March 31, 2004. The day before April Fools' Day, in fact.
I've been to a lot of these punk rock reunions, dating back to the time that I shelled out $10 to see the (almost) original line-up of the Buzzcocks at the Edge in San Jose (that would have been 1990 if I'm remembering it correctly). Some of 'em have come off good (like the 'Cocks, or the Great American Music Hall pair-up of Alan Vega and Martin Rev) and others wind up less than inspiring (Chrome, the Nuns, most of 'em in fact). There's something about seeing a musical act that you once admired trot their aging frames onstage that just sucks all the fun out of punk rock--as you are I once was, as I am you shall be. Every so often a bunch of oldsters go about it the right way, though, and when the stars are right and they pull it off it's enough to make one believe in the Tooth Fairy and Pére Noél all over again. Metal Urbain had that affect on me when they dished it out at the Hemlock Tavern last Saturday night. Could I be the only one?
Allow me to backtrack a moment, here: I realize that most people don't number 1970s synth-punk Paris weirdos Metal Urbain among their faves. Nobody's ever heard of 'em, apart from Ryan Wells, Carolyn Keddy, the Splash 4 and the punters who paid to see the band during their heyday. Me, I knew the basics: noisy punk rock guitars grafted onto analog synths, backed by a 1-2-1-2 beat supplied by a drum machine. Always classified them in the same kennel as SPK, Cabaret Voltaire or Killing Joke. Big noise played by deadly-serious older kids. It wasn't until I started digging through the Maximum Rock 'n' Roll record vault that I learned otherwise: Metal Urbain wanted to grate against nerves, but they also knew how to rock.
The band's singles Panik/Lady Coca Cola and Hysterie Connective/Atlantis ("Atlantis, voici la nouvelle vague!") are tough noise every bit as essential (excuse the enthusiasm) as the Crime "Hotwire My Heart" single, or the Electric Eels "Cyclotron." There's a real sense of creative explosion: these kids are/were taking cast-off synth buzz and Brian Eno-style vocal effects and backing them up with the speedy guitars and rhythms that earmarked American hardcore punk five years later. Plus, they were French and embodied that sorta ornery joie de vivre that folks like Isidore Ducasse, Alfred Jarry and Jacques Dutronc owned in spades. L'anarchie au disco.
I had heard rumors rumbling about a reunion that was supposed to happen somewhere, somehow, sometime (but didn't bother to take them really seriously), primarily to flog the CD reissue Anarchy in Paris!, collecting most of the band's material on a domestic release for the first time. You've got to figure, what are the odds of a reunion at this date? All of the 1980s and '90s had passed these guys by: in other words, it was just like the heavy metal/punk crossover years had never happened (along with thrash funk, "grunge rock" and the initial wave of techno-house schlock). I expected the worst.
True to form, I showed up at the venue about three hours too early. If it had been the Contra Costa County Youth Center it would have been a drag--but it was a Polk St. hipster bar with plenty of alcoholic options available, and I had enough money for drinks and more drinks. The band stuck out like sore French thumbs when I arrived: lanky, older guys wearing narrow pants and black suit coats, muttering to each other between sips of beer. "You're playing tonight?", the bartender on duty asked emaciated guitarist Pat Lüger. "Yesss," he responded. Before long I was hearing the drum machine thump in the tiny back room as the group tested their electronics: whatever fears I had of the band sucking were banished then. They sounded just like the records, only taller.
The wait was acceptable. The opening band wasn't (they're not locals and I didn't go the night that Comets on Fire were playing, which would have been fine). They were a three-piece gang of nerds dressed in dreads/trucker caps/plastic sandals/cargo shorts/etc. and their name will not be repeated here.
Metal Urbain, despite the 25-year lag since their last public appearance, don't look so bad. Carolyn Keddy of KUSF/Maximum Rock 'n' Roll fame was videotaping it for posterity, and the still vaguely resemble the dudes off the record covers (though Lüger doesn't sport the head of hair that he once did). The drum machine that powers their sound has been upgraded since the 1970s--instead of a tinny click, it's a hammer hitting a kettle drum. One of my fears was that they would "updated" their sound, incorporating dancey-housey drum-and-bass rhythms, like the Buzzcocks' did on their disastrous Modern LP. But no, the songs sounded the same. The powerdrill hadn't slipped gears. The sturm und drang wasn't enough to keep at least one audience member awake, though--didn't the guy snoozing on the couch play drums in Crime?
Frontman Clode Panik looks his age in 2004, but still spikes his hair and still clutches the mic stand like some kinda gallic Johnny Rotten enrolled in the Eurovision Song Contest. Staring down the audience and shouting out lyrics in that stentorious bellow so admired by punk rock record collectors and fans of obscure new wave. Me, I was buzzing every minute of their set. The band waltzed through each and every classic I'd hoped to hear ("Lady Coca-Cola," "Atlantis," "Clé de Contact," etc.). I apologize--I'm coming off like a 55-year-old Marin County mailman at a Big Brother & the Holding Company reunion, desperately convincing himself that the $40 was well-spent. Urbain sounded as vital as ever, and rendered all criticism irrelevant.
Metal Urbain. They've aged like soured vinegar and still go down hard. The set was good, the crowd got to see a band that they never expected they would, I didn't get in a fight with anyone on the dance floor and managed to cab it home without any street hassles. So much for the denoument: fade to gray and roll creds. Buy the CD if you see it on the racks.