Rivethead - Ben Hamper [107]
Dave and I had already been messin’ around for the past year in our own little grunge quartet called Dr. Schwarz Kult. (The name came courtesy of Dave's shrink.) We had done quite a bit of recording down at the studios of WFBE where I did my weekly radio show. Admittedly, our entire playlist was just a bunch of aimless ranting: “Hotbed of Sin,” “Bowling for Teenagers, “Drinking Makes Sense”—anything to annoy. We put out one cassette appropriately entitled Entire Mire, refused to play live, never practiced, got bored and disbanded. It was silly. Here we were in our thirties, dolin’ out a bunch of sonic mulch that only appealed to a handful of miscreants who could've been our kids. What we needed was a purpose.
That purpose turned out to be General Motors. Not solely General Motors, but all forms of blue-collar moil and toil. The more we thought about it, the more sense it made. What it came down to was simple truth and authenticity. During the past few years, Dave and I had become terribly weary of hearing a number of these flimflam rock ‘n’ roll mongers pluggin’ up the airwaves with their detached meanderings of “da average man, man.” Goddamn millionaires mewin’ all over the dial about how bad the grind was. When? Where? How? They should have all been forced to write songs about cocaine orgies and tax shelters and beluga caviar. Leave us alone.
Average man? Shit, Billy Joel wasn't “livin’ here in Allentown.” He was twirlin’ tongues with Christie Brinkley in some high-rise china cabinet. If that's average, how come the steering gear man wasn't bangin’ Cheryl Tiegs? Why weren't Dave and I playin’ leapfrog with the Landers sisters?
And what about Bob Seger? He might've been from our neck of the woods, he might have put out some hot-ass groove before sellin’ out to housewife drivel but he sure as hell wasn't “makin’ Thunderbirds.” He was buying them! Probably by the lot load. Get outta here, ya four-flusher.
Hey, when was the last time you saw a photo or video of John Cougar Mellonfarm when he wasn't strategically positioned within a five-foot radius of: a) corn on the cob b) a manure rake or c) some dilapidated porch brimming with Jed Clampett clones and pregnant Negresses? C'mon, Johnny, you don't mean to tell us you lug all those things into the Jacuzzi with ya, huh? Go inseminate a tractor, bub.
Then, of course, there's Springsteen. Who says you can't be 297 places at once? The guy has made untold zillions hoppin’ to and fro in his house of hallucinations, always emerging on release date as either a construction worker (The River), a garage mechanic (I'm on Fire), a minor league batting instructor (Glory Days), the kindred spirit of Charlie Starkweather (Nebraska) or some other pockmarked casualty of Crud Corners. No wonder this guy's concerts run on to half-past never. It takes a heap of time to sing from A (aviator) to Z (zincographer). Yo, Boss, you didn't happen to have an older sister named Sybil by any chance?
Before everyone gets cranky and wants to assail me as the bastard spud of Albert Goldman, chill a moment. All right, maybe it's true these rock stars have dandy intentions but it just doesn't wash. For instance, you wouldn't call a heart surgeon to your house to steam-vac your carpet. Why entrust the blues to a bunch of off-whites? These fickle chameleons oughtta clear out and take their lousy method acting with ‘em. We don't need them to serenade us on how tedious and deprived our lives are. If need be, we can do it ourselves.
At least, this was the belief Dave and I were operating under. Workers should perform the songs of workers. Let assembly workers sing about assembly lines. Let waitresses sing about waiting tables.