Rochester Writers

So, on arriving back in Rochester after the tour’s end, I had the old FIRE OF ROCK in my belly. Not only did I possess a profound desire to once again commence with the rocking, but I saw the possibility of starting a rock combo as a decent way to insinuate myself into “the scene,” per se.

I started “putting my feelers out,” as it were, amongst my newly-made acquaintances. This proved to be pretty fruitless though, as not only did I not have that many acquaintances to start off with, but most of them were either already in established bands, and/or, with most being in their early 30s, scaling down their rock-oriented pursuits. So that left the old standby of City's unfortunately titled JAM SECTION. It was slim pickin’s and then some. Acoustic bluegrass grandpas, noodly jam band nincompoops, and mosh-core meatheads littered the otherwise barren landscape. But I pressed on, checking back week after week in hopes that some like-minded spirits would be a-lookin’ for some HOT ROCK AXXTION. 

Given that there was so much nothing to sift through, I’m sure I didn’t take much notice of it at first, just skimming over it and mentally filing it away in the already-overflowing “shit I’m not interested in” drawer. But, like some odd, nearly inaudible sound that slowly reveals itself, after about the third week of it running, the ad finally stood out to me: “Looking for members to complete Rammstein tribute band.” 

Rammstein tribute band? The idea stymied me. I mean, I’ve always been intrigued by the general concept of tribute acts: you and your chums are so enthralled with a specific band, that you learn all their songs, purchase a wardrobe worthy of your idols, get on stage and ape their moves. I, myself, have only seen one tribute band in my life: Shout at the Devil, booked as “Ohio’s Greatest Mötley Crüe Tribute Band!” (That was at my sister’s insistence, during a weekend visit to my hometown. She was really trying to play up the “ironic humor” aspect of the evening’s outing, but, deep in my heart, I am certain she did it out of a trüe löve of The Crüe.) In spite of what I (and the seventeen other people in attendance) witnessed at Shout at the Devil’s gig, I still believe what someone told me ages ago: if you’ve got the looks and the licks, playing in a tribute band is a pretty decent way to supplement your income. This, of course, hinges on a basic element of human nature: people like to hear shit they’re familiar with. (And, taken one step further, people like to get shitfaced and sing along and/or play air guitar in public to shit they’re familiar with.) I spent years playing in bar bands that adhered to a strict DIY, “NO COVERS!” mentality, and I always looked upon any band that filled more than 5% of their set with covers with indie snobbery and disdain. But now, as I’ve gotten older and more practical, I know myself well enough to say that my pooh-poohing was more out of jealously than anything else – were any of my proto-emo bands even half up to snuff of anything on the Dischord Records roster (which they weren’t), I would still never know the thrill of packing a sprawling, cavernous club with naught but writhing, spandex-clad CHIXX.

With that said, there is one very critical aspect that is necessary to turn the lofty dream of a tribute band into a feasible crowd-drawing undertaking – usually the band which is being paid tribute has at least a handful of hits under their collective belt, or, barring that, has one enormous hit which will be paid tribute to within the set of one of those “genre tribute bands.” (e.g., HESSIER HEARTTHROBS: playing the hits of Trixter, Winger, Slaughter and MORE!) 

Rammstein fits neither of those criteria. Although they may be one of those, “Dude, they’re huge in Europe!” bands, Rammstein are (barely) known in the US only for their out-of-left field late-90s quasi-hit “Du Hast.” An oddity as a US-charting song, “Du Hast” is a metallic slab of German industrial sludge that mercilessly rolls forward, unstoppable in its Panzer-like attack. It is hardly a feel-good hit. Outside of this jammy-jam, Rammstein are probably best known by US audiences as being one of the favorite bands of Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold.

One then has to question the marketability of a Rammstein tribute band. Even if, by some odd chance, you do get more than, say, a core base of about 40 diehard Rammstein fans to come to all of your local gigs (I feel as though I’m being generous with that number there), my guess is that you still be hard-pressed to fill the room with more than a handful of curious bystanders. Given that their only recognizable song (as well as most of Rammstein’s material) is sung entirely in German, I can’t imagine that the ears of white-capped, trust-funded frat boys will prick up in excitement as they stumble past the venue on a Saturday night and hear the father tongue coming through the PA. Certainly not in the way “Girls, Girls, Girls” or “Home Sweet Home” would cause that to happen, at least. With that said, it’s hard to imagine that such an undertaking would be a profitable venture. With under 50 attendees at each show (again, I’m being generous) at a take-home rate of about $3.50 a head…well, let’s just say that you’re not gonna outfit your band in the requisite patent leather singlets with those kind of numbers, dude. 

But what are people who search for elusive rock glory in the lines of seven print type on newsprint, if not driven or insane or desperate or all of the above? Week after week, the Rammstein tribute band ad ran and ran and ran. Months came and went. I eventually ran my own ad. The guys I attracted via my ad came and played and recorded and moved out of town. And the Rammstein tribute band ad still ran. Every once in a while, I would pick up City, and flip to the Jam Section…not to look for any new leads of my own, mind you, but just to see if the Rammstein tribute band ad was still there. 

After a while, I forgot all about the Rammstein tribute band (or the larval variation thereof). Then, a few weeks ago, my sister and her husband came in for a weekend visit. As my sister spent what seemed like an eternity looking at the froufrou ephemera that fills the aisles at Parkleigh, my brother in law and I took the dudes’ way out by grabbing a sandwich at Montana Mills. He perused the latest issue of City (“So is this the local liberal rag?”) as we got our grub on. As he picked over the jam section, I told him to look for the Rammstein tribute band ad. But it was nowhere to be found. 

I wondered what happened to the Rammstein guy. Had he found his musical soulmates? Were they somewhere out there right now, perfecting their craft with German precision? Or maybe they were touring the country right now, billing themselves as “Western New York’s Greatest Rammstein Tribute.” Sadly, the thought occurred to me that the Rammstein guy very well may have never found his bandmates, and had given up his dream, only to slave away at his day job of making toasty subs at Quizno’s. That just broke my heart. Well, it made me hungry for one of those vegetarian subs they have with all the guacamole. And then it broke my heart.

But then, just the other day, I was sitting at work, trying to look like I was actually doing something, when I saw it. Right there, on the Rochester Craigslist, in the music section…the Rammstein guy had resurfaced. I was overjoyed. He hadn’t given up. (Although still in need of a pretty hefty portion of his band, by the looks of the ad.) 

Then a thought occurred to me: had I done this? Was there some sort of strange, inter-space continuum flux crap going on here? Was it just my mere mentioning of the Rammstein guy that had made him reappear? Or, taking it even further: was I the Rammstein guy? I started to imagine Rammstein guy as my own Tyler Durden, brought forth from my subconscious as a response to my life’s aching, rockless void. All those months of classified ads were really pings from deep within my psyche, messages from myself to resurrect the rock. Rock music was the only thing in my life that I considered truly "kick-ass," and in that sense it served as a substitute for the traditionally masculine things in which I had no interest. I used to rock, but nowadays I am a namby-pamby of Edward Norton-esque proportions. This is my inner mind’s way of forcing me to rock once again.

I imagined the next few months of my life: me, spending night after night, hammering away at a Korg keyboard, fingers bloodied and raw as I played well into the wee hours. During these extended, fury-driven jam sessions, I will simultaneously plot the downfall of corporate America and make improvised explosive devices.  And, at the end of it all, I will clean myself up as much as possible and return to my day job, only to turn around and do it again.

Rule #1: We don't talk about the Rammstein tribute band.

Rule #2: We don't talk about the Rammstein tribute band.

It all seems completely plausible. And then I remember: no, that can’t be possible. I can’t speak German, and between washing the dishes and walking the dog, there's no way I can take the time to learn it.