THE LITTERBOX

The fighting side

By John O'Neill

I NEVER SHOT a man just to watch him die, but, once, many moons ago, I tossed a dope down a staircase because he had it coming. Well, maybe he didn't exactly have it coming, but a couple racks of Black Label can escalate any situation that is already steaming toward hostile waters. And so it was when this joker began spouting off about the greatness of Camper Van Beethoven at a monthly programming meeting for radio station WCUW-FM, in Worcester, Mass. As the self-avowed defender of garage rock and the head of the rock department (chief duty: picking up beer for meetings), I would have none of it, especially in light of their then-recent fiasco Key Lime Pie. Besides, there was also the long history of Camper churning out college radio shit that seemed to follow me throughout my formative years. From "Take the Skinheads Bowling" right up to "Pictures of Matchstick Men," they were always lurking around acting so smug and unrocking and, well, fey. Certainly not the stuff of community radio stations looking to stomp the Man's empire.

So an argument ensued. While my foreign policy is generally best described as a lot of phony saber rattling, after some wrongheaded remark, like the Lyres being tepid Kinks imitators, there was really no option but to pitch the offending DJ down a flight of stairs. And I never had to think of or hear about CVB again. Until last month.

Turns out I work with one of the creeps here at the Bay Guardian. While he rarely talks about his glory days in a Big Deal band, I admit to taking the low road. I deliver faux-innocent queries like "didn't you guys do 'Bitchin' Camaro'?" just to watch him stalk off. When he told me he had a copy of their new album, Tusk (Pitch-a-Tent), for review, the potential for ball busting was almost overwhelming. One of the worst albums ever, from one of the most obnoxious bands ever, redone in entirety by the Scourge of the '80s? Manna from heaven.

I still haven't been able to figure it out. Maybe it's the fact that singer David Lowery sounds like he's having such a swell time. His voice cracks, is sometimes out of tune, and you can hear every time he sucks in air. Drunk? Most likely. Maybe it's the way the band give extra polish to the Stevie Nicks quasi-mystic bullshit tunes so they don't stink so bad. There's just too much to fathom and far too much to take in, even with a set of headphones. Camper's Tusk is insolent and hilarious and annoying and brilliant, on a lot of levels. The best of which, of course, is poking Lindsey Buckingham in the eye. The Mac's chief architect and resident tight-ass is going to be ripped from his moorings when he finally hears it. The whole thing stinks of lawsuits, cease-and-desist orders, and name-calling. Which is a grand thing. Either way, it turns out that what started as a whim 15 years ago with the aid of pharmaceuticals has blossomed into the band's first truly wonderful album. It shows they're more relevant as a working combo now than they were then, which is a bummer of sorts – there's nothing more hollow than preparing yourself for battle and finding out there's no one there to fight.

Send comments or tips to johno@sfbg.com.