By Bob Ruggiero
By Hilary Hughes
By Peter Gerstenzang
By David R. Adler
By Devon Maloney
By Brian McManus
By Jessica Hopper
By Harley Oliver Brown
It's not even 10 on a Wednesday at the Village Underground and I'm already into my third band of the first night of the CMJ Music Marathon (Special Apocalypse Edition). Radical chic or not, the black power and La Lutte Continue posters on the walls of Steve Weitzman's West 3rd Street lair have always had more character than the chic chic of Joe's Pub, where I've just been admiring Amy Allison's wordplay, and the rocker louche of the Bowery Ballroom, where the surgical masks Clinic affects suddenly looked like streetwear. And right now the posters also serve to contextualize the big American flag behind the stageas does the Chomskyite Gulf War screed installed in the stairwell.
Onstage contextualization is provided by a weathered local trio called Big Lazy, and they're doing it without uttering a word in a live set more gripping- than the Cachaito Lopez, Ass Ponys, and Joe Strummer shows I've caught over the previous week. The bare-skulled leader-guitarist contorts noisily and precisely, the double-jointed standup bassist plucks plenty and bows when it's called for, the black-garbed drummer bashes out one tricky beat after another. At this gratis, ill-attended "promotional" gig they're not sure they should have bothered with, the smart soundtrack noir of their eponymous CD turns fierceTin Hat Trio with hard-hat brio, Tortoise in a bunker instead of a boîte, Mingus by split decision over the Raybeats. They're very New York, and perfect for a time so more-than-words-can-say. "Do we have some nerve or what?" asks guitarist Steve Ulrich of their Mingus cover. It's the third time he's opened his mouth, after "We played Tel Aviv back in the spring and they actually invited us back in October. Hah, hah, hah," and a sneak intro four songs in: "Let's hear it for New York," followed after the yells and whistles by, "This is called 'Just Plain Scared.' "
Originally scheduled to begin September 12, CMJ is one of thousands of New York businesses imperiled by the attack on its onetime home, the World Trade Center. In late 1999 founder Robert Haber had sold the magazine that hosts the 20-year-old alternative music conference to an Internet company hungry for, you remember, "content." Last April, he staved off corporate death by buying it back. Haber expected a quick shot of cash from the Marathon; instead, he'll take a hit, and let's hope he gets the disaster relief he deserves. Only 150 preregistrations canceled, but many were no-showsattendance from overseas was very sparse, and West Coast bizzers have developed an aversion to airplanes. Even worse, walkup business, normally 4000 young hedonists from all over the country, was down to zilchlocal zilch. In September acts like Coldplay, Ben Folds, and the Strokes were in place to goose badge purchases; all had to be elsewhere October 10 through 13, leaving booker Chris White with a foreshortened schedule heavy on New York acts. Nevertheless, after September 11 I actively wanted to coverwhere better to trade tidings with my people? Panel director Megan Frampton had no idea of my plans on October 4, when she asked me to moderate this year's final panel. With the overwrought wondering loudly how CMJ dast convene at all, the title she came up with was properly sober: "What Is the Role of Entertainment in Times of National Tragedy?" Public morals having slackened slightly by the time I was handed the ball, I just thought of it as "Music After the Fall."
That, of course, was CMJ 2001 in a nutshelland a riddle all New Yorkers share, one way or another. Even as we wait for that next shoe, we long to get our lives back. Only what lives, exactly? Checking in with the reliable Rosie Flores at the Rodeo Bar on September 21, I was glad just to be among people who wanted to go hoo-hah on a Friday night. But I expected more of bands with more to offer, and never ended up with the inspiration I cravednot even "Rock the Casbah" from Joe Strummer, a dose of unfulfilled prophecy about the secularization of Islam that does not, repeat not, advocate the bombing of minarets. Instead he struck the wrong note with "Police on My Back," though who knows how long that will be true once the Afghanistan peace marches get serious (watch www.rawa.org). It wasn't fair to Cachaito Lopez that I spent half his set debating Chomskyites in my head. But that was the mindset he was up againsta mindset Big Lazy acknowledged even before Ulrich said so, just by being intense and edgy and New York.
So for three or four days I prowled the Hilton and the downtown clubs on the lookout for that mindset, and its absence. Somewhat to my surprise, though I got used to it, absence dominated. And as I sat through bits or wholes of 15 panels and 17 acts, this soon came to seem more health and strength than crassness or denial. In many respects, starting with it not being mobbed, it was a fun conference, and a well-conceived one. Hooray for the 20-minute lectures on such crucial matters as "Performance Royalty," "Selecting a Manager," "Fanzine Basics," and "How the CMJ Charts Are Compiled." And although a few panels were deadly and/or empty, many weren't. A goodhearted hip hop free-for-all starred Deena Barnwell, the Oregon radio DJ who was fined seven grand by Bush's FCC for playing a feminist rap with bad words in it, and Guru of Gang Starr and Jazzmatazz, who reported that he supported his family by touring as himself. At the DIY panel, Chicana singer-songwriter Lysa Flores broke a dozen hearts by letting slip that she was engaged. A press panel made up almost entirely of writers talked almost entirely about writing. A dozen lucky punters heard the clearest discussion I've ever encountered of two immemorially bullshit-prone topicsdistribution, alt-rock's Holy Grail, and the Internet, its Holy Ghost. Everywhere there were kids getting on with lives bound up in music, and elders holding onto same, with a lot more attention to skills than hype for once.