My Only Fan

Ah, 1994. What a memorable year: Tonya Harding, an IRA cessation, Kurt Cobain, and OJ — not to mention The Lion King.

Well Hakuna Matata, bitches, because you most definitely missed out on the greatest single event to happen that year — the first and only concert performance of RM49 GREEDO.

I’ve played in tons of shitty bands at shitty venues, and even garnered some very minor rockstar-type reception for a minute in a stoner-rock band. But no accolades or applause could ever top my final experience as a frontman. 

RM49 GREEDO. We were a band that attacked various genres by liberally splicing them with death metal and the most vile, biting lyrics you could imagine. It came about as a result of growing up in an ignorant, dull, and white environment in suburban Pennsylvania, a place where most folks' idea of fun was line-dancing. 

In the band, I was “Jojoba,” and I played all the music. My friend-in-arms called himself “Troll.” He wrote and growled all the lyrics.

We found the perfect storm of opportunity for our debut: a farmer’s market holding a battle of the bands. The man holding it was desperate enough that he didn’t even ask for demos; he trusted us on our word.

Our stage outfits were perfect. Troll turned up in a troll mask and a muumuu. I went with a Whoopie Goldberg mask I’d found and an outfit consisting of a velour shirt and trousers. The crowd was sprinkled liberally with Nascar shirts, Zubaz, and a lovely crop of mullets. We’d enlisted our friend Hot-Rod to work the drum machine. He's a scrappy kid, blessed with the greatest white Afro anyone has ever seen.

We took the stage. For a moment, as the crowd stood rapt, I felt like a rock-star. We opened up with a fairly straightforward death-metal song. Death-metal was familiar enough in the area that they gave us a chance, despite their obvious hatred for everything we represented.  

The second song was called “Boogie Woogie Woogie ‘Till I Kill You Dead.” The audience started to get tense; it seemed they could interpret enough of the lyrics to feel ill at ease. But when Hot-Rod ran up front to start making out with Troll, all hell broke loose. We had just become the Iron Sheik at a WWF match. 

It was beautiful; we were pissing off everyone we hated, and they were so angry and confused that they wanted to kick our asses. The organizer cut the power on us. We trashed the entire stage and then ran out of there with our lives.

About a month later, some friends dragged me along to a punk show in Philly. A teenaged boy approached me nervously at the bar and asked if I was in RM49 GREEDO. I nodded. He started to ramble on, saying we were inspirations, and that our show was one of the greatest things he’s ever witnessed. It’s the only compliment from a fan I still remember. — John Meadows

Submit to our next round-up: memorable one-night stands. We want the good, the bad, and the (coyote) ugly. Tell us all the hilarious specifics in 75-100 words. Send to submissions@nerve.com.