Lil' Steven - What Undergound- Whose Garage?

What better proof do you need that money buys cred then the meteoric rise of this troll-like, bandana-strewn mogul who for much of his career was content to stare longingly at the chin of his Jersey bandleader ‘The Boss’ and most assuredly never play Sun City? Surely one could respect the political stand of that 1985 all-star crusade urging entertainers not to tour in apartheid-era South Africa. Like ‘Hands Across America’ and ‘We Are The World,’ it spoke of a certain shiny MTV do-good globalism. Now he has inexplicably thrown his tie-dyed heft into bolstering the ‘garage rock’ scene, a nebulous designation encompassing 1960s also-rans, never-weres and the 1980s-00s combos who cite them as forefathers. Bands like the Hives, White Stripes and others are taking the music into a new century and drawing deserved acclaim. As a particular fan of much of the music that Van Zandt now champions on pay-per-listen satellite radio, why should I bitch? Because I can.

Let’s think for a minute about what the poor man’s Gene Simmons was doing in the mid-1980s while bands like the Fleshtones and Lyres were playing their brand of fuzz-drenched rock for crowds of 20 people - well, probably lots of cocaine in arena dressing rooms. Van Zandt was riding the coattails of a mega-star to second banana-hood success that Art Garfunkel could only dream of. He, Clarence Clemons and the now dapper drummer Max Weinberg performed ably as the E-Street Band, backing up meandering ‘working-man’s’ rock about getting laid off from the quarry and drunkenly punching your girlfriend. (Then sobbingly recalling the incident in a ballad.) I don’t care if none of the songs were actually about that- Guys who pumped their fist at these shows would beat up someone for liking the Replacements, let alone the Cure. Through the 1990s, annual NYC music events called Cavestomp bravely reunited under-appreciated bands like the Standells, the Monks, and Blues Magoos, placing them on stage alongside younger groups. Van Zandt gradually usurped the event until it was absorbed into his commercial game plan. So how has he handled the mantle of NYC Rock Savior?

I attended the Little Steven Rock N’ Roll Spectacular on Randall’s Island in August 2004 under impending rains and threat of a hurricane. Many of my favorite current bands were chosen to appear alongside the giants- the reformed Stooges and NY Dolls, mod legends The Creation and the default darlings of the current NY scene, The Strokes. Before the event, sources tell me a memo was circulated regarding band performance and etiquette, requiring bands to have at least four members and to dress to impress. How rock n’ roll is that? The mod-a-go-go revolving stage idea must have been great in theory, but broke down early on. Bands were then limited to two tunes at most. In many cases, this was not a bad thing, but it didn’t allow groups like Detroit’s ferocious Paybacks time to rile up a head of steam. Coupled with this was the relentless barrage of ‘guest MCs’ (often clueless TV ‘wiseguys’) desperately grinding verbal gears in endless vapid conversations with large-bosomed go-go girls instead of perhaps just playing music between bands. ‘The Boss’ himself made a token appearance, lamely introducing a group called –guess what, the Boss Martians. Septuagenarian impresario Kim Fowley had the best line of the day – ‘Sponsored by Dunkin’ Donuts, the Food of Young Gods.’ After a raucous set by the revived NY Dolls, the crowd was subjected to the limp, monotonous strains of The Strokes, a band that seemingly didn’t want to be there, and whose sentiment was echoed by the angry wet masses. Things were turning ugly. Leave it to the master Iggy to harness this ugliness and channel it into a rock assault against the hand that feeds. During the Stooges’ immortal ‘T.V. Eye,’ he leapt onto a high-tech 3-D camera being used to film the event for a poor-man’s IMAX event, kicking off several no-doubt vital electronic components while punching the words home. As the invited audience rushed the stage, Iggy salvaged the inept day-glo nightmare with a taste of real rock power.

In any bitch-fest like you may be reading right now, you may detect a hint of rockist elitism. But it’s based on genuine regret. DJs like Bill Kelly on listener-sponsored WFMU’s ‘Teenage Wasteland’ has championed the lost sounds of ‘Real Rock n’Roll’ on the airwaves since 1978, and doing it with more verve than meathead rah-rah. Of course Steven has now thrown him a bone by giving him a slot on the new satellite stream. It is somehow fitting that Van Zandt and aging ‘shock-jock’ Howard Stern are taking their act to satellite- their egos have outgrown our worldly boundaries. Just remember- in space, no one can hear you fart. The bands that benefit from Steven’s exposure are of course vaguely complimentary- after years of getting gypped by small-time seedy promoters in clubs, it’s got to be somewhat of a relief to deal with a rich seedy promoter. Maybe I’m a bitter naïve crank for wishing it didn’t take a pint-sized TV tough-guy to get them paid. I may be whacked for this piece, but when you listen to ‘Born In the U.S.A.,’ do you get a ‘Psychotic Reaction?’ Well, yeah - I do, too.