Under Acme is an alternative venue beneath a restaurant in the spurious neighborhood of NOHO in Manhattan. The first floor serves black-eyed peas and hominy to those who have never ventured south of the Mason-Dixon while Acme’s basement offers alternative musical cuisine to the jaded neophytes of the East Village. It is here at “Under Acme” that the Candy Snatchers have decided to unleash their brand of unbridled alcohol-driven punk on New York City. It’s billed as an evening of spoken word and alternative music. And on this night there would be more fish in the house than the upstairs menu knew it could boast.

The soundtrack to the second wave of my formative musical years drew mainly from the first offerings of The Clash and Sex Pistols. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on a pair of Gibson cherry reds and dream up a radical neo-Marxist solution to the rising price of vinyl I am still moved by an ideological bass line as I enter another decade, though I haven’t heard much new that inspires overcoming my anachronistic tendencies – I am holding on to those Peel sessions – Green Day just doesn’t do it for me. Give me the Gang of 4 on a reunion tour over any pale corporate construction. Then, just when I was feeling self-assured in my disregard for any reflowering of a ‘90s DIY culture, the fax machine spits out a bio of the Candy Snatchers. I waver incredulously. Snarling vocals!? Fast and furious!! Spit, blood and broken bottles!?! In an age of pale facsimiles why take heed of this plain paper fax? With new batteries in my bullshit detector I headed to Under Acme on this third Sunday to see and hear for myself.

Candy Snatchers debuted their version of drunken mayhem and punk rock in 1992 and quickly made a name for themselves along the Virginia Beach strip. Within no time they had been banned for each and every club in their home town – they were simply too dangerous. Plenty of beer was sold at the bar and money was being made by the owners hand over fist, but “somebody was gonna get hurt out there!” The four-some is made up of transplanted Virginia beach natives Larry May on vocals, Matthew Odietus – guitar, Willy Johns – bass, and the newest member, Barry Johnson, who took over on drums for the failing Greg Miller in 1994. If you can overlook the antics of the crowd and duck the occasional flying fish, the Candy Snatchers are potentially the most excitingly authentic hard core punk experience out there. Candy Snatchers connect such diverse groups as the Stooges and Sex Pistols to the Dead Boys and “maybe even the Misfits” – thankfully the unifying thread is a wholesome nod to the fun-loving antics of the NY Dolls. But be careful and wear your play clothes.

Candy Snatchers have released several singles to critical acclaim and have been included on a punk revival compilation long since sold out. Although, an ill-fated tour of the US in 1994 found them stranded in as many towns as they made it to. At one low point they survived on dry Chinese noodles with mustard. The experience galvanized the band along the line of “what doesn’t kill us will make us stronger” and this life philosophy has lead to the changes in drummers and diet. The band is now on a strictly liquid diet of beer, though fans have as late tried to supplement the regimen. Back to Under Acme.

Two bands played before I could track down the Candy Snatchers. They had been spotted at the sound check only to disappear when the bar refused to give them free beer. I found the band out on the street swilling Budweiser tall boys in the 25 degree evening air. I nudged my way closer to a smiling Matt Odietus. Matt plays lead and rhythm guitar for the Candy Snatchers but for the moment he is cornered by a devoted fan pressing a fresh tall boy into his hand. Matt is a charming young man who on first sight would lead you to believe he is in town for a stamp collecting convention rather than to trade flailing kicks of steel toed boots and saliva with the crowd. Still, while doing so he churns out some of the finest classic rock guitar work I have witnessed live. This is not hyperbole – Matt Odietus is as well steeped in classic guitar licks as anyone out there. Sometimes it’s the thrashing power chords of “Yeah, you…” or “Well I…” work that owes as much to Keith Richards as Johnny Thunders, and then you have a whining slide into to “It’s too late” that harks back to power pop fantasies of the ‘70s. I asked Matt about these influences and he admitted he was equally inspired by The Stones’ Exile on Main Street and the early Stooges. The guitar work is the solid core of Candy Snatchers’ music, but the magic in the band is the dynamic exchange between Odietus and front man Larry May. And the wordsmith May is a story in himself.

Larry May found himself in Virginia Beach as a young teenager – the son of a disco dad. The tension surfaced immediately and May’s hardcore tastes ran against his father’s polyester leisure suited aesthetic. Records were burned and the die was cast – Larry’s rebellion began in earnest. May’s lyrics are spontaneous and drawn from his life and the world it is lived in. May puts down the words and Odietus crafts the music around them. One has songs of drinking, traveling to dead-end towns to play before the alienated flotsam of a decimated working class, and then some more drinking. You will not find any overt reference to the political in the songs, though there is a solid sociological subtext. May says: “writing is too contrived… my lyrics are spontaneous and hate driven.” “MTV is ridiculous and full of shit rock and fake corporate fuckers… It just makes me fuckin’ sick.” On stage Larry May lets the words fly from his gut and his phrasing is fantastic. If Odietus has the blossoming right hand of a Robert Quine, May leads a song with the same kid of showmanship and frenetically controlled chaos that made Iggy Pop.

Those tall boys spoken of earlier were being amply supplied by a host of fanatical fans from the outer boroughs. These are the people who identify with the angst, alienation and anomie that fuels the Candy Snatchers music and stage shows. I interviewed one. For the record let’s call him Jimmy Bovver. Jimmy is in his late twenties and unemployed while living in Staten Island. His wife works at a convenience store and he has a three year-old baby. Jimmy takes care of the child by day and follows the punk rock circuit most evenings. Jimmy says: “Yeah… it’s hell waking up to a screaming kid after being out till 3:00 am.” The solid contingent of fans is in the main made up of this type – they’ve been left behind by the ‘90s; they’re urban and going nowhere fast save down to the corner store for another six pack. They are angry and mad as hell, but can’t channel their frustration into any political action. Instead they take it out on themselves in a rage of self-hatred and destruction. Could this be 1977 all over again?

As the last spoken word performer finishes at Under Acme the Candy Snatchers take the stage. What’s left of the original crowd takes three steps back as the faithful followers lead by Jimmy Bovver move to the front of the stage. They’re pissed out of their heads. I have expectations of broken glass, blood and flaming bass guitars. There is an air of danger and uncertainty in the hall. The band tears into the set. Odietus churns out the punk power chords and May throws himself into the crowd. Just then a school of fish begin to fly through the air. The faithful have smuggled in the day’s catch from the Fulton St. fish market. The weak willed head for the door as scales and guts begin to fly. Those who can’t lay their hands on a dead haddock spray beer throughout the room. Above the roar and din of crowd and fish, the Candy Snatchers tear into the single “Why I Drink” from their first album due to arrive in February 96. As the song finishes the house lights come up and May breaks into his own performance of spoken word. He is a genius idiot-savant rambling in perfectly rhymed couplets. It turns out to be a poem May’s grandfather challenged him to memorize as a boy – he promised to pay him $1 a week for life if Larry could get it down. The grandfather died after Larry collected about $50. Unfortunately this final performance is missed by most. The PA has now been cut and the doorman is marching through the hall – “Alright you cock suckers! You’ve had your fun now get the fuck out!” He looks over at me as I scribble my notes and asks, “What’s gonna happen to the fish?”

May and Odietus take the abridged show in stride. “That’s the way it goes – we had our fun… I doubt we’ll be back here again.” The Candy Snatchers have a simple career agenda, “We want to do our own thing and if people get into it that’s great. We’re here to have a good time,” says Odietus and May. Their forthcoming album captures the thrill of the live show save the flying fish. It is a raucous sixteen track romp through Odietus’ wild guitar hooks and May’s raging vocals. The album was produced by Dean Rispler over four days at a rate of some eighty beers per day. At one point the master DAT was lost and they had to go from the best cassette back to DAT. The result is a recording that feels remarkably fresh and spontaneous. Look for it on Safe House Records. You may even see their video on MTV, but I doubt it. I can’t see success making their world any brighter or tempering their healthy disdain for the corporate music market. In an age that has the surviving Sex Pistols reforming to resuscitate the quintessential rock-n-roll swindle – nostalgia shines. Here nostalgia is the lonely sigh of a punk rock past that has become they play-thing of market strategists. With new boots and a contract the Candy Snatchers intend to show people the authentic number and in doing so they may take this town. That is until they get thrown out of it.