Grumpy Old Punks
Jesus Christ Superfly
By Ken Lieck, Fri., Jan. 26, 1996
It may be hard to tell from listening to the band, especially on their latest album, Texas Toast, on No Lie Records, but Superfly is Rick Carney's band. While all the songs on the album are credited to the band in toto, and Carney alternates vocal chores with bassist Ron Williams, this is not a democracy. "Democracy in bands doesn't work," jokes Williams. "Look at the Pocket FishRmen!" "I'm a benevolent dictator," declares Carney, and Williams and drummer Steve Sanden agree.
The band works in a vague area that Carney considers "not an imitation of the punks of 1977 or of Green Day." In point of fact, he says, when people ask whether JCS is punk rock or just good old rock & roll, he's not quite sure how to answer, although, given a choice, he leans toward rock & roll. They aren't interested in the recently hip lo-fi sound either; "If we sound shitty," exclaims Williams, "it's because something happened -- it's not intentional." They also have no shame in admitting an affinity for Seventies hard rock from the J. Geils Band to "the Nuge," though they make it clear that they do so without irony or kitsch -- it's simply a sign of their age. What they do is make no-holds-barred rock (punk, or not, only matters in the hearts of their audience) that knocks you on your ass both live and, if you've got a decent stereo, in your living room.
Deciding who sings what is a breeze for the band; the more melodic tunes go to Ron, and the harder stuff stays with Rick. Passing Williams the cheerier stuff saves Carney a bit of direct antagonism, as all the members of the band get a little unnerved by the term "pop-punk," with which several magazines have recently tagged them. Williams figures that apparently one enters "pop-punk" territory "whenever someone tries to sing instead of scream," while Carney figures it's when the band adds that dreaded "fourth chord."
Moving on to their recording career, the JCS have an impressive, though not very prolific, history. A first album on Rise was the result of recordings that weren't intended as commercial product, but which Rise's then-owner Frank Kozik deemed worthy of release. Singles and compilation cuts have appeared sporadically, but the band found themselves playing the same set of songs live for two years, as they had to teach a steady stream of drummers the old stuff first. The drummer dilemma also kept them from recording a second album's worth of material, so the band figures they've bypassed their number two album altogether. Since that second effort is where many bands find themselves in the dreaded "sophomore slump," perhaps it makes sense that their "third" album, recorded at John Croslin's home studio, is such a pile driver. This one was definitely planned, in both song order and content, as an album. Alternating vocal chores between Carney and Williams while keeping a solid band "style," the disc is a solid slam of, well, either call it punk rock or don't -- it's your choice. Whatever you call it, though, it's definitely Jesus Christ Superfly.
Now, let's roll that name over our tongues again: Jesus Christ Superfly. The first time you see or hear the name you're liable to be offended and/or confused, and the band is aware of that. They've dealt with their share of people thinking they were a Curtis Mayfield-inspired rap act, a gospel band gone wrong, or whatever. But the three members of the current Superfly are actually quite surprised at how little trouble they've encountered over what they admit is a silly title. The closest thing to a frightening situation it's gotten them into is when a state trooper in Mississippi asked them what their band was called (he had pulled up while they were beside the road changing a tire), and upon hearing the reply, announced that they were "taking the Lord's name in vain." After the sheriff and a drug dog joined him, the group was allowed to finish their repairs and leave, since the dog (apparently a part-timer) failed to notice any of the marijuana on the persons of the band members or the seeds and stems on the floor of the van. Despite the fact that they escaped the incident unscathed, Carney makes a statement that the rest of the band has no problem with: "We love Georgia, Alabama -- Louisiana is cool, too -- but Mississippi is evil!"
The Superfly members are also surprised that the presence of a (gasp!) black man in the band has not caused any incidents of note. Bass player Williams, formerly of the Pocket FishRmen and until recently a member of the Hormones, is at a loss to come up with any stories of problems caused by his skin color, even in the Deep South. That could be because the JCS guys have developed a reputation on the road as people you don't want to fuck with. "We're just cuddly, grumpy old punk rockers," says Carney in reference to those folks who know them. "On the road, though, we're thugs -- all tattooed, big, and burly." This, he thinks, also explains why they've never had anything stolen or vandalized while on tour.
And that's a good thing, as the band lives to tour. Seasoned veterans of the road, they've learned to carry toilet paper with them (the suitably-named Ass Ponys, they say, actually carry along a toilet seat) because "your whole day [on tour] revolves around when you're gonna play and where you can find a bathroom."
Lodging rarely poses a problem to the Superflys either, though to your average traveler their sleeping situations would make a hobo jungle look attractive. "In every town there's [at least] one crazy person who puts up bands," they note, whether the individual in question is a friend of a friend or just, well, a crazy person who puts up bands. This helps when, as on what they call their fall '95 "Kill the Band" tour, they were living on $100 a gig (here comes that writer's conscience again) with no real tour support. And of course, there's the famous story of their van blowing up in Yuma, Arizona ("It's not hell, but you can see it from there," quips Williams) after the one time they got totally stiffed by a club owner (one Johnny Vargas in L.A. -- they'd like all you other bands to keep his name in mind). The van, they say, still resides there today.
Sadly, despite their strange appearance to the denizens of rural America, the biggest problems the heavily touring band has are local. Recent shows in Austin haven't brought any record audiences, and the total take from two benefits to help recoup their losses from the van breakdown have accumulated a paltry total of $130. The band blames a great deal of this on the loss that "the garage punk thing suffered when Eric, Dana, and Hayes moved away." Eric is former Superfly drummer Eric Erickson who returned to his native Seattle, Dana Barclay was with the Inhalants, and Tim Hayes was with the Cryin' Out Louds. They also note the fact that their having played the same set for so long has caused some to lose interest, and they're looking for more stability with current drummer Sanden.
And speaking of problems, where has Nazism raised its ugly head but at a recent Flamingo Cantina show. Actually, says Williams, if a notorious local skin hadn't been acting like a "typical Nazi skinhead asshole," there wouldn't have been a problem. The band was aware of his presence and hoped there wouldn't be any trouble since most of the people there knew him, but a fight erupted, interrupting the show and ruining the night for many in attendance. Still, says Williams, "[The troublemaker] is welcome at any punk rock show if he can control himself." Ironically, the Superflys, while not denying its existence, say they never see skinhead hatred at any of their touring shows -- the skinheads they meet on the road are "just drunken louts, and more power to 'em!" Hmmm. No wonder they prefer their time out of Austin. Maybe all their problems would be solved if the locals didn't think they were so cuddly... n
