Meet the Meat Puppets

Cris Curtwood and Curt Criswood, the Brothers Kirkwood

Just last month, Procrastacritic glanced away from TV and TV-grade cinema to take up music, to the surprise and delight of none. Seems like the perfect time to respond with another D-flat foray. Also, an opportunity to expound on family and freedom.

The Meat Puppets came to my attention in 1984 or so, when I was a college radio station DJ at WAMU, then wired into the dorms and thus free of FCC regulations. The previous year, I'd used that freedum to play a shitload of "fuck"-ridden punk rock songs, but with a new and rotating caste of co-hosts, I explored the stacks of LPs and branched out a bit. Still in the thrall of hardcore, though, I'd pull out punk-sounding names only to be led astray, inadvertently hypnotizing myself with the Stranglers and floating away on the melodic riffs of the Meat Puppets.

Today, my daughters are a bit horrified/scandalized by the Meat Puppets' moniker, but not entirely immune to the instrumental flow of "I'm a Mindless Idiot" and other songs on an ipod. Back then, it was "Up on the Sun" on vinyl, which of course I stole from the station, rationalizing that nobody else appreciated it.

Multi-generational Kirkwoods, and Da Drummer. Enjoy that spotlight, Elmo.

Fast forward to now. Or a few months ago, which is Now in procrastincation time. I had once again finagled fieldwork in reach of civilization, featuring a concert by the Meat Puppets, alive and kicking (and, incidentally, DJ Bonebreak of X drumming for the opening act!). So alive, in fact, that the Puppets demonstrated reproductive fitness and evolutionary success in the form of a Kirkwood son playing with the band. More on the possibly moron son later.

But in the meantime, let's talk about UNcle Cris, on bass. Probe the internet, and you'll find all kind of stories about his ups and downs, but when I saw them, I hadn't peeked. All I saw was,....HOLY FUCK! A kickass player. Way into it, way good. A face lined by experience beyond mere age, he looked like fucking Charles Bronson, defying death, blasting out the beat, iron-man stomping across the stage. Seriously, looking on from right in front of the stage corner, all I could do half the time was stare past his brother on guitar (no mean feat, given the 6-string antics) and bask in the thrall of a giant. He looked like he'd picked up a full-on acoustic bass like it was a guitar, plucking the hell out of it. He laid waste to complacency.

Meanwhile, the guitar. Uncle Curt, melodizing. Chill. No rock-star clothes, just sweats and shoes worn comfortable by years. Fingernails glowing in whatever lights the house had going as they danced across the frets.

And on 2nd guitar, Kirkwood son Elmo. For some reason, he had fairly consistent banter-beef going on with the audience on that side. Maybe there was some obnoxious fan settng him off, but from my end, I had to wonder why he was so fucking belligerent. I mean, you're 20-something, it's the 21st century, and you're making a living playing music, which is kindof a miracle. Thank your dad and uncle for their decades of setting the stage, and deal with being 2nd or 3rd banana, kid. Yes, people are there to see your old man, and yes, you can play those riffs too (maybe), but no, you are not lead. Play rhythm and thank your lucky stars.