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“Gone Fishin’” (Subterranean, August of ’84) boasted another clever cover concept by Ted. This one featured cut-outs of the tour van – “Flipper Suffered For Their Music, Now It’s Your Turn” – spray-painted on the side, members of Flipper (my friend Bridget said, ‘Bruce looks kind of hot in that picture’), Steve’s drum kit, a guitar case, amp and amp head (w/cat). Though not a live album, some of the songs have a live feel, others sound slicker (i.e., “First The Heart”).
Both derided and praised as Flipper’s arty second album, there are many gems. One of my favorites, “Survivors Of The Plague” (Lyrics: Will, Music: Bruce) is a bombast of sound, triumphant and moving:
“Oh we are a mirror/ a distant mirror/when you look at us you will see/
all your hopes/ all your dreams/crushed upon the sea.”
The album opens with what could be Flipper’s Theme Song, “The Lights, The Sound, The Rhythm, The Noise” (Lyrics: Bruce, Music: Will):
“Hit my body like a thousand dances, everyone knows/ Where nothing is something”.
Next is a somewhat of a departure with “First The Heart” (Lyrics:Jeri Wilkinson, Music: Bruce and Steve). Featuring Will on vocals and great sax work by Kirk “Charles” Height, “First The Heart” is as poetic as it is emotive. It is similar to “In Your Arms” and “Shine” in that way.
“Hits outnumber, ten to nine/Missing/
A ravaged target”.
“In Life My Friends” (Lyrics: adapted by Bruce from a W.S. Harris poem , Music: Ted) gives rise to what some believe is Flipper’s credo:
“…so don’t look for future paradise/ take heaven now is my advice”
“Survivors…” is the outro of side one.
Side two finds “Sacrifice” (Lyrics and Music: Will):
“So the nation will live/ So the people will remain as cattle
They demand a sacrifice.”
“Sacrifice” is not just an anti-war song, but is an incisive look at how nationalism and hegemony defines and controls people. It is just as prescient today as it was twenty-odd years ago, perhaps even moreso.
“Talk’s Cheap” (Lyrics:Will, Music: Bruce) is next, followed by “You Nought Me”(Lyrics:Bruce, Music: Will) is as nihilistic as Flipper gets:
“I have nothing, sweet nothing how about you…
So you can go fuck or suck your thumb/ Or take more drugs and
Play ‘On The Run’”
“Gone Fishin’” ends with “One By One” (Lyrics: Will, Music: Ted):
“All prisons/Every bank/ Shall cease to exist”
The “Gone Fishin’” album must have been difficult for some hardcore punks to understand let alone enjoy. I love it as an example of how mind-and-heart-expanding a record can be. There are moments of brilliance in the songwriting and execution, moments of pure joy – the very essence of life. Pain and beauty combined in an intoxicating mixture that transcends the ordinary-joe-hardcore. Creatively mesmerizing, “Gone Fishin’” stands out, a blood red ruby in the rough.
Friday, November 27, 2009
Flipper Live -- Sept. 5, 2008 and Ruminations
It is September 5th,2008, and Flipper nears the conclusion of another raw, powerful set. Tree tall and bearded, Krist Novoselic calls for another song, please. He pounds out the bass line to “Shed No Tears”. The rest of the Flipper fish bite, and Krist smiles like he’s won the grand prize, and having the time of his life.
The guy has played stadiums. He, with his Nirvana co-horts, blew up “Saturday Night Live”. But this little Obama benefit, sparse, yet fiercely attended, seems to beat what’s gone before. Because he’s playing with the guys he probably never thought he’d play with, and it’s really, really good.
As his brethren begin to leave the battlefield, Krist stands alone with his bass still on. He slings it off his neck and tries to hang it up mid-stage. When it almost crashes down he is not dissuaded. He will not be defeated by gravity. He’s making his own physical laws – his own gravity. He moves to the side of the stage and lobs his bass up onto a monitor above his head. Feedback city. He lets the drone go on – a heaviness that makes me feel lighter than air – a sensual, sexy moan of musical muscle.
San Francisco, 1979. The toddler years of punk – and the enfant terrible is pissed. After it attempted suicide in the womb, yet was forced to live on, it decided to mutate into forms never heard before, well, in quite this way. Take a bit of the Velvet Underground, some Gore Vidal, Wilhelm Reich and the tetched stylings of a Vietnam Vet on fire with electricity. Add in a lot of beer, some speed and heroin, and smart-ass, mouthy monkey-business, and ta-da, you have Flipper.
Legend has it, and you know how legends are grown from kits housing acid-tested sea creatures, that original Flipper singer Ricky Williams named all his pets Flipper because he was too stoned to remember their names, so by extension, his band became Flipper. Whether you believe that or the Thalidomide baby story (babies born with flippers from poisoned wombs – how punk!) , it’s up to you. But that is the story the Flipper guys and the liberal-fascist-clueless-devout media have perpetuated since I was in 7th Grade.
In 1979 (or was it ’78, now I’m not sure) I saw my first concert. I was an odd, skinny, bespectacled 13yr old staring raptly at the blinding white satin crotches of the Bee Gees. A few years later I found myself similarly staring at the bulge in Black Flag singer Henry Rollins’ shorts (there was no way to avoid it -- it was huge and it was everywhere). In just three years I had gone from a dweeby kid to a dweeby Punk Rocker, and life would never be the same. In that three year time I had first heard Flipper. The first song I ever heard was “Ha, Ha, Ha”. It is possible that my friends in Mr. Epp & The Calculations (my favorite local band) foisted the single on me. There was no internet back then – it was all singles and mix tapes changing hands. An underground railroad of music was happening, and I caught the express.
Flipper was smart. Flipper was different. Flipper was fun. Flipper had a cool logo that even the drunkest fan could scrawl – a jagged-toothed fish. Unlike the Dead Kennedys, who’s very name spoke volumes politically, Flipper wasn’t a political band, per se. But in the context of a scene where the fastest, thrashiest horse won, Flipper not only ran a different kind of race (heavier, often slower), it made its own track and had its own rules. Flipper’s refusal to play by the punk rules made it loved or hated, depending on who you talked to. Their whole existence was a political act.
The guy has played stadiums. He, with his Nirvana co-horts, blew up “Saturday Night Live”. But this little Obama benefit, sparse, yet fiercely attended, seems to beat what’s gone before. Because he’s playing with the guys he probably never thought he’d play with, and it’s really, really good.
As his brethren begin to leave the battlefield, Krist stands alone with his bass still on. He slings it off his neck and tries to hang it up mid-stage. When it almost crashes down he is not dissuaded. He will not be defeated by gravity. He’s making his own physical laws – his own gravity. He moves to the side of the stage and lobs his bass up onto a monitor above his head. Feedback city. He lets the drone go on – a heaviness that makes me feel lighter than air – a sensual, sexy moan of musical muscle.
San Francisco, 1979. The toddler years of punk – and the enfant terrible is pissed. After it attempted suicide in the womb, yet was forced to live on, it decided to mutate into forms never heard before, well, in quite this way. Take a bit of the Velvet Underground, some Gore Vidal, Wilhelm Reich and the tetched stylings of a Vietnam Vet on fire with electricity. Add in a lot of beer, some speed and heroin, and smart-ass, mouthy monkey-business, and ta-da, you have Flipper.
Legend has it, and you know how legends are grown from kits housing acid-tested sea creatures, that original Flipper singer Ricky Williams named all his pets Flipper because he was too stoned to remember their names, so by extension, his band became Flipper. Whether you believe that or the Thalidomide baby story (babies born with flippers from poisoned wombs – how punk!) , it’s up to you. But that is the story the Flipper guys and the liberal-fascist-clueless-devout media have perpetuated since I was in 7th Grade.
In 1979 (or was it ’78, now I’m not sure) I saw my first concert. I was an odd, skinny, bespectacled 13yr old staring raptly at the blinding white satin crotches of the Bee Gees. A few years later I found myself similarly staring at the bulge in Black Flag singer Henry Rollins’ shorts (there was no way to avoid it -- it was huge and it was everywhere). In just three years I had gone from a dweeby kid to a dweeby Punk Rocker, and life would never be the same. In that three year time I had first heard Flipper. The first song I ever heard was “Ha, Ha, Ha”. It is possible that my friends in Mr. Epp & The Calculations (my favorite local band) foisted the single on me. There was no internet back then – it was all singles and mix tapes changing hands. An underground railroad of music was happening, and I caught the express.
Flipper was smart. Flipper was different. Flipper was fun. Flipper had a cool logo that even the drunkest fan could scrawl – a jagged-toothed fish. Unlike the Dead Kennedys, who’s very name spoke volumes politically, Flipper wasn’t a political band, per se. But in the context of a scene where the fastest, thrashiest horse won, Flipper not only ran a different kind of race (heavier, often slower), it made its own track and had its own rules. Flipper’s refusal to play by the punk rules made it loved or hated, depending on who you talked to. Their whole existence was a political act.
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
Check out Negative Trend on YouTube
I really appreciate seeing the Neg.Trend vids on YouTube, especially some of the old interview stuff. I tried to go see them at the Funhouse last the weekend before last but I had bad insomnia which led me to get my car stuck on some railroad tracks. Luckily I got my car off the tracks before a train came but it required a tow truck. So I fucking missed the show. Maybe they'll swing by this way again.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
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