The Milwaukee Music Scene(tm), part deux

Rejected titles for this month’s column: God, I hate The Gufs; God, I hate Chicago; Are you there God? It’s me, Milwaukee.

After more than a decade as an on-again, off-again bit player in the Milwaukee Music Scene (MMS), I’m no closer to cracking its modest secrets than I was on day one. At times, our little city seems on the verge of something great, something bold and original; other times, it seems like a distant cousin’s wedding dance that simply refuses to end (no matter how many times “We Are Family” and “Baby Got Back” are played). In MMS columns of the past, I’ve written: “Maybe it’s that the MMS is like a cruel mistress, or maybe more like a jilted lover, or maybe more like a wacky TV next-door neighbor you just can’t get rid of. Any way you dice it, this is the time, city and scene we’ve all been given, so let’s focus on the good and avoid the bad.”Indeed, perhaps the best summation I can give our local indie/rock/noise/cow-punk/Gregorian-chant scene is that it’s schizophrenic at best, and simply catatonic at worst. Nevertheless, it’s the one we’re stuck with, and one thankfully rife with just enough left-field, life-affirming moments to keep us all plugging along without putting guns to our heads.

But before we dive deeper into that barrel of monkeys, let me say this: at least we’re not Chicago. The oft-mentioned inferiority complex we harbor for our Illinois neighbor has always puzzled me, as if criminally overpriced drinks, non-smoking venues and Billy Corgan are things worth aspiring to. During a trip to Roger Ebert’s stomping grounds last month, for example, I was faced with fifteen-dollar rum and cokes, twelve-dollar cover charges, and a smokeless, soulless venue that resembled a horrific cross between The Rave, Cush and a slightly upscale Hardees. For all its hype, the Windy City has always struck me as nothing more than a typical midwestern dump with a hugely inflated ego. Put simply (and to crib a line from The Adventures of Pete and Pete): Chicago can bite my scab.

But anyway, back to the homefront. Nothing better illustrates Milwaukee’s strange, musical split-personality than a recent evening that featured both the unbelievably good times provided by the monthly Get Down, and the unspeakable horrors of The Gufs playing a free outdoor show a block from my apartment. Both events are fine examples of their respective ends of the MMS spectrum, with unbridled joy brought on by an incredible selection of music on one side, and unchecked nausea brought on by maudlin lyrics and poor fashion sense on the other.

Following some sort of urban-playground/soccer/skateboard/BMX/let’s-do-this-before-Downer-Avenue-turns-into-a-goddamned-parking-garage block party, The Gufs set up shop and begin to do their thing, much to the delight of the sea of inebriated 18-year olds flooding the street. You may remember The Gufs as one of the slew of one-hit 90’s bands with a skin-crawlingly treacle-laced song about “crashing into me.” Don’t get me wrong, I’m sure they’re all fine fellows, and I’m sure their extensive collection of pre-faded jeans and assorted hair gels keeps several fine businesses afloat, but I’ll be damned if their music isn’t the sonic equivalent of a six-dollar plastic cup of Busch Light. Soaking it all in, however, there’s a brief moment when I find myself actually sort of enjoying it. After all, isn’t this brand of outdated, earnest 90’s romantic frat rock just good, harmless fun? Luckily, it’s only a matter of moments before some douchebag wearing camouflage flip-flops dumps a six-dollar plastic cup of Busch Light all over my left arm, jolting me out of my stupor and sending me running home for my sanity.

An hour later, my dear friend Eva agrees to pick me up and spirit me off to the Red Light (1758 N. Water Street, above Trocadero) for The Get Down (every second Saturday of the month), the DJ/dance-party brainchild of Brent Goodsell and Andy Noble. If I’m still a little clueless when it comes to local, live music, I’m completely fucking baffled when it comes to anything involving spinning records and/or dancing. Therefore, I won’t pretend to be an expert on the intricacies of what makes The Get Down, well, get down. Instead, I can tell you it’s an eclectic night of funk and soul (heavy on the James Brown, natch), and it’s one of the best chances to see a shockingly attractive group of Milwaukeeans shake their collective bony asses.

After nearly three hours of drinking, dancing and sweating (as well as enjoying the Red Light’s fine selection of Skinamax-worthy films) we file out into a damp, autumn morning. Climbing into Eva’s car – tired and not a little drunk – I’m suddenly struck by how rare something like The Get Down has become, and how dreadfully common something like The Gufs seems to be. Maybe the MMS has been playing me for a sucker all these years. Maybe the good things really are slowly giving way to the bad; maybe this wedding dance never will end.

It’s then that I spot a billboard from across the street. In 10,000-point type, it simply reads: LIFE. There’s no advertising attached, no 800 number, no hidden agenda, just four letters staring dumbly out at a random Milwaukee bar-time pre-dawn, boldface and inexplicable. It’s not much, but I take it for what it’s worth, thus giving my column exactly the sort of coda it always seems to need: yet another left-field, life-affirming sign from above. Christ knows this town’s full of them. VS