PUNK ROCK CLASSIFIED
As the Ramones-core scene fades to black, some of the key players face the reality of working real jobs, while a few still rock

Story by Joe Shearer // Photography by Melissa Hosom

Mike Holt lies in his bed after a late night.

About 10 days into a full-blown U.S. tour, his band, the Huntingtons, has crashed at a hotel at about 2 a.m. on its way from Dallas to Oklahoma. The pop-punk rockers have been touring more since 1999. Holt, who is the front man of the group, recently quit his day job to make music a full-time endeavor.

There’s a knock at the door. Holt answers it to find guitarist Andy Dibiaso on the other side. In a moment, the reality of what Dibiaso is about to say will whack Holt like a two-by-four against the back of his tired head.

“(It) hurt really bad,” Holt, 31, says nearly six years later. “It put a dent on everyone’s spirit to continue touring. We didn’t really ever make money with the band. We just kind of paid enough to make our way. Once that hit, we realized, ‘Hey, that’s no real way to live — to just live day to day.’”

What he told Holt was something every young or small act dreads: Thieves broke into the band’s trailer and stole up to $20,000 worth of equipment. To finish the remainder of the tour, Huntingtons borrow other bands’ gear, but it’s the beginning of the end.

Huntingtons was part of the punk scene — including bands such as the Queers, Screeching Weasel, the Mr. T Experience, the Donnas and countless others — whose existence relied mainly on one band: the Ramones, one of the first punk bands of the mid-’70s.

The Ramones was a band embodying the simplicity of late ’50s, early ’60s rock ’n’ roll, mixed with a previously unheard of drive and energy. Unlike their British counterparts, the Sex Pistols or the Clash, members of the Ramones, for the most part, never preached a political agenda. Instead they focused their songs on alienation, bubblegum pop rock, self-deprecating humor and not fitting in with society.

Once the dust settled from the Green Day punk explosion of the ’90s, most of these musicians had no other choice but to drop their instruments and become part of society. The result might not have clicked with the music, but to the sound of inevitability, it made perfect sense.

Holt had responsibilities. He’d been married three years and couldn’t afford to keep putting money into something that wasn’t giving him a return. Shortly after the band’s equipment was stolen, he reclaimed his job at the U.S. Department of Defense, where he now works on improving chemical and biological defense. He’s just your typical ex-punk-rocker-turned-government-worker.

Holt and his wife welcomed their first child, Petra, in 2004, and by summer 2005, the band was no more, releasing one final-hits album aptly titled, Growing Up I0.s No Fun.

“Kind of just realizing responsibilities and so forth — that we can’t live with our parents for the rest of our lives, mooch off of relatives whenever we’re home,” he says. “It was a growing-up phase more than anything else because we never made enough money.”
 
In the 9-to-5 world

“No it’s not my place / In the 9 to 5 world,” Joey Ramone sings on 1981’s Pleasant Dreams. He and the rest of the Ramones were able to live by that anthem during and after the group’s 22-year existence.

That’s pretty impressive for a band various critics say never evolved. It’s true. Guitarist Johnny Ramone claimed he refused to keep a guitar at home because he believed most bands only got worse with age and experience.

Unfortunately for most bands playing this brand of music, it’s more of a job or a hobby and less a career.

Cleveland/Baltimore-based, surf-punk trio the Beatnik Termites released its latest album, Girl Crazy, in 2003. Lead-vocalist and guitarist Pat Kim says he and the band plan on recording the next album this summer.

After 1997, the band quit regularly releasing material. Instead, Kim, 41, focused on building his and bandmate Reggie Silvestri’s record label, Insubordination Records. But like Holt, Kim also works for the government for his main source of income as an IT guy for the Maryland Workers’ Compensation Commission.

So, what’s with these punk rockers working for the government? Isn’t the whole suit-and-tie office thing against some sort of code?

“Obviously, I haven’t been able to make a living off this musically, thus far,” Kim says. “I don’t really see anything odd about it. It’s a great way to finance a label. In the software industry, it’s pretty easy to find a job that pays pretty well, too. It sure beats the hell out of sleeping on floors, living in a van all the time, which I’ve done, don’t get me wrong. But I can’t live like that forever.”
Kim says he quit his job several times to try to make the band work, but in the end fell back on his education in computer science. Of course, in the punk rock community, there are always the purist naysayers.

“In the early ’90s when I first started working in the corporate world, a lot of punks would call me ‘sellout’ because I have to wear a suit to work,” Kim says. “I’m like, ‘Dude, I’m the one who doesn’t have to sell out because I don’t have to compromise my music.’ It’s not putting food on the table for me, so I can do whatever I want.”

A book about rock ’n’ roll

Retired and occasional, Ramones-core punk rockers can do other things besides strum guitars, work with computers and design chemical and biological weapons. In the case of “Dr. Frank” Portman (whose brother, John Portman, is a physicist at Kent State), frontman of the Mr. T Experience, writing young adult novels is also a viable career move.

The Mr. T Experience — or MTX — was part of the big three bands that held together this particular scene. Known for his “songs about girls,” Portman takes his witty and at times poetic songwriting to the page in his novel, King Dork, leaving his band on “standby.”

“It’s a little bit better gig than rock and roll for me,” says Portman, who describes time spent with the band as a “combination of income and debt.” “I was bailed out by my book,” he continues. “You’ve gotta put a whole lot into being a band. It’s hard to do it here and there.”

MTX started in 1985 and continued going strong through 2004. Though Portman says he would eventually like to make another record, he’d rather focus on his literary opportunities. As of right now, he’s completed his second young-adult novel, Andromeda Klein, to be released in summer 2009, according to Amazon.

Other potentially exciting news for Portman includes a possible movie adaptation for his debut novel, another reason the 43-year-old rock ’n’ roll writer is spending more time with his laptop than with his guitar.

“I can’t really see how that would make economic sense — to record a full-on rock ’n’ roll album,” Portman says. “If you can’t sell any units, I don’t see how you can possibly do it.”

Portman is an unusual example in the punk afterlife. While many are now office or classroom dwellers, he still has the opportunity to write and get paid for it.

Some musicians might write non-fiction autobiographies about their experiences in various bands, but Portman’s writing allows him to continue building on the youthful energy and that sly, I-know-something-you-don’t attitude conveyed in his music.

“Tom Henderson, who’s the narrator of King Dork, is essentially the narrator from a substantial chunk of those songs. The intention of the songwriting and the intention of the novel writing is basically the same thing, although a collection of songs is way different than a novel. But I’d say it continues in a less loud and snowy form.”

When asked if he has any regrets about MTX, Portman seems unsure at first. He wonders if there’s unfinished business with the band, or whether there was a way the band could’ve become bigger. Listen to a song like “Naomi” off the album Alcatraz, and you’ll see what he’s talking about. But ultimately, Portman concludes he’s completely happy with where he is now.

“Personally, whatever I was doing for the last 20 years sparked my literary career, at least I hope it turns into a prolonged career. That’s what I’m trying to do now. If you want to describe it as a legacy, the legacy continues.”

Do it yourself, punk

With all this talk of legacy, starting families and new careers, you might get the impression the scene is completely dead and gone. However, it’s kind of hard to say that when one of the first of the major Ramones-core bands is still alive in all its minimalist glory.

Joe King of the Queers is one of the last of his kind. The free-spoken, at times politically incorrect, punk rocker got hitched last year and lives in Atlanta. He’s on the way home from the mechanic along with his wife, who is driving the other car. When he gets home, he fires up the grill on a mild January evening.

King, a New Hampshire native, doesn’t hide his glee.

“It’s great for me,” King says. “I’m a Boston boy, so it’s exciting for me be able to cook steaks out on the grill in January. It’s pretty nice out tonight.”

But, don’t let this little snippet fool you. Even at 49, King writes new material, records music and travels the world full time, something he’s done since 1990.

“I got married, but I’m not settling down too much — much to the chagrin of my wife,” King jokes.

“We’ve been touring so much lately that it’s horrible for a home life. It’s how I make money, so I gotta do it.”

Fortunately for King, he doesn’t have to hit the road again until May. In the past three years, according to the singer-songwriter, the longest break he’s taken is seven weeks. It may sound like a lot at first, but consider the fact he is constantly away from home.

“It drives you crazy when you gotta go back out on the road, and you don’t just work around the corner and come home and see your old lady,” King says.

When you’re not in Green Day and selling millions of records, a punk rocker has to earn a living somehow.

Speaking of Green Day, it also emerged from the same label — Lookout! Records — the Queers and other Ramones-core bands called home. Although the Queers predated Green Day, King gives the band a lot of credit for what he’s doing now.

“It was a weird, weird thing for this band from New Hampshire,” King recounts. “I owned a restaurant, and I was going to do that for the rest of my life. I was happy, because that’s creative in its way, too. Then all of the sudden, that whole Green Day thing took off. I did one tour with Screeching Weasel, one with Rancid, and we’re like, ‘Fuck this, man.’ Got a royalty check. I think it was for $700, and that was just for me. The other guys got almost as much, and we’re like, ‘Holy shit, are you kidding me?’” 

The Queers has changed its lineup numerous times since, but King’s drive to maintain a career — a word he hates to use — in music is what has kept it going for all these years. After the band, he says he’d like to start a studio and produce other bands so he’d still be “around that good energy.”

Although the Queers’ formula includes — but is not limited to — catchy hooks and bubblegum-themed lyrics, King may be the best example of a do-it-yourself punk rocker. He’s refused to play the Vans Warped Tour, saying he doesn’t like the rock-star atmosphere, or a lot of the bands for that matter. To him, most of them were simply jocks raised on heavy metal. While a number of punk bands gained recognition from the tour during the late ’90s and early ’00s, King remained true to his ideals.

“At this point, I’m not trying to make it in the business,” King says. “I’m just trying to have fun. That’s what gets me out of bed in the morning. We’re not the big punk rock band on the block anymore, but I got to do a lot of stuff I set out to do. I still want to do another album, and when it gets old, I’ll just stop. We got a little corner of the world, and so I’m happy for what we have.”
Who says punk rockers can’t be happy and content?

The sound of inevitability

In the overall picture, the Queers is an anomaly. 

Staples like Screeching Weasel are no longer together, and the Donnas changed its sound dramatically to acquire the audience it has today.

Kent State graduate Jason De Leon fronted a band called the Freakin’ Conniptions from 1996 to 2003. His brainy, punk-influenced outfit took a lot from the ’90s, Ramones-core scene, using that sound as a basis for a culmination of other influences.

De Leon is a public relations coordinator for Columbus-based Economic and Community Deve-lopment Institution, and he also freelances for the Kent-Ravenna Record Courier and other publications. Musically, he is in a band called Lyle Machine and the Brigade.

When De Leon speaks about the Mr. T Experience and other Ramones-core bands, he speaks not as someone part of that crowd, but rather as a musician who was inspired by it.

“What drew us to it was the fact that not every kid in our class had access to that type of music influence,” De Leon says. “My definition through the years is that punk rock isn’t really necessarily a style, but it’s a phase of music everyone goes through.”

He explains another reason for the success of this music dealt with mail-order service, meaning fans could buy CDs and other products from the independent labels or the bands themselves. This is one major way bands connected with their fans. It’s much more personal to buy a CD of your favorite artist from that artist or its label, rather than hitting the local Wal-Mart. Once the Internet came around, De Leon says, the do-it-yourself appeal of the bands was lost.

“I don’t think a lot of those small indie labels knew how to adapt,” De Leon says. “They talk today about what a big impact pirating music has on all these major labels, but the people it hit the hardest were the people that relied on mail catalogue service, relied on word-of-mouth promoting and just non-stop touring. I think for the artists on those labels, when they figured out they didn’t really have to do that anymore, it became less appealing. The Internet revolutionized it to the point where anyone could do it themselves.”

De Leon believes although the music is no longer what it was, it’s not completely gone. Not only will the Internet keep these bands alive, he says, but people like Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day will recall his humble roots at Lookout! Records years from now, once again sparking interest in the little-guy bands.

But the fact so many of these artists moved on from the rock ’n’ roll party doesn’t seem to bother De Leon. He knows why they’re important to him and why he’ll always remember what they gave him.
“Twenty years from now, I’ll be able to look back and say, ‘These people were just making music. They weren’t trying to be superstars,’” he says. “I think that’s what it’s always, and always will be about, the same way I still make music. I’m not looking for a major recording contract. The mentality that Lookout! scene promoted in me was, ‘I don’t give a fuck. It doesn’t really matter.’”

In some strange way, the simplicity of the music lends itself to a legacy unlike that of conventional rock-star wisdom. It’s more about picking up a guitar and playing for yourself. If others hear it, great. If not, well, you heard the man.

Anthem for a new tomorrow

As far as legacies go, Holt may not qualify for a continuing contribution to the creative realm, although according to his MySpace page, he still makes music about 3 percent of his time. Music is somewhere in the rearview mirror. Family life is now his life.

It’s 8:10 p.m. on a Tuesday, and he sits in his Parkville, Md., home watching the Florida primary. He’s pulling for Arizona Sen. John McCain.

“I was kind of undecided up until maybe two, maybe three weeks ago,” Holt explains. “Been watching all the debates — trying to read up on people as much as I could. They give out all the positive information. It’s kind of hard to dig up the negative stuff.”

Throughout the evening, 3-year-old daughter Petra periodically interrupts, wondering when her daddy is going to bed. Holt’s 15-month-year-old son Phoenix is fast asleep.

“There’s a thing called the terrible twos,” Holt lightheartedly says. “That’s completely not the case. It’s the terrible threes. When she was two, she was still very much in a learning phase. Now that she’s … oh my goodness. She’s a great kid, but, man, she’s insane.”

It’s hard to say what would’ve happened had the Huntingtons’ equipment not been stolen years earlier. The band might have had success, if only temporarily extending its output.

With bands such as Screeching Weasel parting ways, MTX on hold and the Beatnik Termites playing only every once in a while, chances are that night in Oklahoma was only speeding up the inevitable demise of the band. Along with the scene from which it came, the band is a faint shadow of something once greater.

“I don’t particularly miss it,” Holt says. “It was a great time and a fun time, but it was also an incredibly stressful time. From ’99 on when we did touring, I was married, my wife was there most of the time, it was difficult giving her time and attention that she needed while still making sure stuff was going right with the band. We never had management people or road people. We did everything.”

Some people will always go back to a time in their lives when they could’ve made a difference — when they could’ve been something more than average.

But Holt doesn’t think like that. To him, punk rock was something he was fortunate enough to be a part of for a while, and now he has moved on to the next phase of his life.

“I wouldn’t go back and redo it. It’s not a regret, and it’s not something I’d go back and do differently. I wouldn’t go back and have our trailer not get broken into and had that tour been a big huge success and had never had kids. I would never wish for that. I think everything that’s happened so far has been great, and I don’t think I’d change any of it.”

Here’s your final report. Like De Leon says, maybe it’s more a phase and less a lifestyle. The secret’s out, and, for many, so is punk rock.

Joe Shearer is a senior magazine journalism major. This is his second story for The Burr.

Shut up and rock

Four years have passed since the last presidential election, and you know what that means: They’re here.

Not the candidates — those musicians and actors out to change the world. As November looms, political rhetoric and endorsements from entertainers will undoubtedly grab audiences’s attentions, whether they agree or disagree with the message.

The punk rock scene is one sect that always has something to say, regardless of the times. With bands such as Anti-Flag, NOFX and even Green Day acting as the face of modern punk, one might stamp any punk rocker as a political activist. But this couldn’t be further from the truth for some groups.

Taking a cue from the Ramones, frontman Joe King of the Queers ditches politics in favor of fun music with a sense of humor. Known for being outspoken, the veteran rocker gives the political wing of the scene a piece of his mind. 

“The agenda from day one for all of these bands has been to make money,” King says. “Why would you listen to some fucking moron punk rocker tell you who to vote for? Get on the fucking Internet. There’s a vast wealth of information out there and much better ways to become informed, and it ain’t goin’ to a fuckin’ punk rock show. I think it’s pompous and conceited to talk down to the audience.”
Pat Kim of the Beatnik Termites, a Libertarian supporting the war efforts, agrees with King, saying he listens to and makes music for its entertainment value.

“I don’t like when people tell me what to think,” Kim says. “I’m the kind of person to say, ‘Shut up and sing.’ I certainly have views, but I keep them to myself.”

Both King and Kim say they believe something like the Rock Against Bush series of CDs is a bandwagon waiting to be jumped on.

Even Kent State graduate Jason De Leon — formerly of the band The Freakin’ Conniptions and now in Lyle Machine and the Brigade — who openly opposes the president, says he feels artists should exercise more restraint in this area.

“You have a message in your music, and it should be felt,” De Leon says. “It should be felt through the music alone.” 

On the last Queers album, King played a song that criticized President Bush, but politics are rare for the band.

“There’s good and bad about everything. It’s a weird time here in the states, but I like it over here personally, having toured around the world.”
— J.S.

Q&A with the Phil Spector of punk rock

Music producers aren’t typically household names, although they’re ultimately responsible for the sound and quality of an album.

Mass Giorgini first made his mark with Ramones-influenced bands including Screeching Weasel, the Queers, the Beatnik Termites, Huntingtons, the Riverdales, Teen Idols and many more. Recently, he’s worked with more mainstreams such as Anti-Flag and Alkaline Trio, and has also collaborated with Billie Joe Armstrong of Green Day and Kris Roe of the Ataris.

To say he simply oversees the music is an understatement. A former member of Screeching Weasel and Common Rider, he also plays bass for Squirtgun, which performed the opening song of Kevin Smith’s 1995 comedy, Mallrats.
Especially instrumental in helping the success of indie punk label Lookout! Records, Giorgini has seen a lot change in the punk scene since his involvement in the mid-’80s.

THE BURR: What do you think your personal touch or contribution is to recording?
MASS GIORGINI: For better or for worse, my work has been associated with the pop-punk sound. I think that whole genre definitely got an influence from me. Whether it was good or bad, I don’t know. I think my emphasis was on trying to keep the song the focus and the energy. The way I felt the energy was being communicated was by having a pretty big wall of guitar, like you would live when you’re standing in front of the stage. I wanted to make sure that the recordings were capturing what I felt were the strong points of the song. Sometimes, people focus too much on the perfection and not enough on the passion. 

TB: What distinguishes the Lookout! Records bands from other punk groups?
MG: I think some of the bands that came along didn’t have the same level of passion as some of the bands that were there before. It became more and more of a business for a lot of the bands. A lot of people were focusing on how many albums were being sold, what magazines were putting out the ad, who was interviewing you, instead of just, “Hey, we got a great set of songs. Let’s put an album out.” The emphasis became a little less naïve. It was that beautiful naïve, that youthful exuberance, if you will. That youthful exuberance works very well with punk rock. It’s that teenage angst, and yet happiness to be able express oneself, break out and feel like they can change the world. I think Lookout! was famous because of that sparkle.

TB: What is the underlining legacy of these bands?
MG: The big thing is that they’ve brought back both an innocence and a simplicity to punk rock that it needed. Green Day is the band that did it more than anything. They really did change the mainstream. In the punk rock scene, the people that have kept that alive are bands like the Queers. The whole movement at Lookout! Records really brought back the original spirit of rock.

TB: Do you think some of that original rock and roll spirit is lacking in today’s music?
MG: There seems to be a little bit of a lack of that attitude right now. I still think it’s there, I just don’t know if the fans’ interests at this moment are lining up with that. I think it’s just a matter of time because as the scene changes, they’ll find, “Well wait a minute. Where’s all that fun? Where’s that attitude? Where’s that rebellion? Where’s that thing that makes me want to jump up and down and shake my fist in the air?” When they see that it’s not there, the next band that comes along and gives it to them is going to be the hero of the day again and revitalize the scene. It’s a cycle.