From: RIP
Date: December 1995
pg. 34
Texas Tall Tunes 'N' Tunes
by jennifer clay

TOADIES  Rubbernecking across the States

     Although it's a humid 90-something-degree Sunday in New York, 50th and
Madison is swarming with hot, sticky New Yorkers.  Bare-chested men and
T-shirt-clad women crawl through a narrow space between wooden boards and a
skyscraper onto the second-story scaffolding, then proceed to jump up and
down, dance and sing, and hang over the razor-sharp barbed wire to get a
better view of the antics below.
     Back on concrete, hundreds press and push against the raised stage as
the Toadies begin the first few notes of their hit single, "Possum Kingdom."
 Sweaty bodies of both sexes force their way past the "security" and dance
onstage, giving the New York sign of hello - the middle finger straight up.
 During "Happyface," guitarist Darrel Herbert gives a light boot-in-the-butt
to a particularly happy stage-diver.  Meanwhile, a shirtless man manages to
shimmy up a light pole to the top, where he is either humping the metal or
bucking it like a bronco in honor on the Texans onstage below.
     Although "Mister Love" closes the set, love is still flowing from
throngs of adoring fans, who ask the Toadies to sign everything - from dollar
bills to scraps of trash to a loaf of bread from the deli platter to an Anne
Rice book...to parts of their bodies.  One girl, who all later agree is about
14, begs frontman Todd Lewis for a kiss.  She is the same teenager who bared
her soul and desires to the singing Lewis by lifting her shirt and repeatedly
screaming: "Fuck me!"

     From the previous day's performance, it's hard to imagine that it's
taken more than a year for people to catch on to the Toadies' infectious
grooves.  Talk about your slow and steady rise to success - and building
relationships...
     They've got indie credibility - their first two EPs, 1992's Velvet and
1993's Pleather, were released on Grass Records - and street credibility from
touring in a beat-up van full of equipment and band members through Minnesota
in the winter and Texas in the summer.  They've built a steady following by
crisscrossing the country with cool bands (All) and, well, not so cool
foreign bands (Bush).  In other words, the Toadies have paid their dues - a
sure signed is that the van croaked - and now that their third "official"
single, "Possum Kingdom," from their 1994 release Rubberneck (Interscope),
has hopped up the charts, folks are, well, rubbernecking for a better view of
the Fort Worth four.
     Holed up in a funky old New York hotel room - where the eyes of George
and Martha Washington seem to follow every movement from their gilt wood
frames hung on the wallpapered walls, and a steady, warm, humid breeze blows
through an open window off the fire escape, bringing with it the honks and
screeches of the city below - the Toadies are watching a daytime talk show in
between interviews.  Yet another one, as the number has gone up "from zero,
to more than zero," cracks wisecrackin' bassist Lisa Umbarger.
     She's energetic and talkative, having gotten up early to cruise around
the city and check out comic book and record stores.  Although low-key,
drummer Mark Reznicek and Herbert are well rested from an early night after
the afternoon gig.  Singer/guitarist Lewis is in fine spirits but paying the
price of a night of clubs, beers, pool halls and walking nearly 40 blocks at
3 a.m. (I understand his pain all too well!)
     "People are slow to warm to a good thing," quips Herbert when asked
about their rise to fame.
     "I guess it's because we pounded it down a lot of people's throats on
the radio," says Lewis.
     "We've been touring constantly, so finally it's kinda payin' off,"
Umbarger adds.
     Several key cities - Florida and Boston, along with their home territory
of Dallas/Fort Worth - have been all over the Toadies from the beginning.
 "There's a couple of people who totally got behind the album and made it
like a crusade to make something happen," explains Umbarger.  "And Florida is
one of the places where...I don't know... It's really weird, we got to
Florida and we're like rock stars; anywhere else we're the 'support act.'"
     "The 'other band.'  I'm gonna get a laminate made that says 'The Other
Band' for this tour," says Lewis.
     "Yeah, that's what we got this whole tour, 'The Other Band.'  We don't
have big egos or nothin'," Umbarger stresses, "it just would be nice if
Bush's management would learn how to spell our name and stuff!"
     Laughter erupts.  "It's the second tour we've done with them, and it's
always T-O-A-T-I-E-S!"  Lewis justly compains.  "But... it's been a good tour
with Tush...."
     Unlike what their name implies ("obsequious flatterer"), the Toadies
tell it like it is - and sometimes like it isn't - recounting stories that
aren't always based on reality, or are sometimes based on reality but then
take on a life of their own.  Believe what you want to believe!
     Chief storytellers are lead thin-man Lewis, who creates, writes and
verbalizes with rage and intensity all the song-stories, and headbangin'
Umbarger, who spins some wild tales to a gullible audience - those poor
Russian girls in San Francisco are probably still thinkin' all Texans travel
by horse and carry guns.
     Real fable fodder is easy to come by with Bush as their traveling
companions.  At the time of this interview, the Texans still had a long month
left with the English blokes.  They were open about the relationship, which
was soon to sour even more.  "I'm tired of hearing and saying 'bloody' all
the time!  Now we talk about how Bill Clinton is our Queen," says the
bassist, laughing.  "It was so weird getting on the Bush tour, because we'd
just finished getting off of a tour by ourselves and I thought it was fairly
successful.  We did a lot of radio shows.  But the shows we did on our
own...I was shocked at how many people came out.  Just for us, on our own,
without any sort of..."
     Special guests?
     "Yeah.  Without Bush or someone like that - someone to fall back on that
you know will draw," Umbarger says.  "And [then] we get on this one and it's
like the neo-Nazi tour."
     The band is trying to laugh at life - and Bush - even when they get time
docked off their 35-minute set for having "too many guest passes" or if they
"make anyone mad."
     "They'll trim minutes off our set.  I'm serious.  We're punished with
time," Umbarger says, amazed.
     "Yeah, that time when we keyed their bus, they took off ten minutes,"
Lewis says.
     "We get time-outs," Umbarger says, laughing.  "Sometimes we won't get
snacks.  And that's not a lie either!"
     "He [Bush's manager] spanks us sometimes," Reznicek joins in, "if we're
good.  If we have an exceptionally good show, he'll give us spankings.  We
line up for that."
     Problems notwithstanding, the tour has gone well for the T-O-A-T-I-E-S.
 Their music is being heard by an ever-expanding audience.  Every set is
different; there's no "set" set list.  With just over half an hour, they
could play nearly every song on their 36-minute album, but instead they throw
in old ones, like the thumpin' "Have a Heart," and new ones, including the
theme to the '70s cartoon The Groovie Ghoulies, which will appear on a
compilation CD of cartoon songs.
     It's a long way from their pre-Interscope Records days.
     When we first started, Todd was having to teach me how to play.  And I
still pretty much to this day only know Toadies songs, because that's all
I've had time to learn.  And now Todd doesn't have to teach me how to play as
much.  I kind of tap my foot to keep time, and he had to teach me how to do
that," says Umbarger.  Laughter from all seated around the coffee table
littered with soda cans interrupts her.
     "How to bang your head," Lewis reveals, laughing.  "One, two,
three...step to the front and bang your head.  Three, four, step back.  Turn
around."
     "Todd was trying to teach her how to do 'The Horns,'" Herbert joins in,
making the "metal" sign with his fingers.
     Six weeks it took me," Lewis complains sarcastically.
     The facts: After a stint in a band called Gunga Din, Lewis formed the
Toadies, and Umbarger joined him on bass almost from the start.  After
working with several drummers (including one who told bad jokes) and two
guitar players, the band solidified into its present state.
     "I didn't know what I was getting into," Umbarger says of the time she
first picked up the bass and started playing with the Toadies.  "I took a
crash course and learned how to play really quick before our first show.
 Looking back now, it's kind of funny, but then it was real stressful.  In
the first two months, I almost puked before every show because I was so
nervous.  I couldn't look at anybody.  I would have to stand perfectly still
and look at my bass and play."
     "We figured we would be really nervous, so we got a lot of things to
distract people while we were playing," Herbert explains.  "We had this Bon
Jovi cutout that was as big as I was, and we attached this little rubbery
penis to it that would spin around and then stop..."
     "Yeah, during the fast part of the songs we'd step on this pedal and his
penis would spin around.  People would look at that and not at us," Umbarger
explains.  
     Okay.  Let's steer the conversation back to something moderately
serious.  If in fact Umbarger couldn't play, how did she persuade the
frontman to let her?
     "I lied," Umbarger says matter-of-factly.  "'I'm great!  I know what I'm
doing!  I'm da best!  Let me try!'  And then they invested so much time in
trying to teach me that they couldn't go back."  Again, laughter erupts.
 "Actually I think he wanted a puppet he could mold."
    "It worked," says Lewis, smiling.
     "Yeah.  I only know one way to play: Todd's way.  I'm the robot bass
player!"
     With only one woman in the band, you'd think there might be awkward
moments, but Umbarger says the only weirdness seems to come from a few lame
fans.
     "I actually had these stupid longhaired guys come up and say, 'Man! I
heard you on the radio and you sounded like a guy!' " recalls Umbarger.  "I
didn't know that you could tell the sex of a bass player just by listening to
him play.  Unless you can hear their penis slide across the strings or
somethin'."
     "We overdubbed that bit," counters Lewis, laughing.  "The first six
months we were together or so, we got into a lot of predicaments at clubs
where they wouldn't let her in."
     "See, we usually ended up playing some of these heavy metal clubs,
because in Texas sometimes that's the only place you could play.  So I'd walk
in and they'd be like, 'Uhh, you're a girlfriend.  You're just carrying a
bass and trying to get in.  Chicks don't play in bands.'  They would tell me
that, and I would like want to fucking kill them.  Oh, I was mad!  I'd be out
in the parking lot screaming and throwing a fit," Umbarger points to her
bandmates.  "They would not let me in until Todd and everybody got there to
let me in."
     That was then - when rednecks had their heads up their chaps - and this
is now - those same rednecks watch strippers dance to "Possum Kingdom."
     "When we were in Detroit a stripper came up...and we were making fun of
the news clipping we got that [said] strippers in Fort Worth were dancing to
'Possum Kingdom,' and she was like, 'Oh, are you guys upset about that?' "
recalls Umbarger.  "And I'm like, 'No, not really.  I just think it's kind of
funny.'  And she said, 'Oh good, 'cause I'm a stripper and last night I
danced to 'Possum Kingdom.' "
     "I asked her if she knew what it was about," continues Lewis.  "And she
goes, 'Yeah, the nasty!' Those strippers have their fingers on the pulse of
the music world."
     "And a lot of other things..." Herbert interjects.
     "I heard that strippers made Green Day what they are.  I heard that
before Green Day even got radio play, strippers were dancing to Green Day,"
Umbarger continues.
     Laughing, Lewis says: "Strippers broke that new Alanis Morissette
record!"
     Stripper aside, "Possum Kingdom" is not about "doing the nasty."  It,
like most of Toadies' tunes, are stories, as Umbarger explains while Lewis
excuses himself to grab a tissue.  "They're just these silly stories he's
heard his family tell.  Like 'Tyler' and 'Possum Kingdom' are just like
stories...In Texas, there's just this big storytelling thing - whenever your
family gets together, they sit and talk and tell all these stories.  'Possum
Kingdom' is a ghost story." 
     "Possum Kingdom is a lake.  One of the ten best fishin' spots in the
U.S.," Lewis says upon returning.
     Is it a about a ghost or vampire at the lake?
     Everyone laughs.  Man-of-mystery Lewis replies: "I don't know."
     "It's not about vampires," Umbarger insists.  "Even though we have a big
underground vampire following in Florida.  They come with their teeth and
everything.  I'm not lying about that, that's a real story.  They'll show up
and you'll be talking to someone, and they'll smile and it's like, 'Jesus
Christ! You've got fangs!'  And they're like, 'Yeah.  It's a vampire thing.'
 So we have this big vampire underground following, and 'Possum Kingdom' has
kind of stirred it up."
     So what's it really about, then?
     Not missing a beat, Lewis replies: "Vampires."
     Laughter breaks out yet again.  "It's just a story I heard long ago;
it's just a really cool, eerie lake, and some stuff I heard and some stuff I
just make up.  I tend to do that," Lewis explains about the watering hole
where his family used to hang out and barbecue.  "They dammed up this big
river up there, and it's got all these spooky names like Hell's Gate.  It's
really cool."
     Okay, no real vampire, but is there a real stalker in Tyler, Texas?
     "Yeah, I was down there for Thanksgiving, and after the family got
through talking about who died and who's got cancer and all those things that
families talk about, they started talking about this guy who was peeping in
windows and started breaking into people's houses," Lewis recalls.
     "Stealing their beer," Darrel interjects.
     "He'd go out of his way to be seen.  And everyone is like armed to the
teeth, and he's like tapping on windows," Lewis says.  "The whole family was
freaked out about it."
     "And he became like a folk hero," Herbert exclaims.
     "We've always been pro-stalker," quips Lewis.
     Laughing, Umbarger adds: "In fact, I'm being stalked right now.
 Whenever I go home and go into a store, I'll think someone's following me.
 I'll look around and there won't be anyone there, and I'll walk around the
corner and there'll be a kid standing there.  He'll be all, 'Uhhh, are you in
the Toadies?'  'Yeah.'  'Okay.'  And then he'll leave."
     "Sometimes I'll be in the magazine section and I'll think all the
magazines are looking at me," Lewis says, laughing.  "I hate that."
     Many of these stories have heavy religious references, no doubt due to
the fact that lyricist Lewis is the son of a preacherman.  Take "Backslider":
"I remember the day I stepped into the water/My daddy held me in his hand and
pushed my head under and said: 'Son, I am so proud.' "
     "We have a very special friend, and our special friend is Baby Jesus,"
Umbarger jokes.  "'Cause he don't give us no shit."
     "Except is his diaper," Darrel interjects.
     "Baby Jesus didn't shit!  I was actually told that in church one time,"
Umbarger insists.  "Well, they didn't actually say 'shit' or 'puke.' "
     "They said  it from the pulpit."  Impersonating a preacher, Lewis
announces: " 'He hath never did shit, nor puke...' "
     "And they said that he never did cry," Umbarger claims.
     " 'He never did urinate nor cry...' " says the impersonating vocalist.
     "Our Sunday school teacher said, 'You guys probably go home and cry,
don't you?' " shouts Umbarger. " 'Baby Jesus didn't cry!' "
     "I cry for my fellow man," Lewis says profoundly.
     "That's very Christlike," remarks Umbarger.
     Didn't Jesus weep on the Cross?
     "There you go.  He probably went straight to hell.  That's the whole
contradictory nature of religion right there, in a nutshell.  You just
explained Western philosophy.  'Whatever I say is right, because God said
so,' " says Herbert, as, once again, everyone laughs.
     My parents never did go to church, and I made them start dropping me off
in fifth grade," says Umbarger.  "I went until I got into high school, and I
decided it was wrong.  It went against everything that I was...I was
listening to the Dead Kennedys and stuff like that, and then I was going to
church.  I liked the Dead Kennedys better than I liked the church.  And I
would make all of these justifications why I would be listening to it, even
though some of the things I was hearing didn't gel with what I was being
taught in church.  Finally the whole music thing won over.  So actually what
I'm saying is: I'm going to hell," Umbarger says with finality, hands on her
thighs.
     There's a small round of applause.  Actually Umbarger and Lewis went
straight to the phone to do another interview, then it was dinner with MTV
and rockin' at the Roseland, where she aptly displayed the metal salute -
with both hands on either side of Lewis's thin frame.  Hell or no hell!

talk to u later.
josh