For a Limited Time Only

The Philadelphia music scene as an evolutionary marvel.

by Patrick Rapa

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Published: Mar 2, 2011

Neal Santos

[ creature feature ]

The Philadelphia music scene is a beast.

It's given to mutation and stagnancy, as adept at wallowing in its own filth as it is at striking out to affirm its primacy. Our bands are prone to breakups and lineup-shuffling. Our MCs take forever to get to the recording studio. Our sound is unclear: Are we a dirty West Philly punk town? A slick Kenzo street cipher town? A NoLibs indie-pop town?

We're all of those at once, and it can be tough to get a handle on — for the outside looking in as much as the inside looking around.

So, this imperfect thing, nebulous, divided in its purpose and desires, ugly, untamed — it's not easy to love, is it?

But if you do love it, or at least want to, then we're kindred spirits, brothers and sisters in arms, good listeners. And I'm glad you're here, reading this. Because sometimes, when we leave the office late and step out onto Second Street, where High Life D-bags yell at Ed Hardy-wearing A-holes and the Black Eyed Peas is blaring from rolled-down windows, well, it tests the faith of an alt-weekly. Philly's a big tent, and there's plenty of room for all of us, but that overlarge dude punching — yes, punching — that overlarge sports utility vehicle is probably not going to read an article in City Paper on Curly Castro, or Ryat, or whoever, and make a mental note to see those artists perform live.

This newspaper was into music since before its debut issue, back when it was called the XPN Express and served as a newsletter for Philadelphia's esteemed triple-A radio station. When it finally became City Paper, in November 1981, some of the groundwork was laid: Mary Armstrong, still our roots writer, got her first byline in issue one. Peter Burwasser, our classical music expert to this day, showed up in issue two. (Raise a glass to them: a fine shiraz for him, a goblet of tequila for the lady.)

When somebody brought up this CP30 idea — a few issues scattered throughout 2011 wherein we briefly, humbly, acknowledge this newspaper's three decades in the biz — I started going through the archives to get a sense of Philly music-scene history.

Back in the late '80s and early '90s, City Paper's resident rock writer, Frank Blank, started every column with a "Howdy, folks!" From that, you might glean that the city and the paper were in the midst of some curiously genial epoch, where upbeat vibes and goodwill ruled. Not so. Blank often used his space as a soapbox:

"Can there ever again be a dangerous new music that has an effect not only on music but on society as well?" he wrote in 1989. "Or is rock now faced with endless variations of what has happened before? I'd like to think there's something big about to happen, something that will either thrill people or repel them the way great rock music should — and it should sound like nothing heard before."

So, yeah, music editors at alt-weeklies are sorta given to these little moments of existential doubt.

Nirvana's Nevermind came out two years after Blank wrote those lines, and while his initial reaction was lukewarm (he later predicted the band's 1991 gig at Dobbs would be a "swell thing"), I hope it gave him solace that good music can, indeed, still make shifts in the cosmos. At least, momentarily.

For me, I'm seeing those shifts in little doses, in the new Kurt Vile CD, or watching some band I never heard before give it all they've got at Sugar Town.

And will this band stick around, make an album, ignite some inferno of society-changing music that even the truck-punchers of Old City will have to acknowledge?

Who knows.

Let's just keep listening.

(pat@citypaper.net)

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