Guy from a paper in Phoenix wanted a picture of Mojo Nixon wearing a T-shirt from the music conference we were attending in Austin. Mojo, sweaty and drained after a typically hellacious set on a sweltering Texas night, agreed to pose. I was conned out of my shirt. The picture was taken, and everyone was happy--until someone asked Mojo for my shirt back. "This your shirt?" Mojo asked ominously. "No, uh, yes," I mumbled. "Hmm!" growled Mojo, and started rubbing his underarms with vigor. "Har!" hollered Mojo, and coughed up a big gob of spit onto the shirt; then he rubbed that in well too. "Arrrgh!" howled Mojo; he grabbed a handful of shirt, stuck it down the front of his pants, and rubbed it around well. Then he did the same down the back of his pants. "This your shirt?" Mojo asked. "Keep it," I said. Saturday, 4 PM, Pravda Records, 3728 N. Clark, 549-3776; and 11 PM, Cabaret Metro, 3730 N. Clark; 549-0203.
Art accompanying story in printed newspaper (not available in this archive): photo/Austin Holiday.