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from RIP magazine, January 1991
[Reading back on this article, I feel it was a bit presumptuous of Epic's publicity department to ask Prong to squeeze some journalist into their already-cramped touring van. Especially a journalist who was a known food-snatcher. I don't know if Prong was happy, or unhappy to oblige their label and RIP magazine, but I hope this story was worth it for them. It certainly was worth it for me, because I got to know Tommy Victor on that trip. When you work in the music business, enjoying an album is one thing; enjoying the company of the artists behind the music is another thing altogether. I appreciated Tommy's intelligence, his cynical attitude and his soul. And the fact that he didn't think I was a complete idiot for practically ignoring him in favor of his leftover dinner that night at the Country Club! I do want to mention that record labels have sent me all over the world to cover their bands under all sorts of traveling conditions. The cushiest jaunt was probably my stay at the Plaza to cover the Black Crowes. This Prong trip was probably the roughest. And I had a better time with Prong.]
The first time I met the guys in Prong, I was ravenously devouring their leftover Chinese food. This less-than auspicious introduction came about the night they were opening for Voivod and Soundgarden at the Country Club in Reseda, a half-hour drive from Hollywood. I had passed up dinner in lieu of seeing them perform, and by the time I finished 'banging to their intensely raw set — which, by the way, was underappreciated by the jaded L.A. crowd — I was starved. Epic publicist Hanna Bolte brought me backstage to meet the trio.
"You guys were great," I enthused, eyeing a half-empty box of chow mein.
"We were okay," singer/ guitarist Tommy Victor replied offhandedly. "The crowd sucked though."
"True," I agreed. "Hey, anyone eating this chow mein?"
I should have known that, a few months later, Hanna was going to ask me if I'd like to spend a couple of days on the road with the trio. I inwardly groaned, remembering the stellar impression I must have made, but decided to stuff my embarrassment and go. After all, I loved the band's stripped-to-the-bones fighting spirit on their LP, Beg to Differ. I had also looked over the press Prong was getting, and noted that the other writers had all compared the group's combination of 'core, industrial grunge and metal to the granite and inherent danger of its hometown of New York City. It seemed like a fresh outlook was in order, and this trip would offer me that. So I hopped on a plane.
As I made my way over to El Paso's Civic Center Auditorium, I realized just how out of our element both Prong and I were. Downtown was neat, clean and under some architecturally sound reconstruction — not at all like the phony facades of L.A. or the foreboding NYC skyscrapers. This place, on a Saturday afternoon, at least, was downright calm. I arrived at the backstage entrance just as Prong's members were stepping out of their van. I later learned that the van was all they had for transportation — no bus, no Ryder truck, not even a U-Haul. The band, two roadies, the tour manager/ soundman, plus all their equipment (with the exception of one cabinet that the headliners, Flotsam and Jetsam, obligingly ported) had to fit into the small vehicle. We're talking about a bare-bones tour here! But during the course of the next two days, I never heard one complaint from anyone. The Prong camp was practical and refreshingly down-to-earth.
I reintroduced myself to Tommy by saying, red-faced, "Remember me? I was eating your dinner at the Country Club." With an ironic grin, he assured me he did remember that night — not so much for my grub-grabbing, but for the lameness of the L.A. audience. But for now, our chat had to wait. The band was running late and had to throw its gear together for soundcheck. I perched myself in a corner and watched the guys set up. Drummer Ted Parsons and one of the roadies, Tim, fiddled endlessly with his kit, while bassist Mike Kirkland gave his gear his undivided attention, barely taking the time to give me a friendly nod. Tommy, meanwhile, had disappeared somewhere with his guitar. Everyone was apparently striving for a perfection that they already knew was an impossibility. Prong was clearly more than a little anal retentive. Once everything sounded all right — that's not to say it met with Prong's exacting specifications — Tommy showed me where backstage was. To get there, we had to walk past a closed-off hall that, during the day, housed a gun convention. A lone security guard eyed us suspiciously through the darkness. I was glad to escape upstairs to the brightly lit room.
Right off the bat Tommy and I got into a debate about the regional nature of metal music. I pointed out that many East Coast groups center on socio-political issues like racism and governmental authority's affect on the common man, while other, equally aware groups on the West Coast — labelmates Suicidal Tendencies, for example — expressed their feelings on those same issues in a much more personal manner. Tommy disagreed at first — I got the distinct impression that, at times, he liked to argue just for the sake of arguing — but once he understood that I felt both points of view were valid, he relented a bit.
"The average New Yorker, I think, is somewhat neurotic," he reasoned. "You know, crazy, paranoid. Prong is sort of on a defensive trip, too. It's a very defensive, uptight kind of trip we do. But then there's concern, a general concern for everyone."
A lot of that New York attitude comes from the city's inherent claustrophobia. "With personal contact, you feel a street-level thing that you don't get anywhere else in America," Tommy claimed. "It's the intensity; all these cultures together on the subways and buses. I grew up taking buses everywhere. My mother drove me someplace maybe three times in my life. That's different than most people in America. I used to hop on a bus and see other people, be exposed to other cultures a lot. You have to deal with them. So it's that kind of thing. But in L.A. and California — and most of the country — you have escapism. People get in the car. You don't have to be in contact with people you don't like; be in contact with things you don't want to see. It's much more sheltered living."
After a heavy-duty discussion like this, I wondered how Prong was going to fly in El Paso. Would this brutally intellectual trio be understood by these long-haired innocents in their Metallica tees? I needn't have worried — the huge slam pit that formed at the start of Prong's set told me the whole story. These kids weren't interested in ideas, they wanted action. And Prong gave them the vehicle with which to express the frustration that eats away at anyone forced to live in the unrest of the '90s.
As the band was loading out, it was approached by the requisite autograph seekers. These included, to my surprise, several girls who insisted that the guys sign their chests. Geez! I thought this only happened with bands like Warrant — but, no! And believe me, Prong was more than happy to oblige the young ladies. Nobody followed us back to the El Paso Days Inn, however, and the band turned in early. No drunken trips to sleazy bars, no trashed rooms. After their drive in from Arizona and a night of extremely aggressive music, they were looking forward to some peace and quiet.
By the time I had roused myself the next morning and met the guys by the van, the crew was almost done packing. They managed to squeeze my bag in somewhere and kindly let me ride shotgun. Normally, it's a five-hour drive from El Paso to Albuquerque, but tour manager Craig Overbay made it in four. That gave Norman, their other roadie, and Mike an extra hour to nap once we got to the motel. The rest of us headed for a nearby Target store. The guys all bought necessities — rope, shaving cream, toothpaste. I purchased a water cannon to bring back to L.A. Tommy gave me a strange look when he saw me carrying it to the checkout counter. I really liked these guys — they're all smart and very grounded — but I was beginning to wonder if they ever loosened up.
We hit the venue a couple of hours later, and I wanted to talk with the guys while they still had the energy, so I made my way down the treacherous steps of the theater's backstage area. It was like descending into hell — a jumbled mess of rotting wood posts and ancient pipes, with the merest of bare-bulb lighting. My boots, already covered with New Mexico dust, received yet another layer of grime. That was when it really began to hit home just how truly unglamorous touring can be — long drives through monotonous scenery, meals at nondescript coffee shops and fast food chains, the highlight of the day being a trip to a discount store. All for the opportunity to get onstage and, if the chemistry is right and there are no major technical problems, kick ass. It all seemed pretty bleak. No wonder Prong's shows virtually exploded.
I found Tommy in a small, musty room, holding his guitar, making himself at home. Again, no complaints about his surroundings. In regards to his band, however, he was very critical. The songs had room for improvement, his guitar playing wasn't that great (Ha! I thought). I asked him why he was so self-deprecating.
"I'm not purposely that way about Prong," he protested. "I just feel that we could be a lot better, and I'm honestly disappointed in the band a lot. You know, that's just the way I am. But I think that may have something to do with us progressing further and further too. I enjoy playing, and I enjoy progressing, which is initially a challenge — being able to control your own destiny and setting your own initial goals. Getting things conquered by yourself, without the help of anybody else."
However, to land a record deal with Epic, Prong had the help of both Living Colour's Vernon Reid and journalist Lisa Robinson. Vernon knew Tommy and Mike through their jobs at the infamous NYC club, CBGB's, and he was impressed when he saw them play. His enthusiasm, along with Lisa's, helped sway Epic over to Prong's side. "We were extremely lucky in having those people interested in us at the same time," Tommy nodded. "It was really weird. I would have never thought that Vernon would have really liked us, and apparently he and Corey both liked it." Nevertheless, Tommy claimed, "I think we have a long way to go in popularity. We never rose to the forefront of the New York scene — even that. We've always sort of been outcasts, like, 'Who are those guys?"
The guys in Prong certainly weren't outcasts in Albuquerque. The slam pit here was even more ferocious than the night before; and after the group's set, they were congratulated by several of the guys in Flotsam. Tommy merely waved them off, saying, "Ehhh, we could've been better." However, I think he secretly appreciated the compliments.
The next day Prong and I parted ways. The guys had a 12-hour drive to Wichita in their cramped little van and no gig till the next night. I admired this bunch of troopers, but in no way did I envy them.
I ran across the trio a few weeks later, when they hit L.A. once again. This time the Country Club crowd was more responsive — not that Tommy cared. When Megadeth's Dave Ellefson came backstage to say hello, Tommy started off by saying, "Don't even say anything. It was the worst show!" That's Prong for you — never satisfied with themselves, constantly striving to better their music. There was a difference, though: When Tim drove the familiar van to the backstage door, trailing behind it was, wonder of all wonders, a U-Haul!
Tommy will undoubtedly disagree, but it looks like Prong is slowly, but surely moving up in the world.
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