100 BULLETS OVER CHICAGO

BRIAN AZZARELLO

"It's become really clear to me that I don't like super heroes because they're dull. So I don't mind screwing with them."

R: 1999 was the year DC took a gamble on an unknown writer?

A: Yeah

R: Your own series rocked the comic world - is the thrill gone?

A: No, not at all. Neither is the pressure to perform. You know? I'm still very aware the rug could be pulled out from under me at anytime. But with the way sales are going with the book it seems unlikely. It could still happen, you know? I'm as good as my last issue.

R: Still like to run out though? See it, get it when it's printed, hits the stands?

A: That thrill is gone. When I do the finale run-through of the script, when everything's all pasted-up, that's pretty much when the book's done for me. I'll get it, I'll get it, I'll page through it to see the colors because I never get a chance to see that until it's printed.

R: Do you pen it like a regular script?

A: Yeah.

R: Television, film?

A: Yeah, right. But since it's comics, it has to be done panel to panel. There's art direction for every panel. But my art direction is very, very sparse. I really trust my artist.

R: So in the same way a writer might pack lots of camera direction into a screenplay…?

A: That's right. I don't do that. I trust Eduardo.

R: Eduardo Risso?

A: The artist, that's right. Eduardo's like a cinematographer, he paints with light. He's got so much freedom for his vision-I think that's the way it should be. I don't wanna treat an artist like he's a "hand". He showed as much input as I do. It just makes it more interesting for him too.

R: Now, you're in totally different locations?

A: Yeah, he's in Argentina.

R: So you communicate…how?

A: E-mail.

R: And you've met, how many times?

A: Twice.

R: Yet it's like you're connected?

A: That's what people say. Other creator's in this industry can not believe the synergy that we have. It looks like the work of one person.

R: He gets inside your head?

A: Yeah.

R: I think that's part of the success.

A: It's funny, but I'm trying to get to the point with him…

(We're interrupted for some Thai food.)

…thanks...we're…I'm going to know what it looks like. He still surprises me…a lot! It's funny, he sez I surprise him. You know? The way these stories are going? Something's coming out of left field…he's as intimate with this thing as I am…and I'll be like Oh-mi-god, I can't believe he did that…(he) fooled me. We had a long talk in San Diego about where this thing was going next: twenty to thirty issues, he just wanted to know. It's time for you to tell me. (laughs) You're the only one that knows, so he sat me down-he's happy with it.

R: So DC leaves you alone?

A: They kinda want to know six months in advance what's happening. Again-they're trusting Eduardo and I, at this point.

R: Hellblazer? How did that come about?

A: (laughs) Warren Ellis quit the book. They needed a replacement real fast and I got the call. Axel was the editor at the time, and said this is the direction I want to take him in. I said, all right, let me think about that. He wanted to do a lot of globe hopping, and I thought about that and I said that's not something that interests me. I said, let's drop him somewhere he can't get out of: prison. And as soon as I said that he said, you got the job. Let's keep him in America, a sorta Herschell Gordon Lewis movie (laughs). But I'm done with Hellblazer now.

R: the buzz on that was, the series Oz was tapping into your head, and visa versa, as far as prison reality goes?

A: Well, it's funny, the first reaction was like, I was riffin on Oz: the Black gang the Arian gang-hey, that's not riffin' on Oz…

Both: (laughing) That's prison.

We both take a break and eat our spicy Thai. Azzarello honestly looks like Spider Jerusalem from the DC comic masterpiece Transmetropolitan, so it's hard not to think I'm sitting on the pages of some comic book, paneled, inked, and colored.

R: Marvel and Richard Corben…fun diversion?

A: Yeah. It's been, you know, a real good time. I love working with Richard and we will work together again.

R: But strictly DC?

A: Yeah, but we'll create our own thing, which is pretty much where I'm going. I mean, we did the Hulk thing, The Cage…

R: Which was great.

A: thanks. And it's become really clear to me that I don't like super heroes because they're dull. So I don't mind screwing with them. I mean, a lot of the Marvel characters are flawed, but their flaws are so insignificant that they're still dull. Working on the company owned stuff, you don't have a lot of freedom. You can tell a story, sure. But you can't do anything radical to the character, you gotta leave him were he was, you gotta just pick him up, dust him off a bit…the Hulk was different, we were aloud to do pretty much what we wanted because we were out of the whole Hulk continuity. That led to Cage, which we just finished.

R: When do we get to see the trades?

A: I think November.

R: 100 Bullets is often compared to Raymond Chandler's The Big Sleep? Cool? Pain-in-the-ass? What?

A: I don't really pay attention. People are always trying to find ways to categorize things. It's a way to describe what I do…well, it's like this…it's like The Big Sleep, whatever.

R: The Minute Men, are we going deeper into their past, a biography?

A: You'll know what happened in Atlantic City.

R: What's up with Atlantic City?

A: I have a soft spot in my heart for Atlantic City. I love that place. The desperation is so palatable (laugh). They haven't shined the place up, like Vegas, which is terrible, it's Disney World.

R: The characters Shepard and Graves…they know so much because they have friends in high places?

A: Yeah.

R: how high does it go?

A: Pretty high (laughs).

Outside an ambulance rips by, there's honking and some cursing too. Everything's crazy, out of balance for a few and then instantly settles down to doldrums. Nobody notices the commotion outside, nobody looks up, pulls away from their conversations.

R: Instead of all over the map, you like intimate settings for your characters?

A: A location is only as interesting as the characters that are in it. Their story is more important then where they're at. Although where they're at shapes who they are sometimes.

R: Would you say you're work is more character driven?

A: Well, yeah, people's stories are great. I love to listen to people talk.

R: Do you get your ideas from real people?

A: Oh yeah. I'll ride the bus, eavesdrop on the conversation. Kids have the best ones. A lot of people say my dialogue is dead on, that's because I listen. That's all.

R: What do you read?

A: I don't read a lot of comics. I just read a true story, corporate man, middle aged, commits murder, goes to prison. It's his memoirs on what's that like.

R: You like prison stories?

A: I like the politics (laughs). You go to prison and you're stripped of all you are, and then you struggle to regain yourself in usually severe and brutal ways.

R: What's the future hold…Hollywood?

A: I kinda don't want anything to do with that. It seems there's a lot of lying and ass-kissing going on (laughs). And I don't have time for that, you know? So I'm moving more towards novels. Rather than Hollywood. But a friend of mine, who is in comics, said that's a mistake. You write a script, it pays better per word. (laughs)

R: Graves would have a real field day in Hollywood?

A: they haven't made enough bullets for Hollywood. (Laughs)

With that he pushes his seat back and stands. He smiles as he puts his cap on, zips his jacket, shakes my hand before heading through the tiny wood-paneled restaurant. He pushes the glass door open. The sunlight swallows him whole and in an instant he is gone.

S.T.U.N.

"If a band can do that without getting crucified by the fans worshipping someone else, they have the gift to mesmerize, preaching the sermon from the mound."

There's so much anger in the air. You can smell it, taste it, and feel its fingernails on your brow. While walking across the street at a buzzing intersection, cars revving up their motors while hothead drivers sneer, wishing they could run you over, anger is nipping at your heels. It's the drift, this pent-up rage that pinches your neck in elevators, pushes you aside on crowded sidewalks, and gives you the finger anytime you're in the way.

The year 2003 is festering with aggression, and when the confrontational Los Angeles punks S.T.U.N. take the stage, they ask you to give it to them head-on. "Give us your hate," scoffs lead singer Christiane J., standing on the apron's monitors. "We can take it, man!" As someone from the crowd tosses a plastic cup of beer, Christiane catches it with his free hand, pours it down his throat, and tosses it back at the asshole while the house erupts, screams praise.

This is a rock band twisting that hatred that we're all choking on into a raging social consciousness, exorcising the demons of domination in our thinning land of the free, home of the brave. They're doing it with an energy that's so addictive that we're giving up our fury just to dance. This isn't peeling back the present to the past, its punk ground-breaking, quite original. Sure the lyrics gleam The Clash, their fearlessness recalls The Sex Pistols but then there's something else: S.T.U.N. is purely grounded in the moment. That's what makes them work. Nothing's being faked, nothing's just for show.

At the Aragon Ballroom in Chicago, opening for Marilyn Manson, these guys held their own. Exposing songs from their debut album Evolution of Energy, from Geffen, S.T.U.N. was electrified contempt. "In Here Comes the Underground," and "Annihilation of the Generations/Social Disease," Neil Spies' frenzied music and lyrics not only hearten nonconformity, but mirror the world of imperialism, fascist ideology that's bleeding down the Whitehouse steps. While drummer Bobby Alt pounded out variable steady rhythms to induce convulsions from the crowd, Nick S. on Bass stayed extra cool, sweat pouring down each finger. They are an extremely tight rhythm section and played off each other well. This was truly rock. Even though I'm hearing "imitators" from some media, I found their musical activism invigorating. I thought they captured something novel about the punk aesthetic buried underground. They ripped the coffin lid off and said welcome to the musty bones that is America. They nailed their observations to the cross.

The crowd of 5,000 stuffed into the gothic ballroom right out of Carnival of Souls, giving the band permission to occupy the stage before Manson opened up his gates of hell. If a band can do that without getting crucified by the fans worshipping someone else, they have the gift to mesmerize, preaching the sermon from the mound. When the scorching four disbanded, the audience wanted more. They all liked the acidic sampler. Inside all that voltage, the throng of pissed-off concert souls converted to the S.T.U.N.!

When I went to find the band after the concert, all but gone to celebrate, Bobby Alt exited the tour bus. An emotional wired scarecrow, with the Tin Man's brazen heart, he waltzed, hitting the frosty air still dressed for the land of oranges and sunshine. The wind whipped through his jet-black hair, his army jacket pulled around him while he shivered, but never noticed he was doing that. Although his band had just rocked 5,000 strong, he told me, smiling big-time, "You gotta see us in a small club. When you coming to L.A.?" That's someone who likes embracing each person in the house, and in that quiet viewpoint is why S.T.U.N. will inevitably stick around.

Marilyn Manson

"Are you ready for the f*#king old shit," he asks his exhausted parishioners.

Aragon Ballroom
Chicago, IL

The hypocrisy of the world is disparaging. The dark insincerity that creeps along the shady corridors of government, slithers around the boardrooms of big business, and oozes onto the showground's of commercial entertainment is a numbing specter. It has no conscience. It doesn't care. It doesn't have the heart. Through the handshakes, slogans, deals, and box office receipts, we pretend that freedom is a word that lifts us high above the ringing of the cash registers. Marilyn Manson understands. As an artist, Manson likes to push musical mirrors into the faces of those that embrace the hollow specter. He does this with the same darkness and despair it hands us. It is living in his twisted vaudeville known as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.

In this trenchant stage extravaganza, Manson reheats the German cabaret, boils it, cooks it with pounding rhythms, scorching organ grinds, hot and sticky guitar riffs, amidst a hideous burlesque. There are women deformed and beautiful, dancing anti-sexual stripteases that still succeed to turn you on. There are haunting images of technology mating with human beings to produce robots with human intestines and a cheeky Mickey Mouse. All of it induces what he's after: it stirs the audience to release. It gives them permission to scream, dance, and spit poison at the lies we live with day to day. It exhausts the barren specter trampling it to the floor - at least for 90 minutes.

The lyrics are sometimes unsophisticated, but I liked that. In the rock music arena, Marilyn Manson hit the juggler in the mid-'90s with his post-alternative Antichrist Superstar. Theatrical industrial metal is his sound, his forte, and lyrically accentuating the blast. Besides, I know Manson's bright, I've heard him talk, I don't need to challenge his ability to articulate his annoyances anymore. Just stand in front of him and his bandmates while they pour buckets of steamy rock n' roll over your head. I dare you not to raise your fist and give the finger when he calls.

The Aragon Ballroom in Chicago is not the best place to hear music. Eroding high ceilings and shedding gothic balconies swallow sound, and the tiny stage is really too small for the likes of Manson's barmy merriment. He's not really suited for the small venue. Yet, the crowd knew how to stuff themselves appropriately in all the right nooks and crannies. As soon as MM hit the stage, they were his living, breathing panorama bizarre. Sweaty drinking fools thrashed alongside pierced and pretty tattooed white suburbanites emotionally choreographed to rock and pulsated when he told them to. This was not a throwaway. This was a razor sharp, affecting gig that exhausted all the demons until the dark church closed its doors.

Manson still serves hefty scraps of industrial metal, searing screams, suspicious glam-bam shite ala Holy Wood that's Manson's signature, and yet something innovative emerges: humor swirls within the straightforward nihilistic wedge, allowing Manson to unwind, relax, and enjoy the show. "This Is the New Shit" rest assured, his Vodevil and by the time he treated all the weary kids to "Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)," are you ready for the f*#king old shit," he asks his exhausted parishioners. A second wind emerged, scorned, treacherous, while the specter hits the floor, gets ready for another ass-whoppin', in this, his elegantly bitter lampoon, known to many as The Golden Age of the Grotesque.