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Tartan soul >> The Real McKenzies bust it up like Braveheart and get off Scot-free by RUPERT BOTTENBERG
"Let's go back to the Scots clearances, which started in the late 1700s," says singer Paul McKenzie, after our mutual commiseration over matching hangovers. "The same boats which brought over the African slaves came and picked up Scottish people and dropped them off in the Americas, because they were deemed criminals. The monarchy wanted to get them off the British Isles. They totally decimated the Scottish clans. "They landed everywhere from Nova Scotia to Jamaica. As a result, you get the St. Andrew's Cross on the Jamaican flag, you get Jamaicans with names like Robert McMorley and Peter Mackintosh in contemporary music, you get corn whiskey being made--wherever did they get the idea for that? I've run into these Jamaican-Scottish rasta guys in New York, with blue and green eyes... some Scotty was doing something somewhere." Doing it everywhere, apparently. When the band played the Seattle date of the Warped Tour, McKenzie stumbled across a crabby store owner giving a black customer grief. McKenzie gave the clerk what for, bought the black guy a beer and sardines and joined him for a smoke, a snack and an eye-opening chat. "So we're sitting there on the curb, eating our sardines and drinking our beers. I tell him my name is McKenzie and he goes, 'No way!' He takes out his ID, and his name is Clinton McKenzie. He says, 'Here, I know this dance,' and he started doing the Highland Fling. I said, 'Where the fuck did you learn that?' He said, 'My dad taught me!'" Road gore and tales of yore During our talk, Paul McKenzie proves to be a man of many facets. On the one hand, he offers a wealth of heartfelt and well-informed Scottish history, tales of noble pride in the face of injustice. On the other hand, he spins hard-drinkin' yarns of punk rock road gore, tales of liquor-fuelled mayhem in the face of injustice. The history of the kilt and the clan tartans one moment, accounts of voluptuous sluts masturbating while peering up said kilts the next. But you know, it all makes sense. McKenzie notes the impact that legendary Scottish poet/songsmith/farmer/casanova Robbie Burns had, not only on the band's politics but on their songwriting as well. "When you get down to it," McKenzie muses, "Burns' lyrics work perfectly for punk rock songs." The proof? "Scots Wha' Ha'e," a blistering anthem on their latest disc, Clash of the Tartans. The voice is McKenzie's, but the words, proud and patriotic, are Robbie Burns'. Truth is, you don't even have to be Scottish to dig the Real McKenzies' wardrum-thumping. McKenzie recalls the band's visit to Texas, where axe-handle-wielding rednecks were the least of their worries. They played a dive called the Green Onion, to a pack of out-of-control Chicano punks. When the guitar player took a crosschecked mic stand to the mouth, he had the guilty parted hauled to the door. Last-minute clemency was granted, but the band couldn't read the audience's reaction and were ready for the worst. "As I'm moving gear out after the show, I open the back door and here's two '66 Cadillac Eldorados. The way I see it, coming out of the catacombs behind the club, there are two big cars blocking my door and two guys standing there with no light on them, arms crossed, legs apart, with this accent, saying, 'So... you wanna party?' "I didn't know what they meant by this, so I put the amps down and get ready for the swash, and they said, 'Good!' They open their trunks and both are filled with big trays with ice and cider and beer, tequila... fuck, man, it was amazing!" Unidentified flying sex gargoyles "We were a little worried about Texas," McKenzie laughs now, "because people were telling us, 'Y'all are gonna get shot down there, wearing those skirts.'" Contrary to such dire warnings, the Real McKenzies have found that the very sight of their apparel often relieves the ladies of their burdensome inhibitions. "It's not only that they disrobe, it's what they do when they disrobe." McKenzie dredges up a bizarre scenario from the alcoholic cesspit of his memory, recalling another show somewhere in the heart of the Lone Star State. "I look over, and there's a woman lying on stage right, looking up (guitarist) Dirty Kurt Robertson's kilt, and masturbating. And she was a very attractive woman, too, and totally getting off all over the place. The other guitar player, Tony, looks over at him and goes, 'Kurt! Look!' And he says, 'No, you look!' And there's another one looking up his kilt, doing the same sorta thing! These pornographic, satanic, gorgeous gargoyles on the stage!" Not only do the Real McKenzies pique the curiosities of rastas, Mexicans and drunken wantons of all walks, but their appeal reaches beyond our terrestrial realms. McKenzie's still kicking himself for having gone off on his own, in pursuit of Texas garage punk lore, while the rest of the lads drove within spitting distance of Arizona's creepy Area 51... and a close encounter of the shit-your-pants kind. "I can only describe what they described to me, but they were absolutely terrified. They thought it was a vehicle on the road, but it was something above the road by the time it got to them. It passed them at supersonic speed and they smelled some kind of an ionized odour. They drove off the road, and then it came back. They were all screaming and freaking out." Despite the scare tactics, it seems these mysterious "aliens" had little interest in whatever half-baked haggis recipes might be culled from the McKenzies' minds. "They could have been abducted, but I think that if they'd done a mental probing or a pre-probe scan, they'd have gone, 'Oh, no, no, these bastards aren't what we want. They're not squiddy enough.'" At Foufounes Électriques with Link 80 and Roller Starter, Tuesday, September 29, 8pm, $8
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Bagpipe-boasting B.C. Scot-punks the Real McKenzies have never played in Scotland--at least not as a full band. Frankly, the idea of hauling their full-tilt kilt-core schtick to its nation of origin seems almost redundant. But what's really interesting is, wherever they play, how many closet Scots come out of the woodwork. You'd be amazed who's Scottish.