Photocollage by Chritina Whitt
JoAnne Rogan was a lifeguard for 15 years, one of only four women
out of 100 people that passed the certification the year she took
the test. So as the vocalist for Thorazine, an abrasive old-school
punk band, Rogan is used to her gender being an idiosyncrasy in
her career. In keeping with the summer theme of this month's issue,
I pressed for some juicy Baywatch rescue stories, to no avail.
"I got a lot of dates that way, but I never once got to save anybody."
Growing desperate for summer-related questions, I asked the band
what they do on the beach - swim, tan, anything, when Dallas interrupted,
"I already got a tan! What the hell do I need the beach for?"
A big black bald Buddha of a drummer, founding member Dallas resembles
a World Wrestling Federation wrestler more than he does a computer
technician (his day job). Chugging spring water in the band's
West Philly kitchen, he recants stories from his fearful first
flight (to their label Hell Yeah's showcase in Burbank last month)
to truck stop tales involving encounters with Jim Morrison. He
snaps in a circle, warning "go there not" as the stories slip
into a raunchier vein, involving a girl who drank her own piss
at their recent show in Austin, TX.
With guitarist Elliott Taylor, Dallas formed Thorazine from the
remnants of the band Afterbirth. It was Taylor's brainchild to
approach JoAnne because, the tall blond reveals, "I thought she
was cute." The two have been inseparable ever since.
Thorazine is a Nazi punk's most confusing nightmare. Fronted by
a woman and backed by a Jewish bass player, Thorazine's brand
of melodic early hardcore leans toward a harder, faster Ramones
with frenetic hints of Motorhead. Their hyper-kinetic punk is
a tribute to the stripped-down, furious, two-minute anthems. Not
unlike the anti-psychotic drug that is their namesake, the result
is therapy for the angst-ridden.
When asked to cite influences, it's easier for the band to agree
upon a favorite band book (the biography of Chuck Yeager - ironically
the man who broke the sound barrier) than a favorite album. Contrary
to their onstage tough-guy image, the band confesses that when
they're not working out of their West Philly home office, they
spend their downtime hanging out as a family, eating Chinese take-out
and watching movies like Babe. Understandably, it's hard to place this Partridge family in
context with their music, which possessed people to break windows
and swing off rafters at a gig in Salt Lake City.
Rogan tosses her waist-length hair, which ranges in hue from green
to fuchsia. Her dog Felix lays his head on her motorcycle boot.
It was she who dealt with the press when the band was slapped
with a lawsuit over their name by Smith-Kline Beecham in 1995.
Eventually, after lots of national publicity, the pharmaceutical
company backed off.
Although Thorazine has impressive punk credentials - they played
a leg of their last tour with Fear, did the Lollapalooza sidestage
in '95, and were recently showcased at the Dionysus Demolition
Derby - Rogan explains that the band only plays their hometown
once every two months or so to "keep it fresh." Preparing to embark
on their seventh tour and second album (due out this fall on Hell
Yeah), Thorazine might be one of the hardest working punk bands
in Philly. So what keeps these 30-something rockers going?
"Heavily caffeinated beverages," smiles Rogan, "and lots of cigarettes."
- Geeta Dalal
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Thorazine