Boho Bandits
Black Book
by Tony Marcus
Summer, 2000

The Dandy Warhols have no faith in Rock-'N'-Roll music, but plenty of relish for the game.

Portland, Oregon's Dandy Warhols are a dumb-as-you-like, smart-as-you-want, pop-art kind of band. They make pretty good rock 'n' roll, nothing special but solid enough (for the moment) to keep the band paid, togethero the road, and rich in photo shoots, interviews, parties, and all those band things that are just so much fun. Gathered in the garden of a London pub, the four band members drool over English cuties, play with matches, fool around in loud thrift-store clothes, and generally have a ball.

"Hey I know," says Courtney (tall, thin songwriter and singer, sensitive-decadent type, seeming band leader - the kind of guy you might feel safe taking psychedelics with but would regret it later when he started to play weird power games and work out what you were really like), "I'll be Zia."

Alright Zia (girl in the band, keyboards, Janis Joplin's tattoo replicated on her wrist, sometimes performs topless), do you have a romantic view of England? "I don't know," he/she squeaks, "I haven't gotten laid here yet."

They're a playful band and their basic game is Last Art Band in America - which means everything they do will be funny, cruel, sensitive, sadistic, ironic, and narcissistic. Their fans probably think they're a US version of Blur (English art shtick as a panacea for American crudity), but they've also got a bit of Marilyn Manson's dark wit. Like him, they are unbelievers. They have no real faith in rockenroll (spelling courtesy of Seth Morgan, the convicted armed robber and former lover of Joplin's whose one and only novel, Homeboy, is a masterpiece of crime, sodomy, sleaze, snuff, and poetry that effectively made the term rock 'n' roll both a verb and a lifestyle), but they relish the game, the publicity, and the thrill of the chase.

"We don't believe in rock 'n' roll," confirms Zia, the real one. "Just music and people."

"And serious pain," adds Courtney.

The Dandy Warhols are a youngish band (all in their mid to late twenties) who sound a bit like the monkees (fast pop and so very, very NOW!) and a little like they know that they should be paying lip service to Nirvana or something more serious (heavier riffing to suggest catharsis or lyrics that tussle with pastel angst). Courtney is keen to suggest that the Dandies have substance. I ask for an example. He suggests "Sleep" from their new LP, Thirteen Tales From Urban Bohemia. It's a fey and quivering ballad, Courtney lamenting over petty guitar, the rest of the band aaaah-ing in the background like a parody of the Velvets.

"It's about the feeling of abandonment," explains Courtney. "Being dumped. That feeling of 'Weren't we close? Did the whole thing mean nothing?' And said in as few words as possible. 'Sleep' has, like, eleven words, which are basically, 'If I could sleep forever I could forget about everything.'"

"It's about hurt," offers Zia, poker-faced. And then she turns to Courtney: "You really summed it up for a lot of people."

Bohemia - meaning the select communities of young and attractive people who take drugs, dress up, avoid work, make art (optional), and wish they hadn't missed Warhol's Factory - seems a subject close to the Dandies' hearts. It's a kitsch and dated dream but a suitable aesthetic for a clever and vaguely trashy rock band. And bohemia, insist the Dandies, is the land where they come from - a Portland demimonde of hipsters, weirdo performers, and naked people who regularly gather to watch the band play under such aliases as Fags Like Us. But what's the Dandy definition of a true-blooded boho?

"You can be a bohemian if you say you're an artist but never produce anything," says Pete (guitars, seemingly quiet, and later so disgusted by Zia eating with her fingers that he moves to another table).

"Bohemian means getting up at high noon," explains Brent (drums, impressive afro), "putting on the same clothes as yesterday, and trying to work as little as possible -"

Zia jumps in and finishes his sentences. "And to live as much as possible. That really is what we're all about."

"And not being told what to do by a boss," adds Courntey.

And wherefore the arts of somgwriting and expression in this formula? Perhaps just things that move in and out of irony on the edges of rockenrollbohemia. It seems a long way from the '60s and the more traditional rock myths about talent and lyrical craft along with political, spiritual, and cultural impact.

"We have more fun than the '60s bands," says Pete. "They had more options because they were breaking ground. But we don't have to break ground anymore. We just mix shit up and see what happens."

"It's not even about music excellence," says Brent. "You only need to be good enough to do it."

Zia concludes, "In the '60s there was a lot of turmoil. In the '60s it was still cool for people to pretend they were smart. Even for dumb people. Bands were important in the '60s."

And perhaps they are less so now. Or perhaps they are locked into masturbatory mirror games with the past, bouncing around images of Lou, Iggy, Jim, Kurt, and so on - most of whom are subtly referenced (or blatantly ripped of) across the Dandies' three-album output. Or perhaps bands today just enjoy being in bands, like it's some kind of weird game.

So the Dandies will do stuff like rent a disused gay bathhouse to record a new LP. And throw crazy drug parties for their friends. Who are also their crew. And the stars of their videos. "When we tour," says zia, "Everyone with us is our friend. The crew don't have a separate bus, they don't even have separate lives. We all have our lives together."

Which sounds a bit like the Let's Play Factory game - take drugs and do odd things just like Andy (although, in reality, Warhol's studios were pretty hierarchical and he did manage to challenge and toy with the languages of art and cinema at the same time). But what does Andy mean to the Dandies?

"We read his books," says Pete. "And our approach to music is a lot like his approach. We tend to combine styles of music that are already out there in a way that-"

"We really vibe on the Factory," interrupts Courtney. "We can dress up like nobody's business, Tripping on E and getting girls to go into their closets and dress up, getting them to kiss each other and show you their panties. If we were more Warhol, we'd be a cover band. We'd cover the coolest commercials. But we need more in our lives then that."

Man cannot live on panties alone. Or poses. Or play. And an increasingly rhapsodic Courtney wraps the interview with a lengthy meditation on the meaning or art. "Like the last time I stayed with Pete. We dropped some acid and went to the Met and saw van Gogh's Starry Night. And it dawned on me that what I'm trying to do and what all artists are trying to do is to validate yourself by creating something that exists outside your skin and that can reflect how you feel inside."

It's an interesting moment. The druggy poppet staring into the image of the great artist and working out what they have in common. It's probably a metaphor for hubris, but the Dandies, like all good bohemians, have an inexhaustible supply.