Hailing from the seedy underbelly of the southern United States comes the infamous H-Boyz. Blake (B-Boy) and Clay (Demon Son) Hatrison comprise the Death Rock Underground Duo who have set their grasp far outside of their meager reach. Few people, including the brothers themselves, can site the exact moment their despicable project gained substantial form.
“The whole thing was born out of complete, horrible despair,” Clay Hatrison coughs in between giant bong hits and deep swallows of cheap beer. “We were unemployed, ready to be evicted from our shithole apartment at any minute, and hopelessly addicted to every illicit substance we could get our hands on.”
“Fuck’n had to make some cash, so’whut’msay’n?” Blake’s words bubble through a film of slobber as he injects black tar heroin into his arm. “Clay suggested I sell one of my guitars for crack cash, then a light bulb went off. It went off because we hadn’t paid the electricity bill in, like, four months or something. Then it was fuck’n dark. We got so bored that we decided to start a band.”
The creative process proved almost as difficult for the H-Boyz as finding venues to showcase their raw, abrasive form of post punk death rock. Early attempts to play before crowds of any worthwhile size were met with unabashed disdain.
“People didn’t seem to like the fact that we didn’t rehearse, often forgot our own lyrics and obviously didn’t really have any songs thought out,” Clay laughs grimly. “I would pound out some beats on our Zoom drum machine and just press a buncha fuck’n buttons at random. Blake would’ve been too shit faced to really play if we did have songs, but he would do his best to play something around the arbitrary loops I was playing. It was all really fucking sad, to be honest.”
“Yeah,” Blake agrees. “We needed a drummer, or at least someone who could hit ‘play’ so Clay could sing.”
While creating flyers to promote the band (by this time, known simply as ‘H’), the brothers discovered what would inevitably become a major component of their project.
“Clay had gone to art school for a couple of months,” Blake laughs a brittle wheeze as he lights another cigarette. “He went to art school long enough for the old man to figure out the only thing the fucker was good at was doing massive amounts of mescaline and trying unsuccessfully to fuck hippy chicks. Dad cut him off after one quarter of school and he came to live with me. But at least he learned to draw...kinda.”
“I would draw pictures of us on all our flyers,” Clay interrupts, visibly annoyed. “Blake would fuck with me repeatedly about how shitty my drawings were. I said ‘okay fucker then let’s see if you can do any better!’”
Blake chortles, “What started as a draw-off turned into a full blown comic. We didn’t realize it at the time, but our attempts to piss each other off with unflattering caricatures of one another was actually the beginning of the H-Boyz comic.”
Equal parts biography and self promotion for their band project, the H-Boyz comic found distribution among the legions of homeless punk rockers and alcoholics that would attend the brothers’ live performances. These “Addicts” fiendishly awaited further adventures of the H-Boyz comics, often reprinting and distributing the comics themselves to pass out to their friends.
As their sound evolved, the brothers often quarrelled about the goals of their band.
“Blake wanted to play shitty, limp wristed, boring ass 70’s rock,” Clay sneers, inhaling a line of cocaine. “Y’know, the kind of shit that was only appreciated by long haired, redneck cousin fuckers who swilled moonshine and fucked their livestock in the mouths while voting for segregation.”
“Yeah,” Blake belches, swallowing the last mouthful of his beer and crushing the can. “And Clay wanted to scream his throat bloody playing music that sounds like howler monkeys raping feral cats on a hot hibachi grill. We’ve recorded endless hours of music and still don’t agree on the direction of the band. I’ll try to turn his horrible vocals down, which leads to a full blown fist fight. Fuggit. The hateful energy works for us.”
Chaos, arrant negativity, outright declarations of hard drug use and inflammatory rants against organized religion became common themes in the H-Boyz music. Enlisting the aid of local DJ and Drummer Reginald “Retard” Randy, the group became a three-piece who quickly made a name for themselves among the underground denizens of Atlanta.
“Parents, politicians, preachers...they all hate us,” Blake chortles, spitting up a small amount of blood flecked bile. “They say we’re corrupting their children...like...like that fuck’n Camel that sells smokes to kids. Or...or like that fuck’n cartoon mouse that promotes the white power movement and anti semitism.”
“Only we’re not puss lipping it!” Clay exclaims, wiping the remnants of cocaine from his encrusted nostrils and lighting an enormous joint. “We tell people exactly what we think, which is totally opposite what they wanna hear. Our insipid culture has grown so fuck’n bland, safe and politically correct. It makes us fuck’n sick how gawd damn fake people are.”
“Yeah!” Blake agrees enthusiastically. “We’re the scab covering all of America’s fucked up disease. The H-Boyz are the white elephant in the room no one wants to talk about. What mainstream America doesn’t wanna face is that there’s way more of us than there is of them!”
“Fuck’n right!” Clay barks, rising to his feet and swaying in place, completely intoxicated. “They toss us in jail. They walk over us on the street and they look down their hypocritical fucking noses at us. All the while they’re popping handfuls of antidepressants and jacking off to child porn when their wives are passed out on apple martinis. Society fuck’n hates the H-Boyz, and gawd dammit, we’re gonna give ‘em a fuck’n reason to hate us!”
For good or ill, the H-Boyz have arrived. Lord help us all.