City Sound Inertia

Okay, with your kind patience—allow me to nerd the fuck out over this Thorns of Life news for a little bit.

When I first heard that Blake Schwarzenbach and Aaron Cometbus had started a band together, I gotta say, my heart fluttered. I’ve been listening to Jawbreaker since seeing them on their Unfun tour in 1990, and have loved every Jawbreaker and Jets to Brazil record in the years since. I’ve been reading every single issue of Cometbus since Issue #24 in 1990, I have the lyrics to almost every Crimpshrine song memorized, and have been an avid follower of Aaron’s bands and writing ever since.

But just as soon after hearing the news, I began to wonder. Will these two be able to stay in a band together, or will it be another Shotwell Coho, or Cleveland Bound Death Sentence, or Mundt, or any number of other Aaron Cometbus bands that break up after a few months of playing house shows and warehouses with only a 7” to show for it? Much as Aaron is undeniably gifted, one has to admit that his track record of keeping bands together is somewhat thin.

Then there’s the style question. My gut prognosis about the Thorns of Life was that they’d be a throwback to Unfun-era Jawbreaker. I mean, can you imagine Aaron playing a song like “In the Summer’s When You Really Know?” No. But it’s easy to imagine Blake playing a song like “Pretty Mess,” because he’s already made a couple albums that sound kinda like “Pretty Mess.”

The photos and videos that popped up on YouTube from the band’s second-ever show last night confirmed what I’d thought: namely, that Blake would be blown back into reliving musically something he once was 18 years ago. I’m not sure that this is the great thing that everyone’s been making it out to be, even though Unfun remains my favorite Schwarzenbach offering, mostly for sentimental reasons. That’s because Perfecting Loneliness runs a close, honest second; it’s the sound of Blake pushing himself stylistically, with brilliant results. I want to see a post-Perfecting Loneliness Blake Schwarzenbach. Not a back-to-Unfun Blake Schwarzenbach.

As for Aaron, he’s an incredible writer, whose latest issue of Cometbus about the history of Telegraph Avenue is a crowning masterwork. Seriously, I can’t recommend it enough. He usually writes lyrics for the bands he drums in, but I’m guessing that’s pretty much out of the picture since Blake’s at the pen (I do hope, however, that should the band ever put out an album, Aaron throws down his layout skills). And I’m sure Daniela will be a solid bassist, judging from the few Gr’ups shows I saw at Gilman back in the day.

But make no mistake. This is Blake’s band. That’s not as egalitarian a statement as I’d like to be able to make, but it’s true. After a six-year hiatus from making music, everyone’s got their eyes on him, and Aaron is going to have to settle for being an extra added attraction; he’s done it before. If Thorns of Life doesn’t last, then there’s no telling how much longer Blake will retreat back into relative hibernation.

If Thorns of Life does last, then they’re gonna have to accept the inevitable spotlight. Hopefully they’re cool with it. And hopefully they’ll break out of playing house shows, and record and tour, and achieve a Jawbreaker-esque level circa 1994, when Blake declared the band “filthy rich from dirty punk money” from the stage at Gilman. It just might undo the psychological damage from the brutal way that Jawbreaker fizzled, and how Jets to Brazil fizzled. A little like hitting the sack with your old girlfriend after breaking up with your new one. Which isn’t a bad thing, really.

I remember the excitement the last time Blake started a new band. Before Orange Rhyming Dictionary, via the cassette grapevine, I wound up with a third-generation tape of Jets to Brazil playing live, in 1998. Side One was recorded at Tramp’s; Side Two was recorded at a place called the Crackhouse. Despite my anticipation, I only listened to it a few times, because it was a terrible representation of what the band actually sounded like—and, importantly, you could hardly make out the lyrics at all.

That was long ago, before we had the ability to instantaneously transmit videos of house shows for all the world to see, but the core idea remains the same. I know it’s exciting and all, but let’s try to keep our heads. Don’t trust the first evidence that comes down the pipe. Don’t glue yourself too hard to the YouTube videos. Wait for the album. Wait for them to come to your town. Keep it real. Like the old days.

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UPDATE: All speculation drains away with my San Francisco review. A few days later, Thorns of Life played with Santiago in Santa Rosa; my interview with Blake is here.

I had heard about Marnie Stern’s Kissing Booth idea a couple hours before tonight’s show with Gang Gang Dance in San Francisco, and sure enough, when we arrived at Bimbo’s, we discovered this sign at the merch stand:

Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about!

Apparently, in addition to the speeding tickets, some seatbelt violations were involved as well, which can get pretty expensive (“Michigan, man,” said Stern). Discriminating kissers will note the detailed price breakdown: $3 for a peck on the cheek, $10 for full lips, and $100 for the big-spender French kiss.

So — were there any takers?

At the end of Marnie Stern’s set, a sizable group of people crowded around her side of the stage, declaring their love and asking for hugs. But to my dismay, I went out in the lobby later on and witnessed a similar group of people just, uh, standing around. And though the kissing offer was literally on the table, they were just, uh, awkwardly talking to Marnie Stern. And, um, buying a shirt, I guess. And, do you. . . think I could have another hug?

It was excruciating. Goddamn indie hipsters are a bunch of pansy-ass Holden Caulfields who can’t get over their own imagined degradation of giving a girl $10 for a kiss, I grumbled to myself. Whatever happened to all the fun in the world?!

But after about 10 minutes, a good sign walked into the room. To be precise: a tall mid-20s boy, with a slender face and large eyes. Lanky, plaid shirt. He approached the table and conspicuously pointed to the sign.

“Is the kissing booth open?” he asked.

Finally! Marnie Stern jumped up, pointed her arms in the air and let out a “whoo-hoo!” while doing a small, excited dance. A customer!

The boy pointed to the “lips” option, and handed a $10 bill to Stern, who was more than willing to deliver the goods. Boy, did he get his money’s worth:

Yowza!

I chased him down afterwards. “I had to,” he told me. “She’s beautiful, you know? It was awesome.” He was beaming from ear to ear.

Please, indie rock nation: more kissing booths!