We may have a contender for the second Bobblehead in Totale's collection.
Let me first share a glance at my J. Mascis bobblehead that's currently guarding over my small collection of muscle car Matchbox cars (still in their packaging, because I'm an idiot) and a larger scale version of The Dukes Of Hazard General Lee car, which was going for around $75 at last glance on Ebay. J.'s not much of a security guard, which makes Iggy a prime candidate for the job.
Drastic Plastic
Collectibles and Impact Merchandising Present: Iggy Pop, the second of their
limited edition bobbleheads.
Since
his raucous proto-punk, peanut butter smearing days with The Stooges, few
"street walking cheetahs" have mastered the maniacal with as much grit, gusto
and flair as Iggy Pop. This rare figure is hand-numbered and limited to 1000
pieces. It stands 7-inches high and is made of durable polyresin. Get yours
today as they are sure to go fast..
Before I get to the live review of the sets that I saw
during 2012’s 80/35 Festival, I have to mention the events preceding it.
For those of you not familiar with this obscure music
festival held in Des Moines,
Iowa every summer around
Independence Day, let me share the particular. It’s in the downtown section and
they close off a few blocks in the area, have vendors and booths line the
streets, and there are two separate stage areas playing music of the
alternative variety.
I’ve been accused of being a buzz kill when visiting this
even in year’s past, but I’m a moody fucker and I follow the Osmond’s mantra of
one bad apple don’t spoil the whole bunch.
I’m also a cheap bastard, so when I learned of this year’s
line-up, I didn’t see a lot of bands that made me want to fork over the “early
bird special” price that they offered. At that time, there were some bands that
I wasn’t interested in and one-Death Cab For Cutie-that I’ve seen twice before
and my affection towards them has kind of run its course anyway.
Then some of the open slots started to fill up and I noticed
well after the discounted ticket period that the opening night of the two-day
festival had two bands that I needed to see: Dinosaur Jr. and Fucked Up.
While I’ve seen Dino previously in the most intimate of
settings, I’d gladly pay to see them again. And I get the impression that
Fucked Up aren’t going to be around for much longer, as each of the band
members get older and start examining other life options, most of which don’t
entail performing in a band with an incredibly obscene band name.
Moreover, if you appreciate David Comes To Life as much as I do, you kind of want a band like
Fucked Up to reach as many people as possible. You get a little bummed when
their name alone prevents a wider audience from learning about them, because
the truth is, we need more bands like Fucked Up, challenging people in
the same manner that punk rock challenged me when I was a youngster.
Plus, I heard that they were just an awesomely great live
act.
The great news was that Fucked Up would open this year’s
80/35 Festival, and Dinosaur Jr. would immediately follow them. This meant that
I didn’t need a weekend pass at all, just the one-day pass would be fine, and
there was a good possibility that I could be in the comforts of my parent’s
house before the nightly news came on.
So I waited, patiently scanning Craigslist for one-day pass
deals that only seemed to get better as the date approached.
On the night before the Friday opening, an ad appeared in
the local section of the website for exactly what I was looking for: a one-day
pass for $20. To see two bands for $20 was a great deal, I thought, so I made
contact with the seller.
A response came back from a chick named Astrid, which made
me think of Hamburg
era Beatles, which made me feel pretty good about the entire transaction. On
the morning of the festival, I prepped for the two-hour travel time to my
parent’s place with a swing by the bank and a quick torque of the wheels that I
had rotated a hundred miles previously.
My phone buzzed that I’d received a new email, and I noticed
that it was from Astrid who explained that she wouldn’t be able to meet me to
purchase the ticket. She graciously just gave me the link to her ticket, which
contained her name on the actual ticket image and stated on the “instructions”
section that I needed to present a photo id or the credit card used to purchase
the thing just to gain access.
This is the part where I tell you that the people actually
taking the tickets for the 80/35 Festival don’t give a shit if your name is
Astrid, Todd, or Charles Nelson Reilly. The volunteer staff seemed completely
chill, and upon entry, my ticket was quickly scanned and the obligatory access
bracelet was attached to my right wrist.
Maybe it was the heat that caused everyone to create a drama
free environment in what was already a very oppressive one, temperature wise.
You see, the Midwest had been enduring a weeklong
heat wave during the festival, most assuredly concerning the promoters that
everyone would just stay home for fear of that pesky heat stroke.
A sponsor handed out empty water bottles and the city opened
up a few hydrants with makeshift water refill stations, making sure that if
anyone was going to collapse from heat exhaustion, it wouldn’t be from their
neglect.
Photo by Tony Galloro courtesy of amesprogressive.org
Walking up the closed off street to get to the main stage
area, I could hear the sounds of guitars and screams of “Dying on the inside!
Dying on the inside!” bouncing off the brick buildings of downtown Des Moines.
I found a spot directly in front of the stage (I’d put the
crowd at conservative number of 150-200 deep) and gazed upon the image of a
shirtless Damian Abraham screaming at the surrounding buildings, housing a
bunch of financial institutions like Wells Fargo and other wealth management
corporations. I smiled at the thought of someone stuck at work a little late on
that Friday afternoon, distracted by the punk rock band from Canada playing
just outside their window.
It wasn’t long before Damian found his way off stage and
into the crowd, giving a sweaty hug to anyone who poured water on him or rubbed
ice on his hairy back. He seemed like a big, gentle bear, appreciative of the
few who had braved the heat to see them. His stage banter included an update on
his family, an appreciation of cheese curds (thereby becoming totally relatable
to his Iowan fan base) and a quick story of a Canadian punk band that
influenced him.
Quick side note: a friend of mine in college had a
collection of punk and hardcore songs as performed by Canadian punk bands. I
think it was designed as some introduction to Canadian punk, but one of the
songs-I remember the name of the tune was “Equal Time”-featured a slam on the United States
at the end of it. The singer declared “You fucking Americans/Can’t even read”
at the end of the song, to which my friend and I felt was a pretty chickenshit
way of trying to disrespect our country. We were like: “Dude, you’re from
fucking Canada!”
trying to point out the folly of his complaints. Just for reference, have you
ever noticed how many Canadians get busted in bait cars? At least in America,
we have enough smarts to take our keys with us and lock the doors.
The band looked miserable, particularly Sandy Miranda who
appeared on the verge of passing out during a few moments.
Abraham was the biggest sweat lodge of them all, climbing on
top of camera towers and, eventually crawling on the ground back to the stage
as the band was reaching the end of their set.
With every venture off stage, the younger bums would start
to thrash. Before long, a swirling pit arose, which prompted the very metro
looking twenty-something to take notice. He locked in on Abraham, in what I
couldn’t decipher, was friend or foe. You see, I’ve been to shows in the past
where a few head knockers show up, with their only intent seeming to be to hurt
a musician or artist who is perceived to be of the more “physical” type.
Damian Abraham does not strike me as one of those artists.
The look of joy he had just watching the crowd work, basking in the moment
while staying close to the edge of any resemblance of thrash pit shenanigans.
He’d smile as the dervish gained speed, and then he’d focus his attention on
what I’d call the more literal fan base. The crowd members that knew every word
to every song, relishing the chance to scream a verse into Abraham’s
microphone, possibly even a cheek-to-cheek duet.
It was all there. And then it was over.
I swear the set was done in a prompt forty-five minutes. And
while I’m usually a fan of brevity and encores only when they’re deserved
(there would be no encore from Fucked Up tonight), I could have easily enjoyed
an extra hour of this band. Yes, I’d take the heat if that was the only
requirement, but I must confess that there is no human on Earth that could have
rocked as hard as Fucked Up did in this solar panel conditions for anything
much longer than what they gave Friday night.
See this band before you die or before they collapse under
the rigors of middle age responsibility.
How hot was it? I came well hydrated to the show and knew
instinctively after the Fucked Up set that I would require more aqua. I began
looking for those free water bottles that I kept seeing everyone use, so that I
too could take advantage of the blessed water courtesy of the Des Moines Water
Department, but after a few blocks I gave up. Just looking at the dead eyes of
everyone walking past the lefty booths and liberal causes was exhausting. The
representatives of these progressive and artsy spots barely wanted you to check
their displays out for fear of the additional body heat, and for me the feeling
was completely mutual.
One larger, heavily tattooed woman took advantage of the
increased traffic in front of her tent that she encouraged people to stop by,
sweetening the deal with an offer of “free hugs.” The exact type of hug was
bartered out to a crew of four young dudes, one of whom declined immediately,
stating the obvious “It’s too hot for a hug.”
Finally, my body realized that all of this walking was not
going a bit of good in keeping cool, so I broke down and spent the $3 bucks one
food vendor was asking for Aquafinas. By the time I got back to the stage,
securing a front row spot for Dinosaur Jr’s set, my water was already half
consumed. It forced me to refill my bottle and lose my sweet spot in the
process as the crowd had grown noticeably larger for J., Lou and Murph.
Photo by Sami Villwock courtesy amesprogressive.org
Poor Lou Barlow came on stage to battle a slowly setting sun
with an ill-advised pair of black slacks and a black polo with thin red and
white stripes. With the sun came the sweat, and by the soft section of set
opener “Thumb,” Lou’s sweat began taking his glasses down his nose like a
waterslide, prompting Barlow to finally just put them on top of his bass amp
for future need.
Throughout the show, Barlow was the band’s primary
banter-maker, yelling at the sun for being too bright, challenging the
light-maker to a dual and encouraging it to go away. It caused him to refer to Des Moines as one of the
low points of his tour, not because of the city, but because of how shitty his
performance was because of the heat.
Personally, I didn’t notice that poor of a showing from him,
but it was clear that the heat would definitely contribute to the misery of yet
another bassist this evening.
Murph still does that annoying fill thing in between songs,
hammering out a brief beat, groove, or fill while Barlow drinks fluids and
Mascis tunes his guitar. He provided a solid beat throughout the set, but give
us some time to recuperate from the sonic assault of each song instead of
banging for the sake of making noise.
Because J. was certainly providing ample amounts of noise
with his trio of Marshall
stacks and a rack the size of a twin bed housing all of the dude’s fucking
guitar pedals. He started out a bit flat, but his solos began to get crazier as
the set progressed.
By the end of the set, the band brought out “Freak Scene”
which got a few ladies dancing. Whenever Mascis went to the “jugga jugga”
bridge part, he’d hit a pedal that made his guitar sound like a jet airplane.
I took an earplug out just to get a taste and immediately
felt sympathy for all the morons that came down without them. The crowd would
get worked up enough to start a bit a of jostling, before eventually getting
beat down by the added heat. The “troublemakers” were so polite that I saw a
crowd surfer reaching the end of the line near stage right, lightly smacking
the heads of two unsuspecting girls as he made his way to the ground.
The young man, being the polite young Iowan that he was,
apologized to the girls without saying a word or taking off his sunglasses,
offering a parting handshake before heading back into the pushers and the
shovers to locate his original crew.
I saw a couple in their early forties taking in the vibe
with their young teenage son and daughter, gently enjoying each other’s company
before the show. They looked very suburban, a picture of Mom and Dad bringing
their kids down to an old school alternative rock show to relive a bit of the
history when Dad had an airshift down at the campus radio station.
By the time of Dinosaur Jr’s set, that same Dad was
witnessed spending more time eyeballing the pit that had started immediately
next to his family, causing him to become the protector while Mascis bent notes
and damaged our hearing. It was a lovely bit of chaos and Mascis seemed to be
enjoying himself, as evidenced by a few extended solos.
And the dude seemed to barely break a sweat, and I was right
up in front to witness this as the god’s honest truth. Mascis hardly went away
from the back and forth rocking, eyes locked on the fretboard (when you could
see his eyes, that is) while smacking us in the face with an occasional scream
of his wah-wah. It was out of this world at times, and with the abrupt close of
“Just Like Heaven,” they were off stage after a tidy 80 minute set.
Simply wonderful.
Here’s a little clip of the musky scene back stage and
thanks to the folks at amesprogressive.org for catching some nice shots while my camera phone managed to catch nothing but smudges thanks to a nice layer of sunscreen covering the lenses.
Not as good as the infamous "Maureen" interview, but still plenty revealing.
Like this bit from the aforementioned Maureen bit.
Maureen: I know how you like hats.
J: Yup...and hardcore.
In this interview, J. talks about those old hardcore days and how Dinosaur (who weren't Jr. at that time) would try to be a part of those shows, only to be slagged by the crowd.
Even the sound dude gave an opinion when he heaved a bottle towards J's head.
Here's Thrasher's Jake Phelps sitting down with his old Mass Mate.
J. looks totally awesome with his white hair and full-on beard, and when you throw a full on rendition of Bug to boot, this is bound to be a safe purchase.
Dinosaur Jr. released at least two essential albums-Bug being one of them-and a few others that I still find to be required listening. And to think all of that power comes from an unassuming fellow who speaks like a frail, old man.
And I didn’t forget about the J. Mascis Throbblehead either:
"In addition to the In the Hands of the Fans project J Mascis has joined the ranks of the Aggronautix Throbblehead elite.
This figure is limited to 1000 numbered units, stands at 7 inches tall, and is made of a lightweight polyresin.
J is accurately sculpted right down to the big ole glasses, rockin' riff grip, and signature silver mane that features REAL DOLL HAIR -- a first for Aggronautix! Pick up this highly influential (and potentially face melting) figure today!"
How about that! Made with real doll hair!
It’s the perfect Valentine’s Day give for the one you love.
The “why” here for many is “Why not another Dinosaur Jr.” record?”, but J. might even have answered that question in the title track of his first solo record in some time, Several Shades Of Why. It sounded like “Several shades of why I can’t go back as faster” to me when I first heard it, and I took that to mean that Mascis isn’t content with being remembered for a pair of slacker guitar masterpieces.
And those who only have those two albums (You’re Living All Over Me and Bug) are certainly missing out on some swell Mascis/Dino Jr. albums post-SST, a few nifty solo nuggets, and an “Oh, wow!” moment with his contribution to the soundtrack of Gas Food Lodging.
I actually have never seen that movie with Ione Skye, but I remember how taken I was with Mascis’ score. It provided a full realization of J.’s talents even when he wasn’t destroying the bajeezus out of a Marshall stack with overloaded tones.
I’m sure that those who aren’t familiar with that or any other of Mascis’ more subdued adventures will be just as surprised with Several Shades Of Why, a primarily acoustic album that builds a nice pillow for him to lay down his recognizably lethargic delivery.
It’s a surprisingly open effort, free of the ambiguous lyrics of records past. The subject matter here seems real and sober. As early as the first track, Mascis pointedly realizes with his affection that “pain is what we do/I got enough to make some more for you.” It’s a different, almost cruel observation, cutting a little deeper than the stoned ambivalence of his youth.
Throughout Several Shades Of Why, J. sounds tired from the weight of middle age, where weird neurotic shit that you had firmly stowed away in your inner synapses suddenly start popping up for everyone to notice.
Without that feedback to hide behind, Mascis distracts you with strings, piano, and even a flute at one point. It doesn’t sound out of place, and as soon as you’re used to those kinds of tones from a J. Mascis record, you once again begin to focus on how vulnerable he sounds.
Maybe it’s the intimate moments found throughout the record that make Shades sound as personal as they do. It certainly elevates Mascis’ slight croak into a new perspective, as does his intentional decision of leaving his guitar prowess into a limited role. Oh, the guitar work is there, it’s just not as amplified and not as showy-which pretty much means that Several Shades of Why won’t impress the faint of heart much.
But for anyone that’s been through the vicissitudes of his catalog, Several Shades of Why ranks as one of J.’s better efforts and one of his most memorable.
Thanks to Maarten-our man in Amsterdam-for pointing out this wonderfully bizarre interview with J. Mascis. The person who interviewed him was only labeled as "Maureen" and her lack of a proper introduction got me wondering: "Who the fuck is this lady?"
Watch the video and you'll see why I was curious. She clearly knows something about J. while not knowing much about his back catalog, one would surmise.
But how does she know him?
Where did they meet?
Did they get really high before this was shot?
"Pure chemistry." was how Marteen described it, and I can only agree.
Maureen turns out to be the Mother of Sub Pop Records' Megan Jasper, who went to school with J.
Megan recalled "The first time he came to our house, he got in a screaming match with my mom. The visit ended with J standing at the front door yelling, 'YOU'RE FUCKED!' to my mom and my mom then yelling to my dad, 'JIMMY!!! DID YOU HEAR THAT? HE SAID THAT WE'RE FUCKED!'"
Obviously, it took several years in the lab before Maureen and J. developed the chemistry that Maarten is speaking of.
I’m still in somewhat of a Fender guitar afterglow from last week’s Dinosaur Jr. show and that’s translated into a full-fledge barrage of Dino Jr. tunage barking from my car stereo and other music transmitters. Often, my wife is the recipient of my endless blabber, to which she politely responds with an “Uh huh” or “Oh, I see.” The conversation usually starts with me playing a Dinosaur Jr. song, and then going “They played this one” or “They opened the show with this” and then it’s immediately followed with one of the aforementioned standard responses. So I’ve come up with a list of a few songs that I was hoping would make their setlist but didn’t make the cut. “The Lung” The side one closer from You’re Living All Over Me and one of my favorite Dino Jr. tunes ever. The song’s sole lyric (“No way to collapse the lung/That breathes the doubt in everyone”) verges on brilliance in its simplicity. “Tarpit” Another favorite from Living. For the longest time, I always thought this song was about a chick leaving her man because he took too long in scoring dope. I know it has nothing to do with that now, but J. still sounds like he’s totally junked out while his guitar sounds totally rad. “Mountain Man” A favorite from the debut. I guess they played this slice o’ metal on a few dates, but Iowa City just wasn’t one of the lucky ones. “Severed Lips” Another gem from the debut. Mascis sounds heartbroken during the “I ain’t gonna fester no more” line and, if memory serves, Blake Babies did a pretty sweet version of this on one of their releases. “No Bones” Jesus, I love the distortion-overkill at the end of this Bug classic, and would have loved to hear this amp-killer live. “Keep The Glove” I’m not sure what this one is on, but I vaguely remember it was part of the Mascis/Barlow/Murph time period. Good tune. “Thumb” After the original line-up releases, but they did “The Wagon,” another great tune from Green Mind, so sue me for dreaming. More than anything else, I wish I wouldn’t have left all my 7” singles in the attic of my parent’s house because, in that collection is an original Dinosaur (before they added the “Jr.” for legal reasons) single of “Repulsion.” I would have loved to have all the members sign if I’d planned ahead a little bit better than I did. Oh well…
When J. Mascis released More Light (with The Fog) back in 2000, I went to one of my favorite local record stores to pick it up. The owner of the store (who started it with, literally, a crate of records back in 1982) noticed me as a regular and offered to assist me in his quest to capture as much cash out of my wallet as he could. When I asked him if he had the new J. Mascis record, he sheepishly admitted that he didn’t, sadly hinting at my out-of-touchness by saying “We don’t have that much demand for Dinosaur Jr. anymore.” So not only did I feel downright old, it troubled me that the youth of America seemed to have abandoned one of the forefathers of ear-damaging guitar rock. Sure enough: the store’s used bin was littered with the various titles of Dinosaur Jr.’s spotty 90’s output, the same ones that I can admit to owning while also admitting that I understood how J. slowly fell from his Marshall stack throne. Sure, there were some grand moments during Dino’s Sire years, but nothing seemed to capture his guitar workout phase better than the pair of SST releases, You’re Living All Over Me and Bug. I’m fairly certain that the reason for this is because the band’s other creative force, Lou Barlow, wasn’t present when the band jumped from SST to the majors, deciding to lend his talents towards his own Sebadoh and Folk Implosion projects. Admittedly, Barlow typically only contributed a lone title to each one of those early Dino efforts, but it seemed that (in retrospect) J. at least had someone in rehearsals to impress upon when weeding out an album’s song list. I won’t get into the dynamics of J. and Lou’s relationship here, but I will admit that it took me by surprise when I learned the two were burying the hatchet a few years ago when they decided to reunite to support the re-release of the first three albums in the Dino Jr. catalog. “At least they’re playing together again.” I thought, with no hopes that they might actually get along enough to make new music. Beyond, the first record of the original Dinosaur Jr. line-up in nineteen years, not only shows them making new music, it shows them making great new music. Within seconds, you can hear the band picking up exactly at the same point where Bug left off. It is, dear friends, a heavenly racket. Mascis mewls with a newfound purpose, and while his slacker stance may remain in tact, his pen has got some new ink. Even the song titles reflect some sort of rejuvenation: “I Got Lost,” “Almost Ready,” “Pick Me Up,” “Been There All The Time,” it’s as if Mascis is lyrically acknowledging that he’s been treading water for well over a decade, only to find an inspiration in a long lost bassist. Barlow seems to be feeling a little sentimental too. Consider his last vocal performance with the band (“Don’t” from Bug) where he screamed “Why don’t you like me!” over and over, an almost unhidden reflection of the problems that he and Mascis were having with each other at the time. He finally acquiesces his relationship with J. on Beyond during the song “Lightning Bulb” (“You know what they would say…Can’t we all get along?”) who, in turn, allows him to contribute two songs on the new album. The most recognizable element of Dinosaur Jr. has always been Mascis’ Jazzmaster torture, which rightfully remains as the absolute selling point throughout Beyond. His solos are loaded with emotion and technical precision (the solo on “We’re Not Alone” nearly brought me to tears) and almost every other one could promote a collective “Fuckin’ A” among fans of guitar shredding. To simply call Beyond an excellent reunion album doesn’t do it enough justice: Beyond is…in fact “beyond” that kind of description. Not only does it rank alongside the band’s SST necessities (hell, even the album art looks straight out of that label’s heyday portfolio) it ranks as, quite possibly, the year’s best rock record. And I’m willing to bet that it’s good enough for that old record store to stock it due to some rejuvenated demand for Dinosaur Jr.
2007 seems to be the year of reuniting, since it feels so good, and with it comes the obligatory discussion concerning the merits of said reformation.
The awful truth about reunions is that they're often the result of greed and ego: a quick lift in the player's bank accounts and self-worth. There are examples of bands coming together again for the sake of unfinished business (Celtic Frost, Dinosaur Jr., and a few others come to mind) but Father-time typically doesn't prove to be on the side of aging rockers.
The Stooges-Look, as much as I'm excited about this, I'm also a realist. Thirty-three fucking years have past since Raw Power and none of the surviving members are spring chickens. Hell, they're not even Popeye's Fried Chicken. But this is The Stooges we're talking about; a band so mired in destruction that we're blessed that Iggy and the Ashtons are even alive. And at the end of the day, don't we owe it to them to pay tribute for being able to wake up in the morning? The Live In Detroit dvd is riddled with equal parts tear-inducing nostalgia and ear-hurting embarassment. And "My Idea Of Fun" from their upcoming The Weirdness is a decent Iggy track but nowhere near the brilliance of The Stooges past glories. We'll see if the rest of the album is better, but time and reality are certainly against them.
The Police-This will be the moneymaker of the year….And with ticket prices ranging from $60-$225 (“packages” are even higher) this tour has got me considering a financial boycott. I’m not sure of the financial status of Stewart or Andy, but I know Sting isn’t hurting for cash, even though his last few solo efforts have stiffed. Regardless, explain to me why I’m required to get fucked up the ass so that Sting doesn’t slip into obscurity? The Police have never really qualified as a “punk” band, but it would have been very punk if they’d leveraged their reunion tour with reasonable financial restraint. I’m secretly hoping this tour absolutely fails and the blame is placed solely on the outrageous ticket prices. Serves ‘em right. I’m also secretly hoping that a pair of tickets magically appear on my doorstep because (losing credibility here perhaps) I’d really like to see this one.
Smashing Pumpkins-Note to Billy Corgan: nobody gives a shit. If the Pumpkins were your “dreams” then why did you form Zwan? I doubt that anyone would have noticed James or D’Arcy missing from the Pumpkins line-up if you chose to carry on the moniker. In Totale’s world, you released two great albums (Gish and Siamese Dream) before succumbing to a pattern of elitism and pretentiousness. Keep your ego in check, Corgan: you may sell out a few theatres but don’t expect a lot of hero worship to upgrade your reunion to the arenas.
Rage Against The Machine-Not a fan, so no real excitement here. I will say that we really could’ve used a ton more lefty-leaning rock outfits during the Bush II Evil Empire (get it?) instead of fucking Audioslave.
Genesis-My dick might get a little hard if Gabriel were in the line-up, but no, it’s Phil Fucking Collins Genesis, to which I’m reminded of some truly horrible shit from the 80’s and into the 90’s. To be honest, by 1988 I couldn’t tell what was Phil Collins solo and a Genesis track, so I’m not the dude to ask if these fuckers could fill a state fair stadium. The last Genesis album I bought was Duke and I remember liking Abacab and a few tracks from their ’83 eponymous album. None of those albums mean that I would be caught dead at a Genesis concert.
Dinosaur Jr.-I’d totally see this one. When I missed them in the original line-up tours, I heard that they were loud as fuck and very inconsistent. I’d like to believe that getting older would help out in the latter department, but would hate to see a reduction in the volume. After all, that’s part of the thing that made You’re Living All Over Me and Bug so enjoyable: Mascis’ amplifier meltings were a thing of beauty. From reviews I’ve read about the reunion so far (which includes an album), they haven’t lost much.
Sebadoh-Really? I didn’t even know they broke up. I’m willing to bet that other people didn’t know this either.
Did I get ‘em all?
Now for the list of dream reunions. These are the bands that I would definitely consider seeing if they ever decided to reunite.
Spacemen 3-I’m sure that Jason Pierce is the only thing that’s holding this one up. And I’m sure that he’s making enough from Spiritualized to not even consider re-teaming with Sonic Boom again. But if he did, and even if they only played one chord together for 45 minutes, I’d want to be at the foot of the stage paying homage to these dudes. Check it:
The Smiths-Rumor has it that they were offered millions for a one-off that was systematically rejected. Hell, I’d even salivate if Morrissey/Marr teamed up under a different moniker. A full-fledged reunion seems unlikely since bassist Andy Rourke really hosed them in court for back royalties.
Husker Du-Saw ‘em in ’87 when they were on the downward spiral, and the show was so intense that I’d gladly see ‘em again. From what I understand, Grant Hart and Bob Mould dislike each other so much that the idea of a reunion would never get off the ground. I also don’t think the band has enough notable legacy to pay them what they’re deserved. And what they deserve is a hundred times more than what fucking Genesis will make from their reunion shenanigans.
The Stone Roses-Betcha these guys could absolutely kill in their heyday. Like that quote from the movie "Shaun Of The Dead" says: Second Coming wasn’t that bad of an album. I think they only substantially toured the states in support of that album (which I missed) and time has made me miss them immensely. I guess I’m not the only one since there are two Stone Roses tribute bands currently cashing in around England: The Complete Stone Roses and The Clone Roses.
Pink Floyd-It’s cheesy, I know, but I’d totally be psyched for a reunited Waters/Gilmour thing. I saw the Floyd Water-less and it was painfully apparent that he was gone. Live 8 fueled the fire that they were on better terms, but I don’t see this happening. First of all, Waters is completely book for a solo tour throughout this summer and none of the members really need the cash. Gilmour has hinted that working with Waters is like pulling teeth and that Gilmour already has more money than a hundred dentists. Which is funny, especially if you’ve ever seen pictures of Rodger Waters’ teeth circa ’73.
Feel free to comment on what bands you’d like to see reunite.
