Keep The Money, We'll Take The Fame

"Here's a question for you," asks Reno Boas as I sit with the Fame. "If we were suddenly the hottest band in New York City tomorrow, would we be any less cool?" That's a trick question on about 10 different levels. The only way that the Fame could be any less cool would be if they became the hottest band in New York City. It'll take a lot more than a New York Press cover story to make that happen. I haven't heard a band like the Fame since those carefree geniuses in the Sighs back in 1992. They didn't stand a chance, either. It's certainly understandable if the Fame's target audience has never heard of them. The band's big breaks consist of opening for acts that aren't nearly as good. You can guess the sad litany: the Shins, Robbers on High Street, the Bravery. At least it was pretty smart to pair the Fame with Sahara Hotnights (who, to their credit, sought out the band to open for them after hearing a demo).

Just how uncool are the Fame? They finally made it above 14th Street a few weeks ago with a gig at B.B. King's opening for .38 Special. That was some inspired billing. The proudly hirsute .38 Special spent their heyday as a misunderstood pop act with a southern-rock heritage.

"They were amazing," adds Fame bassist Alana Amram. "'Rebel to Rebel' made me cry. I'm serious. I was in tears."

She knows the tape recorder is running. She does not care. The Fame is fearless.

Apologies to music fans, but let's recap for the benefit of rock critics who might be taking notes: There was a brief moment when Midwest rock 'n' roll was again in vogue after the rise and fall of the Raspberries circa '73. (You might find "Go All the Way" on iTunes.) Cheap Trick had broken through with Budokan, and there seemed to be a place for catchy rock that was polished enough to be safely out of the garage. A few bands immediately dated themselves by buying new synthesizers and dolling themselves up like the Cars. Others put their faith in the legacy of this guy named Dwight Twilley and went for denim jackets, modified shag cuts and tight t-shirts in primary colors.

Groups like Off Broadway and a reformed Artful Dodger were too aggressive to be power-pop and too heterosexual to be New Wave. (Those pop geniuses in Shoes liked girls, but most guys wouldn't like a girl who liked Shoes.) None of these bands broke through, and the slate was pretty much wiped clean once Duran Duran and Adam Ant came along as the new British Invasion. The few LPs that made it out remain cherished as a brief shining moment in regular-guy rock.

The important thing is that all those Midwestern 70s bands were pretty awful. They whole trend was really more of a pleasant notion. The Fame, however, is everything anyone could have ever desired from those acts. They are the true spirit of all-American greatness in a city where un-American rock acts have become the norm.

If there were a decent fundrinkery around, I'm sure I'd be sitting with the Fame in a corner booth. I don't know why we're sitting in the Beer Garden at Queens. None of the members of the Fame lives nearby. Maybe they just like the place. I'm pretty much at ease, having gone into this expecting to be better off interviewing the Fame's graphic designer. Their Get on the Beat EP is a masterful parody/homage of those heady Midwest rock days, perfectly duplicating the look of major-label product that wanted to be modern yet not too punky for the Bloomington scene. ^^^ The only thing that keeps the CD from looking like a total anachronism is the blurb for The-Fame.com. Nothing wrong with that. It's not like the band's some kind of retro novelty act.

That would be in contrast to the usual embarrassments: the Strokes, the Bravery (again), Interpol and all of the other dopey poseurs who haven't figured out that it's only okay to be derivative if you're also an improvement. (The leading exception remains our close personal friends in the Star Spangles.) The Fame reject all the trappings of what's supposed to be a New York City rock band. They rank the highest possible compliment you can pay any local rocker: They do not look like total douchebags.

The only disagreeable thing about frontman Reno Bo is his name. Ryan Daniels and Patrick Wood would seem more believable as lovable soap opera stars than as, respectively, guitarist and drummer for any NYC rock act. Alana's a true find as a local rock gal, sporting a healthy wholesomeness that suggests she's never even considered moonlighting as a sex worker.

Sitting down with the Fame-as with listening to Get on the Beat or seeing their live show-is pretty nerve-wracking. It's a lot like watching That Thing You Do for the first time. Writer/director/star Tom Hanks captured the 1964 pop scene so perfectly that any music fan was dreading the inevitable screw-up. It ends up as a perfect film that doubles as the world's best liner notes brought to life. In that same spirit, the Fame have to live up to their own art direction.

It helps that the EP's graphics come from an uncredited Reno. "It's a nod to Meet the Beatles," he explains, "Out of Our Heads by the Rolling Stones, and Regatta de Blanc by the Police. Just the idea of the band as pop art. It's a picture of the people who made the music, instead of a picture of, you know, somebody's one-legged dog."

I'm still looking carefully for tattoos, earrings, eyeliner, anything that reduces them into just another moronic rock act. None of it's there. Just to be safe, I ask.

"The whole band has no tattoos," Alana boasts. "Except for my breasts, which are totally tattooed." She's kidding, of course. Alana wants to be a mom someday.

It's honestly a miracle that the Fame came together. What are the odds of four musicians gathering in New York City without any of them wanting to dress like Kenneth Anger's wet dream? The line-up cemented with Alana late last year, and began when Ryan had his own confrontation with Reno's design skills.

"I'd been here from Wisconsin for about a year," he recalls, "got my bearings, and was looking to start something up. Reno had a poster up in a record store: 'Band Forming,' and it had pictures of the Beach Boys, the Cars, the Stones, and I think maybe Big Star."

Reno adds, "It said, 'We're going to make singles, epics, and symphonies. Join me.'"

"It was so bold and cocky and kind of dorky all at the same time," Ryan continues. "I ran to an internet cafe and emailed him, hounding him to come over." ^^^ Patrick, having moved here from Orlando, Florida, would later join up as a friend of a friend. He was wearing shorts and a blue Levi's button-up shirt during the audition.

It's fun to ask questions about things like that. I haven't asked a band about their influences since 1986, and can't remember ever having an interest in how an act got together. It's different with the Fame. I haven't stopped looking for the misstep. They joke about making sure they've worn the right clothes for this interview, but everything's pretty much on the mark. Reno and Alana are in denim jackets, and Ryan's Willie Nelson t-shirt looks nothing like the AC/DC t-shirt I saw Kelly Clarkson sporting the other night. "This would cost 75 dollars here in New York," Ryan notes, "but it was five bucks in Green Bay."

Patrick's wearing a green velvet suit jacket, but there's nothing suspicious about it. I save my doubts for Reno's t-shirt. It's a blue-and-white striped sailor design that's a little too perfect in a Rick Springfield fashion.

"This shirt?" asks Reno. "I was working with this guy, and I said, 'I really like your shirt.' He said, 'You want it?' He literally pulled it right off his body and gave it to me. Yeah, this shirt is from a guy who took it off his back for me."

A slight pause. "He was a Japanese guy." So, that explains that.

"Everything I own is taken from other people's garbage," adds Alana. It's true that a photo of Ryan's pants once made it into the New York Times. He was shot onstage below the waist for some article about fashion designers trying to promote their work via rock bands. Ryan and the band didn't warrant being mentioned anywhere in the article.

(Further disclosure: Alana's father is a hipster Jew with cooler credentials than Lou Reed. This comes up after Reno explains that they're all from blue-collar families, and Alana notes that the Fame has no famous friends. "My dad's a famous jazz composer," she says, "but that's a whole other world. I don't want to leave that out in case anybody's looking to catch us in a lie.")

Duly noted, but Alana's day job would pretty much rule out any sense of privilege. "We're all used to being broke," she adds. "None of us are looking to cash in."

That doesn't mean they own any Che Guevara t-shirts. "We'd like some money," says Reno. "We've got to get better at self-promotion, or find someone who'll work with us. Nobody wants to be toiling in obscurity. Ideally, we want to make so much fucking money doing what we're doing that some label is going to want to jump aboard so they can take some of our money away from us."

That's a realistic business model. Reno's equally aware of the band's uphill climb. "Rock and roll is a bandwagon business. If somebody at RCA says the Fame is the best thing ever, then someone at Universal is going to say the Fame is the best thing ever, and so is someone at Island, and they'll show up at our shows. But right now we're making rock 'n' roll music in an era where people are selling dance-punk, so we're strangely ahead and behind of the scene at the same time."

The Fame plan to keep persevering, though. They can at least fit into the NYC rock scene as an act that truly believes they deserve stardom-while drawing the line at believing rock-star arrogance is a self-fulfilling prophecy. ^^^ "All of us are very sociable," insists Patrick.

"It's not that we're unsophisticated," Alana says. "We're all heart and soul, and sincere about what we're doing. We just came back from being on the road, and people took us into their homes because we're totally decent in what we do. The bottom line is that people still go out to see bands no matter what assholes from New York come through town."

Alana uses the word "pretentious" a lot. She's also the only person I've ever met who uses the word "douchebag" more than myself-and frequently in reference to her fellow musicians. She remains a positive enough gal, and is quick to go on about her admiration for the Stalkers and Diamond Nights and her old schoolmates in the Star Spangles. Let's not assume that the Fame are as full of hatred as their interviewer.

This isn't to say that they're cautious. "Our friend Nelson," Reno recalls, "told us out in L.A. that if you're not making enemies, you're doing something wrong."

"Don't worry about that," replies Alana. "We're making enemies. I'll talk shit about anybody. Remember when we got thrown out of that club in Buffalo because we asked to get paid after playing our asses off for them? I made enemies that night."

"Alana is drunk," suggests a diplomatic Ryan. "We're really kind of ignorant of what's around us. If anything, there's a conscious effort to sidestep that morose, shoegazer, super-intense brooding. We like to bring the enthusiasm and fun back to rock 'n' roll."

"We know we're not Interpol," says Reno, "although we love Interpol-especially Sam. We know we're not the Killers, we know we're not Franz Ferdinand. I'm not writing these songs and saying, 'I'm not going to be the New York Dolls, godamnit!' My parents are very conservative, and they're into doo-wop and Motown and the Beach Boys, which were probably the same things that made Eric Carmen write hits for the Raspberries. So that's me one generation later, writing anachronistic music."

Anachronistic music has its supporters. The day before, the Fame heard their music on the radio for the first time, courtesy of Q104.3 FM. Steve Jones is playing them on the former Sex Pistols' radio show out in L.A. None of us is sure about why Little Steven's being so slow on the uptake.

"We're just a weird, in-between band," says Alana, "which is great. Kim Fowley likes us, and he's one of my heroes. I love punk and all of that shit. Kim brought out an acoustic guitar, and these guys can sing in three-part harmony. Kim said, 'I think you're like the Byrds; I think you're like the Raspberries.' People think he's an asshole, but he's a great guy."

The Fame enjoyed a popular residency while they were out in L.A., so maybe some outsider influence will help them beat the curse of New York. They've even sold out their first batch of Fame t-shirts. Reno's willing to indulge himself with a vote of self-confidence. "In a way," he explains, "we believe that what we're doing should be popular. Everything I write is a hit song in my mind. Maybe it's delusional, but that's how we keep living. We'll keep doing this until it does become The Thing, until it becomes popular."

That still might sound scary if Reno didn't add that part about being delusional. The Fame mainly succeeds in making confidence sound like the all-American work ethic. "We've gotten press without a press agent," says Alana. "We've had a national tour without a booking agent, so what can we say?"

"We're a self-sufficient rock 'n' roll band," adds Reno. "We went out on a two-month tour with no support and no money, and people reacted positively in every city we went to. That's all that mattered. We have something that a lot of New York City bands don't-and that's the ability to appeal to people everywhere. We're a band that you can get in L.A. or Virginia or Idaho."

You could say the same about the Raspberries, and they ultimately bombed. On the other hand, they've reunited and are playing B.B. King's in July.

"So maybe now is the time for this music to not bomb," Reno tells me. "It's a bit daunting, but we're used to hard work. We're a rock 'n' roll band. All I can say is that we're going to triumph, and then you and I will be-at some point-geniuses."

The Fame plays Sat., June 4. Maxwell's, 1039 Washington St., Hoboken, 201-653-1703, 9:30, $7.