Party's back in session
An underappreciated American rock champion of the 2000s re-releases its only album
I’ve heard and seen many a rock band in my time on this earth, but the Grand Old Party was 1 of 1. They emerged from the same early-aughts New York ferment that birthed the Strokes, Yeah Yeah Yeahs and Interpol, but they didn’t sound much like any of those groups. Although they seemed to have stepped right out of a corporate boardroom—dark suits and matching red, white and blue-striped ties at every live gig without fail—their musical roots were deep in the garage. In fact, they’d started out as a cover band, playing ’60s classics by acts like the Pretty Things, Richard and the Young Lions, the Zombies and the Sir Douglas Quintet. It was only later that they began writing their own songs in a similar stylistic vein, covering topics as varied as fast planes, fast amusement-park rides, fast runners, fast women and—a recurring favorite—beer.
The GOP (as I’ll refer to them going forward) made the established rounds of downtown Manhattan’s rock clubs in their early days. I still recall with relish a particularly raucous show at Under Acme on Great Jones Street, which ended with the band’s leader, singer/guitarist Righty Gomez, yelling over the crowd’s wild roars, “I’ll meet all of you in the ladies’ room in five minutes!”
But before long, the band had largely phased itself out of the club circuit and created its own scene. GOP HQ was on the Upper East Side, First Avenue in the Nineties, an outwardly nondescript loft over a soccer supply shop. (Don’t look for it; it’s not there anymore.) Here the band hosted regular keg parties—did I mention they liked beer?—to a select audience. They’d play marathon sets in front of a blank wall, onto which a film projectionist would show a seemingly endless selection of black-and-white exploitation flicks. Imagine a modern, low-rent version of Andy Warhol and the Velvet Underground’s Exploding Plastic Inevitable: loud, weird, often disturbing and usually concluding late into the night with a chaotic rendition of Donna Summer’s “Last Dance.” The only way to find out when these events were happening was through old-fashioned word of mouth. You had to know somebody who knew somebody.
The origins of the band members were equally mysterious. Some followers believed that Gomez had given up an international judo career to play music, and that hotshot guitarist Dexter Blueblood was a slumming Ivy Leaguer with a Skull and Bones society membership, but none of this was ever confirmed. As for the drummer, Dick Stixon, and the bassist, known only as Stimp, no one even dared to guess where they’d come from. (Stixon was the band’s second drummer; his predecessor, Ronald Bumsfilled, held the throne for about a year, then moved to California after accepting a high-level job at the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library in Simi Valley. He refuses to discuss his earlier life in New York.)
Like all great scenes, the GOP’s uptown apotheosis wasn’t fated to last long. And to be honest, the band didn’t help itself much by getting in serious trouble during a performance outside the 2004 Republican National Convention at Madison Square Garden. Toward the end of the set, ill-advised comments from a drunkenly belligerent Gomez ignited a riot on Seventh Avenue. After the arrests, the jail sentences and the lawsuits, it was clear that the band would not survive this ordeal.
However, shortly before dissolving for good, the GOP did have the foresight to enter a New York recording studio and capture some of their finest material for posterity. They did it principally so they could have a product to sell to help pay their mounting legal bills, but you’d never know that from the raw energy they bring to the 10 songs on their one and only album, Rock and Awe. As a longtime fan, I was slightly disappointed when the disc first appeared in 2005. Live staples like “The Pure Song,” “Rock Paper Scissors Rock,” “Come on Back,” and “Get the F— Out Motherf—er” were absent from the running order. But as time has passed, I’ve come to realize that the brilliance of Rock and Awe lies in its punch and its brevity, and that the GOP had deeply internalized a prime rule of show business: Always leave them wanting more.
More was exactly what we didn’t get from the GOP. Only months after Rock and Awe’s release, they called it quits. Nearly 20 years on, there’s been nary a hint of a reunion; their album was never reissued and never appeared online. As a result, their music and its importance to the New York rock scene was forgotten.
Which is why I was indescribably thrilled to see, on the auspicious date of July 4—the 248th birthday of our great nation—that Rock and Awe has made its long-overdue debut on the Bandcamp website. Now a whole new generation can enjoy “Meet Me in Baggage Claim,” “She’s a Working Girl,” “16-Hour Party People” and seven other GOP gems.
Fittingly, given the history of this band, the details behind the re-release aren’t clear. No one associated with the GOP seems to have been involved with it. These days, Dexter Blueblood is busy writing position papers for the Heritage Foundation. Dick Stixon lives in Texas and works as a lobbyist for various oil conglomerates. Stimp formed a militia in Indiana. As for Righty Gomez, his current whereabouts are unknown; when last heard from several years ago, he was somewhere in New England leading an even more obscure group called the Bellhorns.
Still, this sudden development raises hopes. Might it be the first sign of a new age dawning? In the early 2000s, the GOP were ahead of their time in wearing the American flag like a prophylactic. Could they return to action now, reclaiming their legacy and flying the red, white and blue once more for the glory of God and country? I don’t know, but something tells me we may have a better answer by early November. Till then, keep on praying.