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I spent Tuesday night at the State Theater in the fine company of the most enigmatic band of all time, the fabulous Residents. It was not my first time.
Way back in the mid-to-late seventies, commercial radio had reached its nadir. This was a time when – comparatively speaking – the Eagle’s were the bomb. The only good stations were the black ones, where P-Funk was kicking ass and taking names. The major record labels had cut back to a trickling of new releases, the theory being that no record should be released that didn’t have the potential to go double-platinum.
This had a marvelous consequence. Small market and college radio stations rebelled and began playing obscure and low budget product. Idiosyncratic Zines popped up everywhere, just like web sites did in the late nineties. Everybody started making their own records, including relatively untalented individuals like yours truly. Suddenly, I found myself on playlists around the country, right along side legends like Pere Ubu, The Cramps, and The Slickee Boys. And of course, the Residents.
It didn’t last long. The major labels, smelling a new market, promptly stepped in. Whoops, there go the Talking Heads. Whoops, there goes Richard Hell. Suddenly, the game – once again – was to get signed. By 1982, I knew it wasn’t going to happen for me. I had recently made my best single, but by now, no station was interested in giving it a spin. After all, the majors now paid the bills.
I hung it up and got a ‘responsible’ job, but the Residents never did, issuing one fascinating disk after another on their own Ralph label.
And here we are, twenty years later, with the Residents having just released the best work of their career, the haunting ‘Demons Dance Alone’. No one cares. No station will play it. No one will review it. Very few people will ever hear it. The Residents have no powerhouse backing. And they are old.
The stage at the State Theater is wide and open access. I stand by the lip of the stage and look up at the lead singer. He is anonymous, but his voice is not, strong and eccentric as thirty years ago. He is only wearing a partial mask tonight, and from my vantage point I can see much of his face. The eyeholes let me peer in, and I can see that that his eyes have sunk deeply into wrinkled skin. He looks ancient, but he can’t possibly be. I remember when…
For thirty years, the Residents have held onto their mystery, but tonight they at least open a peephole into the fourth wall. During their third rendition of ‘Mister Wonderful’, the old man sits and tells a story. It is a college story from 1965, and he has met one of his idols, the Godfather of Soul, at a gas station. After providing directions, James Brown reaches out and shakes his hand. “That,” he says, “was the best day of my life.” And then the music rises back up, with the melancholy phrase “That would be wonderful” greeting each new couplet. He sings from a sad reality. “If I had a major label / and a way to pay my bills” (that would be wonderful)… “If my old friend Snakefinger / hadn’t had a heart attack” (that would be wonderful). It was wonderful.
The show continues for another twenty minutes. The old man is right in front of me, near exhaustion. He is close enough for me to touch. I watch the sweat literally pour out from underneath his mask, and know that he has given more of himself tonight then he really has left to give.
The Residents are nearly dead. Long live the Residents. They are old but they have persevered. By not giving up, they have succeeded, much more than they will ever know.
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