We weren't punks, we were assholes. Assholes are punks without a sense of community, without even a punk's code of etiquette or fair play. Assholes are punks whose parents put them through college, pay their rent, buy their instruments and bail them out of jail. Assholes are punks who slag women and minorities. They vote Republican, drive Corvettes and steal things, not because they need something, but because it's a kick to steal. Assholes go on stage late, sometimes hours behind schedule, to piss you off. Assholes preach to their fans, whom they hold in utter contempt. They are musically incompetent prima donnas, who spend more time on their makeup and clothes than on their music. They overcharge promoters and underpay their opening acts. They dress up like Nazis and dine at German restaurants for grins. They screw virgin groupies, accuse them of spreading VD and then sing about it onstage. They break into houses on acid and scare the shit out of old people.

As drummer, songwriter and dramaturge of the Huns, I was there.

After our first show caused a riot and generated gobs of local frontpage press — not to mention blurbs in Rolling Stone and New Musical Express — we became international celebrities in our own minds. (It doesn't take much to inflate the egos of pseudo-intellectual hicks prone to megalomania). We at arrived at parties early, scarfed the refreshments and split. We booked gigs and didn't show. We insulted friends, fans, other bands, sound engineers, journalists, managers, producers and club owners. (Once, backstage after a show, Joseph Gonzales, proprietor of Raul's, was forced to pull a loaded .38 on our lead singer to rectify a personal slight). We were mean, arrogant, pedantic, petty, pious, selfish, whiny, insensitive, greedy, lying, effeminate, lazy, lecherous, inconsiderate, self-aggrandizing, vindictive pricks. For a brief, glorious period at a little club in Austin we were on top, and the world was our bottom. We had a license, perhaps an obligation, to be assholes.

But the public, which issues sphincter permits, is fickle, and they soon revoked ours. We went from critics' darlings to pariahs within a year, and then spent another year pathetically trying to regain the ground we lost. Bands that we inspired, that followed us at Raul's — the Dicks and the Big Boys for instance — surpassed us by gigging steadily, mastering their instruments and embracing their audience. Gary Floyd and Biscuit Turner were people with whom you'd want to share a beer, people you'd trust with your firstborn. The Huns were boors, backstabbers, wife beaters, bigots, freeloaders, carpetbaggers, perjurers, adulterers, blasphemers, pedophiles, gluttons, Reaganities, public urinators, nose pickers and quitters.

People at the time thought our signature number the song that got us arrested — "Eat Death Scum", was a daring broadside against the Austin Police Department, when it was really a vile attack on a girl who Phil thought had given him the clap. The only line I can remember is, "I want to bludgeon your pussy with a mace"; so it's just as well that the words were never audible above the din, and that even now it doesn't exist on record.

What possessed Phil Tolstead to kiss a cop on the night of September 19, 1978? It was a mad urge, a dramatic notion, an instinct for contradiction, and John Lennon saying, 'Give me a kiss' to a bobby in Hard Day's Night. Most newspapers at the time described it as an attempted smooch; but I'm telling you it was full lip-to-lip contact, however brief, which caused the chain reaction that ended in a police riot and the beating and arrest of several of our friends and fans. Phil's charges were disorderly conduct, resisting arrest and abusive language. No mention of forcible osculation.

At the trial, it appeared that we lucked out, when the hirsute Steve Russell, ex-campus radical, — the most liberal judge in Austin — was appointed to adjudicate. All Phil had to do was lay low, and he'd walk. The proceedings began with testimony from punks, cops and barmaids, followed by expert witnesses. A prof from the UT music department validated the artistic legitimacy of our music (how dare him!), and another Ph.D. from drama testified to the delicate contract which had been entered into between performer and audience at Rauls — and the inappropriate violation of that covenant by a third party (the police).

Just as Russell's bleeding heart was about to break in our favor, Phil launched into an incoherent discourse on Antonin Artaud's Theatre of Cruelty. Somehow that prompted the justice to make reference to his glory days in the sixties, to which Phil sneered, 'I hate the sixties.' All semblance of jurisprudence went out the window as defendant and magistrate hotly debated the merits of the Woodstock generation. The hippy found the punk guilty of disorderly conduct and fined him $53.50. Later that winter at a separate hearing before another, less progressive judge, Phil was found guilty of resisting arrest, charged $2000 and sentenced to jail. He appealed both convictions.

The case went as far as the Texas Court of Criminal Appeals, and as late as 1983 Phil's lawyers were dreaming they had a first amendment ride all the way to Washington. Who could blame them? They'd been working for free for five years. But after Phil's conversion to fundamentalist Christianity, he pulled the ultimate boner, changing his plea to guilty and abandoning the appeal process. I'm not sure what happened after that, I guess he got probation.

The original lineup of the Huns was Phil Tolstead (vocals), Dan Transmission (keyboards, vocals), Joel Richardson (bass), myself on drums and Manny Rosario on guitar. Manny was a tough-talking, paranoid Puerto Rican with an inferiority complex. He tended to write sincere, iconoclastic punk anthems, ripped riff-by-riff from other artists (usually the Buzzcocks). Punk rock was his savior, and he considered himself one of only a handful of authentic punks in Austin. Faster-shorter-louder was his mantra. He would threaten to beat us up when we veered from the party line.

hunsandskuds Manny was the only band member who went to Phil's aid during the bust. With his guitar as a cudgel he smashed the radio out of Officer Bridgewater's hand as he was calling for backup. The bluebelly parried with his blackjack. Manny sailed backwards, hit the floor and sat up with Tweety Birds circling his head. He made a beeline for the back door, hopped the fence and called us from Florida the next day, convinced that if he'd stayed he would have been fish bait for the A.P.D. He snuck back into town just in time for our second disastrous gig at the Union Ballroom 21 days later. He joined us for only one more show at Raul's, where he abandoned the stage mid-set in disgust at Phil's drunken antics, and then divorced us for good over creative differences. Manny was a punk, not an asshole; so he didn't fit in. I was sorry to see him go. The rest of us couldn't play.

It took a while to find a replacement. Not just anyone was worthy to call themselves Hun. Phil anointed John Burton, an excellent drummer and Judas Priest devotee, who longed for the extra attention afforded guitarists. Although he'd only recently acquired his axe, John was destined to be one of us, based on his personality (perfect asshole) and looks (6' 3" with a face like Boris Karloff. He was a gadget freak and his mother bought him whatever he wanted. His four Marshall amps are still ringing in my ears.

A member of the audience at our second show told a reporter, "These guys would be nothing if it wasn't for the cops." How right she was; we sounded like the Pistols with Sid on every instrument. But then our mission wasn't musical; our mission was to stir the shit, cure boredom and strip the gears of musical privilege in Austin, represented by the folk, blues and cosmic cowboy oligarchies.

ass Each of us had less than six months experience on our instrument. We learned to play on stage, like an anxiety dream. We didn't write songs we wrote bumper stickers: Eat Death Scum, Kill All Men, Legalize Crime, Fuck Mommy Kill Daddy. Only John's four amps and phlange covered the rinky-dink quality of the rest of our equipment.

The guarantee that we'd never be musical, no matter how much we practiced or upgraded our gear, was the indisputable fact that Phil couldn't sing. He was a master of prance and patter, maybe the best I ever saw, and looks-wise he was a regular punk poster boy, but he was behind the door when they passed out the pipes. Once at a band meeting I suggested that he lip sync and let Dan (who had a voice like Pavarotti) sing lead, but it never came to a vote.

It's just as well that we never put out a studio LP. The Huns were psychodramatic chthonian performance art; and the gauche and vulgar, spectacular meaning of it all could only be fathomed live. Like Kiss, Bonzo Dog Band, Gwar, Devo, The Tubes, Uranium Savages, or GG Allin, we were capable of evoking a unique, transcendent experience for our audience and ourselves. On the eight or nine occasions when the alchemy really worked, we bore a hole to hell and stole the devil's own fire. Otherwise, we sucked.

— Tom Huckabee
Hollywood Hills, February 1995

The above notes (which I consider the best a band member's ever written for me) were part of a booklet included with the Huns: Live At The Palladium 1979 LP, an album I released in 1995 after locating the master tapes for the Dallas “Battle of The Bands”. The six hundred issued on vinyl are long sold out. Get Hip did a CD reissue which is still available. Have a listen to Murder In Texas outlining the sordid tale of Cullen Davis getting away with murder not 300 yards from my house in Fort Worth. Tom adds his own bizarre intro...

At the time of the release, I'd only been able to locate two out of five Huns. Mind you, “five” means counting Phil Tolstead who'd been born again not too long after the Huns' demise and had even appeared on the 700 Club denouncing punk rock and showing Huns footage! I never planned on asking Phil his opinion or permission. Anyway, instead of letting a great recording rot (and the tape was indeed decaying), I went ahead with production. I eventually reached Dan Transmission (three outta five ain't bad) who seemed pleased about the release, though unhappy with the drummer's portrayal of the band. John Burton (who, by the way, produced the first Big Boys EP and the first Red Rockers 45) would occasionally stop at Sound Exchange in Austin and gripe about the LP... poor performance, unflattering liner notes, no one asked him, etc. My continued efforts to get in touch (phone calls, info left with Sound Exchange employees) proved unsuccessful. So here's my public announcement of what I've said to Dan Transmission in private... I welcome any Hun to step forward with his version of events. I'll post 'em right here alongside Tom's. John, consider this an olive branch from a dedicated Huns fan. Get in touch sometime... I'd love your take on the bad ol' days.

— Ryan Richardson


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