Little more than an hour past their opening slot in the Victory Records showcase at South by Southwest, Chicagoans 1997 already had their first and second hits. That these came to the cheekbone and jaw of Gossamer the oafish bouncer and his angry, balding coworker Skullcap was regrettable. Most of the people from Austin revel in its status as a Texan oasis apart from the concealed six-shooters of moral indignation the rest of the state carries. Not everyone is happy about this, though, and two of these malcontents worked the showcase. Apparently not fans of the set, the bouncers threw guitarist Caleb Pepp and Cody Jay out of the tent, ostensibly for committing the grievous crime of underage drinking; ironic, as this very offense serves as the foundation for the festival’s youth-centered goings-on. More likely the offense came from the sneering mixture of LA glam and Chicago punk of their clothing.
When Caleb and Cody returned with the van to retrieve their gear, Skullcap stalked to the rear, fixin’ t’ taych thayse Chicago punks a lehssin’. Gossamer, lacking the sweetness of his namesake, leered at the boys like an angry, anthropomorphic bear. The bouncers traded insults with the kids in the van, and much to the peaceable stage manager’s dismay, Skullcap charged, his partner rumbling behind. After some shoving, the big guy got two rights, one from lead singer Kevin Thomas, and one from Caleb’s already broken fist. Caleb's, a running jump punch worthy of My Cousin Vinny, was almost as funny as it was effective. Much to the bouncers’ credit, they threw no punches; generations of child abuse instilling a beneficial tolerance of punishment.
A scuffle at the first showcase invariably heralds a band meeting, especially with Victory Records’s growing unease at the possibility of having a Motley Crue on their hands. Still, even the higher ups seem tentative to come down too hard on the band. Arrests, separations, and onstage meltdowns - 1997 sublimates this swirling personal cacophony into painfully sweet melodies. Reviewers note, but cannot name, the elusive quality that makes their music work; it’s a brutal sincerity in the face of their individual maelstroms that allows these songs to stand out as genuine. This is not to say expect forthcoming cocaine binges and spousal abuse charges. Bassist Alan Goffinski keeps spirits high while providing the low end, keeping the group balanced. Kevin says Alan handles the business “because he’s the only one without an addiction.” His smile leaves it up in the air whether or not he’s serious.
The business at hand, after a successful showcase for the iTunes folks, is a US tour supporting their critically acclaimed album, A Better View of the Rising Moon. “We’re be on the road with The Audition until June 23rd,” says Thomas. “We shot a video for “Garden of Evil” at the end of May somewhere in California, and I had the luck to come down with pink eye the day of the shoot.” After that, 1997 is anxious to see Europe, having seen excellent UK bands like The Wombats at SXSW. But for all their love of California and desire to get overseas, the band still waves the Chicago flag. Nick Coleman’s drums hit as hard as the pavement of the Chicago streets, Pepp’s guitar sounds full of the spirit of the legendary Wake Up and Rage crew from Illinois, and Alida Marroni’s trip from Indiana to Chicago in quest of fame reads like Purple Rain set in Wicker Park.
But enough about 1997’s background. Onstage, the band is hard not to watch. The group’s inflamed exuberance stands out even amongst its hungry, youthful peers. The tambourines, harmonicas, plinky keys, and intricate vocal harmonies crash against a wave of guitar and a surging, impassioned voice; a counterpoint of beautiful creation and destruction that envelops their audience. It is this energy that allows them to transcend their ages and deliver as legitimate, passionate artists, proving that poetry can be other than esoteric collages of nearwords from San Francisco or a monologue slammed on HBO. Sometimes it can be howled collectively to thunderous drums.
-Alan
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