2021 #3: Music Is None Of My Business
If I had to guess which genre of music I’ve listened to more than any other in my life, it would probably be the somewhat vague umbrella of melodic punk. Orgcore, some might call it. I don’t count passive listening when making this unofficial calculation—if I did that it’d almost definitely be classic rock. The local classic rock station, 96.5 WHTQ, was the reliable background presence of my childhood, soundtracking every ride regardless of distance. My sister and I would argue about whose turn it is to get the window seat of a sand-colored GMC S-15 whose bench, even as small kids, seemed too crowded. The leather was hard and cracked, exposing the yellowing sponge underneath in spots. I can’t remember but I sincerely doubt the air conditioning in the truck worked; I don’t remember my parents having a car with A/C until my mom upgraded to SUVs (which were very new and hot at the time) when we got a little older, first a maroon Jeep Grand Cherokee, then a green Ford Expedition. But in that tiny GMC, the middle seat meant claustrophobic feelings of dread, little fresh air, and the unpleasant sensation of two sweaty thighs rubbing against yours instead of just one, the agony of having to wait a few seconds to get out of the damn truck whenever we arrived at our destination. The window seat, on the other hand, meant freedom; the deadly serious responsibility of controlling the passenger door and window, which on an old vehicle often meant slamming the door coming in or going out, and placing a flat palm on the window while furiously yet carefully turning the knob to guide the piece of glass to stay on its track and not become irrevocably crooked on its journey up or down. The window seat meant a warm wind blowing through my stringy hair, which wasn’t great, but better than no wind at all. Being the eldest, I usually won these arguments, but every once in a while, either Mom would intervene and force me to let my sister sit by the window, or I would show how mature I was becoming and allow her to sit there. We’d all climb in, Mom would insert the key into the ignition and give it a decisive turn, probably let out a faint sigh of relief when it started, and then Lynyrd Skynyrd would be soundtracking our trip, or AC/DC, or Pink Floyd, or Van Halen, or Led Zeppelin, or Aerosmith. The music of her youth was just always there. It was also emanating from our boat on fishing trips with Dad, the sun dipping below Dragon Point at the extreme southern tip of Merritt Island where Tropical Trail ends and the Banana River begins. We’d fish the mangroves just below Mathers Bridge for sheepshead and spotted seatrout, drink cans of Mountain Dew, and listen to Jimi Hendrix, Tom Petty, the Rolling Stones, Fleetwood Mac, Eagles, Def Leppard. The adults in my life always controlled the radio. Those were just the rules. Once I became old enough to discover music on my own, though, I actively and forecfully rebelled, as you do, against classic rock, which led me to heavy metal and eventually, punk rock. By 2008, I was 23, living on my own with a high-speed Internet connection and Orgcore up to my eyeballs.
Plenty of people never move past this music, and I can understand why. It can be visceral, yet approachable ways that a lot of other loud music cannot be. For a young, confused, directionless white guy previously reared on Green Day and The Offspring, its discovery can be a revelation on par with developing a taste for metallic-flavored beer that only ornery grandpas used to drink. The music is simple and raw, anthemic and fun to yell along to. It feels more real in that moment than anything else that came before it. I spent several years perpetually chasing that dragon with slowly diminishing returns, listening to new bands who, to my ears, seemed to lack something, even if I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. I found myself more and more bored by the genre. At shows, I’d look around and see a bunch of white guys thrashing around with little regard for the safety or personal space of those around them, throwing half-empty tallboys through the air, pelting an unsuspecting stranger or the band themselves. The band, also full of white guys, would end a song and start another song that sounded exactly like the previous song. There was no diversity in demographic or in message, just barely functional alcoholism and shirtless men yelling. These shows were basically frat parties with slightly better music. That’s probably an oversimplification but that’s what it felt like to me. I can’t point to any one thing or moment but I decided I wasn’t getting anything out of this subgenre, and worse, was beginning to resent those who did, perfectly nice people in all likelihood. I needed to divest myself from Orgcore, so I went off and rediscovered a love for sludge metal, hip-hop, ‘70s punk, ‘80s hardcore, modern experimental punk and yes, classic rock. I made sure to listen to artists who weren’t just white, straight, and male.
Still, I’ve maintained a deep love for a handful of Orgcore bands. The Lawrence Arms were my favorite band from 2002 to probably 2010 or so, and their music is just as evocative and incisive now as it was then. I think Off With Their Heads are completely brilliant—simple, loud, brutal, anthemic, self-loathing. Banner Pilot write great, creative melodies and are underrated players. Hot Water Music, obviously. And then there’s Dillinger Four.
There’d been a lot of D4 discussion on the timeline this week. I believe it was Miranda Reinert who started it; her newsletter something old is so smart and well-written and forces me to think about things related to music and media that I wouldn’t otherwise consider. It’s always a highlight when it shows up in my inbox so subscribe to that one if you haven’t already. My friend David Anthony, another Good Newsletter Haver, weighed in, as did I. Then my friend Carl from the band Sundials tweeted about ranking Dillinger Four’s records and I had to break the unfortunate news to him and our mutuals that C I V I L W A R is actually my favorite of the four, because it came out in—you guessed it—2008, that year I mentioned. Most of my favorite modern punk records came out in formative years of my life which I think is a pretty normal thing to happen to someone. Time and place and all that. By 2008 I think I liked a few D4 songs just fine—my dear friend Brittany Strummer loved them—but on the whole, found their discography weirdly impenetrable, full of dense and inaccessible playing, indecipherable lyrics and interludes, and even more indecipherable song titles. That last part remained but most everything else on C I V I L W A R was stripped down compared to what came before it. This was D4 at their most accessible, with scaled-back production that allowed great melodies, inventive lyrics, and a strong variety of songs shine through. I was beginning to feel a little restless in 2008 with my work and my life, and was wondering what was next, which, being a similar boat 13 years later thanks to a neverending pandemic is a little unsettling in its symmetry. Everything that happened with the album’s leak that centered around Punknews.org certainly makes the time more memorable, too. It soundtracked the whole thing, except this time I was the one doing the driving and picking the music.
Over the years since C I V I L W A R, which itself was released six years after D4’s third album Situationist Comedy, the band’s activity has slowed considerably. 13 years later, there’s been no new music and just a few shows per year, usually festival dates, local Minneapolis shows or short tours. One of those tours was a few days in the Northeast US in October 2015, which included a stop at First Unitarian Church here in Philadelphia. I was working as a barback in my neighborhood in South Philly at the time. The show was on a Friday night where, on just about any other week, I’d be working until 3 a.m. Fridays being a little bit busier, there was usually a second barback on for happy hour and the bulk of dinner service to help run food and do whatever else needed to be done. I usually didn’t like this arrangement because it meant I would be making less money in tipouts—on a good Friday night barbacking and running solo I could make 200 bucks. But this night was one exception. I worked it out so that I would be first cut, hopefully around 8 p.m. or so, so that I could zoom over to the church really quick and catch at least most of the show. Unfortunately we got slammed that night and I had to stay much later than I wanted to. I was seething, resentful of guests who continued to pile in. I had somewhere to be. I wish I’d just taken the day off but anyone who’s ever worked in a restaurant or bar knows how futile a decision like that can be. You could permanently lose a good shift or get your hours cut; there’s seemingly no limit to how vindictive owners or FOH managers will be toward people they perceive as “unreliable.”
I finally got the all-clear to leave work around 9 p.m. I darted outside, unlocked my bike, hopped on and began zooming north on 11th Street. I took a left on Christian, which doesn’t have a bike lane but is a two-lane road that’s a little less dangerous to ride at night. It was dark, and I didn’t see a pothole. I hit it head on and the force of the bump immediately flattened my skinny rear tire. Devestated, I walked my bike to the sidewalk. I was still probably a mile and a half or so from the Church. If I walked from here I would miss the show for sure. I could run, maybe. There wasn’t a super direct way to get there via SEPTA. I had two choices: request an Uber ride, which I never liked doing, especially on a Friday night, or eat the ticket, walk my bike home and miss the show. I decided to lock my bike to a parking sign and try Uber, and got lucky when a car was nearby and picked me up within a couple minutes. I was antsy the whole ride, worried I’d miss the show still. I probably smelled like french fries and mayonnaise and beer from work. I was trying to find out on social media if D4 had played yet with no luck. The car pulled up on Chestnut in front of the Church basement door and the second I exited the back seat I could hear Erik Funk talking from the stage. I jogged down those jagged stairs and Jared, a guy I knew from a pick-up basketball club I was in at the time, was working the door. He just waved me in, didn’t bother to check for my ticket or anything. I got to my favorite spot on the Church floor—to the side of stage right, near the wall and closer to the restrooms—just as the band were plowing into their first song.
This week’s playlist is a collection of my favorite Dillinger Four songs. Unlike my previous playlists you can shuffle this one freely. I doubt there are any huge surprises on this thing but it’s still a full hour of some of the best American punk music of the past 20 years. I hope you like it.
No podcast this week but we did release a little preview of our next episode, which is about the 1990 French action/spy classic Nikita. The full episode will be out Monday. I appreciate everyone who’s been listening to these.