Violent Femmes - Country Death Song

My transition from metal-head to new-waver began with the Femmes' 2nd album, Hallowed Ground

In the fall of 1983, my junior year of high school, I finally shed my heavy metal skin. I shaved my wispy, barely-there mustache, cut my shaggy mullet into a new-wavy long-in-front/short-in-back, removed my David Lee Roth gold hoop earrings, and learned to apply Robert Smith-style black eyeliner and, on occasion, lipstick.

This all began because of a girl. A girl who loved Culture Club — more specifically, Boy George — to the point of single-minded obsession. “You look AMAZING!” I remember Julie exclaiming proudly, as I sat perched on the edge of her black velvet bedspread.

My heart was tumbling for her as she held the small pencil to the base of my eyelashes, her thin index finger gently pulling the skin beneath the lid downward.

“Don’t move.”

I didn’t, but I couldn’t stop another part of my hormone-ravaged body from squirming and expanding, as movies of Julie and I conjoining our deep red and black lipsticks played on repeat in my mind.

I didn’t recognize the kid in the mirror when she’d finished her artwork. I was not blessed with high cheekbones or smooth skin. My acne and squinty eyes did me no favors. Thankfully, I had to take my glasses off for Julie to do her “magic,” so it was mostly all a blur to me. Julie seemed thrilled with her canvas though, and that was all that mattered.

Alas, my role would remain a willing, shy boy mannequin. My seasonal allergies—running nose, itchy, watery eyes—put the kibosh on my newly sculpted goth persona, and sent Julie slinking off to find another eager lad to dress up.

But the makeover had begun. It was the sound that I was drawn to, not the fashion. I craved new music that pushed boundaries—anything that represented the polar opposite of my old Van Halen and Iron Maiden records. I rode my bike to Tempo Records on Reseda Boulevard and approached the clerk—who looked like the singer of A Flock of Seagulls, hair pointed in multiple gravity-defying angles—and asked him who the most daring new bands were. He didn’t hesitate before answering.

“Have you heard of Violent Femmes?” I shook my head no. He smiled. “Have you heard of Hoodoo Gurus?” Again, I shook my head.

Ten minutes later, I left the store a proud new owner of the sophomore albums of both bands, Hallowed Ground and Mars Needs Guitars.

I certainly enjoyed the fun, twangy, garage-rock of Hoodoo Gurus, but “Hayride to Hell” didn’t pack the same devilish punch of the Femmes’ cowboy-noir opening track, “Country Death Song.” Gordon Gano’s nasal, dramatic delivery sounded unlike any lead vocalist I’d ever heard before. He sang of fathers’ throwing their lovely daughters in wells; of digging black girls, oh so much more than white girls; of digging white boys oh so much more than the black boys. My sheltered, suburban San Fernando Valley boy's mind was being blown. Lyrically, Hallowed Ground would cover the gamut of taboo subject matter: religion, race, bisexuality, infanticide, drug use…and I hadn’t even flipped the record to side B yet!

It wasn’t just the lyrical content that shook me to my musical core. The instrumentation—snare drum, vibraphone, stand-up bass, jew’s-harp, marimba, clarinet, saxophone, acoustic guitar—it wasn’t new wave, it wasn’t punk rock, it wasn’t folk. I couldn’t give it a label or even an easy reference point, which scared and exhilarated me. Brian Ritchie’s nimble bass often played the role usually held by the lead guitar. The album’s epic third track, “Never Tell,” is a veritable showcase for Ritchie’s fantastic four-stringed fretwork. Victor De Lorenzo’s frenetic percussion, often using only a snare, hi-hat, and bass drum, forced me to consider that perhaps less can be more. I’d been raised on a steady diet of John Bonham and Neil Peart, so finding such joy and expansiveness in a stripped-down set altered my limited view as to what defined a great drummer.

I was a middle-class Jewish kid, so most of the Christian imagery that soaks Hallowed Ground like so much holy water, may have gone over my head. But it was abundantly clear, even to me, that Gordon Gano was working through some conflicted feelings regarding his religion. That Gano, at just 19 years old could explore complex and controversial views of Christianity, both critical (“Hallowed Ground”) and celebratory (“Jesus Walking on the Water”), is a testament to the creative and spiritual fire that fed such auspicious songwriting. Jesus was a Jew, so I suppose it’s not so strange that this album would stand out for me as a musical marker. Listening to it again in my late 50s, I’m still awed by the album’s incomparable brilliance.

I had never heard Violent Femmes’ self-titled debut album before purchasing Hallowed Ground. “Kiss Off,” “Blister in the Sun,” “Add it Up,” “Gone Daddy Gone”—it’s obvious why the Femmes’ first was their most successful release and arguably one of the most important albums of the ‘80s (or any decade). Even the 20-somethings of today know at least one of those classic tunes. But we don’t always access our favorites chronologically. I’d been an unrepentant metalhead until early 1983 and didn’t discover Violent Femmes until their second album had been released.

So much is about timing. If Hallowed Ground had come out a year earlier, or if that clerk at Tempo Records hadn’t recommended the album to me, it may never have rooted into the soil of my musical garden. And if Julie hadn’t tried to turn me into her personal Boy (George) Toy, I may still be rocking a mullet.

And writing instead about how Scorpions’ Blackout changed my life. (Note: it did.)