Sarre-Chasm – Column

Sarre-Chasm

by Jon Sarre
illustration by Eric Johnson

So here we are, sometime, somewhere in the year of our lord 1996; “we” refers to me and presumably anyone who’s still reading at this point (skip around if you want, I’m sure there’s a nifty feature on somebody’s fave underground cultural hero of the month elsewhere – short attention spans are the in thing, trust me!). That taken care of, this is not my column, see? Scott H. pitched the idea to me not too long ago when I called for freebie copies of the last three issues of Lollipop (I still haven’t received ’em). (This has been corrected – ed.) Like any non-self-respecting print hack, I gratefully accepted the offer and then went on to slavishly praise both him and the magazine, and why not? A thousand words leave lotsa room for unraveled prose, dead-end tangents, and a metaphorical hammer with which to smash the ants that escape the restrictive “short record review” format.

Therein lies my raison d’être: a soap box where I can harangue the general readership on topics noxious or otherwise (or just complain, depending on how my day’s going). Since this is a music magazine (mostly, anyway) and rock’n’roll is my number one obsession (with finding ways to amuse myself whilst drunk coming in at a close second), my musing in this space will mostly be concerned with bands (great, ignored, hack, shit, etc.) and the various sub-cultural and pop concerns and other peripheral crap that affects music and vice versa.

This particular column, however, is like the first day of school when everyone gets to know each other. You know, the teacher says, “Hi, I’m Mrs. Ratinface” and then goes on to explain that you’d better show up each day or there’s gonna be problems; in a word: “orientation.” Just for the record, my name’s Jon Sarre. I live in Portland, Oregon (but I wonder sometimes) and I’d take Pussy Galore‘s Right Now!, the Rolling StonesExile on Main St. and the first Stooges record to a desert island before food and water. I’ll also opine that there’s a handful of great bands out there releasing music today (how ’bout Thomas Jefferson Slave Apartments, Royal Trux, Cobra Verde, the Steel Miners, and the Jon Spencer Blues Explosion?), but each and every example here is retro in one way or another (be that punk, blues, ’70s rock, garage, etc.). There’re also twenty shit bands for every one above; that should surprise no one. Me, anyway, I’m waiting for the New Rock Messiah (or will it be the Anti-Christ?).

Don’t we all feel closer now (raise your hand if you’re still reading)? Seeing this deal is still under construction, I don’t have a name for it. I might eventually think of one, but then again I might not (I’ve been so busy assembling personnel for a Krautrock cabaret experience I just haven’t had time to think of a clever name like they have in Flipside.). (Thanks to KJ! – ed.)

Truth be told, names are just window dressing, and deeper meanings go down like a ton of bricks anyway, so why bother? I’d rather stick with the content and hit on some stuff that can only be inferred in record reviews. I mean shit, that’s so outta date that only the historical record has use for it. Call it trivia, call it facts for fact’s sake, I’m calling it the untold history of unheard music. It’s all there if you wanna bother, like why did Death of Samantha, for my money, one of the best bands to ever walk the face of the fucking Earth, come and go without even making a dent in the CMJ charts? How come fashion concerns overtake purely musical ones vis-a-vis punk rock? What about politics? Why would anyone care about this shit? I think you should care if you give a flyin’ fuck about the music!

There you have the premise, I guess. The mission statement, if you will; the subject of drunk-at-3:00 AM conversations, stoned reflections, and the knowledge that I had my mind blown at the age of fourteen by Black Flag and thereafter have seen music as more than a way to fill silent spots in the day, more than a means to stimulate foreplay, more than a socialization aide, more than something to cover up the sound of a knocking engine. Not a means to an end, but the end itself.

Seriously, the cutting edge as we know it is often only the crest of the wave. The wave peaks and it washes back out and it sucks your 13th Floor Elevators, Saccharine Trusts, Great Plains, and Railroad Jerks to who fucking knows where, like they never existed in the first place. One of the most poignant moments I ever witnessed at a rock’n’roll show was when ’68 Comeback covered Charlie Feathers‘ “Blame it on Time.” Feathers is a genius songwriter who recorded at Sun in the ’50s, but was totally buried by the Elvis/Jerry Lee/Carl Perkins juggernaut. Not surprisingly, he’s still bitter about it today (and practically forgotten). ’68 Comeback’s Jeff Evans knows the score himself. The neo-rockabillies out there who groove to the good Rev. Horton Heat should be buying every slab of noiseabilly ’68 puts out, but Sympathy for the Record Industry don’t put over like Interscope, I guess.

Call me a reactionary, call me a jerk, call me jaded ‘cos, it’s all true, but I’ve seen the truth and it sure as fuck ain’t tied into what Epitaph released this month (unless you’re talkin’ the Red Aunts). We’re flooded with pseudo-rock. Today, it’s the common currency, even if it is only chump change. So I wanna use this space to yell and scream about has-beens and never-wases and no-hopes who you can probably find if you’ve got the patience to paw through the loser bins at your local used record shop. I wanna talk ? and the Mysterians, Naked Raygun, and Gaunt until someone breaks down and buys an LP by one of these guys! That’s not to say that it’s all a matter of historical record, either. Last night I was floored by Butter 08, which just goes to show that any Grand Royal scam plus one of the last great human drummers (the Blues Explosion’s Russell Simins – where was he when Jon was still doing Pussy Galore?) equals sweat and smiles and a motherfucking intense rock’n’roll show!

The shit exists, boys and girls and the rest, well, it’ll be there anyway. At best we can pretend not to see it.

Next Month: A Topic!