Your Band Sucks (32 page)

The absolute worst thing about many records from the eighties and nineties was the interminably long “thanks to” lists. That said: Here's an interminably long etc., etc.

This book would not exist without my agent, Wayne Kabak, and its editor, Rick Kot, thanks to a different book idea that Wayne hatched and a subsequent lunch I had with Rick at which I shared said idea. But Rick proved more interested in my old band that was reuniting after twenty-one years, and some time after the main course told me, that's your book. This book would not exist without Orestes Morfin and Sooyoung Park, nonpareil touring and drinking companions and a hell of a rhythm section. This book would not exist were it not for everyone who ever bought a record, saw a show, or uttered a kind word about any band I played in, and I am still awed and amazed that any single person ever did. On a lighter but equally important note, the
title
of this book would not exist without Ed Fotheringham, singer of the Thrown Ups, who came up with the title and lyrics for the song “Your Band Sucks.”

I was enormously lucky to meet Linc Wheeler when I did. The journey to discovering the music that most excites you is even better if a close friend is with you every step of the way. Linc, you rock. Hopefully a few more people will know that now, too.

Tad Friend, an uncommonly stylish and wise writer, made this book immeasurably better with his detailed comments and suggestions. My brother, Neil Fine, was an invaluable sounding board and counselor throughout, never more than when he parachuted in for some last-minute editing that, basically, saved my sorry ass. As always, his brilliant advice was dispensed quietly, absent any drama, and with a great deal of hilarity. I'd take a bullet for Neil, but I suspect what he really wants is for me to apologize that an earlier draft of this book incorrectly characterized his athletic ability at summer camp as sub par. I'm truly sorry about that, and rest assured, Neil, I still remember your outstanding sprint that kicked off Indian Head Camp's Rope Burn in the summer of 1978.

I have been in serious bands with many people, and not all of them appear herein. I am certain I am omitting many names but the following deserve a shout-out for being there, keeping company, and shaping and sharing these experiences: Bob Bannister, Lyle Hysen, Jenna Johnson, Jordan Mamone, Eamon Martin, Dave McGurgan, Gerald Menke, Doug Scharin, Kevin Shea, Eric Topolsky, and Jeff Winterberg. And the guitarist and bassist in Ribbons of Flesh: Roger White and Doug MacLehose.

There are many others with whom I've had long ongoing conversations about music—in person, via e-mail, on listservs in the nineties, and on Facebook and elsewhere today—or people whose writing helped crystallize how I understand music. Among them: Steve Albini, Mark Arm, Richard Baluyut, Nils Bernstein, Chris Brokaw, Joe Carducci, Paula Puhak Chang, Justin Chearno, Damon Che, Byron Coley, Ian Christe, Liz Clayton, Andee Connors, Gerard Cosloy, Ana Marie Cox, Scott DeSimon, Elizabeth Elmore, John Engle, Jayson Green, Joe Gross, Allan Horrocks, Steve Immerwahr, Jimmy Johnson, Katoman, Rob Lim, Rose Marshack, Bob Massey, DJ McNany, Nick Milhiser, James Murphy, Dave Reid, Seth Sanders, Agostino Tilotta, Fred Weaver, Bob Weston, Nancy Whang, Ian Williams, Douglas Wolk, Kiki Yablon, and, of course, all the members of the secret society of Chugchanga.

The ragtag crew at WOBC ran a hell of a radio station when I attended Oberlin, among them Martha Bayne, Jolene Callen, Rachel Maceiras, John McEntire, Jim Rippie, Bryan Smith, Steve Summers, Susannah Tartan, Will Winter, Zoe Zolbrod, and the late Rick Treffinger.

Things got heated between us and Barry Hogan for a while, but without him, Bitch Magnet never would have reunited. Big thanks to him and the rest of the All Tomorrows Parties' crew that made performing at 2011's Nightmare Before Christmas such a delight, in particular Deborah Hogan and Shawn Kendrick. It is a source of some regret that some of Shaun's craziest road stories are unpublishable.

Those last Bitch Magnet tours would not have happened, nor been as fabulous an experience, without the following people: Matthew Barnhart, Diego Castillo, Kitty Chew, Joffy Cruz, Dalse, Jeremy DeVine, George Gargan and Janice Li, Hiroki and the rest of the Kaikoo staff, Katoman, Kimi Lam, John Lee, Ana Paz Lopez, Jim Merlis, Sang Ah Nam and Kiwan Sung and 3rd Line Butterfly, Nisennenmondai, Alfie Palao, Jihong Park and the entire staff at Strange Fruit, smallgang and Former Utopia, Errol Tan, Tarsius, Peter Weening, Wilderness, the stage crew at Shibuya O-Nest, those who put on our show in Cologne, and everyone who came out to see us.

I didn't write much about record stores, but their centrality to this time and this kind of story is incalculable. I learned lots from the following. Some still exist, and should you be new to this music and curious to learn more, please direct your paychecks their way: Aquarius Records, Newbury Comics, Other Music, Pier Platters, Reckless, Sounds, Twisted Village, and Venus Records. And See Hear.

My parents, Alan Fine and Karen Fine, were forever far more supportive of my musical endeavors than I could ever have hoped, whether that meant showing up to see Bitch Magnet play opening-band slots at the CBGB Record Canteen to letting us blast away in the basement while, after a long day at work, they tried to eat dinner directly above us to, well, far too much else to recount here. Thanks, Mom and Dad.

A few musicians and denizens that I knew from this time aren't around anymore. The music and joy they created will long outlive them, but the world is lessened for losing the light they shone: Jon Cook, Michael Dahlquist, Hajji Majer, Letha Rodman Melchior, Jason Noble, and Billy Ruane. Above all, Jerry Fuchs, from whom I learned so much, with whom I laughed so hard, and to whom I still have so much to say. It is impossible to convey my sadness to know that we'll never finish our conversation.

In the course of writing this book, I interviewed around sixty musicians, label heads, and booking agents. Some were subjected to innumerable follow-up questions, yet tolerated them with ridiculously good humor and in general showed themselves to be all-around excellent human beings. In particular: Lou Barlow, Boche Billions, Ken Brown, Joe Carducci, Clint Conley, Jeremy DeVine, Anne Eickelberg, Zachary Lipez, Juan MacLean, Rose Marshack, Doug McCombs, Roger Miller, Peter Prescott, and David Yow. Others provided particularly thought-provoking or clarity-inducing comments, even though none of their quotes made it into the book: Henry Bogdan, Rebecca Gates, Michael Gerald, Emily Rieman, and Steve Turner. Somewhat relatedly, anyone needing transcription services should carve Cynthia Colonna's name into their forearm. She's fast, accurate, delightful, and, in general, all kinds of awesome. Find her at cynthiacolonna.com.

Much of this book was written at The Writers Room, the sui generis oasis in lower Manhattan. For around a year beginning in February 2013, I depended to an embarrassing degree upon its stillness, coziness, and quiet, and it never let me down. Huge thanks to Donna Brodie, Liz Sherman, and all the others that keep this space going.

Aside from being plain delightful to spend each workday with, the staff at
Inc.
were remarkably tolerant of my mood swings and occasional missed meetings and last-minute days off as this book's final deadline loomed. It is important to note that all the stuff about the weirdness associated with explaining your fucked-up bands to people at work was all written
before
I met them. Over at Viking and Penguin, Candice Gianetti provided services far beyond and saved me from several stupid mistakes; Amelia Zalcman offered wise and judicious counsel; Daniel Lagin came up with the look and feel; Diego Nunez took care of a million little details; and Sharon Gonzalez made it all happen. I'm also fortunate to work with not one but two top-notch book publicists: Meredith Burks and Gretchen Crary.

Others who helped in ways large and small: Kurt Andersen and Anne Kreamer, Gary Hoenig and Betsy Carter, Russ Reid, Michael Weiss, and the crew with whom I want to end every late night. (You know who you are.)

And last, but really first, my wife, Laurel Touby. She was there for every minute of a project that took almost four years to complete. Her patience with its demands was constant and astonishing, even during its many crunch times. Her ferocious skills at the merch table during Bitch Magnet's last round of tours helped our little circus survive until the next show, her editing pen made the final product better. Thank you, Laurel, for all of that and so much more. Had we not met, there would be no happy ending. I love you.

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