Sarre-Chasm

Taking Stock Thus Far…

by Jon Sarre
Illustration by Timothy Walker

Well, well, kiddies, can ya believe it’s been a whole year since I started doin’ this rantspectacular of groundless accusations, paranoia-induced mudslingin’, outright slander, and undocumented conspiracy theories which invariably point all sortsa fingers at that evil, bloated hydra we fondly refer to as the “music industry”? While I shamelessly pat myself on the back for gnashing this deal out every month, I’ll also mention that I went back and actually read all ten or so bitch-pieces I’ve done so far. I noticed that every “Sarre-Chasm” (pronounced the same as “sarcasm,” by the way) column has the same basic litany of complaints: good rock ‘n’ roll goes over like a stripper popping out of a cake at yer grandmother’s funeral and, on the flipside, well, there’s a new Everclear album out (and you thought Art had run outta dead girlfriends!).

So maybe you could say I’m ridin’ a one-trick pony down Route 666 (it’s the Highway to Hell, y’know), but I really do get fuckin’ irritated by stuff I see or hear or read, or intrigued enough by some point of decency and then, before I know it, I’m hammerin’ away on my little soapbox. I swear it has nothin’ to do with the fact that I just like complainin’ `bout things I have no control over. If that were the case, I’d write pieces about the odd connection between Groundhog Day and U.S. Federal Reserve Board policy.

Unfortunately, Alan Greenspan peekin’ his head outta his office, seein’ his shadow and hikin’ interest rates as a result doesn’t quite do it for me. On the other hand, hearin’ the new Mighty Mighty Bosstones single on the radio seemingly every hour (in Portland, OR, no less) and thinkin’ that they haven’t really changed that much since More Noise And Other Disturbances does interest me (so what did it anyway, the zillion years of touring or the major label/Lollapalooza association?). Music makes the world livable and good music can make this often metaphorical and occasionally literal garbage heap much more so, ‘cept it’s a bitch to find lotsa times.

1997, though, to the surprise of my little cold, black heart, has proven to kick the shit outta rock-bottom ’96, when record sales declined and even more importantly, aesthetically viable releases (uh, you know, decent fuckin’ rock ‘n’ roll albums) were few and far between. Apparently, sales have recovered this year and, better still, there’s been a whole slew of new releases by artists who are in no way responsible for the rise in product walkin’ outta Sam Goody’s.

In fact, the success of non-rock – take yer Spice Girls, Puff Daddys, Prodigys or pseudo-art-maybe-one-time-rock ‘n’ roll-but-now-mere-trend-milkers like U2 – probably means that the value of the saturated “rock” market has reached the point of diminishing returns and the booty-shakers are gonna once again out-number the moshers (unless, you’re at a frat-party, I guess). Rock music’s goin’ back underground where, for all practical purposes, it gestates best (see, for example, NYC circa ’75 or London ’76 for documentation).

I guess it’s happenin’ right now. Indie (or what passes for “independent”) labels have come out with stellar releases by the likes of The Drags (Estrus), Muddy Frankenstein (Rockboss International), Dead Fucking Last (Epitaph), The Revelators (Crypt), Fireworks (Last Beat), and T. Model Ford,Twenty Miles, and The Neckbones (the last three are part of Fat Possum’s roughhouse roadhouse crew). Ya also gotta consider the re-issues like the two Squirrel Bait LPs on Drag City, Alternative Tentacles’ compilation of early Zen Guerilla EPs, and Bomp!’s gift to the arts community in the form of Sonics rarities and the Dead Boys‘ Young, Loud and Snotty (without the messy overdubs). Sure, none of this adds up to an earthshaker like a Ramones, or God help us, an Elvis debut, but we’re probably only starin’ at the tip of an iceberg that could just crush us in the next millennium or so.

The time hasn’t yet come to count out the ingenuity of four Americans (or Australians, or Japanese, or Limeys, or Albanians) with Fenders and Marshall stacks despite the Electronic Music bandwagon headin’ down the information superhighway courtesy of the desperate trend-jumping bloodsuckers at Spin and the increasingly confused-in-that-deer-in-the-headlights-sort-of-way staff of the ol’ Rolling Stone. The physical (as opposed to mechanical) artistic process still has feeling in its banged up hands. I think when it comes down to it, most people appreciate craftsmanship over assembly-line imitation.

Hell, the whole “Electronic Revolution” may eventually turn people off to such an extent that the hip-handicappers’ll end up doin’ a 180 (as they often do) and hype some neo-folk revival where yer Guthries, yer Weavers, yer Ochses, and yer Zimmermans are “rediscovered.” To some extent, you’ve got a similar trend goin’ on now where the moldy bones of Hank Williams and Robert Johnson, as well as the not-so-moldy bones of John Lee Hooker (buy Fat Possum!) are bein’ seriously pawed by would-be suitors. Who knows, pre-D.J. Fontana Elvis (no drummer, I mean) may not be too far behind.

The point here bein’ that cynicism expressed ’bout the future of the form (laid out here usually every month) is probably overdone and oftentimes a by-product of our very inability to imagine anything other than an aesthetic dead end. Hey, that’s been goin’ on since Danny and the Juniors were moved to do (the very non-rock’n’roll) “Rock and Roll Is Here to Stay” (and let’s not forget that AC/DC somehow felt obligated to mouth the same sentiments in “Rock ‘n’ Roll Ain’t Noise Pollution” in 1980).

Yeah, things start lookin’ bleak and we get jaded cuz there’s nothin’ new and everything pushed as such is recycled whatever, but that doesn’t always equal a blatant rip-off. Sometimes what ya got is a new building on an old foundation. Chances are one’ll crop up somewhere, it’s just a matter of time. On the other, cynical, hand, I once fell asleep durin’ this production of a certain Samuel Beckett play and I’m not positive, but I hear Godot never did show up (were those guys waiting to cop, or what?). Then again, Beckett never did make a good rock ‘n’ roll album. Same goes for Sartre.