“The Tapeworm initiation”
The first time I’d heard of Tapeworm was when I was in New York City visiting Gerald, this middle-aged suit-and-tie corporate A&R sleazebag I was forced to meet up with by my then-boss at Broadstreet Records. He was the kind of guy who would act like he was ‘keeping it real’ by dropping well-rehearsed street slang here and there, but in reality was just another slimy monkey for some greasy pop-trash label with a 50 story megaplex on 5th Avenue. He rambled on and on about how he was ‘down with the scene,’ bragging about how he ‘peeped the last DMX joint’ and all this shit. At any rate, I somehow ended up listening to his nonsense all night as we drove around Manhattan in his brand new titanium white BMW roadster. He sat there scowling, lamenting that he had recently missed the boat on a decent but seemingly unprofitable band from New York City called Tapeworm. Apparently soon afterwards, they got picked up by a small European label and sold more than 500,000 copies of their debut album in little over four months with nearly no promotion. “They’s pretty tight,” he broadcasted in his affected jive. “In fact, I think I got it here. Lemme bust this shit.”

I quietly wished myself elsewhere as Gerald fumbled around for the CD under his mock-Italian leather seat, as the vehicle slowly drifted towards the long string of parallel parked Mercedes-Benzes and Acuras that lined the neon-lit boulevard.

From the second I heard the dull rumbles that opened “No One Lives Here Anymore,” I knew I was hearing something remarkable. Suddenly the drums and bass kicked in, and a thunderous, narcotic drone swept over washes of distorted guitar and complex orchestral layers. It sounded like a bulldozer smashing a million crickets while landmines exploded, with Satan’s personal orchestra playing in the background. It was flat-out amazing, like nothing I’d ever heard before. It made me think of the fiery pits of hell, but it was intoxicating enough to put me to sleep.

Later on in the evening, I ended up nonchalantly dropping the CD into my backpack and making my escape while Gerald was passed out and drooling all over his couch after having about 15 glasses of wine.

Tapeworm's debut record sold 500,000 copies in Europe with almost no promotion

“I liked them before anyone else... in the U.S.”
Six months later, everyone and their neurosurgeon is talking about Tapeworm. After just about every critic (including myself) placed 4 Ft. Pulsating Tapeworm in the top 3 of their “10 Best Albums You Didn’t Hear in 2001,” it seems the band is on everyone’s mouth, but no one actually has a copy of the album. I’d recently heard that their label, Retrodisk, based in Spain, had folded, but didn’t believe it given that they’d just sold 500,000 albums by a single band (although I did find the absence of the Tapeworm CD from import bins a bit suspicious).

After much running around, I was finally able to track down their management, the Jonathan Epstein Agency in New York. Their manager told me that the label had indeed gone bankrupt due to financial mismanagement, but the album was slated for release on San Francisco’s Scorched Earth label later in the year. When I asked for an interview with the band, I was told that they were in the middle of a European tour but I should feel free to join them in the Eastern bloc if I felt so inclined. I decided to take him up on the offer.

“The Early Daze : Before the Darkness Descended”
Tapeworm had started in the winter of 1998, in keyboardist Duane Simmons’s basement. Lead singer and guitarist Tony Quintaro met Simmons in the place where all truly great bands are born: high school shop class. Simmons had won over Quintaro’s friendship when he accidentally gouged their teacher, Mr. Headrick, square in the forehead with a nail gun. A few months after this auspicious beginning, the two began jamming and writing material in the basement of Simmons’ parents’ house. Tony would arrive around nine and they would spend all night noodling around on the guitar and keyboard, drinking beer, smoking pot, and listening to mid-seventies heavy metal records. Duane’s parents never seemed to mind the racket, which would frequently run into the wee hours of the morning; this may have been due to the fact that Jerry and Catherine Simmons were out-and-out acid casualties. “They didn’t give a fuck,” remarks Tony. “In the end, it was their lack of concern that made us what we are.”

After months of collaborating and recording a shitty demo on a Radio Shack tape recorder, they added Duane’s cousin Steve Crete, formerly of the Sexual Predators, on bass. What Steve brought to the mix was a brand of brash idiocy, which tended to make the other two play louder and harder than before. “The guy is just such an asshole,” says Duane blankly. “Your first instinct is to take your aggression out on something. In my case , it was the keyboard.” Steve was also a bit of a lush, which meant that he would frequently be playing out of key or out of time with the other members. “He’s got a serious problem,” adds Tony. “but don’t quote me on that.”

When Steve joined the band, he also brought two of his punk buddies. Yaswe was a lanky guy with a black rat-tail. An unsavory individual, he was always armed with an obscene gesture and an offensive quip. More importantly, he was well trained in classical guitar. He’d been playing for more than 10 years and had won several Flamenco competitions and showed a certain affinity for heavy metal groups like King Diamond and Iron Maiden.

And then there was Tapeworm’s ever-dependable drummer Tad, whose entire head was perpetually encased in a dirty white shroud (he was rumored to not have a face). He liked to talk about booze and women, although he didn’t seem capable of participating in either due to his, shall we say, peculiar condition. He also liked to collect towels from every place he’d been to (due to this quirk, he was forced to abandon most of his clothing on the latest tour to make room for his towel collection. He was subsequently reduced to wearing the same yellow t-shirt and pair of black shorts every single day, leading to the road crew derisively nicknaming him “Charlie Brown”.)

After spending the better part of a year rehearsing Tony’s brilliant metallic drone-rock, the group played a well-received set of dates in New York’s respectable 1600 Club. Soon afterwards, they recorded a 9-track CD of sludge, which somehow made its way to the folks at Retrodisk. Retrodisk offered a $500 advance, which was far more than any other label was offering. Seeing a good chance to be exploited when he saw it, Steve (who had forceably become the band’s spokesperson) drunkenly signed the papers without consulting the other members. Within the span of three months, the word-of-mouth popularity of Tapeworm had become so intense that Retrodisk couldn’t keep up with the demand. Fans came to their shows in Amsterdam and Paris and complained that they couldn’t buy their album anywhere.

“Tapeworm in the flesh”
A week after the offer to meet up with Tapeworm, I arrive in a bitterly cold Austrian airport, tired as all hell, but excited at the prospect of meeting the future of rock. After a half-hour cab ride through the historic streets of Vienna, I end up at a four-star hotel on the fabulous west end of the Ringstrasse, where the world’s most mysterious collective is currently shacking up. I knock on the dark mahogany door of room 352, where a clean-shaven man of average height opens the door. “Hi there!” he blurts out. “I’m Tony. Come on in!” Quintaro's geniality is thoroughly disarming; I instantly like him, but I'm so unused to this sort of friendliness that I almost feel like I'm about to be hit up for money.

Inside, the members of Tapeworm are descending on an oily pizza, oozing from the box onto the table with grease. “Can I offer you some pizza?” asks Tony politely. “Just make yourself at home.” I am terribly hungry having not eaten in nearly 15 hours, but the other members of Tapeworm roll their beady eyes from the fatty rations that hang from their mouths over to me, as if an outsider has just laid claim to their meal. I decide that it is better to not trample anyone’s toes, and decline the gracious offer.

Later that night, as the other members of Tapeworm divert themselves by screaming and yelling and rabidly attacking Playstation controllers, Tony sits by himself in the corner, humming in muted tones, gently strumming his Fenwick maple-neck 6 string. His gentle mannerisms remind me of the proverbial Buddha; he sits there unaware of the others’ presence, channeling every bit of concentration into what is going on in his head and his hands.

“It doesn’t bother me,” he says, referring to the fact that he’s the forgotten leader of the band. “I can write some pretty good—” he stops. He is too modest to refer to his extraordinary abilities. He rephrases his thoughts. “Y’know, if people happen to like my songs, and I can make money off that, then it’s my duty to share that good luck with other musicians. Sure, I could go solo and maybe make some records, and I’d get all the money… but where would these guys go?” He looks over at the group of laughing, yelling 20-somethings at the other side of the room. “They’re like baby birds,” he continues. “Sometimes they bite the hand that feeds them, but you can’t blame them for it. They don’t know what they’re doing.” He shrugs, not knowing what else to say. I find myself envious of his humility, compassion, and almost childlike naivete.

“GIMMEE THAT CONTROLLER, DICKFACE!” a voice bellows from the direction of the huddled mass. Tony glances over for a brief moment, his face glowing in the light of the television. “These guys are my friends.” he whispers.

“Big Night in a Small Country”
The following night, Tapeworm heads for their sold-out gig in Zurich’s Mannheim Stadium, playing a highly coveted opening spot for Germany’s premier metal quintet Gotterdammerung. Minutes before the show, bassist Steven Crete is having problems backstage. “Where the fuck is my headband?” he screams at a young Swiss employee, who seems about ready to cry. He throws his chair, clothes, and numerous towels across the room, looking feverishly for the missing 80s fashion accessory. “Listen carefully,” he says, speaking very slowly in a ‘fuck-you-I’m-American’ tone. “Tell me where the hell you put my headband!” He grabs the young woman by the shoulders and shakes her for a moment before she writhes out of his clammy grip and runs out of the room crying. “Fuckin’ Kraut stole my shit,” he bellows. Crete pauses for a moment to wipe his cocaine-induced nasal-drippage onto his mucus-covered sleeve only to realize that the headband is exactly where he left it—on his forehead. “Fuckin’ Krauts,” he growls.

Meanwhile, Tad is near hysteria in the greenroom. As I stroll in, he is on his hands and knees, desperately thrashing at the linoleum. Panicked, he screams “I can’t find my fuckin’ drumsticks!” He screams in a lisp that resembles a cross between Mr. Ed and a “faggier” version of Thomas the Tank Engine. A bearded roadie that looks like he’s had a few too many drinks every day for the last 15 years sticks his head into the room. “Yerroninfive.”

Tad looks up from the pile of duffel bags and trash streaming the floor, and protests, his eyes wide with anxiety. “I don’t have my fuckin’ drumsticks!” Moments later, he appears on the stage holding two flathead screwdrivers, looking remarkably smug about his ingenious choice of surrogate sticks.

Despite the ominous foreshadowing, which suggested anything but a decent show, Tapeworm pulls off a fantastic set that highlights their killer guitars, banging rhythm section, and Tony Quintaro’s mysterious vocal undercurrents. No one in the crowd even moves during the performance, it is so mesmerizing. All you can do is stand there in awe and be pummeled by their amazing dynamics. As an afterthought, the band sends the crowd into a narcotic frenzy with an impromptu cover of Merzbow’s “Degradation of Tapes.” So good is the show that the group easily upstages Gotterdammerung, who come off like a limp version of Cannibal Corpse without the theatrical panache to pull it off. Unfortunately, this does not go over well with Gotterdammerung’s management. After the show, a skinny gentleman toting a large man barges into Tony’s room and tells them they’d better start playing shittier shows or else!

“More subhuman than human”
“And gimme ketchup on the side! Lots of ketchup!” bellows Steve at a young waitress. While the other members of Tapeworm content themselves with eating the local cuisine, Mr. Crete has demanded that the restaurant cook deviate from the usual Swiss meal to appease his narrow view of the world’s gastronomic delights. The waitress explains that, although unfortunate, the request won’t be possible. Steve stands up and glares at the waitress for a good 10 seconds before knocking over a salt shaker and storming out the door. The other members of Tapeworm are used to Steve’s behavior and hardly notice. “We only keep him in the band because he adds a lot of tension to our sound,” offers Yaswe.

I comment that their show was one of the best I’d ever seen, but express disappointment that Gotterdammerung’s management wanted to terminate any further forays into crowd pleasing performances. “It’s okay,” says Tony reflectively. “The people are coming there to see them anyways. I don't want to interfere with that...”

“Where do you get off saying that, Tony?” yells Yaswe. “I work too fucking hard for this shit.”

“Yeah,” chimes in Tad angrily, his voice muffled through the cloth. “This is horseshit.”

Tony continues eating his meal, unconcerned with the turn in conversation. Duane pipes up: “We have to start our own tour. I’m not playing if we can’t fucking play the way we want it. That’s it. Fuck it.” He crosses his arms.

Not really sure what to ask now that the band is agitated and tense, I decide to direct my questions at the comparatively relaxed Tony.

Are you surprised of where you’ve gotten after starting out so small?

“Not really,” snaps Tad, in between stuffing a roasted potato between the folds in his face mask. “We have talent. We have a sound that no one else has-- I mean people are gonna copy our shit, but it’s not the same. We started it all.”

“Yeah,” adds Duane. “I mean, it’s a little weird for us to be playing in my basement one day and a coliseum the next, but I had this shit planned out from day one. I knew exactly how it was gonna turn out.”

So you very carefully orchestrated your meteoric rise?, I ask, dropping a loaded statement.

“Oh yeah,” says Duane, as if I was an idiot for even questioning it. “I can remember when I started this band... I used to be in the basement, meticulously planning out how it was gonna go down day by day.” He slams his fist on the table on the “day”s. “Frankly, I would have been surprised if it didn’t happen exactly as I predicted it,” he laughs.

There’s no other group I know of out there that sounds like you. Who are your influences?

Tony opens his mouth to speak, but Yaswe beats him to the punch. “No one.”

“Yeah,” Tad instantly follows.

“We have absolutely no influences,” declares Duane. “We made it all up. I mean, shit, we’ve got our own scales and chords... you know, time signatures... No one’s played this shit before. Ever.”

“That ain’t no lie,” adds Yaswe. “This is it,” he says, motioning towards himself. “It all started here.”

Right now, you guys are at the top of the world. Every respectable magazine in the world has named your self-titled debut as one of the year’s finest releases. What do you see in the future for Tapeworm?

Duane, Yaswe, and Tad all begin talking simultaneously, each offering their two cents. Unfortunately, I am unable to collect the information because there are too many voices for me to comprehend. Duane and Tad stop talking in time for me to catch the tail end of Yaswe’s answer: “This is for life. It’s Tapeworm forever, yo.”

I look over at Tony Quintaro, who looks back at me. Soon, a frown appears on his face and his eyes become downcast.

What a terrible burden to bear.