This is as hazy a memory as I could possibly dredge up.
I was living in France and several months into my new approach to life hors des etats-unis. I'd completely ceased attending class...I'd made a tight circle of French friends and felt as if I was learning infinitely more about the language by actually speaking it with natives instead of sitting in classrooms with other English/non-French speaking exchange students. Of course, I probably could have been doing BOTH and learning a great deal more, but the call of the wild was too strong.
Life seemed to have devolved into an endless series of dares to be met. We borrowed a car and drove the equivalent of Rhode Island to North Carolina. We stole pallets to start bonfires. We jumped onstage with local rock bands. We shamelessly used our accents to flirt.
When I say that this memory is hazy, I am not kidding. I don't remember who I went with, where we went, how we got there, how long it took, how long it took to get back, what the name of the joint was, what month the show was in, what day it was on, what songs were sung, how many cigarettes I smoked, how many bieres I buveed.
In fact, at the moment I am writing this, I don't know the name of the artist we went to see. I only know that he was the lead singer of The Saints and someone had managed to convince him to come to France to play this show. Pardon while I go Google...
His name is Chris Bailey. The Saints were (are) an Australian band that plays straight forward rock and roll. I had never heard nor heard of The Saints before this night.
I have an image of a ramshackle restaurant in a forest just adjacent to an arced moss covered stone bridge over a small stream. A windmill perhaps? A pointy shingled building with old-fashioned windows held together by the trees that surrounded it. I have no image in my head of another building anywhere near it. It is as if we'd been brought to some Hobbit hideout.
I know it was a bit of a drive from Orleans where I attended school. Who got me to go to this concert? I don't remember. It wasn't anyone in the circle I knew so well so it must have been one of those 'take the American!' kind of hospitality experiences that exchange students always find themselves in.
I seem to remember being in a round little orange car for a good long while. In French I got the lowdown on The Saints. Perhaps this is why I can't remember it.
Once at the Hobbit inn we ate some French food, mostly ham dunked into melted cheese. Chris Bailey would be coming out to sing later on. There was no stage, no microphone. I imagine this was some French version of a bed and breakfast. Again, my memory fails me. I see nooks at the top of short stairwells, arched crannies shoved up against ceilings...
Everyone hushed once Bailey began to sing. The show seemed to go on forever, in a good way. His voice has that gruff storyteller quality and he seems to know how to play every song ever written. There was one zealot there who'd obviously arranged this unlikely concert. He kept shouting out Frenchly pronounced titles of Saints songs. Other people shouted out Motown classics, Beatles tunes, whatever the hell came into their heads.
Thus the concert had a schizophrenic quality, like a lurching drunk virtuoso expatriate trying to appease a group of local politicians. He stood on tables and exhorted sing-alongs, he serenaded blushing girlfriends, he probably sang the Marseillaise for chrissakes.
We stayed until the bitter end, which seemed to be 5 days later. I know the restaurant emptied and whoever the hell dragged me all the way out there and I sat and drank and raved with Chris Bailey, whose name I just had to Google. I have no memory of what we discussed but I'm pretty sure it involved outrage, hilarity, anti-Frenchiness, anti-Americanism, anti-Australianism, and long burps.
He put on a hell of a show, did that Saint, in the Hobbit hideout in the uncharted wilderness of the France of my memory.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Thursday, April 17, 2008
"As Datchery I Did My Bit!"
I'm going to take a slight detour today and talk about a musical performance that I actually participated in. While at URI one of the great pleasures I got from the theater program there was appearing in the yearly musical. These were not your average teensy productions...we are talking big budget, meticulously prepared, designed, rehearsed, and costumed, extravaganzas.
In my URI years, I appeared as Jerry Tackaberry in 'How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying', James Throttle the Stage Manager in 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood', and finally, King Pellinore in 'Camelot'. My first year I didn't audition for the musical for some unknown reason and missed out on being onstage with my sister Sheila as Anne in 'Anne of Green Gables'.
Today's post will focus on one song performed in 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood'.
Now, the gimmick of 'Drood' is that it tells the story of an 1890's London music hall troupe putting on a musical version of Dickens' unfinished last novel. So each actor plays a music hall part and then a part from the novel, or several parts as the case may be. The novel gets told but filtered through the bawdy lens of a rowdy late-night vaudeville atmosphere.
To take things one step further, the audience chooses who the murderer is. Dickens died before completing the novel and left no definitive notes on the outcome.
I earlier said that each actor played two parts. Except for me. I played James Throttle the ass-kissing wimpy stage manager of the troupe. Our director chose to have me posted stage right (the audience's left!) throughout the entire show. The idea was that I troubleshot the various stage pieces that the fictional troupe had to pull off. I also was the assistant/valet for the narrator/emcee of the music hall.
I also functioned as a sort of 'applause' sign. If the scene was frightening, I was petrified. If it was melancholy, I was devastated. If it was angry, I was apoplectic. This turned out to be one of the more exhausting shows I've ever done because of this. I NEVER LEFT THE STAGE.
I also counted the votes. This is really where today's story begins...
When the troupe reached the hanging inconclusive end of Dickens' novel, a sort of chaos ensued. The troupe ran out into the crowd with chalkboards and virtually assaulted the audience. Girls in corsets sat in laps, men in tails kissed hands...all while culling opinions. If I remember correctly, actors had sections to chart. Row by row they would ask, "Who did it?"
All these chalkboards were then brought down from the seats to me. The orchestra, a strange 20 piece affair, vamped while I feverishly counted. And when I say I counted, I assure you, I really counted. We were not interested in rigging this election.
7 or 8 different characters were to be ready to sing the confessional song if voted the murderer. It was usually one of two people, the madman at the center of the narrative, or the woman he was in love with.
On the night in question, however, our audience had something else in mind.
As I counted the votes it became apparent that they, of all the audiences we'd had, thought that Bazzard had been the guilty party. Bazzard was a waiter. I can't even remember how he played into the narrative, but let's just say that he was pretty far out on the fringe of the story!
I notified the REAL stage manager who handled backstage traffic. Word was then spread somehow to whichever actor had to suddenly sing the 'I DID IT!' song.
Out came my friend David to confess to a crime he'd never dreamed he'd commit. Oh, sure, he was rehearsed, each actor who factored into the voting had to rehearse the singing of the song, but was he PREPARED??? He'd never come CLOSE to being voted the killer.
It's important at this time to remember that I am the only other actor on stage and I am NOT IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THE PLAY.
He swooped out from backstage wearing the cape that figured into the tale. Things started out well enough. He had a murderous glint in his eye that made the audience's choice seem appropriate.
Then, and in my mind I even hear the needle stuck in the groove, he couldn't get off of the line 'As Datchery I did my bit!" This line explains how he could be Bazzard but disguised himself as Datchery to further his fiendish plot. He repeated the line 3 or 4 times while whooshing his cape around.
I realized that an actor's nightmare was in full swing right in front of me. And there was nothing I could do about it. As I said, I AM NOT IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THE PLAY.
The orchestra immediately began to sound like a bunch of drunk Tom Waits fans trying to play 24 different versions of 'Jockey Full of Bourbon' on 20 different instruments. Violin bows zigged into cellists, hands fiddled with sheet music hoping to find where the hell this actor was in the song. I can't really articulate how funny all of this was.
Especially the orchestra. Frantic, playing who-knows-what, waiting for some sign of recognition, some hint that he might be able to move FORWARD instead of repeating the absurd line over and over.
As Datchery I did my bit.
In my URI years, I appeared as Jerry Tackaberry in 'How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying', James Throttle the Stage Manager in 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood', and finally, King Pellinore in 'Camelot'. My first year I didn't audition for the musical for some unknown reason and missed out on being onstage with my sister Sheila as Anne in 'Anne of Green Gables'.
Today's post will focus on one song performed in 'The Mystery of Edwin Drood'.
Now, the gimmick of 'Drood' is that it tells the story of an 1890's London music hall troupe putting on a musical version of Dickens' unfinished last novel. So each actor plays a music hall part and then a part from the novel, or several parts as the case may be. The novel gets told but filtered through the bawdy lens of a rowdy late-night vaudeville atmosphere.
To take things one step further, the audience chooses who the murderer is. Dickens died before completing the novel and left no definitive notes on the outcome.
I earlier said that each actor played two parts. Except for me. I played James Throttle the ass-kissing wimpy stage manager of the troupe. Our director chose to have me posted stage right (the audience's left!) throughout the entire show. The idea was that I troubleshot the various stage pieces that the fictional troupe had to pull off. I also was the assistant/valet for the narrator/emcee of the music hall.
I also functioned as a sort of 'applause' sign. If the scene was frightening, I was petrified. If it was melancholy, I was devastated. If it was angry, I was apoplectic. This turned out to be one of the more exhausting shows I've ever done because of this. I NEVER LEFT THE STAGE.
I also counted the votes. This is really where today's story begins...
When the troupe reached the hanging inconclusive end of Dickens' novel, a sort of chaos ensued. The troupe ran out into the crowd with chalkboards and virtually assaulted the audience. Girls in corsets sat in laps, men in tails kissed hands...all while culling opinions. If I remember correctly, actors had sections to chart. Row by row they would ask, "Who did it?"
All these chalkboards were then brought down from the seats to me. The orchestra, a strange 20 piece affair, vamped while I feverishly counted. And when I say I counted, I assure you, I really counted. We were not interested in rigging this election.
7 or 8 different characters were to be ready to sing the confessional song if voted the murderer. It was usually one of two people, the madman at the center of the narrative, or the woman he was in love with.
On the night in question, however, our audience had something else in mind.
As I counted the votes it became apparent that they, of all the audiences we'd had, thought that Bazzard had been the guilty party. Bazzard was a waiter. I can't even remember how he played into the narrative, but let's just say that he was pretty far out on the fringe of the story!
I notified the REAL stage manager who handled backstage traffic. Word was then spread somehow to whichever actor had to suddenly sing the 'I DID IT!' song.
Out came my friend David to confess to a crime he'd never dreamed he'd commit. Oh, sure, he was rehearsed, each actor who factored into the voting had to rehearse the singing of the song, but was he PREPARED??? He'd never come CLOSE to being voted the killer.
It's important at this time to remember that I am the only other actor on stage and I am NOT IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THE PLAY.
He swooped out from backstage wearing the cape that figured into the tale. Things started out well enough. He had a murderous glint in his eye that made the audience's choice seem appropriate.
Then, and in my mind I even hear the needle stuck in the groove, he couldn't get off of the line 'As Datchery I did my bit!" This line explains how he could be Bazzard but disguised himself as Datchery to further his fiendish plot. He repeated the line 3 or 4 times while whooshing his cape around.
I realized that an actor's nightmare was in full swing right in front of me. And there was nothing I could do about it. As I said, I AM NOT IN THE FICTIONAL WORLD OF THE PLAY.
The orchestra immediately began to sound like a bunch of drunk Tom Waits fans trying to play 24 different versions of 'Jockey Full of Bourbon' on 20 different instruments. Violin bows zigged into cellists, hands fiddled with sheet music hoping to find where the hell this actor was in the song. I can't really articulate how funny all of this was.
Especially the orchestra. Frantic, playing who-knows-what, waiting for some sign of recognition, some hint that he might be able to move FORWARD instead of repeating the absurd line over and over.
As Datchery I did my bit.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Fugazi Won't Stand For It
Ever since I first heard of Minor Threat in high school Ian MacKaye has been a hero of mine. Let's count the accomplishments...
1. He seems to have invented two genres that have completely altered the musical landscape. With Minor Threat he transformed punk rock into something almost unfathomably fast and loud called 'Hardcore' and then when that grew old real quick he pioneered something called 'emo-core' with his new band Fugazi. Soon the '-core' was dropped and 'emo' was upon us.
2. Started a record label so he wouldn't be beholden to anyone in the pursuit of music. Dischord has chronicled Washington, DC hardcore music since its inception.
Since the 1980's, his bands have sold enough albums to be considered successful by any standard. The possibility of this becoming extremely lucrative has been there for well over 20 years. But his unrelenting focus on music itself has led to some principled decisions. They don't sell merchandise...no t-shirts, no stickers, no mugs, no key chains, nothing but the music itself. This is why you might see a 'THIS IS NOT A FUGAZI T-SHIRT' on the street.
Also, Fugazi refuses to play any show that isn't open to all ages. If you can't legally admit an 11 year old, they will not book themselves into your venue.
In addition, they keep the costs of their music way, way down. If you go to the Dischord website, you can buy a full-length CD for $12.
I never saw Minor Threat while they were together, but if you want to hear where most of the loud music on the radio today comes from, check out their back catalog. Fugazi has also gone by the wayside but I caught them in NYC when they played Roseland.
I remember being struck by how many true teenagers were in the audience. As usual, Fugazi had insisted on an all-ages show. $10 to get in. Which means that Roseland kept almost all of that and Fugazi didn't make much profit because they refused to charge $20 a ticket.
I don't remember who I went with. Fugazi took the stage quite early knowing that the majority of the audience had to get up and go to junior high in the morning. As they tore into their amazing set-list, the inevitable mosh-pit nonsense occurred. From way back up in my seat I could see the swirling mass that I used to participate in when I was younger. I no longer saw the novelty of letting strangers abuse me to a backbeat.
Suddenly, whatever song Fugazi was playing stopped. Ian stepped to the mike and said, "People up front are getting crushed. Everyone has to move back 30 feet." Then Fugazi proceeded to wait silently while the crowd eased up and allowed the people pressed against the stage to get some room. Throughout the show this happened repeatedly.
Now, some people find this kind of attention to justice annoying in a rock band. They claim that a certain level of danger is appropriate in a politically charged high octane performance atmosphere.
I bet the girls up front getting smashed into a concrete divider beg to differ.
1. He seems to have invented two genres that have completely altered the musical landscape. With Minor Threat he transformed punk rock into something almost unfathomably fast and loud called 'Hardcore' and then when that grew old real quick he pioneered something called 'emo-core' with his new band Fugazi. Soon the '-core' was dropped and 'emo' was upon us.
2. Started a record label so he wouldn't be beholden to anyone in the pursuit of music. Dischord has chronicled Washington, DC hardcore music since its inception.
Since the 1980's, his bands have sold enough albums to be considered successful by any standard. The possibility of this becoming extremely lucrative has been there for well over 20 years. But his unrelenting focus on music itself has led to some principled decisions. They don't sell merchandise...no t-shirts, no stickers, no mugs, no key chains, nothing but the music itself. This is why you might see a 'THIS IS NOT A FUGAZI T-SHIRT' on the street.
Also, Fugazi refuses to play any show that isn't open to all ages. If you can't legally admit an 11 year old, they will not book themselves into your venue.
In addition, they keep the costs of their music way, way down. If you go to the Dischord website, you can buy a full-length CD for $12.
I never saw Minor Threat while they were together, but if you want to hear where most of the loud music on the radio today comes from, check out their back catalog. Fugazi has also gone by the wayside but I caught them in NYC when they played Roseland.
I remember being struck by how many true teenagers were in the audience. As usual, Fugazi had insisted on an all-ages show. $10 to get in. Which means that Roseland kept almost all of that and Fugazi didn't make much profit because they refused to charge $20 a ticket.
I don't remember who I went with. Fugazi took the stage quite early knowing that the majority of the audience had to get up and go to junior high in the morning. As they tore into their amazing set-list, the inevitable mosh-pit nonsense occurred. From way back up in my seat I could see the swirling mass that I used to participate in when I was younger. I no longer saw the novelty of letting strangers abuse me to a backbeat.
Suddenly, whatever song Fugazi was playing stopped. Ian stepped to the mike and said, "People up front are getting crushed. Everyone has to move back 30 feet." Then Fugazi proceeded to wait silently while the crowd eased up and allowed the people pressed against the stage to get some room. Throughout the show this happened repeatedly.
Now, some people find this kind of attention to justice annoying in a rock band. They claim that a certain level of danger is appropriate in a politically charged high octane performance atmosphere.
I bet the girls up front getting smashed into a concrete divider beg to differ.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
Wassup, Wasserman!
Rob Wasserman is one of those musicians you've probably heard on someone else's record. He is a bass wizard. He has transcended the anonymity of the side man to the point where he has established himself as a true collaborator and creator in his own right.
He put out an album called 'Duets' back in the 1990's that featured him paired with a variety of different artists. They performed old standards, original pieces, anything they had a mind to. This is one of those perfect albums that seems like a soundtrack to a forgotten classic film. It seems to have a visual quality to it, so perfectly etched are the sounds.
One song in particular became important to me. Jennifer Warnes, yes, the 'Up Where We Belong' with Joe Cocker-nonsense Jennifer Warnes, sings an old Leonard Cohen song called 'The Ballad of the Runaway Horse'.
Before I even talk about the performances, I have to address the song itself. When Cohen recorded it, he titled it 'Ballad of the Absent Mare'. I've never heard his version of the song.
Jennifer Warnes and Rob Wasserman's version is stark and sparse. Only the bass and the voice. The bombast of 'Up Where We Belong' is nowhere to be found. Subtle and epic, she virtually coos the entire song.
A cowgirl waits for a wild horse. They've ridden before. Every time they do she feels whole. Then his wildness reasserts itself and their union is torn apart.
Somehow this song wound up being the song that my ex and I danced to as our first dance. Think of this if you are attempting to get married without a wedding planner. They just might step in and say, 'Yes, beautiful song, make another choice.'
But in listening to the song, I'm once again struck by how unbelievably romantic and beautiful it is. In spite of the central metaphor of loss. And whether we'd stayed together or not, it was an apt choice.
Really long, though. The crowd got a bit antsy while we danced and we joked as we danced that we could have faded it out at a certain point. I am still transported to that day whenever I hear the song. When it comes up on random play I often skip it because I simply can't go there.
Long story short the marriage ended. The metaphor carried over and our love couldn't survive our most basic nature. I swam upstream in Brooklyn trying to get to a still pond. I wore my nerves to the thinnest edge.
Then one night I found myself out with Quasi Uncle Andy and Buzz. Andy is one of my oldest friends, dating back to college. We shared an apartment on the Upper West Side when I first moved to the city. He met Buzz working at a Mexican restaurant in the Village. Buzz is Iranian and moved here when he was 10. His father was a general and fled the country when the Shah was overthrown. Imagine coming to America in 1979 from Iran.
Buzz said he fought every kid in his school. Buzz wound up rapping with my cousin and I in a group called New Mischief, but that's a story for another day.
I don't remember how but I convinced Andy and Buzz to go with me to The Wetlands to see Rob Wasserman in concert. They knew nothing about him. There were maybe 30 people there, a shameful display of public taste.
By the end of the concert, Andy Buzz and I stood at the lip of the stage and screamed at the top of our lungs that we wanted more, play more, play something else, play anything. During the show we kept marveling at the fact that we were witnessing obviously historic music and NO ONE was there. We vowed that our response would not be muted in spite of the space around us.
I let the cares of my increasingly stressful life fall away and Rob Wasserman made me forget that he'd been at my wedding.
He put out an album called 'Duets' back in the 1990's that featured him paired with a variety of different artists. They performed old standards, original pieces, anything they had a mind to. This is one of those perfect albums that seems like a soundtrack to a forgotten classic film. It seems to have a visual quality to it, so perfectly etched are the sounds.
One song in particular became important to me. Jennifer Warnes, yes, the 'Up Where We Belong' with Joe Cocker-nonsense Jennifer Warnes, sings an old Leonard Cohen song called 'The Ballad of the Runaway Horse'.
Before I even talk about the performances, I have to address the song itself. When Cohen recorded it, he titled it 'Ballad of the Absent Mare'. I've never heard his version of the song.
Jennifer Warnes and Rob Wasserman's version is stark and sparse. Only the bass and the voice. The bombast of 'Up Where We Belong' is nowhere to be found. Subtle and epic, she virtually coos the entire song.
A cowgirl waits for a wild horse. They've ridden before. Every time they do she feels whole. Then his wildness reasserts itself and their union is torn apart.
Somehow this song wound up being the song that my ex and I danced to as our first dance. Think of this if you are attempting to get married without a wedding planner. They just might step in and say, 'Yes, beautiful song, make another choice.'
But in listening to the song, I'm once again struck by how unbelievably romantic and beautiful it is. In spite of the central metaphor of loss. And whether we'd stayed together or not, it was an apt choice.
Really long, though. The crowd got a bit antsy while we danced and we joked as we danced that we could have faded it out at a certain point. I am still transported to that day whenever I hear the song. When it comes up on random play I often skip it because I simply can't go there.
Long story short the marriage ended. The metaphor carried over and our love couldn't survive our most basic nature. I swam upstream in Brooklyn trying to get to a still pond. I wore my nerves to the thinnest edge.
Then one night I found myself out with Quasi Uncle Andy and Buzz. Andy is one of my oldest friends, dating back to college. We shared an apartment on the Upper West Side when I first moved to the city. He met Buzz working at a Mexican restaurant in the Village. Buzz is Iranian and moved here when he was 10. His father was a general and fled the country when the Shah was overthrown. Imagine coming to America in 1979 from Iran.
Buzz said he fought every kid in his school. Buzz wound up rapping with my cousin and I in a group called New Mischief, but that's a story for another day.
I don't remember how but I convinced Andy and Buzz to go with me to The Wetlands to see Rob Wasserman in concert. They knew nothing about him. There were maybe 30 people there, a shameful display of public taste.
By the end of the concert, Andy Buzz and I stood at the lip of the stage and screamed at the top of our lungs that we wanted more, play more, play something else, play anything. During the show we kept marveling at the fact that we were witnessing obviously historic music and NO ONE was there. We vowed that our response would not be muted in spite of the space around us.
I let the cares of my increasingly stressful life fall away and Rob Wasserman made me forget that he'd been at my wedding.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Club Baby Head, Pt. 3: Shit, Oops, Sugar
In my punk rock jihad years there were two ideologies that drove my fervor. Both hailed from Minneapolis. The Replacements and Husker Du. My belief in both wound up challenged over time, but in the case of The Replacements and Paul Westerberg, the doubt only strengthened my mania.
Upon the deepest of introspection, Husker Du is a grand disappointment. At the time their music would have been characterized as the more complex, adult, multi-layered art. They took on big themes: military industrial complexes, capitalist ennui, philosophical angst, sexual politics funneled into violent crime, etc. But while the topics might have seemed more intellectual, in retrospect, their viewpoints seem almost quaint, politically correct, juvenile.
My son is easily outraged by injustice. He finds it hard to fathom that laws are broken, ignored. This is the tone that mostly prevails in Husker Du's oeuvre.
The Replacements sang about things that seemed far more base, basic. Boners, beers, boredom. But over time their squall has accrued significance instead of diminishing. Their obsessions seem appropriate.
Husker Du broke up before The Replacements did, so both Bob Mould and Grant Hart had a head start on Paul Westerberg in their solo careers. Mould put out a masterpiece called 'Workbook: Compositions for the Young and Old to Sing'. It was a delicate swirl of acoustic and electric virtuosity. His lyrical concerns seemed more universal, more emotional, less culled from the op-ed pages.
A truly brilliant album start to finish. Strangely, this album caused me to feel distanced from Husker Du's output which seemed dated in comparison. I saw him perform acoustically in Boston and it was a true eye opener. He is one of those rare combinations of guitar hero histrionics and songwriting punch. To see this welded together made me have high hopes for the rest of his career.
Soon word got out that he'd started a new band called Sugar. They played Club Baby Head and I was first in line. They were everything I'd hoped for...loud, tuneful, passionate, wild. I could hardly believe it but I liked Bob Mould's new band more than I liked his old one!
Then the record came out. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. What I'd not been able to glean in that glorious live shot were the actual words he was singing. I'd been happy to have him segue from the political statement to the existential musing but now it seemed he'd gone right over to the inane. These words were like jello. Not only were they too sweet and hard to keep on a spoon, I also had the distinct feeling that they were bad for me. That if I examined the ingredients too closely I'd find distasteful things.
And thus my connection to one of the pillars of my religion crumbled away and left me feeling like a guest at a wedding of a friend I no longer felt close to.
What sticks in my craw though is that live show at Club Baby Head. Where had that band been while they were recording that album? How did the simple act of transfer to tape kill such a vital sound?
Upon the deepest of introspection, Husker Du is a grand disappointment. At the time their music would have been characterized as the more complex, adult, multi-layered art. They took on big themes: military industrial complexes, capitalist ennui, philosophical angst, sexual politics funneled into violent crime, etc. But while the topics might have seemed more intellectual, in retrospect, their viewpoints seem almost quaint, politically correct, juvenile.
My son is easily outraged by injustice. He finds it hard to fathom that laws are broken, ignored. This is the tone that mostly prevails in Husker Du's oeuvre.
The Replacements sang about things that seemed far more base, basic. Boners, beers, boredom. But over time their squall has accrued significance instead of diminishing. Their obsessions seem appropriate.
Husker Du broke up before The Replacements did, so both Bob Mould and Grant Hart had a head start on Paul Westerberg in their solo careers. Mould put out a masterpiece called 'Workbook: Compositions for the Young and Old to Sing'. It was a delicate swirl of acoustic and electric virtuosity. His lyrical concerns seemed more universal, more emotional, less culled from the op-ed pages.
A truly brilliant album start to finish. Strangely, this album caused me to feel distanced from Husker Du's output which seemed dated in comparison. I saw him perform acoustically in Boston and it was a true eye opener. He is one of those rare combinations of guitar hero histrionics and songwriting punch. To see this welded together made me have high hopes for the rest of his career.
Soon word got out that he'd started a new band called Sugar. They played Club Baby Head and I was first in line. They were everything I'd hoped for...loud, tuneful, passionate, wild. I could hardly believe it but I liked Bob Mould's new band more than I liked his old one!
Then the record came out. To say I was disappointed would be an understatement. What I'd not been able to glean in that glorious live shot were the actual words he was singing. I'd been happy to have him segue from the political statement to the existential musing but now it seemed he'd gone right over to the inane. These words were like jello. Not only were they too sweet and hard to keep on a spoon, I also had the distinct feeling that they were bad for me. That if I examined the ingredients too closely I'd find distasteful things.
And thus my connection to one of the pillars of my religion crumbled away and left me feeling like a guest at a wedding of a friend I no longer felt close to.
What sticks in my craw though is that live show at Club Baby Head. Where had that band been while they were recording that album? How did the simple act of transfer to tape kill such a vital sound?
Friday, April 11, 2008
Club Baby Head, Pt. 2: Au Revoir, Buffalo Tom!
I was off to France. It had been quite a summer. In many ways I was already finished with college. I started working at a group home for adults with developmental disabilities. I spent time out in the woods cutting down trees with these new strange co-workers and got Lyme's Disease. And all along I prepared to leave the United States.
The Lyme's Disease put a big crimp in my work/social schedule. Mostly I sat around and watched movies. Two movies to be more specific. 'Crimes and Misdemeanors' and 'Goodfellas'. Seen back to back, their dual nihilism and dark-hearted joy matched my innards perfectly.
I'd made many new friends through the group home, including a family from Westerly, the Mahoneys. John was a big good hearted environmentalist and artist. His brothers and sisters were all interesting folks with eclectic pursuits. We bonded over music and illegal drugs.
I attended many parties connected to this new crowd. I remember being surprised that I'd made new friends in Rhode Island. Just as I was leaving the country a whole new scene opened up for me, a scene I would revisit upon my return in a year. In fact, my band would wind up named The Mahoneys as a joke which stuck.
I remember a sprawling lawn at their Westerly compound swarming with inebriates. Pockets of people stood around acoustic guitars. The statues that John had been making out of scrap iron stood like sentinels. Fires blazed in garbage cans. John's sister was down from Boston. We struck up a conversation which almost immediately centered around my leaving for France.
She had a young baby which was asleep in the upstairs bedroom of the house. In what seems to be a pattern (see earlier post 'Before Sonic Youth'), she wanted me to see her baby. Her marriage was troubled. She was at a crossroads.
Somehow my newness to the circle combined with the fact that I was so shortly leaving created an immediate sense of intimacy. We stood in the darkness and looked down at the sleeping beauty. Why she needed me to witness this I couldn't say. There wasn't anything illicit or sensual about it but it went far beyond simple parental pride.
The rest of the summer was a blur. Every event I attended became a farewell. My leaving lent intensity to gatherings. Old flirtations were revived and admitted.
Once again cousin Liam comes into play. He'd given me a copy of Buffalo Tom's eponymous debut album. I love this album. I almost wore it out that summer. So when Club Baby Head announced their August schedule and Buffalo Tom was on it, I knew I wanted to tie it in to my farewell party.
All of my disparate crowds met in Providence that night to see Buffalo Tom. Some like the Mahoney/group home crowd were indie music aficionados and knew all about BT. Others, like my theater crew, had never even heard of Club Baby Head, let alone Buffalo Tom.
If you've never seen Buffalo Tom live, the main thing to keep in mind is passion. They are never less than fully engaged. You always have the sense that they are playing as hard as they can. They sweat, they laugh, the egg each other on. I've come to know them over the years...Bill Janowitz wrote music for a play my cousin Mike wrote that I acted in, he wrote a new theme song for 'Yes, Dear' at Mike's insistence, Buffalo Tom actually reunited to play Mike's wedding for pete's sake!
But at this point they were not known to me personally. Their emotional commitment gave me and all of my fellow revellers the permission to go whole hog with sentimentality over my impending ex-patriation.
Who showed up? John Mahoney's sister. She'd heard about it through John and driven down from Boston to say good bye. I'd only met her once before! She gave me her address and asked that I write to her from France. It would let her know that the world was larger than her particular set of problems. I agreed and we did wind up writing a few letters back and forth.
In one of them I recounted to her how I'd gone to London to visit an ex-girlfriend/old friend. We'd gone out on the town and taken in a concert. Buffalo Tom! In London!
I don't know if her marriage survived. I know that the Mahoneys have faced some difficult times of late...I've heard this through the grapevine 73 times removed. How strange that Bill Janowitz knows my name and hugs me when we meet and the Mahoneys have receded into my past.
Like Woody Allen sitting with Martin Landau discussing murder, like Ray Liotta in slippers on his Arizona doorstep, I stand in disbelief at how far I've come.
The Lyme's Disease put a big crimp in my work/social schedule. Mostly I sat around and watched movies. Two movies to be more specific. 'Crimes and Misdemeanors' and 'Goodfellas'. Seen back to back, their dual nihilism and dark-hearted joy matched my innards perfectly.
I'd made many new friends through the group home, including a family from Westerly, the Mahoneys. John was a big good hearted environmentalist and artist. His brothers and sisters were all interesting folks with eclectic pursuits. We bonded over music and illegal drugs.
I attended many parties connected to this new crowd. I remember being surprised that I'd made new friends in Rhode Island. Just as I was leaving the country a whole new scene opened up for me, a scene I would revisit upon my return in a year. In fact, my band would wind up named The Mahoneys as a joke which stuck.
I remember a sprawling lawn at their Westerly compound swarming with inebriates. Pockets of people stood around acoustic guitars. The statues that John had been making out of scrap iron stood like sentinels. Fires blazed in garbage cans. John's sister was down from Boston. We struck up a conversation which almost immediately centered around my leaving for France.
She had a young baby which was asleep in the upstairs bedroom of the house. In what seems to be a pattern (see earlier post 'Before Sonic Youth'), she wanted me to see her baby. Her marriage was troubled. She was at a crossroads.
Somehow my newness to the circle combined with the fact that I was so shortly leaving created an immediate sense of intimacy. We stood in the darkness and looked down at the sleeping beauty. Why she needed me to witness this I couldn't say. There wasn't anything illicit or sensual about it but it went far beyond simple parental pride.
The rest of the summer was a blur. Every event I attended became a farewell. My leaving lent intensity to gatherings. Old flirtations were revived and admitted.
Once again cousin Liam comes into play. He'd given me a copy of Buffalo Tom's eponymous debut album. I love this album. I almost wore it out that summer. So when Club Baby Head announced their August schedule and Buffalo Tom was on it, I knew I wanted to tie it in to my farewell party.
All of my disparate crowds met in Providence that night to see Buffalo Tom. Some like the Mahoney/group home crowd were indie music aficionados and knew all about BT. Others, like my theater crew, had never even heard of Club Baby Head, let alone Buffalo Tom.
If you've never seen Buffalo Tom live, the main thing to keep in mind is passion. They are never less than fully engaged. You always have the sense that they are playing as hard as they can. They sweat, they laugh, the egg each other on. I've come to know them over the years...Bill Janowitz wrote music for a play my cousin Mike wrote that I acted in, he wrote a new theme song for 'Yes, Dear' at Mike's insistence, Buffalo Tom actually reunited to play Mike's wedding for pete's sake!
But at this point they were not known to me personally. Their emotional commitment gave me and all of my fellow revellers the permission to go whole hog with sentimentality over my impending ex-patriation.
Who showed up? John Mahoney's sister. She'd heard about it through John and driven down from Boston to say good bye. I'd only met her once before! She gave me her address and asked that I write to her from France. It would let her know that the world was larger than her particular set of problems. I agreed and we did wind up writing a few letters back and forth.
In one of them I recounted to her how I'd gone to London to visit an ex-girlfriend/old friend. We'd gone out on the town and taken in a concert. Buffalo Tom! In London!
I don't know if her marriage survived. I know that the Mahoneys have faced some difficult times of late...I've heard this through the grapevine 73 times removed. How strange that Bill Janowitz knows my name and hugs me when we meet and the Mahoneys have receded into my past.
Like Woody Allen sitting with Martin Landau discussing murder, like Ray Liotta in slippers on his Arizona doorstep, I stand in disbelief at how far I've come.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Club Baby Head, Pt. 1: The Enduring Mystery of the Opening Act
Anyone remember The Goats?
I didn't think so. The Goats were a rap collective from Philadelphia that flirted with mainstream success in the early '90's. Y'know, back when hip-hop was supposed to either ruin or save the world depending on who you talked to.
A friend had turned me on to them, giving me a cassette (!!!) of their fiery album 'Tricks of the Shade'. It was interspersed with skits depicting two lost orphans Chicken Little and Hangerhead. Hangerhead is the result of a botched back-alley abortion. These guys weren't fucking around. Chicken Little and Hangerhead are at Uncle Scam's Circus trying to make their way home.
They had songs about homophobia, the contradiction inherent in the fact that we condemn the Holocaust but seem to be ok with the one we inflicted on Native American peoples, the effect of urban sprawl on family life, y'know, important shit!
Anyway, mix that in with awesome beats, live instruments, several different distinct style of rap/singing, and presto! Weeks of obsessive listening!
When my buddy and I heard that The Goats would be playing Club Baby Head, there was no question that we would be going. One of the cool things about underground less popular music is that you don't have to have some sort of huge plan in place. You just hop in the car and go.
We took the ritualistic drive up I95 to Prov. This drive will forever mean anticipation of musical abandonment to me. It is a highway of music.
Club Baby Head was like the spastic little brother of The Living Room and Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel. It favored less established acts and was decidedly dirtier, more lawless, and temporary. You always had the impression that the owners might make a break for it on a stolen boat trying to get to Cuba from Central Falls.
All that being said, it was quite the fixture on the scene for the better part of 10 years.
We arrived late enough that we hoped to skip the opening band, someone we'd never heard of with a stupid name. But unfortunately (or so we thought...) The Goats were nowhere near ready to perform. They were probably only a third of the way through the garbage bag of weed they'd demanded in their contract. We sat at the bar, sipped beers, and waited patiently, hoping that this opening act wasn't too excruciating.
G. Love and Special Sauce??? What the hell kind of stupid name was that? We joked that they would probably be some sort of boy band doing bad dance steps across the puke splattered Baby Head stage.
In contradiction of our expectations a roadie set up a spare instrumental grouping...a stand up bass, a teeny drum kit, a gorgeous old electric guitar. This was no New Kids on the Block redux, no Color Me Badd.
Out strolled one of the more gorgeous human beings you are ever likely to see. Easily 6'5" tall, G. Love wore a smoking jacket. He reminded of Elvis right off the bat, the Elvis who is just about to join the military. He nonchalantly shrugged the guitar over his slim shoulders and started strumming.
Special Sauce dove in behind him and suddenly all thoughts of The Goats disappeared. Who the hell was this guy and why wasn't he a SUPERSTAR? In a matter of months these questions would both be answered emphatically but that night? I have never been more blindsided in my life.
First there were the songs. Catchy and insistent but laid back. Bluesy but funky. Raw but polished. Here was a guy doing what seemed like a very natural thing to do...playing the blues with a hip/hop stoner vibe instead of the pained preacher tone that was so pervasive at that time.
Our collective jaws hit the floor. Most of the crowd was as flabbergasted as we were...his album had not been released yet and he was just out playing with his Philly brethren. To The Goats' credit, they came out and put on an equally astonishing show, as high-octane as they come. There seemed to be 20 of them on stage, guitars, bass, keyboards, drums, horns, several rappers, guest stars hopping on stage...at one point I thought the compact lead rapper was going to shout his lung out of his body. They didn't disappoint.
But the beauty of the unknown act is what I will forever take away from that night, the night that I saw a star before his light had yet to reach the earth.
I didn't think so. The Goats were a rap collective from Philadelphia that flirted with mainstream success in the early '90's. Y'know, back when hip-hop was supposed to either ruin or save the world depending on who you talked to.
A friend had turned me on to them, giving me a cassette (!!!) of their fiery album 'Tricks of the Shade'. It was interspersed with skits depicting two lost orphans Chicken Little and Hangerhead. Hangerhead is the result of a botched back-alley abortion. These guys weren't fucking around. Chicken Little and Hangerhead are at Uncle Scam's Circus trying to make their way home.
They had songs about homophobia, the contradiction inherent in the fact that we condemn the Holocaust but seem to be ok with the one we inflicted on Native American peoples, the effect of urban sprawl on family life, y'know, important shit!
Anyway, mix that in with awesome beats, live instruments, several different distinct style of rap/singing, and presto! Weeks of obsessive listening!
When my buddy and I heard that The Goats would be playing Club Baby Head, there was no question that we would be going. One of the cool things about underground less popular music is that you don't have to have some sort of huge plan in place. You just hop in the car and go.
We took the ritualistic drive up I95 to Prov. This drive will forever mean anticipation of musical abandonment to me. It is a highway of music.
Club Baby Head was like the spastic little brother of The Living Room and Lupo's Heartbreak Hotel. It favored less established acts and was decidedly dirtier, more lawless, and temporary. You always had the impression that the owners might make a break for it on a stolen boat trying to get to Cuba from Central Falls.
All that being said, it was quite the fixture on the scene for the better part of 10 years.
We arrived late enough that we hoped to skip the opening band, someone we'd never heard of with a stupid name. But unfortunately (or so we thought...) The Goats were nowhere near ready to perform. They were probably only a third of the way through the garbage bag of weed they'd demanded in their contract. We sat at the bar, sipped beers, and waited patiently, hoping that this opening act wasn't too excruciating.
G. Love and Special Sauce??? What the hell kind of stupid name was that? We joked that they would probably be some sort of boy band doing bad dance steps across the puke splattered Baby Head stage.
In contradiction of our expectations a roadie set up a spare instrumental grouping...a stand up bass, a teeny drum kit, a gorgeous old electric guitar. This was no New Kids on the Block redux, no Color Me Badd.
Out strolled one of the more gorgeous human beings you are ever likely to see. Easily 6'5" tall, G. Love wore a smoking jacket. He reminded of Elvis right off the bat, the Elvis who is just about to join the military. He nonchalantly shrugged the guitar over his slim shoulders and started strumming.
Special Sauce dove in behind him and suddenly all thoughts of The Goats disappeared. Who the hell was this guy and why wasn't he a SUPERSTAR? In a matter of months these questions would both be answered emphatically but that night? I have never been more blindsided in my life.
First there were the songs. Catchy and insistent but laid back. Bluesy but funky. Raw but polished. Here was a guy doing what seemed like a very natural thing to do...playing the blues with a hip/hop stoner vibe instead of the pained preacher tone that was so pervasive at that time.
Our collective jaws hit the floor. Most of the crowd was as flabbergasted as we were...his album had not been released yet and he was just out playing with his Philly brethren. To The Goats' credit, they came out and put on an equally astonishing show, as high-octane as they come. There seemed to be 20 of them on stage, guitars, bass, keyboards, drums, horns, several rappers, guest stars hopping on stage...at one point I thought the compact lead rapper was going to shout his lung out of his body. They didn't disappoint.
But the beauty of the unknown act is what I will forever take away from that night, the night that I saw a star before his light had yet to reach the earth.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Candy Butchered
I sat at my desk pondering what musical memory to tackle next. This process is random. I flip through the ol' rolodex upstairs and wait for something to give me pause. When I thought of Candy Butchers at Fez in NYC a lump came to my throat. That seemed to be as good a sign as any that I'd found my topic.
As usual I heard about Candy Butchers from cousin Mike. Seems my musical horizons are always on the move with Mike and Liam throwing coordinates into the melodious mapquest. Before I ever saw them live they had reached mythical status to me through word of mouth.
Here is what I'd heard.
The lead singer had been a musical prodigy. There was a fierce bidding war going on over his songs. He was represented by Tony Bennett's son. He'd lost his first and only love to cancer, the girl he'd been with since he'd been a teenager. The band consisted solely of him on acoustic guitar and vocals and his oldest friend on a snare drum with brushes singing harmony. They had a residency at Fez under Time Cafe right off the campus of NYU.
I'd not been in New York very long at this point so every experience felt almost religious. As I picture it in my head, it is almost like the feeling you get when you see a photograph of yourself as a baby. It goes beyond nostalgia to something inexplicable, something that can never be recovered.
All was promise. All was ahead.
Fez is all red velvet, mirrors, and sparkling lights. More like a supper club than a rock joint, plush booths encroach upon the stage. Candy Butchers packed the place to the point of discomfort and we would order two drinks at a time from the inevitable beleaguered hottie waitress.
Mike Viola is Candy Butchers and his career has continued to this day...he recently wrote/recorded/played in the fictional Dewey Cox film 'Walk Hard'. He also wound up co-writing/singing on Tom Hanks' 'That Thing You Do' soundtrack, a great album.
I wonder if his view of this time echoes my own. He owned this club once a month. Very much a showman, he would split the crowd into groups for sing-alongs to kitschy 80's hits. Or as instrumental additions to his own songs which people knew by heart in spite of the fact that he hadn't released anything yet. His friend sat at the snare drum behind him and rolled his eyes good naturedly when he would play the rock star. They were at once polished and raw.
The songs he sang about his deceased love would come out of nowhere in the set. He described a long leafy road out of his hometown and waiting for her in his car. He imagined her next to him while in bed with some new fling. She was always talking to him. I was more than once moved to tears.
Then boom! Right back to up-tempo fun!
Over a year of shows I probably went 6 times. Which in New York is almost like being a Dead Head. I told friends about him. I sent my music to Tony Bennett's son just because.
In a strange twist of fate several years later, I had to drag up every ounce of energy I had to go to my Uncle's wedding in Greenwich Village. I was sick as a dog and in a deep depression. When I say that word about that time it has a visual element, as if I am standing at the bottom of a deep crater while life rages on above me. My life had fallen apart in an astonishing way.
As I made my way around this celebration trying my best to behave appropriately, who did I see but Mike Viola! Turns out he was a cousin of my new Aunt or his wife was a cousin of my new Aunt. I can't remember which.
I hadn't seen Candy Butchers in years but I'd charted his progress. As I watched him stride through this party with a lovely woman on his arm I couldn't help but think of his poor dead love. He was obviously happy and that gave me hope. Couldn't I be happy? I didn't even have a comparable tragedy to overcome! If he could do it so could I!
So Mike Viola, wherever you are, thanks for all the musical memories and thanks for turning your pain into such beautiful art. And thanks for going to my Uncle's wedding.
As usual I heard about Candy Butchers from cousin Mike. Seems my musical horizons are always on the move with Mike and Liam throwing coordinates into the melodious mapquest. Before I ever saw them live they had reached mythical status to me through word of mouth.
Here is what I'd heard.
The lead singer had been a musical prodigy. There was a fierce bidding war going on over his songs. He was represented by Tony Bennett's son. He'd lost his first and only love to cancer, the girl he'd been with since he'd been a teenager. The band consisted solely of him on acoustic guitar and vocals and his oldest friend on a snare drum with brushes singing harmony. They had a residency at Fez under Time Cafe right off the campus of NYU.
I'd not been in New York very long at this point so every experience felt almost religious. As I picture it in my head, it is almost like the feeling you get when you see a photograph of yourself as a baby. It goes beyond nostalgia to something inexplicable, something that can never be recovered.
All was promise. All was ahead.
Fez is all red velvet, mirrors, and sparkling lights. More like a supper club than a rock joint, plush booths encroach upon the stage. Candy Butchers packed the place to the point of discomfort and we would order two drinks at a time from the inevitable beleaguered hottie waitress.
Mike Viola is Candy Butchers and his career has continued to this day...he recently wrote/recorded/played in the fictional Dewey Cox film 'Walk Hard'. He also wound up co-writing/singing on Tom Hanks' 'That Thing You Do' soundtrack, a great album.
I wonder if his view of this time echoes my own. He owned this club once a month. Very much a showman, he would split the crowd into groups for sing-alongs to kitschy 80's hits. Or as instrumental additions to his own songs which people knew by heart in spite of the fact that he hadn't released anything yet. His friend sat at the snare drum behind him and rolled his eyes good naturedly when he would play the rock star. They were at once polished and raw.
The songs he sang about his deceased love would come out of nowhere in the set. He described a long leafy road out of his hometown and waiting for her in his car. He imagined her next to him while in bed with some new fling. She was always talking to him. I was more than once moved to tears.
Then boom! Right back to up-tempo fun!
Over a year of shows I probably went 6 times. Which in New York is almost like being a Dead Head. I told friends about him. I sent my music to Tony Bennett's son just because.
In a strange twist of fate several years later, I had to drag up every ounce of energy I had to go to my Uncle's wedding in Greenwich Village. I was sick as a dog and in a deep depression. When I say that word about that time it has a visual element, as if I am standing at the bottom of a deep crater while life rages on above me. My life had fallen apart in an astonishing way.
As I made my way around this celebration trying my best to behave appropriately, who did I see but Mike Viola! Turns out he was a cousin of my new Aunt or his wife was a cousin of my new Aunt. I can't remember which.
I hadn't seen Candy Butchers in years but I'd charted his progress. As I watched him stride through this party with a lovely woman on his arm I couldn't help but think of his poor dead love. He was obviously happy and that gave me hope. Couldn't I be happy? I didn't even have a comparable tragedy to overcome! If he could do it so could I!
So Mike Viola, wherever you are, thanks for all the musical memories and thanks for turning your pain into such beautiful art. And thanks for going to my Uncle's wedding.
Tuesday, April 8, 2008
The Legendary Boy In The Rafters
When I first saw The Replacements at The Living Room in 1987 their entire world had changed. They had fired founding member Bob Stinson, recorded an album 'Pleased to Meet Me' as a trio, and hired Minneapolis six-stringer Slim Dunlap as Bob's (ahem)replacement for the tour supporting the album.
I was bummed that I'd not seen the gang in their original form with Smokin' and Drinkin' Bob Stinson hammering away in a dress or a garbage bag but the album was amazing and I preferred the survival of the band to a drunken mess. Advance word had it that they were scorching every stage they touched. Advance word was right.
I've talked about this show before but I keep coming back to it for a number of reasons. Primarily because it holds up in my mind as the greatest rock and roll show I've ever seen but also because of the simple fact that live rock and roll was still a new phenomenon for me.
The preceding year had been a difficult one for my school, my town, my friends. A well-liked classmate had killed himself. This had perforated any remaining innocence I could have claimed and channeled me towards darker and darker realms. I was about to enter college, my best friends were both leaving town which meant my band was leaving town, and I knew I would miss them terribly.
So in the midst of this, The Replacements' new album was akin to a new set of gospels being discovered in your own backyard. One song in particular seemed oddly apt, a bleak upbeat howl called 'The Ledge' sung entirely from the perspective of a teenager on the brink of suicide.
The video was controversial, which for The Replacements was a bit ironic. They had balked at making videos once signed to Warner Bros. For example, the video for 'Bastards of Young' consisted of an LP spinning on a turntable next to a speaker. At the end of the song, a Converse clad sneaker kicks the speaker in.
MTV banned 'The Ledge' from regular rotation. I've actually never seen it. Don't really care to.
Back to the show...
It was about a thousand degrees in the club, to the point where a shirtless guy wasn't seen as some sort of imposition or brag. The band raised the temperature a number of degrees with a blistering set. I fought my way up to the lip of the stage and stared up at my idols.
Well past the two hour mark, they tore into 'The Ledge'. For a teen who had been recently shaken to the core by suicide, this might have been the most healing thing that could have happened. All that pain and confusion muscled into a sing-along!
During the song, everyone became aware of a scrawny kid who somehow had made his way up into the rafters of the club. He hung over the stage listening intently. Tommy Stinson banged away at his bass but managed to bid the kid be careful when he danced up to the mike to sing backup vocals. Paul Westerberg was too far into the performance to notice but the content of the song combined with this mini re-enactment to create an almost unbearable tension.
As the band wound the song down the kid followed meekly and made his way to the edge of the stage. The bouncers were so relieved they didn't even throw the kid out. He took a spot at the foot of the band like me and took in the rest of the show.
'All the love that they pledge
For the last time will not reach
The ledge'
- The Replacements 'The Ledge' off of 'Pleased to Meet Me'
I was bummed that I'd not seen the gang in their original form with Smokin' and Drinkin' Bob Stinson hammering away in a dress or a garbage bag but the album was amazing and I preferred the survival of the band to a drunken mess. Advance word had it that they were scorching every stage they touched. Advance word was right.
I've talked about this show before but I keep coming back to it for a number of reasons. Primarily because it holds up in my mind as the greatest rock and roll show I've ever seen but also because of the simple fact that live rock and roll was still a new phenomenon for me.
The preceding year had been a difficult one for my school, my town, my friends. A well-liked classmate had killed himself. This had perforated any remaining innocence I could have claimed and channeled me towards darker and darker realms. I was about to enter college, my best friends were both leaving town which meant my band was leaving town, and I knew I would miss them terribly.
So in the midst of this, The Replacements' new album was akin to a new set of gospels being discovered in your own backyard. One song in particular seemed oddly apt, a bleak upbeat howl called 'The Ledge' sung entirely from the perspective of a teenager on the brink of suicide.
The video was controversial, which for The Replacements was a bit ironic. They had balked at making videos once signed to Warner Bros. For example, the video for 'Bastards of Young' consisted of an LP spinning on a turntable next to a speaker. At the end of the song, a Converse clad sneaker kicks the speaker in.
MTV banned 'The Ledge' from regular rotation. I've actually never seen it. Don't really care to.
Back to the show...
It was about a thousand degrees in the club, to the point where a shirtless guy wasn't seen as some sort of imposition or brag. The band raised the temperature a number of degrees with a blistering set. I fought my way up to the lip of the stage and stared up at my idols.
Well past the two hour mark, they tore into 'The Ledge'. For a teen who had been recently shaken to the core by suicide, this might have been the most healing thing that could have happened. All that pain and confusion muscled into a sing-along!
During the song, everyone became aware of a scrawny kid who somehow had made his way up into the rafters of the club. He hung over the stage listening intently. Tommy Stinson banged away at his bass but managed to bid the kid be careful when he danced up to the mike to sing backup vocals. Paul Westerberg was too far into the performance to notice but the content of the song combined with this mini re-enactment to create an almost unbearable tension.
As the band wound the song down the kid followed meekly and made his way to the edge of the stage. The bouncers were so relieved they didn't even throw the kid out. He took a spot at the foot of the band like me and took in the rest of the show.
'All the love that they pledge
For the last time will not reach
The ledge'
- The Replacements 'The Ledge' off of 'Pleased to Meet Me'
Monday, April 7, 2008
BUDWEISER!!!!!
The title of this post comes from 1988. I was in college and as far into my obsession with Elvis Costello as I would ever go. I don't know how to describe what happened with Elvis and I, only that I feel much like one half of a famous divorced couple. I only have nice things to say about him but we aren't together anymore.
Don't get me wrong, now, the man is one-in-a-million. His creative stretch from 1984 to 1990 was astonishing. 1986 alone has two MASTERPIECES. 'King of America' and 'Blood & Chocolate' came out the same year and are almost diametrically opposed in a stylistic sense.
'King of America' was recorded live with crack session musicians and prefigures the whole alt-country movement by about 10 years. If you ever listened to Wilco and thought they invented that wheel, you ought to check this album out.
'Blood & Chocolate' was recorded with The Attractions. They all hated each other and him at this point. The album doesn't suffer for it, in fact the discord etches these songs indelibly into the memory. You can hear every single breath that Elvis has to take in order to spew the vitriol and pain. 'I Want You' is 6 minutes of exposed id. He begs a lover who has betrayed him to tell him every detail, to explain the unexplainable, to account for the devastation he is left with. And the love is always the primary emotion that comes through in spite of the anger and the rage.
It is this song upon which the title of this post hinges.
I had gone to Keaney Gym with my sister's boyfriend at the time, as much of an Elvis fan as I. We snuck in a flask of vodka which we mixed in with Del's Lemonade. Anyone from RI will know what this means. If you aren't from Little Rhody, imagine the best crushed ice lemonade drink ever, multiply it by several million, and then you'll approach the delicio-sity of Del's Lemonade.
Nice and toasty from our subterfuge drinks, we settled back to take in Elvis solo. Nick Lowe opened and he was fine. But he just seemed pleasant compared to the artistry that came after.
Elvis played what seemed like 70,000 songs. Each one a bigger hit than the last. The acoustic format was a bit of a stretch for an arena of that size but he filled the space easily. He added a drum machine and distortion for 'Pump It Up' and many other sound effects/embellishments made for as varied an array of sounds as a single man with a guitar could hope to make.
During his encore, which came well past the two hour mark, he started the immediately recognizable chords that open 'I Want You'. Stark and minor, he went through the intro which itself lasts almost two minutes, and ends with him saying 'Anything else is a waste of breath'. Then the song goes on for almost 5 more minutes.
In the pause between '...waste of breath' and the kerang of the opening chord to the bulk of the song, the tension in the arena was palpable. His emotional performance was WRENCHING. It was as if we 3,000 strangers were listening in on his break-up call.
In that pause, some bozo screamed 'BUDWEISER!!!!' at the top of his lungs.
Even anonymous intimacy is too much for some people.
Don't get me wrong, now, the man is one-in-a-million. His creative stretch from 1984 to 1990 was astonishing. 1986 alone has two MASTERPIECES. 'King of America' and 'Blood & Chocolate' came out the same year and are almost diametrically opposed in a stylistic sense.
'King of America' was recorded live with crack session musicians and prefigures the whole alt-country movement by about 10 years. If you ever listened to Wilco and thought they invented that wheel, you ought to check this album out.
'Blood & Chocolate' was recorded with The Attractions. They all hated each other and him at this point. The album doesn't suffer for it, in fact the discord etches these songs indelibly into the memory. You can hear every single breath that Elvis has to take in order to spew the vitriol and pain. 'I Want You' is 6 minutes of exposed id. He begs a lover who has betrayed him to tell him every detail, to explain the unexplainable, to account for the devastation he is left with. And the love is always the primary emotion that comes through in spite of the anger and the rage.
It is this song upon which the title of this post hinges.
I had gone to Keaney Gym with my sister's boyfriend at the time, as much of an Elvis fan as I. We snuck in a flask of vodka which we mixed in with Del's Lemonade. Anyone from RI will know what this means. If you aren't from Little Rhody, imagine the best crushed ice lemonade drink ever, multiply it by several million, and then you'll approach the delicio-sity of Del's Lemonade.
Nice and toasty from our subterfuge drinks, we settled back to take in Elvis solo. Nick Lowe opened and he was fine. But he just seemed pleasant compared to the artistry that came after.
Elvis played what seemed like 70,000 songs. Each one a bigger hit than the last. The acoustic format was a bit of a stretch for an arena of that size but he filled the space easily. He added a drum machine and distortion for 'Pump It Up' and many other sound effects/embellishments made for as varied an array of sounds as a single man with a guitar could hope to make.
During his encore, which came well past the two hour mark, he started the immediately recognizable chords that open 'I Want You'. Stark and minor, he went through the intro which itself lasts almost two minutes, and ends with him saying 'Anything else is a waste of breath'. Then the song goes on for almost 5 more minutes.
In the pause between '...waste of breath' and the kerang of the opening chord to the bulk of the song, the tension in the arena was palpable. His emotional performance was WRENCHING. It was as if we 3,000 strangers were listening in on his break-up call.
In that pause, some bozo screamed 'BUDWEISER!!!!' at the top of his lungs.
Even anonymous intimacy is too much for some people.
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