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Molars Crossing | Don’t like Fattooth’s badass attitude? Suck it up, buttercup. (Catchphrase not trademarked.)

FATTOOTH
w/ Harpazo Falls. Rendezvous Pub (10108-149 St). Fri, July 31 (8pm).

Every once in a while you have the pleasure of meeting a band who understands that their live performance is just as important as their music. Even rarer than that is a band that realizes that a memorable live show can involve more than just guitar solos, leopardskin pants, and high kicks. And rarest of all is a band that could open for a sideshow barn fire. And that band is ... well ... I’ll let Hucifer give you the lowdown. 

“Fattooth is the new heavyweight champion of rock ’n’ roll as you know it,” says the band’s far-from-modest frontman. “It is the uncompromising killer of every other genre imaginable. It is what you’ve been waiting for all your life. Everything else is second and thereafter there’s only one No. 1.”

I guess I’ll have to give the more prosaic band bio. Fattooth is a punk/metal band consisting of four young men named Powpow, Buddha, Cockstar, and Gene “Fucking” Hoglan. Hailing from Winnipeg, Montreal, and the part of the cosmos that loves to hear children swear, Fattooth is what the result might be if The Joker and Kiss fornicated in a bag of bees and named the offspring after Gwar. Confused? Hucifer will be happy to enlighten you.

“We came straight from the gods, the collective consciousness,” Hucifer says. “From powers that are generally unavailable to the general humanoid. Labels cannot categorize or pigeonhole true champions. One day you’ll go to the record store and there’ll be a category labelled FATTOOTH.”

Even though their screamy vocals and shreddy guitars aren’t my bag, I have to respect the dedication with which they refuse to break character. After he describes their live show as “life altering — the most entertaining display of talent since Diamond Dave and Van Halen,” it becomes obvious that getting a straight answer from Hucifer was as impossible as getting high from smoking duck adrenalin. So I do what any general humanoid would do in my position: I ask him if he were to write a self-help book, what would he name it and who would it be for?

“The book would be called It’s All About the Sweaty Titties,” Hucifer replies, not missing a beat. “It would be aimed at all the pathetic, depressed, angry suburban freaks on Prozac who listen to pathetically depressing and angry music. Its sequel would be Suck It Up, Buttercup.”

When you think about it, he’s right: it is all about the sweaty titties. (Well, Fattooth is, anyway.) But they should watch out for copyright infringement, since Suck It Up, Buttercup is already the name of a book of business advice by Robert D. Cass, and I’m sure Mr. Cass won’t take lightly to someone stealing his awesomely introspective title.

I manage to squeeze in just one more question for Hucifer before our time is up: if Fattooth were a movie, what movie would they be and what celebrities would play each band member?

“Detroit Rock City,” he proclaims. “You finger it out!”

Oh Hucifer, I can’t finger it out, I have an ear infucktion! (Sorry, everyone ... I guess Fattooth is infectious.)