As the 1980s dawned, American punk found its voice. Hardcore acts scowled and grimaced in hundreds of regional scenes between Black Flag’s angry West and Minor Threat’s steely-eyed East. Despite hardcore’s sonic standardization, powerful music abounded–but humor floundered. So when a gloriously goofy band like The Meatmen emerged from that solemn landscape they became more than court jesters; Tesco Vee’s fraternity of sophomoric pottymouths were genuine rock ‘n’ roll heroes. At the time, few bands strove to put smiles on faces–even the brilliantly ridiculous Misfits would kick you in the head upon suggestion they weren’t dead serious. The Meatmen proved that punk need not be joyless.
Vee (Robert Vermuellen) was a Lansing, Michigan rock fan and Michigan State English student who eventually combined his love for loud music with his writing skills and launched a series of zines, including Touch and Go, which became a flame that attracted Midwest-scene mojo. By 1980 he had formed The Meatmen, obnoxious innovators who adapted hardcore’s sonic simplicity but rejected its non-theatricality. Tesco regularly took the the stage in leather sex garb and wielding props. After Necros bassist Corey Rusk helped Vee turn the Touch and Go zine into a record label, the Meatmen launched their ridiculous recording career and Rusk began building Touch and Go Records (now in its 26th year) into arguably one of the best indie labels in existence.
Releasing several EPs of ultra-offensive joke punk, the Meatmen (in less than an hour of material) managed to attack gays, women, the handicapped, the elderly, Rastafarians, onanists, aborted fetuses, Jack Grisham, and countless others. We’re the Meatmen and You Suck, their 1983 LP (really an expanded EP reissue), managed to render half-assed hate speech comical in part because of Tesco Vee’s transparently tenuous tightrope walk between articulate wordsmith and his inner dumbass.
The band soon dissolved and Vee relocated to Washington, DC, where the Meatmen had mysteriously made a big impression on righteous straight edgers. Reforming the band with Brian Baker and Lyle Preslar of Minor Threat, the ‘85 Meatmen proved to be the mightiest. With disciplined musicians behind him Vee expanded his comic visions, crafting songs that explored hard rock from the rawest punk to flamboyant metal, creating powerful sonic backdrops for motormouthed comedic rants. On War of the Superbikes and Rock ‘n Roll Juggernaut he skewered the fans, but also revealed himself to be one, celebrating clichés, covering favorite bands, and living a rock ‘n’ roll fantasy. Certainly the Meatmen continued to spew bile (forever telling us what sucks, be it crippled children, you, French people, you again), but Vee also found the freedom to move beyond insult comedy.
After this incarnation, the band dissolved in 1989 and Tesco briefly attempted to translate his humor to MTV. He then got back on the horse, fronting Tesco Vee’s Hate Police, then reforming the Meatmen. Though new lineups were consistently rocking, rarely did they provide as nurturing a backdrop for humor as his ’80s bands. Though several bright spots shone through, his obnoxiousness now seemed downright obnoxious. By 1997 the Meatmen were kaput.
There are many cult bands in music history whose haters are simply mistaken. If you believe that the music of Sun Ra, or X-Ray Spex, or AC/DC is not good–subjectivity be damned–you are wrong. However, the Meatmen do not fall into that category. It is completely reasonable for anyone turned off by posturings of homophobia, racism, sexism, or baby seal abuse to go ahead and hate them. Even if you’re a fan but you think their early work tries too little, their middle phase is overambitious, and their later work is ugly, I wouln’t argue. If you can’t get past Tesco’s lyrics (Trouser Press compared them to things assholes shout out of moving cars), fine. However, if you like the Meatmen, you do not suck. Tesco’s comedic stage presence, love of music (revealed by his cover songs), creative euphemisms for female genitalia (“pickle parlor,” “glorious gravy boat”), and relentless jesting make a case that his songcrafting is an act of joy, not an outlet of hate. Those who get the joke can dig the Meatmen shamelessly.
Recently Tesco reactivated the band, reissued most of the non-Touch and Go material, compiled a DVD, and took a new Meatmen on the road. Over the dozen years since the band last gave it a go plenty of things have sucked. If ever we needed an experienced “that sucks” finger-pointer the time is now–and if, as in 1982, we must learn once again that it is we that do the sucking, so be it. Welcome back Tesco!
We’re living in a time of post-postmodern capitalism, marked by a beleaguered music industry, Internet it-people, reunion tours amok, and a mucked up musical field littered with pastiche, mash-ups, bricolage, piracy, and virtual landmines. In this context, what the hell is a re-release, anyway? By gum, everything old is new again; that’s the cardinal lesson of YouTube. This is just to say that Mission of Burma, in re-releasing a remastered version of their landmark 1981 release Signals, Calls, and Marches this week, once again showcase their uncanny knack for bad timing–something Michael Azerrad astutely observed in Our Band Could Be Your Life, his tome to the origins of the ‘80s underground rock scene. Back then, Mission of Burma arrived, guitars blazing, to deliver a souped-up punk smorgasbord–a few years before a scene could have really gelled around them, and they fizzled too soon. Now, they come just in time to see the album tanking as a format, and music labels not yet glommed on to a better distribution mechanism.
All that said, there’s a reason Mission of Burma are usually tagged as the hardest-working, ahead-of-their-time, too-short-lived, bestest-indie-punk-band ever. Signals, Calls, and Marches has not just aged well–it maintains an eerie prescience, especially in tracks like “Red,” “Max Ernst,” and “Outlaw.” Proof positive that, in the days of digital media, it’s getting harder and harder to distinguish past from present. The album goes by in a flash of asymmetrical brouhaha, barking boy vocals, and intelligent riffing, and you just want to play it over again. And again.
About this no wave trio–and Kim Gordon favorite–the NME once opined, “It isn’t rock anymore.” That’s not quite true. Formed in New York in 1978, Ut were as much a rock band as LiLiPUT or the Slits, and provided a bridge between their unhinged noise and the more controlled chaos of Bikini Kill and Sleater-Kinney–and have also been compared to Live Skull, Big Black, and Pussy Galore. Maybe it wasn’t rock in the traditional sense, but the threesome worked with the usual tools of the trade. They may have been coloring outside the lines…but the lines were still there. While Jacqui Ham pounded away on the bass and Nina Canal (and guest drummer Charlie D.) propelled the mêlée forward, Sally Young pulled sonic splinters from her guitar (though the three were known to switch instruments). Vocals were mostly divided between Ham and Young: the latter sings in a sweet, if agitated voice (sounding a little like Babes in Toyland’s Kat Bjelland), while the former proffers a more forthright style (somewhat reminiscent of Patti Smith or Chrissie Hynde). Engineered by Steve Albini, 1989’s Griller follows Conviction and In Gut’s House. It’s a fine effort, though slightly less effective than their 1988 predecessor (also reissued by Blast First/Mute), as Albini buries the vocals to the extent that you can barely hear the lyrics (his usual method at the time). At that point, Ut had been based in London for eight years, had become favorites of John Peel, and had toured with the Fall, the Birthday Party, and the Raincoats–though they never achieved even their modest degree of fame. It’s tough to be ahead of the times–even if it’s just by a few years.