Frank Nolan, bass; Rene Rubia, vocals; Fred Gamberg, drums - The mouthiest, timeliest, funniest and rawest punk rock band to ever rock this punk. Sounding a lot like the old Og band, Deja Voo Doo, Giver still brings on the rock for this chickie chickie.

My first date with their all-over-the-place rhythms and askew harmonies happened as far back as ten years ago; they opened for Liz's cd release in front of the LSPU Hall. It took not three and a half seconds into Rene's pleas for one more cold, cold, ice cold, "nothing better to do than get polluted" BEER to determine that this band should be as magical as voo doo for all the Deja Voo Doo's to come.

To give you some idea of how much I appreciated their odd take on sound waves and different frequencies, Giver was the only band with enough raw sound wave to sweep me into taking a walkman to one of their shows to record them live. I still have that tape today. And it does me mighty proud, let me tell ya.

And very special thanks to Frank, scraps of Giver paraphernalia bescatter my bedroom - posters, writing, tapes, Fred's very own black leather jacket that I often saw him wear before his death. I also have a chunk of the guitar Rene smashed to bits during a play on the band.

Fred's death in July of '95 begot a tide of new brothers for the Giver family. The brethren of drummers began: first Jeff Churchill, then Ron Anonson, then Justin Hall… then … well, you get the idea. Alex Schwartz even donated his guitar for a Peace-A- Chord set.

Sometimes I dream of taking over the drums for Fred, but then I remember that I don't have any talent. And I certainly could never duplicate the raw poetry of picketa- picketa-picketa-splash, picketa-splash-splash that Fred perfected: making no eye contact with anyone and hitting the cymbals a lot. Fred had been commonly accused of talking at people as opposed to talking to them. But when those smart sticks whipped those picketa-splash cymbals, his sound spoke in waves to me.

Rene's raw-as-beer vocal delivery, Frank's raw insight as a songwriter, and Fred's raw … well… rawness as a drummer could out-PUNK any band. If I had my way, they'd always be the headliners, not the openers. And may all Chickies hide their faces when the most pretty little Sera hits the stage again: Hey Chickie… Chickie… Chickie! And again… and again… Take me back to march of '95. Sheer magic. Déjà voo doo.