In commemoration of City Weekly's 40th anniversary, we are digging into our archives to celebrate. Each week, we FLASHBACK to a story or column from our past in honor of four decades of local alt-journalism. Whether the names and issues are familiar or new, we are grateful to have this unique newspaper to contain them all.
Title: A Day in the Life of a Garage Band: 13 Hours with Colour Theory
Author: Dennis Christlieb
Date: April 30, 1992 (Music Supplement)
The words of comedian Jerry Seinfeld quipping about his thin-skinned pal George, ring like a knell of truth to me on this day: "if they knew how hard he worked for his unemployment check—they'd give him a raise." I happen to thrive on free TV, and have enough time on my hands to wonder how I would manage if I were barefoot and my house suddenly capsized, leaving me to walk on the acute stucco ridges on my ceiling. However, some people—mainly the "true" artists of Salt Lake—are doing much more than I, with far less financial support.
That is the case with The Colour Theory, a local trio of musicians caught between the lull and the big gust. My editor has drilled this idea of the "struggling band" into my head, conjuring sweaty visions of the Barton Fink movie exec who squawks over a wrestling picture. So, I conveniently pick a band with whom I am acquainted—the idea being that I can actually talk to them and avoid a stilted question like, "Does the title 'The Colour Theory' have any stylistic or thematic connection to the music?"
10 a.m.—I call Paul Dury. I tell him I want some Sub Pop poses (torso bared, and naked apathy) for our photo op later in the week. He laughs, and says he just got cable and he's watching The Nude Bomb with the incomparable Don Adams. I laugh, and consider some written reference to it. I think not.
I arrive at Aida House (yes, it's a floor wax, an independent production company, a Sugar House duplex and rehearsal space for Bohemia, Shadowplay and the Colour Theory, and a dessert topping—all in one!) and notice: Yes, this unkempt house with its fishtank rat, basement practice and production rooms, and a general odor of beer and bad feet might just pass for "struggling."
Paul is a disappointment. He just doesn't have a David Bowiean callowness. I consider walking out, seeing as he certainly has eaten in the past 78 hours. We talk at some length about The Colour Theory's origins in Pocatello, and I come up with this gem (nearly a legitimate joke in and of itself) from Paul: "...doing Cure and Billy Idol covers was completely avant-garde in Pocatello." That's why Paul and bassist Ziggy Orchard live here—where you have to be thirty-something and do Doobies covers to earn that title. Obviously, the avant-garde is not the desired scene.
A 60-minute cassette later and I'm still no closer to journalistic nirvana (getting the story in one trip).
Like all great frontsmen, Paul Dury loves the spotlight—this "light" happens to be the little red LED on the tape recorder. This is my fault, because I feel like a reporter, and encourage self-indulgence.
I get out knowing that I am now The Colour Theory's new publicist—of my own free will or not.
3:55 p.m.—Meet "plush power pop princesses" Lush at Graywhale CD. I'm drawn on a wave of a testosterone buzz caused by a specious MTV video wrought with lesbian overtones, seen the day before. These four seem "struggling"—acne scars, chalky complexions, Sid Vicious hairstylings, and a kind of constipated aplomb—yet, strangely they were the ones who "arrived" between the dueling PAs of Xavier and Bessey the Milkbeast.
Midnight—The Colour Theory have assembled. This includes drummer Van Christensen—Salt Lake's busiest rhythmatist, playing for Bohemia, Shadowplay and Live 'N' Direct, as well. Van talks of certain un-ordained premarital matters on the road. I can't remember what we talked about—I didn't have my recorder.
11:30 p.m. (next day)—Saw San Francisco's Harm Farm with about 40 other people...I think that's "struggling?" They sold their own merchandise (CDs, vinyl, t-shirts) after the show. I asked them if they were in the market for a publicist.
3:10 p.m. (next day)—Little did I realize that this would be the Mother of All Fellini Realities. Photog Steve Midgely showed up late, telling remarkable tales of copyright-free infringements. The band was dressed mostly in black or other shady duds—encouraging the "dark" or "gloomy" aspect of their music and collective image, but certainly not that undeserved "Gothic" label.
Look at the picture. You tell me if they look uncomfortable. I thought the thin trees and cinderblock background was a nifty motif. Yet, the shoot had a staidness that can only be credited to inexperience; "struggling" with the machinations of media may be the most difficult transition of all.
Moved to basement rehearsal room. By the time Midgely brought in his Astrodome lights, any attempt to be "natural" had vanished. The Colour Theory boys endured the phony consultation like true pros. I blame myself—I was their publicist, the man with the insight into the circus of information, and I had led them to a dry oasis.
Staying downstairs, rehearsals kicked in. The band was tight and powerful. And, I finally got the "psychedelic punk" part of it that Paul talked about; there was no "struggling" here. Between the thought and the impulse lies a lot of practice—these boys bruised their instruments to the bone. I applaud their resplendency.
Above ground, Paul talks of the power and immediacy of the just-finished session, reconsidering his exhaustive efforts to remix their LP Steel Glass Shadow to CD; agonizing over CD's loss of rage vs. cassette's raw energy and lower costs. Van's moment to shine appeared here, when he said "this sounds to me like cold feet on a wedding, man." Cool, huh? These are the little decisions that seem like monoliths to an underground band—they are also the decisions that one must tackle head-on or be content to wallow in J.R. Ruppel's shoebox filled with one-tape wonders waiting to be taped over. Paul makes these critical decisions, Ziggy sleeps too much for the job, and Van is so busy with his schedule he wears pajamas to rehearsals. The "struggling" band pays no crony to mete out the mundane (Thesis Statement).
Paul hands me an Aida House Records t-shirt, a 45 single and a couple of C.T.'s tapes—old and re-mixed. I thank him and praise the surplus of celebrity as I walk away.
12:30 a.m.—Three hours of taping all for naught. The Belgian Waffle's piped-in Spandau Ballet and the clanking of fork-through-omelet-to-china-plate resounds like dueling knights and a John Boorman soundtrack over the tapes of Paul's lengthy interview. Van is not here. Ziggy is most deferentially silent. People are watching the proceedings like we were wacky kids in a backyard play.
We talk of Salt Lake's underground scene, or lack thereof, and all I can truly say is that "struggling" doesn't typify The Colour Theory; willing sacrifice is more like it. Paul remarks frequently of the band's brief but brilliant moments on stage, and I think somewhat philosophically that: To be a flower in the garden, it is essential to break through the fertilizer.
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