Let me set the scene: it’s 2009, the warehouse smells like week-old fried chicken, and Rex is screaming into a microphone that’s held together with electrical tape.
Tommy “Fried” Kowalski—and yes, the nickname came later for exactly the reason you think—decided that his drum kit needed more energy. His solution? A can of hairspray and a lighter, positioned behind the crash cymbal.
The Moment Everything Changed
The first spark caught the edge of a cardboard box filled with old newspapers someone had been meaning to recycle since approximately 1997. Within thirty seconds, we had what Rex would later describe as “an unplanned pyrotechnic experience.”
Meg grabbed the fire extinguisher. It was empty. Because of course it was.
Johnny, in a moment of what he still calls “instinctive genius,” threw his jacket over the flames. It was a leather jacket. Leather doesn’t burn easily. The fire went out.
We stood there in silence for about ten seconds. Then Rex said, “That was the best thing we’ve ever done.” And honestly? He wasn’t wrong.
The Aftermath
The landlord never found out. The ceiling still has a scorch mark that looks vaguely like a chicken. We consider it a sign.
That night we wrote three songs: “Grease Fire Breakfast,” “Too Loud Too Stupid,” and the beginnings of what would become “Chicken, Just a Chicken.”
The lesson? Sometimes the best punk rock comes from almost dying in a warehouse fire. We don’t recommend it. But we’re not sorry.
THE CLUCK ZONE (0)