The Zeitgeist of 1985, Pt. 1
Beach Cabaret, Liberty Lunch and the Continental were the Angel's Triangle of '80s indie rock bands
'Veronica loves True Believers, Wild Seeds and Doctors' Mob; likes Dharma Bums and Glass Eye; hates Zeitgeist. Lesa loves Zeitgeist and Dharma Bums; likes Wild Seeds and Texas Instruments, thinks True Believers are so-so. Patrice loves True Believers, Zeitgeist and Glass Eye and likes everyone else except Poison 13.'
- 'The New Sincerity,' Michael Corcoran (Spin Feb. 1986)
All of a sudden there were all these bands that listened to the same records, yet sounded almost nothing alike.
It was the mid-'80s and Austin was becoming known, musically, for more than progressive country and electric blues. MTV gave an entire hour to the new Austin bands, Rolling Stone sent feature writer Steve Pond down for a report, and Spin went all out, devoting a seven-page spread to "The New Sincerity," a tag issued as an insult from an old waver, yet worn like a crown by unpretentious new bands having the time of their lives.
Austin was in the throes of a real-estate bust (cheap rent!), but the music scene centered on the Beach Cabaret and the Continental Club was booming. "This Ain't the Summer of Love," the Dharma Bums sang in the midst of sweaty, delirious faces. Zeitgeist's "Things Don't Change" was another anthem embraced, in part, for its irony.
There were so many defining records of that era: Mud, Lies and Shame by Wild Seeds, Headache Machine by Doctors’ Mob, Bent by Nature from Glass Eye, the Scratch Acid EP, Sun Tunnels by T.I., Poison 13 on Wrestler, but the Lost Generation of Jangly Guitars was officially ushered in with the 1985 release of Translate Slowly. That Zeitgeist record was proudly Texan (covers of Willie's "Blue Eyes Crying In the Rain" and the instrumental "Hill Country Theme"), yet exotically powerful and artfully accessible.
Talk about chemistry; the interplay between John Croslin's deadpan growl and Kim Longacre's angelic harmonies sounded like a merger between the Velvet Underground and the Mamas and the Papas. Bassist Cindy Toth, so shy offstage, would lose herself in the rhythms, while Garrett Williams, a more musical drummer than most, pulsed in tune with Croslin's muscular guitar. This was a dynamic band of four individuals - two men and two women - who melted together in song. And cooked cheeseburgers together at Mad Dog and Beans.
If the major labels drafted unsigned acts like their pro sports counterparts do players, Zeitgeist would've been a lottery pick. The band signed with Capitol, home of the Beatles. They were on their way. Everybody knew it.
They had the songs- "Freight Train Rain," "Almost Home," "Cowboys," "Araby," "Secretariat"- but as good as Z-Reivers were on record, they were better live. No one smashed the pane between musicians and audience so jubilantly.
But in the summer of '87, the band lost nearly all its momentum when a Minnesota choral group called Zeitgeist (which means "spirit of the times") demanded a name change. To avoid a lawsuit, Capitol wouldn't put out the next record, the Don Dixon-produced Saturday, until Austin's Zeitgeist found a new handle. I had a few suggestions- Whitegeist, Two Nice Couples, Platonic Youth- but they went with the Reivers, after the William Faulkner novel. Zeitgeist was such a perfect name.
The band, which also released End of the Day on Capitol in 1989 and its 1991 swan song Pop Beloved on DB, reunited in 2008 for its first gig in 17 years at the Parish. The pair of sold-out shows came out of nowhere, with no reissue to hype or anniversary to mark. Fans flew in from all over the country for a show like the old days, a fun gig in a room full of friends. And no, the group, which always shirked the obvious, did not open with "It's About Time."
1985 lasted only two years. The first blow came on Sept. 1, 1986, when the drinking age rose from 19 to 21, hurting the clubs at the register and the bands in the amount of energy they got back. But the zeitgeist started really souring in '87 when both the Mark/J’Net Continental Club and the Beach closed.
The Beach (in the former 2911 San Jacinto St. location of folkie hangout You Scream Ice Cream) was unique as a live music venue in that it was a campus neighborhood bar, with a big patio in front. That sense of hominess continued inside, where Daniel Johnston got his first cheers of encouragement (and a few jeers, too), opening for Glass Eye.
Not just the haven for “college rock” bands, the Beach booked punk acts like Scratch Acid, Criminal Crew, Cargo Cult, Vertibeads and the Crybabies. There were occasional fights when frats infiltrated the punk scene, or when the skinheads showed up. But 99% of the time, the place had a laidback vibe. And, usually, Doctors’ Mob holding court on the patio was as entertaining as all the bashing around inside. “I love what you guys are trying to do,” was Glenn Benavides’ impression of an A&R guy meeting the Mob. There was also a lot of inner band gossip and the Debate of 1985: True Believers or Zeitgeist?
Owner Chris Mossler, the adopted son of infamous Houston socialite Candy Mossler, sold the Beach in 1987 to the Crown & Anchor folks, and focused on the bigger South Bank club at the corner of Riverside and Barton Springs. It was a great room, but barely made it to 1988. Tragically, Mossler died in a one-car accident on North Lamar in 1990, at age 37.
True Believers died in ‘87 after Benedict Escovedo joined MCA recording artists Will and the Kill, who had a tour bus. After five years on the Troobs’ Hard Road, Javier was ready for his own bunk.
After all the media attention on Austin and the emergence of Timbuk 3 (not really part of the scene), bands started moving to town to make it big. South by Southwest launched in ‘87 and everyone was looking for a record deal. The amp was blown on a scene that was hyped up to 11. Even the Butthole Surfers weren’t cool anymore.
Austin was tagged the next Athens, GA. But we never produced an R.E.M. or a B-52s, just a whole lotta Pylons and Love Tractors and Guadalcanal Diaries.
In 1985, that was more than enough. But by the end of the decade it was failure.
Watch MTV’s “Cutting Edge” devoted to Austin 1985.
It can’t be arranged, or planned or bought, even by Rupert Murdoch. It just happens. Like it did with Zeitgeist. When they played, you forgot that they seemed to take this rock and roll stuff too seriously. They were bent for success in the beginning, but eventually bent by the lack of it. Seventeen years is a long time to stay away from what you love.
There was one particular Zeitgeist moment that stands out to me. It was November 1985 at the South Bank. A pregnant Kim Longacre was playing her last gig before leaving the band to have kids. I was sad, emotional, loving every minute of the show. And I had half a gram of inspiration at home. As we know, Kim rejoined the group after a few months for three more albums, but I didn’t know that when they started playing “Translate Slowly” at the South Bank for “the last time.” Here’s what I wrote the next morning:
John Croslin strums lightly, and gradually the decibels split into more decibels though Croslin is still strumming lightly. He takes the rhythm to the corner where Longacre awaits and their vocals collide in passion like first-month lovers meeting for lunch, but too head-over-heels to eat. They never doubt that it will always be like this.
When you don’t understand me/ You need help for to see what you can’t see
In these times that we have/ Translate slowly
The harmonies hold hands, fingers intertwined the junior high way. Love is all these voices have in common.
Apart they seem searching, together they’re fulfilled. Voices so in love. Never doubting.
A lullaby to myself might mean nothing/But it helps all the same
Years later I will recall Austin as it is now, and this is what I hope I remember best about the spirit of the times.