Sony G90 - Manual (Page 62)

rock show. Furthermore, Fugazi’s principled way of being a
rock band doesn’t tend to appeal to the kind of people (i.e.
frat boys, wanna-be’s, rednecks) who attend rock concerts in
order to get high or smashed or both.
One thing Instrument does not provide is a sense of
Fugazi’s musical evolution. And so I urge you to listen to the
band, sans video accompaniment. The quartet’s first two
r e c o r d s , 13 Songs and R e p e a t e r, have brisk, abrasive
melodies and bracing stop-start rhythms; they are a perfect
hybrid of punk and straight-ahead rock. Straightforward, dri-
ven by an intense urgency readily identifiable in MacKaye’s
voice and Canty’s thwacking percussion, these records
besiege a listener, challenging our concept of what rock
should communicate. These are two of the most solid inde-
pendent albums ever released.
With 1991’s In on the Kill -
taker, Fugazi branches out. Gal-
vanized distortion merges with
extended guitar hooks, and ten-
sion and suspense swell during
moments of complete silence.
Despite its occasional surrender
to generic racket, Killtaker man-
ages to add complex rhythms to
the combustion and cavalry-
charge energy of Fugazi’s earlier
work. 1995’s Red Medicine fuses
delicate piano and brass motifs
that crudely coexist with uptem-
po punk. Certain songs are sur-
gically precise while others,
with sounds of distracting laugh-
ter and talking, are coarse and
broken. Unfortunately, Fugazi
attempts too many rhythmic
variations and seems unfocused. The group’s usual thick and
jagged approach gives way to a soft, unrehearsed perfor-
mance, and for the first time, the music doesn’t flow or
breathe.
1997’s End Hits is less fragmented, but even though it
sounds milder, Fugazi’s social criticism still gives the music
bite, revealing the band to be more comfortable with its new
approach. 1999’s Instrument is a soundtrack to the film bear-
ing the same title, and a set of acute songs and instrumental
demos from 1989 to 1997. On all these records you will hear
the kind of striking depth and dogged precision you would
normally associate with the most scrupulous classical ensem-
bles. Although Red and End aren’t as good as they might be,
they only seem below average in comparison to Fugazi’s best
work, because the band sets such extremely high standards.
Which raises a question: If Fugazi’s later albums aren’t as
good as its first three, is that because the group failed to live
up to its principles, or weakened them? I firmly believe that
the band’s comparative decline was a by-product of evolving,
and experimenting with new sounds. Every great artist makes
at least one mediocre record. Most bands would consider End
a masterpiece, while for Fugazi, the album is a sign that the
group is back on track, even if the music is still a tad below
the almost unachievable standards Fugazi set earlier.
I’ll end by describing some unforgettable scenes from
Instrument . Cohen films people in line for tickets. Some are
young, some old, some white, some black, some brown –
most are dressed down, some gussied up in
business suits. And when you look at their
scarred faces, dim eyes, spiked hair, and pierced
lips, you may be quick to label them as punks,
delinquents, or losers, because they fit these
stereotypes. But really, this audience embodies diversity. It’s a
slice of ragged Americana, an assortment of folk not imagin-
able at most rock (or classical or jazz) concerts, which auto-
matically exclude poorer, younger fans because ticket prices
are so absurdly high.
At one performance, we see the front row of an audi-
ence being crushed into a guardrail by the push of hundreds
of swarming bodies. Seeing the crowd veering out of con-
trol, Fugazi abruptly stops playing. MacKaye announces
that someone’s head has split open and that the vicious
elbowing needs to cease. Vi d e o
scans of the crowd reveal six
a n g r y,
drunk, insensitive
teenagers near the front row.
After issuing his warning,
MacKaye leads the band back
into the music. Moments later,
the band’s misgiving comes
true. Something flies onto the
stage and hits MacKaye, who
immediately signals the band to
halt. MacKaye, aided by two
enormous security assistants,
struggles to pull a young guy
out of the swaying audience.
Finally successful, MacKaye
grabs the teen, holds him in a
headlock, drags him to the
microphone, and demands a
public apology; the kid, appar-
e n t l y, had spit at him. MacKaye asks the fan to make
amends twice more, but the guy cannot manage to utter
anything discernible. MacKaye then picks the offender up,
informs the audience the youth is getting removed, and car-
ries him to security personnel backstage. The crowd erupts
in applause. Wow – of the hundreds of rock concerts I’ve
attended, never have I seen an artist give any offender even
one chance, let alone three, to redeem himself and remain
in the audience. Fugazi’s patience must be unwavering. As
the band walks off stage after playing its encore, the same
kids spit at them again.
When I was jolted by the seemingly frightening faces in
shots of the people in line to buy tickets, I became troubled,
even though I have been at concerts with people of the
same sort. Wanting to know why, I searched my soul and
thought of Fugazi’s fans as an antidote to inner fears and
prejudiced mindsets. We cannot allow our minds to vege-
tate so much that we openly embrace narrow-minded views.
If the only thing I n s t r u m e n t does is rattle our preconcep-
tions about youth or punk, I believe it’s done enough, and
perhaps we’ll be happier and more tolerant because of it.
This film and all Fugazi albums can be ordered, postage-
paid, directly from Dischord Records, 3819 Beecher Street
N W, Washington, D.C. 20007. Phone: 703-351-7491. We b s i t e :
w w w.dischord.com. Most titles are also available at rep-
utable record stores and on the Internet, but at slightly high-
er prices.
With scenes shown in non-
chronological order, Instru -
ment gives us a seething mix
of images. MacKaye erupts
into the microphone like a
shark expanding its jaws
before it devours its prey;
Picciotto plows his right hand
into the guitar’s scuffed body
as if he were punching a hole
through a plaster wall.