James Hannaham’s most recent novels are “Delicious Foods” and “Didn’t Nobody Give a S*** What Happened to Carlotta.”
When I was going to see live music regularly in the 1980s and early 1990s, the gold standards for performance were danger and outrageousness — Ozzy Osbourne biting the heads off bats, GG Allin taking a crap onstage, more mainstream groups like the Who and Nirvana destroying their instruments amid chaotic moshing — sometimes while covered in mud, like at Woodstock ’94. It just wasn’t a good show unless Wendy O. Williams exposed her nipples and fired a shotgun into the audience.
I’d been a music writer, but in my 30s and 40s I took a break from going out, as did many of my friends, who’d become parents. I never completely tuned out from popular music, though, and I tried to keep up with current musical acts and old faves online. But recently, I started to notice bands that sounded a lot like artists I’d grown up listening to, like Gang of Four. And when two of them — Deeper and Stuck — played a show nearby, I decided to go with a friend about my age.
I am here to testify, oldsters, it’s safe to go back into the club. Live music has become civilized, and while the young punk in me thinks that’s pretty lame, my middle-aged self is doing a Snoopy dance. I didn’t need to rend my clothing, wear black lipstick, or stick a safety pin through my cheek to vibe with the audience. Nobody cared that my friend and I looked out of place. The venue did not reek of stale beer — in fact, there was a Mexican restaurant attached to it, where we enjoyed a couple of very good tacos and a glass of rosé before the show. It was completely possible to move around the space without violently shoving anyone out of the way. Even more shocking, the show started on time and ended at a decent hour.
Musically, both Deeper and Stuck, which share members, would have fit in with any number of early ’80s post-punk acts. Deeper’s vocalist, Nic Gohl, has a snarl that recalls Brits like Pete Shelley, Johnny Rotten, and Robert Smith (in the early days). I’d compare guitarist Drew McBride’s out-of-tune licks to Stump if it were 1988. Does anyone else remember Stump? On the other hand, Stuck sounded as if they had skipped right over Green Day and gone all the way back to the bands Wire or the Fall. The crowd they attract — polite, decently dressed young people, mixed-gender (though not exactly mixed-race), collegiate — would have spontaneous aneurysms at a Dead Kennedys show. The attendees gave each other ample breathing room. Everyone nodded their heads appreciatively, clapping and whooping generously after every song. True believers up front, as usual, sang along. No heckling occurred. Nobody turned any object into a projectile to be tossed at the band members or anyone else. Neither band indulged in any diatribes or hostile stage banter. I could get used to this.
And, in fact, I have. After that totally pleasurable experience, another older friend and I decided to start going to shows again regularly, and part of the fun is being spontaneous and clueless — deciding on a day and then scrambling to find a decent musical act playing that night or the next. We usually have a lot of options — that’s one of the main perks of urban life. So a little while ago we wound up going to see BRONCHO, an Oklahoma-based group that reminded me of the Jesus and Mary Chain — all fuzzy guitars, 1-4-5 chord changes, and barely intelligible mumblecore lyrics, served with an alt-country twang. They were celebrating the 10th anniversary of their third album, “Double Vanity,” the breakthrough where they slowed their power pop down and found their voice in part by muffling lead singer Ryan Lindsey’s voice. If the Jesus and Mary Chain’s Jim Reid ever taught singing lessons, Lindsey would get an A+. A fine show, and early; I got home before 10 p.m.
While I’m curious to find out whether bands my age still indulge in the expected chaos, I doubt it’s compatible with sciatica, cankles, and hearing loss. A lot of the big names have died or burned out. Debbie Harry is 81 years old. All the original Ramones have been dead for at least 12 years.
Why don’t younger fans act out the way we did? Could that be because they’re our children’s age — heck, some of them are our children — and we were so well versed in irresponsible behavior that we effectively preempted their rebellion? Or are they trying to piss us off by being square? If so, it’s not working.
My next outing with my friend promises to be far more adult — a rare appearance by the 82-year-old Afro-Peruvian singer Susana Baca, a quieter, sit-down jazz club kind of date. I’m not anticipating that she’ll fire a shotgun into the audience. She isn’t that kind of artist. And those days are gone, anyway. Thankfully.