19 September 19 - 25, 2024 dallasobserver.com DALLAS OBSERVER Classified | MusiC | dish | Culture | unfair Park | Contents early October. They’ll be making stops at As- bury Park (known for Bruce Springsteen), Philadelphia and Jersey City, where they grew up more than 30 years ago. It’ll be a re- union with family and friends. It could be life-changing for Crimaldi — if he’s able to survive unsheltered on Denton’s streets. “Tape Slam has been the game changer,” Crimaldi says. ”The whole world seems to be opening. If I have to suffer, it’s worth it. I never thought I’d have the opportunity to do this at my age or any age.” The Boys Are Back in Town C rimaldi doesn’t mind the heat behind his drum kit on this Saturday after- noon in late April at Beer Alley, a few months before his appearance at El Cucuy Burritos. Performing ’90s-style indie rock on asphalt, sandwiched between two build- ings, only makes the rising temperatures feel hotter. He soldiers on, energized by a shot at the limelight as he lays a steady beat for Ho- gan on rhythm guitar and Cerda, who’s fill- ing in as guest guitarist. They’re joined by Killian Smith, a bassist who could be an ex- tra on Netflix’s Vikings series, with his long blond hair and beard. It’s their first official appearance as Tape Slam, a project Crimaldi and Hogan began during the pandemic. Hogan had noticed one of Crimaldi’s advertisements for the Rock Philosopher T-shirts in a group page for their high-school alma mater. “Seeing him do that and realizing that he was doing music, we started talking,” Hogan says. “I got one of those shirts. I’d been writ- ing music and sent him some stuff. He didn’t act like that was the most annoying thing.” Hogan started focusing on music again shortly after a divorce in 2013. He recorded a demo that received positive feedback from someone he knew at AOL Music. After set- ting it aside for 10 years, he sent it to Crimaldi, who offered feedback and, Hogan says, encouraged him to release it on Spotify. They began exchanging musical ideas that would lead them to a Denton recording stu- dio in October, the parking lot of The Bearded Monk in late April and a mini tour in October. “He has a great combination of a poetic soul, a philosopher’s soul, and an entrepre- neur spirit,” Hogan says. This isn’t Hogan’s first time jamming in Denton. This time last year, acoustic guitar in hand, he played with Crimaldi and Smith in Beer Alley as part of what Crimaldi had dubbed “Dharamaggedon Now.” They were celebrating Crimaldi and Hogan’s birthdays with a blues improv performance. A VHS image was projected on the wall behind them. They had only one rehearsal before the performance. “It was amazing and sloppy,” Hogan says. A year later, in Beer Alley, it doesn’t seem like 30 years have passed since Crimaldi and Hogan last played together in a band. In the early ’90s, they formed “Aural Fixation” and played a talent show at St. Peter’s Prep, a pri- vate Jesuit school in Jersey City where they received a classical education. Hogan formed the band in the basement of a friend’s house but needed a drummer, the “eternal quest” for bands. Then he re- called Crimaldi was a drummer. But Crimaldi was also a heavy metal guy. A loner in thick glasses, he wore a biker jacket to school and was “barely making the grade,” Crimaldi says. He called himself a “product of glam metal,” though he was also into Danzig, Metallica and Joy Division, a band Hogan also enjoyed. Born in 1974, Crimaldi was one of thou- sands of Vietnamese children adopted by mostly white families from the States and Canada toward the end of the Vietnam War. An Italian American family adopted him shortly after his birth. He grew up in a plumber’s household just outside of New York City and struggled with “being Asian in a white world.” “I didn’t know it growing up, but I was living the life of a prince compared to what life would have been in Vietnam in the post- war,” Crimaldi says. Crimaldi didn’t quite fit the plumber mold that his adopted family offered him, a path his adopted brother had taken. It prob- ably didn’t help that he had also discovered rock ‘n’ roll. Guns N’ Roses became one of his favorite bands. “Like most things in life, you need to die to be reborn, remade,” Crimaldi writes on his Rock Philosopher blog. “I want my rock ‘n’ roll to be dangerous, snarling, shocking and sometimes God-awful. Does anyone make music so they can sell shampoo and soft drinks? Where in the world is Jim Mor- risson and John Lennon when you need them?” Hogan just wanted him to ease up on pounding his cymbals. Aural Fixation wasn’t a metal band. They were shooting for a Rob- ert Smith from the Cure kind of sound for the talent show. It didn’t help them win the show. Crimaldi and Hogan kept the band to- gether long enough to play a few shows and record several songs. Hogan found a record- ing a few years ago at his father’s house and shared it with Crimaldi. “I look back fondly on all this,” Crimaldi says. “If a fortune teller told me 30 years later we would resume playing music after living our own adventures, I would not be- lieve it. We were different and clueless kids.” Fried Street A week after the Beer Alley Music Festival, Crimaldi is deep into an- other song by The Brian Jonestown Massacre with his tribute band The Norah Jonestown Mascara. They’re on the sidestage on Mulberry Street in front of Tom Daiquiris, with only a few people watching. In the past, the Fry Street Festival would draw more than 20,000 attendees to the all-weekend event. On this Saturday night, only about 100 people gather behind a tall fence that surrounds the festival and blocks sections of Mulberry and Hickory streets. The $25 festival fee could have affected the turnout. Thin Line, a free festival, was also occurring downtown. It probably didn’t help that the organizer of the Fry Street Festival had misrepresented his relation- ship with the original festival organizers — and their blessings — to a local newspaper, a story that the Observer exposed a few months ago. Most of the crowd gather around the cor- ner on Fry Street in front of the main stage where Haskins, sweaty in his Speedos, slays the crowd with the Wee Beasties. He blazes through an alcohol-fueled performance that brings to mind what inspired Crimaldi to leave behind his solitary life as a gamer and become a modern-day Lester Bangs in Bangkok. Chris Durbin Crimaldi performs with the band Stabbing Unicorns on Aug. 31 at the Haltom Theater. Chris Durbin >> p20
