A BRAND FOO DAY – ‘90s rock’s obsession with authenticity

There is, according to the internet, “Not Green Day UK.” There is also a band named “Not. Green Day.” I suppose the dot should really be emphasized, otherwise delusionally optimistic speed readers might erroneously suppose the hall-of-fame rockers unwittingly booked an old movie theatre in Corvallis, instead of a stadium. 

One band features a genuine British singer simulating a Californian’s fake British snarl. This universal British punk voice is something like the all-purpose southern accent so many country-seemin’ folks use, no matter if they are northerners in paved and populated multi-national strip mall-strewn municipalities.

The other tribute cover band, the one that appeared in Corvallis on October 3rd, doesn’t strive to impeccably mimic singer Billie Joe’s (now there’s a good country name) imperfect voice. I will hereby refer to the domestic recreators as “Dot.” 

“Dot” are from Washington state and opted to recreate Cali pop punk rather than the local grunge of the era. “Not” is what I will call the British version. “Not” bothers to liberally brandish honorary mascara in tandem with the dress-up gear of red on black – a color scheme also favored by rocker Jack White.

How’s that for non-conformity? 

Is the costume to show they take this seriously? This for a band that named their breakthrough album after poo.

Heaven knows I don’t want to look like an American Idiot. What’s the dress code?

There seems to be out there a slew of impersonators. Albany’s own River Rhythms series had a dab of Abba (or thereabouts) and a quasi Queen, but “Dot” isn’t from some faraway land, or dead.

Songwriter Billy Joe is the poet chronicler of lazy nimrods, dissecting a suburban boredom and slacker lifestyle that no longer exists, complaining about how nothing’s on TV and how self-loathing deflates even self-love (they put it slightly differently).

Green Day started when musicians, even – or especially – aggressive ones could potentially get filthy rich. The rise of all-enveloping technology didn’t much affect their sound. It was the late ’70s buzz of spit and anarchy, now sugary and over-caffeinated and piped to teens at the mall. 

The interesting and driving tension was the band was working in a style with a highly rigid tradition and mindset, which they tried to stretch and broaden. It was the sound of unconscionable ambition hidden behind snotty sarcasm, but without experimenting so much that it alienates the alienated. 

So the fast and loud band made a ballad for TV finales. They called it “Good Riddance” (and when paired with Seinfeld it was a quintessential ’90s moment). Then they wrote a concept opera about dumb aggression on a societal and governmental level.

You could, perhaps, pick no other rock band, punk or no, from the past 30 years that have so many great, often well-known songs. Why not throw in some “Faux Foos?”  That would make an entertaining faceoff of fakes.

I wrote those words and prepared my piece for deadline, when lo, I saw Big Foo was coming to the very same Whiteside Theatre on October 25th. I would get the battle of ’90s rock of my imagination after all. 

I imagine in rock, at the start, you needed to be an icon of Elvis’ stature, with his own costumed persona to inspire fanatical tributes. Now it seems a pretty canny strategy for making a buck in a criminally insane biz, to choose an enduring and loved band, but not one so iconic you will have too many competing tributeers.

You could listen to every second of music someone made in their entire life and they’ll make about 9 cents. But if you’re the unscrupulous nerd who sucked up all that music and stuck it in the web-cloud, that song sucker is seen, in this culture, as the true artist visionary, the creative genius bazillionair.

So, instead of being a regional bar band playing blues and classic rock of yore, why not commit fully to one act? This is where quality songs come in. The brand is the band and the content, as they are always calling it, is not some meddlesome afterthought. It all comes down to the specific notes you hit.

Kid Rock, for example, has the costume and caricature shtick part down. He don’t have the songs though. Hell, he ripped off Skynyrd for the last song, many years ago, that the general populace might have noticed. They might only have noticed – Hey, why does that song I like sound worse?

So-called Rock was canny enough to realize, well before many others, it doesn’t matter when you are a prop, in his case a political cartoon. This brings us back to the fake accent thing. Despite publicly promoting the confederacy, his real name is Ritchie (and he was indeed). Young Richie had horsies on his estate in suburban Detroit. 

He tried to downplay his apple orchard when previously he was trying to sell himself as a rapper from the urban streets of the D. He’s, therefore, less country than fellow Detroiter Jack White. Remember that thing with his sister? And he was downing sloe gin fizzes with Loretta Lynn to boot. 

Anyway, while Gramps Rock is dixie cosplaying for boomers, another musical route is PNWers playing our traditional regional export – aggressive guitar music. Hey, we’ve got flannel. Aren’t we wild cowboys here out west?

Of the two, Green Day was much louder. And though I think they have stronger songs, which could be adapted to other styles and approaches, I think I’ll give the edge to Foo. By comparison, “Dot” was more similar to the sound of the actual, but I found that live the Foo material was more diverse and unpredictable and so was more compelling over a whole night, than the tighter and poppier Green Day. 

“Dot” stuck to the script, which is already a recreation of an earlier style. While Big Foo had a looseness and gusto that made it seem a little more like their own creation. Strange all this careerist professionalism from what once was said to be reckless and anti-social.

With tickets for the famous being ungodly expensive, even for two bands who have roots in a DIY, non-mainstream subculture, a great choice is getting some of the raw enthusiasm of a more local, garage-based act, but with all that thumping and strumming following the template set by hall of fame-caliber musicians.

I’d say get off the endless stream of background distraction and instead see music as it’s made, feel it loud and live, in a group. Save money by seeing someone belting out young rebellion more believably than anyone who owns an equestrian estate.