The Modern Lovers “Girl Friend”

Last week I was on a bus from Springfield, Mass., to NYC, hand in hand with the little lady, both of us listening to her nano through a handy headphone splitter doohickey from Radio Shack. Somehow, to know we were sharing this, listening to the same songs, was a measure of comfort amidst the general misery that comes with Peter Panning it.

Y’all know how much I make out of little coincidences. Predicatbly, when the Modern Lovers’ “Girl Friend” shuffled into our ears shortly after the little lady nudged me and pointed out the Met, the opening namecheck of “the Museum of Fine Arts in Boston” fairly jumped out at me. Wrong town, but right for the moment.

There are many, many things I love about “Girl Friend” (off the band’s delayed self-titled debut, originally released in 1976). There’s the local color; the beautifully wrong, I mean so right, chorus spell-out of “G-I-R-L, F-R-E-N”; the heavy piano action and all its implied drama; the thrumming, lyrical bass; the moment around 1:20 when the dripping need of the song’s sentiment pushes through into an inarticulate yelp and warble that dies almost as soon as it’s breathed out; and that reverbed guitar solo that searches and swoons, outgrowing its conception as a hat tip to Lou Reed.

And, hey, you gotta hand it to lead Lover Jonathan Richman: by song’s end he leaves no doubt as to what it is he wants.

But I’m gonna talk for just another second about that opening assertion. Forlorn and sadly single young Jonathan is sure that if he found a special lady, at that museum “I could look through the paintings/I could look right through them.”

When I was younger, I thought of women as a mystery to solve. There was some sort of literalization of “carnal knowledge” stuck in my head–each object of interest admittedly a mystery I’d likely never solve; I’ve never been a Lothario, maybe a sometimes slut at best.

Now a girlfriend is something that I understand, and maybe I’m a little closer to a truth young Jonathan, his stuffed nose, his tender heart and his professed affinity for all those foxy college girls were all pointing toward.

It’s not really about the lust–lust is essential too, don’t get me wrong–and I’m gonna have young Jonathan back me up by blowing totally out of proportion a little nothing I only just noticed as I was preparing this post.

“Girlfriend” is a compound word, but the title of the song is “Girl Friend.” OK, we’ve established that Jonathan takes liberties with his spelling of the word. But, really, that space maybe adds some extra innocence, like the “space for the Holy Ghost” enforced between a slow-dancing couple at the Friday night Catholic school dances of my youth. (Is that right? Or am I conflating a joke and a genuine memory?)

We’re getting long-winded here, but basically I wanna believe, as young Jonathan did, in an earthly love that helps make things clear. When yr on a good team, it kinda gets to feel that way, and it’s really not that bad.

The Modern Lovers (2003 import reissue) at Amazon.

Chavez @ Spaceland, 12/31/06

New York art rockers Chavez aren’t exactly yr archetypal party band, but I was still trying to live it up a bit at their New Year’s Eve L.A. show. As a result, I didn’t approach the show with the kind of, erm, rigor that would produce a proper show review. Playing Johnny Snapshot or Sammy Setlistgrabber stresses me out to much to make it a party. Mea culpa, mea culpa, mea maxima culpa.

In this very space I’ve previously praised Chavez’ mix of the rock, the pop and the weird. Somehow along the way they built up an air of mystery for me–how did they do this?–that’s dispelled a little when four dudes in jeans and button-down shirts, variously shaggy and bleary-eyed, strap on instruments and take the stage. I say a little because I coulda spent the night just watching guitarist Clay Tarver and trying to figure out how those moves made those sounds come out of the amp.

So Tarver and bassist Scott Marshall seemed to be having a blast, while “the” James Lo, stoic, battered out heavy beats with eerily little sign of effort and singer/guitarist Matt Sweeney applied a vaguely grumpy intensity to his frontman duties.

Out of this, a 90s four-piece reformed for a month or so of transAmerican rocking, arose a sort of majesty. The men of Chavez have expertly honed the soft-loud dynamic into a complicated push and pull of tension and release. Indie rock of the 90s had a well-earned reputation for being kinda sexless–hell, there’s no roll in Chavez’ rock–but the play of anticipation and catharsis that’s a Chavez signature, worlds beyond the same-old “hit the stombox on the chorus,” made me think of sex. The really good kind.

Soft parts give way as monster drums kick in and stop abruptly. A second guitar blares away a dissonant lead punctuated with unbluesy bent notes. Now the drums are in for real, and it’s resolved to massive freedom rock chords. The bass waits a couple bars and before storming in to add heft and, yes, maybe, a groove.

And so on, every song a little puzzle, a sweaty wrestling match, an alternate-reality anthem. I guess, succinctly, Chavez fucking rocked. Not a bad way to start the new year.

(Because we like providing evidence of some type, below a couple of hilarious Chavez videos from ten years back or so.)

“Unreal Is Here”

Better Days Will Haunt You at Newbury Comics. (and at iTunes.)