Swingin'
Utters, Teen Idols, The Secludes, Scout's Honor
Paris
Theatre 6 SW 3rd Ave., 224-8313
8 pm Friday, Aug. 27
$7 advance
Considering how dumb their name is, the Swingin' Utters--vocalist
Johnny "Peebucks" Bonnel, guitarists Max Huber and Darius
Koski, bassist Spike Slawson and drummer Greg McEntee--are
a surprisingly smart gang of lads.
With each new release, the Bay Area quintet detours further
from its modest origins (bashing out Clash covers to sloshed
skinheads) to create an increasingly literate and lyrical
body of work. In the process it's become a genuine rarity:
a punk band with songs that make for good reading as much
as good listening.
Yet no one seems to have noticed the Utters' verbal merits.
Creeper-shod kids rock to the group's paper-cutter-sharp
power chords, and skins dig the drink-along-with-your-brothers
working-class allegiances, but few pay attention to any
words outside the choruses. And no one beyond the insular
punk community has even recognized the Utters' existence.
Ask songwriter Koski why, and he'll sigh in frustration.
"Because we're 'just a punk band,'" he says over the phone
from his San Francisco apartment, where the quiet cooing
of his 10-month-old son Mathias punctuates his words.
To some degree, it's impossible for the Swingin' Utters
to deny the artistically cursed "punk" designation, since
their sonic pedigree is easily traced to the choppy rhythms
and chunky guitars of Stiff Little Fingers and, of course,
the Clash. Bands that are "just" punk, however, don't usually
throw accordions, acoustic guitars, organs and violins into
the mix. They don't occasionally end concerts with a two-man,
folky guitar-and-vocals set. And they certainly don't write
lyrics like these from "Smokestack Dreams": "What's missing
is the scent of salted air/And a song sung by your sweetheart
and you're there/As a twilight breeze sifts slowly through
her hair/And the angels take a split of the Devil's share."
"There's no way in hell I could be in a band for the rest
of my life and only write punk-rock songs with a distorted
Marshall amp or whatever," says Koski. "It would be boring.
I'd be bored right now if we didn't branch out more....I
don't understand bands who play the exact same music forever.
I never want to be in the kind of band that doesn't change."
Ah, but therein lies the rub. Punk puritans would prefer
that bands refrain from evolving beyond a rudimentary three-chords-and-the-alleged-truth
formula. When the Utters tried to do so on their 1998 album,
Five Lessons Learned, which showcased whiskey-stiffened
Irish folk, cheeky '60s pop and tweaky Jamaican ska, many
of the wee 'uns who buy CDs released on skater-friendly
Fat Wreck Chords were disappointed, dismayed or downright
confused.
"Five Lessons Learned was a weird record [according
to] what our fans thought, but it was pretty normal for
us," Koski explains. "That's what we've been wanting to
do forever. If we did more of that stuff, I don't know what
would happen. Maybe people wouldn't like us as much because
we're not as 'punk.' It's kind of disappointing."
Unfazed by accusations of wimping out, he currently writes
most of his music on an acoustic guitar, drawing inspiration
from the same lyrical wells as Steve Earle, Elvis Costello
and especially Shane MacGowan (witness the Utters' penchant
for sea-and-salt metaphors and their love of drink). And
since Koski thinks his quieter songs sound "wrong" when
played through electric guitars, his new Utters tunes are
fleshed out increasingly with accordions and acoustics.
Songs like "One in All," "A Promise to Distinction" or "Smokestack
Dreams," with their skipping rhythms and reflective subject
matter, suggest the Pogues far more than pogo-ing youth.
"But everyone [in the band] likes those songs," muses Koski,
"so I'm gonna do more of that stuff until absolutely nobody
buys our records."
Koski maintains he hasn't got "a drop of Irish blood" in
him and aims to avoid the Pogues--or any other--pigeonhole.
"I like simple music with lots of instrumentation," he says.
"I don't care where it's from. I like Greek music, Mexican
music, French music...and I can't just write mellow acoustic
songs all the time, either, because that's boring, too.
I just want to keep writing different types of songs all
the time. Forever. Then I'd be happy."
But before attaining complete satisfaction, Koski's got
one major hurdle to leap--convincing his bandmates to make
some retroactive corrections to their misspelled moniker.
With a bitter laugh, he says, "I always ask, 'Why can't
we just change it back to the right spelling?' And they
won't let me do it. I'm an anal speller, so it just bugs
the hell out of me."
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Willamette Week | originally
published August 25,
1999
|
