The reunited Pavement is at Edgefield tonight and we ran this great piece on the band in our current issue that covers them from the prospective of a longtime fan. But since this is Pavement after all—and we've already blogged about them once this morning—here's yet another look at growing up under the influence of indie rock's finest act.
I was 15 years old when I first attempted to interview Pavement for my bedroom-produced fanzine (whose name is far too embarrassing to print here). Like most interviews I attempted at that age, it went very poorly.
My fascination with the band initially took root following their September 25, 1992, set opening for Sonic Youth and Mudhoney at the Del Mar Fairgrounds in the suburbs outside San Diego. Sonic Youth were already my favorite band—I ended up with three different versions of the same Dirty T-shirt, assuming that was just a purchase that normal people made at concerts—and Mudhoney was too loud for my tender sensibilities, but Pavement was utterly fascinating. With a set sloppily compile of the loosest material from Slanted and Enchanted, the band was everything all that fanzine hype declared them to be: the future of rock and roll courtesy of a handful of unassuming dudes in unkempt clothes, flinching in the glare of the bright stage lights.
Like many disheveled teens with a crippling fear of the opposite sex, I was obsessed with Pavement and made complex cut-and-paste murals to each member on my bedroom wall, which resulted in an altar of sorts, or the sort of thing one assumes a serial killer loving assembles to each of his dismembered victims. (Had the police discovered that mural, they'd be digging up the crawl space at my parent's house looking for Scott Kannberg.) A couple years passed and now touring support of the vastly superior Crooked Rain, Crooked Rain (and I will say this until my dying breath, Slanted and Enchanted fans), Pavement passed through town again to play the sort of midsize club they’d play until their breakup. With delusional dreams of a glowing Factsheet 5 review in my head and a possible freelance gig at Ben Is Dead, I talked my way backstage and immediately cornered Stephen Malkmus, who was not amused with the impromptu interview requests of a nervous kid flailing about with his stepfather’s Dictaphone recorder.
Interview denied.
I then immediately cornered Bob Nastanovich (why?), but the result was the same. Fearing that I might actually cry backstage in front of these people, I went out to the loading dock and happened to meet bassist Mark Ibold. Clearly not opposed to spending 20 minutes awkwardly chatting about his influences with a stuttering teen, Ibold gave me the greatest interview ever (at that time in my life). I have no clue we actually talked about that night—a highpoint in the world of journalism this was not—but Ibold was kind enough to humor me until he was summoned to perform. To this day, I'll never forget that.
I still never did get that Factsheet 5 review.