Jesse the Scofflaw

Malin continues: "So
the cops rolled up on me and I told them I used to own Coney Island High and
knew the landlord. I told the cops, go into any store on the street and ask
anyone who I was. But they weren’t having it and the next thing you know
they called a car and took me in handcuffs to the precinct." Things–already
unpleasant–were about to get worse.

Initially, Malin’s
fate at the 9th Pct. didn’t appear to be too doomed. The cops asked him
if he’d ever been arrested before and when he said no, the perp was told
he’d probably be held for a few hours and then released. That assessment
was, however, grossly understated: when the authorities checked him out, they
found, much to Malin’s surprise, that there was an outstanding warrant
for his arrest. Seems that after opening for Kiss at Madison Square Garden in
1996, Malin received a ticket for possession of an open bottle of Rolling Rock
as he exited the venue on his way to the post-gig party. At the time, the ticket
was a mere footnote to his big night and quickly forgotten in the midst of the
evening’s celebrations. Malin admits, "Then I went on the road, threw
the ticket in a drawer and that’s what came back to haunt me."

Malin’s carelessness
would now cost him. He was promptly informed that as a wanted man he would have
to "go through the system" and spend the weekend in the Tombs until
he could appear before a judge the following Monday. It was not a fun weekend.
Malin recalls: "I was in a cell with 25 other guys packed in there. Some
of them had shot people and all these tough guys are coming up to me asking,
‘What you do?’ and I had to tell them that my weapon of choice was
a scotch-tape dispenser." He also found the accommodations themselves lacking
in the usual amenities: "There were people who were really disgusting in
there. They had been living on the street. There is one toilet in the middle
of the room. I didn’t go to the bathroom, eat or sleep for over 30 hours."

The newly chastised rocker
blames his troubles on Mayor Giuliani and his policy of zero tolerance for such
traditional subcultural activities as unlicensed postering and public drinking.
He sadly reminisces about the pre-Rudy era when you could sit in the park with
a brown paper bag–or put up fliers–and at worst the cops might take
your paste away. The experience has left him wondering if there is a place for
real rock culture in New York anymore; he says that he’s even given thought
to leaving. But Malin also acknowledges that there really isn’t anyplace
to go and that the commercial sanitizing of cities is occurring nationwide.
He also correctly points out that, despite repeated promises that the Internet
will make it easier for local bands to communicate with their fans on ground
zero, posters are still one of the principal means by which the masses below
14th St. learn of upcoming gigs. Plus, he notes: "As much as the Internet
is amazing, it encourages people to stay in the house, and rock ’n’
roll has always been about community. If you are hanging out together there
is a different energy in the room that you can’t translate into a cybercast."

The good news is that, in
the face of repression and cultural homogenization, an organic resistance is
beginning to take shape. Malin points to the growing success of the Rock Candy
shows at Don Hill’s as an example of an old-school effort to create a scene
without the benefits of high technology and venture capital. In fact, in the
upcoming year Malin’ll be hosting all-night parties at the original location
that will continue the tradition of his legendary Green Door events. Giving
us hope for the millennium, Malin says the monthly celebrations will be "real
and illegal." And then wisely adds, "People have to start getting
it together to make these times fun and decadent."

Falling Up
Most
instrumental rock is a big bore. It seems to attract people who can’t give
up the habit just yet, who need a transitional stage on the journey away from
the hard shit on the way to jazz. The exception that proves the rule is Larval,
a Detroit-based band that is so hopelessly out of step with the prevailing trends
in the industry that they have no business plan and strangely believe in focusing
on their work and letting the chips fall where they may. The leader of this
defiant group of Luddites is guitarist Bill Brovold, who keeps body and soul
together as an artist, professional carpenter and owner of Koko Recording studio.
A veteran of the New York scene before moving out West to found a family, Brovold
played with Rhys Chatham in the early 80s and founded such avant ensembles as
the arcane but credible E.I.E.I.O.H. and Zen Vikings.

Brovold is a genius who’s
lucky to be alive. His own father referred to him as the "accident,"
but this moniker had nothing to do with the manner in which he was conceived.
He is blind in one eye due to an unfortunate chance meeting with a stick; other
misfortunes include falling off a roof twice, being sensitive to certain frequencies
after his eardrum was punctured by a nail and almost dying of carbon monoxide
poisoning after the chimney in his Lower East Side tenement collapsed, blocking
the flue. The last incident was recorded in the local press and immortalized
by a photograph of the unfortunate savant sprawled semi-comatose on the hood
of a car while awaiting an ambulance. Brovold’s commitment to his work
is best exemplified by the time he sliced off the tip of his middle finger on
the day of a gig, crazy-glued it back in place, wrapped it in gaffer’s
tape and then hours later proceeded to rock out.

Even if Brovold is accident-prone,
there’s nothing accidental about his music. Larval’s efforts can be
heard on an eponymous disc on Avant Records and Larval 2 (Knitting Factory
Records). Often a mixture of melancholy and rage, Larval’s volatile mix
is described by Brovold as, "Scary in a thought-provoking way." Further
defining his work, he adds, "I always think of my music as biblical as
in every ascension to heaven is accompanied by a head on a stick." Such
utterances leave him open to the suspicion that he might be some "intellectual
shithead," a prospect that seems to terrify Brovold. Take for example his
analysis of the competition: "Don Caballero are pretty fucking good but
they don’t vary much from what they do and that’s the problem."
He continues, "It’s math rock, it’s more about structure. A lot
of instrumental music is purely intellectual, it’s not very emotional or
emotive."

But what really separates
Brovold from his peers is his attitude toward the industry and his message:
that despite the prospects of cyberspace, don’t give up your day job. The
more things are going to change, the more they are going to stay the same. He
says, "When you think about how many people actually make a good living
off their music, it’s minuscule. So don’t even think that way. Your
chances of winning the lottery are just as good as becoming U2, so if you are
doing it for the money, take that same amount of investment and buy lottery
tickets." It’s sound advice but, naturally, few will take it. And
inevitably Brovold is consigning himself to lists of "This year’s
best records that you never heard" when he dismisses the much-heralded
coming age of total entertainment as nothing less than "a change in the
level of importance from creation to marketing. It is no longer how good the
product is, it’s how salable the product is and how quick it can be turned
over to the lowest common denominator that will buy it."

Future King
The
year 2000 will undoubtedly result in a vicious bidding war for gentle country
singer Daniel Simonis. Try imagining Woody Guthrie as played by James Dean and
you’ll get the general idea. A bitch magnet par excellence, Simonis has
the face, voice and songs that will yield him a career on disc, soundtracks
and the silver screen that comprises the holy triumvirate among A&R types
these days. Right now he is even good enough that even old punk rockers can
sit through his set without developing symptoms of dysentery. See him now if
the whole star-is-born phenomenon tickles your fancy. Once the big boys get
a hold of him, things will inevitably get ugly.