Dallas Observer
March 27-April 2, 1997
pg. 81

Reign of toads
The Toadies tell why Bush deserves to die
by Richard Baimbridge

     A red warning light is glowing above the doorway at Last Beat studios,
indicating that recording is under way.  If you were to ease the door open,
you'd find the Toadies camped around an ice chest full of Budweiser, and
immediately feel a sense of ease and relaxation.  If it weren't for all the
recording equipment and the television flashing silent images in the
background, this could well be a Sunday picnic.
     On the other side of the glass, Clark Vogeler is laying down a guitar
solo-his first ever-and bassist Lisa Umbarger is heckling him with each
slip-up, calling out "new guy" sarcastically, accompanied by rude finger
gestures.
     It's all in good fun, though, and Umbarger quickly finds a new subject
to work-the latest Bush video.  "Limey!" she yells at the face of Bush singer
Gavin Rossdale.  "Look at this guy," she growls.  "You wannabe actor!  I hate
Bush, man."
     More on that later.
     At first glance , these guys don't seem to have changed a bit since
their debut album, Rubberneck, went platinum last year.  They still drive the
same cars, still eat a Taco Bell, still tell the same dumb jokes, and show
more excitement over the return of Star Wars to the big screen than talking
about their own music.
     It's only when Umbarger and drummer Mark Reznicek start discussing the
details of Dave Kehrer's death that cracks in the picture-perfect facade
begin to appear.  One of the best sound men in the industry, Kehrer had been
touring with the Toadies and had become a close friend.  His body was found
slumped over a desk early that very morning, the result of hepatitis and
years of drug abuse while on the road with some of the most well-known bands
of the past decade.
     Kehrer's death is actually just the first of many signals that these
aren't really the Toadies.  A million albums sold, two years of touring, and
a whole lot of shit have made them wiser, more cynical and self-assured.  Yet
as Umbarger explains, "The things around you are always going to change, but
the nucleus has to stay the same.  Otherwise you're gonna lose what you had."
     The lick that Vogeler is having such a hard time with is from a cover of
"Cowboy Song" by Thin Lizzy.  You might dismiss it since it's just for a
campy heavy-metal compilation of Dallas bands with no chance of ending up on
the Toadies' new album, but the song has deeper implications than that.
     "When the first album was being written, we were listening to the
Pixies-they were God," explains Umbarger, who is wearing a Pixies T-shirt.
 "This time we've all gone off on different tangents.  We all listen to a lot
of Stereolab, but we're also going back and listening to a lot of old stuff.
 We're looking at our roots."
     Enter Thin Lizzy-for lead man Todd Lewis, anyway.  For Reznicek, roots
means mid-1960s AM radio pop.  For Umbarger, Motown and Elvis (more on that
later, too).  "Anything but the Beatles,"  Umbarger says with disgust.  "I
hate the Beatles...and Bush."
     What's more important is the "we" in Umbarger's statement.  This album
is a collaborative effort, as opposed to Rubberneck, which was more of a
realization of Lewis' vision; the band had yet to reach the point of
cohesiveness that would allow for open musical dialogue, and Lewis had a
novel's worth of resentment toward his intensely religious upbringing to
purge.  Not that he's finished, of course.  Lewis' father, a minister, still
refuses to see the band or recognize their success.  "He still thinks I'm
wasting my time," Lewis says.  "Except now he at least sees I'm making some
money."
     That would be hard to miss: Rubberneck is the Toadies' major-label
debut, enjoying skyrocketing sales when released in 1994 on the strengths of
such hits as "Possum Kingdom" and "Backslider."  The band had been touring
around sporadically with another then-unknown group, Bush, when their label
finally decided to release the album, and - lo and behold - it jumped up the
charts faster and farther than a Mississippi bullfrog.
     "It started to taper off after the Conan O'Brien incident," Reznicek
says, scratching his short gray hair thoughtfully.  He explains that the band
was scheduled to appear on the show, but were handed an ultimatum on editing
down a song at the last minute, so they walked.  "After that, album sales
started to drop off," he says.  "Plus the fact I told all my relatives in
Nebraska to watch, and now they have a videotape of No Doubt."
     Then there was the Florida vampire-goth fiasco, which all centered
around the song "Possum Kingdom."  Some kids interpreted it as a vampire
song, "Except that ain't the kind of suckin' that was goin' on," laughs
Reznicek, noting that the lyrics more likely depict a discreet homosexual
encounter.  Lewis claims the song is abstract and open to any interpretation,
but still squirms at the fact that people were showing up at their shows with
fangs and Anne Rice novels.
     "A lot of shit happened to us on the road,"  Umbarger says.  "A lot of
emotional crap.  Rubberneck was written when Todd was going through a
divorce.  This album will have a lot of the same emotion, but more stuff has
happened to the whole band."  She recounts a horrific tale of touring with
Bush, who-even before Gavin Rossdale got famous for declaring to the world
that he "swallowed"-had an attitude that sent the Toadies on numerous foiled
late-night escape attempts.
     "We weren't even allowed in the dressing room or inside the club's
during sound checks," Umbarger says.  "We  were always trying to sneak off
the tour in the middle of the night.  We wanted to just say 'fuck it' and
come home.  But every time, their tour manager would catch us and make us go
back."
     Vogeler steps into the rehearsal space and wipes the sweat from his
brow, his first guitar solo now successfully completed.  Umbarger, whose
showiness may come from the fact that her dad was an Elvis impersonator,
applauds sarcastically.  These are only demos they're working on - the band
won't start recording for real until April or May.  The new album, as of yet
untitled, won't be out until next spring.
     Of the six tracks laid down, at least two seem to have the same single
potential as those on Rubberneck.  "Joey Let's Go" alone proves that the new
album is going to be a serious contender, touching on Sonic Youth influences,
employing a catchy pop rhythm awash in feedback.  "Push the Hand" also has
good prospects.
     It's obvious that Lewis hasn't hit a dry spell when it comes to writing
good new material, but three years of struggle haven't really lessoned the
obstacles facing the Toadies; the future is most uncertain, and cynicism
about four-chord rock angst is at an all-time high.  Even former tourmates
and lifelong band idols the Butthole Surfers are now featured on an MTV spot
declaring that music as we know it is dead in the water.
     Yet Lewis says he's not interested in precalculated moves like the
Smashing Pumpkins doing a Missing Persons cover in an anxious attempt to stay
ahead of the game.  "I never expected to make it on the radio," Lewis says
during a dinner break at a Deep Ellum burger joint.  "We're not bandwagon
jumpers.  I'm just going to keep doing what I do, which is play in a rock
band and write songs that I think are good."  It's a healthy attitude Lewis
has held onto since the beginning, much in the same way he views the Toadies
as first and foremost a local band.
     Possibly more so than anyone who's made it on a national level, the
Toadies have made a conscious effort to remain a Dallas band.  They've
managed to remain humble in mind and loyal to other local artists and to
their roots-unlike the "success story" of Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians
back in 1990.
     "The New Bohemians totally lost their roots," recalls Lewis.  "There was
a lot of back-stabbing going on in the scene at that time.  The people who
wrote those songs weren't even allowed to play their own instruments on the
album.  And look what happened to them.  It's a perfect example of what can
go wrong."
     But the Toadies have so far managed to avoid such pitfalls-plus they've
got the time and the money to produce the album they want to make this time
around, with a lot more confidence and experience to back it up.  Still, you
can't help but think that when they emerge from the darkness of the studio,
the Toadies may have some trouble recognizing the world that has been so kind
to them in the past.  The prophets have taken to the streets again, declaring
(for the umpteenth time) that is dead.
     "I can't believe there's not always gonna be people who want to go about
and see real people playing real instruments instead of some geek spinning
records," Lewis insists.  But will there be enough of them to make the new
album as-or more-successful than Rubberneck?
     Umbarger thinks so.  "It will be more successful because it's more of a
band effort," she says.  Reznicek and Vogeler agree.  "It's gonna blow
people's minds how motherfuckin' good it is,"  Reznicek says
enthusiastically; Vogeler-the new guy-is more pragmatic: "As long as I don't
have to pay 13 bucks for one like last time, it'll be more successful."
     "Parents around the country," Lewis says, "are already saying how good
it is."
     Though the truth remains to be seen, it will ultimately mean the
difference in whether the Toadies go down in history as a significant voice
in music or as a momentary blip on the screen.  Yet the band seems blissfully
unaffected by that kind of pressure.
     "To be honest, I don't really care what Joe Blow on the street thinks of
[the new album]," says Reznicek.  "I'm a lot more concerned with what my
friends in bands are gonna think.  Like whether or not the guys in Baboon are
gonna like it.  This album is for them than anyone else."