My Back Pages, Part 2 (a very late rewrite)
I’m not too happy with my 1980s writing persona.
I’m not quite at a place where I’d like to offer a formal apology for it, but when I look back at the things I’d write for various magazines and newspapers back then, I quite often wish I could reach back across the decades, slap myself in the face and say “Wes, you’re being too clever by half. You’re too impressed with yourself and your precious wordplay. Step back from your festival of self-love and admit you’ve got a lot to learn.” I did try, and I always took the assignment seriously, but most of the time I’m just thinking, “I could do such a better job now…”
One hopes one does learn a few things over 30 or 35 years. I have, as they say, been through some stuff, and I recognize the virtues of compassion and empathy, of trying to understand someone else’s situation, experiences and mindset, and above all, to communicate their truth, be it inevitably through your own clouded filter.
Hey, I’m all for journalists calling themselves out when it’s warranted. We could probably do with a bit more of that. Pursuit of the truth, right?
Anyway, back in 1985 I pitched a piece to Spin magazine, for which I’d done a few record reviews at that point, to write about a local band in Boston, where I lived, called Salem 66. This was a big deal for both me and them — it was a national mag, and although the band had had a good deal of regional coverage, hadn’t had much press on a national level at that point. I knew the band members pretty well, had seen a bunch of their shows, knew the songs, and thought they were an intriguing enigma with a lot of potential. That was part of the problem; as some critics have pointed out, it’s much harder to write about artists whose work you admire than those you hate (slagging something off is dead easy). What did Salem 66’s music actually sound like? It was easier to define what they weren’t; the band themselves energetically insisted they weren’t part of a movement like the Paisley Underground, a group of neo-psychedelic bands making noise on the West Coast at that moment. (In 2020, Salem 66 was included on a terrific compilation album called Strum & Thrum: The American Jangle Underground 1983–1987, which did a much better job of defining that particular movement than I ever could. Jangle Underground! To be honest, out of the 28 bands included on the comp, I had only been previously familiar with six of them and was only really familiar with three: Salem 66, 28th Day, and the Outnumbered.)
I agonized for weeks over writing the piece, trying to find the perfect angle many times, and undoubtedly overthinking it to the point of disaster. The piece was published in the December ’85 issue, and let’s just say that the feedback from the band was…illuminating. I’ve been kicking myself about it ever since. So here, as a very late rewrite, is my attempt at making amends, focusing on things I should have focused on instead of things I shouldn’t have, as if beating my breast at the synagogue on Yom Kippur with the benefit of some 37-plus years of hindsight and teshuvah.
Whatever You Think They Are, Salem 66 Probably Isn’t That
[As published in Alternate Universe SPIN Magazine, December 1985]
In 1982 Judy Grunwald, a veteran of the late ’70s Boston alt-pop band The Maps, was set up on a “songwriting date” with fellow musician Beth Kaplan; they both swiped right and immediately hit it off, Judy’s darker, soulful poesy complementing Kaplan’s sunnier, but still thoughtful and occasionally turbulent bent. Susan Merriam, a clubgoing friend, had never played drums before but completed the core trio with rhythms that just sounded right with that particular blend. Robert Wilson Rodriguez, straight out of Wayland High, later joined on backup guitar.
Their eponymous debut EP was released last year after they became the first band to sign with the new indie label Homestead Records, which followed their signing with generally darker and louder labelmates like Big Black, Antietam, Dinosaur Jr., Live Skull, Sonic Youth, Volcano Suns, and Nick Cave and the Bad Seeds.
Kaplan and Grunwald write separately, and split the songwriting and lead vocals pretty much evenly between them. Judy’s songs tend to be slower, tending towards the dirgey, and are filled with gothic imagery and psychological explorations bordering on emo; Beth’s are generally more poppy and lighter but never frothy, resembling smart, crackling diary entries with the words tumbling over each other as if she can’t get them out fast enough. Both employ frequent, sudden in-song tempo changes as if to suggest mercurial, lightning-fast streams of consciousness. The lyrics are a will-o’-the-wisp, sometimes grasped, sometimes missed. An often unpolished delivery of the goods adds to their handmade charm.
If there’s one thing the Salems are wary of, it’s being pigeonholed or aligned with any sort of trend or movement. In particular, don’t use the phrase “Paisley Underground.” Although to be honest, Jangle Underground might be acceptable; if there’s any spirit that animates them it’s cacophonous harmony, polyphony with just enough internal tension to keep things interesting.
“We weren’t then and aren’t now a psychedelic band,” Beth declares. “Never will be,” Robert adds.
“We used that tag early on to describe ourselves before it was a happening little thing,” Judy says. “There wasn’t a whole psychedelic scene, so to use that word didn’t really connote that you were best friends with Steve Wynn [of Dream Syndicate] or something.”
“It teaches you not to label yourself, ever,” Susan says. (Of course, labels, both literally and metaphorically, are only ever useful on the surface.)
There’s a price to pay for being ahead of the herd, which Salem 66 is, though nobody knows it yet. Though they’ve earned a solid place in Boston’s thriving indie-rock scene, the road might be smoother for them had they been a decade younger and waited to get together until 1991 or so in, say, Seattle, Portland or Olympia.
Speaking of, for those of you who can’t wait to compare Salem 66 to the future Pacific Northwest indie riot grrl band Sleater-Kinney — which won’t even form for another nine years, for God’s sake — their only similarity is being led by a female, two-thirds Jewish trio, although I admit that there’s this one S-K song “Leave You Behind,” from their fifth studio album All Hands on the Bad One, which won’t be released for another 15 years (I was sent an advance copy), which is harmonically similar to the Salems and reminds me strongly of their dynamic, so there. Frequency and urgency!
After nearly four years together Salem 66 is ready to move up to the next level, but they’re going to advance on their own terms. In conversation, they banter and joke easily and cheerfully among themselves. They’re young, and there’s cause for optimism. They currently enjoy a growing national following and receive mail from fans throughout the States.
“They want to know stuff about the songs and about us,” says Beth, “when the records are coming out, and whether we’re coming to play in their town.”
“And then, of course,” says Judy, “we write back and say, ‘Can we stay with you when we play there?’”
There’s a yearning for something significant in Beth and Judy’s voices, even if you’re not quite sure what that is. But in the end, they’re neither rock goddesses nor avatars of glory. They’re the voices of friends speaking their truths to you in poetic streaks against a dark foreboding sky. Artful artlessness, not quite like anything else you’re likely to hear, but somehow it works.
- Wes Eichenwald
