Oh What A Mess... review of Hitless Wonder

About twenty minutes ago I finished Joe Oestreich’s book Hitless Wonder, his memoir about being in the minor leagues of rock and roll as a member of Watershed. Because of a hundred things going on in my life, and capped by this book, I am compelled to write something. Anything. I need to write. So I’ve given my son a chocolate chip cookie and permission to watch some TV.

While a dozen stories rattle around my brain, the first thing I have to write is a review of Joe’s work.

First, I must preface this critique with an admission that I wanted to love the book. Joe and I are both bassists from Ohio. We’re roughly the same age. I like to think we share the same desire to entertain on stage. We’ve both been playing the same stages, drinking in the same bars, and pissing in the same urinals in New York, Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Toledo, Columbus, Charleston West Virginia and South Carolina, Detroit, Chicago, Austin and who knows where else. But somehow, we’ve only talked face-to-face two or three times. Include the times I’ve gone out to see one of Watershed’s shows, we’ve been in the same room about 20 times. I would not say we were ever friends - guys who call each other up to debate the BCS system - but more like people who work the same job at different companies. Or to use the baseball analogy - Watershed was AAA while my two bands, World In A Room and Rambler 454, were not even invited to rookie developmental league. Yet, since the first time my band played a show with Watershed circa 1994, I’ve been a fan. So, not exactly peers either. And how could I not be a fan? Watershed has terrific songwriting, great stage presence, and great personalities. Since that first show together, there was something about them that told me they were going to be great.

I was right about that. But greatness never opened up its treasure chest to them. They recorded several hit records. They received critical praise. They even achieved a certain level of immortality (hey, having your band name tattooed on someone is pretty damn close to immortality). Their longevity surpassed the Beatles, Replacements, Nirvana, and all but probably one percent of one percent of bands that record a song. It’s just that when achieving these levels of greatness, fate switched the first prize cash with the consolation pat on the back.

I knew that much. The book promised to fill in the details, answer the existential questions, and entertain with stories from the road.

Again, I am biased by a personal connection. I wanted to love this book. (And by the way, I caught Watershed on tour last night. They rocked. So did their opener Sky Dragster. I proceeded to get embarrassingly, over-talkative, drunk. I expect that they have all lost my FaceBook link or Joe has cataloged my idiocy for some other writing. That’s what happens.)

I wanted to love this book. I knew it was going to be about a middle aged guy looking back on his years of rock and asking himself the questions: Was it worth it? What do I do now?

I wanted to love this book and see myself in it. To help me answer the same questions I have. I wanted to see the members of Watershed not as the pitiable characters in Anvil (if you have not seen that rock documentary, you must), but as champion survivors of the indie band road.

But I was also afraid I’d have the same reaction when a friend hands me a copy of a song from their band – what if I love the guy, but hate the art? That gets me anxious.

It surpassed my expectations. As Uncle Tupelo once sang, “Oh what a life a mess can be.” This rock and roll mess has left a wonderful life in print.

The timeline of the book follows the band through a tour, 20+ years after they formed in the back of a city bus. As the tour unfolds, Joe does ask the questions I wanted him to ask. He tells great stories. And he is not afraid to be as honest as anyone can be.

What is so special about the book is how he weaves stories from 20+ years of a band, into the log of one tour. He jumps decades, locations, and attitudes deftly, like a major league pitcher mixing up his pitches in the midst of a no hitter. Throughout it all, he continues to make poetry with many of his descriptions. Columbus, New York City, and a peacock farm in Michigan, all come alive in full color, painted with black text. So do the pain of disappointment, and the angst of always wanting more.

Joe also adds in so many lessons for bands. I’d like to see chapters assigned to anyone who ever books their band into a 200-person venue and hopes to “make it big”. I’d also like to make it required reading for band girlfriends.

Now, maybe I’m biased. As Joe describes these characters, I can see them. Because, well, um, I have seen them. I can hear the songs because I have heard the songs. I can smell St. Andrews Hall, cringe at the CBGB’s toilet, feel the power of a hometown crowd or the gut punch of a room full of chairs, understand the fatigue and silliness of a long road trip, because I have experienced all of that. However, I am fully convinced that even if you have never experienced those things, and the camaraderie of a band, Hitless Wonder will put your ass in the passenger seat of the Econoline Van between crap gig and cancelled gig; and you will enjoy every smelly, cramped, second of it.

This is another success for a Watershed guy. If karma ever wants to get things right, this book will be a commercial hit.

By the way, it inspired me to write this on a blog I had abandoned long ago. And write some of the stories in my head. Just like Cheap Trick inspired kids everywhere to rock. That's success, Joe.