Four cables, transmitted in order and filed without amendment. The archive did not edit the sender.
They agreed on one thing: loud. Mook had the mouth, Thumbs had the bass the whole band would be built on, Chops brought the blade, and Sock was simply, already, drumming. Their first show was a house party in Hyde Park that the police ended twice — once for noise, and once, twenty minutes later, when the band restarted.
From the beginning they claimed to be from Screwthatistan. Where that was, what language they spoke there, how they got the visas — no answer was ever the same, and none was ever real. Mook's reply to every version of the question was identical: "Next question." The archive has elected to take the claim at face value, because arguing with it seemed to be exactly what they wanted.
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The debut, Basement Diplomacy (1986, Consulate Records), was recorded in three days for the cost of the tape. It is built, from the floor up, on Thumbs' bass — a slapping, popping, sprinting engine that the other three hang onto for dear life. Mook talk-shouts the verses like a man reading demands through a bullhorn; Chops stabs; Sock refuses to slow down. The songs are short, funky, aggressive, and ridiculous, and they were an immediate hit in exactly one city.
Live, the band became a phenomenon of local legend — sweat, socks, and a fake national anthem the crowd learned to shout back. The set never broke character. If you asked between songs where they were from, Mook told you, and you were no wiser.
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Sweat Equity (1988) took the chaos on the road — the Southwest, the coasts, a legendary run of basement and club shows where the floor was frequently a hazard. The band toured relentlessly and profitably, if you did not count what they spent on towels. Thumbs anchored every night; Sock never once flagged; Chops kept the whole thing from collapsing into mush; and Mook kept insisting, in city after city, that they were a long way from home.
A funk-punk group claiming sovereign immunity from a country that isn't, playing faster than was strictly wise — they had become exactly the thing the name promised. It is their tightest and their most unhinged, at the same time.
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Bands that burn this hot rarely last, and Nope Rope from Screwthatistan burned about as hot as the format allows. By 1993, the touring had done what touring does; Thumbs took a session gig that paid in actual money, and the engine leaving was the end of it. There was no farewell tour. There was a final show in Austin, sweaty and complete, after which everyone went home.
Asked, years later, whether the band would ever reunite, Mook considered it seriously and said that Screwthatistan had "closed its borders." No one asked a follow-up. The archive notes only that four people made an absurd amount of noise on purpose, meant every second of it, and never once broke.
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