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Mysterious acts of vandalism stopped abruptly in Chris Giunta's home town of Easton, PA, when he discovered the two barre chord positions at age fifteen. Amplifying his new-found skill, Chris blasted thru high school with his punk band The Clap. During college years in Pittsburgh, the testy young man brayed his feelings on the solo acoustic singer/songwriter circuit.

Sensitivity was cut short as Chris moved to NYC to form a series of bands. Roamin Ants, Hard Truth, and Fabulous Disaster all played East Village, Bleecker Street, and Brooklyn beaneries, whilst recording dozens of nasty little pop missives that eventually coagulated into the Custard Wally albums. He squandered small fortunes on diatribes such as HAVE A LICK, DAZE OF SWINE & HOSES, ESTROGENNIA DEMENTIA, CALL ME WALT and his latent and most mature luv edict, MUSIC FOR CREEPS.

With fearless lyrics and gritty riff rock squaring off against snappy hooks, Chris has molded Custard Wally into an ongoing bowelburp of his unique blend of literary indignation and musical misanthropy.


Matt DeSilva started as a keyboard player/singer and was quickly demoted to bass.

Moving to NYC, Matt was thrown in a coop with alternative rock band Tennessee Bird. Subsequently suffering a ruthless plucking, they plasmatized into Atomsmasher. After a vicious spin on the Hadron Collider...kaboom!!!!

He played in a couple of best forgotten bands before joining Toast, a three piece band that packed NYC clubs. They soon found themselves wanked by industry wonks and featured on an MTV News segment about up and cumming bands. Although well-buttered, Toast was pummelled by exploding drummers (eleven in two years) a problem resulting in eventual croutonization. Hitting the highway he found himself at Road's End, a female fronted funk-rock band eventually folding into Deck Of Odds.

After a 2004 stint with Monolith he Wally'd up in 2005.



Genteel journeyman John DiGiulio slid in for some gigs after the irrepressible G-Rod tumbled down one unforgiving stairwell too many.

He has yet to be sacked.

Rock solid slammatility cumbined with the manic fills necessary to keep Chris awake have made the master sticksman a grit worthy anchor.

Berklee John's underpaid paradiddling as a well-travelled percussisist extraordinaire can be fawned upon at www.johnnyddrum.com.



Wally Alumni:

After running out of faces to punch at age 20 in Woodside, Queens, G-Rod started pummeling drums instead. With a backlog of innumerable musical influences added to his distinctive brand of self-taught savagery, he created a driving persona that ignites the back of the stage.

G-Rod's first bands, Blue Fox and the Marines, and Neon Leon, gigged frequently at Mudd Club, Trax, CBGB, A7, Danceteria, and Max's Kansas City. As a founding member of The Bullys, he toured, played hundreds of gigs, and recorded two albums, the first produced by Marky Ramone. Fisticuffs flew on what was to become his final night in the band in 2001.

Joining Custard Wally in 2004, G-Rod has brutally filled the seat of pounders past. A body builder and arm wrestler, the mohawk man enjoys a cold beer between flying phlegmhawks. His unique approach and dynamic onstage performances continue to violently agitate the shaved pate rabble.


Eric Sanders learned drums at age eight by watching the Monkees television show on Saturday mornings.

In his 16 years in NYC, Eric performed in several bands, recording and/or touring with Tav Falco, Alex Chilton, Matthew Sweet and Eric America. After meeting Chris through an ad in the Village Voice he joined Wally, his favorite band. Together, they performed over 150 shows, with Eric using a drum kit and cymbals bought from a crack addict for $100.

Living in a cold, rat infested, abandoned building in Manhattan, Eric was also in demand as an actor, performing in over 100 plays, as well as in several movies, including Bright Lights, Big City. He ran six straight NYC marathons.

Together with his future wife, Courtney, Eric moved to Maine in 1998, where they now have two children. He is currently employed as a manager for a Fortune 500 company, and is the drummer for Tree by Leaf. They have no idea of his past.


Rennaissance man David Fry was Custard Wally's 2nd longest member in standing, serving a 15 year stint aggressively fingering the bottom end of Wally's onslaught in the NY grimeholes. Master of the 5 string and all-round bassist extraordinaire, Herr Fry brought a fierce, well-planned attack to his music and prowled the stage with military efficiency and draconian authority.

A jackass of many trades, David has done extensive cancer research, rides and restores motorcycles, is an avid outdoorsman, ruthless hunter, and capable general contractor.

After decades of fighting savage cannibalistic cultural wars whilst residing in 3rd world Inwood, David rode his motorbike into the slumset in early 2005 and currently resides, like a masked wrestler, in "parts unknown".


No one really knew what was wrong with the fair-haired Polish drummer boy who pounded suffering steel with the savage, unfettered fury of a hollering retard. Eardrums rattled and craniums cracked when mild mannered Joe sat down to timidly express his thoughtful musical inner rhythms.

"Polish Hammer" Joe Gurzynski bashed his way thru kuntry clubs, polka pits, and Rolling Stone tribute douche before joining up with Chris in his late teens in The Clap and, years later, coming to his rescue in Hard Truth and Fabulous Disaster. Joe's oft-amusing anecdotes, muttered whilst tending to his ever toppling kit, delighted drunks while his strong baritone vocals surprised those who had witnessed the rambunctious young rube nearly castrate himself by sitting on a hi-hat.

After working for decades in a glue factory helping toothless crones achieve a hefty boom-boom, beer guzzling Joe fumbled on with his ever brilliant decision making and moved to a dry county in southern NJ. Adding tinnitus and double metacarpal syndrome to his impressive resume, Joe sat down to watch a ballgame one day and never got up.....his crumpled drums lie rusting near a constantly leaking boiler in a house he doesn't own.


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