The reason we had stayed indie, signed no contract, and taken less money was for artistic freedom. But now we found ourselves with no contract, in a punk rock handshake deal, but still compromising and fighting with our label over things like artwork and songs.
A punk band signing to a major label has historically been a risky endeavor, one that has crushed bands under its pressure. The story of Jawbreaker is infamous in the punk scene. The band got a million dollars to release their fourth album, Dear You, in 1995, but the backlash from fans was so great and the sales were so dismal that the band broke up shortly after. Numerous other bands have similar war stories of being torn apart by the high expectations of the corporate world.
To me, it was a gamble either way. The chances that we would ever break into the mainstream were just as good as the chances that we would implode from the stagnation of forever staying a Fat Wreck Chords band. Our expiration date was always there in the back of my mind. While the rest of the band might’ve enjoyed the steady paycheck, I don’t think they saw Against Me! as a long-term investment—especially Warren, who from time to time offhandedly mentioned that he was considering becoming a history teacher, completely disregarding the education and training he’d need for a career like that. If we didn’t keep evolving—even if that evolution drew detractors—we would surely grow stale, and the interest in Against Me! would die down, from both the fans and internally. I’d rather risk it all and go out with a bang than fade into obscurity.
The potential for Against Me!’s growth had personal implications for me, as well. In my newfound sobriety, I could no longer chase away my dysphoria by throwing drugs and alcohol at it, so I thought I could kill it with fame. Maybe if we were the biggest band in the world—if we played stadiums and sold millions of records, if we had legions of fans and hit singles on the radio—all of the urges and the cross-dressing would go away. I told our booking agent that we wanted the works: a 50-state tour to end the year. Do whatever it took to keep us on the road, so I could outrun my shame.
Our largest-ever tour kicked off with our largest-ever shows, three nights opening for Green Day in massive arenas, all while the majors chased after us again. In the same week that we launched into our three-month conquest of the entire country, we made our network television debut, performing Searching for a Former Clarity’s single, “Don’t Lose Touch,” on Late Night with Conan O’Brien. I called my parents and told them to tune in to watch me on national television. It was real, tangible success I could finally point them to. Even my father seemed impressed in his own stoic way.
August 11, 2005—NYC—The Chelsea Hotel
We were fighting jet lag and never really found our rhythm tonight but now we can say we played the legendary CBGBs. When loading in, the owner, Hilly Kristal, was just sitting there at his desk with his feet propped up, no hello, no thanks for playing, nothing. We’re playing for free. It’s a benefit show for his closing club. I’m glad this club is closing. It deserves to close down. Fuck this place and whatever happened here back in the day. It’s not special. Every place and everything eventually needs to end. The spirit of whatever happened here is long gone, this is just a tourist attraction now.
Felt like we were going through the motions on stage. Our set reeked of predictability. There we are on stage exhausted, making the safe choices, playing the safe songs in the safe order. The 150 kids who bought tickets are up front singing along. The 150 guest listed industry types are in the back watching and judging. I’m wondering afterwards what they really think of the show. Did they really like it? Or are they just interested because they think that other people are? I have a feeling that if the fans, the people who really get it, stopped coming out then the businessmen wouldn’t be so interested anymore.
Vanessa, our publicist, brought me a copy of the new album to the hotel after the show. Here I am, holding it in my hands. I don’t know what to feel. Do I like the way it looks? I don’t know. I’m not even sure what it sounds like anymore. A full year’s worth of work, all the stress and worry summed up in the compact disc I’m holding here.
September 2, 2005—Driving to Massachusetts
Flying into Newark we passed directly over Giants Stadium. I looked down and could see the stage we’ll be playing the next day. From up above, it all looked so small. There will be over 50,000 people in attendance at tomorrow’s show where we’re opening up for Green Day. I have no idea what to expect. It’s hard to imagine what a crowd of 50,000 people looks like.
I wasn’t nervous when we took the stage. There had been a lot of build-up leading to the day, but I knew we were just the opening band and we were prepared, we knew what we were doing. As long as we had fun, I knew it would be good.
Family and friends, old and new came, out to the show, as did the manager and A&R from Universal. All of them stood on the side of the stage to show support and cheer us on.
Looking over my shoulder and seeing everyone there, I felt love and I appreciated it. It hurts in my chest and it’s wonderful. It meant a lot that Dustin made it to the show. I only wished that he was still playing with the band.
Even the guys from Green Day watched the set. Green Day was the first concert I ever went to. It was a personal achievement to share a stage with them and I’ll be forever thankful for the experience. A great big “fuck you” to every asshole cop and teacher who tried to tell me I was nothing, just a punk.
If I remember anything about yesterday, I want it to be that feeling of love. We’ll never return to Giants Stadium as a headliner, they’ll tear it down before we ever have the chance.
The analogy that A&R from Universal Records used tonight is my favorite I’ve heard come out of his mouth thus far.
“Pretend you’re going to be in a motorcycle race. Conor Oberst has a bike, Moby has his. Now, it doesn’t matter what you put in your bike, it could be the best fuel ever. The bike will only go as fast as it was built to go, and right now, boys… we’re putting rocket fuel in a moped.”
He really knows how to sell. He doesn’t really have to try so hard though. I want what he’s selling.
September 6, 2005—West Palm Beach, FL
Our album has been officially released. No one in the band says anything about it. The moment is unfulfilling. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to get what I need emotionally from this band. I’m trying to put on a smile and be positive but it makes me feel like a liar, which makes me want to drink.
Here I am, nine months sober. Has anything changed? Do I feel any better for it?
Right now I just feel crushed.
I woke up last night and my left arm was completely numb and lifeless. I took a shower. I started thinking about Mary the Baptist being abused by her preacher. I came close to jerking off but I stopped myself. I turned off the shower and got out, restrained myself from punching a hole in the cheap plastic shower wall. Ejaculated in my sleep last night. It’s been nine months since I last masturbated. I’m a big ball of stress, tension, and bad feelings.
I’d rather live an exciting life drunk than a boring life sober.
September 15, 2005—NYC—12:08 AM
Today I met with David Johansen of the New York Dolls, a band that pioneered the idea of blurring gender lines of rock and roll in the 70s. We met at a tea shop around the corner from the Road Runner offices. He wants me to help write for his new album. I had the chills and was sweating profusely. My brain was saturated in NyQuil. I’m positive that my awkwardness was apparent to everyone.
David is super skinny, with leathery skin, and long greasy hair. His bangs cover his eyes. I asked the questions I had thought to ask but as I was asking them I realized how stupid they were.
“What kind of album do you all want to make?”
David asks me how old I am and I felt my youth and inexperience.
He gave me his number and said we should just start bouncing ideas off of each other. He said he likes me. I’m not sure I believe him.
There’s a Fader after-pa
rty in the evening that the manager insists we all go to. Even though I’m sick, I go anyways. I made it through unscathed. I actually had fun.
The press around our new album is good. More than good, really. The major label interest is back with a vengeance. All of the attention we’re getting is enjoyable. I like being a buzz band. I like being courted by A&R men and record labels.
Universal A&R was at the Fader party. “Do you ever just realize how good you are?” he asks.
My ass is full of smoke.
September 18, 2005—New Haven, CT—1:34 AM
The manager emailed to let us know that we’re #1 at commercial specialty radio this week.
It’s the first show of a three-month long 50-state tour. It wasn’t until the first opening band was playing that I started to feel the excitement, it’s all really happening. My voice is already shredded. My throat feels caked with crust. It hurts to sing. This is going to be a long tour, draining both mentally and physically, but what an opportunity.
We’re in the middle of the set and I’m on my knees in front of my amp, sweat pouring from my body, fighting to breathe. I am living fully and completely. There’s no rush, no hurry, there is no place else I’d rather be, surrounded by strangers, bodies pressed tightly together, amidst deafening noise and blinding confusion all is silent and completely at peace.
October 1, 2005—Milwaukee, WI—The Rave—3:12 AM
I’m hungover, my first hangover in nine full months. I’ve been sleeping off last night in the back of the van all day. I’m disappointed in myself. I broke my resolution. I didn’t make it the full year. I’m scared that I’ve ruined something, that by having a drink I destroyed some kind of magic.
After the show at Rhino’s in Bloomington, Indiana, we all headed over to a bar across the street to watch our performance on Conan. During the commercial break, right before our performance, shots were poured and a toast was made. I broke down. I wanted to share in the moment with everyone. Andrew did a quick toast and we watched ourselves perform on national TV. Just one shot. Six shots and a couple of beers later I’m sitting at the bar next to the bass player of the opening band and we’re both groping each other under the table. Next thing I know we’re standing in the parking lot making out. She tells me she has a boyfriend in California. Fuck. Then black out.
The Rolling Stone review compares my voice to Roger Daltrey’s. They gave the album 3 out of 5 stars and cited “How Low” as the key track.
October 14, 2005—Seattle, WA—4:15 AM
I thought I was having a heart attack. Two overnight drives, Salt Lake City to Boise, Boise to Seattle. We’re broken up into rentals, two mini-vans and a box truck for gear and merch. The oil pump broke again on the Ford. No sleep. I think I must have had ten Red Bulls over the course of the two drives. Grew so crazed at one point, pulled over, and Black Arm John and I built a snowman while everyone slept. We named him Skinny and are just sure we’ll see him again down the line.
No time to rest once we got to Seattle. Too many friends to see. Last night was the 27th show in a row that we’ve played on this tour. Not a single day off. Sold out show at Neumos, get up on stage feeling dizzy. I can’t even get a chord out of my guitar when the band kicks in, I can’t open my lungs to sing. My chest was unbearably tight with pain. Whole left side went numb. I stood there and did what I could, got us to the end of the set. The audience could tell something wasn’t right though. What should have been a riot was barely a whimper. No encore, I’m brought backstage and everyone tells me to go straight to the emergency room. Cody Votolato drives me and stays the whole time. The doctor said I either detached a muscle in my chest or have a viral infection in my lung. But either way, I’m suffering from extreme exhaustion and I need to stop drinking Red Bulls, eat more than one meal a day, and get more than three hours of sleep at night. I will have to call in a couple days to hear the results of my blood tests.
November 11, 2005—Memphis, TN—2:48 AM
Dinner with the Sire Records goon was brutal, the routine exhausting. I would be naive to think we were as special to them as he says we are. We are not a snowflake.
The lifestyle they offer is alluring. So much so that it blinds my sight at times. But pay attention to the mannerisms, the subtlety of speech, the nuances in phrasing. Watch how the conversation is led, when power is handed off, how carefully it is directed. Do not be afraid to drunkenly abandon the whole game, ’cause “fuck it” is a valid card to play. It is your trump card, “I just don’t care, try that one on for size.”
A&R from Sire is tall and skinny. His face is skeletal. He has Alopecia and wears a wig. He signed a list of bands that all of us have heard of and respect more than others because they get good press but none of us actually listens to which serves as credibility to us. He reminds us all of Nosferatu.
I can’t believe we’re back in this situation again, drunkenly listening to an A&R guy pitch his label. A&R pitches hard. He’s midway through his hour-long speech on why we should sign to his label, comparing our career to a river and I’m already bored. Whoever offers us the most money and complete artistic control wins, and the rest can fuck off.
I want to sign to a major. I want to take this shot.
November 26, 2005—Richmond, VA—11:24 AM
Initial offers from both labels have come in. The Sire offer is the best. It totals 1.3 million dollars.
We had a band talk last night and all agreed that even if Universal were to match the offer, we want to sign with Sire/Warner. Sire has a history we’d all be proud to be a part of. It was home to the Ramones, the Replacements, the Rezillos, the Smiths, Echo & The Bunnymen, Madonna, and so many more groundbreaking bands we all respect. It’s a gamble either way, but it seems like a smart move.
Life comes hard, don’t sell it cheap.
December 4, 2005—NYC—4 AM
It was cold, standing outside in the snow, hugging A&R from Universal. He tells me how much he loves me and that no matter what label we choose to sign with, we will still be friends but that if we don’t sign with his label, then he will probably need some time before he can see me again. I believe in the emotional connection he says he feels with me and I love him back. I wish that I felt confident in the rest of his label. I wish they were offering the kind of money that Sire is.
I was offered this advice recently: “Major labels don’t know how to sell 100k records. They can sell 500k, they can sell a million, if you’re Green Day, they can even sell four million. But that first 100k, that’s why they need you, that’s why they’re interested in your band, because you’ve demonstrated that you can sell that first 100k.”
As of right now, we’ve sold around 30,000 copies of Searching for a Former Clarity and it’s been out for four months.
I find the major label world attractive in the way that I do any other vice. It makes you feel great while making you hate yourself at the same time which makes you need it more until you can’t remember any other way to feel love.
December 15, 2005—Kansas City, KS—The Hotel Phillips—3:33 AM
We signed the contracts with Sire/Warner unceremoniously, just the four of us in a room at the Hotel Phillips, exhausted from the road after the last show of a three-month long tour that traveled to all 50 states.
The contract is daunting. The language is confusing. I think the lawyer is ripping us off. He’s come down on his rate from $90,000 to $75,000 and we’re told that we’re supposed to feel like he’s doing us a favor. All for negotiating just one contract!
The contract is a two-album record deal that totals over $1.5 million. What doesn’t go to recording costs will be split equally among the four of us. I don’t think any of us really comprehends the weight or true ramifications of the deal we are making. Still, I write out my signature without hesitation. After signing we put our hands together in a pact, hailed rock and roll, and headed down to the bar for drinks.
Is Sire the right move? I don’t know. Am I alienating myself from friends by ma
king this decision? Yes. Is this all going to end with me being alone? Yes. It doesn’t feel like an achievement, it feels like a declaration of surrender.
Tour is over. In the morning we’ll start the long drive from Kansas City back to Gainesville. We’ll go through a Bank of America drive-thru on University Avenue and deposit our check, and then all go our separate ways for the holidays.
After I drop everyone off at their respective houses I will find my way to my ex-wife. I will climb into bed next to her. We will hold each other. We will start to kiss. She’ll take my shirt off. I’ll take her shirt off. Then I will flush warm, break into a sweat and tell her we need to stop.
I’ll go there because I have nowhere and no one else to go to. I’ll leave because it will not be where I belong. What once felt so right will now feel all wrong.
If the punks were mad at us for signing to Fat Wreck Chords before, surely they would want our blood now for signing to Sire. And indeed, I started to hear blowback before even depositing the check into our band account, the amount of which was so huge that it made the bank teller do a triple-take and her jaw literally drop. I resented the punks for begrudging us this. We were finally successful. This was something I’d wanted ever since I was 5 and saw Madonna on TV, and I was being hated for it because of petty punk politics.
Looking at the bright side, it kept hitting me how incredible it was that the same guy who signed Madonna signed my band. I was starting to have dreams about her. Sometimes she and I were lovers, but sometimes we were just friends. I didn’t want to wake up.
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