SCREECHING WEASEL - A CODE - INTO EVEN IN BLACKOUTS

I must let you know, before reading, that this is a purging of sorts.  It must be said that the shock I experienced of my band mates being in a band together without me, caused a barrier that did not allow me to listen to The Riverdales, and once again to The Band Formally Know As Screeching Weasel, without hesitation and dread.  There is no giving either a fair listen.  And so I only have criticism and do not speak of the joy that many fans get from listening to the Ramones inspired sound of the Riverdales, or to the lyrics of The Band Formally Know At Screeching Weasel of which, no doubt, accurately expresses what Mr. Weasel is experiencing.  Other than that, about what follows, it seems all is in order.

IMPUDENCETo think one entity is responsible for creating what is to be is to live in Folly.  Yet this proliferation of source will never excuse us from the consequences of the choices we make.
Many years ago, in the beginning days of AOL instant messages a past girlfriend and I made internet friends with a husband and wife living in London.  We had intended to visit them when we had the time and money for a trip to England.  We never did get to meet these friends.  My connection to them ended with my relationship.  Before the relationship’s end one evening we called these Londoners up on our landline, which at the time was the only form of long distance communication within a home.  We chatted for a couple hours via conference call.  In the conversation we eventually got around to talking about music.  It was brought up that I was in a punk band called Screeching Weasel.  The husband had never heard the name but he sounded interested and impressed nonetheless.   He and his wife were about 20 years older than we were.  He asked me if I was familiar with the band Roxy Music.  One may think this is a strange jump in musical lineage.  Perhaps he should have started out by asking if I knew another more relevant UK band from around the same time period like the Sex Pistols, The Clash or The Buzzcocks.  Yet this allusion made made perfect sense to me.  Roxy Music was a strong influence on many of the styles of underground and mainstream rock music to come.  Yet more importantly to me they were a band that was never dismayed by their ability to freak the shit out of concertgoers.  That was punk rock before punk rock.  They had a unique sound that helped push forward the idea that to be a revolutionary band didn’t mean you had to be violent or overtly simplistic.  There is more to being rebellious than pretending you don’t know how to play your instrument or purposely acting contrary.  (I must admit I am often guilty of the contrary thing.) In early interviews with Screeching Weasel there was always a point where the interviewer would ask what bands influenced us.  Of course the Ramones, Circles Jerks, Angry Samoans and The Stooges would start the conversation.  By the time it came to me, I felt it my duty to be honest in saying that my influences veered quite dramatically from the aforementioned, at least in comparison to what was expected of me to say.  The splitting of genres was only a necessity of; This is not That, of; Zeros and Ones.  Fuck unity.  We need opposing forces to create anything unique.  I believe this to be the case, but sadly this inherent infinitude of endless divisions inspires needless delusions of superiority. To me music was all part of some wonderful diversified sameness.  All the bands and solo musicians I listened to were conjoined in my mind by the audacity to be whatever the fuck they wanted to be.  There wasn’t much of a difference between bands like Adrenalin OD, the Descendents, The Dead Milkmen, the Dickies and my earlier influences Jethro Tull, Traffic, and Queen.  I found it ironic that I would get strange looks when I announced these older influences.  These bands took chances in creating a sound that struck a chord with the spirit of the times, but was also holy their own, whether or not it was instantly accessible to an audience.  In varying degrees pleasing an audience is obviously important for furthering success, but nonetheless the pleasingness should be secondary to the passions to create that which brings forth the art, the music, and the meaningfulness.  Brain Eno, the synth music innovator of Roxy Music would go on to influence David Bowie, Iggy Pop, and the bands of the No Wave Movement which existed beside the Talking Heads, Blondie and The Ramones.  And when the Ramones took their MC5/New York Dolls/Ronnettes infused sound back to England to perform their legendary shows attended by Souxie Sue, Shane McGowan, Johnny Lyden, Joe Strummer, and members of The Damned, punk exploded.  And yes, I think this was all audacious and decorated in depravity of the highest order, of which Roxy Music had a hand.  There is no music created in a vacuum.
[In a vacuum there are no molecules to propagate the vibrations of sound waves.] - Wikipedia
The reason my british friend brought up Roxy Music had nothing to do with what I have just been talking about in the last few paragraphs.  He only wanted to share the story of the thrift store he used to own.  Supposedly Brian Ferry and Brian Eno (of Roxy Music) would stop by his store on their way to concerts to buy crazy mismatched outfits which they would wear on stage that evening.   Obviously this story made an impression on me.  I have never forgotten about my British friend’s weekly sales of getups to the members of Roxy Music.  It was double planted in my brain because years prior to hearing this story Ben and I would don ourselves in scandalous garments before we performed on stage.  We had a mission to break free from what we perceived as the restraints of hardcore and the absurd strict dress codes of the Chicago Skinheads.  To this day I find it hard to agree with anything that came from the skinhead movement, but I was OK with existing along side the hardcore bands which began to forsake melody to exemplify the talents of their quickly moving fingers or their didactic hammering of their political agendas.  I accepted their sounds, but the seriousness of these movements triggered the trickster to emerge from my punk newbie bowels.  And even more so in my cohort Ben Weasel.  It quickly became very important to Ben and I to look as ridiculous as we could, to stand proudly as a representative of the “naive” suburbanites invading the blue collar city, to be caricatures of the banality of convention, childish sprites, outcasts from the darkest crevices of high school, to be musical Bouffants bludgeoning the punk scene with our sub-par guitar playing skills, our wit, and even our overwhelming lack of masculinity.  I found that there was no better technique to unnerve a skinhead, to prevent him from throwing punches, than to unexpectedly kiss him on the forehead in front of an audience of outcasts and geeks.  (I could have been killed.) My most favorite pictures of Screeching Weasel are from around this period; me clad in colorful shredded clothes, slippers, and ridiculous hats, Ben in freaky glasses, pink spandex, and presenting his stage frightened penis whenever possible. This important sentiment of our band’s core began to break apart sometime after an article Ben wrote about a Punk Rock Dress Code; Chuck Taylor Converse All-Star hi-tops, and Black Leather Jackets.  http://www.angelfire.com/punk2/cockfighter/page2.html   (I must acknowledge that I am shrinking time for effect.) Wether it was written as satire, proselytizing, or purely to meet a deadline, the article slam danced betwixt criticism, absurdity, and prophecy.  Like many of the outlandish statements Ben made, even though I didn’t agree, I loved that it created impassioned discussion. Eventually ideas in this article began to drastically affect Ben’s onstage attire and attitude towards outrageous stage appearances and antics.  The nail of uniformity and banality was about to be driven into our colorful coffins. Perhaps he meant it to be the new rebellion.  Whatever the reason the unbridled wackiness of our stage performances and the low maintenance accidental costuming of many of our band photographs disintegrated after Screeching Weasel reformed for the second time.   Between hiatuses, The Riverdales were born.  Through a series of odd events I became the only prior weasel not to be in this band.  Even stranger the band is a reference to an Archie’s Comic, and so is my nom de plume.  The Riverdales were a mere step above being a Ramones cover band.  They created their own songs based on Ramones’ chord progressions and style of downstroke guitar playing.  And as a tribute band of sorts The Riverdales needed to wear the jeans and leather jackets of their forefathers.  It seemed my ex-band mates had begun to adorn themselves within the confines of the punk rock dress code.  The controversy of the article, with its purposely obtuse humorous implications, which had previously created constructive conversation around uniformity and individuality, had now been turned into a reality, an actual code to be adhered to without dissension or debate. I should not have been shocked about the placing of new rules upon Screeching Weasel when we reformed, traces of The Riverdales’ regime were never safely locked away. We flew to California to negotiate a new contract with Lookout Records.  We had started work on a forthcoming Screeching Weasel product, called Bark Like A Dog, with the classic lineup.  Larry, at the time, owner of the label, sat with his scrawny legs up on his desk in his private office as Ben began to lay out the stipulations.  
We wanted a fixed rate per unit instead of the classic Lookout percentage split.  
Ben told Larry that the band would be going with a more standard attire, Leather Jackets and Jeans.  I don’t remember thinking before speaking, I just remember saying immediately, “No we won’t.”  I hadn’t worn Blue Jeans since Junior High School except for the promo photo for the Ramones cover record.  “I’ll wear whatever the hell I want.”  The issue about our dress code never came up again, but it had done it’s damage.  Ben would soon after claim that he was only joking, but I knew he wasn’t.
We would not tour to promote the record. I did not agree with this, but if it meant we would begin putting out records again I’d deal with the consequences for awhile. (This proved to be one of the disagreements between us which would drive Ben and I apart forever. I was too meek and I often misjudged the unpredictable rules put in place by his constantly shifting anxieties.)  Even though Vapid and Panic said they agreed with their hatred of touring, I knew they didn’t mean it.  They had always been the better live performers.  They were more skilled musicians than Ben and I could ever be.  We just happened to be outwardly charismatic, irreverent, and more business minded than most creative artists, especially them.   At one point in the meeting, Ben was speaking too readily for the majority of the band.  Internal strife began to peak it’s ugly head.  Larry asked him to leave the room so the rest of the band could share their opinions without being lambasted by the wicked fast tongue of Mr. Weasel, our fear inducing leader.  Earlier in the week I couldn’t get Vapid and Panic to shut up about how miserable they were with Ben on tour.  “He turned into a fucking crazy man.” Vapid once said.  Each day was spent complaining about lack of promotion.  There was no place for the two of them to vent their frustration.  Drinking and excessive socializing was not allowed in the Riverdales’ book of conduct.  Panic would get criticized for hanging out with the audiences.  Panic was always known as an opportunist, but come on, so was everybody else, we all just hid it better.  Panic was more obvious with his looking for advancement in his need for fame and was also sadly prone to talking about how unhappy and pathetic he was.  At his best being around him was like hanging out with a quirky mischievous cartoon character.  At his worst being around him was tedious and fucking depressing.  But truth be told, out of the three of them, he was definitely the only one who enjoyed talking to the fans regularly. On this day, in the office of Larry, when deals were being struck and laundry being washed, Vapid and Panic stayed silent.  They stuck to their story about never wanting to tour ever again.  I said, “This is stupid, you don’t hate playing live, you just hate touring with Ben!”  They did not defend themselves.  Not too many years afterwards both these boys would end up on the road fairly often with their own bands.  Some time later Ben would tell me that those two had confided in him during The Riverdales European tour that touring was more pleasurable without me, (John Jughead).  I was too sarcastic while dealing with them and I acted superior.  I found this an odd thing to say about me, but I couldn’t deny that it might be true.  It makes me sad when I think about.  Whether or not this was true, I know that our tours, were made easy for them, free of all responsibility except for getting their gear on and off stage.  I will not except that things were in anyway worse than they were without me.  Our prior tours hadn’t driven them to hate each other as much as the Riverdales.  They despised each other after they got home.  For years and years to come it would perplex me every time Vapid and Weasel chose to work together again.  There was a closeness they had in terms of music and boyish antics, which was more in sync than any two people I had ever seen, but their associations together always ended up in turmoil with Vapid always getting the worst of it.   The moment the band reformed this second time Panic and Vapid were constantly on edge, I don’t know if they ever had fun in the band again.  Except for the initial rehearsals to record the songs and the trip to California I can’t think of an occasion when we were all in the same room at the same time.  Ben and I made most of the business decisions, there was no touring or playing live, and in the studio we no longer recorded live.  Each member recorded their parts on their own.  I recall having a few laughs in the studio with Vapid, but that’s about it.  By the next record both Vapid and Panic would be gone again.  Panic never returned (Or more specifically, was never asked back.)  Vapid returned years later for the reformation I was never informed about.  But, as most of us know, that didn’t last long.   I had always thought that I helped to bring a calm to the band, but looking at the roster of amount of members who have been in the band, there must never have been any sense of balance, calm, or solidarity. So perhaps I was wrong.  Whether their feelings about ME were true or not I believe this information was stored in Ben’s head to one day be used to help manipulate allegiance. When he finally did release this information to me I could not figure out why he had to tell me such a thing.  Ben hardly ever speaks without a motivation.  When he told me, the information seemed pointless. By then there was no chance of touring with that lineup again.  What could telling me change?  I can only assume he chose to tell me this when he did because he wanted to appear as the good guy, to be seen as the only one who could be trusted.  Even if there was some truth to that, it was too late.  I continued to love the music we recorded and I had always believed in Ben’s choices for the band, but something irreconcilable was afoot.  Most band decisions were shared and decided upon between the two of us, but more often than not I acquiesced when Ben had a strong opinion.  And that was fine with me, but somewhere along the line this changed and became more difficult.  I’m not sure exactly where.  I will have to put some great thought into that decay before committing the story to writing.  The partnership slowly deteriorated until I got tired of losing money as the accountant and wanted to quit the business aspect for awhile unless we entertained the idea of touring more to counterbalance and do away with the losses. Ben chose this opportunity to twist my intentions into something completely different than I had intended.  Finally he forced me out and broke a very serious “gentlemen’s agreement.  (But more on that when I am ready.) In Even In Blackouts it was very important that there would never be talk of what couldn’t be played or worn on a stage.  This freedom allowed Gub (EIB guitarist and songwriter) to get us the one and only sponsorship ever offered to me during my entire career as a performer.  Each band member received a fedora hat of whatever style they wanted.  This sponsorship was perfect.  It was hilarious and classy!  We each chose different models and colors.  We agreed to wear them occasionally as a band, but some of us loved our hats so much we wore them everywhere.  (That was me!  I got a bowler hat!  I never had one before!  That was amazing!  Until I lost it on a plane.  That sucked.) For the most part we wore the shit out of those caps, where and whenever we wanted.   Liz worked for her best friend at a privately owned clothes store named Camden Boutique.  The England imported attire gave her onstage style a british flare.  I began calling her the Mary Poppins of Punk Rock.  Often on tour Liz would drag me over to the bathroom to show me her outfit choice for the day.  I’d stand outside the door waiting patiently until she jumped out in a very excited manner. “Should I wear this dress!”  She’d give a little turn and smile. “Oh Liz that’s really beau...” Then as if she hadn’t heard me she’d pop back into the bathroom and slam the door shut.  I would wait a bit longer.  She would pop out again. “Or Should I wear this one?” I think they’re both great.” “But which one should I wear?” “I like the green one.” “Really?” “Well... they’re both nice.” “The green one?” “Yes, I like the green one, but they both look great on you, but I like the green one because...” “Because why?” Then realizing I was caught in a trap, I’d walk away.  She’d still be looking in the mirror barely noticing I had left. We did this often.  Many times I would see her finally emerge from the bathroom wearing the outfit I hadn’t chosen, or one I hadn’t even seen.  For awhile I thought she used me to decide what NOT to wear.  The perplexing part was she didn’t choose contrary to my opinions consistently enough to confirm she was purposely choosing the opposite.  I had no clue if I was helping at all.  Ultimately she would wear whatever she wanted no matter what opinion I could muster.  It may sound frustrating but I enjoyed being some kind of sounding board for her even though I could never get a handle on my actual purpose.
[This has been a good introduction into talking about the members of Even In Blackouts.  I will end this dress code (or lack of) exploration with ruminations on Phillip Hill.]
The lack of structured stage appearance had unleashed the unexpected odd-ball qualities of bassist, vocalist, guitarist, songwriter, Phillip Hill.  Normally Phillip is a Leather Jacket wearing punkrocker.  He wears it well.  In his former band Teen Idols he would never play a show without his leather jacket firmly attached to his upper body.  Even when it was 120 degrees out while on a brightly lit stage he would still be strumming away on his guitar, indifferent to the temperature, clad in his steamy hot jacket.  Later this torture inducing dedication would make more sense when I found out that Phillip Hill does not sweat.  He does not take off his boots.  He never showers.  Yet he never smells.  He is not human.   Phillip is a Nashville born good ol’ boy.  I’m pretty sure he came out of the womb in his leather jacket with a a guitar and a beer in his hands, ready to fight.  He is a coveted guitarist and backing vocalist.  He has played in all of the following bands:  Rise Against, Teen Idols, Screeching Weasel, The Independents, Common Rider, Even in Blackouts, and The Queers. One night he left me a text at 4 in the morning to say that he was having shots with the legendary Mark James (The writer of the hit single Suspicious Minds.) The party he was at lasted for two straight days. On another night we got talking about Willie Nelson.  Phillip looked towards the ground and shook his head.   “What’s up Phil?” “That man would call my house all the time asking for my mom.” “Who?” “Willie Nelson.  Stoned and drunk.  He’d call my mom to try and get her to meet up with him. Willie never cared what time it was.  I had to help her lie her way out of that one quite a few times.” One long day driving in the van I offered him some chocolate.  He shook his head again.   “What’s up Phil?” “I’ll eat almost anything but I can’t eat chocolate without thinking I’m disappointing Dolly.” “Why is that Phil?” “One day mom and I were back stage of the Opry -” “The Grand Ole Opry?” Yep. I was chowing down a chocolate bar... chocolate all over my face... Dolly came up to me, grabbed the candy bar out of my hands, and said, ‘You keep eating like that and you’ll get fat like me!’  For the longest time I thought I was going to grow large breasts.” “Dolly Parton told you that you were going to get fat?” “Yep.” “Just wanted to make sure I heard you correctly.” One would think with all the partying Phil was capable of that he would make a mess of his onstage performance.  Phillip, had his wild adventures, but when he was on the clock with Even In Blackouts, he was about as professional as they come. He has a few friends around the world with which he makes efforts to make time to disappear with.  He’ll just come up to me before or after a show and say, I’ll be off for awhile, see you at the show tomorrow (or in a couple days depending on when our next show was to take place.)  This meant that the rest of the band would probably get a very entertaining recalling of his hourly events when he got back.  Because it was no secret that once he was out of our sight he was not going to sleep, and he was going to drink, eat, and abuse whatever chemicals or solids got in his way.  In Edinburgh was the only close call we ever had with Phil, and that was because he disappeared with the most wild kid that lives in Scotland, Bryan McGarvey.  Oh, he may look like a nice well kempt boy, but do not believe it for a second.  He works for the devil.  Satan himself put this kid in charge of mischief, imbibing, and illegal absurd activities.  We love him. Phillip was missing.  We had to do the soundcheck without him.  There was no word from him up until 5 minutes before stage time.  We got a message from Bryan telling us he had Phillip with him and that they were on their way.  The band got called to the stage.  We slowly set up our equipment buying time for Phillip and Bryan to arrive.  There was no more stalling.  We would play the first song without a bass player.  I was about to approach the mic to begin our set when through the crowd I see a man in a Pink Halter Top Sweater and a skirt.  It was Phil.  He hopped on stage.  He shook his head, as I had seen him do many times before.  He spoke with the utmost serious tone. “Sorry I’m late.” “What’s up with the pink sweater?” “It’s all I could find.” “I like it.” “Thanks.” And with that we launched into our set. I would never say that this was Philip's calling, to dress odd onstage compared to his leather bound tough performances but I do definitely believe that Even In Blackouts gave him a moment to escape from the pressure of his potential in a format of punk rock that had become an integral part of his reason for being. On the last days of our last European tour we played at a venue a few days after Halloween.  Gub and Phil took a trip to the local department store.  For the life of me as I write this I can’t remember where the hell where we were, although I know it was in the northern areas of Europe.  Philip found a child’s costume of a vampire.  He asked if it was in our budget, and of course I said, “Yes. Of course it is.”  Back stage before the show, besides the Dracula cape he now had, he found halloween decorations on a shelf.  He put webs and black garland upon his body and face.  He turned to us and said, “I am Voltar!  Phillip will not be performing tonight.”  And that is exactly what I told our audience that night.  “We are Even In Blackouts.  Tonight our bass player has gone missing, but luckily Voltar knew the parts and will be joining us on this special occasion.”  No one had any idea who we were, they may have known who Phillip Hill was, from The Teen Idols, but they were so confused, partially because they didn't speak much English, but once Voltar walked on stage, and we began playing a type of punk music this place had never heard, we gained the respect of the weirdos, and the scenesters left the room.  It was a proud moment for us. On our Blog, I posted these pictures.http://eveninblackouts.blogspot.com/ A few days later while we were all stuck in a van for another 14 hour trip, Philip informed me of a series of emails he had recently read.  He had received an email from Ben Weasel and then a little later an email from Joe Queer.  They both said that they felt he was making a fool of himself, dressing up like an idiot.  They both showed concern and hinted that he should purge Even In Blackouts. “I’m sorry, Phil.” “Fuck it.  I don’t care.” It seemed the Punk Rock Dress Code, humorous or devastatingly serious, was still a presence in my life.