill's demonstration proved inspirational for both the bass player and I. And thus began a string of hit and runs, almost one for every block, begining at the Whiskey Junction on "Four Corners" and ending on Hatch Ave.

Neither Bill or I needed to speak when we looked at each other, I slammed down the rest of my whiskey and hurled the empty glass against a parked and pointed to shiney new Cadilac. Smash, the 1976 Pinto barreled into the side of that beautiful Cadilac. My passanger side window exploded onto me and into my remaining drinks. Not a problem. I offered a cigarette to a smiling bass player that sat drinking in the back seat. Looking back at Bill we both said, "he's in."

They don't say drinking impairs your driving for no good reason. Almost home and nearly two dozen hit and runs later, alcoloh impairment is likely the cause for  Pinto being ramed front-end to back-end into a pickup truck. This time we're hung up but good, with the lights for the truck owners house powering on and our car battery  disconnected from the wiring. Escaping that last accident without being caught was a miracle.

With the drunken courage gone we stood in light of dawn scared and not knowing what to do. We called for help. Our boss, a criminal from way back said, "Don't go anywhere or do anything. I'll take care of everything."  Within the half hour a skinny, greasy, grey overall wearing mechanic driving a wrecker that looked worse for wear than the Pinto, hitched up the Pinto and drove away. He never looked at or said a word to us. With the evidence gone we harvested some immature pot plants from our basement, smoked the crap and got drunk while listening to Gang of Four and The Police. 

We jammed, loud. The neighbors rocked every glass window on the building while were jamming in the basement.

GG Allin, the Fuckin Shit Biscuits, "A Match Made In Hell"

"How many of you have eaten from a dumpster?" Allin inquires, the crowd responds with loud jeers. "Fuck you. You motha fuckers ain't shit," said Allin. "You've never eaten garbage. " Allin and the Biscuits perform Charles Manson's Garbage Dump. "Minneapolis, you aint shit. The Replacements suck, Prince sucks, Husker Du sucks. You all suck, " states Allin at the conclusion of Garbage Dump. "There's only one good band in Minneapolis and that's the Fuckin Shit Biscuits. And if you hang on a minute I might just have one for ya." Allin proceeds to squat, dig in his ass and extrude a turd which is placed into an english muffin, he takes a bite and throws the bulk of the biscuit into the audience.

People occasionaly ask, what was G.G. like? I only knew him for a week but my impression is that he was the most single minded, determined person I had worked with. During A Match Made In Hell he inflicted cuts on his thighs that anyqualified authority would classify as severe motha fuckin wounds. The day after the show, wrapped in bandages, he took the video tapes of the show and skipped town.

Some of our crew screamed bloody murder when G.G. took the video tapes but none of us inflicted wounds onto our bodies. One plus  one equals one on earth and the moon. The tapes were Allin's property. And I'm somewhat sorry to report that the room he took the tapes from had cash, pot and other valuables which he didn't touch.

I feel sad when I think about G.G. and for more reasons than that he is 1 of 5 Biscuits that has died; two overdoses, one suicide (shotgun to head), one murder and one case of encephalitis. Allin's position was that rock was great, had turned to shit and he was its saviour. He believed it and if his methods for delivering the message were fucked I gotta say that motha fucka sure did try and that's what I admired and miss about G.G.

A punk band from Texas asked if I'd review their music. I love when someone wants my opinion. They are a young band mixing GGAllin covers with their originals. Their website has pictures of the band and friends hanging out with the Murder Junkies at the bar. This was my knee jerk reaction:

Instead of escaping into music I'll tell you why I hate myself. You wanna be a punk like GGAllin, perhaps the Murder Junkies or even me? Is that your cute girl friend at the bar with you and the Junkies? Did you force her lick Merle's ass? Did you watch or participate in her humilation? How 'bout I ruin her life with permanent neurological damage by cracking her head with a mic stand? Fuck you! Have you done time for armed robbery, kidnapping, etc? Again, Fuck you. You wannabe mutha fuckers singin GG songs, why? Maybe you're angry and righteous but if you are not shit then you probably shouldn't become it. I am because the past can't be erased. Fuck me!

I went beyound fodder for publicists and fanzine writers. I'm a good enough guy because I want my friends to be in control, to feel vindicated and joyful. I don't want to hurt or humilate your pretty girl or anyone else. My advice is write and play your songs and buy your girlfriend a boquet of flowers.

Fuckin Shit Biscuits current lineup:

• Ron Parker
  
• Dana Bailey
  
• Bill Bailey
  
• Joey Bailey
• Lico Dos Santos
• Drew Circles