Get out of the van

I spent most of my free moments last week glued to the pages of Michael Azerrad's Our Band Could Be Your Life, a wonderful history of indie bands in the 1980s: published in 2001 and recommended to me at a dinner party, the book focuses on 11 influential bands, from Black Flag to Fugazi, who attracted a following even as they worked outside the network of established studios and labels. Disgusting stories about entire tours conducted out of a single van?  Tales of utter, rampant violence that spills from stage to club floor and then back again? Yes, and yes. But it's also a book that offers a number of thoughts about the sheer potential of music as a form of expression and a tool of dissent, and as I've toted it around with me I've been surprised at how many people recognize the cover and smile fondly as they mention that they, too, enjoyed it.

My favorite anecdote in the book, I think, involves the Replacements, a Minnesota band that had become rather widely known in alternative communities by 1984 and was thus able to embark on an ambitious tour that took them all the way out to the west coast. But this was pre-Internet, and the band did much of its own organizing, and so choosing venues was often characterized by sheer guesswork and open reliance on word of mouth. Moreover, the punk community in many cities was so small that there was no established club, or center. "When we played Seattle," Bill Sullivan (a member of the band's crew) later remembered, "there was the Central Tavern, a blues bar. There were VFW's, Mexican restaurants, - we played a Mexican restaurant in Indianapolis - we played clothing stores." And then there was Davis, California, where the band had been booked to play a place called 617 Anderson - which turned out to be a private residence, on Anderson St. No matter: the band set up in the living room, which was covered from floor to ceiling in plastic; a keg in the kitchen functioned as the bar. And, recalls Sullivan, "it was a pretty fun gig, actually."

That spirit - of DIY, of devil-may-care open-mindedness - appeals; it points, I think, to a humble embrace of possibility. And it reminds me of one of the wonderful things about spending time with a three-year-old. Sure, we occasionally take Cleo to some rarefied sites - the Cape Town cable car; Winchester Cathedral; the Detroit Institute of Arts - and we try, generally, to keep our act together. But, inevitably, there are less impressive moments, or breakdowns in the day's play: a few weeks ago, Port Discovery was closed for renovation; this past Saturday, Cleo and I were boxed in by the Baltimore Marathon. But, still: when plans go awry, Cleo typically looks around, and immediately begins to use what's at hand. As the runners streamed by, she found a grated fence, and began to perform improvisational gymnastics in the morning sun. And when Port Discovery's doors were locked, her eyes locked, in turn, on a nearby fountain, whose contours she traced with her tiny hand. It was, in the end, a pretty fun gig.

As are all things, I suppose, if one approaches them as if one's climbing out of a van, and into a world full of fresh possibility.