Sausage Fest: Big Dipper at Maxwell’s

Have you ever seen the looks on the faces of 75 middle-aged men on a sunny day, eating grilled hot sausages? Following Townsman Chickenfrank‘s description as last night’s show got underway, that’s how I’ll remember the looks on the faces of the mostly male, mostly middle-aged rock nerds gathered at the always-excellent Maxwell’s in Hoboken, NJ to see the first announced reunion show of Boston’s underappreciated ’80s underground rockers Big Dipper.

The night before, the Dipper played an unannounced show in Boston to “shake the rust off,” as guitarist-singer Gary Waleik told me. Unlike those not-really-unannounced tune-up gigs that the Rolling Stones would play at a place like Toronto’s El Mocambo, this show truly flew under the radar, with reportedly a half dozen or so friends in attendance. So last night’s show was the first of a handful of planned rilly big shews.

With the exception of ageless powerhouse drummer Jeff Oliphant, who with a Workingman’s trim and shave actually looked younger and more vibrant than I’d remembered him in his more brazenly hirsute youth, the band members’ heads were grayer and their scalps more exposed. The audience had loosened its collective belt as many notches as would be expected. For better and for worse, few 20-something hipsters were seen text messaging in the audience. Our ’80s rock scene had come and gone before our eyes. Faces I’d seen many times over through the years slowly came into focus. Names often failed me at first re-introduction, with “dude” having to suffice. It was not a problem, never really was.

Sadly, perhaps, this was not the type of reunion show that brought out the uninitiated. Sadly, because after all these years I still marveled at the band’s insistent, nervous energy; pop smarts; and joy. Main singer-guitarist Bill Goffrier looked like he was about to burst out of his skin. Back in the day, Bill never lacked energy and showmanship, but seeing him in ecstasy last night was one of those moments we need to see expressed by our fellow humans now and then. There were many moments you could tell the guys were on another plane. Empathy was in the air, brothers and sisters. We need to get on that plane now and then, and what better reason to go to a show but to find the band ready for flight, in the cockpit.


The band was a little tentative at first, with “Faith Healer” suffering from a lack of balanced guitars in the mix. (ROCK NERD ALERT!) Early on, the soundman seemed to have trouble finding that perfect 50-50 guitar mix that Big Dipper’s arrangements require. I don’t know if he assumed Gary was a hot-shit, stereotypical lead guitarist or not, but I don’t think that’s the intent of the band’s guitar dynamic. (ROCK NERD ALERT now heeded, sorry.) Things took off when bassist Steve Michener stepped to the mic for “Easter Eve”. Although this was always one of my least-favorite songs on Heavens, the band kicked it into high gear at last night’s show. During one of the instrumental breaks, they first reached that higher plane by sheer force of manic strums on Goffrier’s Epiphone and Oliphant’s Mandom-laden drumming.

The performance of “Man o’ War” was a trip. After an aborted start and then a mixed-up final verse by “Space Captain” Goffrier in the restarted version, was announced as having been performed for the last time. Let’s hope that’s not the case for audiences at tonight’s Brooklyn show and, later, the band’s triumphant return to their hometown. Other musical highlights included “Meet the Witch”; the heavy, heavy “Mr. Woods”; “Ron Klaus Wrecked His House”; the snakey guitars of “Lou Gerhig’s Disease”; the shout-along of “Younger Bums”; and the exquisite “She’s Fetching”. Despite repeated shouts for “Jet” by a couple of assholes during the encore, the band did not deliver any of my hoped-for covers from years back.

Another thing: after seeing the audience-shy Stephen Malkmus & the “lie back and think of England” Jicks a few weeks back, I appreciated seeing a band move on stage. Of the 3 prone members, there’s no one but Goffrier I’d want to see shaking his groove thang on the dancefloor at even the most lilywhite wedding, but the force that the imposing wingmen of Big Dipper give off as they rock and sway to the music is too often lacking these days. That stuff reaches out and gives all the clodhoppers in the audience like myself the freedom to engage in some healthy mandancing. Take note, youth of American indie rock!

These guys should have been contenders. They were, actually – I don’t want to slight their achievements. What I mean is they should have been successful enough for me to feel connected to a slightly larger group of rock fans. I should have a reasonable chance of meeting a fellow middle-aged guy on a business trip and discovering that he, too, digs Big Dipper – the way I might expect to run into a “normal guy” who also came of age buying Elvis Costello records, or even records by The Jam. Is that too much to ask? One of these days I’ll get up on my soapbox and give US underground rock fans the tongue lashing that’s long overdue. When that day comes I’m going to get really personal, ugly – but this is not that day. This is a day to look back on a joyous night. And drink more coffee than usual.