Ali Was A Hoodrat*

(WARNING: After the first paragraph, I ramble on endlessly about obscure and not-so-obscure musical artists. If you prefer my blog entries where I lightly discuss the events of the day and mention a movie I like or a new fruit that I finally tried, you might want to stop reading after the word “ago.” If you prefer cross-generational hipster minutiae, read the whole thing)

Celebrity sightings are not rare in Los Angeles. Still, three sightings (combined, for me and Laurel) in five days is an impressive number. It’s not that I’m in awe of these stars as much as I am slightly interested in a bemused way by the details of their lives. It’s a little surprising that American Psycho Christian Bale shops at The Gap while eating his frozen yogurt. It’s notable that The O.C.’s Peter Gallagher hikes with his lady at Temescal Canyon Park. And it’s absolutely fascinating that American Idol’s Simon Cowell actually has a personalized license plate that reads IDOL as he inches through gridlocked eastbound traffic in his tricked-out black Acura on the 10 Freeway an hour ago.

But I’m here today to discuss a more specific kind of celebrity: The Minneapolis Local Rock Star. It’s an established fact that I lived in the Twin Cities for 10+ of my 30++ years on this earth. In my days there, I saw local rockers put up on pedestals and knocked down because they didn’t belong (Dave Pirner of Soul Asylum) or because they couldn’t produce in the face of fame (Paul Westerberg, Oil of Thuja). I’ve seen them move to the east coast (Bob Mould - the Ringo Starr of Husker Du) because they were sick of being recognized, or to St. Paul (Grant Hart - the John Lennon of Husker Du) because the rents were cheaper. But mostly I ignored them. The rockers bored me. I preferred the paisley-swatches-on-flannel bounce-pop of Trip Shakespeare or the bossa-folk of noted librarian Jim Ruiz. And Prince was good too. The local rockers were, as a group, too mannered and by-the-numbers, too in love with the notion of being nothing more than a gritty bar band. Even when they broke free of the constraints of the white rock trade (grunt the verses, scream the choruses, drink way too much even when people have paid to see you play), the local rockers could only sustain it for one album (Husker Du’s New Day Rising) or two (The Replacements’ Tim and the one after Tim). At the end of their arcs, the local rockers faded out, relegated to tending bar or dying or farming or unplugging to varying degrees of success.

Then there was a band called Lifter Puller. Don’t get me wrong. I’ve never actually listened to a Lifter Puller song all the way through. Maybe some day I will. But I knew there was something different about these guys. You see, my friend Brett liked them. Unconditionally. And the number of bands Brett liked unconditionally through the years was very small. There was Rocket From the Crypt. And I think Elvis Costello for the first two albums. And that Foetus guy from the eighties. Brett used to wear a T-shirt that read “I like hate. I hate everything else.” But he also liked Lifter Puller who, blessed with an adoring local fan base, a moderate national following, and the best band name ever, broke up a couple of years ago. A few of their members, including singer/lyricist/guitarist #2 Craig Finn, moved to Brooklyn and formed The Hold Steady who last month released their second album Separation Sunday which is so good I can hardly believe my ears. For, despite their technically being a Brooklyn band, The Hold Steady is the most clear distillation of a Minneapolis rock band there could be. And Craig Finn is the seemingly-laboratory-produced perfect specimen of the Minneapolis Local Rock Star, despite living 1200 miles away. And I’m forced to rethink my relationship with that city and the music it produced.

Okay, I’ve rethought my relationship with that city and the music it produced. I still think I’m right. You see, The Hold Steady break all the rules I mentioned earlier. They don’t grunt the verses. They speak them coherently, as literature – i.e., the way lyrics are supposed to be sung. They don’t scream the choruses, for they really have no choruses. They are not mannered or by-the-numbers. No one else, except maybe early Springsteen or Steely Dan in their California days (1975-1978), could have written such a fascinating concept album about suburban kids getting into (big) trouble in the city (Minneapolis usually) and in places that are so clearly not the city, about those kids getting older and realizing that as adults they’re farther away from – not closer to – getting out of that trouble. Mix in some Catholicism, drop some familiar street names, reference Ybor City, and I’m hooked. And they do it all in a fashion that’s sentimental, cynical, heartfelt, nasal, lyrically perfect, and, despite the classic rock guitar solos, not at all bombastic or primal. Listen.

*today's title is not a factual statement. Instead, it is a thematically linked allusion to a song.