I am not a dreamer, in that I don’t spend much energy imagining a world much different that the one in which I currently live. If I can conjure a final product in my mind grapes, my very next thoughts focus on the steps to get there.
This probably isn’t a great trait for someone who considers himself an artist.
Our greatest artists envision new realities. They see the trends of the future and pull them into the present. They leap at the chance to use new technology. They shoot for the moon.
Meanwhile, I get stuck in the nitty-gritty of building the rocket ship.
My latest rocket ship, a band, THIC MASC, launches this Friday, at 8:00 P.M., at Thrasher’s Bar in Colorado Springs. We’re playing with Tiger Electric and Liquid Mercury. It’s our first show.
Like a Bethesda game, I feel we’re launching a little early, a little prematurely. We’ve had a total of three practices together and could use a couple more hours in the garage.
Doesn’t matter.
The date is the date, and the show is the show. Like Donald Rumsfeld said about the Iraq War, “You go to war with the army you have.” (Also like Rumsfeld’s war, our decision to play is also entirely our own, so, trust me, I’m using that quote correctly.)
I think a little haste is good for a garage rock band. Oh, yeah, we’re calling THIC MASC a garage rock band. It’s punk rock with a little more backbeat, or garage rock with a little more noise.
Nothing brings a band together faster than a debut date. It weeds out the potential bandmates who can’t (or won’t) make time for practice, forces the band to choose a sound and direction (and name, sorry THIC MASC detractors), and gets everyone locked in on a single goal.
Lots of people want to be in a band on Friday and Saturday, but schedule a practice during the workweek and see who shows up. There are a lot of really talented people who want to be in a band as long as it doesn’t interfere with their life at all.
I respect people who can pool their talents, ideas, and tastes and just “jam” a band into existence. In my experience, this has not worked well. For me, it has been easier to start with a clutch of original songs (and/or covers), lay down a foundational repertoire, and build from there. That way you’re starting at Base Camp instead of sea level.
Once the band’s core personnel fall into place (almost every garage rock band has four wheels: drums, bass, singer, guitar), then I allow myself some dreaming. Just a taste.
What if we added a keys player…or synth? Or horns? Or an auxiliary percussionist? Can I let in another guitarist without them trying to take over? How big do we want to make this little garage rock band? How big can we? How many mates can we fit in the garage?
The dreaming extends to my pedalboard. I’ll sit on the floor auditioning effects like a kid playing with Legos. Three different gain stages? One short delay, one long? A flanger? A Whammy? A flanger!? Maybe this time we really get into MIDI? Can I run an arpeggiator through a different channel and play the guitar over it? Wait, I don’t even need to. We’ve got a synth player for that. What the fuck is a flanger?
Inevitably, reality crashes down. The auxiliary percussionist is a flake. The keyboardist can’t juggle four bands and two girlfriends. A punk band cannot have three horn players when they are not playing ska? MIDI is black magic for people with synthesizer degrees. What about that synthesizer?
You go to war with the army you have. On Friday that’ll be Nic on drums, Patrick on bass, Jon on vocals, and yours truly on guitar.
Jackson, on synthesizer, is our up-armored Humvee. At only two practices deep, he’s not quite ready for battle yet. But the war is long and the next battle is only three weeks later at Mutiny Information Cafe on December 13 at 3:00 PM.
If you can’t make our first show. Make our second.
This week’s Heck Record is one of the most important post-hardcore records of all time. 13 Songs, the compilation of Fugazi’s first two EPs, a self-titled and Margin Walker, influenced anyone who wanted to play shout-y music with more than barre chords.
Because of their rigid ethics, brutal touring schedule, and consumer-friendly ticket and CD pricing, oldheads talk up Fugazi like they were Jesus Christ reincarnated. And there’s something to it. Despite copious opportunities, the band never sold out. (What a different era! I wish I could sell out. C’mon Dodge, don’t you think “Safeword” would slam in a Ram commercial?)
Regardless of the gen-X hero worship, Fugazi are a very special band with a nearly perfect career and discography. I think I’m partial to the musically varied Red Medicine as my favorite album of theirs, but all seven of them are very good to great. 13 Songs, however, is the classic.
But, although it’s the album of the week, I’m actually more interested in Fugazi’s first ever show. Played at the Wilson Center on 09/03/1987, the then-three piece – they would add their singing/guitar-ing/dunking-himself-in-a-basketball-hoop fourth member later – sound like a nascent version of the underground conquering band they would become. The songs are slower, the guitars are gentler, and the energy isn’t quite there yet. However the bones are solid, and three of the songs would become post-hardcore classics.
I don’t know if anyone watching the show, which was attended by 300 people on the basis of singer-guitarist Ian MacKaye’s fame with Minor Threat, would’ve expected the group they were watching to become the founders and poster boys for an entire genre of music.
Well, maybe somebody did. They’re the one who recorded the show.
You really never know where a band’s gonna go. But a guy can dream.
