A Big, Gay Roundtable

Long before he ever joined a band, Steve Brooks was a rock star. At
age 9, he dressed up for Halloween as Pat Benatar. The photo still
hangs on his refrigerator: A fourth-grader

dolled up in pointy-toed boots, stockings, mini-skirt, cropped
sweatshirt à la Flashdance, and a wig tied up in a
scarf.

“I thought it was going to be funny,” says Brooks, 34. His peers
didn’t get the joke. “I went to a party, and everyone called me a fag
and laughed at me.” He shrugged it off and had fun, and recounting the
memory today, the singer-guitarist for Torche sounds amused, not
bitter.

Like most of his South Florida friends, Brooks grew up listening to
thrash and death metal. Out of high school, he formed Floor, his first
group. Yet making music didn’t allow him to vent all his feelings, and
the next time Brooks challenged conventional gender roles, it wasn’t as
lighthearted as that youthful Halloween.

“When I was about 18 or 19, I figured out, ‘Man, this isn’t a
phase,'” he recalls. “And I was pretty angry. ‘Why is this me?'” A
teacher at his high school had been stabbed repeatedly after being seen
exiting a gay bar. Brooks’s secret nagged at him. “I didn’t talk about
it with anybody. Eventually, I went to a shrink, just to try and feel
comfortable about being gay.”

“It was a different time than it is now,” emphasizes Brooks, who
lives in Atlanta today. And he’s right. Since the early ’90s, the
landscape has changed. You’re a gay or lesbian rock musician? Big deal.
Artists like Bob Mould, Melissa Etheridge, and Judas Priest’s Rob
Halford came out of the closet unscathed. Riot grrrl and homocore made
the punk community safer for dykes and fags than ever.

But what about gay members of bands that don’t speak directly to a
queer sensibility or engage in lifestyle marketing—especially
groups that make intense, heavy music and play to primarily young male
fans? There are more of these individuals than you might guess. OTEP
have rocked Ozzfest repeatedly, but do crowds realize that the nu-metal
band is fronted by a lesbian?

Consider openly gay musicians like Brooks, guitarist Juan Velazquez,
22, of Abe Vigoda, and Brian Cook, 31, bassist for These Arms Are
Snakes (and occasional Stranger contributor). What are their
lives like? With both Torche and Abe Vigoda playing Seattle this week,
it seemed a perfect opportunity to ask.

These bands don’t sound identical, but they could easily share a
bill. Torche have been described as stoner or sludge metal, and the
majestic melodies and savvy dynamics on their second album,
Meanderthal, should appeal to fans of Sunn O))), Jesu, and the
Melvins. Skeleton, the latest from No Age contemporaries Abe
Vigoda, might be the product of a young Sonic Youth after a night of
too many mai tais and repeated spins of Martin Denny’s Exotica LP. The ferocity of the Snakes’ shows and records betrays their roots
in hardcore punk and metal, but also belies the complexity of their
sonic palette.

Mainstream gay media overlooks these bands. Conversely, music
journalists rarely talk about their sexual preferences. Brooks
estimates “less than 10 percent” of Torche buffs know he’s homosexual;
before a recent European tour, one well-meaning supporter e-mailed
Brooks to tell him how hot Swedish chicks are. If fans hear someone in
Abe Vigoda is gay, Velazquez says they often guess singer Michael
Vidal. “People make the assumption, because he is a soft-spoken, nice
guy. And sometimes, I’m not. I can be pretty abrasive.”

* * *

The original premise for this story was to meet in person for beers
and a bull session on Halloween. But then Cook went and queered the
deal—pun intended—with six weeks of European touring. Which
is unfortunate, and a little ironic, since one thing the guys all
revealed is that they most often get to socialize with like-minded homo
music geeks while on the road.

Both Torche and TAAS have toured with Isis, who have a gay tour
manager. That covert camaraderie can make for funny moments, says Cook.
“Some nights, I would be watching our merchandise, and he would be
watching theirs. Isis’s line was all big, bearded dudes with tattoos,
which is totally my type.” The fans queuing for Cook’s booth were
“waifish guys, with messy hair, in tight T-shirts and girl jeans. And
Isis’s tour manager would just look over and go, ‘Man, your fans are so
hot.’ We’d have both sold a lot more merch if we’d switched!”

Velazquez has plenty of gay friends at home in Los Angeles. “But
they don’t go to the Smell all the time or hang out at shows.” And that
schism makes life awkward. “Music is my primary interest, and that’s
where I feel most comfortable,” he says. On Abe Vigoda’s last pass
through Washington, D.C., he hit it off with Ruffian Records proprietor
Hugh McElroy, formerly of Dischord band Black Eyes. “I had no idea
anybody in that band was gay.” They hung out till the wee small hours,
just talking about music, dating, and being queer in the rock
scene.

All three of these gents came of age with either little access to,
or no interest in, mainstream gay culture. Velazquez grew up Mexican
and Catholic in Chino, California; Cook lived in Hawaii until 1992 and
was raised “in a very religious household.”

“When I was younger, I stayed away from gay people,” admits Brooks.
“I was kind of homophobic.” Although his musical tastes have expanded
over the years, he still abhors dance music, a genre promoted heavily
to and within mainstream gay culture. “About the gayest I’ll get is the
Smiths,” he says.

While early punk gave rise to beloved queer icons like Gary Floyd
(the Dicks) and Phranc, other big acts—Bad Brains,
Fear—intimidated fans with open homophobia. Even in progressive
music scenes, Cook says a “locker-room” mentality emerges when you get
a bunch of guys together. He still hears other musicians toss around
terms like “gay” and “fag,” although, when confronted, most scramble to
apologize.

Consequently, it still sometimes comes as a surprise when these
guys’ straight colleagues are nonplussed by their sexual orientation.
On Abe Vigoda’s last tour, Velazquez brought some back issues of
BUTT, the Dutch magazine that mixes blunt profiles of queer
creative types with intimate photos of dudes who’ve never even
considered body waxing. When reading material became scarce in the van,
the others investigated Velazquez’s stash. The upshot? The whole band
are now pressing their publicist to get them a BUTT feature.

* * *

Much as they cherish music, none of these fellas demands that
potential friends or lovers be a “perfect match” when it comes to the
stereo. Far from it. Cook says his partner of 10 years “doesn’t really
like music”—and what he does enjoy tends towards mainstream fare.
“It actually works out well. Especially dealing with punk and hardcore
stuff, where there is so much ridiculous politics involved. To have
someone who, every once in a while, says, ‘That is so stupid and I
don’t get it.'” Cook smiles. “I’m sure Mariah Carey wouldn’t obsess
about whether her record was distributed by Dutch East as opposed to
Caroline.”

Brooks’s former longtime boyfriend enjoyed many artists he loathed:
Erasure, Pet Shop Boys. “The only thing we agreed on in his car was
Donna Summer.” The guitarist shook his head when his other half “would
tell his friends, ‘Steve’s band sounds like Rage Against the Machine.'”
But when they played a local gig? “He’d be at the show, with this giant
smile on his face. He was so excited. And so supportive, too.”

Does another artist’s sexuality influence their own listening?
Velazquez and Cook are both more likely to investigate an act with gay
or lesbian members; Brooks doesn’t give a rat’s ass. Yet all three
praise Limpwrist, the queer hardcore band fronted by out Latino singer
Martin Sorrondeguy. Ditto Bob Mould. “Hüsker Dü changed my
life,” says Brooks. “That was a huge influence on me.”

Curiously, as passionate as they are about what they do, none of our
test subjects feels his sexual preference plays a significant role in
his group’s music. “We’re not a political band,” says Velazquez. Though
he admires outspoken ’90s acts like Huggy Bear, neither he nor Abe
Vigoda have an agenda to promote. “If things come off that way,
indirectly, that’s not a big deal. But I wouldn’t be trying to push any
sort of message.”

“My sexuality really has nothing to do with the music,” insists
Brooks. He pauses. “Although when I get up there, in front of the
crowd, and start humping my guitar, that’s totally sexual.”

* * *

One more point of intersection these men all share: Although each
resides in a city with a big, progressive GLBT community, none of their
groups has even been asked to play a gay pride rally. And they’d all be
happy to.

“Hell yeah!” concludes Brooks. “Although I would probably laugh my
ass off, because I could see us being back-to-back with some house DJ,
and everyone running for their lives, covering their ears.” Regardless,
the offer stands. Maybe the next time you see these three bands lumped
together, it will be on a flier for just such an event. Brooks may not
have done drag since he was 9, but he’s still secure enough to stand
out from the pack—if anyone cares to notice.