was surprised nonetheless by the furor created by
Out of the Womb.
“The owner of one record store made a huge window display with the album, just to piss off the local anti-porn feminists,” recalls Cretin. The angry women reacted by smashing the front window and trashing his store. “In fact, a couple of record stores got sacked.” Acton remembers that the group called themselves FLAG, which he jokingly interprets as “fucked up lesbians against guys.” Obviously, the punk rockers in Victoria weren’t the only hellraisers around, or even the most militant group of troublemakers. Any group of women mad enough to destroy record stores over something as innocent as cover art was something to stay clear of. The DayGlo Abortions, naturally, found the attention pleasing.
To capitalize on the wave of publicity, the band decided to attend a pro-life demonstration. As living abortions, they had a vested interest in the subject. “We got shitfaced drunk and made up our own signs. We had plastic baby dolls covered with blood, the whole bit,” laughs Acton, remembering. “We were shouting that we loved abortions. Both sides, both pro-life and pro-choice, joined forces and chased us away. They hated us!” Cretin was slowly coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t save the world, but he could still make a point— even if no one was exactly sure what it was.
The DayGlo Abortions held a record release party at the Metropol. This was an exciting time for the fledging band that had arrived on the scene with such a splash. Few punk bands were able to release an album so quickly, let alone one so controversial and unique. Girls who hadn’t paid much attention to the DayGlos before were suddenly interested. Who were these punks from the wrong side of the tracks? Maybe they weren’t such losers after all.
Not long afterwards, Robin Sharpe presented The Cretin with a “bronze” record, which he made by spray-painting an old album and gluing it to a cross. Cretin accepted the award with mock solemnity and occasionally hung it on the wall behind the band when they played.
The DayGlo Abortions continued to play when they could and managed to stay out of jail. Other local bands were happy to support them now that they had achieved some measure of success. The DayGlos took turns headlining with popular groups such as Nomeansno. “One show we’d back them up, and at the next show, they’d back us up,” recalls Spud of this democratic arrangement. The band was finally happening.
Argh Fuck Kill
The DayGlo Abortions drank plenty of beer. They continued to practice at the Metropol on weekends, occasionally holding gigs there as well. Halloween of 1981 found the DayGlos hosting another wild bash that did nothing to endear them to the local constabulary. Just to add a spooky touch to the proceedings, the group rented a smoke machine. Costumed guests began to arrive, and each seemed more intoxicated than the last. Soon the guests were packed into the basement like sardines clad in black leather and chains. Eventually, the band donned their instruments and cranked the amplifiers up as loud as they would go. The time was right for some noisy punk rock.
For this occasion, the DayGlos had switched instruments and were playing as He Man & the Masters of the Universe, with Spud singing and a musician named Scott Henderson on bass. “We did ‘Hocus Pocus’ by Focus, with Spud yodelling,” Acton remembers, laughing. “It was so bad, hilarious!” Unfortunately, the smoke machine failed to work, causing Spud to kick it angrily. Despite further abuse, the device refused to emit so much as a wisp of fog. Luckily, a young promoter named Tim Crow came to the rescue by unzipping his jeans to piss directly on the dry ice. Smoke immediately began to billow from the machine, but the smell was atrocious. “What a fucking reek!” exclaims Spud, wincing at the memory of the acrid pong. The gig went on as chaotically as ever, with many
Out of the Womb.
“The owner of one record store made a huge window display with the album, just to piss off the local anti-porn feminists,” recalls Cretin. The angry women reacted by smashing the front window and trashing his store. “In fact, a couple of record stores got sacked.” Acton remembers that the group called themselves FLAG, which he jokingly interprets as “fucked up lesbians against guys.” Obviously, the punk rockers in Victoria weren’t the only hellraisers around, or even the most militant group of troublemakers. Any group of women mad enough to destroy record stores over something as innocent as cover art was something to stay clear of. The DayGlo Abortions, naturally, found the attention pleasing.
To capitalize on the wave of publicity, the band decided to attend a pro-life demonstration. As living abortions, they had a vested interest in the subject. “We got shitfaced drunk and made up our own signs. We had plastic baby dolls covered with blood, the whole bit,” laughs Acton, remembering. “We were shouting that we loved abortions. Both sides, both pro-life and pro-choice, joined forces and chased us away. They hated us!” Cretin was slowly coming to the conclusion that he couldn’t save the world, but he could still make a point— even if no one was exactly sure what it was.
The DayGlo Abortions held a record release party at the Metropol. This was an exciting time for the fledging band that had arrived on the scene with such a splash. Few punk bands were able to release an album so quickly, let alone one so controversial and unique. Girls who hadn’t paid much attention to the DayGlos before were suddenly interested. Who were these punks from the wrong side of the tracks? Maybe they weren’t such losers after all.
Not long afterwards, Robin Sharpe presented The Cretin with a “bronze” record, which he made by spray-painting an old album and gluing it to a cross. Cretin accepted the award with mock solemnity and occasionally hung it on the wall behind the band when they played.
The DayGlo Abortions continued to play when they could and managed to stay out of jail. Other local bands were happy to support them now that they had achieved some measure of success. The DayGlos took turns headlining with popular groups such as Nomeansno. “One show we’d back them up, and at the next show, they’d back us up,” recalls Spud of this democratic arrangement. The band was finally happening.
Argh Fuck Kill
The DayGlo Abortions drank plenty of beer. They continued to practice at the Metropol on weekends, occasionally holding gigs there as well. Halloween of 1981 found the DayGlos hosting another wild bash that did nothing to endear them to the local constabulary. Just to add a spooky touch to the proceedings, the group rented a smoke machine. Costumed guests began to arrive, and each seemed more intoxicated than the last. Soon the guests were packed into the basement like sardines clad in black leather and chains. Eventually, the band donned their instruments and cranked the amplifiers up as loud as they would go. The time was right for some noisy punk rock.
For this occasion, the DayGlos had switched instruments and were playing as He Man & the Masters of the Universe, with Spud singing and a musician named Scott Henderson on bass. “We did ‘Hocus Pocus’ by Focus, with Spud yodelling,” Acton remembers, laughing. “It was so bad, hilarious!” Unfortunately, the smoke machine failed to work, causing Spud to kick it angrily. Despite further abuse, the device refused to emit so much as a wisp of fog. Luckily, a young promoter named Tim Crow came to the rescue by unzipping his jeans to piss directly on the dry ice. Smoke immediately began to billow from the machine, but the smell was atrocious. “What a fucking reek!” exclaims Spud, wincing at the memory of the acrid pong. The gig went on as chaotically as ever, with many
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