By New Times
By Derek Askey
By Mark Deming
By Serene Dominic
By Jason Keil
By Robrt L. Pela and Amy Silverman
By Jeff Moses
By Serene Dominic
Dark industrial chicks aren't sexy. Dark industrial chicks are erotic. Pierced tongues, ash mascara, dead-rose bouquets hanging like crucifixes above draped bed frames speckled with candle wax. Such women give me shivers. They're so . . . nocturnal. Seething, spitting and genuflecting to the heavens onstage during a recent show at Boston's, November 17's lead singer Trevor Askew, 28, looks like a guy who gets a lot of industrial chicks. He has a Genghis Khan ponytail and Charlie Manson eyes. Shirtless, sweaty and tattooed, wearing black fatigue pants and combat boots, Askew perches atop an amp stack and glowers down at the crowd like a gargoyle. To his left are bassist Damon, 27, in full-body tribal paint, and guitarists Chris Cannella and Mark Keltner, both 25, who look like they played "Tough Goths 3 and 4" in one of the Crow movies. Drummer Jason Kowalski, also 25, is behind, wearing headphones to feed his head with looped DAT beats.
N17 kick-starts "Kontrol," the second song on the band's first album, Trust No One, which was nationally released May 27. A synthesizer sequence flares and strafes like B-movie laser fire. Guitar distortion and drums hit with visceral, piston force. "Fucked life dominated by control!" Askew sings, howling with such guttural menace the words translate, roughly, to "FURRGHD LUF DAARGH B'CRRUULRRGH!"
A lot of people say N17 sounds a lot like Ministry, which aggravates the Phoenix band to no end. "We are not like Ministry," says Cannella. The number of times an N17 member echoes this declaration in a recent interview (three) is overshadowed only by how many times Askew says he isn't afraid of death (four). But N17's right--sort of. It doesn't sound that much like Ministry. It's just that most bands who play its brand of industrial rock--looped, buzz-saw guitar riffs, ominous synthesizer sequences, sirens, slasher-flick screams, thunderous drumming and werewolf vocals--sound alike on the surface. Ministry's just the best known of the lot; hence the easy, shallow comparison. But Ministry's also getting tired, figuratively and--judging by the industrial demigods' by-the-numbers performance at Mesa Amphitheatre last summer--literally, as well. In contrast, N17 played the same night as Ministry at an after-party, and, in the genre's parlance, ripped shit up. "The kids were doing back flips off the monitors," Askew says. "We had an overwhelming number of people tell us we blew Ministry away that night."
Formed in the summer of 1993 (the band met through a New Times "musicians wanted/available" ad), N17 has understood from day one the importance of theatrics for industrial bands. Lights, costumes, mayhem. For early shows, N17 draped the stage with the black innards of disemboweled videocassettes. For lights, it used a few well-positioned Radio Shack strobes. "Our philosophy has always been to give a kid an arena concert for five bucks," says Kowalski.
Partly as a result of N17's taste for spectacle and relentless street-promoting, partly because the Valley is a proven market for heavy rock, and partly because goth/industrial fans are a bit obsessive by nature, N17 has developed arguably the largest, most rabid following of any local band. Next time you drive I-10 east out of Phoenix at night, check the massive electronic hotel billboard near the Warner exit. Every three cycles, a series of messages touting room features and rates is interrupted by N17's logo, clearly visible in changing colors for about eight seconds. The band pleads innocence. "We had nothing to do with it," says Cannella. "Our fans are crazy, and they just do crazy things." Things like the N17 tattoos and, gasp, scarifications visible on some fans at shows (try picturing some sorority babe with the Refreshments logo branded on her stomach). "I don't feel it's necessary," Askew says of the body modification, "but it's certainly flattering." Keltner disagrees: "Oh, come on. If someone wants something on their body, I'll be happy to write my name on their butt. Jesus. Some people should just buy a tee shirt."
One N17 fan infused the term "diehard" with new meaning during the band's showcase spot at this year's Foundation Forum, the metal-and-industrial-music conference held every spring in Los Angeles. N17 played a Saturday-night show in Hollywood at the Dragonflye, and during its set, one fan in the pit crashed to the floor and had to be revived by paramedics after his heart stopped. Keltner waves off the incident. "He fell, he hit his head, he flatlined, they brought him back, he's fine now, that's it." Well, not quite--the guy spent 50 hours in ICU, then had to catch a Greyhound back to Phoenix because he missed his ride. Askew says he paid the fan a bedside visit to drop off a get-well note and bus fare, and two nurses asked if he knew how to remove the man's Prince Albert (penis ring). Evidently, they wanted to insert a catheter. Askew, a professional body-piercer, declined. "They didn't have the right equipment. I told them to just go around it."
We'll just let that mental image dangle for a moment before we take out four popular misconceptions about N17. One: The band is named after the Greek terrorist organization Epanastatiki Organosi 17 Noemvriou (the Revolutionary Organization of 17 November). In fact, says Damon, the band is named after the same event in Greek history as the terrorist group, not the terrorist group itself. "It's a subtle distinction, but an important one."