Double Nickels on the Dime

Random reviews of random albums...

The Minutemen - Double Nickels on the Dime (1984)

What is a sigh? The dictionary on my Mac says it is a long, deep, audible breath expressing sadness, relief, tiredness, or a similar feeling. A Google search gives me more. Psychologists write that a sigh can be a reaction to discontent, a way to regulate breathing in times of stress, a subconscious action to express anxiety visibly, or a possible mental reset button.

I sigh when I listen to Double Nickels on the Dime by The Minutemen. However, none of the above connotations for the sigh capture my exact sentiment. I’m searching for a different word. English is often missing the perfect word for these existential moments. German, that’s a language that has some fantastic terms for moments like these. First, you got angst, “a feeling of deep anxiety about the human condition or the state of the world in general.” How about fremdschämen, “the feeling of shame when seeing someone else in an uncomfortable situation.” One more—weltschmerz, “describes the pain we feel when we realize the world will never live up to our wishes for it.” That’s a good one. Got to hand it to the Germans.

But still, I search for why I sigh when I listen to this album.

Double Nickels was my background soundtrack for piece of writing I recently worked on about Volkswagens and memories. I even used a song title as the name of the piece—“Corona.” It was the perfect fit.

The VW engine kicks and starts and the album begins. Then it is declared, “Serious as a heart attack!” The vocals shouted in such a way that you cannot doubt it. This is serious business. The Minutemen are serious on this, their 1984 opus, a 43-track, 81 minute, double album treasure. But serious does not mean stern or morose. Serious can also connote a dedication to being sincere in the music they create. To be true. These San Pedro boys’ music is true. 3-piece band, that sounds  like they recorded all of their songs live. No over-dubs or doubling up vocals. No George Martin Sgt. Pepper studio tricks. You might say this album is raw. I say sincere. Serious.

D. Boon’s vocals are poetry blasts, sometimes Dadaist one-liners, or barbed political daggers hurled at Reagan’s America. His guitar lines are abrasive and bright. Industrial stainless steel, but so funky. Licks that demonstrate that although The Minutemen get lumped into the Los Angeles hardcore punk rock scene, Boon was also studying Band of Gypsies era Hendrix and “Superfly” Curtis Mayfield. Mike Watt dances and bounces on his bass. The bass lines hop all over the auditory spectrum, commanding you to move. George Hurley on drums, snaps in time with Watt to create an enviable rhythm section. They hold down the songs as Boon’s shouts and guitar leads meander in unpredictable directions.  

Their musicianship rises above any punk expectation. The Minutemen were easily the best musicians on the SST label. They could jump from straight ahead punk rock to funk. From Spanish flamenco guitar to the avant-garde. From norteño polka to stripped-down, bare bones, bare your soul songs. And they wore no masks. “This Ain’t No Picnic to Viet Nam.” “Cohesion” to Nature Without Man.” “Corona” to “History Lesson – Part II.” None of these genre shifts feel contrived. They are sincere. Serious.

Did I mention “History Lesson – Part II? That song is sigh-worthy. Soft, acoustic guitar finger-picking, descending bass line, simple straight beat drums, no chorus, and D. Boon telling the story of The Minutemen, the story of his friendship with Mike Watt:

“Our band could be your life,
Real names will be the proof.
Me and Mike Watt, we played for years,
But punk rock changed our life.”

Boon continues on for three more spoken verses about driving to Hollywood from Pedro, about drinking and pogoing, about his dream to be Bob Dylan. He ends with one last tender line: “Me and Mike Watt, playing guitar.” That line always gets me. Serenity in its simplicity. Sincere and serious. The beauty of deep, deep friendship. Made even more poignant when you know that in December of 1985, less than a year and a half after Double Nickels was released, D. Boon and his girlfriend were involved in a fatal car crash. Weltschmerz.

So I sigh. I have an idea why now. There’s the anguish that lives on in knowing how D. Boon and Mike Watt’s friendship ended. Combine that with the feeling nostalgia breeds in the brain. Nostalgia for those moments in our past that we are happy to have experienced and maybe a little depressed to know that they happened once and can never happen again. To be a teenager and be played an album like Double Nickels on the Dime for the first time by a friend who was much older and much cooler. Where’s the great German word for that?