About three years ago, I started rifling through my rock and roll prints from the early 80s, and I ended up approaching a local business to show them on Milwaukee's Gallery Night. While I do believe that a picture tells a thousand words, I also thought there were some stories around the pictures that the pictures didn't necessarily tell. So in addition to the mounted photographs, I wrote a little booklet to go along with the prints, so that people could indeed know the stories. Surprisingly, it went over well, and people actually read the stories. So this blog is a sort of online version of that show, except that I'm putting it up slowly, and will add to it as I shoot more shows.
Here was the introductory page to that booklet, modified a bit to suit the fact that this is now a blog, not a static show.
Growing up in the Chicago suburbs, I did the stadium rock thing in high school. It was a big to-do, getting the tickets, begging for the family car, venturing to a crappy part of the city to see Yes or Ted Nugent or Rush from some nosebleed seats in a stadium where they used to show livestock. And part of it wasn’t even the show, it was buying the T-shirt so you could show up in school the next Monday to prove you were there. When I arrived on the campus of the University of Illinois, I saw ads for bands I barely had heard of playing at venues that held, at most, 250 people. Out of curiosity, I went to see some local act whose name I can’t remember. But there they were. People who were making the kind of music that was saving my life not twenty feet away from me. Push harder, get closer to the stage, and I could see the sweat on their face, the cake of their makeup, their split ends. They actually took into account how we reacted to them and there was that exchange of energy, that give and take between artist and audience we’d before only read about in Creem. I was hooked.
In the meantime, I was working in the campus media, trying to decide whether I wanted to be in radio news or print news. I was a straight news reporter, but sometimes I wanted to be on the music desk. Those people were so much hipper than I was, and I never felt like I fit in with that side of the newsroom. I bought a camera, and started shooting shows anyway. A few times they let me write about bands, and once they actually published one of my shots. But I never wanted rock and roll to be my writing job. I was perfectly happy covering city council meetings, school board controversies, fires and protest marches. Something about journalistic objectivity, which I could never have about music, got in the way of any aspirations of being the next Dave Marsh. I was also perfectly happy just getting into the clubs, using my camera as an excuse to push my way to the front of the stage, and making these keepsakes for myself, which savored the moment better than a t-shirt. When I left the UI, and let the news reporter idea slip out of the way in favor of changing the world by community organizing (and eventually giving up and working in IT), I still kept my habit of bringing my camera and “working” the many club shows I saw since.
Every picture in this blog has a story of its own which I hope the picture will tell itself, like that old thousand words axiom says it’s supposed to. The blog postings are about various things surrounding shot itself: How I got that particular shot, what happened to me at this particular show, why this artist’s music is important to me. Maybe we’ll have some common experiences, maybe we’ll connect, just like I connected with those hundreds of bands I saw in clubs trying to connect with me as I stared wondrously at their guitars, amps, and drums. Maybe you’ll see my picture of Exene, and that will remind you of a happy memory you had of John Doe or Billy Zoom. Or maybe you’ll read my story about camping out for tickets for U2, and it will bring to mind the time you partied all night, waiting for tickets for the Ramones. If you have a story, please comment it: my success here is not measured in how many people see the pictures, but in how many stories it inspires you to tell as well.
Monday, August 28, 2006
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Joan Jett
December 1981, Studio One, Champaign IL - She was all business as she checked to make sure the water bottles were filled for her set. She walked on stage with an agenda in the form of a set list, flipped on her amp, strapped on her guitar, and started pounding a power G chord in rapid fire sixteenth notes until everybody in her band caught up, and then dead stop as she declared into the mike “I don’t give a damn ‘bout my reputation!” There is no doubt about that, but it’s a great reputation nonetheless. We didn’t love her because she was a chick, we loved her because she was rock and roll, but it was conveniently fun that she was indeed a she. Yet Jett’s remained a role model to lots of chicks who chose to go rock and roll rather than learning their three chords for the sole purpose of whining about how girls get excluded from the boys’ club.
Ten years later, after I’d learned my three chords, this manager guy named Ed Wissh (who fancied himself Chicago’s version of Kim Foley and was itching to create his own Runaways), caught wind of my existence and called me on a Thursday night to ask me if I could fill in that coming Saturday in a band called The Barbie Army. I’d seen the Barbie Army before – they’d opened for one of Peder Hedman’s projects at the Unicorn in Milwaukee – and loved them. Hearing the name brought back a memory of lead singer Jean Lyons selling the band’s wares onstage, which included a necklace made of tampon applicators that I would have bought if I had the five bucks.
“Look, I really only know three chords, and I’ve got tickets for the Residents in Madison tomorrow, so I have no clue when I’d be able to learn the songs and rehearse,” I told him. “Saturday afternoon,” he said, as though I was going to learn an entire set in a couple of hours when I was still having trouble getting my fingers from an E to a B quickly. “Sure, what the hell,” I said, not having the guts to admit I was worried that I’d fail miserably and make a fool out of myself. I went to the Residents show, then bummed a ride to meet Wissh and Lyons halfway between Chicago and Milwaukee at the Mars Cheese Castle at two in the morning -- well before a splitting hangover kicked in. Bleary eyed the next morning, Jean and I got out our guitars and started to tune up. Before she even told me a single chord progression, Jean wanted to make sure that -- beyond any technical skill I may or may not have had -- philosophically we were on the same page. “Are you a Joan Girl or a Lita Girl?” she asked. Ahhh, an indie cred litmus test, I thought.
“The fact that I even understand that question should tell you the answer,” I said, and carefully fingering a G, began to strum rapid fire sixteenth notes until she got the point. Suddenly I didn’t give a damn whether I made a fool of myself or not. You just go and play your three chords the best you can. Giving a damn about your reputation will be the death of you in rock and roll.
Jonathan Richman
April 1988, Century Hall, Milwaukee, WI - Century Hall was one of the first places I ever saw music when I moved to Milwaukee. And what a joint it was! Two levels with hardwood floors that yielded those old dance hall acoustics, and white/yellow lights. It wasn't a hardcore place. The bands/acts I saw there were those uncategorizable acts, like Brave Combo or Paul Cebar. I curse that bastard Dan Giwosky for torching the joint. You could smell that burning hardwood for weeks, rubbing your face in the ashes of so much history.
It was at Century Hall where I took this picture of Jonathan Richman. Richman always seems to blow into town right when everybody needs him. Just when we're ready to give up and stop believing in anything, there he is, singing about the joys of the Ice Cream Man, the need for Affection, the worry of a friend in the Hospital. Just when you've had enough of ironic humor that gives you the smirks, he elicits a true groaning guffaw with his terrible puns and his precise comedic timing, and has you in tears of self-recognition with his basic but heart-wrenching songs, delivered with that on-key-but-with-a-nasty-headcold tenor of his that frees you up from being afraid to sing along. Six or seven of us packed into this crappy old Nissan hatchback on the way to the show. Somebody had brought up the fact that someone they knew somebody who hated Jonathan Richman. "Well," I said, brushing off the comment, "they can go to hell as far as I'm concerned." And one of the seven of us corrected me: "Anybody who hates Jonathan Richman is already in hell."
It was at Century Hall where I took this picture of Jonathan Richman. Richman always seems to blow into town right when everybody needs him. Just when we're ready to give up and stop believing in anything, there he is, singing about the joys of the Ice Cream Man, the need for Affection, the worry of a friend in the Hospital. Just when you've had enough of ironic humor that gives you the smirks, he elicits a true groaning guffaw with his terrible puns and his precise comedic timing, and has you in tears of self-recognition with his basic but heart-wrenching songs, delivered with that on-key-but-with-a-nasty-headcold tenor of his that frees you up from being afraid to sing along. Six or seven of us packed into this crappy old Nissan hatchback on the way to the show. Somebody had brought up the fact that someone they knew somebody who hated Jonathan Richman. "Well," I said, brushing off the comment, "they can go to hell as far as I'm concerned." And one of the seven of us corrected me: "Anybody who hates Jonathan Richman is already in hell."
Henry Rollins w/Black Flag
August 1982, Mabel’s, Champaign, IL – I was expecting a hard driving band of snotty, messed up but powerfully tight punks from California cheering about their TV Party Tonite. Nobody expected this highly articulate poet wanna be who was built like he pressed 250 on the bench with some regularity. Black Flag had a huge appeal among the townies in Champaign. In fact, there’s always been this little hardcore scene among the townies and it’s still thriving to this day. Well, the drinking age in Illinois had been recently mandated at 21, which meant even clubs in towns with “home rule” had to change things around and deal with the fact that half their clientele had been wiped away, and they were still shaking out the bugs in whatever system they derived to address that issue. The Flag were booked at a club that the cops were always keeping a close eye out for underage busts. Before the line started forming at the club door, the rumor was going around: the show was a drinking show, but management wasn’t refunding any tickets purchased by underagers who didn’t know that. Lots of teenagers were pissed off. One of those teens, whose dad taught political science (or or history, or something of that ilk) at the University, managed to talk said dad into letting Black Flag play at their house for the underage crowd before they did their regular show at the club. His dad, either extremely open minded or extremely clueless, had sodas (that’s “pop” in Illinois) and munchies available. By all accounts, Black Flag played a great set, and the kids were rowdy but thankful to the family and consequently respectful of the property. I wasn’t there. I figured it would be unnecessarily rude to take up what was bound to be limited space, when I was perfectly eligible to go to the 21-and-over show. In terms of ambience (if one could use that word to describe anything associated with Black Flag), I probably missed something by not being at the professor’s house, but musically and performance wise, I suspect the drinking show was more intense. And Rollins had a lot to say about the whole thing, which as we now know isn’t surprising. His voice sounded like just some joe telling a story over some brewski’s, very matter of fact and gently conversational. Then the band would play and he’d turn 180: wailing like a marine sergeant about to burst into tears. Oh, and the crowd. This wasn’t just slam dancing anymore. This was my first genuine mosh pit, which is slam dancing with more people and a tighter space. How could you not mosh? (I feel bad for the kids today, mosh pits got out of control and now you can’t have ‘em anymore.) I can’t believe I got this shot: every time I had the something in focus and exposure dialed in, I got jostled. I ended up anchoring myself against the stage monitor and using my body to protect the camera. I’ve only got a half a contact sheet from this show -- I think I just shot one roll and re-worded the slogan of Stiff Records for myself that night to read: “Fuck art, let’s mosh!”
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