Minor Threat - Live in Los Angeles 1983

great show I watched without a camera ;-)

Sunday Sermon: May He Rest In Peace ... Skip Groff (November 20, 1948 - February 18, 2019)

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Skip Groff (November 20, 1948 - February 18, 2019) To say that that Dischord Records wouldn’t exist had it not been for Skip Groff isn’t really a stretch. It was Skip that took The Teen Idles to Inner Ear Studio back in 1980 to record what would become Dischord #1 and it was Skip, having gone through the process with his own Limp Record label, that walked us through the steps of getting a record pressed. The very fact that he had his own label was a huge inspiration to a bunch of DC kids who had no idea how the music industry worked or that the ability to create records would be within our reach. And it was Skip’s record shop, Yesterday and Today, that first sold our records and it was Skip’s trust in us and belief in the label that led him to lend us money to press records when we were completely broke. Making the trip to his shop became an instant ritual for young punk rockers like those of us who were discovering a new universe of music and culture in the late 70s and early 80s. Y&T blew our minds. The breadth of Skip’s knowledge about music, especially music from the 60s, was staggering and to this day I’ve never met any other person who, given a song title, was more able to name the artist, composer, producer, label, and year of release. He used to say that, while impressive, this talent didn’t really have much of a practical application outside of the record shop (for instance, try putting a fire out with that sort of information), but I don’t think it was merely a party trick. In my mind it something akin to proof of a higher power. Skip clearly sought and found joy in music and it was through the vernacular of music that he empowered so many to experience the same. Skip, we love you! - Ian, Jeff, and Dischord Records

A post shared by Dischord Records (@dischordrecords) on Feb 19, 2019 at 4:12pm PST

The Messthetics's Debut Record Is So Much More Than a Fugazi Reunion according to the Washington CityPaper

from the Washington City Paper:

Listen to the debut record from the trio of Brendan Canty, Joe Lally, and Anthony Pirog.

Few things perk the ears of local music fans more than rumors of a Fugazi reunion. The band was the harDCore scene’s most visible and influential unit, helping to shine a national spotlight on the DMV’s punk scene for the better part of 20 years.

But Fugazi have been on an indefinite hiatus for almost as long as they were active, and the likelihood of a reunion seems like a pretty long shot. That doesn’t mean their members are resting on their laurels. The latest example of this is The Messthetics, an instrumental project that reunites Fugazi’s potent rhythm section, drummer Brendan Canty and bassist Joe Lally, with guitarist Anthony Pirog.

Before The Messthetics came to be, neither former Fugazi member was sitting around idly. Canty has kept busy producing records for other artists, performing in various bands, and doing film work for such notables as Eddie Vedder and Wilco. Lally returned to the area in 2015 after having spent eight years living in Rome, where, among other things, he immersed himself in the odd-metered rhythms of traditional Mediterranean music.

Pirog is the youngest member of the band, though the Northern Virginia native has been a familiar voice in the local scene for some time. He’s well-respected in D.C.’s jazz and experimental music communities and has earned critical praise with his own ensemble and with Janel & Anthony, a duo that includes his wife, cellist Janel Leppin. Pirog also received positive notice for his participation in recent concerts held in tribute to D.C. guitar legend Danny Gatton.

In keeping with Dischord Records’ DIY aesthetic, Canty recorded The Messthetics debut in the band’s rehearsal space, and its first single, “Serpent Tongue,” snaked its way online in January.

The 5/4 meter on “Serpent Tongue,” combined with the distorted guitar riff, lends the song a progressive lilt that permeates throughout several tracks on the album. Other songs that take on a fusion bent with a punk intensity include “Quantum Path” and “Crowds and Power,” the latter of which is the sole muscular tune in the album’s much less aggressive back half.

Regardless of the song’s mood, Canty and Lally anchor the material with an insistence that propels the music forward. The boom-thwack of the drums and the brooding bassline on “Mythomania,” the opening track, have a locomotive effect over which Pirog is free to explore his instrument’s sonic palette. Similarly, the syncopated groove on “Once Upon A Time” gives structure to the languid melodies floating above it.

Pirog is a master at using effects to manipulate his sound, but the tasteful way in which he deploys his enhancements is what sets him apart from most pedal stomping guitarists. He tends to use his sweeteners in a subtle way that adds color to the more industrial songs and soft texture during the record’s quiet moments. All of this comes together on “The Inner Ocean,” the album’s longest track. At six minutes, the song slowly builds to a crescendo before it comes back down to calmer waters.

In many ways, The Messthetics split the difference between what one would expect from a sonic alchemist like Pirog and a rhythm section most often associated with the punk world. The result is hard to categorize, but the comparisons to various power-trios of yesteryear and ’70s prog-rock make sense. There’s a lot for the listener to digest because these are three veteran musicians who know their strengths and know how to utilize them to maximum effect.

Dischord Records office 1983 from my instagram

IAN MACKAYE and JEFF NELSON - 1983 - of Minor Threat and founders of DISCHORD records, (in Minor Threat at the time we made this photograph, with my Fish-eye lens, same day as the Salad Days cover photo) in the small room off the kitchen in "Dischord House" where the record company functioned out of for many years. If you look closely the entire catalog at the time could be seen in this photo strewn around the little room. This was probably one of the first photographs of the company HQ from back then. I believe this photo may also have been used in Spin magazine at some point. Anyone following me should know the importance and the incredible ethic of @DISCHORDRECORDS if they don't already. #KnowYorRoots #LookItUp #TeenIdels #SOA #MInorThreat #TheFaith #Scream #YouthBrigade(DC) #inspiration #punk #harDCore #washingtonDC #IanMacKaye #OldAsFuckAndStillKickingAss #FILM #integrity #skateboarding #HenryGarfield #backboneofacommunity #over30years #nonCorporateMusic #PunkRock #ArlingtonVA #Integrity #SkateBoarderMagazine #FlexYourHead #7"records

A post shared by glen E. friedman Ⓥ (@glenefriedman) on Aug 25, 2017 at 8:44am PDT

A new Documentary : SALAD DAYS: A Decade of Punk in Washington, DC (1980-90)

Hey! I will be speaking briefly on a panel this evening over at the IFC theater, here in New York City, after the 7:50pm showing of the documentary film SALAD DAYS: A Decade of Punk in Washington, DC (1980-90).

“Salad Days: A Decade of Punk in Washington, DC (1980-90)” is a documentary film that examines the early DIY punk scene in the Nation’s Capital. It was a decade when seminal bands like Bad Brains, Minor Threat, Government Issue, Scream, Void, Faith, Rites of Spring, Marginal Man, Fugazi, and others released their own records and booked their own shows—without major record label constraints or mainstream media scrutiny. Contextually, it was a cultural watershed that predated the alternative music explosion of the 1990s (and the industry’s subsequent implosion). Thirty years later, DC’s original DIY punk spirit serves as a reminder of the hopefulness of youth, the power of community and the strength of conviction.

Interview with Ian MacKaye, from Mother Jones magazine

Dischord Records is a lot quieter than during its heyday, but the do-it-yourself attitude endures.
—By Dana Liebelson

I'm drinking green tea with Ian MacKaye in the modest Arlington, Virginia, house where it all began—where Dischord, MacKaye's legendary do-it-yourself record label, took root more than 30 years ago. Back then, MacKaye was a pissed-off teenager whose straight-edge punk band, the Teen Idles, operated amid the musical wasteland of the nation's capital, a city too obsessed with dark money and happy hour to care about DIY ethics and $5 punk shows. But MacKaye cared, and he still does, even if Dischord's flagship acts have long since disbanded. This "is exactly how we started," he tells me. "For the first few years it was just all of us out of this house. We wanted to make records. Literally, make records. We would fold and cut and glue all the sleeves because that's what we needed to do to get it done."

MacKaye cofounded Dischord in 1980 with bandmate Jeff Nelson to put out the Teen Idles' album Minor Disturbance. And though the Idles split up the same year, MacKaye and Nelson went on to form Minor Threat, whose furious blasts of punk-rock energy influenced a generation of teenage rockers. With proceeds from its founders' records, Dischord started releasing albums by other local punk acts, including State of Alert (SOA), Faith, Government Issue, and Youth Brigade. By the mid-1980s, most of the early Dischord bands were kaput and the label was struggling financially, but it roared back in the late-'80s as MacKaye's new band, Fugazi, exploded onto the scene.

A visceral, passionate, politically astute post-punk band that spurned music industry conventions, capping ticket prices at around $5 and insisting on playing for all-ages crowds, Fugazi won over hordes of loyal fans and helped kick off a nationwide movement of DIY bands and record labels. Fugazi and Dischord were living proof that starting your own band, making your own records, and booking your own shows worked. "It was the label that was very exciting at the time," says Ian Svenonius, whose former bands the Nation of Ulysses and the Make-Up released several albums on Dischord in the '80s and '90s. "It had a staunchly anti-commercial outlook and it was explicitly independent and local."

Not only did being on Dischord make people take notice of his bands, Svenonius says, but the label "gave us a philosophical and ethical framework which we could align ourselves with—or refute—it was an enviable situation."

In a unpublished interview with Mother Jones senior editor Michael Mechanic, MacKaye recalled a late-1980s visit to Dischord HQ by Dead Kennedys' frontman Jello Biafra, who noticed MacKaye's massive collection of hundreds of tapes of DC bands: "He saw that shelf, and he said, 'What sets Washington apart from the rest of the country is that you guys documented everything.'"

Biafra went on to explain that a lot of the bands in the late '70s San Francisco punk scene were looking to get signed, so rather than put out a whole album they would make a two-song demo to shop to labels. Most wouldn't get signed and they'd eventually break up, so it was as though they'd never existed. "But in Washington, from the very beginning, there was a really strong ethic of documentation, where we would just record our bands—all the songs the band knew. And that creates a legacy of something here in DC," MacKaye said. "There was literally nothing here before that time. There was no notable rock or punk scene."

Dischord "was a resource which sought to document a scene's creativity rather than exploit it or launch it towards mainstream commerical acceptance or success," says J. Robbins, who has known MacKaye since the late 1980s and has released records on Dischord as a member of Jawbox and three other bands. The label, he adds, "was one of the initial inspirations that got me into punk rock in the first place."

Dischord hasn't changed much in 30 years—its contracts are still informal, sealed with a handshake—but it no longer has a stable of artists that can draw thousands of people to a show or headline major music festivals. With only a handful of active bands remaining on the label, it might be tempting to question whether it still plays an important role, but the musicians say that's missing the point. "I think an awareness of Dischord's DIY, grass-roots origin provides some encouragement for people to move forward on their own terms," says Robbins. "So energetically it's still contributing a lot even if the release schedule is not as full."

Svenonius points out that Dischord is still a key distributor for local bands and labels. And Melissa Quinley, who worked at Dischord from 1997 to 2005, and whose band, Soccer Team, is on the label, says that "it seems silly to pontificate" on the question of Dischord's continuing relevance. "I've got complete trust in Ian and Jeff," she says. "I never had any lofty Soccer Team goals. I was fine with all the regular promo systems that Dischord had in place."

MacKaye, of course, isn't one to worry about what other people think of his label. He just wants to keep putting out mindful music that jibes with one of his personal philosophies, namely "caring…but not giving a fuck."

Last year, hewing to its role as a documentarian, Dischord began releasing its extensive archive of live Fugazi shows in a pay-what-you-want format. MacKaye wanted to get the material out there, but without compromising the value of the art by giving it away: "There's a very good chance we'll never break even on it, but I don't care. It seemed crazy to have boxes and boxes of recordings that no one would ever hear," MacKaye says. He talks more about the archive in this video clip:

As it happens, Dischord had two new releases this month. The first is E.D. Sedgwick's We Wear White, which I un-review here. Sedgwick makes melancholic dance-punk with an acidic aftertaste. Cofounder Justin Moyer used to perform in drag as the eponymous Andy Warhol starlet, but told me he got "tired of wearing a dress all the time."

Moyer first got involved with Dischord in the early naughties when his former band, El Guapo, figured out how to burn a CD and sent its demo to MacKaye. Moyer has now worked with Dischord on several albums, and says MacKaye's personal involvement has ranged from "a lot, to just a thumbs up."

Dischord's other new record is from MacKaye's latest band, the Evens. Formed in 2001 with Amy Farina, now the mother of MacKaye's four-year-old son, the Evens are a kid-friendly indie-rock mashup—albeit with some serious post-hardcore weight behind it. (Farina used to play drums for another Dischord band, the Warmers.) "Part of the Fugazi process was that we really struggled. Everyone had ideas, everyone was an artist, we didn't always agree. I found working with Amy almost effortless, and that was a real shock," MacKaye says.

The Evens allow MacKaye to sidestep what he calls the painful paradox of Fugazi—as the band got bigger, it could no longer play in "strange, rebel spaces" and instead was sometimes limited to playing 21-and-over venues where the "alcohol trumped the music." (MacKaye doesn't drink or use other drugs.)

By contrast, the Evens tend to fly under the radar. They play unusual venues like art galleries and DC's St. Stephen and the Incarnation Episcopal Church—places where there are no barriers to entry and the band doesn't have to max out its volume to be heard. In one song, Farina and MacKaye croon, "The capitol it is your proving ground, your centering. You and yours can keep your scores. But Washington is our city."

It's fitting that MacKaye, at age 50, now finds himself settled in his hometown and playing at St. Stephen's. After all, the church, which his family attended (he no longer does), helped nudge him towards punk rock in the first place. He was only six years old when race riots erupted in DC following the 1968 assassination of Martin Luther King Jr. On that Palm Sunday, the liberal St. Stephen's decided to hold its service outside, on 16th Street, in the middle of a riot. "I saw the city basically under martial law. The buildings were still smoldering; there were police and soldiers and firemen everywhere," MacKaye recalls.

The other thing that shaped his destiny, MacKays says, was going through the DC public school system, where he learned that "if you ask for permission, the answer is always no. So I developed a practice of just doing things."

And that's why it's hard to predict what Dischord will do next: MacKaye doesn't really think about the future: "My sense is if you're driving on a curvy road, and you're staring at point far off in the distance, you're going to be more likely to run off the road."

After we talk, MacKaye gives me a tour of the house, showing off rows and rows of meticulously filed records and show archives. He asks politely that my photographs not reveal the house's location since, to those who might be looking, its contents are impossible to put a price on.

Or $5.

Click here for more music coverage from Mother Jones.

Thanks to Xeni at BoingBoing

NPR discusses FUGAZI's new live series website with Ian "Steady Diet Of Everything: The Fugazi Live Vault"

Obviously, I could write my own story about these tapes finally being released this way, but I think the NPR perspective is pretty interesting (almost as much as Fugazi gracing the cover of the New York Times on line last week) and a nice interview with Ian as well.

When the iconic American punk band Fugazi started playing back in 1987, it started taping, too.

"Our friend Joey Picuri, who was a local sound man — or a fellow who helped do sound for bands — he recorded the shows," Fugazi frontman Ian MacKaye tells NPR's Guy Raz. "He just gave us tapes of our first show, and he gave us a tape of our second show."

From the beginning, the band appreciated his efforts: "It was just nice to be able to hear the songs realized, in that sense," MacKaye says. "In many ways, you can write a song and you practice it, but it doesn't really become a song until it goes into someone else's ears — in this situation, the audience's. So hearing it in that setting, it's like, 'OK, this is a song now.'"

For a lot of bands, that would have been it; record the first show, show it to your friends afterward, then forget about it and continue living the dream. But Fugazi isn't most bands.

"Joey started to travel with us as a sound man," MacKaye says. "He just started to record the shows out of habit. We didn't really plan on recording all the shows, but after we had 50 or 75 or 100, it seemed like, 'Well, we might as well keep doing it.' And we ended up with 850."

Not 850 tracks, or even 850 hours — 850 shows. Fugazi, one of the most important bands in the history of punk, recorded every single show it ever played. But what does a band — even one with as fanatical a fan base as Fugazi's — do with all that tape?

"At some point, we were around the 300 mark, and the band discussed the tapes," MacKaye says. "And we were thinking, like, 'We don't need these tapes.' We didn't even listen to these tapes. The first shows, sure, we listened to those things. But when you're on a tour and you play, say, 60 shows in 63 days, pretty much the last thing you want to hear is a recording of those shows. It's unbearable! We just kept stashing them in the closet."

It must be a pretty big closet, because the band has ended up with more than 1,300 hours of tape. "We were trying to figure out how to get all this music out there," MacKaye says. Now that technology has caught up with Fugazi, the band has done just that: Fifteen years of shows will be made available to buy off the Internet, warts and all.

"These tapes are not all good," MacKaye says. "I certainly cringe at some of the stuff I hear, especially sometimes when I'm talking to the crowd. I think sometimes my humor is extremely dry, and a lot of times I would say things that I thought were very funny but ... I have a reputation of — people think of me as a very fundamentalist, humorless fellow."

'At Least A Dollar'

Fugazi is employing a pay-what-you-want strategy for this enormous library, so listeners can decide how much these hyper-authentic recordings are worth to them.

"They have to pay us at least a dollar — there's no free on this one," MacKaye says. But with their purchase, listeners get a true oral history of the band, riddled with moments that would have otherwise been lost.

"There's a really great show from Munich, in I think the early '90s, '93," MacKaye says. "At that time, it was pretty typical for the audience to say things like, 'Get on with it!' and 'Play the music! Just play!' I remember we had come back on stage for an encore, and somebody was lost or confused, or I don't know; something had happened and somebody needed help. So we were trying to say, 'Hey, there's a woman back here, she's lost and she's looking for her friends.' And some guy was just yelling, 'Get on with it! Just play!' And at that moment, I understood the dynamic, what was going on in this relationship, where he was a consumer and wanted to consume. He wanted sound. So at that moment, we just all turned on our guitars and started feedback, and it was a wall of feedback. And it was like, 'Okay, here's sound. You just want sound.' There was no actual engagement with the music; it was just sound they wanted.

"So it's maybe five minutes of just feedback. It was a totally surreal moment, and when I hear that, I can smell that moment. It's so visceral to me, but it's one of my favorites, because we go right into a song from that. I'm not sure that's even up yet, but it'll show up."

Included is the band's last show to date, on Nov. 4, 2002, and its traditional set-closer, "Glue Man." These recordings bring MacKaye back; in reliving the moments he recorded, he remembers the moments that weren't.

"The truth is, what I really miss is the six-hour drive in the van with them, because we always just hung out. We did a lot of time together, and those moments, those are very difficult to come by at this moment. Whether or not we play again, I don't know. That's just the way that goes. In some ways, this has been such an incredible project, mostly because I've just been sitting on these tapes for so long, and I think, 'Finally, here, everybody else have at it.' "