“Just watch out for ‘sensitive.’ If someone starts saying they’re ‘sensitive’ to you, it’s bad news!”
Against Me! singer Tom Gabel has learned a lot in the two years since he and his anarchist-punk bandmates made the jump from an indie label to Sire Records.
The list of industry terms he’s compiled on his Blackberry is probably the funniest evidence of this. From “viral campaign” to “cultural significance,” Gabel’s assembled an impressive database of bullshit words and phrases, with “sensitive” occupying the number one position.
“If someone at a record label tells you that they’re ‘sensitive’ to your needs as an artist,” he explains with a laugh, “it means that they’re going to be very, very manipulative, but in a very subtle way.”
Against Me! have also learned another word along their travels: sellout. The myopic punk crowd, ever concerned with rebelling against the mainstream, did a major-league freak-out when Against Me! ostensibly switched teams. What they didn’t consider was the novel idea that Gabel and his band hit upon: If you’re unhappy with what’s going on in the mainstream … change the mainstream.
With the release of their Sire debut, New Wave, in July, that’s exactly what they did. The record is being hailed as one of the most vibrant, colossal and fierce offerings of 2007 – the best album of the year, if you want to listen to Spin.
In the midst of the escalating hype, Team Last Call tracked down Gabel in his hometown of Gainesville, Florida, to talk about the thin line between sellout and revolutionary.
Team Last Call: It seems like everyone on planet Earth is freaking out about your new album. What’s that like for you?
Tom Gabel: Stuff like that, it’s nice, it’s cool, it’s awesome. Anybody who tells you that they aren’t happy to have their work appreciated is lying to you. But that’s not necessarily why you do it. It’s more just something cool to show your mom. “Check it out, mom! You can go to Barnes & Noble and get this magazine!” It’s like coming home with a good report card.
TLC: On New Wave, it seems like you’re moving in a more positive direction – less “this situation is screwed up” and more “here’s something you can do to change it.” What was the catalyst for that?
TG: I think it’s not so much, “Here’s something you can do.” It’s more, “Just do something!” Whatever it is, be motivated and try to be positive about things. There were personal things that happened in my life that were a sea change. But also, it was kind of taking a look at where we were as a band and feeling grateful and very fortunate and thinking, “This is an awesome situation to be in. Why not make the best of it?” I feel like it would have been really in bad taste to put out some self-bemoaning album as a major label debut. “Life is horrible. All these things suck!” I feel like it was a real opportunity to do something that wasn’t self-centered.
TLC: What was the motivation for you to move to a major in the first place?
TG: I never wanted to be a band that was defined by its record label, because I think that’s just ridiculous. So while Fat [Wreck Chords] was an amazing label and we appreciate everything that they’ve done for us, it felt like if we would have stayed it would have been stagnating. It would have gotten less exciting, and we could have just shit out a record every two or three years and kept doing the same thing. I think in taking risks and taking on challenges, that’s where you grow as a person and that’s where you grow as a band. So it was important for us to move on.
TLC: That’s not nearly as scandalous as it’s supposed to be.
TG: [laughs] Sorry! It’s boring. There’s no devious subplot. It’s a boring numbers thing. “This makes sense for these reasons.”
TLC: People have been yelling “sellout” at you guys for years almost every step forward you’ve taken.
TG: Totally. It was funny, when it was time to face this decision – “OK, do we want to sign to Sire?” – never was there a moment when we were like, “Oh, damn, we’re signing to a major label.” We just came to this point where it’s like, “You know what? No one else knows what’s best for us. We know what’s best for us. So let’s just ignore everybody else.”
TLC: So you’re not worried about that sellout perception?
TG: Not at all. Anyone who would really throw an accusation like that is an immature person. Usually, stuff like that is motivated by jealousy or motivated by complete ignorance and a misunderstanding of the situation. I mean, the idea that somebody else who is completely removed from the situation and isn’t in the band, who’s never been in a band, who’s never worked with record labels or anything like that, would know more about it than I do – it’s stupid.
TLC: You seem on your albums like you have this overarching sense of purpose. Where does that come from?
TG: I think a lot of it comes from – as cliché as it sounds – but it comes from punk in general. For me, the most important lesson I learned from punk was to question things, to question everything. A lot of that will then in turn be questioning myself, and that’s something that I constantly do. I question my motivations, I question the way I interact with people – everything – and that comes out a lot in my writing.
TLC: For a lot of people, major labels mean limousines and pimp cups. But I read that you guys still practice in a squat.
TG: It’s a glorified storage unit. [laughs] People have a deep misconception when it comes to major labels. They think you sign to a major label and then suddenly the label just pays for everything. You couldn’t be farther from the truth. As a band, we choose all the bands we tour with, we take care of all of our day-to-day business, we pay our own taxes, we take care of setting up our own tours. All our record label does is put out the record for us and put it into stores – and they set up this interview.
TLC: I keep reading these comparisons between Against Me! and Nirvana, or between New Wave and Nevermind. How do you even react to something like that?
TG: Well, I take it with a grain of salt. Obviously, people are making that comparison because we worked with Butch Vig, who recorded Nevermind. So it’s a really easy thing to say. But in general in the music world, especially right now with every music-related business magazine talking about, “This year, sales are down 50 percent! File sharing is ruining the music industry! What are we going to do? CDs are dead!” – it’s almost like talking about the next Nirvana is the music industry’s version of Christ coming back. “He’s returned!” It’s like a fairytale.
TLC: You guys are in a unique situation where, because of the whole “punk cred” issue, you can’t really go backwards.
TG: You have to keep progressing. You want to keep growing and you want to keep learning. You don’t want to regress – I almost fear that.
For me, playing in basements and VFW halls, we did that for years, and we’ve played some of the most amazing shows of our existence as a band in those situations, and I would hate to have the memory of that ruined by going back and trying to force ourselves into that again. You want to have the fondest memories of those experiences.
Posted by
Jeff
on
2/01/2008 03:00:00 AM
Labels:
Against Me,
interview,
New Wave,
Tom Gabel
Posted by
Jeff
on
2/01/2008 12:30:00 AM
Labels:
blame,
fatness,
weight gain
A few months ago, I was hanging out in one of my favorite downtown pubs when I spotted a distant acquaintance across the bar, one of those friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend kind of deals.
"Hey, man," I said, "how's it going?
He stared at me for a moment, clearly puzzled, before a smile spread across his face.
"Oh, hey!" he yelled across the bar. "I didn't recognize you. Been packing on the pounds, huh?"
This was awkward on several different levels.
First of all, there's the inherent weirdness of having a near-stranger tell you to your face that you are fat.
I mean, in the dude realm, this ordinarily isn't a big deal. Getting called fat or hairy or ugly when you're hanging out with your guy friends is kind of par for the course. You don't get upset about it. In fact, you're usually just grateful it wasn't accompanied by a smack in the hoo-has.
But this guy crossed the dude line. Because "fat" is one thing. But "so fat that your face has devoured itself" is a different animal altogether.
And then there was the "huh." Without the "huh," he would just have been making a statement. A totally unwarranted statement, but a statement nonetheless. But the "huh" turned it into a question – a question that, according to the faces of everyone sitting around me, I was expected to answer.
"Hey, big piggy fat-face, you've gotten so fat that people can barely make out the normal human face inside your new fat fatty pig-face – don't you agree?"
I really didn't know how I was supposed to respond. I've always made it a point to carry around a few "backup pounds," just in case I was ever marooned on an island or something like that. You never know when your airplane might crack in half and dump you and a bunch of strangers on an uncharted mass of land inhabited by polar bears, body-snatchers, deadly clouds and mysterious government hatches.
But still, I've never been overweight enough for someone to actually call me fat. To my face. In front of lots of strangers. How is someone supposed to react in a situation like that? Britney, where were you when I needed you?
The way I figured it, I had two options available to me: 1) Take the childish route and punch him in the face, or 2) Take the childish route and punch him in the neck. Never underestimate chubby-kid angst.
But I didn't do either. I decided that my greatest weapon wasn't my fists, but my rapier wit. I'd give him a good, old-fashioned tongue-lashing, a devastating verbal assault, a kick right in the proverbial hoo-has.
So here's what I came up with:
"Yeah. Heh. I guess I have."
Zing!
I spent most of the following week thinking up other lines I could have used to stun him, including such classics as, "Shut up!" and "You're the one who's fat!"
When I wasn't busy doing that, I was obsessively staring at my own ass in the mirror and trying to decide if I really had gotten so fat that my face had imploded.
I consulted with a panel of experts, by which I mean my mommy, and was thoroughly assured that I hadn't gained a pound since high school. I just had a little extra cuddliness to me. Baby fat, is what she called it.
When I asked my wife what she thought about the issue, she tossed one of our cats at my face and ran out the door, which I chose to interpret as, "I am hot for your body, and I have to leave now before I am overcome with fiery passion."
But still, numbers don't lie. Especially the numbers on the tag of my pants, which reveal to anyone who cares to look that, from the waist down at least, I am officially rounder than I am tall. This is a shocking thing to realize. Like, if you tried to wrap one of my pant legs around my waist, I'd smack you. But then if you tried again, you'd discover that the pant leg doesn't go the whole way around. Something has gone terribly wrong.
I figure that a person can choose to react to being a fatty in one of two ways: by accepting responsibility and taking action, or by refusing responsibility and blaming someone else.
So far, I've got about 10 or 15 names on my list, all of whom in some way are responsible for my weight gain.
Mitt Romney, Tom Cruise, Gene Simmons – I know they all factor in somehow, although I can't prove it. Either way, they creep me out.
In the end, though, my list wasn't helping any, so I decided to take up jogging. Well, not so much "jogging" as "flailing around the elementary school track like a wounded walrus." After a month of jogging every morning, I somehow managed to actually gain about two pounds, which is kind of remarkable. But I stuck with it, and now I'm proud to report that I've lost a grand total of five pounds, which, if you're really bad at math, is practically 10 percent of my body weight. So take that, dude in the bar that I barely know. Now who's fat!
Oh, it's still me? Crap.
"Hey, man," I said, "how's it going?
He stared at me for a moment, clearly puzzled, before a smile spread across his face.
"Oh, hey!" he yelled across the bar. "I didn't recognize you. Been packing on the pounds, huh?"
This was awkward on several different levels.
First of all, there's the inherent weirdness of having a near-stranger tell you to your face that you are fat.
I mean, in the dude realm, this ordinarily isn't a big deal. Getting called fat or hairy or ugly when you're hanging out with your guy friends is kind of par for the course. You don't get upset about it. In fact, you're usually just grateful it wasn't accompanied by a smack in the hoo-has.
But this guy crossed the dude line. Because "fat" is one thing. But "so fat that your face has devoured itself" is a different animal altogether.
And then there was the "huh." Without the "huh," he would just have been making a statement. A totally unwarranted statement, but a statement nonetheless. But the "huh" turned it into a question – a question that, according to the faces of everyone sitting around me, I was expected to answer.
"Hey, big piggy fat-face, you've gotten so fat that people can barely make out the normal human face inside your new fat fatty pig-face – don't you agree?"
I really didn't know how I was supposed to respond. I've always made it a point to carry around a few "backup pounds," just in case I was ever marooned on an island or something like that. You never know when your airplane might crack in half and dump you and a bunch of strangers on an uncharted mass of land inhabited by polar bears, body-snatchers, deadly clouds and mysterious government hatches.
But still, I've never been overweight enough for someone to actually call me fat. To my face. In front of lots of strangers. How is someone supposed to react in a situation like that? Britney, where were you when I needed you?
The way I figured it, I had two options available to me: 1) Take the childish route and punch him in the face, or 2) Take the childish route and punch him in the neck. Never underestimate chubby-kid angst.
But I didn't do either. I decided that my greatest weapon wasn't my fists, but my rapier wit. I'd give him a good, old-fashioned tongue-lashing, a devastating verbal assault, a kick right in the proverbial hoo-has.
So here's what I came up with:
"Yeah. Heh. I guess I have."
Zing!
I spent most of the following week thinking up other lines I could have used to stun him, including such classics as, "Shut up!" and "You're the one who's fat!"
When I wasn't busy doing that, I was obsessively staring at my own ass in the mirror and trying to decide if I really had gotten so fat that my face had imploded.
I consulted with a panel of experts, by which I mean my mommy, and was thoroughly assured that I hadn't gained a pound since high school. I just had a little extra cuddliness to me. Baby fat, is what she called it.
When I asked my wife what she thought about the issue, she tossed one of our cats at my face and ran out the door, which I chose to interpret as, "I am hot for your body, and I have to leave now before I am overcome with fiery passion."
But still, numbers don't lie. Especially the numbers on the tag of my pants, which reveal to anyone who cares to look that, from the waist down at least, I am officially rounder than I am tall. This is a shocking thing to realize. Like, if you tried to wrap one of my pant legs around my waist, I'd smack you. But then if you tried again, you'd discover that the pant leg doesn't go the whole way around. Something has gone terribly wrong.
I figure that a person can choose to react to being a fatty in one of two ways: by accepting responsibility and taking action, or by refusing responsibility and blaming someone else.
So far, I've got about 10 or 15 names on my list, all of whom in some way are responsible for my weight gain.
Mitt Romney, Tom Cruise, Gene Simmons – I know they all factor in somehow, although I can't prove it. Either way, they creep me out.
In the end, though, my list wasn't helping any, so I decided to take up jogging. Well, not so much "jogging" as "flailing around the elementary school track like a wounded walrus." After a month of jogging every morning, I somehow managed to actually gain about two pounds, which is kind of remarkable. But I stuck with it, and now I'm proud to report that I've lost a grand total of five pounds, which, if you're really bad at math, is practically 10 percent of my body weight. So take that, dude in the bar that I barely know. Now who's fat!
Oh, it's still me? Crap.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)