Yes Future

The Mysteries prove that punk rockers can, on rare occasions, age with grace

Newtimes LA
12/03/98
By Johnny Angel

Lenny Bruce once commented that "there’s nothing sadder than an aging hipster’’; maybe at the time he was right, but that was because punk rock had yet to exist. Fact is, very little is more ludicrous than an aging punk-rock "musician" who attempts to hang on to a mindlessly nihilistic stance after crossing the River Styx into 40-plusdom. Other than the 1996 Sex Pistols reunion tour that found the Godfathers of Punk cashing in at long last, there isn’t even a plausible fiscal reason for this kind of nostalgia any more, unless you’ve become unable to sleep anywhere but the back of a van or you love to watch an audience composed of people half your age collide with each other to lyrics that you’d never utter with a straight-face in any other context. If the bitter and/or pleasant realities of a lived life haven’t imparted any wisdom on an aging punker after four decades, then the person in question is either hopeless or deluded.

All of which is why it’s such a revelation and a joy to come across some of California’s hoariest old geezers from the first wave who have moved on to different pastures, putting down the leathers and the dogma but still plying something worth witnessing. That’s what you’ll find with the Mysteries, an instrumentals-only combo that holds court at the Lava Lounge on La Brea every Tuesday night: Founded and fronted by Jimmy Wilsey (the former Avengers bassist/Chris Isaak guitarist), this band is a total riot; with a repertoire heavy on the Hank B. Marvin/Link Wray late ’50s/early ’60s reverberation and twang, the band plays like a straighter, more trad version of New York’s late, great Raybeats. Eschewing vocals and clinging more to atmospherics rather than dazzling displays of chop-laden wankery, the quartet is a group of odd ducks indeed: Virtuoso players that refuse to show off, and former punk rockers aging with something approaching grace.

The lack of a bona fide frontperson only helps their cause; in concert, they’re more about ambiance and mood than about preening egos. Or, as Wilsey puts it, "I have nothing against singers. I just didn’t want any in this band." Capably aided by pedal steel whiz-kid and Telecaster-master Chris Lawrence, bassist Chuck Morris on slithering fretless, and legendarily manic drummer Nicky "Beat" Alexander, Wilsey has created a live mise-en-scène for the sonics that made him radio-famous back in 1991, when Isaak’s "Wicked Game" was a massive smash. That song (renamed as "Wicked Thang") is one of the high points in the group’s set of semi-surf and other such arcana. Along the way, such standards as Wray’s "Jack of Diamonds" and the Shadows’ "Man of Mystery" are essayed, but there are also some odd detours in the set-list; most peculiar is the inclusion of a pair of Jeff Beck titles, "Beck’s Bolero" and "Freeway Jam," the former done in a weird stately manner that’s light years from the frenzied take that appeared on the guitarist’s solo debut from 30 years back. Consider it another jibe at the Mysteries’ collective pasts: As a hippie guitar icon, Jeff Beck must surely have been punk’s public enemy number one. Prior to taking the stage on a crisp, pre-Thanksgiving Tuesday, the cowboy-hatted, laconic Wilsey enjoys a deep belly laugh at that thought.

"By the time the Avengers were coming to a close, I wasn’t even listening to what was ‘punk’ at the time," he says of the legendary San Fran punk band in which he began his career. "That was toward the end of 1978. None of us were. The whole scene had grown stale really fast. People weren’t going to gigs, and it was dying. After we’d recorded our second disc [with Pistols guitarist Steve Jones producing), we were done."

The band’s swan song performance was as support for the Sex Pistols final gig--or at least Sid Vicious’ last gig with the band, in ’77. "Winterland, 5,000 people all jammed up along the lip of the stage," he says. "The audience is trying to pull me off the stage, and they’re spitting gob all over us, and I knew that this had to be the end. It’s some legendary gig, I guess, but it was sort of disgusting."

Most people who’ve heard the Avengers would agree that the group deserved to keep such company; when asked if, like the headliners that night, SF’s finest punk band would possibly reunite, Wilsey just laughs. "Never. Nothing is lamer than a punk band reunion--I’ve seen a few, and they’re really sad. Myself, I’m just glad that Penelope [Houston, the Avengers’ lead singer] bought an electric guitar and is rocking again. She was doing that folkie trip for a while, you know."

After the Avengers’ demise, Wilsey hooked up with the lead singer and guitarist of the band Silvertone--a Stockton émigré named Chris Isaak. The latter hadn’t quite perfected his sound and invited Wilsey to help him do so. A star was born. The guitarist spent 12 years backing Isaak, and as the group progressed, Wilsey found that the singer began to write music and songs that fit his distinct, deeply ethereal guitar tone. The best-known fruit of their partnership is the once-ubiquitous "Wicked Game," recorded in ’88 and a hit in ’91 after its inclusion in the David Lynch film Wild at Heart. With that opening guitar line alone, Wilsey’s despondent guitar style was imprinted for the ages.

"I have to say that it’s a blessing that ‘Wicked Game’ is the tune that I’m most known for," he says. "I’m not embarrassed of it at all. It really is a good record. In fact, when I hear it in elevators now, I’m happy, not offended."

Living more or less on the royalties from the song, Wilsey moved to Los Angeles from San Fran last year and began doing session work when he came upon the right combination for the Mysteries. He wanted to do the instrumental thing, but he couldn’t decide on a lead instrument; he wasn’t interested in sax or simply another guitarist. Enter Lawrence and his pedal steel; after hearing both, Wilsey was sold on both his lead and its player.

The two make a great trade-off pair up-front. Wilsey’s simple, cutting guitar lines against Lawrence’s friendly bends on the double-neck are the stuff trad-rock dreams are made of; close your eyes and it could be a honky-tonk anywhere, anytime. Open your eyes and you will see a virtual encyclopedia of 40 years’ collected knowledge of how to dazzle the drunks; every conceivable stunt ever tried on a roadhouse bandstand is rolled out, be it Lawrence’s bag of noise tricks (stroking the strings of his Tele above the nutpiece for that "harp" tone or depressing all the strings of his steel and letting the bar roll down the strings as he looks on in mock surprise) or Alexander’s rising from behind his kit during a four-beat pause to have Wilsey light up a smoke for him or the latter’s use of the mic stand as bottleneck. Yeah, you’ve seen it all before, but somehow these guys make it work again. Beats the pants off ironic arena poses by milquetoast altie bands any night of the week.

All of these antics would fall flat on the crowns of their teeth were the Mysteries not anchored by their seasoned and tasteful rhythm section. Which brings us to the local legend that anchors this crew, punk-rock skin-pounder emeritus, Nicky Alexander. If Wilsey is Northern California detachment personified, than Alexander is nut-ball L.A. in a nutshell. Gangly, hyperactive, and perennially going off on one kooky tangent after another, it would take an octopus to transcribe all of the lunacy that dribbles out of his perpetually moving beak. On this night, the former Weirdos/Darby Crash Band/L.A. Guns/Cramps drummer is off on his latest obsession: gift-wrapping paper as international conspiracy.

"I believe that gifts should not be wrapped in wrapping paper; it’s a conspiracy to undermine American workers and waste their time so that we can be taken over by the Russians," he says, straight-faced, with the same goggle-eyed intensity he displays behind his traps. He’s kidding, you’d assume, but how could you tell--or, more importantly, do you really want to argue with him? When asked what he was doing 20 years ago this very night (in the context of punk rockers aging with grace, y’see), Alexander pauses for a moment, ponders the question, then looks up.

"I must have been beating off in a corner somewhere," he says. "In fact, I’m sure of it."

Alexander first met Wilsey at Silvertone’s only L.A. gig, the location of which sets the two of them off like some errant Spinal Tap outtake.

"It was the Cathay De Grande," Alexander says flatly. "I was there."

"Madame Wong’s," says Wilsey, smiling slightly, anticipating an escalation of volume.

"Nope, musta been the Grande."

"Wong’s," says Wilsey. "Although the first time Chris played L.A., we did the Anti-Club, that was..."

"The Anti-Club?" Alexander interjects. "Oh, my God. I was playing there one time, and I had cold water poured all over me and the ice from the glass went down my pants, and when I sat down at the kit, one of the cubes went up my ass. You can’t imagine how hot an ice cube up your ass is, man."

"Hot in what way?" asks Wilsey, and all laugh uproariously. There’s something to be said for the lived life of a veteran--the stories are all good, even if they evoke bizarre memories. Alexander has a library full of them, all of which are rolled out in no particular order at any time. Of his short stint in L.A. Guns, he opines that "as the hair got poofier, the music got shittier." Of his dismissal from the Cramps, he offers the same explanation that he claims the band offered to him: none.

"I had no idea why they sacked me. They just kind of let me go," he says. "I figured it was because I’d sat in with this band at Al’s and did some Cramps tunes, or maybe I was getting more complicated than that boom-splat beat of theirs. Who knows? Anyway, Ivy calls me and I felt so bad about it that I told her that I’d help field my own replacement, which isn’t done too often, let me tell you. She appreciated it, too."

With that, the drummer ambles over to the tiny bandstand. The band plugs in and "Jack of Diamonds" is unleashed. Wilsey rocks back and forth on his worn out heels, stroking the high-strings, Lawrence supplies the airy rhythm chords, Morris slides up and down the bass neck with an almost disdainful confidence, and the former Mr. Beat taps out the semi-surf. It looks effortless, like the best music always does.

Their faithful lap it up as well. The Lava Lounge has become a rocker’s oasis in a sea of drum and bass, novelty nights, bad swing bands, and whatever else has ended the glory days of tight pants and high heels. It’s like the Last Leather Roundup from the front door to the restrooms. Vintage cars fill the fetid lot; Comets, fin-tailed Olds’, and jacked-up ’Stangs gleam under the night-lights as their owners file in arm in arm. In a peculiarly Hollywood way, it’s tradition as schtick, but if it’s schtick, the Mysteries do it with more aplomb than anyone. As their first set reaches a close, it’s elbow to elbow in the room, and damned if you can even see the band for all the beehived and bouffanted ones about. As Wilsey closes out the set with an exaggeratedly slow retard, it’s nice to know that in this tiny corner of the universe, the verities still rule and that somebody made it out of punk alive and evolved.

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