A Portrait Of The Artist Jamming Econo
Mike Watt explains the dichotomy of gigs versus fliers, the intimate history of Ball-Hog or Tugboat?, his years with Columbia Records, and the continuing story of the Watt From Pedro Show
Mike Watt has a lot to offer, and speaking with him—called “spieling” in Watt-speak—is a colorful, interactive experience. Watt started his first band, the Minutemen, with guitarist D. (Dennes) Boon and drummer George Hurley in 1980, and together with bands like Black Flag, Hüsker Dü, and others, pioneered the DIY punk movement. The movement’s ethos were based on integrity, autonomy, independence, and living within your means (or as Watt calls it, “Jamming Econo”), and those values form the foundation of his four-plus decades as a working musician.
Boon was killed in a car accident in 1985, and Watt and Hurley regrouped as fIREHOSE—with guitarist Ed Crawford—the next year. The band signed with Columbia Records in 1991, and Watt stayed with the label after fIREHOSE broke up in 1994. But despite that major label association, he stayed true to his roots, which, as he notes in our interview below, was to his advantage. “I don’t have any major label horror stories,” he says. “Some of it was the track record—being with SST and doing all the tours—and not having a manager. They weren’t used to it. I didn’t take tour support either.”
The major sea change in Watt’s professional life happened in 1995, with the recording of his first solo release, Ball-Hog or Tugboat?. The album features a who’s-who of ‘90s alternative rockers—like Dave Grohl, Eddie Vedder, Carla Bozulich, Evan Dando, Frank Black, J Mascis, and 42 others—and a touring band that included Grohl, Vedder, Pat Smear, and William Goldsmith. The experience reframed his career, and, in addition to numerous and varied solo projects, opened the door to new collaborations, and lucrative work as a sideman with artists like proto-punk icons, the Stooges, Perry Farrell’s Porno for Pyros, J Mascis and the Fog, and a lot more.
I spoke with Watt at length via Skype from his home in San Pedro, California. Thanks to the magic of editing, I was able to convert our original 10,000-word transcript into a manageable 4,000 (and yes, the outtakes are amazing). In addition to discussing the history and evolution of his basic philosophy, we also talked about its relevance during his 14-year stint at Columbia, his first experiences on network TV, his more than 10-year tenure with the Stooges, and the ongoing history of the Watt From Pedro Show. As you’d expect, Watt was animated, and dug deep into his repository of lore from the old days.
How has the landscape changed for working musicians since you first started with the Minutemen in 1980?
Some things change, but some things didn’t change, and mainly, it’s still about playing gigs. That’s what attracted me and D. Boon to the movement. It seemed like gigs were the most direct connect—the least layers of abstraction. When we started the Minutemen, we decided to divide the world into two categories: there were gigs, and there were fliers. Everything that wasn’t a gig, was a flier to get people to the gigs. Records, spiels (interviews), photographs—even how you spell your name—all that shit was like a flier to get people to the gig. Even tunes, and even albums—it was kind of backwards—but we were taking the vaudeville concept all the way, where everything is about that moment when you’re working the room. Remember, me and D. Boon were 13 in 1970. We are children of arena rock, and we didn’t know about club culture. I think that’s why the movement had such an intense impact on us. You could see a band like the Germs, and then they’d finish and Pat Smear was right there and you could talk to him. That made the concept of the gig really intense for us. Before that, we’d hang out in the bedroom, and listen to Blue Oyster Cult and Creedence. Music was a whole different thing, it was something you did to hang out. But now we could express ourselves, and get our feelings out in front of people.
So the focus really was the gigs—although I don’t think we got paid until our 35th gig, which was opening for Black Flag. We did a lot of practice gigs, and after that, we still did gigs just to play. We found out about practice—you have to get together and get the songs worked out—but the real practice was in front of people. You had to do the other stuff to get your shtick together somewhat, but you’ve also got to sell it, and you’ve got to work that room. We found out that the real practice was actually doing gigs. In other words, what I am trying to say is that the payment wasn’t always in the coin. Whenever you play, it’s never wasted. You’re investing in the next time you play.
Were people coming to those shows?
Well you know, the movement started very small. You’d see the same people every weekend, but you didn’t really know them. You knew they had to be either out of their mind, or didn’t care what other people thought, because it was not a popular movement. Also, there were no real rules, you got away with whatever you brought on stage, it was that open. I think that can only happen when things are very small.
It took time to get your own gigs, too, and we had to open up for people. A lot of those early gigs were opening for Black Flag, who are great guys. Some audiences though—and this is not Black Flag’s fault, because they are very open-minded people—but by the time we started doing gigs, the audience was a lot of teenage boys beating the shit out of each other. They wanted you to play really fast. In the older days, you could play whatever speed you wanted, and some bands didn't even have guitars, there were no rules yet. But it started to get more orthodox, or uniform, which was kind of sad. But you could understand it, these kids were 13, they still had to go to school and take shit from the jocks. I could see where the creative side maybe took a backseat for them.
What can I say? You couldn’t be too self-important, but you also didn’t want them to run you off the stage, because that’s what they wanted. They were throwing stuff, spitting—I’ve been hit with more stuff than you’d believe. Once, when Black Flag brought us to Europe the first time—I remember it was in Vienna—on the first note of the first tune, all the power went off. When it came back on, somebody threw a whole pint of piss in D. Boon’s face, and I was covered with used rubbers. They were hanging off the bass [laughs].
Ooo.
In other words, you didn’t want to be conceited or egotistical, but on the other hand, they weren’t running us off the stage. But playing to unreceptive crowds helped the Minutemen with their identity.
How so?
Because if we didn’t believe in it, these motherfuckers weren’t going to.
When did the band start making enough money so you could quit your day jobs?
We didn’t do that, but every tour made a little money. No tour went in the hole. We lived Econo, too. “We Jam Econo” isn’t just a slogan. It’s not just something for the bumper sticker. The van, the practice pad—we started a label, too, New Alliance, inspired by the SST guys—because the movement wasn’t just about having a band, it was fanzines, putting out records, doing all kinds of things, but you’ve got to do it within your means. We didn’t see it as a stepping stone to the big time either, but after 11 years at SST, I ended up signing with Columbia Records, and I was there for 14 years. But because of the autonomy and the self-sufficient Econo stuff that I learned with the Minutemen and at SST, when I came over with Columbia, it was exactly the same. There was never a suit in the studio. I didn’t have to submit demos. I brought the finished work to them. I remember talking once to [label head] Don Ienner, just me and him at the top of the AT&T building, 550 Madison Avenue and 55th Street in Manhattan—we called it the 550 Death Star—and I told him that I wanted to do an opera about three guys in a boat. He said, “Do it!” I don’t have any major label horror stories. Zero.
Why do you think that is? Did they trust you?
I don’t think it was platinum sales. I don’t know. It wasn’t big charisma or anything. Some of it was the track record—being with SST and doing all the tours—not having a manager. They weren’t used to it. I didn’t take tour support either.
Nothing?
No, the tours made money, even the Minutemen tours. Not a lot. It was rough in a way, because the more they paid you, the more time they wanted from you. You had to take these little jobs, but you also wanted to have the freedom to do tours.
What was the advantage of signing with a major?
Distribution. That was the one problem with the indies. A lot of these guys had to go through another distributor that they didn’t know, and those guys had labels, too. Also, a lot of them had some bad business practices. They were fronting the whole thing on your stuff. The majors had their own distribution. In the old days, it was probably a mob thing or whatever, but I looked at it like this: in the days of the pay telephone, I put in the 50 cents, and as long as AT&T doesn’t jump on the phone and tell me what to say, it’s an ok relationship. Or if I’m on the freeway and a Cadillac drives by, if the driver doesn’t jump in my window and grab my steering wheel, I am ok to share that road with him in the Econoline. That’s the way I looked at it.
It was probably because of playing gigs and seeing what the promoter did. The gig wasn’t only about the band. It’s a collaborative thing—someone has to have a scene going, and has to print up tickets. If you live in this fairytale land of us-versus-them—and believe me, there are shitty people, and I work with them once [laughs], if you do it twice, there is something wrong—but if you go in thinking that it is me-versus-them, eventually even your bandmates are going to be your enemy. You get into that Joe Stalin way of thinking, “That motherfucker is thinking bad things about me. I have to take him out first.” Is that a way to live life? I still have people I’ve been working with for 25 or 30 years, these guys have a scene going where I can go and play. Am I going to look at that guy as the enemy? It’s the same with Don Ienner, the boss at the big label. He said to do the opera about three guys in a boat. That was Contemplating the Engine Room, which was an important record for me. It was when I finally dealt with D. Boon dying.
That’s mainly what it is. It’s still the fliers/gigs thing. Putting out records on a big label is still mainly to get gigs.
Even with a major label, your income is still not from record sales, but from touring?
Yeah, and especially those days, but things don’t stay the same. Maybe they’ve leveled out over the last 20 years, but remember, the ‘90s were the time of the video. There were people spending more money on the flier than the gig. The videos cost more than the albums. That was a weird time. I don’t think that’s ever going to happen again. Things were changing because of Nirvana. They were a lot more open-minded in the big leagues. Obviously with me, because I was never told what to play or what to write or anything.
Did Columbia sign fIREHOSE, is that how you started with them?
That was in 1991. There were three years left in the band. fIREHOSE did seven-and-a-half years, 20 tours, and seven records. I remember when I brought Edward “Piss-Bottle Man.” He said, “Mike, do you think this is the right kind of song for this band?” I kind of got the music from “Pictures of Lily” [by the Who], even the theme. I started thinking to myself, maybe Edward’s right, maybe I need a different project for different music. That’s when we thought about no more fIREHOSE. I still owed some records to Columbia, and that’s where Ball-Hog or Tugboat? comes from, which is 25 years old now. It was a solo record, but with 48 other musicians on it, so it’s not really a solo record. They were so amazing, and that might have helped with Columbia, too, because I didn’t use any managers. I just called people up. Columbia saw I could get things going, but that’s the world I came from. If you didn’t do it, you weren’t playing.
What did they think of the band you toured with? They must have been blown away.
Well, that was Dave Grohl’s idea, and it turned out to be a good idea. I didn’t even plan on touring. That was also the first time I stood in the middle on stage, which was scary. I was always on D. Boon’s port side, and Edward’s, too. The big mistake Minutemen made was keeping George Hurley in the back, that was stupid. You should see me now, for the last 20 years, I put the drummer way up front. We should have done that with Georgie. This idea of putting the drummer on top of a cake in the back and calling him stupid, fuck that. I hated that.
But for this tour, here’s Pat Smear, from the Germs, and now I am playing with him. Dave is on the drums and Ed [Eddie Vedder, Pearl Jam] is on the guitar. It was a scary. That tour was a scary thing, but it was a huge sea change in my life. But not how I did things.
It wasn’t Econo?
I kept that part the same, but now I had to front a band, and I couldn’t lean on the guys so much. That was the big sea change. I started getting involved in all these projects. I helped the Porno for Pyro guys. I helped J Mascis and the Fog. I ended up doing 125 months with the Stooges. All those things happened afterwards.
But the nuts and bolts part, that I kept the same. If you look around in this racket, things can be very elusive. Very fleeting. You can’t get too happy, even right now. I’ve saved up. The way I live, coming up Econo, the plug can get pulled at any moment. My pop always said, “Have a Plan B.” I kept the touring part Econo. I was playing in front of more people than I did with the Minutemen, but you never know when that might not happen.
Was that band your first time on network TV?
Had I done stuff like that before? No. I don’t think so. There used to be thing called community access, on the cable channels. We took advantage of that, and touring we’d be on some regional ones. But nothing like that, when we were on a network. I don’t think fIREOSE or Minutemen ever got to do something like that.
How does it work?
Being in a band with Pat, Ed, and Dave [laughs]. Put it this way, I didn’t make the phone call.
Do you have to be in the union to play those shows?
In the old days, when you were signed to a label, the unions had deals with the labels. So I’ve been in the union ever since. AFM Local 47. I joined in 1990 or ’91.
But not with the Minutemen?
We didn’t know about that kind of stuff. Luckily, we were smart in some ways though. For instance, we never let go of our publishing. We always kept it ourselves.
Did you start the publishing company when you started the band?
Yeah. It was part of the autonomy thing. How can you have any leverage if they own everything? I’ve seen so many wannabe rock star stories, we didn’t look at it that way. We were fans of music and performance. A long time ago we discovered, wherever you go, there you are. Outside shit don’t change you. You can make things worse though, especially your health.
How were those tours with the Stooges different from how you usually do things?
The conk pads were different for sure, they were very fancy. Also, they didn’t play every night. Older gentlemen. Three times a week. When Watt tours, there’s an old vaudeville saying, “When you ain’t playing, you’re paying.” On the Minutemen and fIREHOSE tours, there were never days off. You get in that cycle. With the Stooges, sometimes we’d go five days without a gig. But to learn a different way is ok. For one thing, it ain’t my band. I am not even a Stooge. I love these guys, I love the Stooges’ music, and they deserve the best notes and the best behavior out of me. But I can’t act like it’s my band and tell them what to do. I have a lot of experience with sideman stuff. But if you look at all the gigs I did, the Stooges thing was the biggest. I think in the ‘60s and ‘70s, they had bad experiences with being disorganized. So when it came time to do it again, everyone of those gigs I did with them, everyone was straight. No boozing or getting high. With James Williamson, with me and drummer, Larry Mullins—first Scotty [Scott Asheton] and then Larry when Scotty got sick—we’d go into his room and do the whole set. There was an incredible discipline with the Stooges.
They had a management team as well.
There was a tour boss and a road boss, and two helper men. Very small crew, but very efficient and very tight. Even though it was very different from Watt music life, in some ways it wasn’t. It was still about keeping things together. Until show time. When the show started, Ig [Iggy Pop] went crazy. But you know what? He hears every note. At the debriefing after the gig, he’d say, “I am going to call you on that Mike. I heard that third bar to the end there.”
He’s that aware?
He’s great. Somehow he has both this wild abandon and total focus. I don’t know how he does it, but he’s hearing everything. That was a great experience. One thing I learned was that you can’t learn everything when you’re always the boss and always getting your way. I learned so much stuff with the Stooges that I couldn’t learn otherwise. For example, I often ask guys to take direction, but maybe I should learn to take direction, too. Sometimes you’re the boss, sometimes you’re the helper, it’s about taking turns. You can be the shot-caller. You can be the sideman. You can be the collaborator. I’ve tried those different kinds of roles. If you see my name in the band, you know who to blame. Those are usually the projects where I am the shot-caller. With Il Sogno del Marinaio, an Italian band, I only write a third of that stuff, and it is mainly their band. Those guys are 20 years younger than me, but avant-garde guys, and I learn a lot from them. I have a project I just started here in Pedro with Mike Baggetta. He’s a Nels Cline-type of guitarist, and it is the first time I’ve had a dude write bass lines for me. I just did a whole album where he wrote the bass lines for his music. I had never been in that situation before.
How did you like that?
Trippy. But I let go. As we started playing in front of people—we played five gigs before we recorded it, which is the real practice—and the feels change. He didn’t want me to do a Xerox of those bass lines, rather, they were springboards or launchpads. But I had never been in that situation before. I’ve been in the situation where you take the place of a dead guy and you play the old songs, but I’ve never been in a place with new songs, where parts were written for me. Forty-something years into this, I am still doing new things.
It seems like the world has caught up to you. A lot of your attitudes from the ‘80s—dividing the world into gigs and fliers—is where the world is today. Services like Bandcamp seem to cater to those ethos.
I think Bandcamp is great. They’re doing another free thing on the first of the month [the first Friday of each month, through July 3]. Those are bitchin’ people. That’s from the old days, people with good hearts, although there were a lot of shitty hearts, too. But what about Walt Whitman? He put out Leaves of Grass himself, and that was 1855. DIY is an old tradition.
In the jazz world, too. Like Charles Mingus.
He had his own label. In fact, he rerecorded his bass on the Massy Hall LP. “It’s my label.” [Laughs] But like you’re saying, I was there in the ‘80s, and Walt Whitman in the 1850s, and Charles Mingus in the ‘50s and ‘60s. It’s just picking up on it. Being human is a huge chain, and we have a lot we can learn from each other.
What’s the history of the Watt From Pedro Show?
Next month will be 19 years, and every show is archived on the site. I had always been like I am with you, getting interviewed, on this side of the mic. But there was a pirate radio station in Silver Lake, KBLT. People lived there and had shows, and one show was with the singer in the Circle Jerks, Keith Morris. He had to go on tour, and he asked me to take his place. I had never done that. I drove up to Silver Lake, and for two hours I was playing music. And of course, when I am playing old records, I have stories. I did that for about two years, on Friday nights, from eight to 10. The station was run out of this lady’s apartment—she wrote a book about it called 40 Watts from Nowhere—and then the FCC caught on and shut them down. I was on tour, and I was bumming because I liked doing it. I was with some friends in Portland, conking at their pad, and they had just started a company hosting websites. I told them how bummed I was to lose my show. They said, “We can host the show at SightWorks, which is our company.” The funny thing about the Watt From Pedro Show was once you got about five miles from Silver Lake, you couldn’t hear it. It was a pirate radio station and only 40 watts. But with a computer, people can listen anywhere. So this is a way I can pay back a little of the debt I owe the movement. I play stuff, and have people come on and share their journey through music. Every person I have on, has a different journey. No two people have the same journey.
The other thing is that I start every show with John Coltrane. Raymond Pettibon turned me on to John Coltrane and it really blew my mind. I thought he was punk rocker. I didn’t know he was dead. He played me Ascension, and after that he took me to gigs. I saw Elvin Jones 10 times, as well as McCoy Tyner and other guys from that scene like Ray Brown, Cecil McBee, Pharaoh Sanders, incredible. That world opened up to me. Coltrane said, “Musicians are after some kind of truth,” and I said, “That’s true. I want him on every show.” After that, I’ll play music that ain’t merch. Stuff dudes give me on the gig or that I found on the internet. I don’t really care about the show as far as ratings, but it’s a place to go if you want to know a little bit about Watt.
And there are no ads. It’s a labor of love.
Do you know how many people I’ve met through that show? I’ve done collaborations through that show. It’s just like when you practice, you’re investing in the next time you play. “All payment ain’t with the coin,” I’ve found. There are different ways of getting paid. I know I sound like a privileged motherfucker, but my pop was a machinist. Plus, I really owe the movement.
But there is something about John Coltrane that really got to me. Almost as strong as D. Boon, in terms of the music connection. So as long as I’ve got those kinds of things that are so real in me, it can’t be compromised with other bullshit. It seems like those are my tethers. And then, you know, let the freak flag fly.