by Coury Turczyn
They were a band of scrappy kids from the hard streets of Kingsport. With their pale complexions and abundance of college degrees, they seemed an unlikely group to one day be called "rock gods." And they weren't. But as the Swamis, these four scrawny boys stunned the nation (or certain parts of Knoxville) with their revolutionary, turban-powered rock sound. They climbed aboard the party train of the '90s alternative rock scene and rode it straight to the top...until they were derailed by their own voracious appetites.
Drugs, fashion models, expensive sports cars, and Pabst Blue Ribbon... not much of that really happened to the Swamis (except for the PBR), yet they still managed to self-destruct at the height of their success. But for their fans, the Swamis will live forever as legends in the pop-oriented, somewhat-danceable, garage-rock-with-lyrics-that-manage-to-be both-silly-and-literate genre.
And now, these aging rock heroes are at last reuniting for a one-off performance, not just to cravenly exploit local Gen-X nostalgia for their long-past glory years, but to introduce a whole new generation of fans to such timeless hits as "Wrap Your Cheese." But what can be learned from the rise and fall and semi-rise of the Swamis—and more importantly, how can we use their story for our own profit? Join us now as we look... Behind the (Knoxville) Music!
BEFORE THEY WERE ROCK STARS
The Swamis story begins with the friendship of its two creative geniuses, John "Immature Scientist" Tilson and Dave "Nickname Pending" Kenny. Not unlike such songwriting partnerships as Lennon and McCartney, Jagger and Richards, or Peaches and Herb, the "Tilson and Kenny" credit would someday become a rock 'n' roll trademark (in this case, for really goofy songs about ice cream-selling Vietnam vets). But this soon-to-be-legendary duo had humble beginnings in the late '80s.
"Dave and I began writing songs together in high school," remembers Tilson, ensconced in his palatial estate in East Knoxville. "We would rather spontaneously create musical comedy tapes using instrumental selections from albums in Dave's record collection."
Sadly, this bizarre practice would continue for years, even as the two small-town boys kicked the dust of Kingsport off their heels and headed for the dizzying sights and sounds of the Big City: Knoxville! As roommates at the University of Tennessee, though, they eventually progressed to writing their own music. Not long after, they instinctively decided to actually learn how to play their instruments, with Kenny taking up guitar and Tilson noodling on bass.
After spending a few years refining their talents, they were ready to start a band. Now living in squalor in Knoxville's toughest neighborhood—the notorious Fourth & Gill—the boys called upon another Kingsport ex-pat who knew (roughly) how to play guitar, Daniel Moore. All they needed now was a drummer, and after an exhaustive search they hired Kenny's housemate, Iron Maiden fan Paul Doughty.
The mix of personalities made for a perfect rock 'n' roll cocktail: Kenny was theatrical and stylish, the teen idol; Tilson was earnest and thoughtful, considered the brains of the outfit; Moore was the quiet, sensitive one who nevertheless developed his own songwriting abilities; and Doughty... well, not much is known about Doughty, who soon became noted in history as "The Fifth Swami." They combined to form a new sound in rock 'n' roll: nerd rock.
"Sloppy, listenable, danceable, juvenile, erudite, naturalistic, contrived, populist, elitist. We had all of those elements and yet none of them," muses former heartthrob Kenny, now employed as an efficiency consultant to global corporations.
The world (or certain parts of Knoxville) would never be the same.
MAKING THE BAND
The Swamis' first gig—barely a month after forming—was on February 2, 1991 at Kenny's house for a Groundhog Day party. Knoxville's music-scene elite—including members of the Judybats, the Planet Earth nightclub, and Raven Records—gathered for the auspicious debut of an important musical force, a night that would become immortal.
"I can't remember any particular shows," admits music impresario and former Raven Records owner Jay Nations. "I probably breathed second-hand smoke and drank some first-hand beer at a Gryphon's show and heard some first class yuk-it-up rock 'n' roll. I was always fond of the bright yellow cassettes they sold. And their press releases were always funny."
As a tidal wave of buzz crashed across Knoxville about the Swamis' victorious house party, the band was soon on the 8-track to success. In those primordial days of the Knoxville music scene, bands would actually encourage one another, and the group was invited to play with the biggest band in town at the hippest club.
"Soon after that we opened for Smokin' Dave at Planet Earth," says Tilson, relishing the memory. "We really struggled because we'd never been on a stage before, and we couldn't see our frets to play the right chords."
Nevertheless, the Swamis had something, and that something was hard to describe. Jangly, mostly on-key, and so smart they verged on being smartasses, the Swamis brandished a new style of pop music that did away with rock-star poses and replaced them with the confidence of multi-talented nerds who didn't care what other people thought. Their music ranged across '60s mod-pop ("Al Capone"), semi-Californian psychedelia ("Phallocratic Campfire Song"), country romps ("Mother in Law"), funk ("Hefty Cleft"), sick-in-the-head weirdness ("Ice Cream Man"), even spoken word ("God's Green Elves").
Along with Smokin' Dave and the Premo Dopes and the Taoist Cowboys, the Swamis formed a new wave in garage rock that one local music critic for a disreputable bi-weekly publication fruitlessly tried to dub "hightop rock," after their preferred footwear.
"The Swamis weren't the first band fueled by cheap beer, bad food, and the need to have something do besides sit around in their filthy apartments, but they were one of them," says Lee Gardner, now music editor of Baltimore's City Paper. "Whenever the Swamis were having a good night at Gryphon's, they were undoubtedly the best rock band for several blocks in any direction. They usually had the Gryphon's regulars in their pocket like a pint bottle of peach schnapps."
Swamis shows became legendary as the group tested the boundaries of musical expression, inspiring a following of loyal "turban-heads" who would follow them from gig to gig (which would sometimes mean more than one show a month).
"Being a Swamis fan had the same appeal as being a rubber-necker at an accident scene," says Kenny. "It was the one band you could count on bandmembers and fans alike to say, 'What the hell were they/we thinking?' The songs practically wrote themselves. Anyone in our audience could reflect on the art unfolding in front of them and say, 'I think I could easily do that, but I don't want to.' We tried to make each live performance a poorly choreographed musical train wreck. I think we succeeded."
Recording that energy in the studio was no small task, but the band knocked it out one day at Tilson's house. The eponymously titled cassette release—also known to insiders as Coin Laundry Lounge—instantly launched the Swamis into county-wide success. As regular headliners at Knoxville's most exclusive venue, Gryphon's Laundromat, they were spin-drying their way to fame and fortune.
Until disaster struck.
ALL ACCESS
Although there were no heroin overdoses, sex-crime charges, or car crashes involving a Ferrari (though Moore once did get stuck behind a stalled Fiero customized to look like a Ferrari), the Swamis nevertheless had to face a crushing personal blow:
Drummer Paul Doughty quit the band to become a evolutionary biologist in Australia. He decided to trade rock 'n' roll glory for what he felt was his true calling: the study of lizards in the outback.
Rather than break up after such a common rock-band disaster, the remaining members bravely chose to struggle on, employing local drummer-for-hire Jeff Bills. The bespectacled, cardigan-wearing Bills immediately super-charged the Swamis' sound with a funky backbeat that endeared the group to legions of new fans. Thus, out of the ashes of despair, the Swamis rose phoenix-like to even higher heights of popularity, releasing their fresh sound on the now-classic Turl.
The new cassette immediately rocketed off store shelves at the breathless pace of several a week, putting the Swamis into a whole new echelon of success. They weren't just a group of pals playing odd songs—now they were rock stars. The Swamis lifestyle became intense: Kenny surrounded himself with groupies, not all of them imaginary; Tilson became a reclusive genius, recording never-released, 3-minute yodeling masterpieces in his basement studio; Moore's addiction to Pop-Tarts went dangerously out of control, as he sometimes ingested as many as two an hour; Bills bought more cardigans than he could ever possibly wear. Something had to give.
"This should have been the best time of my life," confesses Bills today from an undisclosed rehab center in Vestal. "The Swamis were moving along at the peak of their popularity. I mean, we were playing once a month to at least 30 to 40 people. But all the partying and carrying on just left me empty inside."
So much so that Bills was driven to the precipice of suicide, which he reveals here for the first time:
"One night after way too many Jack and Blacks, I came home depressed as hell. I took a whole bottle of what I thought were sleeping pills to just escape to the other side. But they turned out to be Walgreen's aspirin instead. I couldn't feel my left leg for a week. On the flip side, I haven't had a headache in eight years."
Despite their public image of fun-loving goofballs, deep inside the Swamis were torn by personal conflicts. The breaking point was reached when the band members discovered that their record label had been ripping them off for years—and since they weren't actually on a record label, this was particularly troubling. Finally, they called it quits in 1993, drawing the curtain on a blazing two-year career. To this day, the members are reluctant to talk about the final moments of the band.
"We didn't break up, we imploded," insists Tilson. "One does not even have a chalky residue of emotion when one properly implodes."
WHERE ARE THEY NOW?
After calling it quits, each Swami followed his own musical muse. Bills joined a series of short-lived outfits, including a suit-and-tie-wearing Jamaican reggae band called the Viceroys. Moore and Kenny boldly introduced surf music to confused Knoxville audiences as the Ray-O-Vacs (a defamation lawsuit by the battery-maker is still being pursued). Tilson created one of Knoxville's most beloved experimental ukulele bands with the Vacationist League.
Nevertheless, despite their personal successes, each musician considered himself to be a Swami at heart. Together, they had espoused a musical ethic that is missing from Knoxville's current music scene: fearless experimentation in the face of deep embarrassment.
"Dave once said our musical goal was 'to finish the same song we start.' And I've always liked that line," says Tilson. "We were totally unedited—whatever anyone thought of to play or sing or say got thrown right in the songs. A Swamis song was akin to a 'suicide' from the snack bar."
Sensing that perhaps Knoxville could use one more dose of Swamis-style soda pop, the guys decided to get back together for a reunion show to celebrate the CD-releases of their discography (both of them). Reached for comment through his lawyers, the traditionally press-shy Moore had this to say: "We thought it would be fun."
"It's more REAL this time around," Bills adds. "We're no longer fumbling around in the drug/alcohol/sex haze we used to be in. Now it's only about music. And trying to remember the songs."
As usual, frontman Kenny has more flamboyant hopes for the Swamis' musical legacy:
"I hope we'll inspire a whole new generation of earnest dilettantes. Knoxville is the cradle of all that is truly beautiful in D.I.Y. music. Hopefully, the spirit of rebirth and community that has recently emerged will lead to the opening of a new D.I.Y. venue. I'd like to see a place that booked bands on a 'first-come, first-serve basis.' No previews of material, no restrictions on content, just a wide-open opportunity for self-expression. That was the Knoxville scene in the late '80s through early '90s. Sometimes the results were surprisingly sublime, sometimes the results were the Swamis.
"Long live Turban-Powered Rock!"
June 21, 2001 * Vol. 11, No. 25
© 2001 Metro Pulse
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