Sha Na Na Never Fit In (Dead Milkmen, Warsaw, 4/17/09)

(photo via dhc's Flickr)

I love shows at the Warsaw - it's a great place for joy - but the sound is only good if you're in the front third of the room.  Everyone knew this, I guess, because it felt like the entire capacity crowd crushed their way up there when the Dead Milkmen first came out.  A subsequent ebb left the right side of the room flat on its ass.  We, um, meant to do that.

The Velvet Underground - Rock & Roll (mp3)(buy)

This is how I remember it:  We were parked in our high school's lot, grabbing beers (probably Stroh's, yikes) from the trunk, asses on fenders.  The car doors were open and Big Lizard in My Backyard was roaring out from the dashboard speakers.  Halfway through the record someone said, "These guys are playing a show tonight in a high school parking lot in PA."  He gave the name of a school to imply veracity.  Someone else said that, hey, that was just over the border, like fifteen minutes away.  We all agreed we should go, but because we didn't think we'd be able to keep drinking, there, we didn't.  Thrilling tales of dumb teens in 80s suburbia.

Similar useless excuses filled the next decade as I bought and re-bought Big Lizard five times over across various formats.  I've owned at least three Bucky Fellinis and have no idea where any of those have gotten to.  The first girl who gave me a handjob with her mouth never returned my Eat Your Paisley.  I don't think I've listened to the Beelzebubba CD more than a half-dozen times, I sold my copy of Metaphysical Graffiti back for store credit (and not because the song "Anderson, Walkman, Buttholes and How!" offended my then-proggy sensibilities).  I'd pass new releases by the band and - while turning my nose up at titles like Not Richard But Dick - would be comforted (and amused) that they were still around.  And then they weren't, anymore.  By 1995, they'd amicably splintered into side-projects and day jobs; in 2004, bassist Dave Blood took his own life.

That would be that, only it couldn't be.  This band meant something huge for me, something I couldn't disown no matter how hard I once tried to put on airs of mock-maturity.  I'd never been in the same room with them, had no idea who they were or what they looked like, but their energy and their attitude had taught me ways to laugh through my teeth and bang my head against walls.  I'd learned that every damned thing could be made fun of, especially your own snotty self, and learned what juicy absurdity results when silly things are taken seriously.  That it's fine to be seen as dumber than you really are (as opposed to the bullshit of the vice versa), and fine to be stupid about unimportant things, but that only idiots revere stupidity.  I'd learned that some things earn your meanness.  And that not only is ridiculousness acceptable, it is inescapable.

They let me know that someone else hates the fucking beach.  They gave me a little something in which to put my faith.

The Dead Milkmen - Swordfish (mp3)(buy)

"I just came this close to doing something real stupid."  Rodney Anonymous paces back and forth in a black hoodie, t-shirt, jeans, to the bass steps that support the intro to (and bulk of) "Bitchin' Camaro."  Tubby and mostly bald, he looks like your favorite crazy uncle, and for the length of the show he has the panicked spazz of someone half his size and a quarter his age.  Sometimes, when he's not barking, he runs around like he doesn't know where to direct his energy, then runs to the edge of the stage and pushes it out to the crowd.  But now, he's pacing.  "I almost asked, ‘How's everyone doing tonight?' This is not the question one asks at a Dead Milkmen show.  Because if you were doing ‘alright,' if you were really happy, you wouldn't be at a Dead Milkmen show."

I am really happy to be at a Dead Milkmen show.  The band (plus bassist Dandrew Stevens of The Low Budgets) was encouraged to reassemble for last year's Fun Fun Fun Fest, was encouraged by the reaction there to "keep at it."  And the band seems really happy to be here.  Ponytailed drummer Dean Clean snapped pics of the crowd before the set, Rodney did a little crowd surfing the second song in, Stevens would dive out after the second encore.  Joe Jack Talcum, who plays guitar and applies his reedy voice to the group's more earnest offerings ("Punk Rock Girl," "Methodist Coloring Book") is less effusive.  (If you fused Rodney Anonymous and the salt-and-peppered Talcum together you'd wind up with Adam Arkin.)  His biggest show of emotion might be a roll of the eyes as Rodney attempts to bludgeon a path back into "Camaro."

On record that track, Lizard's second-longest at almost three minutes, starts with a rambling conversation between a snotty Rodney and a stoned-sounding, oft-prompted Jack.  They talk about heavy metal t-shirts and crappy Doors cover bands (to this day I cannot hear "Love Me Two Times" without thinking about AIDS and that's EXACTLY HOW IT SHOULD BE) and the intricacies of automobile acquisition (you cannot drive one up from The Bahamas).  This leads to the actual "song," a thrashy faux-pro-hit-and-run screed.  (If all Dead Milkmen songs are about any one thing, it might be the horrible things people think about and do when they're bored.)  I don't know how, historically, this has translated to their live performances.  In Austin last fall Rodney used the intro section for an inspirational speech about art and public service.  Now, far from the post-election glow, he let loose a punk-positive rant about ignorant information choices.

What's wrong with the world, he argues, is not that the wrong people have the money or the guns, it's that the wrong people have the microphones.  Not exactly a watertight argument, given the torrent of dreck that is the Internet, especially when coupled with his odd assertion that Obama - who was born at a podium, no? - wasn't an asshole until he got into office and opened his mouth.  (Ever the idealist, Rodney is angered about the lack of prosecutions over waterboarding.  Pragmatist me would argue that it's a tough thing to encourage people to follow you when you start prosecuting people for following executive orders.)  But he rolls over some juicy, screwball targets:  Jim Bob Duggar, who victimizes us not only by filling the world up with badly educated pups, but gets to demonstrate his lack of knowledge (and condom usage) on The Learning Channel.  The psychological torture of Psychic Kids  ("Don't worry about studying... all the answers will come right to you, just like they did for Sarah Palin.").  The dittohead echochamber of... the Charlie Daniels Soapbox.  We are implored to go there and "Fuck with him!"  (Rodney can't, he's been blocked.)

"What kind of car does he drive?"  Joe Jack asks.

Which is all to say that the band's kept its fuck-off attitude.  Or at least finds new versions of the same old things to get angry about.  Yes, Ed Meese is still in the lyrics.  But there are three mentions of Glen Beck (one awkwardly rhymed with "Hasselbeck"), a middle finger to Hannah Montana, a nod towards Warsaw's pierogie concession.  And the re-formed group - this was their first NYC show in 15 years - doesn't need to be exact as much as they need to be present.  Technically, the band's fine; musical stuff does happen in Milkmen songs, but even when they're funk-driven the sound is thin and everything is there to carry/force along the vocals.  Rodney apologized for not being Throbbing Gristle (and suggested on the Milkmen's message board that that show might be a priority).  He spent more time setting up his keyboard and sampler (an elaborate geeky pre-show checklist (scroll down) involved floppy discs, a witness signature, offstage animal sacrifice) than he spends using them.  Their Velvet Underground cover is more notable for its introduction ("At this time I would like to bring out Mr. Lou Reed [pause for batshit crowd reaction] ...unfortunately I don't know Lou Reed.  It's the fucking Dead Milkmen!  Lou Reed isn't going to come out here!  We couldn't get Weird Al Yankovic to come out here." (Reed was busy elsewhere.)) than its execution.

And to be honest I'm paying a lot less attention to what the band's doing than what the crowd is.  I'm trying to keep my balance while jumping around, screaming.  I'm here not just to finally, publically, affirm my belief system.  I'm not just here for the chance to go back and be the dumb kid I never got to be (as opposed to the dumb kid I was).  But to let some of these songs back out, to bark along with everyone else about Charles Nelson Reilly and Joanie Loves Crotchie and what the queers are doing to the soil.  It's almost tragic that I'll leave without getting the chance to Aaaaaah! and Oooooh! to "Spit Sink!" or be inappropriate along with "RC's Mom," their genius tribute to James Brown ("Gon' beat my wife!  Look out!").  But the set list is packed full of familiars, and when "Swordfish" finally comes around it features a slip into "Instant Club Hit (You'll Dance to Anything)" and a butchered pop song I'm sure I'll forget by the time I write the show up (it was New Order's "Bizarre Love Triangle").  Life is good, and I'm a lot more tired than I would have been had I done this back when I should have.

If the night has a single great musical moment, it might be the first roar in "Smokin' Banana Peels" ("MELLLLLLLLLLLLL!-OW!  IT'S! SO!  MELLLLLLLLLLLL...!"), or the weirdly affecting nudge-wink anthem "Life is Shit."  There's ironic arm-waving, yeah, but there's also the celebration of commiseration.  It's the fucking Dead Milkmen!

"See you in 15 years!" says Rodney.

Set List (via):  Nutrition/ Punk Rock Girl/ Serrated Edge/ Brat in the Frat/ Big Lizard/ If You Love Someone, Set Them on Fire/ Dean's Dream/ Depression Day Dinner/ Stuart/ Tiny Town/ In Praise of Sha Na Na/ VFW/ War Toys/ Methodist Coloring Book/ Take Me to the Specialist/ I Am the Walrus/ Smokin' Banana Peels/ Right Wing Pigeons/ Beach Party Vietnam/ Bitchin' Camaro/ Life is Shit/ (Encores:) Girl Hunt/ Dance with Me/ Rock 'n' Roll (Velvet Underground cover)/ Swordfish (with Instant Club Hit and ?)/ Two Feet/ Tarantuala/ Lucky/ If I Had a Gun/ I Walk the Thinnest Line

Also there:  Almost Everything Sucks, BrooklynVegan, New York Press

The Dead Milkmen will be playing Baltimore at the end of June.

*

The greatest security staffer in the world worked this show.  Giant Mr. Clean dude walked right past the friendly mess of kids at the front of the room and just stood there.  Not interfering, just making sure no one got hurt.  At one point I looked over and he was holding a lost sneaker in the air, shining his flashlight on it.  Gold star.

*

Close enough.

*

I've seen Corn Mo (myspace) a handful of times, now, but this is the first time I've seen him with .357 Lover (myspace).  Mr. Mo's strength is that he's lovable, and watching him sing outsize Meatloaf anthems while playing an undersized accordion emphasizes his underdog appeal.  (My favorite story/song is "German Lady Special.")  A lot of that is lost dressed up in the bombast of a full band.  They're a solid, silly rock outfit, still at best when their frontman amplifies intimate stories - "this song is about making out at the mall" - out of proportion.  But Lover, with a guitar player who looks like a parody of a hipster and acts like a parody of a shredder, seems to encourage irony.  Maybe I just need to get used to it, because it's impossible not to wish the guy well.

*

Philly's GANG (myspace) was the early opener.  Their cheer squad-meets-basement-budget space opera stuff is fun, probably more fun in smaller doses.  I do love this song, which I've mentioned before, and it's only fair that more people get to hear it:

GANG - Rat Poison (mp3)(buy)

*

PRODUCT LAUNCH ALERT:  These are good people; go enjoy their company and wish them well.  It's got electrolytes!

*

Come midnight, NPR will be streaming the new St. Vincent album.

tags: dead milkmen  concert reviews  

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