The following was my
first published piece of writing. I submitted it to the Illinois Times in November of 1987, at age 20, and it led
to my unofficial position as go-to rock music writer for the paper over the
next three years. More than two decades on, it still seems almost inconceivable
that the Dead Milkmen and Mojo Nixon actually did a show at the PCCC. But it
happened. I was there. And here’s what I wrote about it:
The doors open, and the crowd,
what there is of it, pushes forward, only to be immediately bombarded by the
deafening, prerecorded sound of ZZ Top, at what has to be top volume.
Conversation is impossible, unthinkable. As I look around, I realize that I am probably
the oldest person in the room, and last year I was a teenager. Tonight, the Prairie Capitol Convention Center
has been transformed into a late-night day care center for spikey-haired,
inebriated thirteen-year-olds.
Okay. I
exaggerate. There are the occasional curious middle-aged passersby, a few
thirty-year-olds in Ramones T-shirts, and, of course, a number of college
students. The key word tonight, though, is Kids. Kids and Hormones. And Denim.
After the
lights have dimmed, I make my way through the throng of miniskirts, hoops, and
Mohawks to get a glimpse of Baltek, the opening act. What can you say about a
band that comes across as a hybrid of all the worst aspects of Iggy Pop and
Johnny Cash? Heavy metal train songs must’ve looked good on paper, but Baltek
doesn’t have an original bone in its body. No one seems to mind. No one seems
to listen, either: the girls compare eye makeup, the T-shirt stand does a
booming business, and everyone waits for something interesting to happen. Soon
the lights are on again.
I patiently
await the arrival of the first of the two headliners. Watching the teen rituals
going on around me, I have to resist the impulse to join in; they all seem to
be having so much fun that it’s hard not to be jealous of them. I get the sense
that these kids realize what a rare treat this is, and that this town will
probably never play host to another “New Music Concert.” The kids are squeezing
it for all the deviate pleasure it’s worth. Before I can affect my own
transformation into a teenybopper, though, Mojo Nixon appears from the wings.
His partner, virtuoso washboardist Skid Roper, has been standing nonchalantly
onstage for around ten minutes, awaiting his partner and, like me, enjoying the
view. Here’s where the real fun begins.
Mojo Nixon
turns out to be a powderkeg, an insane foot-stompin’ pissed-off intellectual
hillbilly with a dirty mouth and a crude, perceptive sense of humor. It’s not
so much that he’s an original: he unapologetically steals riffs and lyrics from
people as far apart as John Lee Hooker and Jonathan Richman, and his satirical
targets (MTV, Elvis-worshippers, urine testing, yuppies in European cars, Tammy
Bakker, etc.), while fresh as the day’s headlines, are also grist for the mill
of every standup comic working today. No, it’s the simple vision of a little
man in a flannel shirt having one heck of a good time raving about what he
believes in that makes Mojo great. Backed only by the sound of his own electric
guitar and his pal Skid’s washboard, Mojo’s hedonistic indignation is the
committed reaction of a man stuck in a world that he sees going straight to
hell.
Which isn’t
to say that’s how the audience sees him tonight. There are some Mojo devotees,
but it’s mainly kids waiting for an excuse to slamdance.
A slamdance
is not a pretty sight once it revs up. Even standing on the periphery, I
receive a few bruises and seven crushed toes. Close to where I’m standing, a
pretty girl who can’t be any older than fourteen does her best to avoid the
melee. Suddenly, though, in one of her valiant attempts to see the band over
the crowd, she is swept up by a wave of flailing bodies and into the heart of
the slamming sea at the foot of the stage. All that’s left is the lingering
smell of her perfume, as I watch in horror and Mojo Nixon keeps banging away.
The lights
come up again, and I’m getting a little tired. To be quite honest, I’ve never
been a big Dead Milkmen fan up to this point, and personal suspense is not
high. However, the crowd is energized and ready for some snot-rock (that’s what
the Milkmen play; they’re too innocuous to be accurately labeled “punk,” but
they are very snotty). It’s not long
before the band emerges, and it makes me wonder: how come low-budget outfits
are so much more reliable than big money acts? Count on a three-hour wait for
Starship, but the Dead Milkmen, heck, they’re punctual.
Lead by
non-singer Rodney Anonymous and non-guitarist Joe Jack Talcum, the Milkmen put
on a predictably wacky and frenetic show, punctuated by bracing but harmless
obscenity. The Dead Milkmen are imps. Rodney Anonymous looks like Tom Hulce did
in Amadeus, a little kid who can’t
believe that all eyes are actually on him. Not that anyone’s going to compare
the Dead Milkmen’s music to Mozart. They specialize in silly ditties like “The
Laundromat Song,” “Nutrition” (“at least I give a shit about the stuff I
eat…”), and the classic “Bitchin’ Camaro.” They play fake country, fake funk,
fake heavy metal, fake reggae, and more, effortlessly switching from one inept
style-approximation to the next.
But the
audience is having a great time, and so am I. More than once I find myself
non-singing along with the loopy, catchy choruses; again and again I catch
myself laughing. The slamdance crowd has gone bongo, and the security guys are
sweating buckets, their steroid-injection tracks glistening in the half-light
as they toss the more zealous of the dancers out the door. When the band
actually gets called back for an encore (Rodney A.: “Thanks, I didn’t think we
were that good tonight.”) they play the best music of the evening, climaxing
with the (real) funk of “Swordfish” combined with their satirical club hit
“You’ll Dance To Anything.” Joe Jack Talcum plays some hilariously great guitar
on this one, using an empty liquor bottle for a slide. When the Dead Milkmen
leave the stage, everyone’s appetite for snot-rock has been sated.
It’s
distressing that in the current state of rock ‘n’ roll, everything that’s
popular seems to consist of utterly inconsequential fluff (Madonna, Poison), or
deadly serious “statements” (U2, Springsteen). That’s why a vulgar, funny
shot-in-the-arm like Mojo Nixon is important every once in a while; and that’s
why a lovably inept group of professional adolescents like the Dead Milkmen are
more than a welcome change. It helps to see that someone can just go onstage
without a fabulous light show and million dollar equipment and just have some
good, adolescent fun. Actually, I thought that was what rock ‘n’ roll was about
to begin with. Hats off to the performers at Springfield’s “New Music Concert.” The Prairie Capitol Convention Center
may never see their like again.
Originally published
in Illinois Times, vol. 13, No. 14,
December 3-9, 1987
This article appears in Jan 20-26, 2011.
