http://kamp.arizona.edu/node/1683

One of the most stark, and strange, memories I have of my high school years are the Sunday afternoons after watching football and doing homework, right before dinner, when I would scurry off into my room. For reasons beyond me I would proceed into my humble, four walled habitat to throw on a Megalith Records sampler and commence skanking my little heart out. Contrasting that, one of my most stark and strange memories of college, so far, has been the ska show I attended Valentine's Day my freshman year at The Rock. Completely to my surprise I felt like the oldest person in a room that redefined “standing room only” as “standing-and-not-moving room only,” lest you wanted to inadvertently start a mosh pit. Had this style of music, not only accepting of 'outsider-dom' but encouraging of it, come into my life too late?

Oft times in popular music's storied lineage – including but not limited to rock – it is the case that bands judged by history, critics, and fans as being the most influential are conversely not the best known. Honestly, I mean that in the least pretentious way possible, as I am trying to present it to be more of an unfortunate matter of fact (see: classic rock and it's origins) and less of an opinion. But for the record, ask any black or death metal band (derivatives included) of Bathory and Venom; then find out where their careers have taken them. Go ahead. Consider it a dare.

These bands are not necessarily monetarily successful. Or even given well deserved credit. Yet none of this negativity prevents their influence from seeping through countless other acts' sound; oozing like some foul slime of Frank Zappa and Nickelodeon's creation. Influencing and serving as a proverbial open source standard - whether or not the influence-ee is aware of it - is how these band's serve their legacies to the masses: Second-hand sources becoming infinitesimally good at the sincerest form of flattery (a.k.a. imitation).

Fishbone is one of those bands that does the influencing. Clichés such as a man's man, a fighter's fighter, and so on, have found their way into the American dialect and left me with no better way to describe Fishbone than as a ska band's ska band. But hold on. What if instead of fixing that to a profession we choose something more abstract. The eclectic's eclectics?

Fishbone is one of the influential bands of whom I write...and they also happens to be eclectic; very, highly eclectic.

I have never been as excited as I am to see a band in person considering that I have owned one of their albums. A band that, though I have listened to over the years, has yet to enter the scope of my ska collection of concerts attended. The Aquabats. Streetlight Manifesto (thrice). The Toasters. Big D & the Kids Table. With Less Than Jake rounding out that list, a suspicious absence of the Los Angeles based legends should be duly noted.

And while the lack of invested knowledge is not uncommon, it is easy for me to say that it is truly rare for me to attend concerts for the sake of saying, “Welp, now I've seen 'em.” Roger Waters. Rush. George Clinton & the P-Funk All-Stars. Afrika Bambaataa. D.R.I. to round out this list. Now the ante has been upped, and for a good reason rest assured. What I am getting at is that this honor of turning out to see a show, simply for the sake of absorbing the experience, is one I reserve to bestow on the epitomes of the music world; people that have become synonymous with how they make a living. No easy feat. So while I have no quandary in seeing musicians when I am not a self proclaimed expert on their lives and times, I am more particular about going out for the sake of the sake.

Regardless, such also would have been the case for Fishbone when they came to Tucson about two years ago and such will be the case tonight. For on November 20thFishbone will be seen by yours truly DJ Noggle with my partner in crime Debased God, Master of the Big Booty Airwaves. Somewhat of an extraordinaire among extraordinaires and, if you press him hard enough, the ultimate first hand source for knowledge on puppies (really, really young dogs).

Always remember to keep good company.

But the question still stands: Why a ska band? At the ripe old age of “you're not in high school anymore” to say a ska band should be the catalyst for a collage of words such as this is a tougher sell than ice cubes to eskimos. Groups like the Red Hot Chili Peppers, Sublime, Beck, and Radiohead never went out of style, and in fact command an almost cult-like following amongst Gen-Y'ers. But now in the 2010's ska seems more and more like a fad; a brief, beer filled detour byproduct courtesy of a more prosperous and carefree time. Yet I sit here with lord God (capitalized for grammatical reasons - remember his name is Debased God, and also you cannot prove he is not English nobility) on the desert journey to Phoenix's Crescent Ballroom (http://www.crescentphx.com/). Nothing capable of changing that fact - or the fact that if any band were given the opportunity to have their career serve as the central focus of a documentary (http://fishbonedocumentary.com/), most would not hesitate at the thought. Fishbone was approached about such a concept rather than seeking it out themselves.

Rewinding to the ska heyday of the '90s once more, however, I still hardly seem to recall the presence of Fishbone anywhere. Shoot, even the Nickelodeon show Kablam! had “2-Tone Army” by The Toasters (credited to the Moon Ska Stompers or not) as its theme. Why all the No Doubt? Even Les Claypool has cited Fishbone as an influence and moreover collaborated with them! So how come Fishbone never seems to be on any lists?! Top any polls!? All the while never having anyone doubt their abilities, just the group's consistency. The laces' loose ends are too intriguing to leave untied, only to run the risk of being tripped up by them.

Having miraculously survived the labyrinth like challenge that Phoenicians casually refer to as “driving,” Debased God and I finally arrive at the evening's venue. Of course, finding the Crescent Ballroom (conspicuously neither moon shaped nor a ballroom) is not the most difficult task, for technology in the end rescues the clueless wayfarers yet again. Parking, though, is an entirely different story. Finding a suitable location to leave the vehicle is a field in which technology never stood a chance. Yes, this is completely just a paragraph rant for the sake of venting about the sheer psychological strain associated with operating a motor vehicle in Downtown Phoenix. So as I said while getting out of the magical mode of transportation that has taken us thus far, “Onwards and upwards...”

...Through the chic entrance and exuberantly fashionable dining room, specifically characteristic of the night life in Arizona's capital. This is the first impression the venue exudes. I figure the design was completed keeping in mind the off-chance that anybody at any given time can suddenly have longing feelings for Old Town Scottsdale. Heisenberg's lesser known Principle of Snobbish Uncertainty: that migraine inducing overlap where the worst of southern California culture meets new money plus the 49th state's penchant for claiming anything and everything as a culture of its own; all the while never knowing when it will appear. Albeit the case that it is more than likely constantly surrounding us, I choose not to invest many brain cells in this matter.

A sight such as this, however, is nothing to fear. The tautological signs of a ska show are not further than through a pair of wall length saloon/submarine style doors. The mandatory formal wear in ever present; and formal wear donned right, too. Suspenders, hats, ties, and dress shoes are riddled about. Never mind some of the worst skanking ever witnessed by any member of the human race. A room fool of band geeks, Sunday night drunkards, and a few curious minds never ceases to reek of comfort to me. The glorious X on the treasure map of third-wave gloriousness. A place where no matter how silly anyone acts, the odds are that a sillier person is not much more than an arm's distance away.

Now for the record, the audience's piss poor dancing is not meant as any sort of slight to the band playing at the time, the 2-Tone Lizard Kings (http://www.2tonelizardkings.com/). I just cannot help it that the law of the land supersedes anything and everything else. A law clearly stating that circle pits and linedances shall never ever be confused. I don't make the rules, I only criticize them when most convenient. Moving past that now, the brass is polished. The beer is being drunk. The crowd is warming up meaning only one thing: the psuedo-rock steady party is about to commence, and the last thing you want to do is get left behind. 

Not that the 2-Tone Lizard Kings, with their distinctively New York Third-Wave ska (less punk, more reggae) flavor, would ever be responsible for such a nasty and anti-social action. A few members short of a ska orchestra – and believe me you, those do exist – the first of two opening bands this evening proves to be almost enough to help me forget that my pending interview with Fishbone has a cloudy outlook with a slight chance of rain. Sure a certain tour manager, whom was extremely kind when I met her at the merchandise table, said it could still go down. Plus, a whole 'nother band's set was yet to happen. And on top of that, set-up for the headliner themselves still needs to occur. Why then be a downer so soon in the night? The moral of this story being that I hardly believe I would be standing next to Debased God as he sips on his first cocktail with my own hands shockingly empty if I hadn't any sense of optimism. If the interview falls through, I am going to make damn sure, if nothing else, that it is not because of my own curses' doing.

The interview fell through.

Which is perfectly alright. If the Puppy Master and myself had driven two-hours following a month of organizing this encounter it would be slightly more upsetting; and this sentence would be less drenched in sarcasm. Likewise, if I had any sense of what truly is reality I would more than likely not be attempting to salvage this story. But at this point, what other option is there? The Fishbone article seems like it will have to be re-evaluated before it is even written, or not written at all. So due to either to the second opening band's stage presence – which insinuates on its own why non-headliners should be perpetually relegated to treading water in a sea of cover filled setlists - or to the sudden change of plans, there is only one ska song that I know would have the answer to this dilemma; and it just so happen to be “Beer Song” by Mustard Plug.

“I'm down on my luck/I'm out on the streets/I'm at wits end and I've nearly been beat,” indeed Mustard Plug, indeed. The keyword in that sentence being “nearly,” because as much as I love being right this is one of those times that I am quite gleeful to be wrong. Phoenix's own Fayuca (http://www.fayucamusic.net/) reminds me of a lesson my elementary school librarian taught me, and one that I should never have forgotten. Books should never be judged by their covers. People should not ever be judged by appearances. Bands should not always be ruled out by their difficulty comprehending the whole soundcheck premise...even if the outfit in question consists of three grown men. Sure one of the members has a clown tattoed on his right pec, presumably to make more of a fashion statement out of the boxers and sagging pants plus flat-brimmed baseball cap, but still I stand by the grown men observation. An observations that ultimately reflects negatively on the very visible, ongoing struggle with how they want their instruments to sound. Fayuca should not be judged...harshly.

Fine. They should not be judged at all because as the crowd progressively siphones itself unto the dancefloor the scene begins to resemble that of a main ticket's show. Appropriately Fayuca plays with an intensity I also nearly exclusively see reserved for the folks being paid the big bucks.

Their stage presence is impregnable by any stroke of the pen; and by the end of their set I fully expected to see Prince Buster's magical monkey man swinging from the faux wooden rafters. The model good looks (bring back the jheri curl!) of the lead singer/guitarist far out shadowed the bassist's persistent adoration of bassist stereotypes. Most importantly is the band's drummer, though, performing the lewdest highway robbery of the audience's attention I have ever seen. Stewart Copeland parallels are easy to draw, and not just because of the reggae based musical premise. No, I feel drawing such a parallel would amount to nothing more than a lazy way of looking at this snapshot.

At times the drumstick in his left hand moves at such a rapid velocity that it is less of the bending a solid object trick and more of the its hard to distinguish if the stick is hitting the hi-hat, or vice-versa, slight of hand. Anyway, let us collectively and consciously focus our attention elsewhere. And I do mean past Mexican wrestling gimp mask worn half way through the set (merely frosting on an already delicious cake). Instead Fayuca's drummer can win anyone over with his sheer sense of passion through exaggeration – Pete Townsend on the drums comes to mind, what with his wild arm gestures and drinking a beer while not missing a beat. Furthermore on the subject of covers, by and large the best portion of not-Captain Squeegee's performance has to be their deeply unique version of Manu Chao's anthem “Clandestino.”

Leading us, finally, to the main attraction for the evening.

Music, and art at large for that matter, at worst makes one feel a sense of uncontrollable rage: a burning, deep-seeded passion at the very core of the human ego directed towards the gall of another human daring to desecrate our sacred gift of expression. Do it differently? Do it carelessly? Do it needlessly and anyone, regardless of name recognition, risks being called Judas in front of a hall full of British folk music fans.

Music, and art at large for that matter, at best makes one feel a sense of uncontrollable emotion: a burning, deep-seeded passion inside of the core of your ego, fueled by the subjectivity of individual beliefs and values. When a good song, a good film, a good sculpture or painting, a good story or novel is encountered that strikes a chord unplayable on any tool, it becomes more than good. Now it is great. And with greatness being encountered it is as if every cell within the human body is activated individually. Body temperature rises, goosebumps start a 100 meter dash from the elbow to the wrist, and blood pressure begins to resemble that of the afternoon jogger.

“Clandestino” is one of my personal favorite songs; a piece of art I hold very near and dear to my heart. “Clandestino” is a composition which at certain points in my life I have simply had to literally drop everything I am doing to listen to or sing it in order to calm my nerves. Aside from this nugget of useless information “Clandestino” happens to be a song which I have felt for a number of years is hallowingly appropriate to contemporary problems facing the state of Arizona; reaching beyond a simple acoustic tune for the bedouin minded. So hearing but a humble, local, reggae-punk/metal-ska group play it with adapted lyrics to boot reminds me of why I personally listen to music; of why I presume anyone feels emotionally attached to any creative creation.

Let us take a step back for a moment. “Clandestino” is a singular work; one song. And that feeling that one single song had for me is precisely what makes Fishbone so great Fishbone has been achieving their opener's plateua for two decades. Without stopping. With an entire body of work. Night after night after night. Despite being short on accolades and physical representations of success, nothing has ever stopped Fishbone from touring and making the crowds from city to city, from state to state, from country to country feel what art should make everyone feel.

Sure, I did not get to ask what initially spurred the band's acceptance of tape-trading culture. Nor did I get to ask if Norwood had to get a cable both for his magical antennae (the lonely one dreadlock atop his head) when TV providers switched from analog to digital. Nor did I get to give credit to Angelo for starting the Occupy Movement over fifteen years ago. Yes, I do not like to bring up politics needlessly, but I do believe in giving credit where credit is due. Given that, in a 1994 transcript of a Dr. Madd Vibe (Angelo's spoken word project) performance, “Get out of the city/Jump into your shoes and run/Get out of the city/Pick up all your stuff and book/Get out of the city/Do not turn around and look/Get out of the city/The Metropolis began to shook/Get out of the city.” Sounds like an occupy call to arms, don't it?

Luckily none of it matters in the end. Debased God and I – and at this point I am taking out my remaining frustrations on a poor, hapless can of PBR, for the record - got to experience the glory of Fishbone. The theremin was very cool. The roadie wearing a Dead Kennedy's “Nazi Punks Fuck Off” t-shirt added to the ambiance and was equally as neat, too. Seeing Angelo appear in full-on Mexican regalia even cooler; along with getting a sneak peak at the setlist with an epic November 17th date and all. But not until the music starts playing, and playing, and playing for 90 minutes can the glory of the band be fully and truly appreciated.

A purple bodied baritone sax appearing out of no where. One...two...three band members taking turns stage diving; one of them being Angelo, who has no issue in wildly swinging his legs; legs that also happen to have very pointy dress shoes attached. Solo after solo on bass. On guitar. On keyboard. The all encompassing nature of the group can best be compared to the trombonist's body art (though I try and not support trombone playing for the most part).

Really,an instrument that can only be played by feel?

Never shall I ever condone a Santana logo tattoo, but coupled with the Lion on Judah on his right fore arm and musical notes ad nauseum on the left one is a tribute to the stunning number of influences that have propelled Fishbone over the years. While Prince can be called fusion rock 'n' roll for combining the multitude of musical innovation up until his time, the same can be said of Fishbone. A ska band to the core? This is a statement I am hesitant to accept but not doing so is to undermine a detrimental quality of their work. Jazz, Rhythm & Blues, Funk, Punk,Thrash, Rap, and the post-Cold War worldliness of, “Hell, throw in some island sounding stuff, why not?”

Most importantly, the Norwood's magical antennae must have been picking up steadily good messages while casually leaning out the left side of his red cap because he does not miss a beat. It could have also been relapses to his self proclaimed many acid trips in Phoenix, but let us go with the previous as opposed to the latter. The same goes for the remaining members of the band; save for the incident where a fan needs to be physically removed from bear hugging Angelo into the crow, then out of the crowd, and back into the crowd (more a failure on the fanatic than the group).

A marvel that could only have been experienced in person.

As Debased God and I begin making our return journey to the Circus of the PerverseTM, it was so late that the the gas prices were changing. 3.99/gal for unleaded...4.05/gal for unleaded....3.99 for...Regardless we cannot help but make comparisons between living rock legends and Fishbone. Is the guitarist a Tommy Iommi reincarnation with an afro and fingertips? Is Fishbone a modern day Sly and the Family Stone? These are questions I do not pretend to answer because I simply do not have an answer to give. Masturbatory speculation in the mind of the music nerd needs not be productive, just amusing; and it does not affect the message musicians send in one way or the other. The most unfortunate question for which I do not have answer, however, is why Fishbone has been so overlooked over the years.

Whether or not they think so, and after seeing them in person, not a doubt exists in my mind that this band has been shafted by the un-nurturing care of history; a history that has been far kinder to derivatives rather than the source. If it were a narrow range of derivatives it would be less upsetting, but the amount of different musical styles that can be traced back to Fishbone is as formidable as the live show itself. Needless to say, a two hour ride is plenty, if not too much, time to ponder over and over on these matters. The most important message I kept repeating myself in the end is, and the one I will share with you without a stutter in my voice: that was a great show. Fishbone is a great band; a band whose greatness is best appreciated in person.

Read KAMP's review of the band's latest EP "Crazy Glue here

Listen to Focus on Sanity, 0:00 - 1:00 UTC Wednesdays on http://kamp.arizona.edu/

Reviewer: 

 Jonathan Cohen (http://kamp.arizona.edu/HeadMD)