What about the other bands who made Tempe and Phoenix a musical destination? There were many that could have, and maybe should have, gotten their time on the national stage. Plenty of groups across town had the killer songs, deft chops, and charm and charisma to spare.
This writer should know: I was a regular on the scene, going out to hear these incredible bands several nights a week for years at a time. Additionally, I booked bands at Cannery Row (where I once allowed a 20-year-old Chester Bennington inside), put together multi-band benefit shows and wrote for a local publication called Blast. There was an amazing cluster of talent in town, and I feel privileged to have been even a thread in that magnificent tapestry.
While there were dozens of fantastic lesser-known acts I could mention here, there’s only enough space for a few. Here’s a look at six '90s Valley acts who made it to bat but didn’t hit out of the park. Oh, the rock magic that could have become a reality.
Gloritone
I grew up in Sunnyslope with original Gloritone drummer Dan Lancelot, so there was a personal interest in this primo group’s gritty yet melodic alt-rock sound. But there’s more still to this tale. Singer/guitarist Tim Anthonise was an insightful songwriter and a masterful guitarist for starters. Then, one night I saw Anthonise's girlfriend taping a colostomy bag to his torso before a show. It took a lot for the band’s shimmery star to come onstage in his condition and rock with such fervor.
The talented trio (rounded out by bassist Nick Scropos) signed to a subsidiary of RCA and released an album in 1998 called “Cup Runneth Over.” But the production was bland, and the band sounded tame and commercial like a watered-down Foo Fighters. Nonetheless, by the time I’d moved away to take a job, singles “Halfway” and “John Wayne” were getting played multiple times on a SoCal radio station.
Later that year, the band fired Lancelot and brought in Scott Hessel (current trapsman for Gin Blossoms). They released a second album, “Fainter Farther Still,” in 2001. To push their single “Swan Dive” on national radio, Hessel made it on the “Howard Stern Show” by promising to eat a banana split off another man’s posterior, which he damn well did. Talk about commitment.
The prank had Stern and his cronies in stitches and generated a huge buzz, with various labels expressing interest, but a final deal was never inked. The group disbanded not long after, and I asked Hessel why they abandoned the dream.
“We all hoped that we could sign with a major label, but it just wasn’t in the cards,” he says.
Beat Angels
The Beat Angels live show was a gas. I saw them a lot at the Mason Jar, the sleazy and darkly charismatic rock club run by cocaine cowboy Franco Gagliano. It was the perfect venue for the band, who dressed only in black and never came on before midnight. They put on a high energy, glam rock/power-pop show, with Twiggy-thin singer Brian Smith pogo-ing to the pulse. Meanwhile, guitarist Keith Jackson thrashed out the rhythm in a sleeveless vintage shirt while striking a dramatic guitar hero pose. It was always a good time if you could keep up. So why didn’t the band ever break big? They had major league connections in Alice Cooper and Gilby Clarke, and their 1996 album “Unhappy Hour” was catchy fun. Some folks in the scene said it was due to substance abuse, but it may have been something far more sinister: age. Most of the group members were in their 30s, while drummer Jon Norwood was nearly 50.
Plus, “Red Badge of Discourage,” the 1997 follow-up album, missed the mark in a major way. The songs didn’t shine, and it seemed that maybe the angels had simply lost their beat.
One
Kooky name aside, One was an awesome band. They were a Tempe five-piece that bordered on adult alternative classification but rocked a bit too hard to be pigeonholed as such. One's vocal presence centered around Shamsi Ruhe, arguably the best vocalist on the scene with pipes both nuanced and distinctive. Her brother, Jamal Ruhe, was a guitar virtuoso, and I loved hearing these siblings make sweet harmony. The songs, mostly about relationships, had a melancholic beauty and were executed brilliantly. This was a seriously talented band that even signed with a major label. I booked them for a large-scale benefit show at Boston's in 1995 billed as "Mercury Recording Artists One," which is how they were presented on flyers for a long time thereafter. People wondered when the album was ever coming out, and when was One going to explode internationally? It seemed imminent, but it just never happened.
The story is that the A&R guy who signed them got fired, and Mercury's new management didn't see the same potential. Was it that simple? Probably not. The truth is that the Ruhe siblings could be difficult: Shamsi Ruhe was frequently caustic and tended to put a negative spin on things. She was hypercritical, cynical and unbending, and rumor had it that Mercury basically told her and the band to kick rocks.
The Fake McCoys
A jam band fronted by the beguiling Ralo (real name: Lora Heiniemi), The Fake McCoys came to the Valley in the late ‘80s. In 1995, they released an excellent independent LP called “Umbrella” that was heavy on the jams and ballads with soulful, heart-wrenching lyrics. My experience with the band, however, went just a wee bit differently than being moved by their music. I went to see them at Sail Inn, just a stone’s throw from Mill Ave. I’d intended to write about them for Blast magazine, so Ralo and I met in their car. A lively conversation led to a joint by the dashboard light. Ralo left for the stage as I felt the weed coursing through my nervous system.
Ralo glided on stage where the band was waiting — no chit-chat or intro, just the crowd instantly mesmerized by Ralo’s movements. She twirled and danced like an eight-armed goddess while she sang, her footwork flawless and her voice sublime. Everyone was in love, and I was mostly stoned.
The fact is, I have no idea why Ralo and the boys didn’t make it. She was something special, and the group was at the forefront of the jam band scene. Maybe they would’ve gone somewhere if they’d simply stuck together?
Spinning Jenny/The Jennys
Power pop was something of a cult experience in ‘90s Phoenix. (I should know, I was part of it.) Bands like Autumn Teen Sound (later Sugar High), the aforementioned Beat Angels and The Lemmings all meant seeing the same friendly faces at every thrilling show. One of the best power pop bands I’ve heard, regardless of label status, was Spinning Jenny (later The Jennys). Led by Steve Easterling, this group had killer songs, stellar musicianship and beautiful four-part harmonies. I saw them at Long Wongs, Yucca Tap Room, Hollywood Alley, the Electric Ballroom, and on down the line. Even all these years later, 1995’s “A Pinata Full of Bees” maintains a place on my regular listen pile.
One night at Easterling’s house after a show, he started talking about how cool it would be to have a country act and tour around, pretending to be singing cowboys. It seemed like a horrible idea, but that’s exactly what he did, joining forces with Spinning Jenny’s original guitar whiz Freddy Gildersleeve. I guess as far as Steve was concerned, The Jennys were already over as a band.
Years later, I hosted the local music show on Tucson’s KXCI and invited the duo Easterling & Gildersleeve to come on. They arrived in Western wear, sporting cowboy hats and thick shitkicker accents, effectively fooling everyone at the station. Easterling didn’t remember me at first, so I said, “Steve, it’s me. You can drop the accent.” He did right up until the On Air light turned red, and back came that particular drawl of his.
I was sad to see guys from a once-great Tempe band who had created an authentic emotional connection with listeners do something as disingenuous as becoming a phony country act. But it worked well enough, and the duo took a certain delight in pulling the wool over people’s eyes.
Trunk Federation
Trunk Federation didn't seem to play out too often but, when they did, it was cause for celebration. I was lucky to catch them twice at the Mason Jar, and each time was an enchanting display of sonic and aesthetic lunacy, like stepping into a rock n’ roll wonderland. The band, known for their herky-jerky style of guitar-driven rock, made every rare performance a spectacle. They typically wore uniforms onstage, with options from pajamas to ‘70s jumpsuits. Extra weird slideshows were projected on the screen behind the band at all times. They used Lite-Brite to spell out “Fuck Off” or anything else that entertained them at the moment. My favorite gimmick, though, was the mannequin head disco ball spinning on a turntable, spraying its buoyant beams of light in every direction.
The group signed to Alias Records, an up-and-coming label that was home to indie heroes Archers of Loaf, and released two discs before parting ways. They then issued “Lay the Hip” on Plastique in 2000, and Jim Andreas relapsed after eight years of sobriety.
“When Trunk Federation began, I was clean and sober,” says Andreas. “I had given up drinking and everything, and then, after about three or four years of touring, I just kind of caved in.”
Trunk Federation’s last show was at Boston’s with former labelmates Archers of Loaf — they were then supposed to open for them on a leg of a tour. However, Andreas got too messed up one night, and his bandmates pulled the plug on the excursion.
“And that was the end of it,” says Andreas.
