By Ashley Zimmerman
By Dana Krangel
By John Hood
By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
But have you ever wondered where the musicians in your favorite local bands go when they're done rocking? Sure you have -- maybe some of you a little too much. To satisfy your voyeuristic needs, here is an all-access look at "where the magic happens" in the cribs of some local musicians. Well, it's actually more along the lines of "where the smell's coming from," but you get the idea. DJ yOKO9k of DeathDigsDisco
Location: Fort Lauderdale.
Length of residence: About 2.5 years.
Description of his crib: "It's just... dirty."
In his fridge: "Mostly exploded soda cans."
As a meeting place for several local musicians and artists, yOKO9k's abode is understandably cluttered with instruments and records (his collection includes Soft Cell and Cyndi Lauper), and the walls are covered with tattered show fliers. A shabby couch sits in the middle of the room, and the floor is cold, gray cement. A red light illuminates the dark hallway, and you have to use a wooden step to get into the tiny bathroom. One small back room is inaccessible, filled with trash and junk. It's a study in filth and vaguely reminiscent of the kind of place where someone in a Dario Argento movie would be disemboweled while Goblin blares in the background.
yOKO9k vs. the turkey: "I had this turkey that was in my fridge for a while, and I just got used to seeing it there, so I forgot about it. After a while, I realized, like, holy shit this turkey has been in my fridge for eight months. Then, it started to get psychological, and I was convinced it was a curse and that if I removed the turkey, then worse things would happen." He pauses and looks around before continuing: "I tried to get rid of it once. I ran it out to the Dumpster. It was locked. The trash can was overflowing. So I left it outside by the trash can. Somehow, that shit made it back into my house, back into my fridge. I decided it was evil and I shouldn't fuck with it. Then I was like 'No! No means no!' and threw it out for good. Since then, I haven't used the fridge that much."
Most prized possession (and source of musical inspiration): His cat, Twitch. "I took all my old instruments, keyboards, turntables, pedals, and hooked them all up and laid them flat across the floor and sprinkled catnip all over it. And then Twitch just freaked out and rolled around on everything. It was the most insane sound ever. I never could have created it myself."
Meet the neighbors: "I'm not prejudiced or anything -- I mean, I'm wearing a skirt right now -- but the people who walk down this street are mostly right out of jail or in recovery. I see a lotta transvestites too. Crackheads, freaks, and druggies."
vocalist for the Freakin' Hott
Location: The 'burbs of Delray Beach, where kids throw rocks at street signs.
Length of residence: Her whole life. She was conceived in the bedroom. "I lay in bed at night and think "Yeah... I know what was going on. Right here." The door to Maggie's room is now adorned with pages from Playgirl and a page from a magazine article titled "What's that Sound? Uncovering the Mystery Behind the Queef."
Most useless thing in the crib: "My unfinished New Kids on the Block jigsaw puzzle."
Most prized possession(s): Her collection of Superdrag 7 inches and records.
Least favorite thing in the fridge: "The stuff with green fur growing on it."
This is where the magic happens: If she could have a romantic rendezvous with any rock star in her crib, it would "definitely be Donny Osmond. Preferably with his head stuck in the oven."
Everything in Maggie's house, she claims, is from a thrift store. From her coffee tables to her couches to her dish soap holder to her velvet painting of a bullfighter. In her living room sit two glass mannequin heads, given to her by an acquaintance who "said 'you're weird, right? Have these. '" In front of the heads is her beloved Donny and Marie record case, which she "totally got from eBay." In the hallway, two mildly creepy puppets in sombreros -- she's named them Juan and Jose -- are hanging from the wall, their cold, dead eyes staring at the ground. "Yeah," Maggie says, "everyone's always like 'Aren't you afraid they'll come alive at night and, like, stab you?'"
Her big, fat Italian neighbor: "Oh, he's just horrible. He has a ham radio tower in his backyard, and every time he uses it, the lamps in [my] house flicker on and off. And he always gets his mail without a shirt on."