BroLoaf Brings Its "A Game" to the Marquee
When bands choose an opening act to warm up their minions, they're thinking only about getting some rookies onstage to basically test the electricity in the building while they quietly snort blow backstage. But if they aren't thinking at all, they pick an opening act like BroLoaf, the "Michael Jordan of hardcore."
We sat down Loafers Ben Brah and the band's "life coach," Coach Grundy, to discuss giving 110 percent and the perils of being "the opening band."
New Times: Does it bother you that people think BroLoaf is less than genuine because the group was brought together through artificial means, like The Spice Girls or Menudo?
BroLoaf is scheduled to perform Sunday, September 18, at Marquee Theatre in Tempe.
Ben Brah: We make no bones about it. We formed as a result of the Thrash of the Titans contest. They stuck me with three other musicians — two I didn't know — and some kid gave us the name. I told him I'd buy him a beer.
NT: Do you ever have to leave a deposit with a club for possible damages BroLoaf might incur in a routine show?
BB: No, we generally try to pack up our shit and duck out before anyone can say anything.
Coach Grundy: That might've been true in the earlier days, but now clubs have actually come to us asking us to destroy their club. It's almost a point of pride to have BroLoaf come and mess shit up.
NT: BroLoaf is known for its extravagant productions. Has anything BroLoaf planned for a show ever not work? A major prop-fail? Wardrobe malfunction?
BB: It's always 110 percent. We never make any mistakes. We're the Michael Jordan of hardcore. Print it! Remember it!
NT: Opening acts, as a rule, have to contend with hostile crowds . . .
BB: We win them over every time! This is a band who has played a wrestling match in front of the ring 45 minutes before the match started. We're standing there in front of a bunch of wild wrestling fans angry that they have to sit through a rock show. Let alone our rock show.
NT: Pumped-up testosterone males hungry for violence? Aren't those BroLoaf kind of people?
BB: You'd think, but then they go home to their wives and they listen to Creed. So when you're used to hearing that and then BroLoaf comes out and spews in your mom's face . . .
NT: Does the violence at BroLoaf shows worry you?
BB: No, because BroLoaf can't be stopped by any onslaught. We'll throw down our instruments if we see one of our extended fraternity getting hurt. We're a family first and foremost, and, as such, we're always ready for a fight.
NT: But at some point, won't the excesses take their toll on BroLoaf? Can you see a day where, say, maybe guitarists Todd the Bod or Johnny Deuces might develop drug problems?
BB: We're all drug enthusiasts. So no one in the band has a "problem."
NT: But consuming copious quantities of coke, as you do — doesn't that get expensive?
BB: I tell you what's expensive. The giant straws are expensive.
NT: At some point it's gotta affect your performance . . .
BB: The 'roids usually cancel out the buzz, anyway.
CG: Every second we're breathing success.
NT: Breeding success?
CG: Breathing and breeding success. It makes no difference.
NT: As BroLoaf's head coach and head life coach, what's your main function?
CG: A well-oiled machine of sex, drugs, and booze needs an engine.
BB: Coach Grundy is that engine.
NT: But if BroLoaf has already chosen the sex-drugs-and-booze lifestyle, what do they need a life coach for?
CG: A good coach leads by example, and if that means out-drugging, out-drinking, or banging more teenage ass to keep these boys focused, that's what I'll do.
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