posted 2/7/2008 12:11:15 AM

The Suicide Commandos: The Last Pogo

by Tim Carr

It was a mad, bittersweet revel. Catharsis curbed. The Longhorn filled to the brim with a cult of close to a thousand rock n’ roll ravers writhing ‘round ‘n’ round, turning crazed little circles, bouncing up and up, throwing fists in the air, while all power sources wailed full force in a numbing finale as wacky and wonderful as Verdi’s Requiem scored for a battalion of kazoos blaring out through a mile high bank of Marshall stacks. “We can fly so high, yeah, we’re never gonna die…and there’ll be fun, you bet, even more when you get to the junction, Petticoat Junction. Toot-toot!” - The Suicide Commandos’ last words.

The band – that arose three years ago from the blue-greyed ashes of Mill City, that became a flailing three-headed phoenix hell-bent on teaching its neighbors ho to da-da-da-da-da-DA-DANCE , that proved that punk wasn’t all safety pins and put-ons, that gave Minneapolis rock n’ roll a reason to be blasted out its last gasp (a dual encore of “Born To Be Wild” and the theme song from “Petticoat Junction”) shortly after one a.m. Saturday, November 24. I think I’m going to cry. Guitarist Chris Osgood, bassist Steve Almaas, drummer Dave Ahl (and light technician Linda Hultquist) placed a bullet in their collective brain and “I ask myself why, Why? Why? It’s probably pretty simple. The entropy of enthusiasm. After a leaps-and-bounds rise to the top of local rock heap, after a snow-balling drift from rural barroom circuit to concerts in the Guild of Performing Arts and Cedar Theater to a spot as Star Attraction at the rock club they fought to open, Jay’s Longhorn, after two homemade singles and four quick spurt tours to the East Coast that led to national prominence in the New Wave rock underground and a national label contracting them to make a record (The Suicide Commandos Make A Record), after a hero’s welcome everytime the band returned to homebase, after mounds of press – the excitement seemed to wane. Inertia set in The Longhorn was steaming cloud nine, with beer, sweat and tears mixing on the dance floor and in the dancers’ eyes. The crowd was uproarious, like the drunken passengers on the Titanic laughing as they watched the iceberg approach off the helm. Eighteen-year olds who had sneaked in on older brothers; Ids, and were hearing the Commandos for the first time live, picked out favorites from the record as the band rocketed through them, chopping off whatever slack was left in the noose. Old schoolmates finally making appearances at the club, like false friends at a wake, were transformed into true-believers, diehard Suicidals by night’s end.

The dance was seething youth. The lights bounced bright white off of the amps, the cymbals and the sheen of the disordered desperation dripping off of Dave’s fevered brow, while red lights enflamed Steve’s demonic smile and blue bulbs haloed Chrs, bouncing off his bald spot, his glasses, his ever-present “Thanks A Lot You Guys” smile. Blue lights, that until he would mount his milk crate stage lifts (those goofy found-art props) and stare into a blinding bright white spot while ripping off a tough-tone guitar break, his hands shimmying up and down the mid-section of his axe like a nut-legged tarantula dancing in the daisies. Steve on bass piled methedrine behind the madness –You Can’t: CAN TOO! – attacking the beat while syncopating bass lines with rhythm guitar parts. Then there was Dave leering behind his drum kit, bangs in his eyes, eyes on his favorite dancer and arms furiously pumping their spright, keen gallop. Heads bobbed up. The bar was ecstatic. The soon-to-be-widowed in the back tried desperately to keep up a glum exterior, due reverence and all. But when you realized there was no river deep enough, no mountain high enough to stop the holocaust, all you could do was get up and dance in the fun being piled up around you, the musical refuse of a great, great rock n’ roll trio.

“The Commandos are the Beatles breaking up in ’62,” somebody yelled. Potential energy, sparks ‘n’ wonderment gone to waste—all the good times, the great times, the great songs that’ll never see the light of vinyl, the great Commandos songs that will never reach that first rehearsal when X says, “That sucks. But I guess we’ll do it anyway,” and loves it by the third time it hits a barroom. The Commandos were every Midwestern bar band that worked their ass off for the sake of mom, apple pie (a Quaalude or two), and rock n’ roll. The Commandos were every band that put the music before the money and the feeling before the art. Perpetual teenagers, they preached the gospel according to Chuck Berry. TV was their guide, fun their message and rock n’ roll their mad avaocation. Even as they were going down that third and final time Saturday morning, their swan song was being sung by a goofy gander pointin’ out Uncle Joe movin’ kind of slow, at the Junction. “We can fly so high, yeah, we’re never gonna die.” The proverbial blaze.

Permalink | Comments (0) | Viewed 873 times Post to del.icio.us | Digg It