Words. Ideas. Actions.

27 March 2023

I’ve talked about dates here before. Some are more memorable than others. Every date probably has significance for somebody, right? I mean, there are only, at most, 366 of them to go around, and — what? — 8 billion of us. That’s a lot of people cramming a lot of meaning into just a few dates. So, I was surprised when I realized this weekend that a date had passed without me noticing. And I want to remedy that tonight.

Saturday marked one year since Taylor Hawkins died. When I read that, I was stunned. It was simultaneously yesterday and ages ago. It’s hard to put into words the strange place Foo Fighters have in my life. I know I’ve written about them more than enough times at this point, so I won’t be focusing on my connection with them here tonight. Instead, I just want to talk about the first time I ever saw Taylor play drums. I wish I had more of the details documented, but as I remember it, I was watching a music performance on one of the late-night shows. In my mind, it was “Saturday Night Live,” but I’ve never been able to find the clip I originally saw. Odds are better that it was an appearance on Letterman. In any case, Allan’s Morrisette was the musical guest that evening. So, I was watching with a bit of a chip on my shoulder.

Around that same time, flanders was in our early days. We were writing and recording at a break-neck pace. For a long time, we practiced in a trailer outside of the first Cow Haus location on Lipona Road in Tallahassee. I had gotten a subway-sized poster for the then-new Napalm Death album, thanks to my volunteering on “Metal Madness” at V-89, and we flipped it over and tacked it to one of the sweaty walls of that unconditioned trailer to keep track of the names of all the songs we were cranking out. There had to be at least six dozen names scrawled in Sharpie on that big, white canvas. One of the earliest names listed, however, was concocted in the living room of Brain's house. He lived with a bunch of other musicians, so he kept his drums set up there all the time, and different local bands would roll through on different nights of the week, coordinating band practices around gigs and day jobs and shifts at the radio station. And, for us, “Simpsons” broadcasts. Back then, the flanders practice slot was Thursday night, from 7 until about 10, with a 30 minute break at 8:00 to watch “The Simpsons” on Fox. Is it any wonder why we ended up naming ourselves flanders (I was really pushing for Surly, though)?

Anyway, back to the point. We wrote a song called “‘You Oughtta Know” back in those early days. It ended up a manic staple on our early setlists, so we released it on our first cassette (I think. Honestly, all of this is suspect; my brain ain’t what she used to be, and I’m away from my “archives” at the moment). This was around 1994-ish. This part I’m sure of because we also took a break from practice one infamous evening in June of 1994 to watch an unfolding event on TV, then resumed practice to crank out a new song we immediately dubbed “White Ford Bronco”. (Again, apologies for another diversion, but that’s just where my brain is at tonight, as I wrestle with uncomfortable truths. I guess I run back to memories of better times, when finding joy was as quick and simple as heading to a friend’s house, turning some amps up loud, and piling up some distorted pop riffs with a group of people who always inspired.)

So, that’s basically the backdrop. I’m in a new-ish band, struggling to keep track of all the songs we’ve written, playing out anywhere and everywhere we can get a gig, and hoping to ride this nascent “Alternative” wave out of our day jobs and into pop-punk fueled financial and creative security. Obviously, that didn’t happen. We got notable airplay around the country, toured as much as we could, got an honorable mention in a “Late Night with Conan O’Brien” unsigned band contest, and even made it to the finals of a Musician Magazine/TicketMaster contest, where we got flown out to play a show at the Palladium in Los Angeles, along with eventual winners, The Refreshments. (Rumor is they used their winning studio time to record the song which later became the theme to “King of the Hill”. We used our losing prize money to record more of the songs which were documented on the back of that Napalm Death poster, and bought a 1977 Chevy Beauville so we could do more touring. Wow, the tangents are getting a bit out of hand tonight. I blame vacation brain, I guess. Back at it!)

Struggling band? Yes. Grasps at the brass ring? Many. More stories than we have time for tonight? Most definitely. This was all around the same time when other female-fronted, pop-punk acts started hitting our radar. The big, obvious ones were No Doubt and Alanis Morissette. We got lazily compared to them a lot. But those writers were just looking at our line-up and making those connections. We didn’t sound very much like either of them. For the writers who were really listening, they were talking more about Velocity Girl and Letters to Cleo and Scrawl. I always thought we sounded like flanders. But any time I saw No Doubt or Alanis Morissette with yet another huge audience, I was pretty jealous. Especially when I heard that Morrisette was performing her single, “You Oughtta Know” on TV screens across the States as well as all over her native Canada. 

Tuning in, one more time, to let the envy rein, I finally stopped to listen. And watch. And that’s when I noticed it. There was a whirling dervish absolutely destroying the drums in the background of the eponymous band I had grown disdainful of. Her band was solid. More than solid. I started watching even more of their live performances, each time marveling at the man behind the kit. I was awestruck. Each and every set was as if this guy had never played harder in his life. He gave his all. Every time. It was mesmerizing. It was inspiring. It was stardust. And as we know now, it was Taylor Hawkins. 

I obviously have a lot of musical memories I like to talk about. Some I’ve shared here, some only come out at parties or very infrequent band reunions. But getting one shot at a huge opportunity, and having that moment supported by the drumming of this man I had admired years before he joined Dave and Nate, is far and away one of my favorite sonic souvenirs. My disbelief that I had an opportunity like that is matched only by the disbelief that it‘s been a year since we lost him. Here’s to making more musical memories, however you can.

See you tomorrow?

01 March 2023

Let’s start off the month by finally fulfilling a promise from last month: my Noise Pop 30 recap post!

Monday
We’re going to go chronologically, because that’s just how my brain works. My first show was Monday’s bill with Liily and FIDLAR. I’ve gushed about Liily already, so feel free to revisit that post. FIDLAR hit the stage next, and brought all the surfy, punky chaos I was hoping for. The last time I saw them was at a Vice-sponsored show with Metz at SXSW in 2013. They’ve added a guitar player since then, but the combination of volume and carefree sing-a-longs still make for a fun night out. 

Tuesday
Tuesday was a washout. I basically misread the schedule and started to head out to a show after dinner only to realize that the one I had picked out for the night was a happy hour event that started at 5. I had missed it. Boo, me. But I did spend that evening making a more specific plan for the rest of the week; learn from your mistakes, kids.

Wednesday
I was ready for Wednesday. Since the Yo La Tengo show was hopelessly sold out, I headed to August Hall, instead. I had never been there before, and wow is that venue gorgeous. The first band up was Taipei Houston. This is actually the second time I’ve seen them, after they opened up for the Melvins at the Great American Music Hall last year. One of my favorite aspects about this duo is that they’re always playing for hundreds of thousands of people, no matter how small the venue is. I guess that’s what happens when you’ve been able to open for your dad’s band.

Next up was a five-piece I’d never heard of, Narrow Head. I don’t know how I missed them; their sound touches all my sweet spots: dropped-D tuning, morose chord changes, thundering drums. But for some reason, I just didn’t connect with them. I remember thinking that they were equal parts Nothing and Hum, and then I remembered the Deftones exist. I was left thinking I should go home and listen to them instead. 

Headlining was White Reaper. People I respect have been saying good things about them, and the few songs I sampled before were good, so I went in ready to be rocked. They are definitely good at what they do, but I found that I’m only fond of about 40% of their thing. And that’s fine. I loved the twin guitar, Thin Lizzy-style breaks from the guitar players, but there’s a little too much Southern California summer in their delivery, despite the fact that they’re from Kentucky.

Overall, not a great night out, but I’m always glad to see people make loud rock and roll, especially in a beautiful venue.

Thursday
It was pouring here on Thursday. But there was no way I was going to miss seeing Bob Mould. When I started looking into getting passes, seeing “Bob Mould (solo electric)” listed in the events was the tipping point for me going all in on the expense of a full pass; I’ve never seen him like that. 

Mark Eitzel opened. I saw him a lifetime ago at a CMJ event. Not much has really changed. Except we’re both much, much older. I don’t listen to him much because his stuff is just too sad for me (which is odd coming from someone who devours everything David Bazan puts his name on). But his set matched the weather, so it felt like a more than appropriate opener.

When Mr. Mould took The Chapel stage, I was a bit giddy. Just like it was billed, it was nothing but him and his Stratocaster. And it was mesmerizing. He tore through a bunch of his solo songs and a handful of tunes from both Sugar and Hüsker Dü (though “New Day Rising” didn’t make the cut). He told stories about his first days in San Francisco, staying with the rest of Hüsker Dü on Jello Biafra’s couch, as well as his love for his new home here in the City. It was a lovely, lovely night. And the rain stopped just in time to give me a dry ride home.

Friday
When I started doing my research after my misplaced Tuesday, I stumbled upon a surprise: Friday’s Bottom of the Hill show featured headliners made up of one of my favorite rhythm sections in rock. But we’ll get to them. First up was Rip Room. They scratched all the right itches for me. A tight three-piece in the same angular vein as Tera Melos, but with more of a Babe the Blue Ox feel. When I went to the merch table after their set to buy their record, I got another nice surprise: They’re from San Francisco. I can’t wait to see them again.

Following Rip Room’s controlled chaos, Fauxes hit the stage. They are definitely something to see live. I don’t know much about them, still, but I do know that they have their live presence worked out. The interplay between the singer and guitar player is particularly intriguing as they blanketed you with layers of dark wave drones and pleading and swells. Not my thing on most nights, but it was definitely a memorable set.

Messthetics took the stage next. Featuring former Fugazi members, drummer Brendan Canty and bass player Joe Lally, the band also includes secret weapon Anthony Pirog on guitar. It was basically loud jazz punk. I believe a lot of the guitar work was improvised, but every single note felt deliberate and specifically chosen to drive the right emotion at the right moment. There was power and poise and playfulness, and it was glorious. His playing reminded me of Sonny Sharrock or Nels Kline or even Vernon Reid. Lally and Canty built the perfect foundation for their collective explorations. And as a treat, saxophonist James Brandon Lewis, fresh from his own trio’s set at the SF JAZZ Center earlier in the evening, joined Messthetics onstage to recreate four songs of their own. Like I said, it was a glorious noise.

Saturday
I had seen a lot of people talking about Friday’s L.A. Witch set at the Kilowatt, so I set my Saturday sights on the second night of their two-night stint there. There was a fun DJ set of 60s blues rock before the opener, James Wavey, started. He and his four-piece backing band brought reinterpretations of some Summer of Love classics with reimagined lyrics rapped and sung through an echo pedal that Wavey manipulated often from the top of an onstage barstool. What stood out for me was the solid, sturdy bass playing, creating a steady groove for their entire set. 

L.A. Witch took over next. And I mean took over. They were so charismatic and accomplished with their reverb-drenched rock, sounding like the forbidden marriage of Mazzy Star and Concrete Blonde. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but each song brought an unexpected twist, either of melody choice or a jaunty bass line or a tempo change. They definitely kept me on my toes, my attention constantly bouncing from guitarist to bass payer to drummer and back around again.

Sunday 
The last day of Noise Pop is a little hard to write about, for a number of reasons. The matinee at Bottom of the Hill was part reunion, part celebration of life for photographer Peter Ellenby (I recommend reading this great remembrance of Ellenby from The San Francisco Chronicle’s pop music critic Aidin Vaziri). It’s hard to put into words what the show meant. I didn’t know Peter. I don’t know a ton about the San Francisco scene he was a part of, either. But, at the same time, I also know it intimately. From what I could tell, the people in the room, and the bands who were on the stage, were held together by this love of a music created by a set of friends, at a certain time in their lives, that created meaning and memories which not only defined those bygone days, but helped build a foundation for the lives that were to come. It felt very reminiscent of my time in bands and clubs and record stores and radio stations in Tallahassee around the same time. 

Like I mentioned in my post about O a few days ago, I discovered a lot of unknown bands through V-89, Overwhelming Colorfast included. I was never part of their scene, but I definitely understand it. I could feel both the love of, and nostalgia for, a time before lives were taken far too soon. The fact that I found out about O’s passing during the headliner’s set just added to the mix of celebration and sadness. It’s all over so quickly, it seems. Those fleeting moments when you’re doing exactly what you want to be doing, for either all the wrong reasons or all the right ones. You think your band will last forever. You think your scene will last forever. You think you will last forever. But then nothing does. The only saving grace is that you have these pressed, plastic pieces capturing these sonic time machines of the lives you lived and the people you were. 

I stayed at the front of the stage for every band’s set. Oranger started the day, followed by a reformed Kingdom First, and an odds and sods supergroup, put together by Kurt Bloch of the Fastbacks, called Sgt. Major 6. Then Overwhelming Colorfast took the stage for as much a conversation as a show. I felt honored to be able to, essentially, eavesdrop on all the stories about Ellenby, and they made me miss the analogous ones I hope we’ll be able to tell about Tallahassee bands of the 90s some day. 

If anyone involved in Noise Pop ever comes across this post, please know that I will think the love y’all have fostered for more than 30 years was bottled up in that single Sunday matinee. Thank you for the opportunity to share it with those who only got to read about your scene from afar. Playing at Bottom of the Hill was always aspirational for me. Up there with playing CBGB’s. I got to check one of those off my list, but being able to witness Sunday’s sets came as close as I can imagine to being on that stage, with those fans, sharing a love for the music of the 90s underground. Thank you, Noise Pop, for making it possible. And thank you, Peter, for making it special.

See you tomorrow?

27 February 2023

I wanted to spend tonight looking back on all the shows and bands I saw during the 30th anniversary Noise Pop event. And I hope to get to that soon. But at the final show on my itinerary, I found out that the legendary O, famous — to me — from his work in Olive Lawn and fluf, died suddenly last week. So, tonight, I want to talk a little bit about him, his music, and why I never got to see him play live.

I don’t really remember how I discovered fluf. I assume it was through working at V-89; it’s where I first heard most of what I still hold dear today. There was just something special about both the growl and melodicism that Otis Barthoulameu could ring out of a Fender. I was hooked immediately. And I added fluf, and later, O’s earlier band, Olive Lawn, to a growing list of San Diego bands I was becoming devoted to. But how was I ever going to see him play in a city which was 2,200 miles from San Diego? Thank gawd  for the Warped Tour (that may be the only time that sentence has ever been created).

At the end of the 1996 edition, the Warped Tour featured my then-girlfriend’s favorite band, Rocket From the Crypt, and was hitting Panama City Beach just two days before her birthday. What could make a better gift than using my radio station connections to get us tickets and backstage passes? The only problem: We left way later than intended to make the 100-plus mile trip from Tallahassee to Club LaVila. Which meant I basically ignored every speed limit sign along US 98. Just outside of Mexico Beach, however, that ignorance resulted in flashing red and blue lights in my rearview mirror. I’ll spare you the negotiating and begging recap, but rest assured, even after explaining the birthday trip circumstances, we got back on the road another 30 minutes later with the most expensive speeding ticket I’ve ever received in my back pocket. 

I screamed into the venue parking lot and we sprinted to the will call window. Rushing toward the stage from the backstage area, I spotted him. O was bigger than life, and carrying a gorgeous candy apple red Fender Mustang with the racing stripe, heading right for us. I frantically asked, “Are you about to go on?” “Nah, we just finished,” he said as he headed past. Crushing. 

Years and years later, I met designer Josh Higgins after an Aaron Draplin talk. Besides helping to shape the look of the 2012 Obama campaign, Josh also played bass for a time in fluf. When I found that out, I told him the 1996 story I just shared with you. He laughed and said O would love it, promising to tell him the next time they were together. I have no idea if that ever happened, but I hope if it did, it put a smile on O’s face. If it’s even half as big as the one I get every time I listen to “Kim Thayil's Paw,” then that’s good enough for me.

See you tomorrow?

18 January 2023

I read that Van Conner died today. It’s not the earth-shaking news some music-related deaths have had on me, like Lemmy or Chris Cornell or Taylor Hawkins, but it’s a reminder that the artists I enjoy and admire are both mortal and aging. Just like me. There is a sense of dread when I think about this. Their demise. My demise. And what we leave behind. 

There will, hopefully, be a lot of remembrances of Van Conner and his musical contributions over the next few days. So, instead of adding to that pile with a not-very-thorough accounting of favorite songs and bass riffs and side projects, I just want to share a simple story.  

In 1991 or ’92, the Screaming Trees came through Tallahassee. They played a show at The Moon, with local legends Gruel opening. It was a free show for FSU students, and part of the promotion included doing a radio interview at the college station, WVFS. I had been volunteering as a DJ there for a while, but I wasn’t scheduled to be on air that day. I had to work. A job that paid me. As a dishwasher.

So, I was on my way there instead of the studio, in my girlfriend’s large, old, beige Cadillac. I didn’t have a car at the time, and this borrowed boat was my only real transportation. As I sat at an intersection, waiting for a light to change (I vividly remember it was at Macomb and Pensacola, for any Capitol City denizens reading along), a car I recognized crossed in front of me. It was my friend Rob. But more importantly, hanging halfway out the passenger-side window was my other friend Kevin. Now, the two of them had been in groundbreaking Tallahassee bands together for years. Oxenchunk. Blackberry Ripper. Waisting House. 

But in that moment, none of that mattered. Right then, they were fans. Fans of the Screaming Trees. And in the back seat of Rob’s car at that very moment was none other than Van Conner. Rob and Kevin were shepherding him to the station for the interview. And how do I know it was Van Conner in the back seat? Because as Kevin was hanging half out the passenger-side window, his arms were flailing, pointing toward the back seat, and to me at the intersection, and back toward the back seat as he shouted, “Van Conner! Van Conner!”

He was very excited to announce to anyone within earshot that he was sitting in the same car as the bass player for the Screaming Trees! To this day — obviously — I think about that moment and smile. Like I am tonight. As I listen to Buzz Factory and SP48 of the Sub Pop Singles Club and the Solomon Grundy “Spirit of the Radio” 7-inch. 

See you tomorrow?