Papercutt

A night with St. Augustine’s rock superheroes…

By Paulette Perhach / Photos by Zach Thomas

Every few months, some local businessmen, an ER nurse, a St. George Street shop owner and a Berklee College of Music student put on makeup and bad wigs then emerge in the night as a hair band called Papercutt.

They last toured through Zhanra’s in clothes that looked like the fruits of a 1984 dumpster dive. Their fake hair glowed in the whirls of green and white stage lights as the lead singer sprayed Aquanet hair spray onto the crowd and his own feathered locks.

They rocked the room around them as if it were a stadium: Hair whipping, drumsticks twirling, smashing out each anthem and ending with their fists pumped on one last lingering note and their heads bowed with the fading music.

The wind of a floor fan blew their bandanas as they played ‘80s night crowd-pleasers: Guns N’ Roses, Bon Jovi, AC/DC.

“That’s the last cover we’ll do,” said the man with the mic after “Don’t Stop Believin’.”

Then began the rhythm of “Paradise City,” and he put a little Axl in his hips.

At the end of the set, he said, “Thank you very much!” then started his own chant into the mic:

“One. more. song. — Oh, we can’t — One. more. song.”

The crowd joined in.

“One. more. song.”

“No, really we can’t.”

“One! More! Song!”

“Oh no, we can’t.”

Then the drummer stood on his stool, threw his head back yet again under a bottle of Jack Daniels. He pointed his drumstick to the crowd as the lead guitarist noodled out the opening to “Sweet Child O’ Mine.”

I’d planned to interview the men under those wigs, the Clark Kents of these rock superheroes, a few days after the show at Zhanra’s.

I waited at the Santa Maria bar, looking for guys in wrinkled khakis ambling in from day jobs.

Then, I saw a figure dancing down the seawall, kinked hair hopping, with a Guns N’ Roses patch covering the back of his denim vest. Other members wore the same neon and black stretch clothes as they had at Zhanra’s, looking like clowns who had lost the circus.

Tourists passed with looks.

I met them at the end of the dock and introduced myself to the lead singer, Thorny Rose, the rhythm guitar player, Skidd Markk, drummer Tug Boatt, and lead guitarist Shredder.

I figured I’d get real names later.

“Wow, I, uh, didn’t know you guys were coming dressed like this,” I said.

“Yeah, of course,” said Tug Boatt. “What else would we be wearing?”

We walked into the Santa Maria and took over a corner of the bar. Across the way, two older women stared.

Still wearing their dark glasses, Papercutt ordered a round of Jack n’ Cokes.

“So, what do you guys do during the daytime?” I asked.

Leaning back in his chair, Skidd Markk began with the voice of a hangover.

SM: During the daytime we just wake up late, been partying all night. Then we think about writing some more hit ballads.

TR: Oh yeah, the new album’s going to have a lot of power ballads.

SM: Because it seems like the power ballads are what really draw the girls in. We’re all about the girls.

I raised my brow to them with a smirk, considering whether to plow through with my attempt to gather facts, or give in and join the party.

I had to laugh and surrender.

P: So, what kind of ladies try to make sweet lovin’ to you, being the kind of band that you are?

SM: All of them try.

TB: The lucky ones who get back stage, they all leave pleased. Big ones, small ones, we do not discriminate. We’re equal opportunity.

TB: Oh yeah, by the way, um, who just came out of rehab? Shredder?

S: Yeah.

TR: Let’s do a cheers to that.

TB: Cheers.

They lifted their Jack n’ Cokes to clink Shredder’s drink. Skid Markk looked down the pier.

SM: I see some more big hair coming.

Maverick, the newest member of the group, walked in and sat silently with the downturned eyes of someone not used to wearing raging blond curls and red torn arm fishnets in public.

TB: Honestly, any lady that can get past the roadies, through security, if they’re lucky enough to get back there, they’re going to get Papercutt. The double tt, capital TT.

SM: You know, the Papercutt stings at first, but in the morning, you really feel the burn, and that’s what we’re all about.

P: Why did you guys decide to start Papercutt?

TB: Have you ever seen this guy play guitar? (Pointing to Shredder.) We just fall behind his guitar and (pointing to Thorny Rose) his vocals.

SM: The rest of us just look good. Sometimes I even wonder if my amp is plugged in.

TB: We pretty much, we just play the songs we grew up to.

SM: We’re just trying to get a record deal. We can’t understand, everything we play is a hit, people love it, and for some reason we can’t get a record deal.

P: What are the hard times, as Papercutt?

SM: Oh, we’ve been pretty low before. When half the band’s at rehab, and I’m homeless because I can’t live at their house while they’re at rehab, that’s pretty low times.

TB: That’s when we go to Wack-O’s and rely on our stripper girlfriends to pay for everything.

TR: They believe in us.

TB: Wack-O’s, by the way, where they have an awesome salad bar, for a strip club.

SM: And the burgers.

TR: (cracking himself up) All you can eat crabs.

P: How long have you guys been playing together?

TB: Almost five years now.

SM: Yeah, we started in ‘86, so that’s like five years.

TB: Did you ever watch “Napolean Dynamite”? You know Uncle Rico, he’s kind of stuck in the ‘80s? That’s kind of our problem.

M: It’s not a problem. Don’t call it a problem.

TB: I keep trying to think of low points. When we got caught lip-synching, that sucked. We got caught lip-synching at Wack-O’s, the strip club. They started throwing bottles at us, Blues Brothers style. So we stopped lip-synching after that.

SM: And then we didn’t play for like three years because we actually had to learn the songs. And it was really much harder. But we feel more satisfied at the end of the evening.

They amused themselves for about an hour, riffing off one another and improvising their glam band fantasy with ex-wives and European tours and rehab stints and child support to 20 kids born out of wild times in the band’s limo.

They were paying the tab when real life called Thorny Rose on his cell phone. He negotiated in a hushed tone.

“You gotta back soon, huh?” asked Tug Boatt.

“Yeah, I’m already in trouble.”

The band convinced him: Just one song at American Legion Post 37.

Tug Boatt ran for the tour bus (minivan). He pulled up to the end of the pier, and the door slid open with a shove. A sprawled a mess of feathers and sequined clothing and instruments lay in the gap left by the missing middle seat.

“Shut up and get in.”

We duck-crawled to the back seat and zoomed through downtown to the Wachovia Parking Lot next to the American Legion.

“You’d better grab a maraca or something,” Skid Mark said to Maverick, standing under the lights in the parking lot with his guitar.

“Nah, man, I’m getting a tambourine,” said Maverick, grabbing the instrument and beating it against his palm.

They stood outside the minivan and circled around the open side door. Passersby took them in while the band started an acoustic and heavily tambourined version of Guns N’ Roses’ “Used to Love Her.”
People at an ATM stopped their transaction to watch.

Their entrance brought all eyes to the door of the Legion. Thorny Rose headed to the bar and leaned against the counter for a drink, and a woman with heavy eyelids lifted her head and tapped him.
“That’s your real hair?”

“Yeah.”

The music cut as they gathered in the corner for their surprise show and a waitress yelled like a mother with one too many kids to watch, “Who paused the jukebox!” She had to be let in on the fact that they’re about to be blessed with a super-secret Papercutt show.

They sat for an acoustic set, the kind where the bongo in Tugboatt’s lap and the tap of Thorny Rose’s cowboy boot keep the beat. The end of the first song brought woo-hoos and claps and the floor taps of pool cues.

During the second song, a Wet Wet Wet cover, a bartender brought out a sizable glass jar and leaned against it a paper reading TIPS, which promptly sagged down the side and folded over on itself.

A woman leaned over the pool table, jutting her butt into the space between the band and the crowd. As she missed her shot, she yelled over the music: “Son of a mother-f*ing biscuit!”

At the end of the son, the sag-eyed woman from the bar lifted a finger and yelled, “One more!”
Thorny Rose apologized, “No, we really have to go.”

Under pressure to give a good show for a certain member of the press who mentioned a love of AC/DC, he gave one last “Highway to Hell.”

Tug Boatt slapped the bongo with one hand, pumping his other fist in the air. Thorny Rose busted out a AC/DC voice that was just a few tours’ worth of cigarettes away from being right on.

After the set, Skidd Markk popped up and swung his guitar over his shoulder to the ground, slowing just shy of smashing it.

OK, really, they had to leave.

“All these people with babies and shit, god dammit,” lamented their band mate.

In the van, Skidd Markk handed out tips from a small roll, slipping out “one for you… one for you,” and handing ones to his band mates, sitting in seats and on the van floor.

“Life of a rock star,” he said raising his share of six one dollar bills. “I’m telling you: We make it.”

Exposure: Papercutt live at Zhanras