He calls himself Bricks because, as one of his former bandmates once put it, that's what's in his head. In his youth, he was an uncontainable madman on the microphone, bouncing off the walls throughout the 90s for the New York hardcore bands C.R. and Phallacy. Every photo of him from this time tells a story, from the mid-air shots of him screaming at a smattering of awestruck onlookers in a VFW hall to the nude portrait of him in the insert booklet of C.R.'s sole LP. He possessed boundless energy—an indefatigable blur of tattoos, mesh shorts, and lean muscle. One second he'd be hanging himself with the mic cord on one side of the stage, the next he'd be doing cartwheels off the other. Yet, despite being one of the most intense frontmen ever to emerge from the East Coast, his name is largely unknown, even in his home state. See, Bricks and his crew weren't from New York. Not really, anyway. They were from Staten Island, the city's forgotten borough. Within the confines of the 58-square-mile island, though, between the ferry and the world's largest landfill affectionately dubbed The Dump, the name Bricks was legendary.