Szymanski, outfitted in a black T-shirt and jeans, rears up in his seat and says melodramatically, "Just shut the fuck up, it's not fucking funny!" Except that, when it comes to Pillmagnet, it is sort of funny. That's what happens when you get a bit older: You learn not to take everything so damn seriously. "Your mother was fucking in the '60s," Szymanski reminds his sideburned bandmate.
McNeal cracks up, and singer/rhythm guitarist Libby Bentley and drummer Tim Vaughn both grin broadly. The quartet has gathered at Fort Lauderdale's Digital Beach Studios to put the finishing touches on its debut CD, which is tentatively scheduled for release in August. The nine-track disc is a bracing sampler of Pillmagnet's melodic yet moody brand of punk, a paean to the catchier side of old-style punk.
As it turns out, Szymanski is 39 years old. Vaughn puts his age at 30, while Bentley merely rolls her eyes. "Why do you have to say anything about age? Age is only a number. I don't think it's relevant," she says.
She's right, of course. The South Florida music scene has its fair share of aging punkers, from local stalwart Frank "Rat Bastard" Falestra, who, at age 40, heads noise band the Laundry Room Squelchers, to the godfather of punk himself, Iggy Pop, who winters here in Florida. (He has said that the cold weather elsewhere makes his joints sore.)
The origins of Pillmagnet, in fact, date back nearly 20 years. In 1981 Bentley and Szymanski joined with Jeff Hodapp to form a Sex Pistols-influenced outfit called Morbid Opera; Vaughn joined the Opera several years later. For the record Hodapp is still alive and playing, fronting the Drug Czars. His wife, Lisa, another Opera alum, plays guitar in the Gargirls.
But the immediate impetus to form the band came by way of a chance meeting between Szymanski and McNeal. "As soon as I met Justin, I knew there was some sort of connection," Szymanski says. "We had been going out that night his band, the Shithouse Bowlers, was playing, and we just got along really well, and shortly after that we started thinking up all these funny song titles and said, 'Hey, let's start a band.'"
"This whole thing started as a big joke," McNeal chimes in.
The band's name, for instance, came from the 1967 film Valley of the Dolls. "I guess we were thinking about mixing drugs and glamour," Szymanski explains. "After a while we thought about changing the name to 'Killmagnet' because of the drug reference, but on the advice of many, we left it alone."
Vaughn, who joined the band earlier this year when previous drummer Laura Simpson moved to New York, was a natural fit. "When it comes to influences, whether it's a band, or a movie or, hell, even a magazine, we're all into the same things, basically," he says. "Libby's my ex-wife, Michael's one of my dearest, oldest friends, and I've known Justin for a few years now. When you know somebody for so long, when you get together, and you click --"
"You can do magic," sings Bentley, whose tousled bleached-blond hair shamelessly reveals dark roots.
Her bandmates burst into laughter.
As further evidence of the band's irreverence, consider its first demo cassette, entitled Ew, Gross, It's the Pillmagnets. McNeal mischievously chuckles at the reference. "The picture on it was... gross," offers Szymanski. After a brief, embarrassed pause, he elaborates: "It was basically a guy taking a diarrhea shit in a girl's mouth." The band bursts into laughter.
Though Pillmagnet started as a fluke, Szymanski says the band deserves a lot of credit in helping him break out as an artist. He says it wasn't until he formed Pillmagnet that he was ever given an opportunity to go beyond his role as a sideman and submit his own ideas for songs and music. "With Pillmagnet I have a lot of creative control," he says. "Some of the stuff that I come up with now I actually thought about several years ago, I just never had an avenue to do it. Libby likes what I do, and I love what she comes up with. She has a great mind for lyrics, a great mind for catchy melodies. I love what Justin comes up with."
At a recent show at Miami's Tobacco Road, the group's synergy was very much in evidence. They took the stage with nary a flourish, just a few mumbles, nods, and nervous grins. Then, out of nowhere, "Burnin' Love" burst from the speakers with a sound like a convoy of Harley-Davidsons ripping down a country road. Bentley set about a rapid-fire rant, while McNeal wrung abrasive, driving notes from his guitar, and Szymanski pummeled his bass. By the end of the set, numerous guitar strings had snapped.