In the Flesh

NYC's Fleshtones return to Hitsburg

by John O'Neill

Having just been named "Best Transvestite" of the '87 Halloween mixer, I beamed with delight as I proudly held first prize -- a blow-up sex doll I christened Candie -- over my head. Granted

the victory was rigged. All I had done was stuff myself into a waitress uniform and jam tube socks in a bra I had liberated from my neighbor. But I was chummy with two of the three judges. (Though, frankly, I still retained my trim high-school physique; not a classic "10," but it was relatively flattering.) Cheat or not -- morals, shmorals -- the night was mine and I basked in the glow as Joan né John Your Friendly's Waitress. May I take your order?

Yet my reign as Queen for a Day was cut short. This was easily my school's biggest night of great live music -- the Ramones in '86, Stray Cats in '85. And tonight, some band from New York called the Fleshtones were slated. All I knew was their singer was a half-assed MTV veejay named Peter Zaremba.

But when Zaremba took the stage, he shimmied, jerked, mash potato-ed, and pony-ed around the stage. Not stopping there, Zaremba then dropped his maracas, launched himself mid-song into the audience of 300 drunk kids, and goaded a third of us to roll around on the floor with him. I countered by attempting to breathe life into Candie, but too little too late. I would never recapture the crowd's attention.

My fascination with the seminal garage-rock group began there; and I quickly discovered every gig was a seat-of-the-pants affair. I made every attempt to see them play after crawling out from under the wreckage of academia. (Candie and I split sometime in late '90. Actually Candie split -- no amount of electrical tape could save her.)

There was the Rat show where Zaremba re-introduced the group floor-roll (which, if you saw the floor of the Rat, was like inviting people to squirm around in a petri dish). The 'Tones used the conga line to great effect at Bunratty's; led the entire downstairs of the Middle East to the upstairs show because they wanted to see the Real Kids play; tossed out love beads at some New Haven joint; and took to standing (and playing) atop the bar anytime they appeared at T.T.'s. They'd also acquired a habit of going a cappella after the soundman cut the power to end the usually-past-closing-time set. And, when they finally came to Wormtown last spring after a 13-year absence, they closed the night by heading out the front door of Dinny's (where I bartend) and onto Lincoln Street. Naturally, everyone went nuts. But it was just a typical night for the self-proclaimed kings of "Super Rock" who bring the party to the Lucky Dog Music Hall this Saturday.

"At a time when you have Ricky Martin, who's great at what he does (whatever that is), you achieve satisfaction, or liftoff, only through nitro-burning, unvarnished rock and roll," explains Zaremba of the Fleshtones' appeal. After 23 years in the biz, they remain a popular, international cult act, currently cooling their heels from a recent tour of France. (Where they enjoy extra clout via a line of Fleshtones sunglasses!)

"As long as we're still needed, we will be there. Everyone in the band really enjoys playing. It has never occurred to me to say, `Why am I still doing this?'" Zaremba muses.

The Fleshtones are also experiencing a bit of a career revival. After a near breakout in the mid-'80s (touring with R.E.M., appearing on 1984's Bachelor Party soundtrack, and waxing two of the decade's finest moments -- 1981's Roman Gods and the follow-up Hexbreaker) only to shoot most of their toes off (things like tossing an A&R guy's shoes out the window and playing drums and chanting "Hexbreaker" for 40 minutes of a show), the band were low-profile throughout the late-'80s and early-'90s. Which at the very least helped them clinch cult status.

Then 1995 brought Laboratory of Sound (Itchiban) and a leaner, more mature sound that bridged the gap between the band's frantic live act and their underrated songwriting. Produced by Steve Albini, Laboratory was a turning point.

"We learned a lot from Albini -- mostly, `What do you need a producer for? Why go through people who'll change what your doing?' And he was right. Too bad it took us 25 years to learn how to make a record."

Indeed they did. Starting with 1997's all-covers Hitsburg USA, the band became their own producer and scored a knock-out punch with 1998's More Than Skin Deep (considered their best album in 15 years, if not the best ever). And now they're back with Hitsburg Revisited (Telstar), yet another slab of wigged-out, low-fi rock. From the Young Rascals to the Stylistics to even Mel Torme, all receive classic Fleshtones treatment. The selections are so diverse because the band owe as much to a cocktail lounge singer as they do to '60s psychelia. Detroit, Muscle Shoals, Memphis, New Orleans, and downtown NYC -- across the music spectrum and from all around the world -- the Fleshtones' influences are that diverse. Now they share that love of music on Hitsburg.

"Every two years we have these [cover] songs so we do [the albums]. It's something the fans will like; and it's not like More Than Skin Deep changed our lives. Hitsburg's a lot of fun. And it turned out to be a tribute to Mel Torme who passed away," Zaremba says. "Actually a lot of the guys we do are dead . . . maybe they heard the album."

As for their current budget-rock sound (Super Rock Mach II?), Zaremba reveals: "We use Compactor Studios in Flatbush. It's primitive equipment, but what I imagined albums should sound like. Junky equipment. It's just one guy's basement studio, and that guy is Paul Johnson."

Now that the band have it right, they also face the obstacle of balance tours with wives, kids, and their outside interests. (Zaremba contributes to Time Out New York, and he appears in this month's GQ). Are America's Action Combo ready for semi-retirement?

"We just have to play more intelligently. Instead of touring for eight weeks in a van, we'll fly to California for four gigs, or we'll fly to Spain for a week. We've developed ways of making money like pimping our merchandise, which we never would have done before. But we have loyal fans, so we tour.

"Being the premier Super Rock band in the world can never be a part-time job. It is a vocation and a calling!"