When did “careerist” cease to be a biting accusation in the realm of
underground music? When did every punk with a guitar decide that he/she
deserved a living making music? Sure, it’s always great to see
hardworking acts reach a point where they don’t have to work temp
jobs—no one wants to slave away for The Man. But isn’t it equally
admirable to be financially independent of one’s art? To not worry
about the audience, the business, the whole game, but to simply focus
on the music?
Athens, Georgia, may have birthed unexpected hit-makers such as
R.E.M. and the B-52s, but the Southern college town also delivered
irreverent and tumultuous Harvey Milk. Born in 1992, the band worked
through the decade as little more than a local legend. They released a
few LPs on obscure, short-lived East Coast record labels and small-run
pressings of 7-inches that became treasures even the handful of
in-the-know locals had to hunt down in used bins and trade lists. They
were the band that opened for the Jesus Lizard when David Yow and
company came to town. And while they managed to land a few regional
tours with bands like Shellac and Godheadsilo, their upcoming
appearance at the Funhouse marks the band’s first venture out to the
West Coast.
It may not be fair to speculate on the degree of career ambition
within Harvey Milk’s ranks, but judging by their penchant for noise,
their controversial moniker, and their inclination to fuck with
people’s musical boundaries (with stunts like covering R.E.M.’s
Reckoning in its entirety), it seems likely that Harvey Milk
never had any intention of following Michael Stipe and Kate Pierson
into the big leagues. And their obscurity has always been part of the
band’s charm. It wasn’t until they initiated their eight-year hiatus in
1998 that their reputation really began to seep across Clarke County
lines. Relapse Records took to reissuing their early albums and singles
back in 2003, and in the process exposed the band to a whole new
audience. Henry Owings and Chunklet magazine began to sing their
praises. Harvey Milk fandom developed into a minicult.
Now, with their second post-hiatus full-length, Life… the Best
Game in Town, the band have further solidified that cult status by
enlisting longtime friend and low-end legend Joe Preston for
second-guitar duties and opting to work with
the esteemed
thinkin’-man’s-metal merchants at Hydra Head Records. While both
decisions helped garner more attention from fickle and snobby
noise-rock fans, neither augurs massive financial success.
“The band has always existed for our collective amusement,” says
drummer Kyle Spence. “That hasn’t changed. We were really excited about
getting out there and playing shows this summer, not really to reach a
broader audience but mostly just to play. We were hoping that the
touring would work out and maybe generate enough money so we wouldn’t
have to sell our instruments when we get home, but we’re not sure it’s
going to work out that way.”
Harvey Milk may be resigned to not recouping their expenses, but
their limited marketability has allowed them to remain creatively
liberated. With no expectations weighing them down, they’ve managed to
create a defiant yet remarkably palatable album in Life…. The
production is stellar, yet many listeners will probably find themselves
checking their speakers during the latter half of “Death Goes to the
Winner,” as measure upon measure of pummeling palm-muted eighth notes
are buried underneath red-lined throbs of static.
Harvey Milk’s mean mammoth-sized riffs and exemplary darker material
guarantee an audience (albeit a small one) within the experimental
metal community, but it’s their deviations from the sludge
formula—the
occasional lighthearted, poppier moments that
derail their malevolent facade—that make their work so
daring.
“It’s just how things worked out,” says Spence. “We don’t take any
of this too seriously—except the music. So for us to try and
present ourselves as doom mongers would be ridiculous. There’s
obviously a difference between how Creston [Spiers, guitar/vocals]
plays music and how he acts when he isn’t, and it’s fortunately not an
affectation at all. We never really went too much for the theatrical
side of things.”
Harvey Milk’s mixed moods and moments of major-scale melody don’t
feel like calculated attempts at winning over a wider audience, so much
as direct snubs to the metal orthodoxy. When Life… reaches its
most radio-friendly moment on “Motown,” it’s clear that Harvey Milk’s
embrace of pop is in some ways even more malicious than their bleak
doom riffs. The upbeat notes demonstrate both the band’s ability to
craft accessible music and their decision to reject it, but it also
hints that the band don’t quite fit in anywhere, especially not in the
more cliquey realms of underground music.
The album artwork shows a run-down living room: Beer cans litter the
coffee table, a beat-up Iron Maiden poster hangs on the wall—it
looks like a young metalhead’s first apartment. It’s an appropriate
illustration of a band releasing their fifth album well into the second
decade of their existence. There is no glamour in Harvey Milk, no
constructed evil pretense, no great aspirations—just a bunch of
dudes doing what they do, not giving a shit whether you like it or not.
It’s an attitude that may not win them legions of fans or stacks of
money, but it’s exactly this career apathy that has made them such
enduring underground heroes. 