For the members of Chicago’s Head of Femur, they have spent their young existence as a band playing the role of bride’s maids rather than as brides. For the time being, however, it’s not such a bad thing. Since playing their first show in 2001, they have opened up for some of the biggest names in indie, putting this young band in front of sellout crowds in Chicago’s most respectable venues. While consistently not being the main draw may frustrate some musicians, they seem to have no problem opening up for some of the biggest acts in college rock today, like Bright Eyes, Wilco, and Deerhoof (to name a few). Such exposure has revered Head of Femur as a premiere Chicago staple, but don’t think for a second that they are letting it get to their heads. “Getting to play for bands we love and respect is such an honor,” guitarist Matt Elsener says, “We are just glad to be a part of it all.” However, it is important to mention that Head of Femur sort of started by accident, spawning from the boredom that ensued while waiting for their friends’ tours to end.
“We were getting set to reform (Pablos Triangle) and the two guys who were already established musicians (in Chicago) were on tour with there bands,” lead vocalist and guitarist Matt Focht says, “so while we were waiting for them to get back from tour we started writing songs in the interim. We started playing shows and it’s been going from there.”
With a positive outlook on their current endeavors comes a surprisingly easy operation for a band that can tour with up to eight members. Borrowing musicians from other projects (like members of Bobby Conn and the Flying Luttenbachers) while on breaks from their respective tours has been the protocol for creating a traveling show of their own. As a testament to their textured and innovate style, there is no shortage of established instrumentalists jumping at the chance to play with them. It also doesn’t hurt when their second record, Hysterical Stars, is aptly described as “brimming with good humour and invention (NME)” and “Ultimately brilliant” (Venus).
“We’ve never had a tour not happen due to people’s inability to make it. I guess we’re lucky.” Somehow, we think it boils down to a little more than luck. They seem quite content sitting in the pews for now, but with a stellar sophomore effort Head of Femur will be throwing a bouquet of their own in no time.
Top 5 80’s theme songs
1. Taxi
2. M*A*S*H
3. Gimme a Break
4. Family Ties
5. A-Team
Thursday, July 31, 2008
The Hold Steady (Interview)
To be honest, I was quite nervous to sit down with Craig Finn, the frontman of New York by-way-of Minnesota’s The Hold Steady. Not only had I never heard a single song he has written, but I didn’t know a thing about him or his band. Then a bomb dropped; critics were drooling over these guys (in fact, they have the 21st most critically acclaimed album of the year according to www.metacritic.com) so I naturally assumed that they were as egomaniacal as another band I interviewed that day whose name I will omit for legal reasons. As I frantically ran up to journalists and fans alike, scrambling for any information they would give me, I realized my impending doom: This guy was going to see right through me, give me bullshit answers for about seven minutes, and leave me scrambling for material to use.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, I was introduced to a sincere, soft spoken man, who seemed unfazed by unrelenting hype, like being the first band to grace the cover of New York’s Village Voice in 15 years (May, 2005). The Machine sat down with Finn to discuss the underrated Minneapolis music scene, avoiding the proverbial sophomore slump, and his beef with the Mall of America.
Machine: How does a band with such a unique sound thrive in a place like Minneapolis?
Finn: Minneapolis is very interesting because 20 years ago The Replacements and Husker Du really made a lot of noise and a lot of people got a sense of civic pride of having these local live bands getting covered and getting critically acclaimed on the coasts. I think its become a very vibrant music scene and even-dare I say-square people go out and see local music and its almost like a sport team the way people follow the bands. It’s a music scene unlike any other I’ve seen before. Hip hop bands play with hardcore bands that open for singer/songwriters.
The Machine: So when did you move to New York?
Finn: I moved to New York in 2000 which has definitely been good for my career, but going back to Minneapolis it is certainly a great place to build a following. We still have our biggest shows there.
Machine: You just came out with your sophomore effort. How do you follow up a debut record (Almost Killed Me) that was so loved by fans and critically acclaimed?
Finn: Our first album was a little off the cuff. It was recorded in two 3-day sessions. It started out as demos and finished out into a record. We had 12 songs, cut out two, arranged the remaining songs, and called it a record. With Separation Sunday as the band jelled and played more shows, we were excited to make a more deliberate record. We spent a month on it.
The Machine: It must be easier to put a record all together at once.
Finn: Yeah, I got to spend more time on the lyrics, too. The first record I was kind of getting on the mic and talking shit. The second one I really thought about what I wanted to say. We really wanted to make an album rather than a collection of 10 songs.
The Machine: What’s your take on the industry, with iPods and everything, making the album almost a thing of the past?
Finn: I think people consume music quicker now. Because of the internet, it’s more disposable. I think artists might have to think about coming out with a record now in sort of the New World Order. Bands like The Beatles and The (Rolling) Stones were putting out albums once a year; sometimes quicker. Musicians may need to go back to that in order to keep up and stay on top.
Top 5 most annoying things with the Mall of America.
There used to be this cereal bar and the cool thing is you could get your picture taken and put on a Wheaties box. Les Savy Fav did one and a couple other bands I know. And they closed it down. So that was annoying; that The Hold Steady never got to get a Wheaties box.
There’s a radio ad for this restaurant, and they never said it is in the Mall of America, they just say its on the upper east side, not the upper east side of the Mall of America.
Glamour Shots. My wife had never seen it before and said “What is this place? They dress you up like a hooker and take your picture?”
The roller coast in Camp Snoopy is pretty weak. A kid died in Camp Snoopy in a gang fight. Thugged out Minnesotian gangsters hanging out at the Mall of America.
The smell of Cinnabon and those Carmel Corn places. I can smell it on me a day after I leave the mall.
I couldn’t have been more wrong. Instead, I was introduced to a sincere, soft spoken man, who seemed unfazed by unrelenting hype, like being the first band to grace the cover of New York’s Village Voice in 15 years (May, 2005). The Machine sat down with Finn to discuss the underrated Minneapolis music scene, avoiding the proverbial sophomore slump, and his beef with the Mall of America.
Machine: How does a band with such a unique sound thrive in a place like Minneapolis?
Finn: Minneapolis is very interesting because 20 years ago The Replacements and Husker Du really made a lot of noise and a lot of people got a sense of civic pride of having these local live bands getting covered and getting critically acclaimed on the coasts. I think its become a very vibrant music scene and even-dare I say-square people go out and see local music and its almost like a sport team the way people follow the bands. It’s a music scene unlike any other I’ve seen before. Hip hop bands play with hardcore bands that open for singer/songwriters.
The Machine: So when did you move to New York?
Finn: I moved to New York in 2000 which has definitely been good for my career, but going back to Minneapolis it is certainly a great place to build a following. We still have our biggest shows there.
Machine: You just came out with your sophomore effort. How do you follow up a debut record (Almost Killed Me) that was so loved by fans and critically acclaimed?
Finn: Our first album was a little off the cuff. It was recorded in two 3-day sessions. It started out as demos and finished out into a record. We had 12 songs, cut out two, arranged the remaining songs, and called it a record. With Separation Sunday as the band jelled and played more shows, we were excited to make a more deliberate record. We spent a month on it.
The Machine: It must be easier to put a record all together at once.
Finn: Yeah, I got to spend more time on the lyrics, too. The first record I was kind of getting on the mic and talking shit. The second one I really thought about what I wanted to say. We really wanted to make an album rather than a collection of 10 songs.
The Machine: What’s your take on the industry, with iPods and everything, making the album almost a thing of the past?
Finn: I think people consume music quicker now. Because of the internet, it’s more disposable. I think artists might have to think about coming out with a record now in sort of the New World Order. Bands like The Beatles and The (Rolling) Stones were putting out albums once a year; sometimes quicker. Musicians may need to go back to that in order to keep up and stay on top.
Top 5 most annoying things with the Mall of America.
There used to be this cereal bar and the cool thing is you could get your picture taken and put on a Wheaties box. Les Savy Fav did one and a couple other bands I know. And they closed it down. So that was annoying; that The Hold Steady never got to get a Wheaties box.
There’s a radio ad for this restaurant, and they never said it is in the Mall of America, they just say its on the upper east side, not the upper east side of the Mall of America.
Glamour Shots. My wife had never seen it before and said “What is this place? They dress you up like a hooker and take your picture?”
The roller coast in Camp Snoopy is pretty weak. A kid died in Camp Snoopy in a gang fight. Thugged out Minnesotian gangsters hanging out at the Mall of America.
The smell of Cinnabon and those Carmel Corn places. I can smell it on me a day after I leave the mall.
The National Guard, a non-fiction short story
Before I was able to point out Fallujah on a map, we would play a game in the cafeteria line to kill time using plastic forks. The object of the game was to attach as many forks to the person directly in front of you before they realized it. Similar to the childhood board game called Operation, it took a steady hand with an enormous amount of poise. Underclassmen would walk down the lunch room isle way completely oblivious to the dozens of students staring and pointing as well as the half dozen plastic appendages hanging from them. It was the type of game that got exponentially better every time you played it.
The key target points included the edge of the uniformed red, white, or black collar, belt loops, and the rim of the khaki pocket. Amateurs would go for the backpack, which was clearly frowned upon because it was not sensitive to touch and, therefore, dismissible.
I can’t quite recall what was being served that day, but I’m sure it wasn’t a hamburger because it was early in the week and hamburgers were only served on Thursday. As I walked to my regular table, I noticed a young man sitting alone with an array of brochures laid out in front of him. His fantastic posture, sharp haircut, and dry-cleaned uniform impressed me, but his expression was one of a person contemplating suicide. I could tell that he was well aware of how pointless his job he had been assigned to was. Recruiting is a crucial part of the armed services, but not to a small Catholic school where 90% of the student body went on to a two year community college at a minimum, and the rest had made up their mind long before cafeteria visits on whether or not they were to join the armed forces.
Maybe I went and talked to him because I saw the utter boredom and despair in his eyes, or maybe it was because I did not want to partake in the current conversation at my regular table, which was how much each of us was bench pressing that particular week. Either way, I walked up to him and let out a blatant lie.
“I’m thinking about joining the National Guard.”
It was as if he was the Tin Man and I had moved him to the front of the donor’s list. His eyes were bright and he was ready and willing to give the pitch his commanding officer had made him repeat so many times over. He told me all about how I would get thousands of dollars for college in only one weekend a month and two weeks a year. He told me how my girlfriend would love my new body after I graduated from basic training. He told me how my parents would appreciate the character building I would receive. And being a lost 17 year old at the time, with no money for college, love handles, and more than a few disciplinary problems with my parents, I convinced myself that it might not be a bad thing to consider.
Then he dropped a bomb on me (figuratively, of course). He told me that I was being recruited to be a helicopter pilot. I immediately pictured myself with the jumpsuit and Aviator sunglasses, picking up injured soldiers who had thought that their country had forgotten about them and were just about to give up hope before I showed up. I thought of little native children in Africa seeing a flying craft for the first time and chasing after it with hopes of getting ride. It was such a glamorous thought! I would be a super hero.
When I came home and told my parents that I was considering it, their words and demeanor told two different stories. My mother was clearly bothered by it, but her comments and questions remained logical.
“We support your decision whichever way you choose, Dan. But we have a few concerns. What if they make you leave college if there is a natural disaster? What if war breaks out?”
“War? Come on, mom. We are in a time of peace, and I don’t see that changing in the next five years.”
My friend, Amanda, had a brother in the National Guard, so she told me to come by her house and speak to him. “I was never a bad kid in high school, but I goofed off a lot. It taught me discipline,” he assured me as he was weighing marijuana on a scale. “Does this bother you?” I shook my head. Then, he walked up to his closet and pulled out a dry cleaner bag. As he unzipped the plastic, I caught a glimpse of his graduation uniform. Full of shiny medals and patches with gold buttons down the front, I couldn’t help but picture myself wearing it with my chest puffed out saluting a flag. I was almost sold.
The next day during lunch, I walked up to the representative for a follow-up question.
“So what happens if war breaks out?”
He responded confidently, “It is the National Guard, Dan. We GUARD the NATION. We are the last line of defense.”
That answer was sufficient enough for me. If war breaks, let the marines handle it while I clean a tank in rural Iowa, collecting a fat check. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have gone through with it if my parents hadn’t dropped so many blatant hints. So, I decided not to join the National Guard.
Allow me to fast forward to September of my senior year, while sitting in Mr. Laake’s second period economics class. My friend, TJ, had first period P.E. and told us that he heard a plane had crashed into a building in New York. Of course we didn’t believe him, but our teacher said if we had time at the end of class we would turn on the TV and see if it was true.
As the minutes ticked down to the bell, Mr. Laake wrapped up his speech on supply and demand early enough for us to turn on The Today Show. It was just after the second tower got hit. The guys in the class, including myself, laughed in awe. We “oohed” and “aaahhed” because it was not real to us. No one attacks the United States. It was a hoax. It was a movie.
The impending days, weeks, and even months were nothing less than eerie. Patriotism was strong, but suspicion and fear was stronger. Even after the flags went back into storage closets and the phrase “United We Stand” had its letters rearranged on marquees to advertise restaurant specials, Americans still have a wistful look in their eye when someone mentions September 11th.
When the war in Iraq broke out two Marches later, I got wind that the first soldier from my area was killed in Iraq. He was in the National Guard. I began to think about how maybe he just wanted to get some money for college or get built for his girlfriend or get disciplined for his parents. I’m sure he got the pitch and saw the glamour of it just like I did. I’m sure he was lied to just like I was; because when war breaks, there is no last line of defense.
The key target points included the edge of the uniformed red, white, or black collar, belt loops, and the rim of the khaki pocket. Amateurs would go for the backpack, which was clearly frowned upon because it was not sensitive to touch and, therefore, dismissible.
I can’t quite recall what was being served that day, but I’m sure it wasn’t a hamburger because it was early in the week and hamburgers were only served on Thursday. As I walked to my regular table, I noticed a young man sitting alone with an array of brochures laid out in front of him. His fantastic posture, sharp haircut, and dry-cleaned uniform impressed me, but his expression was one of a person contemplating suicide. I could tell that he was well aware of how pointless his job he had been assigned to was. Recruiting is a crucial part of the armed services, but not to a small Catholic school where 90% of the student body went on to a two year community college at a minimum, and the rest had made up their mind long before cafeteria visits on whether or not they were to join the armed forces.
Maybe I went and talked to him because I saw the utter boredom and despair in his eyes, or maybe it was because I did not want to partake in the current conversation at my regular table, which was how much each of us was bench pressing that particular week. Either way, I walked up to him and let out a blatant lie.
“I’m thinking about joining the National Guard.”
It was as if he was the Tin Man and I had moved him to the front of the donor’s list. His eyes were bright and he was ready and willing to give the pitch his commanding officer had made him repeat so many times over. He told me all about how I would get thousands of dollars for college in only one weekend a month and two weeks a year. He told me how my girlfriend would love my new body after I graduated from basic training. He told me how my parents would appreciate the character building I would receive. And being a lost 17 year old at the time, with no money for college, love handles, and more than a few disciplinary problems with my parents, I convinced myself that it might not be a bad thing to consider.
Then he dropped a bomb on me (figuratively, of course). He told me that I was being recruited to be a helicopter pilot. I immediately pictured myself with the jumpsuit and Aviator sunglasses, picking up injured soldiers who had thought that their country had forgotten about them and were just about to give up hope before I showed up. I thought of little native children in Africa seeing a flying craft for the first time and chasing after it with hopes of getting ride. It was such a glamorous thought! I would be a super hero.
When I came home and told my parents that I was considering it, their words and demeanor told two different stories. My mother was clearly bothered by it, but her comments and questions remained logical.
“We support your decision whichever way you choose, Dan. But we have a few concerns. What if they make you leave college if there is a natural disaster? What if war breaks out?”
“War? Come on, mom. We are in a time of peace, and I don’t see that changing in the next five years.”
My friend, Amanda, had a brother in the National Guard, so she told me to come by her house and speak to him. “I was never a bad kid in high school, but I goofed off a lot. It taught me discipline,” he assured me as he was weighing marijuana on a scale. “Does this bother you?” I shook my head. Then, he walked up to his closet and pulled out a dry cleaner bag. As he unzipped the plastic, I caught a glimpse of his graduation uniform. Full of shiny medals and patches with gold buttons down the front, I couldn’t help but picture myself wearing it with my chest puffed out saluting a flag. I was almost sold.
The next day during lunch, I walked up to the representative for a follow-up question.
“So what happens if war breaks out?”
He responded confidently, “It is the National Guard, Dan. We GUARD the NATION. We are the last line of defense.”
That answer was sufficient enough for me. If war breaks, let the marines handle it while I clean a tank in rural Iowa, collecting a fat check. There is no doubt in my mind that I would have gone through with it if my parents hadn’t dropped so many blatant hints. So, I decided not to join the National Guard.
Allow me to fast forward to September of my senior year, while sitting in Mr. Laake’s second period economics class. My friend, TJ, had first period P.E. and told us that he heard a plane had crashed into a building in New York. Of course we didn’t believe him, but our teacher said if we had time at the end of class we would turn on the TV and see if it was true.
As the minutes ticked down to the bell, Mr. Laake wrapped up his speech on supply and demand early enough for us to turn on The Today Show. It was just after the second tower got hit. The guys in the class, including myself, laughed in awe. We “oohed” and “aaahhed” because it was not real to us. No one attacks the United States. It was a hoax. It was a movie.
The impending days, weeks, and even months were nothing less than eerie. Patriotism was strong, but suspicion and fear was stronger. Even after the flags went back into storage closets and the phrase “United We Stand” had its letters rearranged on marquees to advertise restaurant specials, Americans still have a wistful look in their eye when someone mentions September 11th.
When the war in Iraq broke out two Marches later, I got wind that the first soldier from my area was killed in Iraq. He was in the National Guard. I began to think about how maybe he just wanted to get some money for college or get built for his girlfriend or get disciplined for his parents. I’m sure he got the pitch and saw the glamour of it just like I did. I’m sure he was lied to just like I was; because when war breaks, there is no last line of defense.
Some Need Drugs To Make Believe
For many Chicagoans (and others who called themselves as such for a few days), November eighth through the thirteenth was something special. For six days in a row, Flower Booking gave eager fans charging to the Metro over 20 amazing bands that had little in common other than a chance to share their art with an enthusiastic and captive audience.
The bands ranged from popular radio favorites (Jimmy Eat World) to hometown heroes (Local H). There were several bands on their way up (Cougars, These Arms are Snakes) and others dusting off their instruments for all their loyal fans (Sweep the Leg Johnny). However, no two bands created wider smiles than The Promise Ring and Smoking Popes who decided to give one more go at it for all of those that thought reunion shows were more of a false hope than a realistic expectation. For six days, every band was humbled and vocally honored to be a part of Flower 15, Flower Booking’s fifteen year anniversary celebration.
Well—everyone except Make Believe.
Okay, okay. It would be wrong of me to group the entire band as party spoilers, so I will be more specific: ¼ of Make Believe, or Tim Kinsellas.
I was lucky enough to catch Mr. Kinsellas towards the latter half of his band’s set. His third to last song had received little applause along with the not-so-rare unoriginal sophomoric heckler who was under the wrong impression that his fellow audience members even find him the least bit entertaining.
Then, the fun started.
“We have 15 minutes to play two songs which will only take six minutes, so I have nine minutes to talk.” Tim sounded a little incoherent with an inconsistent sense of balance to boot, but none of the 1200 in attendance was ready for the ensuing minutes.
“Does anyone know what Jesus is?”
The hecklers divided like cells, mixing boo’s with taunts.
“Jesus isn’t a noun. Jesus is an idea… I feel like I am facing a mob.”
In the midst of his continuous rant on trying to get the crowd to yell for Jesus or Barabbas while making very little sense in between, it was clear that he was losing a grip on things. Although I’m forced to speculate, Tim Kinsellas embodied that of a poster child for why one should not take mind-altering drugs.
The other members of Make Believe started playing their next song, trying to salvage the show and their band’s reputation. However, their faithful front man kept yelling at them to stop so he could continue his rant. At that point I thought someone would step in, whether it is a friend of the band’s or someone from Flower Booking or even the Metro staff. Then, a man walked on stage. Finally, I thought to myself, we can move on from this.
Instead, it was someone with a digital camera in hand, abusing his all access pass and capturing the disaster as it happened. Kinsellas turned around and got close to him, but the mysterious photographer didn’t move like a young boy poking an animal in a cage.
The final song couldn’t have lasted any longer. In 3 minutes, Kinsellas was able to flick off his own drummer who wouldn’t stop playing, throw a sign at the crowd, and display various other hand gestures reserved for 15 year old boys and Andrew Dice Clay.
When the circus concluded, the crowd cheered louder than I think Make Believe has ever received, despite the fact that it was ill-intended. Finally, when The Promise Ring entered, the crowd was focused on the headliners. Heads bounced and swayed like they had been waiting to do since the band parted ways.
At that time, I began to feel sorry for Mr. Kinsellas. I began to think that maybe in real life he was a decent guy who went overboard with his chemical cocktail.
He then came out for a curtain call.
Midway through The Promise Ring’s set, he appeared on stage and hesitantly walked up to a vacant microphone looking for even more attention. The Promise Ring stayed extremely classy, laughing it off and refusing to react to a man with a broken ego. Still, that is when I lost all sympathy for him. It became crystal clear that he had no shame; no ounce of decency or respect for all those who came to pay homage for a great band.
So, Mr. Kinsellas, thanks for attempting to ruin an otherwise magical week in the name of your narcissistic tendencies.
The bands ranged from popular radio favorites (Jimmy Eat World) to hometown heroes (Local H). There were several bands on their way up (Cougars, These Arms are Snakes) and others dusting off their instruments for all their loyal fans (Sweep the Leg Johnny). However, no two bands created wider smiles than The Promise Ring and Smoking Popes who decided to give one more go at it for all of those that thought reunion shows were more of a false hope than a realistic expectation. For six days, every band was humbled and vocally honored to be a part of Flower 15, Flower Booking’s fifteen year anniversary celebration.
Well—everyone except Make Believe.
Okay, okay. It would be wrong of me to group the entire band as party spoilers, so I will be more specific: ¼ of Make Believe, or Tim Kinsellas.
I was lucky enough to catch Mr. Kinsellas towards the latter half of his band’s set. His third to last song had received little applause along with the not-so-rare unoriginal sophomoric heckler who was under the wrong impression that his fellow audience members even find him the least bit entertaining.
Then, the fun started.
“We have 15 minutes to play two songs which will only take six minutes, so I have nine minutes to talk.” Tim sounded a little incoherent with an inconsistent sense of balance to boot, but none of the 1200 in attendance was ready for the ensuing minutes.
“Does anyone know what Jesus is?”
The hecklers divided like cells, mixing boo’s with taunts.
“Jesus isn’t a noun. Jesus is an idea… I feel like I am facing a mob.”
In the midst of his continuous rant on trying to get the crowd to yell for Jesus or Barabbas while making very little sense in between, it was clear that he was losing a grip on things. Although I’m forced to speculate, Tim Kinsellas embodied that of a poster child for why one should not take mind-altering drugs.
The other members of Make Believe started playing their next song, trying to salvage the show and their band’s reputation. However, their faithful front man kept yelling at them to stop so he could continue his rant. At that point I thought someone would step in, whether it is a friend of the band’s or someone from Flower Booking or even the Metro staff. Then, a man walked on stage. Finally, I thought to myself, we can move on from this.
Instead, it was someone with a digital camera in hand, abusing his all access pass and capturing the disaster as it happened. Kinsellas turned around and got close to him, but the mysterious photographer didn’t move like a young boy poking an animal in a cage.
The final song couldn’t have lasted any longer. In 3 minutes, Kinsellas was able to flick off his own drummer who wouldn’t stop playing, throw a sign at the crowd, and display various other hand gestures reserved for 15 year old boys and Andrew Dice Clay.
When the circus concluded, the crowd cheered louder than I think Make Believe has ever received, despite the fact that it was ill-intended. Finally, when The Promise Ring entered, the crowd was focused on the headliners. Heads bounced and swayed like they had been waiting to do since the band parted ways.
At that time, I began to feel sorry for Mr. Kinsellas. I began to think that maybe in real life he was a decent guy who went overboard with his chemical cocktail.
He then came out for a curtain call.
Midway through The Promise Ring’s set, he appeared on stage and hesitantly walked up to a vacant microphone looking for even more attention. The Promise Ring stayed extremely classy, laughing it off and refusing to react to a man with a broken ego. Still, that is when I lost all sympathy for him. It became crystal clear that he had no shame; no ounce of decency or respect for all those who came to pay homage for a great band.
So, Mr. Kinsellas, thanks for attempting to ruin an otherwise magical week in the name of your narcissistic tendencies.
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