| T O P I C R E V I E W |
| Carl |
Posted - 09/19/2007 : 09:46:45
The Phoenix.
FALLOUT JOYS
When the Nirvana explosion rocked Boston
By BRETT MILANO
September 18, 2007 11:26:01 AM
BANDWAGONESQUE: The major labels signed Buffalo Tom and just about anyone whose buzz
could conceivably translate into Nirvana-like sales.
In his newly published The Sound of Our Town: A History of Boston Rock & Roll
(Commonwealth Editions), long-time Phoenix contributor Brett Milano explores the evolution
of the local music scene, from obscurities like the G-Clefs’ 1956 hit “K-Ding Dong” up
through more familiar names like Aerosmith, J. Geils, Mission of Burma, the Pixies, the
Bosstones, Morphine, Dropkick Murphys, Dresden Dolls . . . the list goes on. To celebrate its
publication, a hearty cross-section of the local rock scene are gathering to perform
downstairs at the Middle East this Saturday. Here’s an excerpt adapted from a chapter that
deals with the impact the post-Nirvana major-label feeding frenzy had on local rockers like
Buffalo Tom.
— Matt Ashare, Music Editor
How do you know that your band’s suddenly become a big deal? When you’re still living in a
dinky apartment in Somerville, and a white stretch limo shows up to take you to the airport.
Bill Janovitz, Buffalo Tom’s singer and guitarist, woke up to find that monstrosity outside his
Davis Square house one morning in 1992, soon after their song “Taillights Fade” became a
left-field hit. The limo was so out of synch with Buffalo Tom’s roots as a rough-edged, club-
and college-bred band that the bass player refused to get in. “Chris Colbourn was mortified.
He grabbed his suitcase and said, ‘I’m taking the subway,’ ” Janovitz recalls. “I got in,
because I’m all about convenience. My feeling was, ‘Hey, we’re not paying for this, so let’s
enjoy it.’ ”
Scenes like this happened to countless bands in 1993, the year of the indie-rock gold rush.
Suddenly it seemed that the major labels were everywhere, throwing money around. So
you’re in a proudly underground, punk-inspired band that you thought was too raw for radio,
too weird for pop stardom? No problem. They’d still find a place for you on MTV, on a film
soundtrack, maybe even in a teen magazine. You too could get a major-label record deal
with a six-figure advance. Maybe you could even quit your day job.
The moment had been a long time coming. During the ’80s, there was still a clear division
between the commercial bands and the independent ones; if you were doing something a
little raw, weird, or punk-inspired, there was only so far you could go. Many of the ’80s bands
that history remembers as great and influential — Sonic Youth from New York, the
Replacements and Hüsker Dü from Minneapolis, X and Black Flag from Los Angeles, and,
of course, the Pixies and Mission of Burma from Boston — never made it to the top. Most
signed with major labels and wound up playing theaters, but none found superstardom,
sold platinum, or made it far on commercial radio, which was still busy wearing out Led
Zeppelin albums from the ’70s. The mid-’80s success of the Georgia band R.E.M. at least
proved that one great band could crash the commercial gates; but R.E.M., as much as it
wanted to, never managed to drag dozens of other misfit bands into the spotlight.
The band that finally changed the world wasn’t even trying. The Seattle trio Nirvana had
already been around for two years before most of the world noticed. At one of Nirvana’s first
Boston-area shows, in 1990, the band played the tiny Jamaica Plain rock bar Green Street
Station, sharing a bill with the noisy Boston band the Cheater Slicks. (Asked about that show
years later, Dave Shannon, the Cheater Slicks’ guitarist, said, “We figured, big deal — a
bunch of hippies from Seattle.”) Yet, Nirvana’s second album, Nevermind, nearly changed
the climate overnight when it was released in September 1991. Nirvana’s leader, Kurt
Cobain — a disheveled cynic with a heroin problem and bad taste in clothes — was
nobody’s idea of a pop star. But there was something hugely affecting about his songs and
hugely energizing about the band’s guitar sound; Nevermind’s producer, Butch Vig, knew
how to exploit both. And the music business reacted to Nirvana’s runaway success the only
way it knew how: by looking everywhere for more of the same.
What happened in Boston post-Nirvana was the equivalent of that white limo pulling up at
Bill Janovitz’s house. Sometimes it seemed that youth culture was being recast in Kurt
Cobain’s image: soulful, alienated, and streetwise teens were turning up on MTV, in
mainstream television shows (90210 and My So-Called Life), and in newly aware teen
mags such as the late, lamented Sassy, with its coveted “Cute Band Alert.” (To its eternal
embarrassment, Buffalo Tom could manage only a “Cute Drummer Alert.”) Two area bands,
Boston’s Green Magnet School and Providence’s Six Finger Satellite, were also signed to
Nirvana’s original label, Sub Pop. According to the guitarist Chris Pearson, the former band
was signed because the label owner thought they recalled English punk. “But of course,
when our album came out, all the English critics compared us to Nirvana.”
Combining with Nirvana’s rise — and to some extent causing it — was the fact that a
younger crop of music fans, raised on club gigs and college radio, were getting positions of
influence. Once-prominent local scenesters were now working behind the scenes at major
labels (the Rat’s former booking agent, Julie Farman, was doing A&R at Epic/Sony; the
former WERS DJ Debbie Southwood Smith was at MCA; and another local, Steev Riccardo,
went from Enigma to A&M). Also moving up in the world was Mark Kates, who had answered
phones at WBCN and worked at Rick Harte’s Ace of Hearts label. In 1991 he was working
promotion at Geffen Records, when Nirvana was about to be its flagship band.
It wasn’t just Nirvana sound-alikes getting record deals, it was anyone with a cult or club or
critical buzz that could conceivably translate into Nirvana-like sales; the old ideas of what
was and wasn’t commercially viable temporarily went out the window. As a prime example
of how the rules were changing, Capitol Records was signing — and a former member of
Led Zeppelin was producing — a Texas band that disc jockeys had previously been afraid
even to name on the air: the Butthole Surfers.
Boston could always be depended on to provide the major labels with bands that would get
some good reviews and cult success, if little else. Yet coincidentally or not, in the era after
Nirvana, some of those same artful bands started scoring hit singles. Gigolo Aunts, once
shunned as too Beatle-esque for their own good, got onto a Hollywood film soundtrack.
(Their song “Where I Find My Heaven” was in Dumb and Dumber.) Two singer-songwriters,
Jennifer Trynin and Tracy Bonham, found themselves the objects of separate major-label
feeding frenzies. The buzz on Bonham brought Chris Blackwell — the man who’d broken
both U2 and Bob Marley to Americans — into the Rat. (Bonham signed with Blackwell’s
Island label; the alliance was short-lived but got her a 1996 Grammy nomination for best
alternative performance.) A similar buzz brought Warner Bros. sniffing after Trynin; and
Warner formed a million-dollar alliance with Squint Records — the label Trynin had started
in her living room.
And the hits kept on coming. The abstract pop groups the Dambuilders and Fuzzy both got
signed to Atlantic Records. Jonathan Richman was hip again, as the Farrelly brothers built
their comedy hit There’s Something About Mary around his troubadour persona. The
experimental guitarist Reeves Gabrels, who’d played in the theatrical rock troupe the
Bentmen, got a plum gig playing guitar with David Bowie. Tanya Donelly, once of Throwing
Muses, and her dreamy pop band Belly found themselves with national airplay for “Feed the
Tree” (whose title came form a New England expression meaning “pushing up daisies” —
hardly the usual stuff of pop songs). Throwing Muses themselves got some commercial
radio airplay with “Bright Yellow Gun,” and the Muses’ Kristin Hersh found herself amused
by the “grunge” revolution: “The Parisians finally liked the way I dressed!”
WILLIE ALEXANDER + ASA BREBNER + DENNIS BRENNAN + ELLIE AND JOE FROM THE CHARMS + ANDREA GILLIS + ROBIN LANE + LYRES + DAVID MINEHAN + MUCK & THE MIRES + NERVOUS EATERS + JOHN POWHIDA + JJ RASSLER + KEVIN STEVENSON | Middle East downstairs, 480 Mass Ave, Cambridge | September 22 | 617.864.EAST |
| 4 L A T E S T R E P L I E S (Newest First) |
| coastline |
Posted - 09/21/2007 : 18:48:36
Haven't done this in awhile:
 Please pardon me, for these my wrongs. |
| Carl |
Posted - 09/21/2007 : 18:39:50
Yeah, but I'm a bit of a night owl!
"I hate how the reptile dreams it's a mammal. Scaley monster: be what you are!!" - Erebus. |
| coastline |
Posted - 09/21/2007 : 18:37:54
Carl -- it's 2:30 a.m. on a Friday night, and you're still posting articles to the fb.net forum. This is not -- I repeat, not -- a good sign, friend.
Please pardon me, for these my wrongs. |
| Carl |
Posted - 09/21/2007 : 18:33:31
Boston.com.
A look back at an era when
Boston rocked
By Joan Anderman, Globe Staff | September 21, 2007
If a BU student steps out of her dorm room and walks a couple of
blocks into Kenmore Square, she won't wind up at the Rat. The
beloved music dive, home away from home for a generation of local
bands and fans for more than two decades, closed 10 years ago. And
lately, traces of the neighborhood's illustrious rock heritage have been
all but erased in the rush to gentrification.
"A single drink at that new restaurant
[Eastern Standard] will cost you more than
the night that changed your life," says
music writer Brett Milano, and that's one of
the reasons he decided to write "The
Sound of Our Town: A History of Boston
Rock & Roll" (Commonwealth Editions).
Milano, a former Globe contributor who
writes for the Boston Phoenix and the
Boston Herald, surveys 50 years of local
popular music in his new book. Tomorrow
night, a slew of Boston musicians vintage and contemporary will gather
downstairs at the Middle East to celebrate. The very idea that an era-
spanning show was possible convinced Milano that this was the
moment to document Boston rock.
"All of the old guard is still around. The G-Clefs, [Boston's] first doo-
wop group, are in good performing shape, and meanwhile you have
something of a healthy scene," he says. "A college kid can see Willie
Alexander on the same weekend they see Bang Camaro. We're talking
about generations converging."
Milano, a native of upstate New York, moved to Boston in 1980 to
study at BU, where he received a master's degree in journalism. He
wasted no time immersing himself in the local rock scene, which at
that time was "a whirlwind," Milano says, with labels, studios, record
stores, bands, and clubs proliferating. The '80s were the author's
epoch, when the Rat was going strong and important underground
bands like the Pixies and Throwing Muses were coming up, but Milano
sketches a half century of the city's musical evolution with academic
curiosity as well as a fan's enthusiasm.
The book is divided into thematically grouped periods such as "The
Tea Party and the Bosstown Sound (1967-1970)," "Dawn of the
Superstars (1970-1976)," and "The Underground Goes Above Ground
(1990-1999)." And while anyone with passing knowledge of pop music
knows that there's no such thing as a "Boston sound," Milano notes a
couple of themes that seem to link the eras.
"I think there's a certain intellectualism," he says. "In the '60s, it was
this high-level depression, with bands like Ultimate Spinach and Dry
Ice, and then you got this scholarly reverence for the blues, which gave
you J. Geils and to some extent Aerosmith. Even a lot of the punk
bands who were anti-intellectual, like Lyres and Unnatural Axe, had
this smart, wise-ass humor."
Interestingly, in tandem with those cerebral tendencies, Boston also
suffers from an unmistakable underdog complex. Neither a music hub
like LA, New York, or Nashville nor a regional hot spot along the lines
of Seattle or Athens, Ga., Boston and its rock bands have been
defined - and in some cases artistically fueled - by a sense of
marginalization, Milano says.
"Mission of Burma went through its creative life with the sense that
people hated them, and that became part of their purpose. It was
especially notable in the '90s, when all the moody pop bands were
being courted, but none of them made it big. Buffalo Tom almost did.
Juliana Hatfield almost did. I think there was this idea that, 'as good as
I am, I don't know if anyone is really going to pay attention.'"
As to who's going to pay attention to this book beyond the usual
hometown suspects, Milano points to the reams of students and other
transients who've spent a few musically formative years here and will
(the author and publisher hope) be eager to relive their glory days.
According to Oedipus, who was program director at WBCN from 1981-
2004, the fact that we're pondering the book's wider appeal feeds
straight into the city's dark-horse identity.
"Brett's book is something this city has needed," Oedipus says.
"When you read it, you realize Boston is a city of eccentrics, in a
positive way, with the Peter Wolfs and Amanda Palmers, and a lot of
them have touched people's lives. As a whole scene, maybe it didn’t
have the national impact of some other towns, but take Mission of
Burma or the Pixies. Look how many people have said those bands
are an influence. Sometimes we don’t get the recognition we deserve."
There are a few genuine surprises in the book: A young Chevy Chase
played drums, by all accounts not terribly well, in a psychedelic group
called Chameleon Church, and Milano dug up a priceless band photo
that features the future comedy star in a pageboy haircut and Nehru
jacket.
And while he sets his lively descriptions of both the big stars and the
unsung bar bands in a broader cultural context, Milano sticks to a
celebratory stance - painting a vivid portrait but by and large avoiding
commentary or judgment about how the rock community has changed
over time. That's not to say he doesn’t have a strong point of view.
"I don't want to fall into the trap of saying it's not as good now," Milano
says. "But I think the fact that musicians have a harder time making a
living has had a real bad effect on the music scene. Generally, music
is less a part of the prevailing culture than it was. There are fewer
places to play. There’s less radio airplay. In the '80s commercial radio
was a) into music, and b) into local music. O-Positive and Human
Sexual Response were being played on the same radio shows as the
Police."
Brett Rosenberg, who played in the Rudds and the Figgs as well as in
his own solo project, was a fixture on the Boston club circuit until
earlier this year, when the 28-year-old guitarist moved to Nashville.
"There are a lot of opportunities in Boston, but they all tend to lead
back to Boston," he says. "It's a great place to cut your teeth."
It's still a great place, Milano contends, to be a fan. He ends "The
Sound of Our Town" by chronicling a week in the life of Boston during
which he sees roots singer-songwriter Dennis Brennan, local hero
Peter Wolf, art-rock innovators Fluttr Effect, the punk band Darkbuster,
and garage-rock darlings the Charms.
"As depressing as things may look right now, that's what I saw during
a random period of a few days during a dead time of the year," Milano
says. "It's pretty world-class stuff."
"The Sound of Our Town" book release party with Willie Alexander,
Asa Brebner, Dennis Brennan, the Charms, Andrea Gillis, and several
others is at the Middle East Downstairs tomorrow night at 8. Tickets
are $12 at the venue box office, ticketmaster.com, or 617-931-2000.
Joan Anderman can be reached at anderman@globe.com. For more
on music, visit boston.com/ae/#61473;music/blog. 
© Copyright 2007 Globe Newspaper Company.
Boston.com - Hub’s rock influence one for the books. |
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