Author: Ira

Ever wonder about the lyrics to “Attack on Love”?  Of course, you have!  Guest chronicler, James, provides a selection from his diary on the 20th anniversary of their genesis.  Gentleman?  I always remembered it as a young woman. . . .

2/24/94

Short drive to Dallas.  Lizard Lounge has a very small stage, too small for tonight’s three-band bill.  My head hurts.  Too-quiet afternoon walk through deserted, urine-scented Deep Ellum.  We do a good soundcheck.  Local favorites Trish & Darren are on first, and the audience goes WILD for them!!!  Like no exaggerating, legit-type wild.  Crowd is pumped!!!  We are on next.  People really, really do not like us.  At all.  We bring the room way down, very fast.  Most of the people who were up front sat down on the floor.  Several of them voiced their opinions of our band.  At one particularly quiet moment, one gentleman informed us, “Hey man, y’all suck.”   Overall it was a blast, I thought we played great.  We stood by the t-shirt area while the Juliana Hatfield 3 were on and met several people who claimed to have liked our set.  Fight the power.  Went somewhere to eat after, Terry was mad, I don’t remember why.  Great sandwich, though.  The woman who checked us into our hotel rooms was at least 6’6″, maybe 250 lbs, not an ounce of fat, beautiful long blonde hair.  She was the biggest woman I had ever seen in my life.

 

Having received what we in the industry refer to as “mixed reviews,” Sitcom Theater clearly required some retooling.  Don’t get me wrong–we had no problem with its Chicago debut, taking solace in the words of rock critic Ronald Thomas Clontle: Time will vindicate me.  But we were uncomfortable that the cat was out of the bag, that everyone knew that Sitcom Theater = Seinfeld.  So we needed to come up with a curveball for the next time it came up on the wheel.   As with Seinfeld, we wanted a show we genuinely liked, without too many characters, and one that most of the audience would know too (goodbye Car 54, Where Are You?).  Stretching the definition of sitcom slightly, we chose Spongebob Squarepants, and then we waited. . . .  The wheel finally cooperated on February 23, 2011, in Los Angeles, of all perfect places.    Living up to regional stereotypes, audience response to our performance of As Seen on TV was more, let’s say, laid back than it was for The Chinese Restaurant, perhaps pacified by the excellence of Georgia’s Squidward.  By this point in the tour, we had decided to hedge our bets with a bonus mini-set of Condo Fucks material when the wheel landed on certain controversial selections, and we did a long encore that included openers the Urinals joining us for “Surfin’ with the Shah” and “Sex.”  Maybe everyone didn’t go home satisfied, but nobody wrote to us to complain, which is the next best thing.

 

Giant Mission of Burma fans, preparing to record our first album, and recalling seeing Clint Conley credited as producer on the Flies’ “All Hung Up” 45, we were very excited when he agreed to take that role with us too.  In the weeks preceding recording in Boston, then-bassist Mike Lewis handed in his resignation, effective on the completion of the record.  With that in mind–did I mention we were giant Mission of Burma fans?–we asked Clint if he would consider playing on a few of the songs.  Although it had been roughly three years since he’d picked up a bass, he said yes to that too.  Ride the Tiger in the proverbial can, back in Hoboken without a bassist, and with a February 22 date at CBGB with Antietam, The Scene Is Now and–foreshadowing!–Volcano Suns looming, we decided to enquire of Clint if he was ready to make his return to the concert stage (figuring we might as well keep making requests till he said no).  He was!  It went so well, naturally we had another question: Would he be willing to play again?  He wasn’t.  Six months later, Dave Schramm taught us his instrumental, “In Like Clint.”  Fourteen years later, Mission of Burma reunited.

 

Two-plus weeks of opening for Teenage Fanclub concludes 20 years ago today, in Athens, GA.   We get to play an encore, but we are unable to coax Gerard Love to join us on mandolin on “I Heard You Looking.”  We’ve heard him playing it backstage, and if my memory is accurate (anything’s possible), they cover it on their first show after we part ways.   Were we thrilled when they put their version on a “Neil Jung” cd?  Yup.  Speaking of Neil, “Don’t Cry No Tears” is among the numbers we play at the Hall of Records in San Francisco in 1988.  That  in-store nearly ended before it began, as we decided to see what all the hubbub was about and drive the Pacific Coast Highway.  Approximately three hours and 18 miles later, we were looking for the nearest on-ramp to the 101, finally pulling into San Francisco hours late.   What better way to apologize than with a Northern California-heavy set: “3/5 of a Mile in 10 Seconds,” “The Sound of the Rain” and “Mendocino.”

 

 

Eugene, Oregon really rolled out the red carpet for our first visit, on this date in 2011 during our spinning wheel tour. The stage crew at WOW Hall went above and beyond, repairing the crate the wheel traveled in.  Someone brought us a box of Voodoo Doughnuts at the beginning of the night, and someone else invited us to Jameson’s for drinks at the end. The show went great, once we made the executive decision to declare Spin Again when the wheel landed on The Sounds of Science, part 1 for the third night in a row. We had the Urinals up from L.A. to open, and during our encore, we all played “Surfin’ with the Shah” together.

 

 

 

 

Our first trip out west, in 1988, does not bring us as far north as Oregon or Washington, but we are racking up the miles on I-5.  Since last we visited this tour we’ve traveled to Berkeley, and now on February 19, we’re back in L.A. for a doubleheader: an acoustic set at the late, great Rhino Records followed by a sold-out show at the Club Lingerie, opening for House of Freaks and the Pontiac Brothers.  It’s no fun at all.  We play early to an empty room and rather than return to the communal dressing room, Georgia and I decide to go for a walk.  The doorman bids us adieu in that unmistakable all-exits-final way, so we tell him that we’re band members and will be returning.  He replies that it doesn’t matter who we are, once we leave, we’re not getting back in.  Positive that at least one of us is not understanding the other, I reiterate that we’re on the bill, and just want some fresh air.  Turns out that miscommunication is not our problem, and he indicates the long line of people whose attendance depends on someone leaving, and asks us what he’s supposed to tell them.  Looking for Allen Funt or (demonstrating great prognostication) Asthton Kutcher, I suggest he tell them we’re part of the show.  To no avail.  We are undaunted:  “Sell our equipment.  We’re going for a walk.”  And sure, I nearly got beaten to a pulp when we got back, but a bit of groveling later and we were back inside, miserable.

Things are going only slightly better 22 years later in Adelaide.  The backline that’s been provided for us is disintegrating before our eyes.  When the bass amp dies during the fifth song (to be fair, that’s three songs longer than the organ amp), we take an unscheduled intermission to reflect.    On our return, we play a couple of songs with me at the piano, with the bass in the monitors and p.a. only.  Not to get too technical, but it sounds like crap.    The set list gets thrown in the trash with the amps, and we play an hour of acoustic songs.