the king and I
an interview with the godfather of antifolk
Lach is the credited as the originator of Antifolk, the movement which spawned such notables as Beck, Regina Spektor, and The Moldy Peaches. Until the summer of ’08 he served as host of NYC’s longest running open mic, The Antihootenanny, held weekly at The Sidewalk Cafe. He sat down with me for this interview during an Antihoot in June of ‘06.
Lach does a few calculations on the corner of a cocktail napkin and circles the number 40,000 triumphantly. It’s late on a Monday night and we are sitting outside the Sidewalk Cafe, while inside scores of songwriters at the Antihootenanny are going about their regular business of trading songs, forming new bands, gossiping and trying to live up to their own Bohemian reputation. 40,000 is the number of songs we estimate Lach has heard at the Antihoot alone. Taking into account all the demos he’s been sent and listened to, plus all the shows, and we have a much larger number. To complicate the matter, we must consider Lach’s theories on the nature of time. He doesn’t believe in it, at least not in the sense that most of the world does. To him, past, present, and future are all events that exist eternally. When we look at the universe from a more objective view we see all times and events as simultaneous realities. So let’s be conservative and say Lach has listened to over 60,000 songs at the Antihoot and other places. Add to that the 1,000 he estimates to have written (a large portion of these performed and forgotten as quickly as they came to him), and one comes to the bewildering conclusion that right now, while I’m sitting across from him smoking a cigarette and trying to come up with my next question, Lach is calmly enjoying (well, mostly enjoying) 61,000 songs.
“You’re at the Monday Night Antihootenanny!” Lach says in a typical opening speech. “It’s a regular happening, a coming together. Amazing things are going to happen here tonight. Do you realize you’re at the coolest club in the universe? It’s the coolest club in the East Village, the East Village, the coolest neighborhood in New York, New York, the coolest city on the planet, Earth, the coolest planet in the galaxy, the Milky Way, the coolest galaxy in the universe... So enjoy it, make use of what’s here. Take the opportunity to hear something you’ve never heard before. If you like someone’s song, go up and talk to them. Write a song with somebody you just met, hang out and be a part of it. But please whatever you do, don’t ask me what number we’re on or when you’re coming up. If you’re here and you’re worried about what number you get or when you’re playing, you’re going to miss it. Numbers aren’t real, time isn’t real. Instead of worrying about what number we’re on, or trying to get a good grade, be a part of what’s going on. I mean, this is what you came here for right? I don’t understand people who come here and work a job they hate so that they can be a musician in New York and come to places like this just to leave early so that they can get up on time and go to a job they hate, so they can be a musician in New York? How does that make any sense?”
My first night at the Antihoot I drew number 72. “Fuck this, I get it, but I have to be up at nine,” I thought to myself and left. It’s hard to stop believing in time when you know for a fact the clock will wake you up for work in the morning.
My second week I came back determined to stick it out. I had been to a lot of open mics and met a lot of musicians, but nothing I could characterize as a community. I had no leads toward “being discovered,” finding an audience, or even getting gigs. On NPR one day I heard someone talking about Antifolk like it was punk, what it meant to be Antifolk, and how all one had to do was to hang around and play at Sidewalk Cafe to be part of it. I wanted to be part of something. I also wanted someone to impress, I wanted to be seen and escorted into whatever it was musicians coming to New York are looking for. That next week, seeing Lach play ringmaster all night, bantering comfortably with acts who all seemed to know each other intimately, mocking into the microphone the ones who obviously didn’t get it, and once in a while, graciously inviting someone who played an especially good set to play a full gig at the club, I got myself ready to impress. It was also no secret that Lach had the ability to get artists a break as he did a few years ago when he helped Nellie McKay score a major label deal after playing at the club for a short time. I bided my time until one in the morning, well after most of the crowd had left, knowing I was screwed for work the next day, ready to get on stage and knock Lach and all 15 people left in the room’s socks off. I got up and played a fast, loud, highly political song. It was kind of sloppy, but I figured at a place like this, obviously punk at heart, they’d love it and decide I was exactly what they’d been waiting for. After the song I waited on stage for a moment to be asked if I’d want to play a gig there sometime. “Thanks Dave,” he said, “please keep coming back.” For some reason this wasn’t enough for me. Knowing full well that it was probably exactly the thing not to do, I asked him later “is it taboo to ask you what you thought?” He screwed up his face real tight, almost squinting at me. “Umm, it’s not taboo,” he said with what sounded like disgust, “I guess I’d have to hear more.”
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(pg 1 of 4)
