Riff Raff

Stick It to the Man The world keeps getting better for the band whose name cannot be spoken. Last week, bicoastal slo-fiers Fuck watched the ink dry on a four-album deal with Matador Records. The label will release the band's third full-length, Pardon My French, late this summer. Guitarist/singer Timmy Prudhomme says the contract allows for total creative freedom, and the label will even permit the band to press their signature self-packaged records to sell on tour. But what about money? "I've got 20 bucks in my pocket," said Prudhomme last week. But is the Matador ante enough for the band to quit day jobs? "I don't have a day job," said Prudhomme. According to the guitarist, Fuck will release an independent 7-inch next week, tour the East Coast briefly in late spring, jump over to Europe to tour and record with the BBC's legendary John Peel this summer, and then return for a full U.S. tour in the fall. Prudhomme said he was pleased with the signing, but guitarist/drummer/singer Kyle Statham captured the band's excite-ment more clearly. "I've got two words for you," said the blushing Statham. "Poo-poo undies." (J.S.)

Touchy, Touchy Apparently, horror rocker Marilyn Manson has been trolling 'round our fair city in search of dastardly fun. You might wonder where such a person as Manson would find his particular brand of entertainment. Club Jesus? The Power Exchange? Bondage A Go-Go? The Top of the Mark doesn't immediately spring to mind, but that is where he was most recently spotted by 31-year-old educator John Bass. Realizing his rare opportunity, Bass managed to ask the one question that has been haunting all of us since the performer's sudden rise to stardom: "How does it feel to be the Frankie Goes to Hollywood of the '90s?" Bass, who claims to be a Manson fan, says that he was a bit disappointed by the ghoulish singer's reaction. "He just stared at me kind of blankly, like he was trying to figure out what I was saying, then he wandered off toward the hors d'oeuvres table." While the response was less than sensational, Bass does assure us that Manson's peculiar odor more than made up for it. (S.T.)

Scene Making Tired of trying to break through the hierarchical politics of the scene, 23-year-old bassist Morgan Guberman is setting up an improvised music/performance space, to be called the "Yellow Room," in the basement of the East Oakland Victorian where he lives. "The purpose of this place," says Guberman, "is to grow the music," and to combat what he sees as "a lack of diversity" in the booking policies of the few other venues that regularly feature cutting-edge jazz. The recent termination of the "Dark Circle Lounge" at Hotel Utah has left the creative music community with only three weekly outlets: two in S.F. (Radio Valencia Cafe, Venue 9) and one in the East Bay (Beanbender's). Combined with a fledgling series at the Luggage Store, which kicked off last week (sponsored by Damon Smith's Something Else Productions), Guberman's expected Tuesday and Thursday night showcases will provide much-needed opportunities, especially for non-veteran players. The bassist-turned-entrepreneur is soliciting donations for paint and construction materials. Call (510) 261-6916 for details. (J.D.P.)

Bailing Buckets Joining a spate of high-profile San Francisco band breakups, the Buckets recently dissolved into five separate side projects. Ringleader Earl Butter says fiddler and live centerpiece Wanda Taters (aka Carrie Bradley) wanted to focus on her own band, 100 Watt Smile, and the Breeders, who she's worked with in the past. Even though a dozen members have come and gone since the Buckets relocated to S.F. in 1991, Butter and Taters always remained at the core. Butter, who will retain the "Buckets" name, says he couldn't simply replace the fiddler, so he suggested that the other members pursue outside projects. "I needed to get to a place where it was scary," says Butter. "Creatively, you have to be standing on the edge of a cliff before you can make anything good happen." (J.S.)

The Young and the X-less In a unique excerpting agreement with Harper Edge books, Riff Raff will, over the next few weeks, grace the reading public with preview material from the forthcoming novel Ecstasy Club, by Douglas Rushkoff. The author, renowned for his "Gen-X" consultant services to various corporations, and for gathering fees up to $7,500 per hour for his trouble, has produced a book -- how does the jacket copy put it? -- "destined to be a cult classic." We open with a scene where the protagonists, founders of a raver-cum-squatter cult, are spreading the word about their next party. Enjoy! (M.B.)

"PF" is all [the fliers] said, in puffy 3-D letters with surfaces like concrete on 3" square glossy cardstock. Not even a map-point. Just the date, 11.4.95. It was only two weeks away, but Duncan loved the way the numbers added up to 20, which, in numerology, becomes a 2. He was thinking of the PF like a biosphere. Pre-Fab. The second world creation, planned consciously by humans. Us. Maybe a second life for the SF rave scene, too. Post-Francisco. No more saints.

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