A Teenage Symphony to Milwaukee

I’ve been living in this city for exactly nine years – long enough to have left a wake of half-blurred musical memories behind me, but not quite long enough to have figured out what they all mean, how these haphazard fragments of rock shows, local bands, and desperate music can possibly fit together into a greater context. For me, the Milwaukee music scene – as well as the city itself – represents a decades old repository for the casually discarded memories of hundreds upon hundreds of musicians, bands, and the obviously troubled souls who perform on open mic nights. Beyond any particular style, movement or trend, it’s this random wreckage scattered throughout the past nine years that truly makes our music scene what it is: a long, collective, drunken night out.

While brimming with good times and great oldies, it’s no secret that the Brew City warehouse has never exactly been a hotbed of breakthrough artists. In the obscenely short lifespan of rock and roll, how many life-altering, earth-shattering, “I lost it to that song!” bands have come out of Milwaukee? Here’s a hint: if you’re the type of person who needs to count using your fingers and you happen to be short one arm, you’ll do just fine.

Along with this sobering statistic comes a peculiar breed of person who curses the local music scene, who wishes it ill will and tragedy at all turns: a nice place to live, but a terrible place for music. After all, they cry, has there ever been a more apathetic, unwelcoming city in which to shelter a Brit-pop/hardcore/shoegazer/art-damaged/early Kinks-influenced juggling act? Or how about a band (ahem) that owes its entire existence to They Might Be Giants and The Dead Milkmen? These people never tire in pining for the more “music-friendly” cities of Chicago, Portland, or – I don’t know – Hoboken, New Jersey. Their callous derision, their knee-jerk contempt, their out-of-pocket dismissal can only mean one of two things: they’re complete idiots, or, more likely, their bands simply suck.

Over the past almost-a-decade, I’ve done what every semi-successful local musician has done – I’ve come to terms with this city. For every night of dwindling crowds, stolen equipment, or god awful opening bands, there’s been a dozen filled with unexpected revelations, note-perfect music, and unbridled joy. Seeing Of Montreal putting on a play at the pre-remodeled Cactus Club. Playing with Sylvain Sylvain from the New York Dolls. Or, better yet, opening up for the SuicideGirls Burlesque Show. The naysayers have it all wrong; it’s not about the final destination; it’s about the alcohol-infused folly along the way: the nights spent with tireless friends dragging equipment on-stage, with unknown fans singing along to every word, with effortless and stupid grins lighting our faces. Good times.

This is Vital’s music issue, and strangely, I find I have little to say on the state of the scene. What’s missing is the distance needed to put everything in perspective, the cool detachment required for such a reductive act; my experience with the Milwaukee music scene is still so perfectly and thankfully incomplete. I’ve thought about writing about all the random goodness I’ve come across, all the note-perfect memories, all the nights spent listening to – and playing – the soundtrack to our city. But no, I’m saving those for myself. All I can do is quietly profess to the readers of this monthly that, for better or worse, this is what we’ve got, and don’t think for a half-second it isn’t good.

It’s three in the morning and I’m sitting outside the Cactus Club with a girl I’ve known for a week. She’s asking me about my ridiculous past, my plans for the future. Then: “What about the band? That certainly can’t go on forever.” This stops me cold. I look into her eyes and they’re saying, “This will never amount to anything. You will never get out.” Maybe so. I for one could care less.  VS