From rainbow.brite@worldnet.att.net Wed Jul 30 17:03:40 1997

Date: Fri, 4 Jul 1997 00:22:29 -0700

From: Brite 

To: pasha90@gonzo.wolfenet.com

Subject: Dave Riley Int.



How's your medical condition?



DR: In April of 1993 I had an unexpected stroke that ruined my

week.Inheriting a strokeis like being heir to a receding hairline, only a

musch bigger pain in the ass. Using a wheelchair is a major nuisance, but

somewhat tolerable - as if I have a choice. (Perhaps I'd be fatalistic if I

hat to sit in one for the rest of my born days.) What really chaps my

buttocks is this screwed-up speech crap and lack of muscle agility.

Recovering from a stroke is frustrating because it's so goddamn s-l-o-w.

But my condition isn't insurmountable yadda yadda yadda.



Though the members of Big Black have often said that lyrics were just

there, surely the group must have realized that a big deal would be made

over the "transgressive" nature of the lyrics. Did they exist as a facet of

the dark stylings of Big Black's music, or just to piss parents or naive

fans off? Or as something else?



DR: An integral part of the Big Black mania was Steve ranting into a

microphone. Since he was the one who made the lyrics up, he addressed

subjects that interested him. Those subjects lent themselves well to the

music and visa-versa. The fact that the work of folks like, for example,

the Goads cause such a ruckus proves that most human beings are detached

from, or even embarrassed by, their base instincts. I strongly suspect that

Big Black fans who obsess over the "anti-social" (I think fairly innocuous)

lyrics (bulletin for those of you who never leave you dingy hovels - we

broke up a decade ago) are limp-wristed psuedo-intellectual pussies who

wear t-shirts emblazoned with Charles Manson and participate in milk toast

S and M with their homely and easily manipulatd girlfriends.



How did you come to join Big Black?



DR: I was walking to the local 7-11 to purchase a pack of Twinkies and a

quart of beer when I saw Steve wearing a tattered overcoat and clutching

the cyclone fence of a Y.M.C.A.as he watched some eight year old boys on

the other side playing softball. I'd seen him yelling at passing cars

outside of a few shows, and we got to talking. He mentioned that his band

needed a bass player and asked if I'd be interested in filling the bill; I

chalked his story up to dementia and said I'd see. Much to my surprise, he

called me two weeks later - he'd somehow gotten hold of my phone number -

and I realized that he was serious. I agreed to join his band.



What are the feelings of punk's commercial value?



DR: I conduct myself in the manned that I see fit and don't give a flying

fuck about trends or anybody's (most likely ill-informed) opinion of me or

my output.