THE CALL: This Headline Contains No Puns
Such is your affection for the one song of the Call’s that everyone’s heard—the one that struck you as a wondrous marriage of the Sex Pistols, Talking Heads, and Larry (“Boney Maronie”) Williams— that you go to see them on a week night at a grotty little nightclub in a Northern California town so small that four of the City Council’s six members are barnyard animals.
THE CALL: This Headline Contains No Puns
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“We speak from such a limited, myopic generational context.” —Michael Been
by John Mendelssohn
Such is your affection for the one song of the Call’s that everyone’s heard—the one that struck you as a wondrous marriage of the Sex Pistols, Talking Heads, and Larry (“Boney Maronie”) Williams— that you go to see them on a week night at a grotty little nightclub in a Northern California town so small that four of the City Council’s six members are barnyard animals.
There’s a pasture where the backstage area should be, so it takes you a while to find the group’s dressing room. It turns out to be as big as a walk-in closet. Diana Ross wouldn’t be able to fit all her socks in it, never mind all her shoes. And it’s as airless as it is cramped. So you understand lead singer Michael Been and drummer Scott Musick’s willingness to follow you out into the damp March night in search of a place where they’ll be audible over their opening act.