Rancid revisited, or: If I could do anything I’d do nothing.
Ten years ago this summer, my friend Jason and I saw Rancid in London. We were spending the summer there, it was the summer we were 20. I brought a few CDs with me including Rancid’s “…And Out Come the Wolves,” and hooked Jay on the band. I was broke and unemployed when they played, but I bought a ticket at the last minute despite the fact that it cost about $15. I dragged Jay. About halfway through the show, he was kicked in the face by a crowd surfer and his glasses broke. To this day, it’s probably the coolest thing that’s ever happened to either of us at a concert.
Jay and I went to see Rancid again on Friday night. As we watched the strangely heavy metal opening acts, we couldn’t help but think about old times, thinking about that summer ten years ago.
While we’re reminiscing, I remind Jay about another Rancid show we attended. I wrote about a show we went to at Roseland Ballroom here in New York in 1999. That was right after I graduated college—I was living with my parents and working for a magazine about eyeglasses. Jay was still in school, finishing his degree. I remember thinking that night about how desperately I wanted to live in the city and in essence begin my post-collegiate life; how badly I wanted to make my mark as a writer. Jay wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, and floated the idea of finding a sugar mama. The night of that Rancid concert, Jay locked his keys in his car in Jersey City, and showed up at the concert hours late, right as the band hit the stage. There’s always drama with Jason.
Jay says he’s been thinking about the past a lot lately, nostalgic for his college days, for mid-20s excesses, even for high school summers in the Pennsylvania woods; nostalgic, mostly, for the days before he was married. It’s more than a passing thought; he’s been in a major funk.
The man I once travelled across Europe with said, “I don’t know, man. It’s like I’ve had all my fun, and now all I’ve got left is going to work, grocery shopping and cleaning up the apartment.”
“I know things change, but you don’t have to completely abandon the past, you can still have some fun,” I said. “And as much as you lose some things you’ve enjoyed, you gain others. Being in a new marriage should be a happy time. Even if it’s tense sometimes, there should also be a lot of joy.”
He doesn’t need to tell me there’s no joy. I was trying to make a point about his marriage.
“Sometimes I think it would be great to be single,” he said, his face lighting up. “I could have so much fun.”
I tell him about a theory one of my friends shared recently, that being single for guys gets better as they get older, because single women start to freak out in their late-20s, and by their mid-30s, they see anyone with a steady job and his own apartment as a catch. Even better if you have a sense of humor and you’re not a total asshole. I’m mostly repeating this theory because I think it’s twisted and funny, but I’d be lying if I didn’t add that it makes me feel a little better about my odds of finding Ms. Right. (As a side note, I recently shared this idea with a female friend, who immediately threatened to punch me in the face. This suggests, of course, that this theory can’t be all wrong.)
Jay smiles, maybe because he’s amused, maybe because the idea is comforting. “I’d have such a good time.”
“But it’s not just my wife. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life… if I could do anything, I’d do nothing.”
Maybe that’s fine, I tell him, or maybe we’ve all over-rated the importance of finding happiness through our work. I’ve been having my own career crisis lately—burnt out on publishing and hating my company’s management, I left a job that many people would love. Now I’ve joined the family business, selling insurance. And the crazy part? I haven’t regretted that decision for a second. I’ve always felt like I need to do something interesting, and now I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, working the most boring job I’ve ever had.
Maybe that’s just because the insurance thing is new, I tell Jay, and myself. Maybe the job and I are still in the honeymoon stage. Or maybe it’s okay to have a job that leaves me with more creative energy for my own writing and filmmaking projects.
At about 10, we’re yawning as Rancid takes the stage. We’re standing in a quiet area near the bar on the side of the stage, far from the mosh pit. Of all the times Jay and I have seen Rancid, we’ve never been this close to the band, or this far from the wild crowd. A few times during the show I consider jumping into the crowd, but something keeps me planted at stage right.
Since we’re close to the band, and able to focus on the performance without worrying about errant crowd surfers, details I never noticed before jump out at me. The bandmembers are aging—not in a Rolling Stones kind of way, but Rancid has been around for a while and its members are pushing 40. There’s something especially creepy about aging punk rockers: wearing a studded belt and spiky hair is cool when you’re 18, but when you’re 40, it’s a little disturbing. Sure, there are some older punks around, but most of them have matured in certain ways, even if their music is still the same as it ever was. For example, Joe Strummer wasn’t still dressing like a stereotypical punk in the years before he passed away. Even The Sex Pistols, on their reunion tour in the late ’90s, updated their attire somewhat. True, The Ramones never got rid of their motorcycle jackets, but they were cartoon characters, like Kiss, and the persona was a big part of the show. The same isn’t really true of Rancid, but it’s as if the band members don’t know who to be, if not who they portray on stage.
I can’t help but wonder what they’d be like if I met them in real life. Do they have file tax returns? Shop for groceries? Go to parent-teacher nights?
Every third word out of Lars Frederikson’s mouth is a curse (which I'm fucking fine with, but still), and everything he says is spoken with an intensity that’s somehow very angry, condescending and 100% punk. In fact, he also likes to remind the crowd here and there of what punk rock is about, or not about. (PUNK: friendship, reggae, “circle pits.” NOT PUNK: fighting, and, um, jocks who like to fight.) On his own time, I picture him pulling up to a drive-thru and saying, “Gimme a fucking In N’ Out burger with cheese and a fuckin’ shake. Milkshakes are what punk rock is all about!”
Tim Armstrong, the band’s other singer/guitarist, is less chatty and therefore more enigmatic. Bowlers hat askew on his head, hunched forward and slinking around the stage, guitar dangling from his neck as if it’s dragging him down—and would it kill him to pull up his pants every few songs? He’s a guy anyone in the room would avoid at a party… but then, maybe Lars would say that’s part of what punk rock is all about.
The early highlight of the show was a great version of the Operation Ivy song “Knowledge.” It was awesome—but it would be overshadowed by what would happen half an hour later, during the encore.
I know I’m getting old because as the band’s set is winding down, my ears are already ringing. I can’t stop worrying that I may be damaging my hearing permanently. I shout in Jay’s ear, asking if he thinks it’s too loud. He said, “You think it’s too loud? I don’t think it’s loud. Shit, I hope I’m not going deaf.”
In another sign that even the band is getting old, or perhaps taping this show for a live album, they come out for the encore and—are you ready for this?—did an acoustic set. All four band members—yup, even the drummer—were standing side-by-side on the front of the stage strumming acoustic guitars that, needless to say, appeared to be less worn than the electrics the band members had been brutalizing during the previous portion of the show.
“What is this, Four Man Acoustical Jam?” said Jay, invoking the legendary (?) early-90s Tesla acoustic album. “I don’t know,” I replied, “Do you think they’re gonna play ‘Signs’”?
They didn’t play “Signs.” Instead they played “Fall Back Down,” with a chorus of “If I fall back down, you’re gonna pick me back up again/If I fall back down, you’re gonna be my friend.” Someone should have advised the band that if they’re going to go soft with the instruments, they should at least balance that out by playing one of the songs that advocate violent revolution, or at least violence in the mosh pit. Playing acoustics, busting out four-part harmonies and singing about friendship—who knew Rancid could sound so sappy?
The next song was simultaneously the highlight and also the indisputed low point of the evening. They played “Sound System.”
“Sound System” was recorded by the pre-Rancid band Operation Ivy, which shared two members with the band I was watching on stage. To my knowledge, Rancid had never performed this song during its 15-odd years of existence. At the very least, Rancid had never performed any Op Ivy songs at any of the seven or eight or nine Rancid shows I’ve attended. And tonight they played two, including “Sound System,” my favorite of them all.
To put this in perspective, it reminds me of how Deadheads freaked out because their heroes played “Casey Jones” after something like twenty years of not playing the song. (I may be wrong about the actual song, and for my money, it doesn’t matter.) If Deadheads can go ga-ga over a song about driving a train while snorting coke, why can’t I get fired up about hearing a song I’ve been itching to hear live since I first heard it in Johnson Hall in 1995?
I could barely contain my enthusiasm. I think I almost danced at one point. But quickly, the moment soured as reality sank in. They’re playing “Sound System”… but it’s acoustic (somehow)… and… it sucks. Jay likes to use the word “weak” to describe things he doesn’t like, and in this case that summed it up. If “Fall Back Down” was painfully sappy, “Sound System” was slightly less so, but sounded more like a summer-camp singalong. Anyone who thinks folk music can’t be powerful has obviously never heard an Ani Difranco record, or a Bob Dylan record, for that matter. But here was a punk band playing a song that came off folky in the least appealing connotation of that word, and even worse, they were butchering a song I loved. You can see how this would be a complicated moment; it aroused mixed and difficult feelings that would take months, if not years, to sort out.
It was almost as disappointing and strange as realizing that after years of struggling in the publishing world, you might enjoy a job selling insurance better than your previous job writing and editing sports magazines. Or, I suppose, as odd as having a nice apartment and a decent job and attractive wife—everything we’re all supposed to want—and recognizing that somewhere along the way you lost everything that really makes you happy.
The band played a few more songs after that, but to be honest, it was all a blur, as if I had suffered a gut punch and was waiting out the next few minutes until the round was over. One song was dedicated to Agnostic Front. Fair enough. Another song was something no one knew, sung by a young girl with a shaky voice and short skirt.
Jay snarled, “Do you think she’s a contest winner?”
I said, “If none of the band members are sleeping with her, they’re doing something wrong.”
Hey, Lars, can I get a ruling? Is it punk to bring your too-young girlfriend onstage to sing a song?
I miss the days when I could go to a show and accept it all at face value.
Jay and I went to see Rancid again on Friday night. As we watched the strangely heavy metal opening acts, we couldn’t help but think about old times, thinking about that summer ten years ago.
While we’re reminiscing, I remind Jay about another Rancid show we attended. I wrote about a show we went to at Roseland Ballroom here in New York in 1999. That was right after I graduated college—I was living with my parents and working for a magazine about eyeglasses. Jay was still in school, finishing his degree. I remember thinking that night about how desperately I wanted to live in the city and in essence begin my post-collegiate life; how badly I wanted to make my mark as a writer. Jay wasn’t sure what he wanted to do, and floated the idea of finding a sugar mama. The night of that Rancid concert, Jay locked his keys in his car in Jersey City, and showed up at the concert hours late, right as the band hit the stage. There’s always drama with Jason.
Jay says he’s been thinking about the past a lot lately, nostalgic for his college days, for mid-20s excesses, even for high school summers in the Pennsylvania woods; nostalgic, mostly, for the days before he was married. It’s more than a passing thought; he’s been in a major funk.
The man I once travelled across Europe with said, “I don’t know, man. It’s like I’ve had all my fun, and now all I’ve got left is going to work, grocery shopping and cleaning up the apartment.”
“I know things change, but you don’t have to completely abandon the past, you can still have some fun,” I said. “And as much as you lose some things you’ve enjoyed, you gain others. Being in a new marriage should be a happy time. Even if it’s tense sometimes, there should also be a lot of joy.”
He doesn’t need to tell me there’s no joy. I was trying to make a point about his marriage.
“Sometimes I think it would be great to be single,” he said, his face lighting up. “I could have so much fun.”
I tell him about a theory one of my friends shared recently, that being single for guys gets better as they get older, because single women start to freak out in their late-20s, and by their mid-30s, they see anyone with a steady job and his own apartment as a catch. Even better if you have a sense of humor and you’re not a total asshole. I’m mostly repeating this theory because I think it’s twisted and funny, but I’d be lying if I didn’t add that it makes me feel a little better about my odds of finding Ms. Right. (As a side note, I recently shared this idea with a female friend, who immediately threatened to punch me in the face. This suggests, of course, that this theory can’t be all wrong.)
Jay smiles, maybe because he’s amused, maybe because the idea is comforting. “I’d have such a good time.”
“But it’s not just my wife. I don’t even know what I want to do with my life… if I could do anything, I’d do nothing.”
Maybe that’s fine, I tell him, or maybe we’ve all over-rated the importance of finding happiness through our work. I’ve been having my own career crisis lately—burnt out on publishing and hating my company’s management, I left a job that many people would love. Now I’ve joined the family business, selling insurance. And the crazy part? I haven’t regretted that decision for a second. I’ve always felt like I need to do something interesting, and now I’m happier than I’ve been in a long time, working the most boring job I’ve ever had.
Maybe that’s just because the insurance thing is new, I tell Jay, and myself. Maybe the job and I are still in the honeymoon stage. Or maybe it’s okay to have a job that leaves me with more creative energy for my own writing and filmmaking projects.
At about 10, we’re yawning as Rancid takes the stage. We’re standing in a quiet area near the bar on the side of the stage, far from the mosh pit. Of all the times Jay and I have seen Rancid, we’ve never been this close to the band, or this far from the wild crowd. A few times during the show I consider jumping into the crowd, but something keeps me planted at stage right.
Since we’re close to the band, and able to focus on the performance without worrying about errant crowd surfers, details I never noticed before jump out at me. The bandmembers are aging—not in a Rolling Stones kind of way, but Rancid has been around for a while and its members are pushing 40. There’s something especially creepy about aging punk rockers: wearing a studded belt and spiky hair is cool when you’re 18, but when you’re 40, it’s a little disturbing. Sure, there are some older punks around, but most of them have matured in certain ways, even if their music is still the same as it ever was. For example, Joe Strummer wasn’t still dressing like a stereotypical punk in the years before he passed away. Even The Sex Pistols, on their reunion tour in the late ’90s, updated their attire somewhat. True, The Ramones never got rid of their motorcycle jackets, but they were cartoon characters, like Kiss, and the persona was a big part of the show. The same isn’t really true of Rancid, but it’s as if the band members don’t know who to be, if not who they portray on stage.
I can’t help but wonder what they’d be like if I met them in real life. Do they have file tax returns? Shop for groceries? Go to parent-teacher nights?
Every third word out of Lars Frederikson’s mouth is a curse (which I'm fucking fine with, but still), and everything he says is spoken with an intensity that’s somehow very angry, condescending and 100% punk. In fact, he also likes to remind the crowd here and there of what punk rock is about, or not about. (PUNK: friendship, reggae, “circle pits.” NOT PUNK: fighting, and, um, jocks who like to fight.) On his own time, I picture him pulling up to a drive-thru and saying, “Gimme a fucking In N’ Out burger with cheese and a fuckin’ shake. Milkshakes are what punk rock is all about!”
Tim Armstrong, the band’s other singer/guitarist, is less chatty and therefore more enigmatic. Bowlers hat askew on his head, hunched forward and slinking around the stage, guitar dangling from his neck as if it’s dragging him down—and would it kill him to pull up his pants every few songs? He’s a guy anyone in the room would avoid at a party… but then, maybe Lars would say that’s part of what punk rock is all about.
The early highlight of the show was a great version of the Operation Ivy song “Knowledge.” It was awesome—but it would be overshadowed by what would happen half an hour later, during the encore.
I know I’m getting old because as the band’s set is winding down, my ears are already ringing. I can’t stop worrying that I may be damaging my hearing permanently. I shout in Jay’s ear, asking if he thinks it’s too loud. He said, “You think it’s too loud? I don’t think it’s loud. Shit, I hope I’m not going deaf.”
In another sign that even the band is getting old, or perhaps taping this show for a live album, they come out for the encore and—are you ready for this?—did an acoustic set. All four band members—yup, even the drummer—were standing side-by-side on the front of the stage strumming acoustic guitars that, needless to say, appeared to be less worn than the electrics the band members had been brutalizing during the previous portion of the show.
“What is this, Four Man Acoustical Jam?” said Jay, invoking the legendary (?) early-90s Tesla acoustic album. “I don’t know,” I replied, “Do you think they’re gonna play ‘Signs’”?
They didn’t play “Signs.” Instead they played “Fall Back Down,” with a chorus of “If I fall back down, you’re gonna pick me back up again/If I fall back down, you’re gonna be my friend.” Someone should have advised the band that if they’re going to go soft with the instruments, they should at least balance that out by playing one of the songs that advocate violent revolution, or at least violence in the mosh pit. Playing acoustics, busting out four-part harmonies and singing about friendship—who knew Rancid could sound so sappy?
The next song was simultaneously the highlight and also the indisputed low point of the evening. They played “Sound System.”
“Sound System” was recorded by the pre-Rancid band Operation Ivy, which shared two members with the band I was watching on stage. To my knowledge, Rancid had never performed this song during its 15-odd years of existence. At the very least, Rancid had never performed any Op Ivy songs at any of the seven or eight or nine Rancid shows I’ve attended. And tonight they played two, including “Sound System,” my favorite of them all.
To put this in perspective, it reminds me of how Deadheads freaked out because their heroes played “Casey Jones” after something like twenty years of not playing the song. (I may be wrong about the actual song, and for my money, it doesn’t matter.) If Deadheads can go ga-ga over a song about driving a train while snorting coke, why can’t I get fired up about hearing a song I’ve been itching to hear live since I first heard it in Johnson Hall in 1995?
I could barely contain my enthusiasm. I think I almost danced at one point. But quickly, the moment soured as reality sank in. They’re playing “Sound System”… but it’s acoustic (somehow)… and… it sucks. Jay likes to use the word “weak” to describe things he doesn’t like, and in this case that summed it up. If “Fall Back Down” was painfully sappy, “Sound System” was slightly less so, but sounded more like a summer-camp singalong. Anyone who thinks folk music can’t be powerful has obviously never heard an Ani Difranco record, or a Bob Dylan record, for that matter. But here was a punk band playing a song that came off folky in the least appealing connotation of that word, and even worse, they were butchering a song I loved. You can see how this would be a complicated moment; it aroused mixed and difficult feelings that would take months, if not years, to sort out.
It was almost as disappointing and strange as realizing that after years of struggling in the publishing world, you might enjoy a job selling insurance better than your previous job writing and editing sports magazines. Or, I suppose, as odd as having a nice apartment and a decent job and attractive wife—everything we’re all supposed to want—and recognizing that somewhere along the way you lost everything that really makes you happy.
The band played a few more songs after that, but to be honest, it was all a blur, as if I had suffered a gut punch and was waiting out the next few minutes until the round was over. One song was dedicated to Agnostic Front. Fair enough. Another song was something no one knew, sung by a young girl with a shaky voice and short skirt.
Jay snarled, “Do you think she’s a contest winner?”
I said, “If none of the band members are sleeping with her, they’re doing something wrong.”
Hey, Lars, can I get a ruling? Is it punk to bring your too-young girlfriend onstage to sing a song?
I miss the days when I could go to a show and accept it all at face value.
posted by Zackattack at 12:01 AM
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