Monotonix

I’ve never been to Israel. I’ve never dated an Israeli man. I haven’t even fucked a guy who could have possibly been so much as a quarter Israeli. Maybe my vagina is kinda racist?

I had heard that Israeli men approach women differently than those in North America, that they can be dominating, forward and archaic when it comes to sexuality and gender. But these are just stereotypes. I’m not one to take any of this hearsay as irrefutable fact. But I’ll reluctantly admit that when I went to meet the three Tel Aviv musicians who make up the rock band Monotonix, I felt like I was walking in with a boob-related handicap.

Over the last few years of touring worldwide, Monotonix have developed a reputation as charismatic and insane musicians who destroy every club they enter, set fire to their own equipment and, moreover, put on a shockingly interactive performance that leaves the audience soaked in sweat, spit and debauchery. Kids head bang, shimmy and squirm while the aggressive, garage rock anthems of Monotonix take over the entire room—mobilizing the space and the people in it is what Monotonix are known for.

I was waiting, sipping my beer, when the Monotonix men arrive. Two of them are dressed in Sunday-afternoon-dad outfits (sweats, lounge gear) and they have thick curly brown manes that match their broad necks. The one with the childlike grin is beastly tall and sporting a gigantic chain. His name is Haggi (drums). The other one is Ami (vocals). The last Monotonic, Yonatan (guitar), slid up to me, pushed his frizzy hair out of his eyes and locked them with mine. He shook my hand and smiled.

“Hi, I’m Yonatan.”

“Nice to meet you,” I replied. “I’m looking forward to the interview.”

He hadn’t let go. Hand or stare.

“Me too,” he purred.

Monotonix are on yet another tour to promote their new album, Where Were You When It Happened?, out on Drag City Records. Their first release, Body Language (2007), was recorded with Tim Green of The Fucking Champs, a band all three admit to adoring. Its success launched a diet of year-round touring. We got into a chat about our all-time favourite albums (Dire Straits’ Love Over Gold for Haggi, The White Album for Yonatan) but Ami fondled with the silence before revealing his.

“Frampton Comes Alive.” Final answer.

“Peter Frampton?” I gasped. Then, I remembered that Ami was born in the late Sixties.

“I remember when it came out,” he spoke in pauses and wild hands. “I looked for it in every record store. No one had it. You hear about something great, you must really search for it. Not like here in North America where you can have anything you want. The record was hyped and in those days if there was a hype in Los Angeles it would take almost 20 years to get to Israel!” He waved his arm like a dictator.

During our conversation, Ami hogged the spotlight. He was animated, charming and exhausting—the typical frontman. I thought about him as a child and suddenly I felt a telepathic admiration for his mother. He was constantly singing Hole songs and pointing his finger in my face while shouting words of wisdom about the new cool way to pronounce the word awesome.

“Awe-some,” he explained. The first part hi-pitched, the second low. “Two words now! ‘Awesome’ as one is dead.”

He learned this in Los Angeles, the city that is, according to him, the hybrid of cool and new. He then asked me how long I thought the trendy pronunciation of ‘awe-some’ would take to get to Vancouver.

“Because, you see the ‘awe’ gets to Israel in three years and the ‘some’ two later.”

As the others bickered about the mobility of trends, Yonatan perked up from his hunched, distant position, leaned in and smiled at me like he did when we first shook hands, “Does love travel faster than hype?” he asked.

“Does what travel faster than hype?” I replied.

“Love.” He said slowly, romantically. The word rolls off his tongue and into the palm of my hand.

Was he flirting? I felt like I was in between the pages of a Danielle Steele novel or even The Game for that matter. Wait, did Yonatan know about The Game? Sarging? Did The Game go worldwide? If ‘awe’ and ‘some’ would be delivered to Israel at least two years apart, maybe only the first half of The Game had made it over? My thoughts were suddenly interrupted by Ami.

“The hype is too fast for the love!” he proclaimed, before breaking into an a cappella rendition of Haddaway’s “What is Love?”

We progressed onto new topics such as the jazz culture in New Orleans, Steve Martin, their new favourite band Brutal Knights and Adam, their Vancouver host who pampers them with Hello Kitty waffles each time they stay at his place. Haggi revealed that before Monotonix started he was a lion tamer. When I asked him to expand on that topic, he laughed and said, “It’s best not to mention it.” This led me to believe that ‘lion taming’ might have been code for some pussyrelated joke I was clearly not a part of.

When I asked whether the involvement with the audience was conceptual, perhaps holding an artistic purpose, Ami shook his head.

“It’s about money. See this?” he pointed at Haggi’s thick plastic chain. “This is supposed to be gold.”

The lavish necklace. Peacocking?

“Money? Really?” For some reason it seemed hard to believe.

I suddenly felt Yonatan staring into me.

“Why did mankind land on the moon?” he retorted. “We just do what is natural. We played [a show] on the floor once and it felt like nothing else. I do what I want. Always.”

As they left to prepare for the show, I grabbed another drink and wandered around the bar while contemplating where I should stash my computer bag. I ran into Yonatan and he offered to keep it for me. “Only rule is you can’t get it until after the show.” He flashed me that smile again.

I met my friend Michelle and we sat down in a quiet corner as the bar filled up with young and hyper fans. I overheard conversation after conversation peppered with the words ‘craziest band ever.’ This better be good, I thought.

Suddenly, Yonatan appeared. He sat down beside me. I noticed he was chewing gum. I asked him for a piece and he smirked at Michelle. “The bag, the gum. She’s just demanding everything tonight!”

Excuse me? Did I just experience a classic ‘neg’?

Yonatan gazed at me as he asked a million questions. He alluded to the fact that he wanted a drink later. Whiskey. Did I like whiskey? He showed off his shirt that said ‘Bob Marley’ with a picture of Jimi Hendrix underneath. He asked me about my name. Was it Polish? He had some Polish in him too. He told me that Mish-mish was a slang way of saying ‘apricot’. “I’m going to call you my little apricot,” he cooed. It was hard to take him seriously now that he had changed into short-shorts.

Then Monotonix delivered to a packed house. I watched the madness from a perched position. Ami swung from shoulder to shoulder, grabbing kids’ hair, pulling them down, making them sing after he had wiped the microphone on his ass. It was the perfect display of machismo rock stardom. Just three dudes who had mastered the ultimate way of controlling attention: make the audience feel special.

At one point Yonatan and his guitar pushed over to where I was standing. A crowd fish-tailed around him as he slammed down the kick drum and began pounding with his foot while his hands noodled across the guitar. He locked his eyes with mine, winking at me as the sweat poured down his nose.

Flirting mid-set? He had it down to an art.

Ami told the audience to “Shut the fuck up and sit down‚” only to then command them to chant “Hi-hat, hi-hat, hi-hat!” after his lead. They followed willingly until he yelled, “Zeek?” In the closing song, Ami pulled down his shorts and spread his ass cheeks on a dude’s head.

After the show I thanked Yonatan for the interview, but insisted I had to go. He told me I was great and I got his email (securing a contact, nice). He said to write, you know, if I had any further questions or anything. He was stinky, wet and panting sweetly. I went to shake his hand but he pulled me into an aggressive hug marking his territory with sweat all over my favourite blazer.

My vagina may still be racist, but at least my blazer is now totally P.C.

Words: Mish Way
Photography: Sarah Hamilton