400 years in a convent, three nights at Rooters

When our charming local presses take an occasional breather from their weekly “Where to Get the Best Brunch in Milwaukee!” pieces, they sometimes find it in themselves to sit down and interview local musicians (The Red Dot has a fantastic brunch, by the way). Asked their opinion of the Milwaukee Music Scene, the artists in question will almost always start ranting about cover bands, claiming this nefarious breed of entertainment diverts attention away from local, original music. While certainly not without merit, I’ve always found this assessment to be a bit hollow; after all, barring Summerfest and the occasional soul-crushing wedding, when was the last time any of us have actually seen a cover band?

In the interest of getting to the bottom of this supposed dilemma, I recently decided to do what many have previously deemed impossible: willfully subject myself to three nights’ worth of questionable cover bands. Skimming through the local weeklies (past the “Who’s the Hottest George Webb Waitress?” articles), I found three intriguing groups to, um, cover: a bunch of dudes calling themselves Doc Hammer, a bunch of other dudes (and one girl) named 76 Juliet, and a Def Leppard tribute band called Photograph. All would be playing separate nights at Rooters, a veritable Mecca for bands with thinning hair and monthly mortgage payments.

As the first evening approached, I found myself strangely excited: would I actually enjoy this excursion to the other side? Would I come away with a newfound appreciation for local, original music? Would I be able to sucker anyone into accompanying me? Would I be treated to at least one scorching-hot cover of “I Can’t Drive 55”? (Answers: sort of; yes; yes; sadly, no.)

“It’s all about getting’ wasted on a Friday night! YEEEAAAHHH!!!”

So proclaims the lead singer of Doc Hammer immediately after downing a shot and flipping the emptied glass through the air like a coin. To call Rooters anything less than Ground Zero for this sort of weekend-warrior debauchery would be an insult: it’s big (a second-story balcony surrounds an already large dance floor), it’s loud (even the volume behind the stage is ear-splitting), and it’s attached to a bowling alley. It’s also in the middle of bumble-fuck Waukesha, and a total pain in the ass to find.

Accompanied by two courageous friends (Vital’s own Jon Anne Willow and Amy Elliott), I quickly come to the conclusion that Doc Hammer is actually pretty fucking excellent (their take on The Police’s “Roxanne” kicks particular ass), and represents everything a cover band should be: big, ballsy, and polished to a shine. The lead singer looks like a shorter, stockier Brett Favre, and the drummer seems to be an amalgamation of every member of Motley Crue. What’s the appeal? Well, getting wasted on a Friday night, that’s what, along with going out to see some live music and knowing every single word.

Following a blistering yet needlessly extended rendition of “Whole Lotta Love” (how much more guitar wankery does this song really need?) the band takes a break and we decide to leave. On the way out, I spot the Brett Favre singer. Walking over to him, I give him a thumbs-up.

“Nice set!” I offer.

“Rock on, brother!” he replies.

NIGHT #2 – 76 JULIET
Representative Song: Green Day, “Basket Case”

A hard-and-fast rule of any cover band featuring a female lead singer is this: you’re guaranteed to hear “Me and Bobby Mc Gee” and at least one Alanis Morissette song. Unfortunately, this truism never gets put to the test, as tonight’s expedition (now down to just me and Amy) quickly proves more tiresome than rocking, more Gary Cherone than David Lee Roth.

Possessing none of the ridiculous swagger that made Doc Hammer so stupidly fun, 76 Juliet comes off as shambling and amateurish. While these qualities would usually translate to “charming” and “punk rock,” in the strange, alternate universe of cover bands, they simply mean “sloppy” and “kind of shitty.” Realizing it impossible to replicate the novelty of the week before, we quickly decide to split. The deal-breaker is that fucking Green Day track, as hearing a semi-loved song from our youths played in a Waukesha bowling alley-bar proves too damn depressing. We leave drunk and disillusioned, the rest of the evening playing out in a series of impressions: a nightcap at Walters, Amy playing her accordion, me passing out while reading a book of knock-knock jokes.

Tonight’s Rooters trip is a no-go; even though I love me some Leppard, the prospect of the Trusty Knife at the Cactus Club ultimately proves too tempting. Following a revelatory, crowd-pleasing opening set from Big Fun, a friend asks how my cover band experiment has panned out. I relate the mixed results, and am suddenly reminded of the phrase “400 years in a convent, 50 years in a whorehouse.” Used by pundits to describe the occupation of the Philippines by Spain and America, respectively, it seems to nicely parallel the worlds of original and local cover music. While the whorehouse may be a nice place to visit, it’s always a relief to get back to the convent.

The Trusty Knife take the stage and announce their first song will be brand-new, having only been written that afternoon. I breathe a sigh of relief, happy that I’ll know none of the words. VS