Cop Warmth

My memories of Houston’s “most hated” band are pretty fuckin’ hazy. Having played several shows with them almost a decade ago at the now-defunct 180 Grams and a dive in H-Town called the White Swan, I remember lots of boxer shorts (and only boxer shorts), bodily fluids, terrible alcohol and a drummer named Zlatan who swung wildly — dismantling his kit in the process — connecting with the audience more often than his cymbals. The rickety construction of their music worms into your head holes like the burn of a skateboard wipeout on molten Texas asphalt, or a flag bonfire with lighter fluid functioning as the incendiary provocateur and beverage of choice. As a spectator, making it through a show was as much a treat of punk carnage as it was a source of pride, most people taking several looks at the band and the rugby scrum of their set and turning tail. If feedback was a viable nutrient, to witness a Cop Warmth show would be like gorging on the dingiest blister buffet; stuffed to the gills on white noise and razor-burned distortion. Gosh, I hope they remember me. With Body Pressure and Colonia.