Your Band Sucks Part 1

Your Band Sucks.

Jon Fine.

For the guys I've toured with the most:.

Orestes Morfn.

Sooyoung Park.

Fred Weaver.

and for Jerry Fuchs.

We are ugly, but we have the music.

Leonard Cohen.

Preface.

A toddler, still small enough to strap into an infant's car seat in his father's white Plymouth Fury II, a vehicle so huge that, when he was a newborn, his parents fit his crib in the backseat.

He is a jumpy child, easily bored, always seeking new stimulation, and his parents have been murmuring to each other for many miles before noticing he's unusually quiet on this rainy and dreary day.

The father's head tilts up as he glances in the rearview mirror. Flas.h.i.+ng a big movie star grin, he waggles his eyebrows and calls out, "How are you doing back there?"

But the boy is oblivious, eyes vacant, lost and dreaming. He did not hear the rea.s.suring rumble of his father's voice. All he knows is the sound of the wipers as they squeak and rub across the slick winds.h.i.+eld, chasing each other across the gla.s.s in an endless, perfect rhythm above the drone of the sighing motor and tires on wet pavement: Kkwssh-nn-a-gaah-kknnn.

Kkwssh-nn-a-gaah-kknnn.

Kkwssh-nn-a-gaah-kknnn . . .

Melody, drone, and percussion, entrancing in their repet.i.tion, onto which he fixates this rainy day, staring, stupefied and in absolute fascination, at the winds.h.i.+eld, hearing a song that blocks out everything else.

Kkwssh-nn-a-gaah-kknnn . . .

Foreword.

Despite everything I'll say in the next few hundred pages, I really liked this stuff. Still do, even.

My first real band, formed in late 1986, was b.i.t.c.h Magnet. It's always kind of gross to have to characterize your own band, but: we started out playing loud, noisy punk rock, then soon started stretching out song lengths and playing in odd time signatures. We were steeped in the American independent rock underground of that time, we released three critically acclaimed records, we enjoyed a dedicated but not particularly sizable fan base, we toured Europe and America, and at no point were we threatened, even distantly, by actual fame. Though a video we made in 1990 for about $100 on expired black-and-white film made it onto MTV once, in the ghetto at the end of 120 Minutes, where they played short snippets of weirder and more aggressive stuff. To varying degrees, my other bands-among them Coptic Light and Vineland-share that same story. Books like this generally tell stories by or about the luminaries. This book isn't that.

Anyway, ma.s.sive record sales and videos on MTV and whether or not your uncool cousins would have known us are the wrong yardsticks. Bands like ours didn't give a s.h.i.+t about any of that, because we all understood immediately that most of it was out of reach. An incredibly liberating realization, one that went hand in hand with our general instinct to play only what we wanted, leave all edges unsanded, and never modify anything in a bid for a bigger audience. We were lucky to be teenagers in the eighties, futzing around with instruments we didn't quite know how to play, during a rare and oddly open moment when a scruffy crowd of like-minded souls gathered, far from the gloss and waste of the big-time music business, and an underground network arose that spanned the globe: venues, bands, zines, fans, record labels, record stores, college radio stations. It seems accidental and frankly miraculous that we all ended up in the same rooms at the same time, but we did, and in those rooms a culture was built, by hand and often from the barest of raw materials. On tour, our bands crashed on fans' floors, not in hotels, and rode in rattling vans, not fancy buses. We loaded and unloaded these vans by ourselves each night. We rarely had managers or other middlemen; we often dealt directly with club owners and labels. Or we released our records on our own, selling them to the companies that distributed them to record stores, hand-packing promotional copies into cardboard boxes to mail them to the hundred or so college radio stations that cared and all the fanzines we knew.

We built this thing-our own circuit-because we had to, because otherwise it wouldn't have existed, and because it felt like a life-and-death matter that our favorite bands and our own bands got heard. Just enough people erected just enough of an infrastructure to make possible the foundation of a parallel music industry-one that also entailed three-record deals and international tours-while still remaining a tight and (mostly) welcoming community. It was a swimming hole small enough, and secret enough, for you to know everyone in it. It wasn't hard to float atop its surface for a couple of records and tours if your band was good, and sometimes even if it wasn't.

There was always something provisional and flimsy about all this, before the likes of Pavement and Nirvana started selling records in greater than five-figure quant.i.ties, and even afterward. Labels and distributors and clubs and promoters were always going out of business, so money that was owed frequently disappeared outright. (As I write, Sub Pop Records is still around, twenty-eight years after releasing its first records. Congrats! It has also almost gone under at least four times, and-who knows?-may well be gone by the time you read this.) All this happened long before the Internet was anything, which meant that while we lacked a key communications channel for tightly knit outsider communities, our generations weren't distracted by a mythology of getting filthy rich young in a sort of cool and Web-by way. If you got out of college in the post-Reagan economic doldrums, as I did-well, why wouldn't you play in a band and live off temp jobs?

So, beginning in my late teens, many of my most cherished experiences took place in dusty practice s.p.a.ces crammed with barely functioning equipment, inside cramped and overfull vans, and in small clubs that stank of cigarette smoke and yeast from old spilled beer and featured absolutely horrifying bathrooms. (You learned, eventually, to bring soap and toilet paper with you on tour: you couldn't count on either being there when you arrived at the venue.) Once I found this world, I found my home. The people who remain my closest friends to this day. My tribe. Or, rather, our tribe, because I was not the only one looking for these people and the small patch of land that was ours and ours alone. I threw myself upon it with a great and almost tearful relief. And, above all, I loved the music. I loved it so much it made my whole body hurt. (It also fried my ears and left them ringing, but sometimes love extracts a price.) The bands I most liked-the bands I was in-were guitar-based; quite loud; aggressive; eager to explore varying degrees of complexity and compositional ambitiousness; and instrumentally oriented, even though most had vocalists. I mention many in this book, but some of my favorites are Scratch Acid, Slovenly, Gore, the Ex, Meat Puppets, Slint, Swans, Mission of Burma, and Bastro. The best known among them are probably Black Flag and Sonic Youth. None would exist were it not for punk rock, but none were just punk rock; apart from that distinction, allow me to give up right now on trying to cla.s.sify this stuff. Many times in this book I just say something like "weird bands," which is somewhat imprecise and insulting-but they were all a bit off-center, in one way or another, and often that was why I loved them.

Some guys lunge toward cultural moments to meet girls and drinking and drugging buddies. Not me and my friends. If you're looking for recitations of rock depravity, let me say right now I saw cocaine exactly once before I turned thirty, spent a great deal of my adult life working in cubicles, and can count on one hand the number of times I had s.e.x as a direct consequence of being in a band-and still have fingers left over. Kurt Andersen once wrote that the eighties were America's manic episode; if so, indie rock was its depressive phase. But that was fine, because for me and many of my friends, the music pretty much blocked out everything else. It was shocking how much better this music, and its antecedents, were than any current music on the radio-than most of anything ever recorded, even. Realer, more visceral, and more direct. Smarter and more adventurous, too. It clearly expressed the emotional extremes all outsiders know. And, since the musicians and fans in our underground weren't exactly high school football stars, these extremes were especially keenly felt. This music was unafraid to color outside the lines unimaginative people thought defined what was acceptable in rock music. Because there were so many things you could do with rock music, once you started ignoring all the rules: What if a song had only one part? What if a song had only one chord? Why do we need choruses? Why not write songs where no parts repeat? What if we never play in 4/4 again? What if we distorted the ba.s.s and made it the lead instrument? Why do we need vocals? Everyone's playing really fast, so why don't we play really slow? I thought this music was the most important thing in the world. I probably would have died for it.

Sometimes I try to explain playing in such a band to people unfamiliar with this era, and, in trying to understand it, they grope for words and say something like "Oh, so you had a cult following." That awkward term-which I will not use again-makes me think of musicians and bands that never had a big hit and never will but still have enough fans to eke out a living. Someone like Richard Thompson. Bands like b.i.t.c.h Magnet weren't even that. Nor were we the kind of band whose name my less obsessive co-workers might know, like Arcade Fire or Yo La Tengo or Dinosaur Jr., the ones that attain what Ted Leo likes to call "indie tenure." The diehards of this culture encompa.s.sed a couple hundred thousand people scattered across the globe-and "diehard" does not overstate the case, as its adherents generally organized their lives around the music. Our fans were a significantly smaller subset of that crowd. We were beloved by ten or fifteen thousand people worldwide, more or less. As to our record sales, that's probably a good guess, too. (I'm not being coy: thanks to how disorganized our early labels were, we really don't know the numbers.) Not many people cared-but a good chunk of those who did care were really into it. They cared enough to make b.i.t.c.h Magnet reunion tours possible in Asia and Europe and America twenty-one years after our final alb.u.m was released. They drove several hours or got on planes to attend those shows, even if they were often as fortysomething as we were, and as worn out from the demands of parenthood and careers, and also had to be at work the next morning.

Back when he was a writer, the baseball executive Bill James came up with a fantastic sentence: "It is a wonderful thing to know that you are right and the world is wrong; would G.o.d that I might have that feeling again before I die." In the eighties and early nineties I was certain we were partic.i.p.ating in something important. Something that would change the world, or the world of culture, at least. I was, of course, completely wrong, and neglecting to consider how the world would eventually change the music and the people who made it, but that's a common mistake of youth. I also didn't know at the time that all your bands would eventually break your heart, albeit in slightly different ways, or how the insularity of this world would eventually make you insane. But there was great power in being young and not knowing those things. As there was in being certain that if you pointed your van or car toward any city or college town, you could find the people who didn't know those things, either.

And, despite my complicated relations.h.i.+p with this time and its many aftermaths, what I'd do to have that feeling again before I die.

Thank You, New Jersey. Good f.u.c.king Night.

In the woodsy New Jersey suburb where I went to high school in the early eighties, the idea of a band as a unit that writes and performs its own material did not exist. The term "cover band" wasn't used, because that's what all bands effectively were, playing some version of the hits, and their names generally signaled the ground they plowed. Rapid Fire was metal, and ambitious, which meant they sometimes rented a lighting rig. They wore denim and black leather and played songs by Judas Priest. Leather Nun, who apparently didn't know the Swedish band that first used the name, was a more poorly accessorized version of the same idea. Scufl (p.r.o.nounced "scuffle") wore bright colors and lots of hair mousse. You know: new wave. Some of the guys in Scufl and Rapid Fire ended up in a band called Fossil that had a blink-and-you-missed-it moment on Sire in the early nineties. General Public-which wasn't the dull English Beat offshoot that had a minor hit with "Tenderness"-probably had the highest percentage of honor roll members. One guitarist was even a cla.s.s president. The one time I saw them, he carefully applied a pair of Ray-Bans just before going onstage with his new-looking Strat. General Public played songs by Genesis and Men at Work, and, to paraphrase Raymond Carver quoting Charles Bukowski, here I am, insulting them already.

Other bands had headache-inducing early-eighties names like Feedback and Steeler, and a few of them actually wrote a song-like one song. The only punk rock band in our school was the Pukes. (Could I make up that name? No.) Their singer had spiky hair-still a novelty in the suburbs back then-a rubber face built for bugging eyes and bared teeth, and a stick figure's physique. I thought they played extraordinarily fast, but I saw them before I'd heard much hardcore. They, alone, may have written their own material, since I can't imagine that the song t.i.tles I think I remember-"Puke Now," "Mercenary Life for Me"-were covers.

The idea of making your own record was completely inconceivable to us, even though, by the mid-eighties, it was a reality rampant throughout the world. How did you even do it? No one knew. Teenage bands in our stretch of suburban New Jersey didn't even have a place to play. There were no rock clubs near us. Bars were out, since the state drinking age was raised to twenty-one in 1983, and, as far as I knew, you had to go to a city for any all-ages hardcore shows. But once a year local high schools staged a battle of the bands, and bands crossed town lines for them, to perform for other students amid humid atmospheres consisting of hair mousse and longing and hormones. Our school hosted its battles of the bands on a Friday night in late fall, when the days were cooler but not yet cold, and dark arrived in the late afternoon. Under inky skies parents' cars nudged through the parking lot, brake lights flas.h.i.+ng on and off, disgorging clots of teens. Returning to school after hours made you think that the normal rules were somehow suspended. Everyone searched for someone to fumble with in a dark corner, or for some small bit of contraband to make the evening.

Yeah, those nights. Even outcasts like me were susceptible to whatever hung in the air.

All the girls in makeup, in skimpy tops, in short skirts, in leg warmers, and doused in perfume; the scent they trailed was unbearable. A girl from French cla.s.s showed up in skintight satiny black pants made more remarkable by the big chunky zipper traversing the entirety of her crotch, belly b.u.t.ton to spine. MTV was now widely disseminating bad-hair ideas, so I urge you to visualize the horror show atop this crowd's heads. Parachute pants, loud colors, and geometric striped-and-gridded s.h.i.+rts and skinny ties for the Scufl fans. The more fas.h.i.+on-forward dudes among them wore white Capezios-jazz oxfords-which, somehow, no one found hilarious. The guys who didn't particularly fit in wore Members Only. (I was one of them, dividing my time among the pocket-protector crowd, the most droolingly unregenerate dope smokers, and a few smart outsiders...o...b..ting around art and music.) The boys identifying as heavy metal all had spandex pants and faded-denim vests emblazoned with Iron Maiden and Judas Priest and Ozzy patches. These vests had been denim jackets before their arms were ripped off, leaving behind dangling fringes of white cotton fabric, which you burned off with a lighter. If you weren't careful while you did this, you set your vest on fire, though it was kind of fun when it happened. Only the stoners had a look that still holds up today: lank-haired, sleepy-eyed, jeans and faded tees. They were totally onto something, and they didn't even know it!

The cafeteria was briefly remade into something else-the lunch tables hauled away and a couple of makes.h.i.+ft stages quickly a.s.sembled at opposite ends of the room. In a major concession to atmosphere the blazing fluorescent overhead lights were turned off. If you squinted, it kind of looked like a club. It would do. It had to, anyway. Then the bands nervously took the stage and played other bands' songs. Oftentimes the same other bands' songs. One night, during that odd interval when Quiet Riot was briefly the biggest band in the world, three different bands covered "Metal Health."

Rapid Fire impressed me. Or at least their guitar solos did. The witless commercial-metal version: finger sprints, really, das.h.i.+ng up and down blues scales as fast and as smoothly as possible. The sheer speed lit up something in my brain. As much as I professed to detest metal, at home I'd shut the door to my room, plug my lousy Peavey guitar into my lousy Peavey amp-both bought with bar mitzvah money-and see how quickly I could run through scales, too. (In sum: not fast enough.) Then Scufl would play the Cars' "Touch and Go," and suddenly everyone in the room was singing along and reaching up to mime the "I touched your star" part, as if that lyric was about a star in the sky and not, you know, a v.a.g.i.n.a. I joined in while secretly glancing at the preposterously hot girl I was crus.h.i.+ng on, wholly without hope, who was nice enough to befriend me, though nothing more. Mich.e.l.le was half-Asian, half-Italian, absolutely Jesus Christ she's beautiful. I wore oversized gla.s.ses with lenses so thick they distorted my face, a halfhearted Jew-fro, and braces. I cringed when I looked into mirrors and was mutely grateful for our long phone calls. For any flakes of her attention, really. At this battle of the bands, she was all tarted up, hotter than a heartache, and, unlike everyone else, she didn't sing along, just nodded her head and languidly chewed gum in time with the music, a hand on her hip. Grown men have gone to jail for less. I looked at her and thought, as overwrought as any teen, She does not know this entire moment is about her, even though girls that pretty usually do.

Everything about these nights was totally Tinkertoys, and I knew it even then. But knowing it didn't stop how crazy and excited and bottled-up and absolutely unable to express it I felt, so uncomfortable in my skin it may as well have itched, crazy from the crowd and the guitars and the amps and the drums and the girls and that girl especially. I thought, maybe I could start a band to impress her. No. Wait. This is better. Maybe I could start a band with her. I'd see her a lot more then, right? We actually tried this, though she wanted to sing a bunch of Pat Benatar songs for which I couldn't even feign interest, and in any event I couldn't play the solos fast enough. And I hadn't yet realized that you started a band not to get the girl but because you couldn't get the girl. To channel all the horrible churning, surging feelings-the G.o.dd.a.m.ned unmanageable desire and anger and other emotions you couldn't name, you could never understand, and that nonetheless never left you alone. A band might make them into something other than what you seethed over endlessly, or what you whacked off to behind a locked bathroom door.

I DID MOST OF MY GROWING UP IN WARREN, NEW JERSEY, about an hour west of Manhattan, in the kind of development common to comfortable suburbs erected in the late sixties and seventies, and the one good thing I can say about my hometown is that it gave you time and s.p.a.ce to dream. The houses kept a respectful distance from one another. There were woods with tall trees, and great expanses of lawns. We lived well off any main road, and the surrounding streets were very lightly trafficked. Cars floated by slowly, gently, kids wriggling and bouncing in the backseat. You could ride your bike for hours, dazed and drifting, seeing no other humans, utterly and gloriously alone. The gears on your ten-speed made a nasal, narcotic clicking when you stopped pedaling, and there was a song in that sound. You achieved a minor cinematography coasting down the street, a slow pan past the trees through which you glimpsed your neighbors' houses. Though no one would want to make a movie out of this.

Other boys my age lived in the neighborhood, and though we sometimes played endless games of two-on-two baseball during the longest days of summer, I spent a lot of time alone, riding my bike on the quiet roads or reading and poring over baseball statistics in my room. Middle-cla.s.s American childhood was not yet a relentlessly scheduled sequence of commitments, and you had lots of time for idle dreaming. So much stillness and quiet. So little around that you could spend all day inside yourself, as confused and whimpering as it may have been in there. You had no sense of a "we"-the thought that people like you did, in fact, exist and you hadn't spun off, alone, into some solitary and forgotten corner of the cosmos-but you knew where the "I" was.

We moved into that neighborhood when I was four and my older brother, Neil, was ten. After we had our housewarming party, I remember asking my dad if we were really going to live here, because it was so much bigger than the downstairs rental in which we'd lived before. There was a two-car garage and an acre and a half of tall trees. Neil and I now had our own bedrooms. The low-ceilinged bas.e.m.e.nt had more square footage than our entire old apartment, and down there Neil and I somehow managed to play baseball and basketball. It was a big leap for my dad, an only child whose father repaired watches and whose mother ground out ridiculously long workweeks as a back-office clerk on Wall Street to put him through Columbia and med school. For years the three of them lived with my dad's maternal grandparents in a one-bedroom, one-bathroom apartment in the Flatbush section of Brooklyn, but when he was thirty-six, he was able to move his pretty wife and two smart sons into the kind of house every Jewish mother wishes for her son the doctor, and my grandmother is a Jewish mother right down to the homemade chicken soup.

My mom grew up in the Inwood section of Manhattan, on a hilly and cobblestoned street near Isham Park, in a top-floor three-bedroom duplex that, if it's been left untouched, is someone's dream apartment today. Her dad ended a long career with the city's Board of Education as the a.s.sistant superintendent overseeing all of Brooklyn's high schools. That may scan as "hack," but that wasn't my grandfather: the squib the New York Times ran when he died in 1993 said, accurately, that he was known for developing interesting educational programs. My mom's mother, to whom she was closer, died of leukemia when my mom was sixteen and away at summer camp. (Typing that sentence brings home, again, the horror she surely felt.) She and my dad started dating at that camp. Their courts.h.i.+p survived those summers, as well as the commute once the two of them were back home-Flatbush to the north end of Manhattan is a ninety-minute subway ride, if you're lucky. She ended up at Barnard and he at Columbia, and they got married just before she turned twenty. After graduating from Barnard, and before my parents moved to New Jersey, she taught fifth grade at Manhattan's PS 122. Today it's a famous performance s.p.a.ce, but her stories made the East Village of the early sixties sound like wartime Beirut with worse parenting. She gave up teaching to raise my brother and me and became a librarian once I started grade school. She was the family disciplinarian and had a temper that terrified me whenever it blew. I'm sometimes a hothead, too. Hi, Mom!

Everyone in my house was so much older and talked so fast about things I didn't understand that at the dinner table I felt several crucial seconds behind each exchange, head-swiveling as the conversation bounced between my parents and my big brother, a few beats too slow to follow the ball in some Ping-Pong compet.i.tion. Like a lot of youngest children, I craved much more attention than I got. James Murphy of LCD Soundsystem-the baby of his family, too-once told me that being the youngest and feeling ignored or left to your own devices can leave you with a tight core of stubbornness about whatever you wanted to do: All those years you abandoned me to dream this up in my room, and now you're telling me I can't? f.u.c.k you. I knew exactly what he meant.

My brother is one of my best friends today, but the six years between us is a huge gap when you're children, something I learned over and over again when I would galumph after Neil and his friends to be rejected, or grudgingly tolerated. Like a lot of Jewish kids from the Northeast, Neil and I went to summer camp for two months each summer, amid hills and trees and soccer and softball fields and basketball and tennis courts semicircling a mile-wide lake. Neil had gone to that camp for years and was kind of a big deal there when I arrived for my first summer. The annoying thing about him was that, early on, he mastered never looking like he was trying very hard, and he possessed the remove and equilibrium older siblings sometimes have. Whereas I always felt like I was belly flopping around school and camp and our hometown, socially leprous, barely getting by. (He did especially well with girls at camp, unlike me, about which I remain incredibly bitter.) Sometimes when grown-ups who knew him-teachers, coaches, counselors at camp-made the connection between us, they would light up, and I'd stupidly stew on this, feeling too insubstantial to cast a shadow, visible only as an adjunct to someone more memorable who'd pa.s.sed through before. My mom's response was, better that than dread flas.h.i.+ng across their faces, a sentiment with which I didn't necessarily agree.

Then, when I was eleven, in 1979, Neil went off to college, and suddenly it was only me and my parents in that big suburban house, and the seventies turned into the eighties just as I started getting bored with Little League and youth soccer and baseball cards and, restless, started searching Creem and Rolling Stone and High Times for some new excitement. There was a symphony of crickets' and cicadas' drones on summer nights-when I go back to visit my parents now, I'm surprised how loud it gets-but nothing else going on after dark, which was the whole problem. There was no culture that didn't come from a television, a radio, or the malls' movie theaters and record stores, and they all had such narrow ideas of what they could present.

I mean, if I'd grown up in an earlier era, maybe I could sing some paean to radio, the magic appliance through which you received secret transmissions from your true home planet, the best friend with whom you huddled in the dark, etc., but good G.o.d was radio awful in the eighties. Tears for Fears. Debbie Gibson. Billy Idol. George Thorogood. Genesis, after Peter Gabriel left, and Phil Collins's entire solo career. Corey Hart, the poor man's Bryan Adams in new wave sungla.s.ses, while Bryan Adams was a poor man's John Cougar Mellencamp, as if just being John Cougar Mellencamp weren't brutal enough. Things were so bad we tried to get excited about John Fogerty's first alb.u.m in like ten years, even though any chemistry textbook was more exciting and contained no writing as horrendous as the lyrics to "Centerfield." Survivor. f.u.c.king Stars.h.i.+p. Journey played on an endless loop, and no one acted like it was funny or weird. Howard Jones had a huge hit with "Things Can Only Get Better," and no one called him out for lying. During one surpa.s.singly strange fifteen or eighteen months, the ghastly and bouncy Men at Work was the biggest band in the world. Even the "quality" rock bands-those adored by critical consensus, like Bruce Springsteen and U2-were as wearying as algebra. Dog-faced with sincerity. Groaning with sanctimony. Their endless, applause-seeking urge to do the right thing. The great secret history of music, the stuff with some substance to it-Stooges, Suicide, Leonard Cohen, Can and Guru Guru and NEU! and the entirety of krautrock, Funkadelic, Blue Cheer, Albert Ayler, Magma, Wire, King Crimson, Joy Division, all the great mutant offshoots of disco, punk, hardcore, and psych-was so far out of reach in my suburb it might as well have been buried on Mars. Before breaking up in 1983, Mission of Burma had been desperately setting off signal flares up in Boston, where they practically invented the template for brainy and aggressive underground bands that's still followed today: unusual song structures; melodic and powerful ba.s.s; distorted guitar serving more as sonic sculpture than mere notes and chords; relentless off-center drumming. But the local college radio playlists were still choked with synthy new wave and British imports, so, as with everything else going on with an entire founding generation of American punk rock, we had no way of knowing.

Nor did anyone at any of our battles of the bands in 1983 know about a few oddb.a.l.l.s in rural Was.h.i.+ngton who toggled between hardcore and slowed-down Sabbath riffs and called themselves Melvins. Nor that, in Minneapolis, Hsker D was readying Zen Arcade, the double alb.u.m that would win them the maximum attention the mainstream could bestow upon a super fast, super distorted punk rock band. (Of course they'd eventually end up in Rolling Stone: their buried pop hooks made them the one noisy and aggressive band R.E.M. fans could like.) Wipers had been playing in Portland, Oregon, for years, ditto the Meat Puppets in Phoenix and Naked Raygun in Chicago. An unstable agglomeration of smart kids and party-jock types in Louisville, Kentucky, were playing in a band called Squirrelbait Youth-they hadn't yet chopped off the last word in their name, or recorded the two alb.u.ms that are still rightly cherished today. Sonic Youth lived and practiced thirty-five miles from my high school. They'd released two EPs and a full-length alb.u.m by the end of my junior year, but no one around me had any idea. Metal was huge in my hometown, but only the weak and flashy kind-Judas Priest and Quiet Riot. Slayer and Metallica and Voivod and a zillion others were already reordering the entire genre, but no one I sold pot to knew anything about them. Things weren't necessarily better for those lucky enough to grow up in cities, where many key people in bands were still considered complete weirdos. Sometimes even to the other weirdos. "I always thought [Wipers front man] Greg Sage was a cancer patient," Joe Carducci, a former co-owner of the label SST, told me. "He had tufts of hair missing, and what was there was white. He was too old to look like a punk rocker. So you a.s.sumed he was a patient."

In 1983, when I was fifteen, a friend's older brother brought a ca.s.sette to summer camp with s.e.x Pistols' Never Mind the b.o.l.l.o.c.ks on one side and Dead Kennedys' Fresh Fruit for Rotting Vegetables on the other. I grabbed it and never gave it back, and it pretty much got me through the following year. It took me forever to find the first New York Dolls alb.u.m. Once I did, I played the h.e.l.l out of it. Over time it grew less interesting, especially once that band became the model for a junkie-Stonesy subgenre that still really annoys me. But I'd heard them described as being a generation too early for punk rock, and in high school I was desperate for any kind of different. I didn't hear any Stooges songs other than "I Wanna Be Your Dog" until college. All their records were out of print everywhere, and if Iggy was far from deification in the early eighties, no one in the world cared the tiniest bit about Ron and Scott Asheton. In the absence of any guidance, you developed your own strategies. Growing up in Peoria, Illinois, years before he formed Tortoise, Doug McCombs would go to the local record store and buy the alb.u.ms with the weirdest covers. In that way, he explained, he quickly found records by Wire, the Stranglers, Television, and X. Then again, he also bought the first Pearl Harbor and the Explosions record, so, you know, c.r.a.pshoot. It could have been worse. In Manchester, Iowa, where Thinking Fellers Union Local 282 ba.s.sist Anne Eickelberg grew up, the record store was a couple of bins in the hardware store.

THERE WAS ONLY ONE OTHER LOCAL VENUE BESIDES THE BATTLES of the bands. Every June my hometown held a fair called Expo Warren, with carnival games and rides, all trucked in and a.s.sembled on the fields where the Little League played, and an outdoor stage. Expo Warren brought a lovely boardwalk seediness to our town. Greasy traveling carnies collected tickets and thunked rides into life-and they really were greasy, since futzing with their machinery smeared their hands with oily black gunk, which came off when they thoughtlessly wiped sweat off their faces or slapped away mosquitoes. The midway was full of bad fried food and games with cheap stuffed-animal prizes. Entire stalls sold nothing but those small rectangular mirrors with band logos emblazoned on them. (It took me fifteen years to realize you were supposed to chop up c.o.ke on them.) School was finally out. Night came on slowly, swollen with summertime. One year I snuck into the woods past the Tilt-A-Whirl and the Roundup with a bunch of other kids to smoke joints rolled in strawberry-flavored rolling papers. That and the cotton candy dust drifting in the air-I can taste it all right now.

When it came to music, though, Expo Warren couldn't even match a battle of the bands' after-hours-at-the-mall atmosphere. And we couldn't help but notice, even through the fog of adolescence and whatever cigarettes and bad weed and cheap, sweet booze we scrounged. One evening the band consisted of one guy with a guitar and a practice amp struggling through some Kiss songs. (To steal the old joke: He played "Rock and Roll All Nite," and "Rock and Roll All Nite" lost.) Another time some chubby guys with mustaches came onstage, looking like accountants and seemingly much older than us, which probably meant they were thirty. The lead mustache stepped up to the microphone and announced, "h.e.l.lo, everyone. We're the Electrons!" and the band launched into "White Wedding." They got through the introduction, but when the first verse began, that guy moved back to the mike and sang, "White Weddinnnnnnggggggg! I don't know the lyrics!" Why none of us watching ever got the urge already common in places near and far to say, "f.u.c.k them, we can do it better"-well, I have no idea.

Some of this is hard to remember. I smoked a great deal of pot back then, but that's not why I don't remember, because I have very clear memories of being extraordinarily stoned through many gorgeous and horrific events. Rather, hormones and throbbing teenage anxieties created their own amnesia. Simple interactions and conversations often, and out of nowhere, transformed into hostility and sometimes even violence and the blurring, yappy chaos of an overcrowded dog run, albeit one with fists and flung bottles. One night my best friends, Andy and Mike, and I were driving around aimlessly, Mike kept his bright lights on a little too long, and a guy we drove behind went white hot with rage. He trailed us all the way to Andy's house-into which Andy quickly disappeared-and charged out of his car, looking for a fight. Mike stood absolutely silent and motionless while this guy screamed and shoved and fake-lunged at him. Mike didn't talk or fight back, which completely baffled this guy. Finally he screamed that if Mike ever wanted to fight, Mike knew what car he drove, and stomped off. (People actually said things like "If you wanna fight, you know my car!") I watched, stoned and paranoid, from the backseat, bewildered and overmatched, as always, by aggressive male display. No f.u.c.king way was I getting out.

Adolescent hostility, that hot and insensible anger, was everywhere. Testosterone flooded bodies that couldn't handle it. It's understandable to me now as another generation of boys imperfectly body-slamming their way toward adulthood, but had any grown-up tried to explain it at the time, I wouldn't have listened. It wouldn't have made sense, because very little made sense. Close friends turned on you. Bullies shocked you with moments of tenderness. Conversations at parties would turn on a dime, and then you'd have to flee-from parties! Where for a moment you thought you'd found a temporary detente!

As a very scrawny freshman, I knew a hulking uppercla.s.sman. "Hulking," meaning his neck was roughly as thick as my waist. He alternated between subjecting me to grotesque cruelties-once, in one of our school's legendarily gross and doorless bathroom stalls, he held me by my legs and dangled me over the toilet until my collar rubbed the dried p.i.s.s on its rim-and speaking to me candidly, in a way I wondered if he did with anyone else. He'd played varsity football and certainly had the build and violence for it. But, as he explained to me once, he couldn't take knowing that he could f.u.c.k up someone forever with one hit, and this knowledge made him quit. Was this bulls.h.i.+t? The way he delivered it, I didn't think so. Another guy, wiry and entirely overwired, eventually stopped punching me in gym cla.s.s and instead started pulling me aside to confess that he worried he did too much c.o.ke, or how it bothered him to watch a friend drink beer for breakfast. He was an admitted racist, but I spent a lot of time with him talking fairly seriously about politics. He could do that, though he was deeply ignorant-I mean this in a certain Southern sense, where "ignorant" can carry a racial valence-and lacked even a brain cell's worth of impulse control and common sense. I was learning that the bond between the bullied and the bully is strikingly intimate: odd, deeply s.e.xual, confusing. But listening patiently to either of these guys was better than getting punched in the stomach.

Sometime in junior or senior year I got my hands on a bag of magic mushrooms, and one Friday or Sat.u.r.day night I felt what-the-f.u.c.k enough to eat about half of it. Maybe more. I'd never tripped before, but I was curious. I was going out that night with Andy and Mike, but I didn't tell them what I'd done, which was probably a big mistake, although not as big a mistake as having no sense of "enough" or "too much" when it came to mushrooms. They started to kick in at a party we crashed, where I ducked outside to smoke a joint with our cla.s.s president. My heart was pounding, and my general sense of reality was buckling and fractalizing even before we lit up, but that didn't stop me. Soon enough I became somewhat subverbal and was no longer seeing properly, but I still swear he told me which girl he planned to make out with at the party exactly as he put on his pair of douchebag Vuarnet sungla.s.ses before walking back inside. (DEAR G.o.d, WHAT WAS IT WITH CLa.s.s PRESIDENTS AND SUNGLa.s.sES?) I stumbled through the front door for the tail end of a conversation in which Andy and Mike managed to p.i.s.s off everyone so badly we had to leave very quickly. There may have been some threats made toward us. I don't really remember, because by now I was totally tripping my b.a.l.l.s off.

Then I was in the backseat of Mike's car as he drove somewhere. Ten minutes pa.s.sed, then fifteen. No one spoke. Mike stopped the car on the edge of a giant marshland preserve called the Great Swamp, without explanation, and I lurched outside to pee.

Then the car quietly drove off.

There were no lights anywhere nearby, and the night was absolutely black. The swamp gurgled, stirred, breathed, belched, grunted, sighed, bubbled. Sounds piled atop sounds. Things thrashed in the muck. It was impossible to know what was real and what was not. I peered into the dark and saw patterns and flickers. Anything could be lurking in the enormous soup that began a few yards in front of me, though I was already sort of unable to discern where I stopped and the swamp started. Miles from home, in a remote nature preserve, late at night. I could reasonably expect to see no cars till morning. Maybe I was just together enough to walk home, if I knew the way. But I didn't.

Time, too, distorted, so I don't know how long I stood there, but at some point the car pulled up again, and the back door swung open. No one said anything. Andy and Mike stared straight ahead in the front seats, unsmiling, and had no explanation when I asked why, other than to say: "Because."

These guys, I remind you, were my best friends.

THERE HAD TO BE SOMETHING ELSE. BUT WHAT?.

In junior high school I'd failed to convince one of the few guys even less cool than me to start playing ba.s.s, but prospects seemed better in high school. For one thing: I could now play bar chords. Andy was another smart underachiever (short version: I smoked pot daily and sold it ineptly; he had far worse grades), and he and I had similar taste. He had a Telecaster-even then I hated Teles, but whatever-and, like me, a lousy solid-state Peavey amp. We tried playing together, but whether we worked from sheet music or attempted to play by ear, it didn't work. A song as simple as R.E.M.'s "7 Chinese Brothers" completely eluded us. It wasn't until after I got to college that I learned about drone strings: playing two strings together, leaving one open, and working your way up and down the fretboard on the other. Once you know that, you can play "7 Chinese Brothers" in five minutes. But as with everything else, learning that in the suburbs in the eighties was a matter of groping blindly in the dark. I know, I know, it's a total cliche to even bother pointing this out, but it's still true: life was much lonelier and more isolated without any entree to interesting music and the people who flocked to it, without a band, and without any band culture. If you were surrounded by a.s.sholes hostile to the fact of your existence, it was easy to a.s.sume that everyone everywhere would be like that, for the rest of your life. I a.s.sumed that. No one could point me to a control group that proved that life could be different. No one like me knew it wasn't our fault. Or that there were even enough of us somewhere to create a bigger our, one that encompa.s.sed more people than the few freaks we hung out with.

But there were ten or fifteen or fifty kids like us in most high schools. There were a few hundred in every small city and thousands in each state. There were a hundred thousand or more in America and a few hundred thousand more worldwide. There was plenty of kindling. Something was about to happen.

The Importance of a Tiny Stage.

Pictures from the early days of any rock or art movement always display discordant details. No style has been codified, everyone looks too young, and a kind of aesthetic baby fat blurs many edges. Photos from s.e.x Pistols gigs show dudes in the crowd with mustaches and seventies hair. In shots from the early hippie days, there's always at least one guy with hair that wouldn't be out of place at IBM. So it was with indie rock when I first really discovered it upon arriving at Oberlin College in August 1985. What ultimately became a blend of hippie, punk, and hobo still had jarring touches of eighties MTV here and there: mushroom-shaped or asymmetric hair, boys in tight black s.h.i.+rts b.u.t.toned to the throat, boys who looked like they wanted really badly to be in the Cure. It wasn't even called "indie rock" back then. We generally stuck to "punk rock," since it was hard to use a more common term du jour-"alternative"-with anything like a straight face.

Oberlin is a small, reasonably pretty college town situated within a landscape so featureless that a hill is an event. The closest major city is a forty-five-minute drive, and since that city is Cleveland, you kept your expectations low. The skies over the college were almost always gray as you pa.s.sed the old stone buildings and crisscrossed the quad, shoulders hunched against the wind, hurrying down brick paths to get to the two-street town. (Oberlin has a unique microclimate, which is a polite way to say it rained all the time and stayed cold until early May.) Among us music freaks, the boys wore flannels and ripped jeans and plain white T-s.h.i.+rts-they were cheap, and available everywhere. Quite a few of the girls dressed like that, too, though those with good thrift-store instincts opted for secondhand dresses or skirts with dark tights. It was acceptable, and even desirable, for everything to be oversized and slouchy-a terrible idea today, but a common one when no manufacturer made jeans that actually fit. We were also big on discarded cla.s.sic-rock concert T-s.h.i.+rts, picked up secondhand for a buck or less, decades before they went on sale at places like Barneys for hundreds of dollars. (The ba.s.sist in one campus band sometimes wore a perfectly faded black Pink Floyd tee, the one with the pig from Animals on the front. Today he could practically make a mortgage payment with it.) We all wore sneakers or combat boots or motorcycle boots. Long coats for most, and faded denim or army surplus jackets for the stonier types. The boys let their hair get s.h.a.ggy or cut it very short, and never used any kind of product. The girls made more of an effort, dyeing theirs blond or black or burgundy. Many of us smoked. Cigarettes occupied your hands during those twenty years until smartphones were invented. That all this became a look, in the fas.h.i.+on sense, a few years later, after some Seattle bands got big-well, we found that hilarious. We dressed that way to avoid having a look.

Nestled outside a third-floor window in the student union building, a clock radio tuned to the campus station was almost always on. The sound cascaded down the building's sandstone front, beamed across an adjacent lawn, and bounced off the other nearby buildings, creating an unusual amplifying effect: from fifty or even a hundred yards away, you heard it loud and clear, as if it came through a set of speakers far bigger and better than any the station owned.

Steam clouds hung in the air over the campus power plant. Spring would come one day, we were sure of it.

Left to our own devices far from anywhere, with no adults around, none of us had any idea what we were doing. But there was also no one to say you were doing it wrong. Anyway, what were you supposed to take cues from in 1985? Commercial radio and MTV were wastelands. Many college radio stations were still content to play the overproduced and underwhelming major-label "alternative" bands of the time, like the Woodentops and China Crisis and Aztec Camera, bands no one liked then and no one remembers now. Once a year Rolling Stone would cover some other going-nowhere, penny-ante sort-of-subculture and the bands it sp.a.w.ned-the Paisley Underground and the Three O'Clock! Roots rockers like the BoDeans and the Del Fuegos! (The Del Fuegos got started at Oberlin; their frontman, Dan Zanes, now writes songs for well-bred toddlers.) Those records you could find everywhere. But you had to strain so hard to get even the teeniest buzz from them.

A very strong hippie streak persisted on campus. Deadheads and tie-dye were everywhere, as were men with a.s.s-length hair, whom you'd see playing hacky sack on the quad. Hideous scarves and ponchos hand-knit by the oppressed indigenous peoples of Nicaragua, etc., pa.s.sed for fas.h.i.+on statements, and people showed off by p.r.o.nouncing "Nicaragua" with the correctly rolled "r." I was still at an age when any hardcore band yapping about how much Reagan sucked sounded pretty good, but at Oberlin I got disgusted with lefty politics almost immediately. Still, I lucked out by ending up there, and one big reason was my freshman-year roommate, Linc, an extremely skinny, short-haired, pale-skinned music autodidact from suburban L.A. He was wearing a Meat Puppets T-s.h.i.+rt the day we moved in. He was clearly much cooler than me, but more important, he was much more knowing than me. He owned every record SST put out-I barely knew Black Flag; he was already over them-back when that signified something. Linc had heard everything I'd heard, everything I wanted to hear, and everything I didn't know I wanted to hear, had answers for almost every musical question I posed, and brought a few hundred carefully annotated ca.s.settes with him to school.

The second reason I lucked out by attending Oberlin was its radio station, WOBC, staffed by music nuts and, in the cla.s.sic sense of college radio, unformatted. (Too many college radio stations back then mimicked commercial radio, with programmers insisting that DJs choose among songs placed in "rotation." That would never fly with the freaks of WOBC.) At station headquarters in the student union building, entire walk-in closets were stuffed floor to ceiling with old records-you could get lost in them for hours, and I often did-and a few mail crates overflowing with telltale square cardboard packages arrived each day. The college was continually p.i.s.sed off at the radio station, because the collective weight of those records made the old floors sag, requiring regular reinforcement. I graduated in 1989, and I'm not sure the station even owned a CD player by the time I left.

WOBC's office had all the inst.i.tutional charm of a military recruiting center, albeit with more smokers and fewer ashtrays. Everything in the control room appeared to be government-surplus gear from the fifties, if not earlier. The occasional giveaway poster from random bands like the Raunch Hands or the Reducers pa.s.sed for decoration. Ceiling tiles were past yellowing and getting well into brown. Couches sagged and groaned when you sat on them, and smelled like an old man's flannel s.h.i.+rt. DJs coughed their colds into the decaying gray foam covering the on-air mike and made one another sick. A crescent of metal protruded from the giant black speaker in the lounge, on which someone had scrawled in white wax pencil: THIS IS NOT AN ASHTRAY YOU a.s.sHOLE. I adored it all, spent every minute there I could, and, like everyone else, started with a weeknight 2 a.m. to 5 a.m. show.

WOBC was also a link, however tenuous, to the occasional concert in Cleveland. Early in my freshman year I won free tickets from the station to see the jangly Austin band Zeitgeist. It was a weeknight, and there were maybe twenty people at the club. But forget the music, which was mildly interesting at best. A friend, who earned my plus-one by borrowing a station wagon for the trip there, spent much of the night at the bar, hanging out with the woman who played second guitar for Zeitgeist, because here it wasn't arenas, backstage pa.s.ses, and limousines, and there was hardly any barrier between performer and fan. You could know these people. A really important thing about this world, because your real influences were ultimately the people you knew: the friends with whom you hung out, went to shows, traded tapes, and talked endlessly about music.

Oberlin was just a few thousand kids, but it midwifed a shocking number of real bands that wrote and played their own material every weekend at dorm lounge parties and in off-campus living rooms amid the cornfields in our nowheresville. Flyers advertising upcoming shows fluttered from the overfilled bulletin boards in every public s.p.a.ce. These bands got airplay on WOBC, on a kind of 8-track tape that DJs called "carts," and they were the most important fact about this time and place, which is why I'm going to talk about one you've never heard of, called Pay the Man.

No one outside Oberlin knows about Pay the Man, because ultimately they never did anything. They moved to Boston at the end of my freshman year, but then the drummer left, and they couldn't replace him. Nothing they recorded was ever released. (They were supposed to do a four-song EP, "Gettin' the Juke," on the long-defunct Cleveland label St. Valentine Records, but it never happened.) But they were genuinely good, and not "good" as in "acceptable to hear in a friend's bas.e.m.e.nt" or "there's a halfway decent song on the ca.s.sette they guilt-sold to their friends." "Good" as in, you would listen to them if they were from San Francisco or Spokane or Madison or Amsterdam, because their songs stuck with you and got bigger with repeated listening. You looked forward to their shows. I've been carrying a bunch of their songs for decades, first on ca.s.settes, now on a computer, and those songs hold up, beyond the way they scratch an old itch. Each of the guys in Pay the Man played better than he needed to and was smarter than necessary. Most crucially, their drummer, Orestes Delatorre, was a lot better than he needed to be. Mike Billingsley wrote the tougher and darker songs and played a fretless ba.s.s. The guitarist, Chris Brokaw, played actual solos, and played them well. (Chris went on to a long career in music, playing with everyone from Thalia Zedek to Steve Wynn to Bedhead to Thurston Moore.) By the time I was at Oberlin they'd been together for three years, and though they still played some of their early, ultrafast songs, it was clear they had grown beyond them. Like a lot of bands from the mid-eighties, they had commonalities with Hsker D and early Soul Asylum without sounding like either-that is, another band that started out playing hardcore, then grew out of it without totally forsaking it.

Aside from being really good, the guys in Pay the Man were also just there: walking to cla.s.s, eating at the dining hall, hanging out at parties. I was generally too chickens.h.i.+t to talk to any of them, though Chris went out of his way to be nice to me. He and Mike were as skinny as scarecrows, with long, straight high school stoner hair trailing down to the middle of their backs. Chris was a senior and an English major. I'd see him out and about, a bottle of Boone's Farm sometimes dangling from a pocket of his army jacket, and something about the whole literate stoner-rocker vibe made me think, Jesus. Too cool.

I didn't have much going on that freshman year. No girlfriend, quite shy, absolutely virginal. I slept through my morning cla.s.ses, shared delivery pizzas each night with friends in my dorm, listened to WOBC nonstop, and spent all the money I'd saved from the previous summer and then some on records. I went to parties only if bands played, and I drank keg beer while waiting for Pay the Man or the Full Bodied Gents or What Fell? to start their set, then jumped and thrashed around when they did. It was a release. Also easier than trying to talk to girls.

Every local music culture needs a Pay the Man, the big-brother band that shows the way, the tentpole that holds everything up. It doesn't have to be a band everyone likes, but it has to be st.u.r.dy and compelling enough to be the main organizing principle and have enough going on to warrant being the center of attention. Fall became winter, and murmurs started among the music obsessives that Pay the Man were good enough to crack the national circuit. We could invite our normal pals out to see them, and they could like the band, too, even if for them seeing Pay the Man wasn't as huge as it was for me and my closest friends, those stalwarts at every show who could handle the crucial duty of holding my gla.s.ses when I went into the mosh pit.

But understand this: no one outside Oberlin knew Pay the Man. Maybe a hundred people-at most-on campus cared deeply about them. The campus cover band that played faithful versions of current hits routinely drew more people. But any touring musician who ever had an unexpectedly great Tuesday night in Champaign, Illinois, or Lawrence, Kansas, or Morgantown, West Virginia, knows that forty excited people is more than enough to make a show memorable, and a local circle of a hundred fans can easily sustain a band. My first spring at Oberlin, Pay the Man had a hit on WOBC, a song Chris wrote called "When We Were Young." (At the time, the band's average age was twenty-one.) One warm night a few weeks before the school year ended, a few hundred beered-up college kids came to see Pay the Man play a party held in a sprawling sixties-era inst.i.tutional dorm lounge. Winter was finally over, women were showing bare arms and legs again, and the crowd was rowdy and loud and enormously appreciative. At one point between songs Chris looked over to Mike and mouthed a delirious WOW! They played a long time that night.

I still have the set list from that show hanging in my bedroom at my parents' house, and sprinkled among the scrawled song t.i.tles are four oblique entries: C-1, C-2, C-3, and C-4-"C" as in "cover." Near the end of the set, they began repeating the opening groove to "Hot Child in the City." Mike struggled to sing the first verse and chorus, realized he didn't know the lyrics, and, still thumping out the ba.s.sline, stepped to the mike and asked if anyone else did.

Had it been an actual club with an actual stage, I wouldn't have. Had there been even a couple of monitors in front of the band, or something-anything-to delineate where we were supposed to stand and where they were, I wouldn't have. But I was only three feet away, stepped toward the band, grabbed the mike, and: So young To be loose And on her own I wasn't born to sing, but I could carry a tune. Chris and I did the male-bonding back-to-back onstage thing, which we briefly considered, for some reason, to be the ne plus ultra of performance. Like the band, the crowd played along, as if they found it plausible, and that was more than enough.

Come on down To my place Woman . . .

I finished the song and stepped offstage, back into the crowd, glowing and flushed with adrenaline. Even now, more than a quarter-century later, I can still feel it. A needle finding a vein, and something new coursing through my bloodstream: the first rush of performance, the first hint of being in a band onstage. This was just a Sat.u.r.day night party at a small college. Nothing remotely rock about the setting: a bulbous seventies TV suspended from the ceiling just behind the band, cinder-block walls painted beige, dull gray ceramic tile floors, truly horrible blue and green polyester curtain partially obscured by the dimmed lights. But a moment like this doesn't have to happen at a stadium. Or in a bigger club in a bigger city, where famous punk rock bands played. Or in a legendary, beloved tiny s.h.i.+thole like CBGB or the Exit or the Rat. It could happen in your own backyard. No. The whole point was for the epiphany and the enlightenment to happen in your own backyard, among friends and the faces that you knew. This thing was spreading, and when it reached your town and you saw bands being bands, writing their own material, driving tired-looking generic vans from show to show, you realized: I can do this, too. No matter where you were. Everything else followed from that dawning.

I'd spent much of that year trying to talk my friends into starting a band, but now I was as hot and desperate as a high schooler who's been dry-humping his girlfriend all night. I had to do this.

Much more important: I now knew anyone could.