M.C. Stixxx – Tiss, Whap, Prrrrrr, Tatatata, Thump

Have you ever regained consciousness only to find that you are laying in a back alley of Tuba City, AZ  wearing nothing but last night’s G-string, when last you knew you were working at a lobster buffet on the east coast of Maine teaching tourists how to properly shuck a lobster while secretly taking frequent pulls off of the bottle of whiskey hidden under the table?   M.C. Stixxx has.   No other blackout/hangover can compare (though with a headache that bad, there was a lot of champagne, tequila, or both somewhere between Maine and Arizona). 

              Born in the middle of a hippie drum circle deep in an unknown forest at midnight under a super blood wolf moon, M.C. was made to create rhythm by banging sticks against a membrane stretched taut over a hollow wood cylinder (preferably mahogany, maple, or birch with chromed hardware and a wild and flashy, yet tasteful, finish).  He grew up mute.  For years he communicated with his own language of taps, bumps, beats, and thumps.  Some thought he would never speak.  Turns out he was just saving it all up.  His first words were “Can I get more kick in my monitor?”.  That’s all the hippie sound engineer could take.  M.C. was cast out.

              M.C. spent most of his youth working in a carnival traveling the U.S. That’s when he saw it.  Some thought it was just a prize for popping a balloon or tossing a ring, but to M.C. it was his realized life’s goal.  A mirror painted with the “Poison – Open Up and Say… Ahhh!” Album cover.  Instantly, he knew he needed to grow out big hair, play rock beats like a jungle cat, and he should never take a picture without his tongue hanging out again.  Sadly, skintight pants, big hair, and a rock n’ roll attitude were against carnival regulations.  They left him in a vacant fairground on the east coast of Maine. 

              By day, M.C. worked at a lobster buffet.  By night, he honed his skills playing on a drum kit crafted from metal junk harvested at a local scrapyard and set up under the pier next to the local meth dealer.   This went on for years until that fateful day in Arizona. After scraping himself off the pavement, high-fiving some local ladies of the night, and grabbing some new clothes from the ‘stripper section’ at the local thrift store, he burst through the doors of the local club like a man on fire (he really needed to pee).  It was on his way out of the bathroom that he met them.   HairMania.  M.C. could see it in their eyes; they really had to pee too.  But he could ALSO see their destiny.   M.C. had the rhythm, the hair, the tongue, and the desire to play rock n’ roll to anybody who might listen, or at least pretend to listen, or look like they’re not listening, but they really are.  HairMania had…. an opening for a drummer and no motivation to look for one.  M.C. has been part of the Glam Slam Jam ever since and there is no going back.

No, really.  Nobody knows how he got to Arizona and if M.C. knows… he isn’t telling.