Born out of the KLEASMOS,
Attic Tragedy was formed by Sam Ludwig(vocals,harmonica)
,Jer Herring(guitar), and Merv Kukich(percussion)
in an old house on S.Depyster St., Kent, Ohio. Merv later moved out of
town leaving Sam and Jer to continue to write songs in the attic. Spurred
on by their love of punk rock and underground music, the pair were later
joined by Rob Lightbody(bass), Geoff Feinberg(guitar),
and Diane Glaub(drums). The band recorded at the Beat
Farm in Cleveland, Ohio with Chris Burgess turning the knobs
in the studio. The recordings were originally self-released as a cassette,
entitled COFFEE DRINKIN THINKIN, and were re-released a number
of years after the band was no longer together by Scat Records
on 10" vinyl. Both of these original releases are no longer in print.
All tracks by Attic Tragedy
except #12. DOGS ON PARADE-SEXUAL
CHAFING, or FRESH CANDIES,sure.
The
cd shown below is made up of these Beat Farm sessions, along with
several live tracks, including an improvisational instrumental track recorded
in the infamous attic on S. Depyster St. The cd art work consists of original
drawings by Sam from flyers to promote shows of that era. Also,
the liner notes are from the original Scat
Records release that were written by Tim Tobias(member of
late 80's Cleveland band Ghost Sonata, and more recently a member
of both Cleveland band Gem and the infamous Guided By Voices).
Tracks 1-12 recorded by Chris Burgess at the Beat Farm (Cleveland,
OH), Fall, 1989; #13 recorded at JB's Down (Kent, OH), May 1987;
#14 recorded at the Kent State Music Listening Center, March, 1987;
#15 recorded in Sam's attic sometime in 1987.
Kent, Ohio, is a constant sleepy flux, a vulture just floating, a decaying
bat swept up with frayed brooms and broken dust pans. The faces are always
new, but the same eyes peer from every fresh skull. The same words float
from every mouth, small winged voices that swirl into terminal dervish
harpy patients, drunken sing-song grunts and hacking phlegm shouts. Slack-jawed
slurring from behind the couch, sleeping on the floor grates to keep warm.
Debts paid in sheets and bags to the delight of everyone involved. Alcohol
boot camp, learning to walk, speak, fuck, suck, lick, kiss with one foot
in the toilet and the other spinning mercilessly out of control. Learning
to crawl all over again. Hundreds of innocent bodies lurching to the same
slack beat, all arms and green faced churning. Certain Saturday nights
the city would writhe with the electric undulation of a thousand pink
worms until the flames of the streetlights drove them back into the earth
to search for a cure. The Cuyahoga River, sometimes violent, sometimes
serene, always a beacon to the malcontent or romantic self-destructors,
or just a place where the frat boys took the sorority girls to get them
in the mood for date rape or pseudo necrophillia complete with vomit and
stale piss ejaculation. Dorm rooms filled with hushed copulation and embarrassed
roommates. Inbred ape creatures from nearby villages staggering toward
an unsuspecting victim, the killing instinct taking complete and utter
control of the small brain inside the simian skull.
Kent is a small pitcher of syrup with a thousand flies, wings glued quiet,
all trying to escape, some stepping on everyone around them, any-cost
mercenary insects, others content and happy to suck at the sweet fate
handed them. Some don't care at all, and then there are those that will
try anything to simply ENJOY themselves, no matter what, no matter how
ugly the conditions. Pleasure could be equated with survival. It's just
that you sink deeper into the viscous mire and eventually drown. Self-destruction
as a means, with no consideration to it being the end. A stupid mythological
notion, albeit with some interesting results in the meantime.
Attic Tragedy was one of the results, clawing out of this sticky womb,
onto your dinner plate and into your pants, head and feet. They understood
the WHY of rock and roll music, not merely the HOW. They were free. They
were drunken bar lights in you bottle, the virginal liquid dripping from
your glazed mouth onto your chest, the shudder in the thigh, a cat-tail
spasm, a force of fucking nature. I'd sit there in a trance sometimes,
fly-trap mouth and squid bulge eyes, thankfully oblivious to the fact
that I was leaning against the wall at JB's, a small, dirty bar in Kent
that has a peculiar smell, a mystery odor that I can not equate to anything
occuring in nature, where the walls usually are wet, dripping with what
I pray is water.
Gradually I would be drawn to the edge of the stage where I would taunt
Sam, push him, spit on his boots, anything to get him going, and there's
nothing quite like seeing Sam do the Pony. Imagine a skinny moose on two
legs dancing across a frozen Ontario ice field holding a beer and microphone,
baying at a particularly attractive she-moose across the way. That was
Good Sam. 
Then there was Bad Sam, who, when displeased with someone's attitude or
actions or just for the hell of it, would resort to some form of violence,
generally in the form of large objects flying through the air toward a
soon-to-be mushy head. Imagine a surly Irish Wolfhound, stumbling onto
the street and biting the first poor bastard who just happened to walk
by. You never knew which one would show up, but as long as you ducked,
it was always entertaining. The music itself always put the groove into
it; no matter what, an alien concept (it seemed) to most punk-rock bands,
who were usually too busy bitching and moaning to think about why the
fuck they were doing what they were doing, which was supposed to be channeling
their "anger", but screaming is just sniveling when there's
no recourse. Attic Tragedy didn't sound like a punk-rock band to me (sorry
Sam), but what the fuck? They had the strength of 30 whiny hardcore bands,
and they didn't fall prey to anyone's expectations, which is what I thought
punk-rock was supposed to be about anyway.
They did fall prey to one thing, though, and I don't even like to think
about this, because here was on band that had it down, that, again, understood
the WHY, the gut purge, the metafuck buttshake, the dervish call for nubile
taut flesh undulations. They could ooze slugjuice or smash you with the
purple feet of a crazed monk. So why is this a posthumous release, if
they were so damned great? I'm asking myself that question, too. I guess
it's because they were so caught in the moment that lasting beyond the
next was a crapshoot at best. 
It's not as though they stopped evolving, they were always kind of shifting
sideways and back, so what gives? Is it really a matter of rock and roll
"ethics", the stupid hope I die blah blah blah bullshit that
has taken too many great bands and reduced them to a small fire in a wastebasket
that someone quickly extinguishes and forgets? Or maybe it just drifted
apart, hell, I don't know, ask them. Write Sam a letter, he'd appreciate
the mail. I just think they deserve more than a posthumous record with
my confused musings plastered all over it, that's all. But what the hell?
Tiny electric earwigs are about to burrow paths of righteousness in your
skull, the sound of Kent, Ohio, brought to a head, Pop it, love it, caress
its gentle ooze, let it run down your chin. You'll love yourself, I swear
to God.
-Tim Tobias,January 1991
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Speed Mop Music
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