There once was a great and mighty rock band. Their songs were edgy and entrancing, both smart-assed and perceptive. They borrowed heavily from their heroes and beloved peers at the time of their apex, and so even if they were not “inventing the musical wheel”, as it were, they were mind-blowingly badass and came to us well before their time. Some bands do, and because of that they vanish into memory with only their enduring, wistful admirers to keep the flame of their songs ever- burning with life while never having known the staggering thrills and the terror-filled valleys of success that some of their peers came to know. If you’re lucky enough to have found one such gem, and lost them to whatever demise they may have met, such bands often set a tone for what you look for in music for the rest of your life. Even if you don’t look for them consciously, we all find ourselves seeking similarity in that which comforted us as children. We do it with food, we do it with lovers, how we dress and how we live. The same can be said when you begin a deep and profound relationship with music; and when I was a late teen growing up in San Jose, I was devoted to a couple of bands that fit that description. But to me, for no other band was the tragedy of bad timing truer, than that of Grey Matter.
Joe Simpson, Sean Galvin, Marty Flanagan and Jeff Ebbage were one of those rare combinations of talent who, when put together, plugged in and amped up, comprise something truly amazing… something magical. Indeed they were a bunch of guys with instruments who were, frankly, renowned for their rumored sexual exploits and in that sense just like everyone else with a name and a gig. Yet, rarely have I since experienced that charge in the air when they took the stage; that feeling like I was present for something remarkable and I had no idea how lucky I was to have been there during their golden reign in the late 1980s. Despite my neophyte status in the local scene the first time I saw them play, by the middle of the opening song, there was no a question in my mind that they were extraordinary. Songs like “Better Off Gone” and “Charm School” were largely too adult for my experience level at the time, but had the right bite and bitterness to help me release some of the bile still lingering from my teens. “Temptation’s Reply” gave me a slight inkling of sexuality I had not even begun to comprehend yet derived a nervous pleasure from, as if committing some delicious sin of which I wasn’t consciously aware. But my favorite song of theirs, and remains still, was “Blue Sky Day.” Like most songs to most people, I’m sure the way I interpreted this lovely, hypnotic tune and it’s dreamy lyrics, was probably nowhere near what I was meant to have perceived. It didn’t matter. I left nearly every one of their shows feeling (which I can express now, having experienced more life since then), as one feels after having spent a stolen hour with a secret and sumptuous lover who knows all the right ways to please you. Loving them was changing my life and it scared the hell out of me… in a good way.
Sadly, I was too young, and too sheltered to have known of Grey Matter (who lost their name to a New York-based group who had retained legal rights to it), until it was near the end for them. At least, it was the end of the foursome that I knew as Grey Matter.
Joe left (in late 88 or 89), and went on to work with a band called Legal Reigns who managed some reasonably respectable success in the 90s. But like all of the most delicious dishes, once you take out a key ingredient, it’s just never the same flavor, never the same delectable treat that made you want to come back again and again for more.
Still, the three that remained were worth savoring and so we kept coming back. They tried hiring on a new guitarist (perhaps two or more, I’m old now and only remember one of them clearly). They brought their own element, their own… if I may continue with my culinary parallel… flavor to the music. They still rocked, they still had spark, they still drew us in, but with someone replacing Joe, it was still something different. As charismatic of a front man as Jeff was (and a more charismatic front man I have scarcely seen in all my life), it couldn’t last. Like it or not, Joe has a certain style and one that lent the songs a visceral growl that balanced Jeff’s folk-poetry lyrical sensibilities. Their music had an almost imperceptible country undertow (at least to me, back then) with some bluesy hues and poetic bitch-slaps that fit well into the vague description of “alternative” back then. Not finding a suitable (or reliable) replacement for their lost member, they became a trio.
But the 90s were hard on their heels, and with the new decade dawned the loathsome need to categorize and fit everything in to tidy, easy-to-read packages for mass marketing to the less-than-discerning masses. Anyone who didn’t fit a convenient musical genre that MTV, fashionistas and the ever-mutating radio industry could shove down your throat, found themselves faced with a choice; sell out or get out.
Somewhere in the tail end of Grey Matter, I had mustered the courage to talk to Jeff and Marty. Knees shaking, stomach lurching, my first conversation with them was such unholy gibberish that I know I would be ashamed and deeply amused to remember exactly what I had said now. I am, however, sure that I must have (my being mean) surreptitiously waylaid Jeff with one of my heat-seeking, yet unassuming criticisms or observations of their set that night.
I was so green and unaccustomed to talking with musicians and artists at that time, that I had no idea of how delicate and raw their egos could be, particularly facing a fan. Most people who create art (and I daresay I believe this is particularly true for musicians and performers) want, sometimes desperately, to please their audience. These men were certainly no exception that rule. In retrospect, part of me wishes I had known better, but mostly, I think some people need to hear the truth and I was more than happy to deal it out. I respected, admired and adored these men and true to myself, I wanted the same from them; that meant being honest.
By the time Grey Matter decided to go for it “Joe”-less, tastes were changing fast. Grunge, Speed Metal and Funk Rock were about to take their place in the world and when that wave hit San Jose there was little room for lothario troubadours like Jeff in the lifeboat. Sean was becoming an exhausted businessman (he was part owner of the premiere “alternative rock” venue in town), Marty needed to focus on working a bit more and getting his shit together, and Jeff was settling down. Age and life was not just catching up with them, but their following as well and the crowds dwindled rapidly. Trickling awareness of bands like Nirvana (whom I first saw with about 40 other people –including the staff- in Sean’s club and had to flee from the building for fear my ears were going to start bleeding), Fugazi and Faith No More were ushering in a new crop of faces and a new tone in the clubs; an angrier, louder, darker tone. In all fairness, the effects weren’t singular to Grey Matter, and we still had acts like Toad The Wet Sprocket, Poi Dog Pondering and Bob Mould to balance things out. But the new batch of college students were the regulars and the aforementioned acts were out-of-towners who had their own following to bring in money at the door. Where once you couldn’t open a Metro without circling at least five or six upcoming Grey Matter shows (San Jose’s equivalent to the Village Voice or LA WEELKY), they had finally faded away. If not for their friends The Frontier Wives, waving their freak-flag as hard and proud as they ever did at the time, my twenties would have sucked the high-holy one (not to be too prosaic about it).
Then, there was a glimmer of hope!
Thankfully, not too long into the 90s, what can only be surmised as an answer to all that rage coming through the clubs and over the air-waves, a hippy, poppy movement hit the scene like a fresh, cool breeze on scorching Summer day. Bands like Jellyfish and Redd Kross were either coming of age or enjoying a new audience and getting a lot of buzz on MTV and radio. It was almost as though the door had swung wide and a cheerful voice called out, “Jeff… your time has come!” Cottonhead answered.
Jeff, Marty and Sean (with Joe adding some guitar tracks) recorded a CD, then brought on guitarist Mike Donio (who had replaced Matt Rook in the Frontier Wives and was doing double duty for both bands). They retooled some Grey Matter favorites, threw in a couple new(er) songs and Cottonhead was born. The details of how they came to be are still a little fuzzy. I talked with Sean virtually every night for months (we had befriended one another at the end of a riot at his nightclub, not too long after Grey Matter disbanded), and must have been while they were in the process of recording, he never said a word. But that was just like Sean. He has a lot to say about a lot of things, and a lot of them might not make any discernable sense. But if doesn’t think you need to know something he can be seemingly as silent as the grave. I like to think he wanted it to be a surprise, that they all did.
With Cottonhead, Jeff meant business. It was do or die and thanks to my burgeoning friendship with Sean, I found myself “working” for the band and grateful to be in a position to help. I was to aid in “promoting” (which was basically stapling fliers on walls and bulletin boards of record stores and coffee houses, delivering posters to venues, maintaining their mailing list and selling CDs at the shows). With my new position came ample opportunities to trounce an increasingly beleaguered Jeff with my razor sharp “honesty.” To say that we didn’t much like each other during the early days of Cottonhead, might well be a crass understatement.
Most of the criticisms I tried tenderly to lob over to Jeff, I would still stand by today. His longing to make it big with Cottonhead was palpable. It was so heavy, sometimes, it gave me chest pains but I couldn’t fault him for his vibe. Everything seemed to be squarely on his shoulders as Marty wasn’t really suited for a leadership role, Sean was busy with work and school (eventually bowing out when he was diagnosed with the Epstein-Barr virus) and Mike had two bands to contend with. With all that responsibility, there also came all the pressure for him to be the one to make it happen for everyone. Nevertheless, owing to my ignorance of the multi-faceted mind-fuck that is dealing with musicians and their fondest desires, I made it clear to Jeff that I felt his grip on the band was too tight. I regularly bitched that he needed to listen to outside observation (meaning mine, naturally) about things someone else might be better suited to worry about and to not have his finger pressing the nerves of every detail of the band.
In retrospect, I understand why he didn’t listen. I wish he had, but I understand why he didn’t. Who was I to be so presumptuous as to believe I knew what was best for him. He’d been trying to make it in that business since long before I got into High School. I certainly had no credentials, no reason for him to listen to me other than the fact that I was a consumer of the product he was selling. Market research works when you want to sell something, even for bands, my friends. (Thank you to shows like American Idol, Total Request Live, Dancing with the Stars, etc. for proving my point!) But even that didn’t really matter. Besides, I was, after all, a female fan who was working for the band. The only people musicians usually consider to be less worthy of trust and attention in such matters, are the drunken whores who dance in front of the stage in slinky dresses, stiletto heels and too much makeup. At least they customarily get laid by the band! Hell, I’ve known members of bands to listen to transients more attentively than any girl offering up an opinion.
Being a female, and not one that is considered hot, or in a band that is pulling more bodies into a venue (or, heaven forbid, is more talented) and therefore worthy of attention ate away at me for at least a decade. Now, I still don’t like it, still hate that it’s the norm, but at the very least I understand and realize there is little I can do to change it. I have to give Jeff credit for being as respectful as he managed to be.
There were countless nights when my co-hort Cindy and I would cringe in horror watching Jeff order Marty to put on a wacky, spotted oxford shirt that Jeff had embellished with fabric paint (and had looked like something Jackson Pollack threw up). It was hideous, clearly trying too hard and made Marty look as though he was painfully unaware that the 80s had ended.
Jeff was trying to market the band to fit in with the Seuss-like fashions that Jellyfish and Redd Kross were not only known for, but were also setting a short-lived fashion trend to boot. It was a smart move on Jeff’s part to try, no doubt. The execution was just a bit off. I knew what he was going for and agreed, but sometimes you have to be able to stand back and look at what you’re splashing together to know when to stop. He just couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
I can’t possibly say I wanted them to succeed every bit as much as Jeff did, but I was close… very close. And it was obvious to what few fans they had, still clinging to hope, that if something didn’t click that was not going to happen.
Out of desperation (and misplaced sense of entitlement) I spoke up, and when I did it was not met with a joyous reception, I don’t mind telling you. If I hadn’t known Jeff better by then, I might have expected him to pop me in the mouth for some of the blows I dealt him. Having had people critique my music and art since those days (some of whom I love and crave their acceptance and respect), I can now say that I wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. When someone criticizes something so deeply personal, something that affects every level of your life, it is like an invisible beating. What might be an innocuous comment to a fan or audience member could become such a thrashing to an artist. They may not scar on the outside, but the pit of fear that their critics may be right, the rage they feel when they believe in all respects that you are wrong, the fierce explosion of protection for that which they hold most dear and have worked so hard to bring to life, are like a whirling dervish on their insides. So ultimately, it didn’t matter if I was right or wrong. I hurt him regularly and I am deeply lucky that he still calls me his friend after all (point of fact, Jeff was the one person I talked to regularly, when I was going through a terrifying cancer scare. If not for him, I don’t know how I would have made it through that time). For all my sucker punches of reality, all my pleadings to tweak just a few small but crucial things here and there, my words fell on deaf ears.
Cottonhead went on for some time. I would get calls from Jeff, telling me that they were going to be on the radio in LA, or that there was some lead that might finally break them into the business. Each time I hoped he was right, not just for the band’s sake but for his. He was losing faith, getting tired and it didn’t seem they’d last much longer.
They did last longer; longer than some imagined they would. Cottonhead recorded another CD, played small venues all over the San Francisco Bay Area and my friend Cindy and I were nearly always at all of them. Sometimes, we were almost their entire audience.
We didn’t go to their shows out of pity, misguided affection for a particular band member or even our clear and ardent loyalty. We went because we loved the music and over time we cared deeply for the men who made it. They had become our friends, and what is better than being friends with people who make music that makes you happy? I’m sure I can think of something better, but I can tell you this ranks right up there with the most decadent luxury you could name… at least in my book.
The first time I saw Grey Matter live, was at a music festival called Summer in Centerfield, which was that day. Still, I couldn’t have known the depth of the impact that summer, my best friend’s music taste (which was why we were there in the first place) and Grey Matter would have on who I am now. But as with any time one falls in love, as I did with this band, the memory of the moment you realize it makes an imprint in your heart and mind that dulls only slightly over the years. To this day, I could probably tell you what every member was wearing, and if I thought about it hard enough, I might even be able to recount the set list. As I write, now, a slide show of snapshots and clips of scenes from that show and the countless others are playing in my head and my heart is filled with love, sentiment and regret for not having known of them earlier. Particularly since I don’t recall having seen more than two shows with Joe in the band, and I’ve missed every reunion show since. I’d never met him and had the chance to tell him, as I had with the others, what the band meant to me. Luckily, we did manage to talk for a while, a year or so ago, when we connected on MySpace (one of the few things I like that shitty site for) via the page for the next generation of a Joe and Jeff collaboration, called Barrelfish –which also includes Joe’s wife. I guess eventually some musicians actually listen to women! ;-)
I know it’s possible I may not have liked Joe if I’d gotten to meet him when Grey Matter was in their prime (according to Sean, during one of our pre-Cottonhead conversations, I wouldn’t have liked any of them back then). Whatever. I think he’s fuckin’ awesome now. And I don’t mean that in the overused, current vernacular of the times.
As with all living things good and bad, Cottonhead finally ceased to be not long after I turned 30. I miss Jeff regularly, haven’t seen Sean in years (but would love to – especially since he has my Edgar Allen Poe book!) and wish I could give Marty a big hug. A Marty hug always went a long way. I miss these guys in a way that I don’t miss much about San Jose or the time I spent there. More importantly, I can’t help but begrudge the feeling that they would make it if they were just coming out now; if life, age, family, responsibilities, regret or fear were not an issue. I think they’d find a following and even if they didn’t reach exalted heights of stardom, they might enjoy the renown, residuals and respect they deserved 20 years ago. I could be wrong, but like usual, I doubt I am.
As for me, its only poetic justice that one of the lines I love best, from my favorite song of theirs (and one of my favorites of all time for two decades and running) begins to tell the tale of where I find myself now:
“Ain’t got a dime ‘cause dreams don’t pay. Spend all my time in Blue Sky Day.”
Thank you Marty, Sean, Jeff and Joe for being one of the strongest winds of positive change in my life. I love you guys!
*If any of the dates or facts of this epic tome don’t match the ones in your head (or reality), please forgive me. I’m old and nostalgic.
