Along with Pavement and Guided By Voices, Sebadoh formed the holy trinity of ’90s lo-fi indie rock. So when the band bubbled up from the grave and scraped together a reunion tour earlier this year, MAGNET requested a front-row seat at the resurrection. Singer/guitarist Lou Barlow and bassist Jason “Jake” Loewenstein obliged by showing up; absent were itinerant drummers Eric Gaffney, Bob Fay and Russ Pollard. (Percussion was mostly handled by a drum machine.) On a road paved with old, familiar fans and bands, Barlow’s notes indicate many happy returns.
Hoboken, N.J., April 26
We’re traveling in a midsize white Ford Taurus that gets about 20 miles a gallon on the highway. It’s just the two of us, bare-bones gear and a whole lot of T-shirts to sell. We’re not touring to support a record or plan a Seba-renaissance. We’re touring to sell an ugly T-shirt. One design, one awful color: Miami Vice teal. Our excuse: “It looked darker in the catalog.” Despite running out of mediums and smalls—which, in contrast to the XL ’90s, are the hot sizes—we’re selling loads. It’s like people just want proof the show even happened. We sold 51 from the stage in St. Louis while a very attractive girl did a striptease and attempted to kiss both of us. Times have definitely changed. It used to be guys up there trying to kiss us.
A three-hour drive from Boston leads to spending three additional hours in New York City traffic only to end up lost in Jersey City, looking for the one square mile that is Hoboken. I’ve played Maxwell’s nearly 20 times and managed to find my way there with minimal complication each time. Not this rainy day.
The show is sold out, as a few have been on the tour thus far. Unfortunately, the drive has taken its toll. Onstage, I’m way ahead of our rhythm tracks, and the sound feels plastic. Unlike nearly everywhere else we’ve played, there’s no singalong from the audience; I sense their attention lagging. I combat this with wildly inappropriate stories of Sebadoh’s financial history and the desperate circumstances surrounding the writing of “Love Is Stronger.”
I’ve actually grown up—as in matured—since the early days, curbing excessive onstage complaining and apologizing, but tonight is a relapse. To complete the experience, I get loaded on Jameson, make cell-phone calls I won’t remember and pass out in my friend Ramona’s Brooklyn living room.
Hoboken, April 27
A do-over, a chance to right last night’s wrongs. I’m hung over for, surprisingly, the first time of the tour, which is 10 nights old. I’ve been known to over-medicate to cure my social/show-time anxieties—I was a puffy lush circa ’99—but haven’t this tour. Older, wiser? Perhaps. Anyway, the energy of the city is keeping me from feeling depleted and paranoid. The show takes place without incident. My voice is weak from last night’s poison, but I’m supernaturally happy to sing, comfortable and sober. A return to form, but we only sell 14 T-shirts.
Brooklyn, April 28
Sold-out, attentive audience at Northsix. We’ve definitely hit our stride; the first few gaffe-plagued shows—Chicago, in particular—have given way to ease and confidence. The sound is surprisingly good considering we’re going fully direct. Nothing “natural” but our voices, but what is “natural” anymore? It helps we’re more or less sticking to the “hits.” No new songs for restless ears, just a whole lotta Bakesale. Despite our reputation, we’re all about the celebration.
Jake lived in Brooklyn for a while, so there’s an added homecoming bonus. Actually, the whole tour is like a homecoming. After a negative ’99 and disappointing solo/band tours post-2000, we weren’t expecting anything quite so positive. The only not-OK thing about Brooklyn is the sewage smell in front of the stage, perhaps human in origin.
New York City, April 29
Brooklyn was our 11th consecutive show. Today, we’re off, but I’ve agreed to play an event pertaining to the release of The Saddest Music In The World, Guy Maddin’s new film, and travel separately to Massachusetts. I’m instructed to do a 15-minute set as an introduction to Maddin’s short films and looped showings of Saddest Music’s movie trailer. Trying to fit the theme, as I understand it, I play the most depressing songs possible, mope around the stage, croak a tour-fried vocal and barely acknowledge the audience. Abruptly, I leave the stage, which stays empty and silent for another 20 minutes. It turns out Saddest Music is a comedy; guess I got it all wrong. Typical.
Ramona picks me up. We drive to western Massachusetts, where I’ll sleep in the house I grew up in. Tomorrow is my hometown show.
Northampton, Mass., April 30
This show—with Sonic Youth and J Mascis at Smith College—was conceived and promoted by Louise Barlow, my mother, and Lynn Ford, her co-worker from the Community Resources for People with Autism. My mom has never done anything like this and has been fretting and talking of nothing else for months. She’s more nervous than I’ve ever seen her. I’ve never been to a high-school reunion, so this is as close as I’ll get to one. My connection to this area—Smith, in particular—can’t be overstated. I met my wife Kathleen at the radio station, WOZQ, and Eric Gaffney, Jake and I lived and recorded in our girlfriends’ dorm rooms here. We were freeloading townies, every Smith parent’s nightmare.
My first tour ever was with Dinosaur (pre-Jr) opening for Sonic Youth. Along with J, Sonic Youth was my biggest musical influence back in the day. The guys I played neighborhood Wiffle Ball with circa ’79 are doing security. A friend who introduced me to Captain Beefheart’s music—this is a big deal—came up from New York. People I walked through graveyards eating cookie dough with, spent months in tour vans with, huddled in crash-pad kitchens at countless parties with—they’re all here, backstage, in the crowd or at the doors. My sister Abby is selling T-shirts. My dad is walking around in a semi-official manner, though I can’t determine what his job is exactly.
We play an abbreviated, one-hour set to a full house of 2,000 people. There’s even talk of the fire marshal shutting down the show—drama!—when there’s a mild rush to the stage—not a stampede, just a slow gathering—as we begin playing. My mom comes onstage a few times to ask that the aisles be cleared. It works; crisis averted. I’m as happy as I’ve ever been playing a show this size. It feels good not to humiliate my parents—oh, I’ve got stories—and be grown up with my grown-up friends.
J follows us, playing acoustic guitar with a flautist. This is the first time I’ve seen him play his own songs since I got booted from Dinosaur Jr. I was a very bitter, petty little boy. Though J has come to several Sebadoh shows since, I’ve boycotted him until this day. Though he’s playing acoustic, he still pedal-hops the leads, which doubles the volume and has the moms grabbing their ears, just like olden times. “It was really, really nice, but why does he have to make that noise?” The quiet/loud innovator still ruffles feathers.
As J finishes, I find myself backstage running through a song with screamer Charlie Nakajima and bassist Scott Helland of Deep Wound, the pre-Dinosaur hardcore band J and I were in. Thus the only, and most unlikely, reunion of the night occurs. J isn’t fully aware of the plan—it was hatched during his set—but gamely jumps behind Steve Shelley’s drum kit and hits the floor-tom/snare opening of “Video Prick,” our most playable mid-tempo song. Sample lyric: “If you’re interested in being a video stud/Soon your penis will be covered in blood.” It’s awesome. Most of the audience has no idea what’s happening or why it’s awesome, but our friends are leaping over seats, ear-to-ear smiles. We haven’t played since 1984.
The rest of the night is an ecstatic blur. The Jim O’Rourke-fortified Sonic Youth is the best I’ve seen in 15 years, but I’m too busy mingling. More familiars drift in and out, and mom is happy, happy, happy. Queen of the night.
Philadelphia, May 2
Back at the Khyber for the first time in 10 years. The room is small and sold out, with lots of singalong. An inebriated woman who pawed us pre-show somehow remembers every word to every song, though I initially doubted she even knew who we were. She takes to the floor halfway through the show, nearly pulling a guy on crutches down with her. But then, to the chagrin of the more mannered fans around her, she recovers and is back singing along. Incredible.
We sell T-shirts from the stage for the encore, singing while accepting tens and twenties. This gimmick works well for a few shows but definitely would’ve felt crass had we done it every night. No one seems bothered by the traveling-salesmen routine tonight. Or maybe I’m aglow and unbothered if they are. Sharing lyrics with a full room is the greatest feeling I know.
After the show, the drunk girl is taunting the Khyber’s blond-highlighted doorman: “Fuck you, Duran Duran … Bon Jovi … prick!” He puts a boot to her chest and literally kicks her out, sending her staggering onto the rainy sidewalk. Ugly behavior all around and no way to treat a Sebadoh fan.
Driving south, May 3
I’ve done this many, many times. There’s a lot to reflect on. The car is quiet. Jake and I have entered that zen state of comfortable mutual silence. No music, just windows-down road noise, hair whipping in the warm air. This tour will be over before our moods have a chance to collide, before my passenger-side braking drives him crazy. This feels really good. We should definitely do the West Coast in August.
