by Michael Koenig

"This is F-L-A, FLORIDA, F(uck)-L-A" posits local denizen/fanzine hero Robert 'New Order' Mascaro. I'll say too, Florida, the home of the skimpy clad, stands proudly as the cultural antithesis of LA or any other major city. And they like it that way, what with detaching slogans as above pandered about even before a single hardcore note is thrashed in any local club.

Bets go fifty-fifty whether FLA's celebrated hot is induced by sun or burning bras. Either way night's sex roast was punctuated by nipple teepees straining halter tops. As if swarthy air wasn't tight enough with 400 plus cramming into S. FLA's FIRST HARDCORE EXTRAVAGANZA, the biggest cultural event since Ponce De Leon bumped into this peninsula, without the cool beach air cut off by club's insulation, horny creatures of both sex hurling blatant innuendo, and drinks filled 4/5 ice, 1/5 mix and token spike.

Lucky me, with well-preserved biker nubiles Pat and Denise, at drink control headquarters, was fortunate to find myself caught in an ice war, opening shirts, pants, etc. pouring whole glasses of ice (4/5 actually, after two swigs of mix) down and around all reaches of the body. By night's end, I'd traded more ice via lust kisses, tweaked more teepees, and entered more cavities with the abundant ice, giving me all the SEX I needed (and could get) in too many moons.

In the spite of heat and ice, the crowd presented their own duality with a curious dress code: obligatory leather, anarchy t-shlrts-- purposely ripped and safety-pinned (right on time these vogueish Floridians!), bright spandex crotch huggers, more gold on and around more skin displays than all US mint holdings and David Brenner's neck combined, multi-colored scratches of war paint makeup get-ups, etc. Ya know, like a Saturday Night Live skit.

New music aficionados of metro-clubs would be neurologically lost in this room.

All this somehow worked a magical amalgamation of fun and twitter. Black Flag produced their usual mayhem, tuning an appropriate climax, serving as well to obliterate the three prior acts. Singer Henry Rollins kept admonishing instantly born slam dnncrrs "Don't do that". Evidently the three northern transplants in attendance, physically bragging their wisdom, began slamming and after the initial shock of what bouncers soon realized wasn't a fight, the rest of the stunned mass soon closed agape mouths and joined in. Problem being these two dildroid hulks who thought it MACHO TIME, in true redneck form, shoving forcefully one after another helpless shrimp sliding on their teeth. Henry did, finally, get through to the hulks, while Black Flag finished a most inspired set, spurred no doubt by naive and enthusiastic cheers. Hell, this is 1977 in five-years-behind-the-times-FLA.

Saccharine Trust, traveling with Black Flag throughout this tour are adding to their legions of fans, stealing and incorporating Black Flag-ettes, their forty-five minute set criminally snubbed by a 20-minute PA delay. Distorto energy and cleverly constructed songs promoted the evening's only relief from steady and limited h. core drone (save Black Flag's "Damage"). Conversation with Saccharine Trust members unearthed biased comparisons betwixt FLA and LA. Except for guitarist Joe Baiza, born in Cuba, understandably compassionate of those from the "Little Havana" section of Miami, Saccharine Trust fancied the girls, found the surf-bums more dedicated, and generally gave herald to their West Coast enamoration. Partisan mules, deemed one Floridian.

The two opening bands from Florida, Gainesville's Roach Motel and The Abusers from Hollywood performed guileless sets without a painfully conscious demeanor, plaguing the competitive miasma of big city bands. Roach Motel's drummer was no show so Saccharine Trust drummer Rob Holzman filled in, playing consecutive sets. Still their show was enjoyable, with their Venture styled raveup of "Let's Go", classics from 1977-IS-today, and some interesting but forgettable originals. Both Florida groups dazzled the audience with a not-so-obvious cover of "Sonic Reducer", both putting vital life, breath, and primal scream to this heartwarming nugget, playing it pathetically slow and stupidly sloppy. Opening the show, The Abusers made their public debut. they created their own anarchy, riling and jeering crowd with middle finger extensions and expletive taunts. At first bewildered by onslaught of thrash explosives, by foreign guitar tonalities, everyone instinctively came alive as some girl with hefty hubs removed straps of her halter, exposing and gallavanting with Broadway footwork, nimbly carving her way past those amused, while loosening and setting the tone for the evening. Yeah, all this only in FLA.