Bullshit Detectors! The Garage Is an Outside Place, and a Place for Outsiders

The garage has long been both a literal and metaphorical site of rock imaginings. A rough, dirty space outside of—or on the outside of—the house habitat, the garage environment has traditionally served as a place of sanctuary for males, as well as for their noisy mechanical games and endeavors. No place for peacocks and fashionistas, garage inhabitants dress down to the basics—jeans and T-shirts—and their behavior and attitudes correlate accordingly. Critic Michael Hicks speaks of the garage as “a psychological space as much as much as a physical one”, and this psychogeographical perspective applies to the type of rock bands that have historically inhabited—both symbolically and literally—the world of the garage. (Hicks, Michael. Sixties Rock: Garage, Psychedelic, and Other Satisfactions. Urbana & Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1999, p.25)

The garage is not only an outside place but also a place for outsiders. Far from the slick recording rooms and plush studios of mainstream rock, garages reflect the minimal budgets and raw dreams of rock aspirants. Here, the kids can find haven from the rules and restraints of their parents, using their instruments to let off the steam of daily frustrations. Here, too, kids of all ages can turn their backs on the world of establishment rock and pop, embracing with pride their real or imagined roles as outcasts and alienated rebels. The primitive sounds they emit are self-designated as “authentic”, while any signs of polish, precision, or pretension (their markers of establishment rock) are summarily dismissed as “bullshit”.

These “bullshit detectors” have certain historic precedents within the arts, as Hicks has noted. He cites the Beats and Existentialists of the ’50s as aesthetic forerunners of the garage bands that would emerge by the dawn of the next decade. These avant-garde antagonists were ideologically independent in nature and away from the numbers as a matter of principle. Self-conscious and self-righteous, they sought and celebrated the primal and unaffected facets of humankind, rejecting the stultifying phoniness of materialism and bourgeois affectations. For them, speed, sweat, and reckless abandon were lifestyle indicators as well as artistic ones, harnessed as ways to approach the nirvana of authentic primitivism.

Like the Beats and Existentialists, garage band members (perhaps paradoxically) perceive themselves as both individualists and as communal constituents, the latter privileged as an in-crowd affair so that the apparition or integrity of the former is maintained. United in their general disdain for all music un-garage, like-minded garagers gravitate to and coalesce around “bands”, surrogate families for the similarly alienated. As the commune was to hippies, so the garage has been to garage bands and to their proto-punk, punk, and post-punk successors: an enclave where marginalized youth can fantasize or realize their visions of independent alternative art and lifestyles.

Like the Existentialists and Beats, too, garage bands have always imagined themselves—explicitly or implicitly—through a rose-colored lens of social class. Less a concern of real social background and more one of image and identity, garage bands align themselves with the outcast and downtrodden, or at least with the working class. The Rolling Stones and The Yardbirds, two acts central to defining the aesthetics and style features of garage rock in the early-to-mid-’60s, provided templates for such social class imag(in)ing. The Stones, as Hicks observes, “adapted a rural black assertion of personal dissatisfaction into an urban white assertion of cultural repulsion” (p.27), while The Yardbirds took their name from the argot of the Beats, who used it to describe the hobos that hung around in train yards. In both cases, underclass cultures are romanticized, ironically, for their supposed “free” lifestyles.

Two more recent contemplations of the garage phenomenon also reflect the genre’s class implications. Both The Clash’s “Garageland” and Weezer’s “In the Garage” celebrate being “back in the garage”, though they do so through different social class presumptions. For The Clash, garage bands are working class warriors railing against the rock establishment. “Someone just asked me if the band would wear suits”, singer Joe Strummer bitterly announces. “There’s people ringing up making offers for my life, but I just wanna stay in the garage all night”, he adds, conveniently ignoring the fact that his band had just inked a major deal with corporate giants CBS Records. The social lines are drawn for The Clash: you are either with the “truth”-telling “guttersnipes”, or with “the rich”.

Conversely, and perhaps reflective of the less class-rigid society in the US, Weezer paint a picture of garage rock as a middle class suburban ritual in “In the Garage”. Here, the garage is a haven, a retreat where kids can write “stupid songs” with “stupid words”, where “no one cares” what you get up to, and where you can fantasize about your rock idols. Despite their different ruminations on the character of garage rock, both The Clash and Weezer envision the garage as a private refuge where you can do your own thing your own way, beyond the interfering “bullshit” of either corporate society or parents.

Garage rock’s inherent antagonism to mainstream mores dates back to its inception and infancy, indeed, to a time before the designation “garage rock” ever existed. When Link Wray released “Rumble” in 1958, juvenile delinquency was a much-publicized concern in both the US and the UK. To the ears of many young listeners, this song seemed to embody this social malady from the inside out. While its title was certainly evocative, responses did not hinge upon any lyrics—as it was an instrumental—but upon the very sound itself. Wray’s raw, fuzzed-out guitar appeared to capture the primal tension of a brawl, while its insistent riff kicked and punched into the (sub)consciousnesses of its audience. Thus was born the foundational bare-bones sound, style, and attitude of garage rock.

Soon, other acts would develop upon Wray’s blueprint. Bands from such far-flung regions as the Pacific North-West, Texas, and Michigan took the pre-existing surf and pop sounds, then re-routed them with a lo-fi production that defied the slick product of early-’60s rock ‘n’ roll. Across the Atlantic, Dave Davies of The Kinks picked up on Wray’s distorted guitar sound and mutilated his amp—as Wray had done—in order to replicate it. “You Really Got Me” and “All Day and All of the Night”, both released in 1964, established the garage sound for a broader rock audience, as did the Rolling Stones’ “(I Can’t Get No) Satisfaction”, released contemporaneously. By the time Keith Richards had laid down that song’s menacing riff, a more practical Fuzzbox effects pedal had become available for users, and use it they did, as the fuzz-toned guitar became the ubiquitous sound of the R&B school of the British invasion. So, while The Beatles were inspiring future garage bands with their “anyone-can-do-it” early pop hits, The Kinks, Stones, Animals, and Yardbirds were codifying the tones and riffs of this identifiable new genre.

By 1966, as the British invasion bands softened musically and surged commercially, the garage sound swung back States-side, where a new breed of young upstarts sought to “keep it real” by countering the slick harmonies, orchestral adornments, melodic complexities, and romanticist musings of the Fab Four et al with squawking vocals, three-note riffs, back-to-basics hooks, and sexually-charged puns and wordplay. “Psychotic Reaction” by The Count Five, “96 Tears” by ? and the Mysterians, “Dirty Water” by The Standells, and “Talk Talk” by The Music Machine were all released in 1966, making it a banner year for garage rock. Perhaps because most of these songs amounted to little more than regional hits, or perhaps because the genre had exhausted its own limited repertoire of sonic options, but thereafter “classic” garage rock dissipated and went into decline, replaced by the new adventurism of psychedelia and the new proficiency of progressive rock.

A long-time sanctuary for garage types, the state of Michigan defiantly disregarded all memos announcing the death of garage rock. There, The Amboy Dukes, The Stooges, and the MC5—amongst others—maintained the primitive sounds and combative nature at the genre’s core. Kindred spirits survived in New York, too, where musician-fans like Lenny Kaye helped salvage some like-spirited bands that had faded into obscurity. Alongside Jac Holzman, he put together Nuggets: Original Artyfacts from the First Psychedelic Era, 1965-1968 in 1971, a collection of 27 songs from the golden age of garage rock. Though yet to be tagged as “garage rock”, Kaye’s sleeve-notes did invoke the term “punk rock”, foreshadowing the genre that would soon carry garage aesthetics into the next rock epoch.

Punk and garage mated and morphed around various sub-genres in the late-’70s, sending the form in myriad musical directions. Closest to the original sound was the pub rock scene of South-East England, where bands like the 101ers (Joe Strummer’s pre-Clash band), Kilburn & the High Roads (Ian Dury’s original band), and Dr. Feelgood retained the R&B fundamentals, while adding new intensity and speed to their sounds and performances. Garage’s proud amateurism and unrefined simplicity were maintained by the thousands of punk and new wave bands that followed, though the principal riff roots became increasingly “whitened” as R&B elements were gradually excised. In bands like The Ramones and the Sex Pistols, while garage attitudes were alive and kicking, its musical/sonic legacy was largely absent. Instead, particularly in the UK, bands adjusted their bullshit detectors to socio-political lyrical concerns that had only been hinted at in the individualistic and bitter invectives of the old school.

While the ’80s saw a nostalgic revival of original garage in bands like The Fuzztones and The Lyres, it also introduced more innovative practitioners. The Gories, Thee Headcoats, and The Oblivians breathed new life into old sounds, while post-punk mavericks like The Fall and The Jesus and Mary Chain expanded the garage tent with sounds both derivative and new. Today, these bands are amongst the most influential on young garage upstarts.

Throwing Garage at a Band: The RVs

Forty years after its arrival, garage rock enjoyed its most commercially fruitful heyday. While “Thee” had always been an in-crowd coded indicator of a garage band (Thee Midnighters, Thee Headcoats, Thee Oh Sees), it was the so-called “The” bands of the early 2000s (The White Stripes, The Strokes, The Hives, and The Vines) that established garage as the premier rock form of the day. The(se) bands reflect the intertwining and winding roads that garage and punk have traveled together over the decades; they also show that whatever the existing gimmicks, fashions, and trends may be, rock will always periodically return to its “no bullshit” roots and retreats, to the rough and tumble of the garage.

While the garage boom of the early-’00s has since faded from the front pages, the music still flourishes in its more familiar underground habitats. Thanks to supportive indie labels like Matador and In the Red, there are as many active garage bands today as there has ever been. Furthermore, corporate America is far from oblivious or unmindful to the potential buying power and/or taste-making capabilities of this ever-“cool” community. Last month, in my adoptive home town of Lawrence, Kansas, car company Scion sponsored its second annual “Garage Fest”. Featuring 28 bands from around the globe (from seven different countries), as well as from around the US (from 15 different cities/towns), this celebration of today’s broad church of garage attracted both the faithful and the uninitiated to hear and see veterans The Oblivians, The Gories, and The Clean, the carnivalesque King Khan and Hunx and his Punx, and the bright fuzz-pop of Best Coast and The Raveonettes, amongst many others.

Representing Lawrence at the festival were Rooftop Vigilantes (no The, no Thee), who kicked off the festivities with a blistering 40-minute set of short-and-loud sonic nuggets. RVs have recently been garnering some critical buzz in the scribe community, with both Stereogum and Spin taking note of the garage charms displayed on their debut release, Carrot Atlas. Their latest album, Real Pony Glue, produced by J. Robbins (of Jawbox renown), is packed to the gills with the kind of succinct punk-pop tunes that would have Pete Shelley and Bob Pollard drooling with jealousy. Alas, this collection has yet to find a label (Come on Matador! Come on In the Red!), thus RVs currently remain (call me a homer) a contender for the best unsigned band in America. I recently had an opportunity to throw some garage-related questions at the four band members—Zach Campbell (guitar, bass, vocals), Oscar Guinn (guitar, bass, vocals), Hannah Hyde (Farfisa organ), and Seth M. Weise (drums)—and the interview went something like this…

PopMatters: Many garage/punk bands manage to capture their intended energy and intensity live then sound polished and practiced in the studio. How do you transfer the rawness of that live performance onto wax?

Hannah: We’re all present and part of the process.

Seth: We’ll put down as much as we can live in the studio first.

Oscar: We’re all drinking! We aim for the cheapest, fastest way of getting it done, of getting it to that level where it sounds shitty but no shittier, just this clean but no cleaner, and with a just-out-of-tune cool. We don’t always know how to get there, but we know the right sound when we hear it. Also, it takes a lot of mixing to make it sound live.

Zach: Real Pony Glue (the new album) could have been our (Guided by Voices’) Do The Collapse but we mixed it like Under The Bushes.

PM: Two of you are sound guys so you’re presumably sensitive to the most effective relationship between stage sound and audience appreciation. Why, then, when you perform, do you insist on bursting the ear drums of America’s youth by turning everything up to 11?

Zach: I’d always rather be too loud than too quiet. Quiet bands are weenies. We don’t want to sound like… [band names omitted at the request of the sensitive band members].

Oscar: It’s not as much fun unless you’re physically affected by the sound.

Hannah: I couldn’t hear myself for the whole first year I played with the band. One day Zach’ll drive a huge car.

Zach: Are you saying I play music loud because I have a small penis?

Everyone: Yes!

Seth: Also, I hit the drums too hard, so everyone else has to accommodate to my loudness.

PM: Do you all visit different wardrobes for the stage of rock and the stage of life?

Oscar: No. All the world’s a stage.

Hannah: Collectively, we change our clothes about every 2.7 days. I would prefer to be—on stage—an accurate reflection of how I look each day because I would find it mortifying to look as if I was trying too hard. Also, we lower expectations with our look.

Zach: And who are we trying to kid if we changed our clothes? I guess we sometimes mimic bands we like. We like The Replacements so we often end up wearing a lot of flannel

PM: Garage bands often proudly and loudly associate themselves with anti-commercial music, with those bands antithetical to mainstream rock/pop. What music did/do you listen to?

Oscar: We have a word for that—“Nuggetude”. We could seriously “out” a lot of the really cool garage bands at Scion after hearing what they really listen to in private.

Zach: We only listen to vintage analog recordings! My goal in this band is to be so cool that if we say the Gin Blossoms are cool then people will think they are cool.

Hannah: I grew up listening to Boys to Men.

Zach: I was obsessed with The Beatles when I was a kid and was made fun of because I listened to “parent” music.

Seth: I wish I had my parents’ record collection.

Oscar: In all of our musical backgrounds there’s a lot of cheesy shit, too. We draw from it all; we’re all-purpose rip-off artists.

PM: Garage bands also habitually hail their regional identity as a badge of honor (“We’re from Detroit, maaan!”). You have written some songs about local Lawrence culture (“After Shots at the Tap Room”). Do you have Kansas and Larryville pride?

Zeth: Yes, we embrace it and defend it but there’s nothing we can do about it anyway, and it doesn’t work in our favor around the country.

Oscar: When we played out in San Francisco there were these people who were teasing us for coming from Kansas, so I told them that I used to ride a cow to middle school. Their response was “Oh, wow! Even if it’s cold out?”

Hannah: In the end I’d rather just not be cool, not be from the right town, nor wear the right clothes, or have the right guitar tone or the right curly cord.

PM: How did you feel about your Scion show and about the festival in general?

Hannah: There was a good crowd. I’m glad we played first so we could get to drinking and enjoy the rest of the festival.

Zach: I’m so glad it happened; it was a great day. But I wish more local bands could have played. People would have got to see not only what a cool town Lawrence is but what cool bands we have, too.

Oscar: Although it was just a promotional gimmick for Scion, at least they didn’t put up big cheesy brand signs everywhere, as might have happened 10-to-15 years ago. Their attitude was that this is a garage festival we’re putting on but we’re not gonna be too visible doing it. And it was probably more successful for them because of it. Know thy audience.