Chris Connelly
Local musician learns taking 7 kinds of drugs at once = bad idea
More Debaser
People are always asking us to help plug something of theirs—an upcoming show, a new record, some book they wrote. Because we’re not in the pandering business, we think there should be a trade-off. Debaser allows these folks to plug whatever they want, with one caveat: They also have to tell us something embarrassing about themselves. This week, we talk to local musician Chris Connelly, who made his name in the late ’80s/early ’90s as a member of Ministry, Revolting Cocks, and Pigface, but has ventured into post-rock territory the past few years. His latest record, Forgiveness & Exile, is his most experimental to date, but any self-indulgence is for a good cause: It benefits the Marjorie Kovler Center for refugees.
Decider: How did Forgiveness And Exile come together?
Chris Connelly: Well, I started writing it as just a poem, “Forgiveness And Exile,” and it was supposed to be a short poem and I kept adding to it and adding to it. At that time, it was right after my son was born, so I was up really early in the mornings a lot, and I was listening to the radio. I kept hearing these just terrible stories about refugees and especially, not being specific, but about refugees who’d been tortured and had family members killed and been thrown out of where they lived, basically. The poem became about that for me. I remembered about 10 years ago I had met a doctor, who had told me she was involved with the Marjorie Kovler Center, and she encouraged me at the time to get involved. And I said, “ I don’t know what I can offer apart from thinking that this whole situation is awful. But I’m not a counselor, and I don’t know how I would react to someone who had come to America, can’t speak English, and has been traumatized beyond belief.” And I left it at that. When I was writing “Forgiveness And Exile,” she came back into my mind, and I realized, well, here’s my chance to do something. This is what I consider myself to be good at, writing, and perhaps I could turn this into something where I could actually do something to help.
Chris Connelly: Well, I started writing it as just a poem, “Forgiveness And Exile,” and it was supposed to be a short poem and I kept adding to it and adding to it. At that time, it was right after my son was born, so I was up really early in the mornings a lot, and I was listening to the radio. I kept hearing these just terrible stories about refugees and especially, not being specific, but about refugees who’d been tortured and had family members killed and been thrown out of where they lived, basically. The poem became about that for me. I remembered about 10 years ago I had met a doctor, who had told me she was involved with the Marjorie Kovler Center, and she encouraged me at the time to get involved. And I said, “ I don’t know what I can offer apart from thinking that this whole situation is awful. But I’m not a counselor, and I don’t know how I would react to someone who had come to America, can’t speak English, and has been traumatized beyond belief.” And I left it at that. When I was writing “Forgiveness And Exile,” she came back into my mind, and I realized, well, here’s my chance to do something. This is what I consider myself to be good at, writing, and perhaps I could turn this into something where I could actually do something to help.
I have a Monday through Friday, 9-to-5 job. My wife has a job. I gave up trying to make records for money ages ago because it never happened. There were a little bit of royalties here and there, which I just always took and put into the next project. So it was not a stretch for me to just say, “Well, I’m not going to give 50 percent of the royalties to the Marjorie Kovler Center—I’ll give them all,” because then maybe they could buy a TV set. Maybe they could buy clothes for kids. Maybe they could do something concrete rather than this sort of “10 percent of everything Chris earns.” And I also know in my heart of hearts that I don’t sell enough records for that to make a difference. But if I give everything? Then maybe we’re talking about something solid.
D: All right, let’s hear something humiliating.
CC: My most embarrassing time was playing the first Pigface show, the very first one. We as a band, and this is 1991, went on tour. The record Gub had just come out. Maybe it hadn’t even come out yet, but it was an EP or something. But we had a six-week tour on the go, with Martin Atkins, Paul Raven, Ogre, William Tucker, Matt Schultz, and I can’t remember who else was in the band. The first gig was at the Unicorn in Houston, which was this huge disused supermarket or something. Okay, there’s two things going on with the band for the majority of the band, myself included: First of all, we hadn’t rehearsed.
D: Which was part of Martin’s improvisational plan, like, “We don’t practice.”
CC: I know! It was! But that’s not a good idea. I mean, we didn’t even have a kind of basic concept. If you think, if it was an art project, it could be kind of cool, as an experiment. But there were people there who were paying big money, and we were opening for the Butthole Surfers, which for me at the time was a big deal. I like that band, and I was kind of excited. So we didn’t rehearse. I thought it would be fine. Everybody thought it would be fine. And before the show I took seven different kinds of drugs. Seven different kind of drugs. And theses days I couldn’t even tell you seven different kind of drugs, but I remember because I counted them because I was so fucking proud of myself—hallucinogens, powders, whatever. I crammed them down my throat, up my nose, whatever.
D: All right, let’s hear something humiliating.
CC: My most embarrassing time was playing the first Pigface show, the very first one. We as a band, and this is 1991, went on tour. The record Gub had just come out. Maybe it hadn’t even come out yet, but it was an EP or something. But we had a six-week tour on the go, with Martin Atkins, Paul Raven, Ogre, William Tucker, Matt Schultz, and I can’t remember who else was in the band. The first gig was at the Unicorn in Houston, which was this huge disused supermarket or something. Okay, there’s two things going on with the band for the majority of the band, myself included: First of all, we hadn’t rehearsed.
D: Which was part of Martin’s improvisational plan, like, “We don’t practice.”
CC: I know! It was! But that’s not a good idea. I mean, we didn’t even have a kind of basic concept. If you think, if it was an art project, it could be kind of cool, as an experiment. But there were people there who were paying big money, and we were opening for the Butthole Surfers, which for me at the time was a big deal. I like that band, and I was kind of excited. So we didn’t rehearse. I thought it would be fine. Everybody thought it would be fine. And before the show I took seven different kinds of drugs. Seven different kind of drugs. And theses days I couldn’t even tell you seven different kind of drugs, but I remember because I counted them because I was so fucking proud of myself—hallucinogens, powders, whatever. I crammed them down my throat, up my nose, whatever.
We got onstage, and we sucked—so bad. Now matter how high or drunk I was, I could tell onstage that this wasn’t working. And the absolute apex of humiliation came after the show, when there was a friend there who’d come to see me. She always came to our shows; she was a really, really supportive, really nice, level-headed person. She was there at the side of the stage, and I got off stage, and she looked at me and she said, “Chris, what the fuck are you thinking?” And I just crumpled.
D: That’s such a withering thing to say.
CC: Yeah, and she wasn’t being mean. She was really like bewildered. She was just like, “What were you doing?” You know? However, I learned from the experience. It took awhile, but I did learn. I have quality control in place now, maybe 16 or 17 years later. [Laughs.]
D: That’s such a withering thing to say.
CC: Yeah, and she wasn’t being mean. She was really like bewildered. She was just like, “What were you doing?” You know? However, I learned from the experience. It took awhile, but I did learn. I have quality control in place now, maybe 16 or 17 years later. [Laughs.]
