Badsville
Director: P.J. Wolff
VHS Video
2000, Cinema Diablo/Acetate Records
US$14.95
Available from Amazon.
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I have noted before, in the name of full disclosure, that I am a sucker for the punk rawk. In that spirit, a documentary on millennium-period LA punk was not a tough sell for me. These days, a very friendly, ersatz form of punk is only as far away as one's radio dial; in a sense, the poppy side of punk is more popular than it ever has been before (You know VH1 is scraping the bottom of the scandal barrel when they release a Behind The Music about the life and times of Green Day). At the same time, punk of the angry, audience-unfriendly, caustic fuck-you variety is still very much an underground phenomenon, as this video documents. Granted, we've seen this subject done before, in Penelope Spheeris' Decline and Fall of Western Civilization. That was a tremendous document of its time, and the onus was decidedly on writer/producer/editor/director PJ Wolff to create a similarly impressive overview of an older, more cynical, but perhaps wiser crowd of loud-music misfits.
The video is structured with short talking-heads segments interspersed with live concert footage. The footage is the heart of the piece, and therefore a great deal of its success or failure rests with the bands and their respective stage personae. Unfortunately, the shock of the new is gone. There is nothing like X here, no Germs, no Dead Kennedys. The talking head segments highlight the fact that this music is decidedly a second-generation phenomenon: for all of the punks that credit Elvis, there are others who credit '80s LA bands like the Runaways as inspiration. In addition, the bands featured are more varied (both in style and in quality) than Spheeris' sampling. At the same time, there are clearly bands that have something to offer. Texas Terri & The Stiff Ones (who may or may not be fronted by a transsexual. Sorry. I just couldn't tell) do Hedwig and the Angry Inch one better with a tight rhythm section and palpable, righteous anger reminiscent of The Slits or the Poison Girls. Meanwhile, bands like the Newlydeads, who mine the tapped vein of industrial goth rock, seem rather cartoonish, especially when fronted by a guy who looks dumpy in rubber pants and a mesh shirt.
I know, I know. It's ridiculous of me to pretend that straightforward punk is any less a tapped vein than any other loud music style at this point, but hey, sue me. Bands like Throwrag, who make riff-heavy, rockabilly-referencing rock and roll with a washboard accompaniment will make me smile over Trent Reznor impersonators every time. To digress: why do really loud bands include backing instruments no one can possibly hear in their live sets? I mean, who can pick out that subtle off-beat triangle hit on the bridge over the sound of five Marshall stacks? And who cares? In addition, the sound quality is extremely varied: for every band that sounds crystal clear, there's a group that sounds like Bob Pollard recorded them in a steel foundry.
Other highlights: Dragbeat's grind-ola circa-1985-plus-horns sound is fronted by the hottest woman to sing a punk song since Debbie Harry's salad days. Extra Fancy, fronted by the love child of Bob Mould and that guy from Right Said Fred (not that far-fetched, when you think about it), uses an oil can as a percussive introduction to "You Look Like a Movie Star, Honey", and the close-up of the python wrapped around an audience member's neck gives one a real feel for the contrivedness of their "decadent" attitude. Ian Drury would have eaten these guys for breakfast. Unfortunately, the lead singer of Extra Fancy is the Shelby Foote of this particular series, and gives considerably more of his uninteresting perspective than is strictly necessary. On the other hand, one of the Dogs D'Amour, a Brit who's dressed in matching polka-dot shirt and headband combo, is a gas. I swear to God, I have seen the future of Spinal Tap, and it is this guy.
Perennial Splendid "Pointless Questions" darlings The Streetwalking Cheetahs perform admirably, though you would expect nothing less, would you? Motochrist's "Evel" is driven home by the most out-of-shape lead guitar player since Black Francis, and fronted by a guy who just received a call explaining that Alice Cooper wants his identity back.
The most interesting interview segments concerned the machinations of indie and major labels. I'm not particularly a gossip maven, but who doesn't love hearing that the bass player for Dogs D'Amour was formerly in the all-girl metal band Vixen, and that that band was signed only when their manager threatened to pull one of his other artists off of the label? That artist was Richard Marx. Tee-hee-hee. Surprisingly, the impression one gets from these interviews is that a fledgling band shouldn't trust big-label executives. Who knew?
I don't know what they're asking for this video ($14.99 for the VHS, a bit more for the DVD -- Ed.), but it's probably worth it. As a document of an era, it is probably ephemeral at best, but as proof of the ongoing vitality of DIY attitudes, it's irreplaceable. I'm pretty sure there's not a rock fan alive whose pulse doesn't go up a notch when he sees a band like Coyote Shivers, glammed to the hilt in a smoke filled dive club, strike up a song that's equal parts Replacements and Lou Reed's "Walk On The Wild Side" that's entitled "Secretly Jealous (of Kurt Cobain)". Fuck you, indeed.
-- Brett McCallon
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