The Get Up Kids at Electric Ballroom
August 19, London: Backpacks, T-Shirts, and “Casey at the Bat.”
Words By Scott Tavener Photo Courtesy of Vagrant Records
Preface
Throughout the suburbs, throughout the mid-1990s, in bedrooms, rec centres and church basements, punk and hardcore morphed into a new genre based on raw, guitar-prominent recordings with oft-romantic/sentimental lyrics. Yelling is a lyrical panacea. Regardless of lyrics’ syrupiness, a good scream makes them palatable. Besides, pained words should be shouted instead of moped over.
The new movement had punk’s DIY element and hardcore’s earnestness. It also had an extra few chords and mostly audible words. Arguably begun by Rites of Spring, it spread throughout much of North America, finding bases in the American Midwest and in other mostly non-urban areas.
Only a handful of these bands would gain mainstream traction but many of their warped, unintended progeny would end up on magazine covers and on stadium stages, name-checking them in the process. While bands like Sunny Day Real Estate, Braid, and The Get Up Kids never achieved the commercial success that their pseudo-heirs did, they did leave a marked influence on a segment of 1990s indie fans.
In the ensuing years, these bands would draw the ire of indie press in a comber of backlash. Said combos may not have broken many musical molds yet their novel mélange of self-aware, introspective lyrics and walls of distorted guitars (tuned down half a step, typically) resonated deeply, forming an indelible impression on many a teenager, even certain supposedly savvy, eventual music journalists. What follows is a case in point.
Brampton: Spring, 1998
Local-band journeyman and record store guru, Gee, queries, “what are you listening to these days?” Hopefully I said something cool (I can’t recall and I doubt it). Whatever my response, it leads him to the G section of the racks where he retrieves The Get Up Kids’ debut LP, Four Minute Mile. He escorts me to the listening post, plugs the disc into the compact disc player (remember those?) and hits “play.” Under a deluge of four-chord guitars, singers Matt Pryor and Jim Suptic yell into the dense sonic space, singing about regrets and longings. By the end of track two (“Don’t Hate Me”) I am counting out my cash at the till.
Toronto: Autumn, 1999
Signed to nascent mall-kid tastemaker, Vagrant, The Get Up Kids release what would be their most successful disc: Something to Write Home About. It’s a cleaner album that lacks some of the visceral appeal of the first and features newly acquired keyboard talents care of former Coalesce drummer, James Dewees. Immediately, it ingratiates itself with scores of backpack-wearing adolescents, including many that would go on to create a verboten, three-letter movement in popular music. At first, I malign the softer direction but, eventually, burn the disc into the ground with repeat playing. To this day, it never leaves my headphones for very long.
With the new disc comes a tour, including a stop at Toronto’s subterranean Kathedral inside Queen and Bathurst’s hallowed Big Bop building. Getting there early, the opening act’s renown reaches me in the pre-doors lineup. Though I’m there for The Get Up Kids, I’m suddenly excited for their support act as well; the band in question is a literary, melodic post-hardcore combo called At the Drive-In (yeah, I’m boasting).
With afros aflutter, a mic cable noose, and frenetic antics, At the Drive-In kill, but that’s another story (I’ll admit that I bought the t-shirt). And then the Get Up Kids come out. Mr. Pryor’s voice has taken a hit from extended touring and his vocals aren’t quite there. Mr. Suptic fills in as best he can. It’s a truncated set that, while musically impressive (the rhythm section of the Pope brothers, Ryan and Robert on drums and bass guitar respectively, excel), is somewhat of a disappointment. Although, singing along more than placates the crowd and I end up with my second t-shirt of the night.
Brampton: Winter, 2000
Driver-controlled windows in a four-door Toyota make designated driving all the more enjoyable. Filled with four intoxicated friends, equipped with a copy of The Get Up Kids’ Woodson EP, and hemmed in by a subzero winter night, the car zooms along suburban streets. As “Woodson” blares from four speakers, I lower four windows, locking them in place and speeding about town. Amidst fervent protests I revel in the intoxicated screams of my friends, barely noticing the sirens go on behind me. “I’m sorry officer,” I say, “I just love this song.” He lets us go with a respectful admonishment. Thanks, The Get Up Kids.
Barcelona: Spring, 2004
The Get Up Kids announce a trio of nights at London’s Barfly. I’m in Spain. I scramble to find an internet café, head to an electronic ticket agency and find all three shows sold out. Frantically, I dial up various independent record stores, pleading for a ticket. None can help. I get absinthe drunk and lament my luck, waking up in a computer lab, confused and surrounded by well-pressed strangers. I stumble to a machine, return to the ticket site and find the ticket icons with Xs through them. Damn it. Oh, and I look at the clock expecting it to be morning; it’s six o’clock, PM.
Granada: Spring, 2004
My hangover has subsided and I arrive in Granada after a harrowing night train that involved ripping my jeans and falling asleep with a tallboy in my DT-riddled hand. Finding a hostel, I shower and muss my hair. To torture myself, I return to the thus-far uncooperative ticket site. “Night One: tickets available.” “Holy shit,” I exclaim in the empty room. I key in my credit card details. I’m maxed out. No. No. No. No. No. Tail between my legs, I make a transatlantic phone call, beg for a quick loan, and put a little cash on my Toronto Blue Jays card (I wanted a gratis t-shirt and ended up with a credit card). The transfer takes some time to process. My traveling companion joins me, wondering why I’m eschewing wandering for a computer. I sweat. It makes typing difficult (this part needs an ellipsis)…the transaction processes. “I must go back to London next month,” I say to my bewildered friend.
“What for?”
“I just got a Get Up Kids ticket.”
“You’re an idiot.”
London: Spring, 2004
Having prepaid for my train to Gatwick I have just enough cash to get from my Bayswater hostel to Camden for the gig and buy a t-shirt. After that, I have a £10 key deposit, a plane ticket home, an empty bank account, and two maxed out credit cards. I’m excited. I get to the gig early, fetch my ticket from will call, and wait. And then I have a fan-boy moment. The Get Up Kids emerge from the venue and head across the street to grab snacks from a gas station. I stalk them.
Trailing at an admittedly creepy distance, I tail them into the petrol-serving convenience store, watching them pick up sundry odds and ends, and then slyly following them across the street like a ninja with an asymmetrical haircut. They go back into the Barfly and I find a bench to sit on, undoubtedly looking exasperated. I consider taking up smoking.
Outside, I meet Mike, a Brit with an American accent. He and I discuss our shared love of the band, running down our favourite tracks and recounting past shows. And then Mike makes an interesting offer. “I’m underage,” he says. “If you pick up beers from the bar all night, I’ll cover the whole tab.” Is there a statute of limitations on buying booze for minors? Just in case, I’m going to cut this paragraph off now. I buy a new t-shirt (that’s three t-shirts in one article).
The small room teems with star tattoos and arm sleeves. And backpacks. The Get Up Kids come out and blaze through a set, upping the tempo of slower cuts and killing old favourites. Mr. Pryor’s voice is crystalline and the band coalesces immediately. Onstage, Mr. Pryor and Mr. Suptic bicker. The band looks uncomfortable. Regardless, the show perseveres, hitting dizzying four-chord highs. I jump about, singing along. “Goodnight. Maybe we’ll see you tomorrow,” concludes Mr. Pryor.
London: Summer, 2005
Across the ocean, The Get Up Kids “say goodnight, mean goodbye,” embarking on a farewell North American tour. I’m in London, folding women’s t-shirts and feeling a melancholy nostalgia. On the night the band play Toronto, supposedly for the last time, I listen to Four Minute Mile walking down Oxford Street. Shortly afterward, The Get Up Kids play their hometown one more time and retire.
Kansas City: Autumn, 2008
After two months of rumours and speculation, The Get Up Kids reunite, purportedly to celebrate the 10th anniversary of Something to Write Home About. Shortly thereafter, the band plots a European tour.
London: Summer, 2009
The Get Up Kids announce a return to Camden, this time at The Electric Ballroom. UKULA lines up an interview that falls through at the last minute. Guestlist accreditation weathers a press reshuffling and I throw on a thin plaid shirt. (I should note that, at this point, like Mikey from Swingers, I’m “all growns up.”) I get to the show early, strolling in solo. The crowd is a mixed-bag of aged hardcore survivors, arm-sleeve sporters, star-tattooed adolescents, fans’ younger siblings, younger fans, Topshop-attired indie kids, and backpack kids (also “all growns up”). Where’s Mike?
I find a spot near the front. The Get Up Kids (aka The Get Up Men) come out, looking refreshed if a little, um, jollier. The band burns through a Something to Write Home About-heavy setlist supplemented by earlier favourites like “Woodson” (take that, Officer) and “Don’t Hate Me.” The sound is tight, I think, though my unobjective pinball-ing and lyric shouting make it difficult to discern. Like a rolling snowball of sweat, I pick up perspiration from the frenetic crowd, everyone bouncing together and yelling, arms raised and change lost. I don’t take any notes.
Cuts from the still-contentious records, the penultimate On a Wire and the swansong Guilt Show, get a rousing reception and a new song (“Keith Case”) receives happy applause. (The latter falls somewhere between the visceral early work and the somber, serious and increasingly ornate latter-day fare.) A pair of covers (“Beer for Breakfast” and “Close to Me”) and a massive “Ten Minutes” finale round out the show. I consider ringing out my shirt. Mike never appears.
Epilogue
In a particularly compelling episode of Northern Exposure, Chris Stevens argues that “Casey at the Bat” is not an intellectual study. Instead, he contends, it’s concerned with a feeling, even vicariously.
The Get Up Kids play Toronto in October. I won’t bring a pen. I might buy a t-shirt.