Nothin' pretty

David Cuneo's low-frills rocket from the gut

by John O'Neill

In terms of getting his music career in gear, Wormtown native David Cuneo is a supreme example of the slow train coming. With nearly 20 years of performing in local acts -- some memorable, others not -- tucked under his belt, Cuneo dropped out of sight, kicked some nasty habits, traded in his drum kit for a guitar, and returned with You're Not Around Anymore, a new 14-song CD straight out of left field and straight from the heart.

"I'm pleased with it, it's a first project," says Cuneo, whose last job was pounding the skins for Rick Blaze and the Ballbusters until he quit. "I dropped out, I was a bit disillusioned. . . . I needed time to look around. I pretty much hid out."

Taking up rock-and-roll poster art, guitar collecting, and vintage amp hunting, Cuneo went on a three-year hiatus until the performing bug bit him again. This time, he headed into the studio with an armful of songs he'd worked on in earnest over the past 15 years. Written, played, and produced entirely by Cuneo, You're Not Around Anymore is an ambitious, refreshing, heart-on-sleeve treatment that reaches back to rub rock's gritty underbelly -- where glitter was standard issue, four chords were one-too-many, and most heroes of the moment, both underground cult figures and super stars alike, were either shooting up, blowing one another in hotel rooms, or, most likely, a little of both. Dee Dee was still a male prostitute, Keith was everyone's favorite barely functioning junkie, Sid wasn't yet a corpse, and the establishment was still terrified of the pre-caricature Iggy. And, though Cuneo doesn't blaze any new trails, he doesn't pretend to. His CD is more an act of faith than any sort of statement.

"I'm an old fuddy-duddy when it comes to the music I like," Cuneo readily admits with a chuckle. "I was very careful picking the songs. There's just enough of my influences, and I put my mark on it. It's a raw CD, and that's how I wanted it. I kind of call it `gut rock' because it just comes out of you. I'm a self-taught musician so the only way I know how is to sweat it out."

Cuneo's first baby steps as a songwriter run a relatively true course that combines the darker side of the Stooges, the in-your-face-cheekiness of the New York Dolls, and the swaggering decadence of early-'70s Stones. It's gritty, flippant, and almost gleeful in its simple-minded search for raunchy kicks and raw power. Cuneo's guitar playing calls to mind both Keith Richards ("It's All Talk") and Johnny Thunders ("Too Much Time on My Hands"), and his vocal delivery is endearing in its sincere passion. It's almost as if someone handed him a microphone in the shower. Most impressively, Cuneo is able to navigate around the ego-trap that often hamstrings solo projects in that he's able to make the album sound like a band rather than a guy playing all the parts.

"It's taken a long time to figure out how to write a song -- stripping it down, finding the words that make it a song. Sometimes it's a matter of sticking with it two extra minutes. It's more of a craft than I ever thought. These songs were stuck in my craw, I just wanted to see if I could pull [a solo project] off. "

So at the ripe old age of 35, Cuneo is on the verge of recruiting and fronting his first band. He'll be back into the action, even if that only means messing up his hair, tossing on a jacket, and gigging out at the local dive every few weekends. It's all fine by Cuneo, whose newfound enthusiasm can be traced to the confidence-producing You're Not Around. "For so long I used to get too deep and worry about what people would think of my songs. Now I don't care, cause I like them. I'm just excited to get out there because there are guys I've known for 15 years who've never heard me play guitar. They think I'm this weird musician . . . or just weird!"

Local Buzz

The saga of Downchild continues to get more interesting. Not only have they been contacted by no-less-than eight record labels (all of which we promised not to print, cuz we're as stupid as we are eager to please), but a certain media mogul (think equal parts Bill Gates, Satan, and pant-load) had his personal assistant get in touch with our leather-clad lads. At last check, their heads still fit through most doors, which is refreshing, considering how hard their butts are being smooched these days. Rapcore heavies and pro-Wormtown good guys, 7 Hill Psychos will be label-showcasing at their upcoming Motor City gig. The boys also make a pit stop at NYC's venerable CBGB's. Americore has found a European distributor for Rick Blaze's back catalogue of material, including the out-of-print Live with Walter Lure, originally released in the mid-'90s on Dionysus Records, one of our favorite labels. Local (self) promoter Dan Hartwell has signed on to book the Commercial Street Cafe. It should be a major step forward for the venue. The Magnificent Ambersons, after a handful of gigs, a pretty good demo tape, and a whole lot of promise, have broken up. Rats. And the second Thinner CD should be on the street by April. Best name for an album title we've heard in a long time -- Nothing To Hold on to But a Grudge, the proposed title of Huck's third disc. In a case of fast and simple, the Fearless Leaders already have their EP 90 percent in the can. Recording six songs in one afternoon, the rough mix (engineered by Rich Lorion) sounds great, so the finished product should be quite good! Speaking of, the advance cuts we heard from the Pathetics imminent release, Not Quite Right (ECAE), are nothing short of brilliant, in a very non-cerebral way. All hail Moron-Rock! Finally, congrats to Boston's long-running pop veterans, the Gigolo Aunts, who (after enduring the whim of an ultra-stupid record label, an aborted second disc, legal hassles, and line-up changes) have returned after five years with Minor Chords and Major Themes (E Pluribus Unum/Universal). Due for release now, Minor Chords is an absolute triumph that's not only a lock as one of '99's best but is also one of the greatest drop-dead, power-pop albums ever. Big Star, my ass.