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1990.
Duluth, Minnesota.
A weird time, a weird place. A few years before 'Grunge,' would define the angst and (self-assumed) alienation of a generation (alterna-nation?), The Mighty Shock Tower would become (in their own minds at least) the missing link between the dirty, gutter-punk rock of Soul Asylum and the heroin soaked, fantastic voyages to the inner-Self of Jane's Addiction. They were young, eager, and ready to conquer a dying music scene through humor, good looks, and pure post-punk style. Take the Replacements' drunken, good-time-boy panache, mix it with a little pseudo-intellectual R.E.M. self-righteousness, and even -for good measure- throw in a pinch of 80's hairband posturing, and you have the die from which TMST was cast. It was all of that, and it was none of that. And it was so much more.
Lots of shows, lots of beers, and lots of broken hearts in those oh-too-short years before the boys headed south (physically and mentally) and self-destructed. Minneapolis never fully experienced all that Shock Tower had to offer, and by the winter of '91, it was all but over. Words were (mis)spoken, jaws were (almost)broken, and one-third of the Tower Once Mighty fled into that dark night of the soul(less) and woke up in the Arizona desert. The other two, rugged soldiers that they were, trudged on through the Grunge-y muck and churning maelstrom of those twisted Minneattle streets, carrying standards emblazoned with Thrill Hammers and Dartguns proudly into the fray. Freak flags to be sure, but a united front by which to weather the storm.
Things are different now, for good or ill. The flags that were once flown as heralds of the alternative, are now nothing but threadbare, fading strips of flannel. TMST became what they always were and then moved on, broke on through to that Other Side. They looked back occasionally, but the White Rabbit, in his hidey-hole, eluded them.
Time smoked a cigarette.
2008. The year of the Rat: a year of courage, of new beginnings. Could this be the year that the Tower is rebuilt for one last stand, if only to be razed again? The best minds of their generation would simultaneously champion and jeer the idea: some things are better left unsaid, some rocks are better left unrolled, and some songs better left unsung.
If, indeed, someday we should find each other standing at the foot of a tiny stage as the music from our past lives -animal, vegetable, or mineral- drowns out our reminiscing, like black sheep welcomed back into the fold, let us remember we have many things in common. Here's three:
We are young despite our years, we are concern, we are hope despite the times.
-Oscar Boscalasco
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