(This is a Sidebar for Eric Davidson’s
recently published “We Never Learn”; A book about the ‘90’s garage punk
scene in the U.S. Written per his request, which I consider an honor)
Turns out, all that playing and
recording and drama of the 90’s all-up-in-your-face
garage-gutter-power-punk bands, which I believe is the topic at hand -
turns out, upon reflection - You just had to be there.
It’s
impossible to recount, with any degree of accuracy or illustration, the
dynamics, the posture, the weariness, the temperament, the tedium, the
action of those days.
When the Supersuckers blew the
power at Emo’s and upon the lights coming back on, Dan Bolton was
discovered behind the bar, drinking straight from the taps, that wasn’t
part of an over-arching plan. When Dan Siegel (also of Supersuckers
fame) put an atomic fireball up his nose to establish he had the biggest
nostrils of all mankind (And for the record, suffered immensely as a
result of it getting stuck up there), this was not the stuff of science.
When the New Bomb Turk’s Eric Davidson (the very same as the esteemed author) stage dived into a sparse crowd and landed upon his head on
a concrete floor...hardly carefully executed professional stunt
athletics.
2 words you NEVER want to hear in a sentence together - certainly not outta the mouths of the sociopathic Zeke boys: “Homemade
Pyrotechnics”.
It was lunacy. It was miles and hours and years of mind
numbing van touring regularly punctuated by sheer idiocy, all in the
course of a life style chosen by a bunch of people for reasons of…I
don’t know. There was certainly a loose community of like minded people
with shared musical styles and tastes, there was that. Otherwise, I
didn’t know “Why” then, and I don’t know now. I’m just grateful that
the lion share of us survived. And, I will always revere Rocket from
the Crypt for firecracker bombing a crooked rock promoter’s house. Hats
off to all of them for one crazy ass thing or another, all in the name
of who knows what. And not a one of us taking shit from anyone. Which,
among other things, resulted in the New Bomb Turks having to be
smuggled out of a club in Florida for having mocked a gang of skinheads
into a murderous rage.
Upon contemplating “WHAT was
that all about” in regards to those bands and those records and those
multitude of live shows, turns out, I don’t have an easy answer or a
pitch perfect anecdote to offer up. Weird.
I imagine
it all had to do with people kicking down music made of passion,
unconventional standards, and primal personal inspiration that only
those delivering it live would really be able to adequately explain.
And, not giving a fuck.
I was the “Representing
Agent” for a lot of these clowns, which means glorified schedule
counselor, den mother, and reasonably saavy bean demander. I booked a lot of shows, mostly in linear, consecutive
fashion, AKA “Tours”. I hustled a lot of promo, too. Shook a lot of
hands, took a lot of names. I was present for some of the action.
Mostly I was back in a small office with a small computer, a phone, and a
great poker face. The stuff that I remember now with any clarity is
all the really hard stuff, the sacrifices and the suffering. The ugly
fights and the failed ambitions and the damage, this is what I remember
all these years later.
Which isn’t fair to the time
and place and people that I suffered and sacrificed alongside. The
other possibility is we were all just deranged. Which is VERY possible.
We had to have had a lot of fun out there. It’s
just all very hazy, the good times, that is. There are great musical
documents available. Some of that cast of characters are still in it,
playing music full time or at least once in awhile. I would hazard the
guess we are all stronger for it (“That which won’t kill you” style).
And we all got a lot of free booze. Maybe it’s that simple. It was
about the free booze. Lots of it. And the music and mayhem and
protracted years of impaired judgment.
Yeah, that’s it. It was about the free booze. And, a dude with an Atomic Fireball stuck in his nose.
Julianne Lived To Tell About it Andersen
********************
(This is my entry for McSweeny's 2010 Column Writing Contest)
It’s a long way to the middle if you wanna rock&roll
Sure, it’s humiliating that my rock hero, Steven Tyler of Aerosmith fame, has reportedly signed on as an “American Idol” judge. I acknowledge this career turn tarnishes his legacy. I would argue the “The Osbournes” is a far greater embarrassment, but that assumes I’d be arguing with Ozzy Osbourne fronted Black Sabbath devotees. And, my arguments with those people aren’t as often as you might think. I just usually stay away from those people. They number in the majority, by the way. I avoid Rock&Roll Halloween parties as a result.
It’s been said my hating Ozzy Black Sabbath (rightfully preferring Dio Black Sabbath, obviously) defines me. So be it.
But, the déclassé, rock-reputation-busting, desperate-spotlight-clutching antics of established “Rock Stars”, IE the rock&roll elite, is only referenced here to frame the discussion. Those dudes rose to lofty heights from which to stumble down. You gotta give ‘em that. They also have more money than most of us do, by far, so fuck ‘em. Attn: Rich old tired rock stars doing stupid shit – You’ve been dismissed.
As for the “Struggling Musicians”, IE the lower classes of just-starting-out or not-accomplishing-much, washing dishes or pimping crap at Guitar Center, playing shows for ten bucks and a pitcher of beer, they too are dismissed. They have the poetry of their sacrifice to exhalt. And, generally they make the monthly cel. phone bill payment somehow. Attn: Struggling Musician – go live in your van already. So, among other things you can tell everyone that’ll listen you live in your van.
Let’s instead celebrate the Rock&Roll Middle Class. Fascinating, honorable stuff, I assure you. By definition: Folks that list “Professional Musician” with a wink and a chuckle on their 1099’s. You know those “Non Documented Income” mortgage loans that contributed greatly to the loud popping of the housing bubble? Yeah, that’d be them. Selling (TWO or THREE) THOUSANDS of units and regularly playing to the MID HUNDREDS of fans, this is the stuff of glory. Mind numbing hours and months and years on the road (Vans, not buses), torturous weeks and months in the studio (the one where you’ve got the “Bro Deal”), huffy friends & family (BlahBlah you’re-never-around complaints), predictable health and psychological challenges (Carpel Tunnel & Narcissism, respectively) – The Rock&Roll Middle Class live the same routine as the Rock&Roll Elite, yet don’t enjoy the same opportunities for spectacular disgrace or island buying.
Point in fact – The Rock&Roll Middle Class does their own bar fighting. It’s true. Some have elevated it to an art form. Some have made significant contributions, for instance, “The Cleveland”. Named for the city in which the show after party took place, and featuring the omnipresent obnoxious wasted frat boys, this particular “Knock Out Punch” goes as follows - Closed fist, full force blow straight to the nose. As opponent is reeling/shaking it off/bleeding profusely – quickly, Do That Again. Are you wincing? Ta-Da – “The Cleveland”. You don’t think for one moment Bono does that, right? Bono has people that do that.
Speaking of “People”, The Rock&Roll Middle class likes (or at least don’t openly resent) engaging with The People (Which, for the purposes of this discussion, are distinguished as “The People” as opposed to “Their People”, got it?). They may have A Person to assist with dealing with The People, but that Person is approachable by The People and will facilitate communication, assuming the Person of The People is not requesting hair with which to make dolls of their Person’s Person.
Point in fact – The Rock&Roll Middle Class is less wasteful. Taking the remainder deli tray with you presents a tricky set of logistics. Flimsy plastic tray & tray covers do not fare well against a refrigerator sized bass cabinet in the back of the van, so someone of the human cargo populace will have to relinquish his/her seat or cozy up with the sliced salami and swiss for the duration of the ride.
The Rock&Roll Middle Class can stake a better claim to the expression “Hard Core” in the more literal meaning, as opposed to it’s musical or lifestyle connotations. Unflappable. Dog chewing on the drumsticks, again – It happens. Significant other wearing the “Show T-Shirt” while bleaching the tub grout – Well, that’s not good, but couple counseling won’t be necessary. Solid & Centered, AKA Hard Core (As opposed Hard Core’s other widely accepted meaning – Sober, pompous, and indignant). They run into The Megastars in exercise gear at Kinko’s, and think nothing of it, other than to think that the megastar’s one-piece full body lycra biking unitard is not a good look for anyone. Or wonder why megastar (different one) didn’t really seem to enjoy the smoked brisket at the BBQ. That brisket was The Bomb. They run into all manner of folks, some with naïve requests for them to play a birthday party in their garage for beer. And, rarely does the Rock&Roll Middle Class explain that playing a garage for beer isn’t really going to help make the mini-van payment and more than likely they’ve got a gig in a San Jose rock club already scheduled that night. Exceptions to beer compensatory garage birthday gigs may be made in scenarios where that smoked brisket is present. Seriously, that brisket was the bomb.
Point in fact – The Rock&Roll Middle class does not have guitar shaped swimming pools. They have guitar shaped guitars. I know a guy with an alligator shaped guitar, but that’s another story for another time. Also I think he sold it to pay for his Vegas vacation.
More hands-on, on-the-ground, 2-bedroom ranch @ the ‘burbs, more leftovers, better people dynamics, hard core - the Rock&Roll Middle Class is the great unheralded (aside from the heralding courtesy of their 3347 strong MySpace friends, et al) population of rough hewn musician/entertainers. Let’s aspire to shine the light on the guys and gals out there making a living making music. As opposed to rendering hackneyed opinions of mediocre “talent” or prostituting their children to reality TV.
However, if a realityTV show pilot or a seat on the American Idol bench opens up, I can give you some names. “Talent Judge” or “TV Personality” could be good on the 1099’s, too. Hardly putting it out there the Rock&Roll Middle Class doesn’t aspire to better themselves.
Believe it -
Julianne Andersen/Known Malcontent and Champion of The Unconsidered
