Volume 93, Issue 29

Thursday, October 21, 1999

Take a bite out of life

Gazette file photo
WHEN JOHN ASKED HOW HIS NEW HAT LOOKED, NO ONE WANTED TO TELL HIM THE TRUTH. B.C. punk rockers Dog Eat Dogma bring their weary asses to Call the Office.

By Luke Rundle
Gazette Staff

Speeding along a stretch of Northern Ontario highway in his tour van, lead vocalist Bob Dog, of punk stalwarts Dog Eat Dogma, sounds a little ticked off.

Having recently been the victims of a Saskatchewan police pullover, Dog and his bandmates are, needless to say, not happy campers. "We're dopeless, hopeless and lost in Northern Ontario, rushing our asses to get to Montréal to get to a show, so this is punk rock at its fucking finest," Dog says.

Hailing from Surrey, B.C., "a redneck, white trash, blue collar zone," as they put it, Dogma is led by Dog, who has been the only constant member of the band throughout its 11 year history. A 20 year veteran of the indie music scene, Dog remains the driving force behind Dogma, imparting his rabid sense of humour and philosophies into their music to take a bite out of their audience's psyches.

When asked to describe Dogma's punk style, Dog uses appropriately vague and formless non-sequiters. "Socio-political-psycho-sexual, intense, heavy – there you go. It's hit the button, light the fuse, throw the switch kind of shit." Having just released a new single, "Durst und Wurst," an ode to Oktoberfest, Dog Eat Dogma just keep on truckin' along the punk soundscape.

So why are the Dogmas so pissed off? Well, it seems much like what happens when a dog picks a favourite spot to relieve itself – the shit just keeps piling up.

"On Saturday night we left Vancouver – [the show was] full of acid-head hippies in their 40s dancing around like loonies. Then we drove all fuckin' night and got to Edmonton, played a bill with a death-metal band and we couldn't find a place to stay, which was fucked up. Then we left Edmonton and have not left the van, driving non-stop since Sunday morning," Dog wails.

London, however, will always hold a dear place in Dog's heart, although not for any obvious reason.

"I had the weirdest experience there with a lap-dancing witch," he remembers. "She was a dancer who went to one of our shows a couple of years ago. At the end of the night we announced from the stage, 'Hey, can somebody put us up for the night so we can save 50 bucks on a hotel room?,' so she said we could stay at her place. She had a black cat, cobwebs, altars, and a library of occult books. She offered us something to drink, but we weren't sure we should accept it. I couldn't see what was in the bottle and I didn't want to taste her last victim or become her next sacrifice. I wish I could remember her name."

Putting the negative aspects of touring aside, Dog does recognize the importance of going on the road to bring his message to the masses. "We're trying to get a tour together for spring next year, so this is kind of like laying the groundwork for that, getting people interested in the music," he asserts.

"This is all the punk rock, independent thing – you gotta work hard, with little or no guarantee. I embrace it. I've been doing this now for 20 years – and I love it. No regrets."

When asked whether or not he thinks the time may be coming to hang his mic cord up, Dog lets out a genuinely hearty laugh. "What would I do? This is what I do, man."