Dethstryke obsessed with same ol’ sex, drugs, rock ‘n’ roll

Andrew Mabe
April 23, 2004

A young man with a Fu Manchu mustache and a bass guitar around his neck is slamming an Old Style beer wrapped in a Kid Rock can cooler between songs. The dingy basement in which he and his comrades practice today smells a lot like a junior high art room after a pottery-making session — but more importantly, it smells like metal.

These craftsmen call themselves Dethstryke. They are filling the air with toxic riffs, angry facial expressions and extended guitar solos. They blast through their setlist for that night’s show, which includes the songs “Grind It ‘Til Ya Find It,” “Wakin’ the Dead” and “Burnin’ Rubbers.”

Dethstryke’s music could be all about long road trips and near-death experiences. Or it could be about something else.

“It’s all about El Caminos, cigarettes, mustaches and pissing off your neighbors,” says guitarist Angus Mackay, aka Radd Richie Rockinhamm. “You’ve got no time to think about how crappy your life is ’cause you’re too busy banging your head and getting punched in the face.”

“Stage name” is a more appropriate term for the band members’ pseudonyms than “alter-ego,” as it is impossible to tell when they are in character and when they’re just being themselves.

The man with the main mic is listed in the ISU phonebook as Tim Murphy, sophomore in chemical engineering, but his fans know him as Sweet Sal Stagliano, freshman in rock ‘n’ roll godliness.

As the band’s practice session comes to a close, Stagliano asks if pants are required for the interview.

The warrior wielding the bass and sporting the ‘stache is Wykkyd Wayne Wazorsky (or Ian Richardson, as his parents call him). Last in the lineup is Feltchin’ Freddy Fostyr (Dan Peterson), who carries the beat. The image Dethstryke has created for itself can be seen in all aspects of the band.

Common themes are obvious in Dethstryke’s songs, with verses such as, “Following me around/ Everywhere I go/ Drinkin’ all my whiskey/ Snorting all my blow/ Heavy metal momma/ Do what you’re told/ On the floor baby/ You’re how old? (I don’t care).”

With lyrics such as these, it’s not hard to see the band’s obsession with the tried-and-true topics of sex, drugs and rock ‘n’ roll.

“We don’t stray far from the basics,” Murphy says, as he stuffs his mouth full of unheated, whole kernel corn, straight from the can. Before the house show tonight, Peterson, the drummer, must tape his fingers up — a precaution to the intense metal behavior Dethstryke is sure to exhibit. Murphy recalls a recent experience that was especially metal.

“He drew a face with blood on his snare drum because his fingers always bleed from playing so hard,” Murphy says.

One may wonder how a force such as Dethstryke could come to be. That one would be answered in the usual colorful way that is Mackay’s nature.

“We’re a bunch of alcoholic lushes anyway, so we figured we’d might as well do something fun with it,” says Mackay, who is already under the influence at four in the afternoon. “What better way is there to get free beer than playing concerts?”

Regulars at People’s or the Maintenance Shop may not have seen Dethstryke yet, for the band has been focusing up to this point on its underground following. Very underground.

“[We play] basements, living rooms and more basements,” Murphy says.

Considering it has barely been together one year, the band has a shockingly large staff striving to make the Dethstryke name known. Even during their interview, the members are surrounded by a hair and makeup specialist, a film director for their “rockumentary,” a security team, a pyrotechnics engineer, a public relations director and a so-called “physician/dentist.” Their manager, Kyle Drea, aka Dee Dee Danger Dumont, looks on as well, and says the band even started its own bike gang, though it only consists of a single motorcycle and a moped. All this attention before even having played at a real venue.

The band’s “coming out show” will be at 9 p.m. Friday at Vaudeville Mews, 212 4th St., Des Moines.

Before piling into their “tour van” — a beige ’95 Buick LeSabre — to play their “tender metal” at a house in the Drake neighborhood, Murphy talks about his aspirations and confidence in the potential success of Dethstryke.

“If we were born in 1983, we’d be selling out shows like M”tley Cre,” he says. A second later, Murphy’s bandmate and friend, Mackay, brings him back to reality.

“We were born in 1983.”