It’s Saturday
night, and the cupboards on the Goo Goo Dolls’ tour bus are bare-a state
of affairs that doesn’t sit well with the blue-collar boys accustomed to
downing a hearty meal before an honest night’s work. The quest for nourishment
is further hampered by the fact that most of the restaurants in Baltimore’s
Little Italy are guarded by tuxedo-clad maitre d’s who look aghast at the
prospect of seating a
party led by a pair of scruffy
guys in Bermuda shorts and baseball caps. But one spaghetti house – its
awning adorned with the motto A VERY CASUAL EATERY – looks more promising,
particularly once bassist Robby Takac notices an autographed photo of the
Romantics in the window.
“That was a great time in music, speaking as a member of the original MTV generation,” Takac says, chuckling. “People were less concerned about being hip. Nowadays, it’s all credibility. It’s like a country club worrying about letting the wrong people in.”
In the
nine years since Goo Goo Dolls formed in their hometown of Buffalo, N.Y.,
their blue-collar ethic has seldom been in vogue. Nevertheless, Takac and
guitarist Johnny Rzeznik willfully ignored the parade of bandwagons, integrating
nary a trace of grunge, hip-hop, or techno into their raunchy, rootsy,
Replacements-esque sound. That purism earned the Goo Goo Dolls plenty of
critical respect, but albums
like 1990’s exhilarating
Hold Me Up and the slightly slicker Superstar Car Wash (1993) slid into
bargain bins with alarming speed.
“We stopped operating under the illusion that we were going to change the world and sell millions of records when we were 18,” Rzeznik says. “But it was really discouraging to think in those really dark moments that nobody cared.”
When the
Goo Goo Dolls’ fifth album A Boy Named Goo, was issued at the beginning
of this year, things didn’t look much brighter. The band was on the verge
of imploding after Rzeznik and Takac parted ways with drummer and band
co-founder George Tutuska. But five months after the album’s release, its
third single, “Name”, began a slow but steady climb up the charts, just
as Rzeznik’s self-imposed deadline for success was looming. “I’m almost
30, and I can’t do this much longer without looking like a jerk,” Rzeznik
says. “I don’t want to embarrass
myself.”
Maturity
has crept into the Goo Goo Dolls’ universe in increments. They have
cut down on their alcohol consumption, disavowed the Ramones-inspired decision
to hide their surnames and, most significantly, garnered their first bona
fide hit in “Name”, a moody ballad that is on the verge of doing for the
trio’s fortunes what
“Runaway Train” did for the
kindred spirits Soul Asylum. “People assume I wrote the song with success
in mind, but that’s bullshit,” Rzeznik says. “It’s never been my goal to
be famous. It’s just that your mind works differently when you’re 29 than
it did when you were 19.”
As the only aspiring plumber with a spiky punk haircut at a Buffalo vocational high school, Rzeznik was more than just an outcast – he was a target. “I used to get beat up a lot,” he says. But teen turmoil soon gave way to other concerns. Rzeznik’s father, weakened by years of alcohol abuse and factory work, died when the guitarist was 15. His mother passed away less than a year later.
After a brief flirtation with hardcore punk in the early ‘80s, Rzeznik met Tutuska and Takac, who had moved from the same East Side neighborhood in Buffalo, to the suburbs. The trio christened itself Goo Goo Dolls, a decision Rzeznik likens to getting a bad tattoo (“You think it’s cool one drunken night, and then you’re stuck with it forever,” he says). The band’s 1987 debut captured the embryonic band snatching riffs from T. Rex, the Angry Samoans, and the Replacements.
That last influence grew as Rzeznik (who called in ex-Replacement Paul Westerberg to contribute lyrics to “We Are The Normal,” from Superstar Car Wash) assumed more songwriting duties. But while the tunes have gotten more sophisticated, the band’s old slash-and-burn aesthetic still surfaces in concert.
In Baltimore, joined by new drummer Mike Malinin onstage, Goo Goo Dolls speed through a dozen songs in 30 minutes. When “Name” is tossed off three-quarters of the way through the set, the crowd certainly takes notice, but the rave-up ending doesn’t signal a mass exodus.
“It’s mot hard to tell the people who haven’t seen us before, since they’re the ones who are standing at the front looking at us like this,” Takac says, fixing his face in a shell-shocked grimace. “I’m just glad we don’t seem to have lost too many people who were there in the beginning.”
The memory of the one person they did lose still weighs heavily, Rzeznik and Takac say that Tutuska had lost interest in the band. But Tutuska, who started a contracting business after his ouster, says that the split can be traced to financial disputes. “It sounds ridiculous, but it came down to a fight over about $600 [in royalties],” he says. “It was more a matter of principle. We lived together going on 10 years, and suddenly trust started to evaporate.” A spokesman for the band denies the charges.
Tutuska isn’t optimistic about burying the hatchet. “I don’t know if you’ve spent any time on a construction site, but the radio is on all the time,” he says. “I’m working 60, 70 hours a week, and every time I hear [‘Name’], my hands start to shake. There’s too much to overcome.”
Goo Goo
Dolls may have traded rusty vans for a cushy though snackless tour bus,
but Rzeznik insists that they haven’t become insensitive, big-spending
rock stars. “My wife and Robby’s girlfriend still have to have their jobs
because if they don’t, we don’t make the rent,” Rzeznik says. “But
if I have my choice between earning $500 a week as a janitor or $200 a
week doing this, I’ll do this. I’m sure I’ll have the
chance to be a janitor later.”