The Love Junkies @ The Hamlin Pub
6-22-01
review by Mitch Phillips

Free At Last

Napoleon K is a free man. After thirty days in the hole, another ninety with an electronic dog collar bungied to his ankle (add fourteen to that for blowing a piss-test), months of therapy, weeks of court dates and thousands of dollars made out to “The State Of Michigan,” K has finally been remanded to my care - provided he stays away from baseball bats and minivans. It’s a long story.
He celebrates his newfound freedom by demanding I take him to see a live band. I celebrate by letting him be my designated driver, my “D.D.”. Johnny Love, singer / songwriter / guitarist for The Love Junkies throws in a free bar tab and food at The Hamlin Pub in Rochester and we’ve got the perfect night planned.

Editor’s Conscience vs Capitalistic Conditioning

Now, it may seem dishonest to accept perks to do a live review of a band. But the fact is, I’ve never been paid to do what I do and I usually blow between $40 and $60 every time I leave the house. By now, if you figure it like an accountant, with all the reviews I’ve done, all the time spent in front of the computer fending off my family while I edit, write, post on forums and send e-mails, I’m at least several thousand dollars in the hole for doing what I love. So if an artist feels compelled to remunerate me for my time, I’m not going to be passing up free drinks on the basis of journalistic integrity. At least not until Rolling Stone or Playboy give me an expense account or until some sugar-mama with a bank-roll and a soft spot for sardonic music writers pays the tab. It won’t buy them a guaranteed good review, but it may tip the balance of where I’ll be spending my evening.

My Way or The Long Way

We finally arrive at The Hamlin Pub somewhere in the middle of the first set. I was hoping to speak to Johnny Love before he went on; congratulate him on his first-born son (Ian Allen), thank him for inviting me out, thank him for offering to pay the tab, etc...but K’s predilection for freeway driving (as opposed to the frustration of stop-’n-go city streets) demands we go twenty miles out of our way before we ever actually drive toward the bar. But I don’t fuss - for the comfort of knowing I won’t be reciting random chunks of the alphabet roadside later on. D.D’s are a beautiful thing.

The Love Junkies are covering “Cumbersome” by Seven Mary Three as we walk in the door. Johnny spots me walking in, runs up and wraps an arm around my neck while he belts out the lyrics - apparently “unencumbered” by microphone wires. His dark-purple, crushed-velvet shirt is soaked from performing and he’s sweating all over me. It’s only the first set and Johnny’s on fire . The band is nailing the vocal harmonies while the pub crowd sings along like a mass karaoke machine.

The Hamlin Pub

The Hamlin Pub is basically your average corner-bar - attached to a mini-mall as almost every corner of every suburban street in the North American is nowadays. The interior is about what you’d expect from looking at it from the outside - nothing special. There’s no stage and no dancefloor - it’s more of a restaurant that stays up past bedtime. But the joint is already packed by nine-thirty and I’m wondering if K and I are ever going to find a spot to squat. I order the first of many drinks and wonder if Johnny Love knows what he got himslef into by offering me, an ex-bandhead with a taste for gasoline and sordid adventures, a free tab. K orders food and a coke. Good D.D.

Johnny Allen: Space Invader

K and I manage to intrude on a small group sitting near the stage and watch while Johnny Love spins, crawls, jumps and climbs nearly every available platform in the room; the floor, the tables, the chairs, the speakers and, at one point, a barstool whereupon he hoists his small frame, lays backwards (all the while singing, mind you) and lets the barkeep fill his mouth with whatever liquor she happens to be pouring at the time.
All of these stunts are part of the show, of course; Johnny Allen makes damn sure you’re paying attention - and he’ll do whatever it takes to make sure you do. Johnny’s even placed a couple of tambourines in the hands of the most enthusiastic girls in the crowd who, despite being a little more than “tipsy,” can still manage to keep a beat. Allen’s the consummate performer and nobody goes away without being entertained. If you look bored, Johnny will invade your space, stick a microphone in your face until you smile, sing or run screaming from the room. You will not ignore the band in Johnny’s house.
Johnny screams, “Everybody say Yeah!”
Everybody does.
Johnny screams, “Everybody say Hell Yeah!”
Everybody does.
“We love you Johnny,” screams a drunk from a nearby table.
“I love you too, Man,” Johhny gushes sincerely. “You make my nipples hard!” There’s laughter. Johnny Love knows where he is; he’s a veteren master oft the esoteric art of “playing the crowd” and he uses all his skill. Appeal to their base instincts and the lemmings will follow you into the bottom of a sewer.

Crowd Pleasers and Paychecks

The band launches into Tom Petty’s “American Girl” and CandleBox’s “Shine,” among other contemporary bar staples. It’s not long before people start dancing in their seats and in the aisles. A wrinkled, balding little man with a button-down summer shirt (complete with checkbook, pocket-bible and three pens in the breast pocket) is dancing stiffly with a stunning young brunette with deep-blue eyes and a perfect, slender, tanned body bearing midrift paradise (Is that how harmless you have to be before a girl like that will dance with you?). When the song ends, she commences to sitting by herself in the front row, occassionally bobbing her head to a pleasing rthythm. No way she’s here alone, I think. Band wife. No doubt about it.
The Love Junkies continue to bang out crowd-pleasing covers, doing justice to each one with their tight vocal harmonies and exacting musicianship. But I’ve played nearly every one of these songs at one time or another and, despite the crowd’s enthusiasm, I can barely stand to listen. But I know the gig; playing covers pay the bills. Originals, in the context of The Hamlin Pub on a Friday Night, and for the purposes of this audience and the barowner, are filler. Unfortunately, playing originals and playing covers seem mutually exclusive; In either case your not taken too seriously if you do both.

Band-Wives and Tambourine Girls

The Love Junkies finish their first set and Johnny Allen wastes no time coming over to the table to thank Napoleon K. and I for coming. He makes sure we’re comfortable, well-watered and fed then begs-off to seek the guitar player from “The Gin Blossoms” who is reported to be hiding in the room.
Turns out the amazing brunette is drummer Slick WIlly’s wife, after all. I knew that. She sits back down in her front-row chair after a brief conversation with her husband and sips her drink, alone, staring into a space somewhere abover her husband’s kit on the back wall and lip-syncs the words to a country song playing on the jukebox. I stifle the almost overwhelming urge to sit down with her and strike up a conversation. But I don’t. I won’t. It’s like an unwritten law; a commandment from God to band-heads the world over. “Thou shalt not covet thy musical bretheren’s consort, nor even learn her name, lest ye are led into temptation as ye invariably are you irrepressible vermin!” I go with God. She’s an untouchable. She’s a band-wife.
On the flipside, one of the tambourine girls who kept the crowd kindled with her boisterous beat and raucous behaviour is a jolly Brit who’s utterly pissed (that’s British for ‘really drunk’). She has no intention of sitting alone, being alone, or for that matter going back to her flat alone. Turns out she’s a hairdresser who spends half a year in the states and the other half in Great Britan saving money so she can come back to the states. Despite the liquor-induced slur of her tongue, I love to hear her talk while she sways like a buoy in an ocearn of warm, frothy stout.
I turn my attention back to K who’s just now finishing up the last of his meal, chewing each bite a minimum of seventy-eight times, slowly, methodically, before swallowing what must now be liquid hamburger. He pads the corners of his mouth with a napkin he’s folded several times without disturbing it’s delicate geometry. With both hands, he slides the empty plate away from him and the ritual is over. I gulp my fifth drink too fast and dribble down the front of my shirt. He’s sober and caffeinated as every good D.D. should be. I’m stupid drunk and scribbling in my note-pad like a mental patient who’s channeling instructions for human metamorphosis from the late Franz Kafka.

More Of The Same, Yet Somewhat Different

The band starts their second set, singing, “...we can swim out past the breakers, watch the world die!” Another cover but the crowd is digging it; the tambourine girls are whacking the cymbaled rings and dancing in the aisles in front of K and I. Dr. Doug is thumpin’ his bass right in front of me and I’m gettin itchy to touch the strings and slobber on his microphone - it’s been too long since I’ve played. I settle for joining in on the dance, sweating whiskey with the locals to make room for more. Another decent cover, “who oh it’s good, who oh it’s good....livin with you,” and I stay for one more dance. Everybody’s having a good time and that makes the bar-owner cash-happy. It’s a celebration. Johnny graciously dedicates the next song, Bad Co.’s “Shooting Star,” to K and I.
The Love Junkies pause to change gears and play another original - but not before Johnny can reign-in the crowd’s attention with a lascivious gesture. “I’ve got to lubricate my mouth-organ, “ he says salaciously, then proceeds to lick a harmonica up and down in front of tambourine girl #2. Whoops and hollers follow and Johnny rips into the harp, introducing my favorite cut off their debut CD; the infectiously blues-driven “Didn’t I?” The whole band shines; Lucky Charms rips out a tasty morsels on git-tar, WIlly C. Love beats the skins while Dr. Doug (a.k.a. Yummy Love) spanks the bottom end. All this with the unrestrainable Johnny Love driving the Love-boat on harmonica and vocals.

Good-Bye Bowling Alley Blues

My ears perk up every time the Love Junkies play their originals; “No Regrets,” “The Moan of Lisa, “Phatty,” and The Banana Wigs, “Kick Me.” Johnny Love (a.k.a. Johnny Allen) has so much original material to draw from over his long career in the Detroit area he could play for a week straight and never crack the cover of his Fakebook. Tonight, he sprinkles a generous, yet sensible portion throughout three long sets.
Unfortunately, for this venue, The Love Junkies do what is expected of them, and they do so skillfully for the most part . But the set-list (including: Lenny Kravitz’, “Are you gonna go my way?” Jimi Hendrix’s “Fire,” Wild Cherry’s “Funky White Boy,” Kiss’ “Rock & Roll All Night” “Roller Coaster of Love” “The Wild, Wild, West” etc...) reminds me so much of my less-than-humble days in the bowling-alley bars and the tired suburban club scene it loosens my bowels and raises bile in my throat - regardless of the adept delivery.
Gigs like this aren’t really about experiencing original local music, but participating in desperate escapism without even a pretense that it’s about anything but getting drunk and having, or hoping to have sex. The Love Junkies debut CD, “Nasty Little Pleasures” (and the band’s name for that matter) winks at this phenomena with titles like, “The Moan of Lisa,” “I love Sex,” “Funk my Baby” and "Lawn Job" with quality songwriting and tight rock-n’-roll delivery. But, after seeing the performance, I wonder if that wink is really just an invitation, or a final surrender to indulge in more of the same ( i.e. If you can’t beat Jerry Springer, join Jerry Springer). Do the Love Junkies aspire to be anything more than your favorite bar band? Is “Nasty Little Pleasures” the white, midwestern soundtrack to bad sexual experiences and thick, unforgiving hangovers in strange beds? Does their music exist merely to facilitate more group-think chants like the phenomena of screaming “Get Laid, Get Fucked!” between Mony Mony’s thread-bare verses? I honestly don’t know. The Love Junkies are either deliciously sardonic or pathetically banal. I make it a point to see them the next time they’re showcasing downtown, where the expectation to play covers is not so overwhelming, distracting or necessary.

Old Regrets and New Adventures

What started as a noisome house-party at the corner bar has coasted to a unremarkable end due to technical difficulties with the bass, too many free-rounds from appreciative patrons and the need to just get home and sleep it off. The band, to speak in the vernacular of the night, ‘blew their wad’ with “Didn’t I” in my opinion.
An eleventh-hour offer from a cute blond, with the admission that she, “really, really likes sex” doesn’t entice or intrigue me. I’ve already been there. It doesn’t go anywhere or mean anything. The party’s over.
“You ready?” asks Napoleon K, keys in hand, looking refreshingly sober at 3 a.m.
“Yeah,” I say. “I’m ready for something else.”

Mitch Phillips