I spent years treating my NY/NJ straight-edge hardcore roots like a zit that lingered in the middle of my nose, even as I desperately tried to leave my teens behind. From 1988 to around 1993, it wasn't just the music I listened to -- it was my life. Then I got to college and learned a couple of contextual details about the music I loved. Straight-edge hardcore was, in the grand scheme of things, over and done with when Minor Threat broke up in 1985, and the New York scene I'd come up in was generally viewed as a bunch of Johnny-come-latelys with an overabundance of tough-guy posing and a shortfall in musical inventiveness. As I became steeped in earlier, more groundbreaking generations of punk rock, as well as more mind-broadening genres such as funk, reggae, and jazz, I found myself starting to sell off, hide, or try to explain away my Agnostic Front, Sick of It All, and Youth of Today records.
What a pretentious douche-clown I was. I should have stood proudly by my wild-eyed, youthful passion for hardcore, and am belatedly doing so now. Sure, the scene eventually became extremely narrow-minded and formulaic. But in its heyday, New York hardcore was every bit as vital and combustive as any other punk era. Its songs may have been a bit too preachy and specific to the time to warrant inclusion on, say, a Rhino punk box, but to the kids who heard it at the time, the music had a life-changing impact.
No single hardcore band of the late-’80s captured our imagination and spirit as profoundly as Gorilla Biscuits. Their sole album Start Today hit me and my friends with such a wallop that we listened to nothing else for six months after its release -- except maybe albums we'd heard might sound like it. From the opening trumpet line, heralding the impending guitar blast of “New Direction,” to the gloriously melodic choruses, to the title track's harmonica solo -- Hardcore Harmonica Solo!!! -- Start Today sounded like nothing we'd ever heard before.
Perhaps the album's most distinguishing feature was its overwhelming positivity, which was evident throughout, despite the tense, rapidly shouted verses and crunchy, muscular-but-never-harsh guitars. While the vocals alternated between rhythmic barking and sing-songy refrains, singer Anthony “Civ” Civocelli never sounded scoldingly angry (as Ian MacKaye certainly did in Minor Threat), overly preachy (like Ray Cappo in Youth of Today), or violent-natured (as Raybeez of Warzone occasionally came off). Even as a teen, I found it ironic that our parents had strong reservations about us listening to such aggressive-sounding music when, in fact, its lyrical content was so clearly constructive, especially when compared to vapid pop hits of the era like -- what was big in ’89? Milli Vanilli? The Escape Club? Roxette?
The songs covered a wide range of topics, all relating to self-improvement through very specific means: not being channel-surfing couch potatoes, shunning racists, showing gratitude and appreciation to our friends, expressing ourselves in ways that avoid insulting others ("I can't believe the things we say/ A cutting word can ruin days!”), reserving judgment until we hear all sides to a story, and going veggie out of affection for our pets (“My true compassion is for all living things/ And not just the ones that are cute!”). Sure, you can say these sound like sentiments from “Everything I Need to Know I Learned in Kindergarten,” but to a group of teenagers surrounded by a pop culture intent on selling us one thing or another, it meant a lot to hear songs that seemed sincerely intended to help us understand the world we lived in and navigate it in ways we could be proud of.
My friends and I were lucky enough to catch Gorilla Biscuits in 1990, and it was a day I'll never forget. They played just about every song in their arsenal, and it was one of the most fun shows I've ever seen. They had a new song, “Distance,” an impressive pop-leaning tune that explored some interesting lyrical terrain, but was unfortunately never recorded. The demo versions circulating the internet these days remain our only taste of the fruitful direction the band might have gone if they'd held it together a little longer. They started to crumble in 1990 when songwriter/guitarist Walter Schreifels formed Quicksand, a side project that soon became a full-time gig and scored a few minor alternative-rock-era hits. The rest of the band reformed in the mid-’90s under the moniker Civ, which also had a couple of chart hits (one of which was in a Nissan ad), but it just wasn't the same.
As it stands, along with an ’87 demo 7-inch and an early EP, Start Today is the official document of the era-defining inspiration that was Gorilla Biscuits. It's only 20 minutes long, but it stands the test of time, and I'm no longer ashamed to admit it.
