By Ashley Zimmerman
By David Von Bader
By Sayre Berman
By Steve Brennan
By Ashley Zimmerman
By Michele Eve Sandberg
By Abel Folgar
By Ashley Zimmerman
Will Luna always stand like a wallflower, picked last for every dance? The band's ten-year mission -- fusing fragrant guitar melodies with potently acerbic lyrics -- has gone rather well. Somehow, though, unreservedly praising Luna would be like saying Foghat was your favorite band -- representative of the style, sure, but why? Who will champion Luna's carefully groomed efforts as Best in Show?
Dean Wareham, guitarist and singer for Luna, never worries that public indifference will stand in the way of his success. In fact, to Wareham, success is merely keeping his music aloft despite commercial tradewinds and thunderstorms -- or the whims of record buyers. That special extra something that Luna brings to its songs is subdued enough to remain hidden through a second listening -- or even a third.
Even when they do emerge -- and they always do, usually hand-in-hand with one of Wareham's wry phrase turns and pinched nasal voice -- the band's well-concealed charms aren't at all mysterious. There's no need to parse influences. Luna will forever genuflect at the pew of Velvet Underground, with a serene yet intense approach to songcraft and Wareham's well-worn knapsack full of skewed non-sequiturs.
Content to never thrill but only casually enchant, Wareham relishes the journeyman role, making records and touring as if none of it matters to anyone but him. The public may well be pleased with Close Cover Before Striking, a new seven-song album likely to rank as the band's most rousing collection to date. It doesn't hurt that Strikingbegins with "Astronaut," the first song Luna has ever recorded with loops and overdubs. Bursting with circa-1986 Cure/New Order excitement, the song's sinewy bass biceps ripple under a pressurized stream of sequencers and Wareham's typically gnomic prowess:
"I wanna plug you in/I wanna get you things/Send you a pentagram/Feed you diazepam/I wanna play the game/I wanna live again/I wanna bend your spoons and make your silver shine/I'll wear a stylin' mustache/You'll wear a frozen smile..."Sometimes steeped in television trivia and armchair academia, Wareham's lyrics resonate with obscure one-liners, just as they did in his first band, Galaxie 500. The new "Teenage Lightning" finds him claiming, "I can hypnotize a pancake/I can levitate the pope" delivered, as always, in his droopy, droll, seen-it-all monotone. Wareham is a Harvard graduate, as were his Galaxie 500 compatriots, Damon Krukowski (drums) and Naomi Yang (bass).
In those halcyon days (1988-1990), interviewers insisted on focusing on the Ivy League angle, as Galaxie 500 rode coattails into office as the postmaster general of indie rock. Some writers implied the three were rich kids out slumming. ("I do not have a trust fund," Wareham insists.) Today, the transplanted New Zealander-cum-quintessential New Yorker pronounces Nirvana as if it rhymes with Santana, and speaks in softly clipped, ironic sentences.
Instead of effete intellectualism or idealism, the trio eked out a purity of minimalism rarely equaled, because true to the ethic of the time, none of them knew how to play well -- Yang not even a note. This didn't stop Galaxie 500 from winning plentiful press adulation and a production hook-up from Kramer, who later perfected with Low the work he began on Today, On Fire,and This Is Our Music, Galaxie's troika of releases.
"In England, they're still mad at me about breaking up the band," Wareham laughs. "There's always five people in the crowd who want to hear Galaxie 500 songs." He may yet appease them. Luna's live album from 2000 includes a heated version of "Fourth of July," and lately, he reports, "Tugboat" has been hauled out of dry dock.
Soon after abandoning Galaxie 500 in 1991, Wareham began Luna with bassist Justin Harwood (ex-Chills) and drummer Stanley Demeski (ex-Feelies). Both men are now retired from the engine room. Demeski departed in 1996, citing a dislike of the road, and Harwood left in 1999, in time for ex-Belltower bassist Britta Phillips to come aboard and add a new flexibility on the instrument -- and sweet backing vocals too. Harwood moved back to his beach house in New Zealand, where he and his wife recently started a family.
"It's a drag to have people around if they don't want to be there," Wareham says, explaining that touring is the only way a group like Luna can make enough money to keep making an album every year. "You have to enjoy doing it for its own sake. We can't all stay home just because one person doesn't want to do something. Plus, it's actually kind of healthy to have some turnover." These changes, he admits, still cause stress. "In life, when you have great big decisions to make, you make them, and then you have regrets. But I think your instinct is usually the right thing."
The band stayed active through the '90s, but every summer, the Lollapalooza parade would skip a trip through Luna-town, not that Wareham and Co. cried into their cotton candy about it. Besides, he points out, kicking a beach ball back to a midafternoon outdoor audience never sounded like a very Luna thing to do: "We rock, I guess, but we don't jump up and down and work the crowd the way you have to. We're not a crowd pleaser."