During the dark time, before slam dancing became moshing, in the withering days of punk, Tommy Trey, known to his friends as Twist, was shooting the curl behind the San Onofre nuclear power plant. The plant spit out core coolant sea water polluted with trace amounts of plutonium and some ever present free radicals, turning the liquid chill of So*Cal’s pacific waters into a tepid green broth.

Twist was a poseur punk from Laguna Niguel. Middle class trash. Like all good surf punks, he was locals only. On this particular day, the San Andreas cracked, slip-sliding like the teeth of two saw blades caressing each other, bringing Los Angeles that much closer to San Fran, rocking the land, and cracking the core of San Onofre. The rotten core let out a lethal dose of radiation into the water.

In his Pacific nuclear baptism, Twist was reborn hardcore; a raw, junked up, three cord mess of sound, ready to confront the parasitic disease of New Wave, that was infesting the land. With its British invasion vanguard of pussy fucks, spearheaded by Morrissey, Boy George, Duran Duran, and other bitching, whining, too cute fuckers that polluted headspace and made everybody fuckers.

In its corroded state; evidenced by dog collaring, Mohawking, and the ubiquitous wearing of safety pins as earrings, punk was confronted with a terrorist movement. The terrorists were the metros, before people called them that, and the valley girls who razored their hair, dyed it pink and were addicted to pop music dressed up in punk attire. It was time for Twist to stand up, and take a stand.

Quoting the prophet Travis, Twist stated to the world, “Listen, you fuckers, you screwheads. Here is a man who would not take it anymore. A man who stood up against the scum, the cunts, the dogs, the filth, the shit. Here is a man who stood up.”

So be it. As society slithers onward to other self-satisfied pop-cultured machinations, Slam Man takes his stand, representing the music that died. Watch out you fuckers, you screwheads, here comes a man...Slam Man.