Rolling Stone Vidizine Issue #15

"Serious Issues"
- K. D. Bryan shares his thoughts with us on the newly reissued "Use Ointment - The Best of the Fungal Issues"

by Mariannar Trent

I am sitting on a wicker chair, beside a calico kitty, in the middle of a tropical bungalow, across from a legend, below a thatched ceiling, over a river and through some smoke, as I stare openly at the infamously reclusive K.D. Bryan.

My jaw hangs agape and a trickle of drool falls unnoticed as Bryan, now aged 67, prepares for the installation of a SubCue receiver.

His famous intensity does not seem to have been dulled by age. His pupils still stare with the fevered passion seen on the album covers of the mid 00's, his hands seem as powerful as when they beat a man to death with drumsticks for booking the FI's on the Tonight Show with Jay Leno, his eyebrow is raised in the same manner it was raised when his famous wedding photos with Gina Gershon were shot, his -

"Are you just going to keep staring at me like that? 'Cause you're giving me the heebies."

His voice sends tremors of excitment up and down my internal organs. I desperately wish for the days of his youth, when young reporters could use laptop computers to cover the obvious bulges in their pants or pocket protectors to hide their frenzied nipples. I am armed only with my excitement and can sense that we will get nowhere fast unless I get right down to business.

I try to hide my aching desire through a sheen of haughty disdain.

"This is your first time using SubCue? That surprises me, given your producer and manager status of newer music. How do you keep cutting edge with your clients, like The Hatefuck Trio?"

K.D. merely sighs, muttering "I fucking hate reporters. Somebody get me another Banana Shooter." I am flush with anxiety and eroticism.

Soon, the installation is complete and the living legend in front of me settles back deeply into a wall of pillows. "Let's get this fucking show on the road. Trivia about the hits on the ablum, quality of the transfer, blah fuckity blah. Right. C'mon. Here we go. Where's my fucking shooter?"

Bryan's kimono-style Fiberwear nestles in tightly around his veiny torso and his eyes close. Soon, very soon, he shares the tidbits, comments and profane commands that you can only read here in RSI. First, please enjoy this comvid for delicious Supple, the drink that gives you firmer skin - now in muscat, ginger and milk flavors!

The vibrations of the music begin, causing his head to vibrate slightly. The small Bryan smile, so recognizable from billboards and posters, comes into view. I fight to keep from molesting myself. His comments are as follows:

"Shiny Like A Ninja's Heart!"
from their debut album "No Time for A Title"

"Mmmmm. Yeah. This is what put us on the map. At first, we were worried that it wouldn't get enough airplay because of that line about [performing oral sex] on the corpse of Emily Dickinson. But, heh, I remember Brian - good old Brian, he went to every major airplay market in the country and he - He had this voice changing machine he bought at a dollar store. What he did was, he called every radio station and said he'd blow it up if they didn't play the new single from the Fungal Issues. Ahhh, Brian. What a guy. I think Sarah showing up at that record executive's door naked with a riding crop probably helped a lot too. That and well, the music itself still makes me fucking proud as hell. Travis' wood block solo on this one? I STILL get chills just listening to it. We've had our differences but that, man? That was golden."

"Nativity Sex"
from their third hit album, "Infectious Fingernails"

"Okay, okay, this one is- I'm sure you've heard this story already but I'm going to set the record straight. The line "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus" doesn't come from Tim X-13's ex-girlfriend's orgasms. Nor was it from Travis, though that glory-hound would like you to believe he crapped out the entire band on a 15-minute cigarette break. Sorry. Sorry Travis. Bad blood, trying to get hemoglobin treatments for it. Anyway. "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus." That was from Brian, who else?

We were all stuck in Germany on Christmas Eve and we were all in a pretty bad way. Travis, Tim and I had all gone out for curry which we ended up not being able to find. We came home in a terrible mood, only to find out that Sarah had tied up our concierge and was forcing him to ritualistically suck on her toenails. Because she felt badly that he had to work on Christmas Eve. Or something.

We didn't mind so much but now we had nobody to harass for our curry. That was when Tim found Brian curled up underneath the sofa, whispering to himself and crying. Turns out he'd eaten our entire supply of acid while watching the Charlie Brown Christmas Special in French. I bent in close, just to make sure he wasn't swallowing his tongue or something and I heard him muttering the magic words - "Lick my clit, Baby Jesus". I turned to Travis and said "Get me my tape recorder, right the fuck now." and the next morning we had a lyrics track for our third gold platinum hit. Heh. Memories.

Boy, the Right-Wingers didn't like that one much at all. Banned in 11 countries. And Kentucky. Not that we ever fucking went to Kentucky."

"Feel My Viscera"
from their 11th album, "youdon'tlooklikemycousinstevewhothefuckareyougetoffmyfuckingfuton"

"Right. Yeeeaah. Okay. This is Tim's opus. His fucking baby. Man. This was- I heard he got on seventeen best-of lists when you did that "Greatest Whatever's" thing. He blew us all away with his work here. What can I fucking say? Genius. Nobody plays a washboard like him. Nobody ever will. The solo album he did - that was such a fucking tragedy. The world, they, the world just wasn't fucking ready. Nobody knew what to do with his kind of sound just yet. It was just so beautiful but they- Look, I love this song. I really do. But it's FIFTY-SEVEN MINUTES LONG. Could we maybe, just, skip over it? Or something? I think I'll get a massive fucking aneurysm if we have it vibrating in my goddamn skull for that long. I mean, yeah, it's amazing and all but even when he was recording it the rest of us just went out for all-you-can-eat pizza. Could we just- thank you. Jesus on a biscuit."

"Squirrel of Rage"
from their 14th album, "We Are the Fungal Issues", their first album after the tragic death of Brian Wanamaker

"Total shit. Move on."

"I Am Your Pet Freak"
from their record-setting 17th album, "Setting Babies on Fire"

"YES. God, yes. This was the first time I think we really clicked again. We'd always said Brian would be with us in spirit but this album was when it really worked. I think the effort we put in meant a lot. And the Santeria priestesses, with the uh, reanimated cyborg flesh grafts and electrodes, well, they had a lot to do with it too. But mostly, I give all the praise and credit to Sarah. It was her idea to forcibly re-animate parts of Brian and it was her mindset at the time that really was the driving force for the album.

I'd hit a dryspell creatively. She'd just given up her third child for adoption to a Third World country to force him to grow up stronger and faster but somehow - Somehow, that just energized her all the more. Sarah was a whirlwind, a dynamo, a fucking goddess and not just sexually in this case. Half the songs on this album were written by her. This one was one of mine but still, the energy? All Sarah's. Travis had her name tattooed on his clavicle after this was done, right above Brian's left eye. And Tim gave her part of his left ear in tribute. That was a great year for us. A really good fucking year. Second renaissance, man. Second Renaissance."

Shortly after this last rambling memory of happier times, K.D. Bryan's head took on a new kind of hum - his snoring. His handlers came in quietly and I was ushered out of the room before I could awaken him and ask him for further thoughts, ideas or demands on my body.

Without even being able to fondle his lower right forearm, where a decayed remnant of Wanamaker's nose taunts me, I am forced out by his transsexual bodyguards and tossed unceremoniously onto the black sands that border his property.

As I lay upon the beach with a broken femur, I can see the loons taking flight before a brilliant green and purple sunset. I realize in quiet retrospect that the moments I spent in the presence of K.D. Bryan were akin to the time a mosquito might spend sucking on the blood of God. There were

PLEASE INSERT $350 AMERICAN FOR NEXT TWENTY-FIVE PAGES