May 4, 2011
Bit Parts in My Life
Hoboken, the humble and fantastically corrupt city in which I live is trumpeted as the birthplace of Frank Sinatra and baseball. The first birth is indisputable, the second is contentiously debated. There’s little doubt that The Cake Boss is filmed here, as evidenced by the hordes of salivating families who stand in line outside of Carlos Bakery for hours on end, just to get their pictures taken with a cannoli. For the most cynical of hipsters, Hoboken represents the type of gentrification they despise: in other words, the type of gentrification that doesn’t incorporate whimsical facial hair, fixed-gear bikes and artisan pickles. So it really gets their goats when they have to schlepp across the Hudson and mingle with us rubes, because Hoboken also happens to be home to Maxwell’s, one of the most intimate and celebrated music venues in the New York City metropolitan era.
The story of Maxwell’s, named after the old Maxwell House coffee factory that once dotted our shores, is well known to fans of the rock and roll music. In the 80s, an impressive slate of indie bands and up-and-comers graced its tiny stage–Nirvana, REM, The Replacements, Sonic Youth, Husker Du, etc. Local pioneers the Feelies and Yo La Tengo made their names here. Bruce Springsteen filmed his Glory Days video at the bar. Rock star investors saved it when it ran into troubles in 90s. And so on.
These days, the hot tickets are the kids on the cusp of breaking big. For instance, Titus Andronicus, everyone’s favorite anthemic Civil War appropriating rockers, played a few nights ago. There’s something to be said for seeing a band with everything to prove playing a tiny room that holds a couple hundred folks at best. I tend to miss these shows because my ear isn’t to the wall anymore. However, I do pop into Maxwell’s for some of the nostalgia acts that swing through regularly. Last week I caught a Lemonheads show, as I’m wont to do.
Most people know the Lemonheads from their early 90s cover of Mrs. Robinson (which they’ve basically disowned) and their alt-rock hit Into Your Arms. The bouncy, neo-hippieish videos for both begot unfair comparisons to bands like the Gin Blossoms and lead singer Evan Dando’s good looks made most think the band was more marketing than substance, an accusation echoed by the kids from Boston who preferred the Lemonheads scuzzy (and, frankly, undistinguished) punk adolescence and hated the addition of Blake Baby Juliana Hatfield. It’s a shame really, because Dando, essentially the only real member of the Lemonheads since the early 90s, is a warm-voiced singer and a born songwriter who crafts hooks and melodies better than 99.99% of his contemporaries.
And he’s also a bit of a prick. I’ve seen him walk out on shows halfway through a set. His stage presence fluctuates between annoyed, detached and bemused. Drugs are partly to blame. He’s a well documented enthusiast. But it’s also part of the mythology he’s built around himself. Underrated and largely forgotten, he exudes a couldn’t-care-less attitude that he’s honed for a decade and a half. The live shows sometimes suffer because of this–the one last week was merely average. But it also serves to add an unexpected punch to the moments when he lets emotion slip through (e.g. on a bittersweet masterpiece like My Drug Buddy).
I implore all you folks under 25 to pick up a copy of 1992′s It’s a Shame About Ray. Sure, it borrows from tons of power pop and jangle pop and folk pop that preceded it, but it’s a concise and near perfect distillation of all that pop goodness, something even the Pitchfork curmudgeons conceded after 15 years. It holds up. And older folks, who remember the Lemonheads heyday but abandoned them with their Doc Martens, should give a listen to their 2006 self titled album. It’s an overlooked rocker that out-classes the recent output by most of Dando’s 40-something peers (save, perhaps, Dinosaur Jr.) who are struggling to invigorate their career while staying true to their strengths and sound. Yes, others people like me have made this argument, but not enough have.
It all brings me back to Hoboken. I’d love to apply the Lemonheads metaphor to Hoboken and its last 30 years: scuzzy beginnings, a 1990s onslaught of prettification, a vocal backlash, a cult following. But that’s reaching a bit. A lot, actually. The main reason I wrote this post was to introduce you all to somewhere I live and something I like, because as much as I fill this blog and my books with silliness and strangeness, I want you to come away with a bit of knowledge about what I’m putting into my brain. Maybe it will add some insight into what’s coming out of it. Or, at least, you might find some links to enjoy.
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