Interview by Dylan K. Nyoukis

Paul Winstanley: Originally Erin Kline secured us a weekly gig on Monday nights at Amy's, the nearby ice cream and coffee shop. They employed everyone I was living with at the time, and also quite a few Lexingtonians, as scoopers, roasters and char-slingers, so it seemed a natural extension of the neighborhood playground to us and an appropriate outlet for unco fumblings. It was brightly lit and we would set up next to the photo booth opposite the cash register playing for an hour or so, sometimes with other people sitting in. The frivolous snack crucible of our soon-to-be-corroded sound. All for free coffee and failed experimental ice cream.

Dylan K. Nyoukis: Ah, the nutrients of scum musicians.

Lots of odd people would stop in for an evening ice cream -- Billy Gibbons, Gibby, Marvin Zindler, Big Mike, Christoph Eschenbach and the Houston Symphony -- but one night, Houston avant-garde DJ and wiggy guitarist Ramon Medina stopped by for a nocturnal treat. He chuckled, "You guys are hilarious," and offered us a slot on a upcoming multi-band charity show at Harvey's Club Deluxe. It was in the entrance space, the front half of Harvey's, that we heard The Charalambides play for the first time. They sounded huge and beautiful in that room and I think they were impressed by our ferocious substandard. After that we jointly organized regular shows on Sunday nights there.

You would just spurt and sputter in the entrance of the bar? I bet the place was heaving on the Sabbath.

There was no escape for the wicked patrons, especially if they wanted to get a beer. We aimed our glug right at the cooler. The dark reverb suspended our aural agonies, played down our cartoonish wiffles and gave us the nose-to-nose threat-slash-edge we needed to silence drunken mockers.

What sort of degenerates would come to hear you guys reverberate?

It varied, but usually we played to those who worked and lived at the club, a couple of Charalambides fans, and Harvey, a local drunk for whom the club was named. He received free piss at that place for the rest of his time.

He stinks of genius. Tell me more.

Harvey used to sit at the bar and make blurts and bursts of speech-like utterances to anybody and everybody who sat close by. Sometimes in a piss-fit, he would take a disliking to someone and make gestures to the effect that he was ignoring them and cutting them out of his space. The victim would be, "Who is this fucking guy?" and we would be, "That's Harvey, you know, the Harvey in Harvey's Club Deluxe." He was constantly watery-eyed drunk but was good at remaining upright. He stunk of urine as he was in the habit of wetting his pants in his failed, lurching efforts to reach the toilet.

You sure he wasn't commenting on your bass noodle?

Don't pleasure me so. One night I shook his hand in a friendly gesture. It took me thirty or more seconds to pry myself free of his sandpaper grip. Left my hand roughed up for the rest of the evening.

What about the Dave Dove Paul Duo's infamous television appearance?

Yeah, when The World's Most Dangerous Band learned improvisation number four! No, it wasn't a television show. Sort of an annual concept show called 12 Minutes Max that was hosted by a local gallery where each of the six featured artists were allotted twelve minutes within which to perform their piece. There was a hip-hop crew and a solo oboe composition on either side of us for our last Dave Dove Paul Duo performance.

How'd you swing this show?

We were given a leg up by Pauline Oliveros, who had heard of us through her mother Edith, who we both knew, and she suggested to an organizer that we would be appropriate for the event. Edith has lived in Houston all her life and has a massive history in teaching piano and music education for young people. She has composed a number of children's musicals. One was a pre-Disney adaptation of the Pocahantas story. As it's quite a struggle for her to get by, she hosts boarding students to help with the rent, but she has always found time to be supportive of our endeavors. It must be a natural instinct for her.

How'd the show go for you scruds?

Determined to exit with dignity, though no one wired smiles to our mouths, we were polite and dressed in suits and ties. It was full attendance by an unsuspecting crowd who must have wondered what the hell had crawled in when we started up. One gent mentioned that he liked the natural sounds in our music, though neither he nor his friends enjoyed the music itself. Basically we got out there and blurted our trademark bleepwurg improv and scraped in at around fifteen minutes. Then we all piled into Edith's boat-on-wheels, a-grinnin' happy campers, and trundled home feeling like bumpkins after karaoke night in the city. A satisfying end, devoid of drunk cowboys and hecklers. Low-key and unpretentious. Decidedly down there on the sleaze scale, this one.

You're breaking my heart.

The JDP Trio gig witnessed a lot of dubious behavior on closing night of Cajun / punk venue Laveau's-- the night all the stock had to be drunken. As we were ending our set, some well tanked patrons who had been jeering at us all night insisted very strongly that we depart the stage. Reeking of fear, we put on the blinkers and wiggled our offending items harder, urged on by a group of equally lubed neighborhood deviants intent on extending the drama, pumping up our dying scree with cries for more, chanting the provocative Rusted Shut soccer anthem, "Kill... kill... kill." Born in a riot, we were never again to experience the magic of a captive, blind drunk and unsuspecting audience.
John, Dave and I played infrequent live shows and spent a lot of time sweating and making din with various musterings of wayward musicians at the boatshed on Lexington. A number of people used the boatshed for rehearsals. Dave and I recorded "A" in there and I think Christina Carter may have recorded some solo piano in it. Quite a few visitors passed through. Phil Gayle brought along a Japanese eye surgeon who played drums, and my flatmate Pat's deaf, heavy-metal guitarist brother once defeated a Stevie Ray V. weekend warrior in the boatshed.