Matriz de consistencia

Side Chaff, the fourth side of the record, is the resting place for all of the songs the Minutemen didn’t pick in their draft.

It’s understandable to assume, before listening, that the fourth side sucks. Why not? The three guys in the band didn’t select any of the songs, after all. Side Chaff consists mostly of goofy covers, instrumentals, and song with lyrics outsourced to someone else.

Thing is, it works.

Side Chaff is a little bit more threadbare than the first three sides of the album, but the relative lack of cohesion can be attributed to the fact that there was no unifying force behind the (non) selections. George, Mike, and D. all chose their sides. Through repeated plays, a listener can start to make sense of the respective running orders, see themes, make connections. Side Chaff’s scraps have none of the cohe-siveness of the other three sides.

“More than any record of that time, Double Nickels seems to capture the pathology of being in a punk rock band,” says Lance Hahn. “On the one hand, sure, it’s art. You can’t avoid that it’s art. It’s a beautiful expression. But it’s also totally personal. I like that there are a few fuck ups. I love that the vocals don’t stay in key. They’re just belting it out from the heart. But there’s something pathological about the whole enterprise. It’s like going on a three-month-long tour that you

know will lose money. You do it because you’re a punk band and that’s what you do. The length of that album and the intensity of that recording captures that feel for me. I appreciate what other critics say about the variety of influences and styles. But I’m mostly drawn to this idea that there’s no financial or, really, logical reason to do a record with that many songs. But it’s there and in its entirety, even the mistakes sound fucking fantastic to me. If you break it down into its various parts, you can probably find faults here and there. But this record demands patience and if you let the whole thing affect you in it’s entirety, every moment is perfect. There are very few records like that in the world. I used to think Exile on Main Street and maybe the White Album were the only ones. But Double Nickels, for me personally, far surpasses even the Stones and the Beades.”

“It was art first,” says Steven Blush. “It was success in noneconomic terms. It was the idea that you could be broke and successful.”

“To me, what makes it more amazing is that... when you hear that story [about the Minutemen being inspired to make a double album by Hüsker Dü] and listen to the record ... it’s all so quality,” says Mac McCaughan. “Like, all the stuff is so good, and when you think about the fact that so much of it is stuff that they went back and . . . wrote and recorded in a short period of time—no filler, you know? And the songs are so short, imagine how many songs they had to write to make a double album. So that makes it even more amazing.”

Boon, Watt, and Hurley were never afraid to show their influences. “Van Halen was one of my favorite bands growing up,” says McCaughan, “and now here’s my new

favorite band doing a Van Halen song, and I’m like, that’s awesome, you know? I’m a litde bit less embarrassed to be a Van Halen fan.”

In addition to the covers, the songs with lyrics written by friends and associates served to further the Minutemen’s belief that they were a part of a community. All told, the odds and ends of Side Chaff cohere and make for interesting listening.

“Untitled Song for Latin America,” a song by D. Boon, reflects on his time as a member of CISPES (Committee in Solidarity with People of El Salvador). The US’s foreign policy was similar in both Latin America and Southeast Asia.

The prevalent school of thought, called the Domino Theory, was that one country would fall to communism and then cause a chain reaction in the rest. Rather than waging a war with US troops, as they did in Vietnam, the United States funneled influence, money, and weapons into Central American countries.

“Untitled Song” is cut from the same cloth as both “Viet Nam” and “West Germany.” D. Boon wants you to know what’s going on, so his lyrics are straightforward. In addition to boasting unveiled lyrics, “Untitled Song” features more traditional song structure than many Minutemen songs.

There’s not a lot of repetition in the lyrics—Boon’s words are more of a narrative—but there are identifiable verses and choruses.

The Minutemen want you to focus more on what’s being said, rather than how, so there aren’t a lot of curveballs being thrown. Pay attention to the message, the Minutemen are telling you. I don’t think “Untitled Song” would sound out of

place on D.’s side—it’s populist. Neither would it be wildly out of context on George’s—some fine drum rolls during the song’s choruses sound like a lot of fun to play, as do the huge crash cymbals during Boon’s guitar solo.

Watt attended CISPES meetings with Boon, and began to get some understanding of what was going on in El Salvador. The members of CISPES were against the United States sending money and arms to the Nationalist Republican Alliance, the right-wing faction fighting in the Salvadorian Civil War. The left-wing faction, called the Farabundo Marti National Liberation Front, was fighting against a right-leaning dictatorship that was funded by the American government.

Watt didn’t need to be persuaded that the United States was in the wrong. He did have some questions, though. “I went to a couple of meetings and I asked the dude ‘Where do they get the guns?’ That was kinda strange. But I really agree with the sentiments. ‘Where’d they get the guns? Who’s giving it to

‘em? Is it China? Is it Russia?’ I didn’t have to be convinced, the Contras, that shit, was illegal and disgusting, okay, so I didn’t have to be convinced of that, but I had other kinds of questions. It wasn’t like I was the brave guy to ask ‘em, I was just blurting out what was on my mind.”

You can see Watt’s involvement with Boon and CISPES on the cover of Three Way Tie (For Last). The album’s cover features a D. Boon painting of each member’s head mounted on a wall like a hunting trophy, with an engraved plaque to describe each member. Boon’s says “singer/activist,” Watt’s reads “anti-war sympathizer,” and Hurley’s says “dude local.”

“Jesus and Tequilla” was another outsourced song, with lyrics written by former SST honcho Joe Carducci.

“[D. Boon] was living at SST while Black Flag and Spot and Mugger were out on tour, and I had the radio on the country stations then,” Carducci says. “So we thought about doing a Boon solo album we were going to call Hard Working Man, mostly because he kept calling in sick and then going back to sleep. I wrote three lyrics for him. When Mike was turning Double Nickels into a double album he pushed D. for new words and [D.] told him he had one of those [three] songs done.” The lyrics that Carducci wrote and gave to D. Boon drip with the stereotypical hallmarks of country music—hard times, booze, romantic trouble. Thing is, though, that the stereotype is bucked—the song’s protagonist has found solace, despite all of the tough times that are being sung about.

“D. Boon showed me that song,” says Watt, “and I thought, right away, Crazy Horse, Neil Young. Maybe a little more notes than [Neil Young would] play, but something with that kind of feel. That’s what I was thinking of.”

“Jesus and Tequilla” is another one of those Minutemen songs that has achieved favorite status among fans. It’s got a catchy title, juxtaposing religion and booze to humorous effect. The song’s structure is even more orthodox than

“Untitled Song for Latin America.” In the case of the latter, the repetitions are only musical. “Jesus and Tequilla” boasts music and lyrics that repeat, making it even easier for casual listeners to hear and remember the song.

For fans in bands of their own, the song is a favorite

because it’s relatively easy to play. Watt’s bass line is catchy but remains steady throughout the song and isn’t terribly funk-inflected or spazzy. D. Boon’s guitar is played at a less

breakneck pace than usual, with a heavier reliance on finger-picking than weirdo skronk chords. Boon’s solo is relatively subdued, too. (Hurley, as per usual, is playing the hell out of his drums. Not hard to imagine a drummer in some garage trying like hell to play a passable, slightly easier rendition of George’s line. The song itself moves pretty slowly, but all of the cymbal hits, I think, are deceptively difficult and fast.)

In addition to the structure and the relative ease of play for geeks in bands, the song is catchy. “Jesus and Tequilla” was a harbinger of what was to come on Project: Mersh, the follow-up to Double Nickels.

The instrumental “June 16th” is commonly regarded as one of the album’s highlights—the song is a little bit more accessible than the record’s other compositions, and boasts a deceptive elegance. “June 16th” doesn’t sound like it has much going on, but the musicianship—particularly Hurley’s drums, which might not be the listener’s focus the first few times through—pay dividends upon repeated listens.

June 16th, also known as Bloomsday, is the date on which all the action in Ulysses takes place. It’s also Raymond Pettibon’s birthday. “Next to D. Boon,” Watt says, “[Pettibon was the] biggest influence in my life. Guy was very subtle in some ways, but his art is totally bold-ass! His mind, huge leaps. He can retain incredible amounts of information, very humble, very funny guy in a dry way. Incredible guy.”

The Miriutemen were always big fans of the Urinals, often covering their song “Ack Ack Ack Ack” both live and on their

records. The Minutemen had the work of the Urinals in mind while writing “June 16th. According to Watt, “They were such a fuckin’ elegant band! Like Ack Ack Ack Ack,’ it’s only one chord, then the big change comes and it’s only a half-step away! So econo! Much more econo! So I was kinda thinkin’ about that. And D. Boon, beautiful lead guitar—just enough notes! So econo! Beautiful!”

The instrumental is very sparse, driven mainly by the rhythm section. D. Boon’s guitar line was written after hearing Watt’s bass line once. Boon adds sharp flourishes here and there, but never actively forces himself to the top of the mix. Despite the airy feel that the song has, its verses still feature intense drumming on the part of George Hurley—he’s using his whole kit, making a lot of hits, though not as hard as usual.

Hurley fills the space that would normally be taken up by the guitar, but does so in a manner that is more calm than frenetic.

The chorus part of the song, at the dead center, is all George’s. His torn hits drive the bit, which is never repeated (again, it’s tough to name the respective parts of Minutemen songs because of their non-reliance on traditional structure.

The part that I’m calling the “chorus” starts at about 0:36). On Hurley’s side of the record, he picked a lot of songs that were fun to play on the drums, often songs that he wrote the lyrics for, as well. “June 16th” could have easily fit onto George’s side of the record because of its reliance on drumming. The song, with its Ulysses theme, also could have fit onto Watt’s side.

“Storm in My House” features lyrics outsourced to Henry Rollins. Henry was the longest tenured singer for Black Flag

(since then, he’s fronted several incarnations of the Rollins Band, as well as pulling numerous acting jobs and, more recently, hosting a self-titled television show on the Independent Film Channel). A pre-Rollins Flag lineup met the Minutemen in San Pedro in 1980, and the two acts became fast friends through their various jncarnations. Black Flag’s guitarist, Greg Ginn, was’ responsible for releasing many of the Minutemen’s albums on his SST Records imprint. (Michael Azzerad does a fantastic job chronicling Black Flag’s history in his wonderful Our Band Could Be Your Life)

By the time Rollins joined Black Flag, both bands were rolling. Flag was one of the first punk groups to tour heavily (along with San Fransisco’s Dead Kennedys and Canada’s D.O.A.), inspiring countless acts to do the same, the Minutemen among them.

The Minutemen and Black Flag played many shows together, and toured crammed in a rickety van. The event that Watt remembers fostering an even greater degree of closeness between the two bands was Rollins and D. Boon building a house owned by Regis Ginn, father of both Greg Ginn and his brother, Raymond Pettibon. “[Regis] was building this house, and he had Henry and D. Boon working together,” Watt says.

“And I think that’s when D. Boon asked him [to contribute], and Henry wrote that song.”

In the narrator’s house, there’s “wind tearing at the rafters / howling through the timbers.” The lyrics evoke a state of unfinished construction—wood still exposed for all to see, bare like the lyrics. The song concludes with the lyric “hope

the storm doesn’t rip my roof off / my skin keeps the storm inside,” letting the listener know that the use of the

word “house” isn’t literal, despite the use of construction terms earlier in the song.

The action of “Storm in My House” is taking place as the narrator speaks to someone: “Tell me it’s not always going to be like this / the world is surely the coldest place.” The narrator is asking for a reassurance that there’s someplace less inviting and chilly than his head, his house.

Despite the ruminations on the storm’s violence, the song comes across in a gende fashion, atypical Rollins fare in 1984. Musically, Watt says, the tone of the song is similar to

“Two Beads at the End.” D. Boon singing Rollins’s lyrics gives a shift in perspective. “[E]ven though they’re Henry words,” Watt says, “the way we make ‘em gives Henry a different perspective, I think. I think we could have made a good team. He coulda probably written us a lot of good words because it put a spin on ‘em people weren’t aware of. . . . He helped us out there in a strange way, because it gives the record a new facet, a new shape, but it helps him, too, because it helps people see . . . Henry has a lot of dimensions to him.

And D. Boon was sensitive like that where he could pick up on people.”

The lyrics to “Martin’s Story” were provided by Martin Tamburovich.

The members of the Minutemen were well known for flying the flag of their hometown of San Pedro. Despite their shout-outs, though, none of them had been born in the town—Hurley was originally from Brockton, Massachusetts;

Watt was born in Portsmouth, Virginia; Boon was from nearby Napa. Tamburovich was born and raised in San Pedro, which endeared him to the Minutemen even more. “We lived together in this apartment building we called the ManBoat,”

Watt

says, “had all these old retired sailors. And one plug. Each apartment had only one plug, everything had to go through the one because it was built before electricity, when they put it in they just put in one each.”

One of the Minutemen’s inceptions had been a four-piece act—Boon, Hurley, and Watt playing their respective instruments, with Tamburovich as the lead singer—named the Reactionaries. Tamburovich remained tight with his ex-band-mates. He worked for the band as a roadie, and, along with Boon and Watt, was one of the owners of the New Alliance record label.

Tamburovich wrote the lyrics for “Martin’s Story” with the Minutemen’s history in mind, reflecting the slow but steady progress that the act showed as they continued refining both their sound and approach.

The song has a very terse, almost mechanical feel to it—“Takes time, I guess it sounds like how to bake a cake,”

Watt says. The repeated mentions of time go well with the main riff of the song, propelled by Watt’s run of bass notes.

The song moves at a hectic pace, pausing a few times to let the listener catch breath before reembarking. All of the lyrical mentions of time ring with patience—“what you makin’, man / takes time / a little bit / a little bit more / the effort’s worth it,” for example—but the song itself is anything but patient,

feeling more like a ticking bomb than an exercise in restraint.

It’s a nice contrast.

One of the reasons that Boon and Watt pulled in their friends to write lyrics for them was to make sure that they never got stuck in ruts. Repeated listens to Double Nickels confirm that each member of the band had a sense of style that was unique and noticeable—once you’ve got a basic understanding of each band member’s particular brand of song-writing, it’s fun to put the album on shuffle and guess who wrote the lyrics for a particular song (geeky, I know, but so is writing a whole book about one album). Tamburovich’s lyrics don’t sound like anything else on the record—the goal of trying to keep things fresh was nicely realized by the contributions of all of the Minutemen’s friends. “I know in a lot of music they do shout-outs to people,” says Watt. “It’s important. It gives Double Nickels a lot of strength, too. Like a flannel. It’s in all the threads”

“Ain’t Talkin’ Bout Love” is a cover of a song off of Van Halen’s eponymous 1978 debut. Van Halen was the last non—punk rock band that I regarded as my favorite. When my folks and I moved to Concord, New Hampshire, in the summer of 1987, I found myself friendless and lonely in my new rural setting. I immersed myself in music, and decided the Halen would be a logical choice for my study. I procured cassette copies of 1984 and 5150 from one of those mail-order record clubs. I meant to backtrack and learn all of the early stuff, but my plans on absorbing more of the band’s catalogue were interrupted by my discovery of the Sex Pistols and Dead Kennedys. (For whatever it’s worth, I have started to listen to the old Halen stuff, almost twenty years later.)

I was surprised to find a thematic link between the Minutemen and Diamond Dave’s crew When Van Halen was

I was surprised to find a thematic link between the Minutemen and Diamond Dave’s crew When Van Halen was