Tales of a Punk Rock Nothing

by Abram Shalom Himelstein

  Sometimes a little hard not to want to be the star of the show. Ridiculous feelings of wanting acknowledgment for not being a racist, a feeling that at best is unproductive and at worst part of a racist mentality. But once I figured all this out I would be full of shit if I didn’t do what I feel to be right. Still, sometimes I want to lead the revolution and get all of the revolutionary chicks.

  All this theory for the simple idea of looking at children and wanting things to be right and pretty and not hurtful to them.

  Eugene-maybe. Call again to confirm Bozeman, Rapid City, and Portland. I love the dialer. God, I love the dialer. How can people afford to make all the calls you need to set up a tour without one?

  Stuffed records and then stuffed records and then we, um, stuffed records. Cool to hear and look at your own record, but a thousand record covers, lyric sheets and records… it’s a little much to look at a thousand all at once.

  Brian’s stoked because the Inter Galactic Chaos Conspiracy sold out in a month and got picked up for distro by Cargo. Which he says, “greases the wheels,” for the Pessimist Club 10 inch. He’s gone ahead and ordered a second thousand. Hope he doesn’t lose a lot of money on us. We might actually make back what we spent on recording.

  Chicago,

  Pandering for other people’s attention is one of the most loathable activities to catch oneself doing. Saying things that you don’t really mean, or that you don’t even know if you mean, just trying to be clever without thinking about substance or the corner that you might paint yourself into, or the foot that may soon be stuck in your mouth.

  It takes months, years, a lifetime, to counteract the need for constant approval, constant attention. Re-evaluate every motivation for every action. Learn to be true to yourself to do what you want, because it makes you happy. Of course other people’s happiness always factors into your own. You must find a balance, walk precariously, between truth and brown-nosing, honesty and niceness.

  And when you do find that balance, that fulcrum of true-to-selfness, nothing is more annoying than people who haven’t found it, and steal your spotlight and get all the chicks.

  June 7

  Dear Maureen,

  Finally arrived at the publication headquarters of our favorite zine, The Kate Moss Journal, a spirited defense of thin women in general, and supermodels in particular. The author writes “Kate has endured much ridicule and scorn because of her looks, but the rejection of her body shape has proportionally increased the size of her soul. This kind of narrow interpretation of proper women’s body shapes has left thin women on the sidelines for too long. This magazine celebrates what all other magazines denigrate-the thin woman.” I don’t think that he’s joking.

  Mostly he seems pretty nice, and he set up a show where we got paid and there was a crowd eager to see us. But it’s hard to trust him much, and he’s spent most of his time so far trying to get into Jordana’s pants. Not to mention, everyone in his house is wearing Toronado 75 T shirts. Your description of their show in Oberlin was hilarious. How do such 2D caricatures walk and breathe? They came through every town that we’ve been in about two weeks before us, and I get the feeling that everyone is vaguely disappointed that we’re not dressed more hip, that our women don’t look more, well, more anorexic. It’s like everything bad about the DC “scene” has polluted the entire country, and you can’t find refuge, even if you flee to Fargo, North Dakota. Aaaagh. When, how did it come to this? The main selling points of the Toronado Blues Explosion (whoops, did I say that?), so far as I can tell, are that they sound exactly like John Spencer Blues Explosion (a good model to copy, if you’re gonna copy), but you get to see them for less money, and get to look at two really thin women in tight shirts.

  Even though I haven’t fully escaped it, it’s great to be out of DC for a while. It’s pleasant to be around people who enjoy having fun, and seem sincere. I’ve forgotten what it’s like to meet people at shows who have energy to do things that seem important in their community. The “scenes” in these towns seem like they’re more about a bunch of freaks hanging out and having a good time. Not about fashion and getting your record out on the right label.

  What’s up with Atlanta? How’s summer school teaching? Did these third graders flunk, or is this “enrichment”? Who do I have to blow to get a good review of our record in the pages of Maureen Hall Correspondence? Seriously, what did you think?

  Yours for the empowerment of Kate Moss and oppressed skinny women everywhere, I am,

  Elliot Rosenberg

  P.S. We played on someone’s front porch in Minneapolis. It rained and the cops came and we had fun.

  Scene I

  Three white, one Asian, calculatedly scruffy people in their late teens/early 20s inside a white 84 Econoline van. One man and one woman ride in front; one man, one woman sit on musical equipment in back. A wooden platform stretches across most of the back of the van, covered with blankets, zines and dairy-free candy bar wrappers. Music of the early Sonic Youth/ Pixies genre plays on the car stereo. Man in passenger seat is listening to a walkman, unconsciously tipping his 32 oz. cup of soda with his right foot so that it occasionally spills onto the van floor. Both passengers in the rear are reading zines.

  Wide shot: A barn-like building somewhere in Montana. A wooden sign above double glass doors reads “The Filling Station: A Watering Hole”. The gravel parking lot stretches from the front of the building around the left side and is full of pick-up trucks and Harleys. The van (with stickers on the back doors and bumpers i. e. “Avail” “Free Leonard Peltier” and “Corporate Rock Still Sucks”) pulls into the parking lot.

  Tight shot: Driver’s side door, lower half. Door opens and a woman’s shoes emerge. (Punk rock variety: worn, brown canvas with 1 and a half inch rubber soles.) Camera follows shoes as they walk on dusty gravel to rear of van, joining three other pairs of shoes-Dr. Martens, Blue All-Stars, and Airwalks.

  Docs kick at crumpled cigarette package in gravel as conversation proceeds:

  “Yikes, Scooby.”

  “Maybe we could call from a rest stop and say that our van broke down and that we can’t make it.”

  “It’s not all-ages, we’ll probably end up getting our asses kicked.”

  “Let’s just check it out. Tomothy can always feign an asthma attack.”

  A few seconds of silence, a piece of gum is spit onto the ground, shoes begin to walk towards door.

  “Seen The Blues Brothers lately?”

  Scene II

  A large, poorly lit tavern, dead animals and license plates adorn the walls. The sound of billiards and video games are faintly audible, occasional whoops or “aaawwwrrgh”s. The two men from the van and the woman driver are on stage with guitar, bass, and drums. Two people in baseball hats stand about 12 feet from the stage, other than them, the dance floor is empty. “Sweet Home Alabama” plays on the Juke box.

  The guitarist, a lanky boy with messy, dyed hair (very photogenic, handsome, sexy, tries hard to conceal his good looks... where was I?) wearing a Nomeansno t-shirt and blue All-Stars says:

  “We’re ready to play, if y’all wanna turn down the juke box...”

  There are faint mutterings of dissent from the darkness, but the music is eventually turned down.

  Guitarist: “Don’t worry, we play both kinds: country and western.”

  Drummer clicks a four count and band begins to play music that according to Citypaper sounds like:

  “Scrawl meets the Kinks on the wrong side of the tracks.”

  Band plays to little reaction. Pool games continue. Patrons at tables near stage watch like a television program that’ll do until the next hour’s good programming begins. Song finishes. Smattering of applause, mostly by woman seen earlier in van and twenty-something-ish promoter.

  Guitarist: “Thanks. This next song is about Marion Penitentiary...”

  Rough male voice from crowd: “Been there. Done that.”

  Guitarist (clearly rattled): “Um, really? How wa
s it?”

  Male voice: “That was a nasty place.”

  Guitarist: “That’s what I hear, so this next song is for you… We have lyric sheets on the table next to the sound board...”

  Band plays song. Woman from van passes out lyric sheets. Bar sounds are muted on soundtrack, as song plays.

  Lyrics: “Marion/ Is there for us all/ Lockdown/

  Mind/ Body/ Soul”

  At song’s end a few hoots and more clapping (enough to intimate that maybe, just maybe, the city-slicker band is winning over…) Guitarist: “So what did you think?”

  Male voice: “That’s about what it was like.”

  Scene III

  Band onstage, packing equipment. White male in early thirties, sandy mustache of the CHIPS variety, with the voice that earlier shouted, “Been there. Done that.” speaks with the guitarist about prisons in the U. S.

  Scene IV

  Inside van: Bassist and Roadie argue in back seat. Drummer (who has been trying to read zine by dashboard lights) eventually joins argument. Topics ranging from loading equipment to status of upcoming shows to actual text of Henry Rollins’ left bicep tattoo.

  Camera rotates and tightens on Guitarist (driving). Nonverbally, through a complex series of mouth and eyebrow movements, he demonstrates that he is having an epiphonic moment. We can almost watch the cogs of his brain turning, cartoon style, as he moves his lips and eyebrows. These are his thoughts: “Take It Easy” playing on the joke box... a bunch of kids in second-hand clothing singing about the government... a bunch of zines and records?

  He’s smart, huh?

  Luminaries say yes. Tim says he never offered a show. Now we’ve promised another band a gig in DC and we can’t even get one. Looks like it’ll be nice show in our living room.

  Tour van conspiracy theories: “Why Tim Won’t Give Us A Show”

  1. We suck. (Probably not the reason, most bands who play El Pollo suck.)

  2. The Boycott of Elliot begins-Tina works at King’s Castle, Tim goes out with her, knows about my tendency to exploit women. Or one of us wore the wrong brand of shoes to a show or was seen eating the wrong food somewhere. Either way, we need to be taught a lesson that only being denied a show at El Pollo can teach us.

  3. Oh yeah, we told Tri-State Transmitter that it’s hard to get shows with him, another lesson we need to be taught.

  4. Tim is overwhelmed by feelings of penis envy that arise when he sees Jordana, who reminds him of his mother.

  June 16

  Maureen,

  Being on tour is almost too cliché to write about. When the drummer from Aerosmith showed up backstage at the Roxie to see if I wanted to do some lines, I knew that it couldn’t go on like this....

  For reals, though, all the things I feel and do seem like I learned them by watching rockumentaries about touring bands. All emotions-roadweariness, excitement, soul searching, loneliness, bad shows, drinking, playing pool, writing letters to ex girlfriends. All super clichés. I can’t get over the feeling that I’m playing a part.

  I feel like I need to be a different person to be happy doing this. I get tired of my role: too earnest, too serious, too much the one who fixates on how ridiculous rock’n’roll is.

  I’ve been feeling like a caricature all day long for two weeks. I can’t imagine how people could do this all the time. Maybe it’s because we don’t really expect to become famous, we’re just out to have fun and increase awareness about things that we care about, but it’s all taking place in a system set up for people who want to become famous.

  But mostly tour is really fun and self absorbed in some intoxicating ways. Playing music we write, getting interviewed, listening to recordings of ourselves, watching videos of the shows we played, giving out our address, selling records of music that we made. It’s really easy to forget that you’re not that special or cool because you can write a few songs... Everyone around you is acting like there’s something cool about you, which is something we all, on some levels, want to believe. Easy to see where some people get a “soul-ly-er than thou” attitude.

  I’ve had a lot of time to read and write a lot of letters, when I’m not driving or charting our route. In South Dakota, we drove past hundreds of people on motorcycles heading to the Harley convention in Sturgis. The band that we played with there had a guy dressed up like a giant robot and they had a song where they did a bunch of Kung Fu fighting against the robot. In California we played a huge show at a club run totally by volunteers, mostly kids. Just seeing a lot of different places where the punk scene is really important to the kids involved has been cool.

  I’ve forgotten what it’s like to be in a place that still needs to be torn apart more than it needs to be put back together. (Does that make sense?) Acting crazy and having badly dyed hair and being happy and smart shows kids and adults that there are lives to be lived outside of either the Baptist or Episcopalian church… Like this: in suburbia the problem is that everything is so structured as to be lifeless and soul-killing, whereas in DC so much shit is entirely without structure that no one knows what the fuck is going on, to the point of being unable to trust anyone else.

  Are travel letters always so filled with brooding analysis of society?

  Yours in fond remembrance of more whimsical letters, I am I be I am,

  Elliot Rosenberg

  P.S. Johnny Cash Live at San Quentin has kept me sane (and driven my travel companions a little insane). There is this time where he plays the song, “San Quentin,” that he wrote for the show: “San Quentin, I hate every inch of you/You cut me and scarred me through and through/ and I’ll walk out a wiser weaker man/ Mr. Congressman, you can’t understand.”

  It’s the punkest minute ever recorded. The prisoners go as apeshit as they can with armed guards standing all around them, and make him play it two times in a row.

  Bizarre. Bizarre. Bizarre. We got an indication of the craziness that is to come last night in New Orleans. We’ve been picked (selected?) by Spin as “keepers of the flame of DC punk.”

  A. ridiculous

  B. gross and slimy

  C. means crowds at our shows

  About 100 kids in New Orleans. The big questions are: did Spin get promo stuff from Brian? Did Brian crop the photo or did Spin?

  Making fun of Spin brought whoops and cheers. Same 10 songs, but now they’re officially “good” so people can enjoy them more. Sold more records tonight than the first two weeks of tour. Spin says it’s good, so…

  The high school senior class is perforated beyond belief. Farm Boys and Their Piercings is RE/Search’s next...

  We got on stage and some creep whistled at Jordana. She said, “Thanks, I think that your mom is cute too.” And the crowd laughed with Jordana at the asshole, and I felt a glimmer of hope. Played our regular show, with the exception that I introduced each song with, “This guitar line is about______,” making fun of something that I hated about living here. Topics ranged from stupid fights that everyone watches to couples walking around the mall with their hands in each others’ back pockets. Each intro was met with roars of approval (even songs like “Marion” and “Stolen Land”). And it was bizarre to have the whole football team watching and cheering, but it was still pretty fun. Slam dancing started on about the third song. (Possible dialogue, “Hey, I saw people do this in that Nirvana video. Dude, it looks cool.”). So they’re at it, and it’s annoying me and Jordana. We were in the middle of “Beat Schmeat, Drummer Schmummer” when I broke a string. As I tried to pull the string out of the way, I saw that the dancing had escalated into a fight. I stopped playing and so did Jordana and then Tomothy and all eyes turned to the fight. Jay, in his bleached hair and L7 shirt was on the bloody end of Patrick’s punches. The football team arrived, etc. etc.

  Local Boy Makes Good. Glad new attitudes came with the new fashion.

  And that’s the way that we end tour. Our last show will be in a laundry mat in Knoxville.

  27 down, one to go, plus our living room.<
br />
  Brian,

  Saw the poster and promo shit that you’ve been sending out.

  When we saw the picture in Spin, we figured that they had copied the back of the record cover and cropped the picture themselves. But after the same picture showed up on flyers in two cities, we figured something was up.

  Did you cut off the top of Elliot’s head and the side of Tomothy’s face because you thought it looked more artistic, or were you just trying to put Jordana’s tits in the very center of the photo, or is there a difference to you?

  Getting the message from our housemates that you’re pressing CDs was an extra-shitty touch. Thanks for not including us in any of this.

  We put out a record with you because we thought that we could trust you. Actually, we thought you were our friend. We didn’t want to make money, just to put out a nice record for people to enjoy. But now, with a little Spin assistance, you will be making plenty of money off of our record. Hope that makes you happy.

  Obviously, our plans for recording and releasing a full length with 33rd Revolution are canceled.

  Fuck you.

  Sincerely,

  Jordana, Tomothy, Elliot

  My so-called home, Washington DC

  While you’re taking a shit, you don’t always notice the stink, and it’s not until you return to the john ten minutes later that you actually realize the magnitude of the smell. Five weeks of tour has truly cleansed the my nasal palette and I can truly say that it stinks to be back.

  Homecoming royalty, time to face the tight pants mafia. Play a show in your living room because you’re so revolutionary, not because you were a punk rock loser five weeks ago.

  Unspoken deal: don’t mention the shows that he wouldn’t give us before we were famous, he pretends we’ve always been cool. What a big red-hairdyed turd.

  Tina: “I heard you were calling my band the Frank Gorman Blues Explosion,” she says. Apparently the Toronado 75 has ears all over the country.