Can anybody explain what it is with punks and ska? Ska is a musical form born of 1950's Jamaican jam-fests, the mother-tongue from which sprang reggae, Bob Marley, dreadlocks, and Rastafarianism. When they've got a good head of steam (that is steam, isn't it?), those ganja-fed rasta dudes seem about a million miles away from the East Bay, that sun-beaten corner of the world near San Francisco where punk foursome Rancid came to be.
So when Rancid boot-stomps all over the charts and MTV's "Buzz Bin" with their ska anthem "Time Bomb", it's not because they've been vacationing with the Marleys. No way, mon. They're simply carrying on a time-honored tradition: punks love ska.
"I think they're pretty similar," says Rancid bass player and co-founder Matt Freeman. "A lot of bands sort of mess around with that. The Clash is a good example. The Specials hung out in the punk scene."
Well, yeah, but isn't ska kinda...
"I think it's just roots music," continues Freeman, "and people like to dance to it. People dance to punk rock. Little known fact, you know what I'm saying?"
But still, ska sports a totally different vibe than the more agressive stuff Rancid plays most of the time. In fact, "Time Bomb" is downright philharmonic compared to the harder edged tunes on the band's latest...And Out Come the Wolves. Songs like "Maxwell Murder", "Disorder and Disarray", and "She's Automatic" threaten to rip through your speakers, spit in your face, and kick your dog. Ska is a completely different animal.
"It is and it isn't," argues Freeman. "I think the vibe is actually about the same. It's just to have fun. The only thing that's different is your playing up-beats, so the vocals can be a little strange."
Vocalist Tim Armstrong does sound a little strange on "Time Bomb", but then that raspy, barely-in-tune approach is the same he and his mates use on most of the other 18 tracks on Wolves. The album may be Rancid's most intense yet; it will certainly be the band's best seller so far.
As the founding nucleus of Rancid, Freeman and Armstrong share a history that almost pre-dates their interest in punk rock. The two fell out of dysfunctional households and found their destiny in the burgeoning hard-core scene around Oakland and Berkeley, CA, in the mid '80s.
"We've been friends since we were kids," Freeman recalls. "We were like the only friends either of us had for a long time; we just stuck together. We get along really well. I don't think I'd even be in a band if I wasn't with him, to be honest."
By 1987, the pair had put together a band called Operation Ivy, recorded an LP on a small independent label, and became the house band at Berkeley's punk hangout The Gilman St. Theatre. But Op Ivy was short lived; by 1989, the band had collapsed.
The pair of punks then bounced in and out of a number of local bands before hooking up with drummer Brett Reed to form Rancid in 1991. It was a turbulent period during which Armstrong - down and out after a long battle with substance abuse - found himself living in a Salvation Army shelter.
Somehow he got it together enough for Rancid - the threesome - to record a 7" for Lookout Records. That led to a deal with Epitaph, inked in 1992. Former UK Subs guitarist Lars Frederiksen joined the band in 1993, shortly after Rancid's self-titled Epitaph debut hit the stores.
From the 23-song 1994 release Let's Go! came "Salvation", a chronicle of Armstrong's experiences with the Santa Claus company (a.k.a. The Salvation Army). "Salvation" and "Radio", co-written by Green Day's Billie Joe Armstrong (no relation, though they've known each other since the Op Ivy days), brought Rancid widespread acclaim.
With Let's Go!, Epitaph had proven it could move punk records. The label's subsequent success with Offspring's multi-platinum seller Smash has firmly driven that point home. Epitaph, run by Bad Religion's Brett Gurewitz (see the cover story in the May 1995 issue of IE), has proven the perfect home for Rancid.
It's a strong indication of Rancid's respect for Gurewitz and indy upstart Epitaph that Wolves carries the label's logo at all. During the heady days immediately following the success of Green Day and Offspring, before Rancid began recording Wolves, the major labels came calling. One label exec is rumored to have dyed his hair blue and offered the band a $1.5 million dollar contract. It's also been said that Madonna, looking for bands for her Maverick label, sent the boys a box with a nude photo of herself in it.
"It wasn't nude," Freeman corrects. "It was a picture out of her Sex book. She was in some leather thing - she wasn't nude."
Either way, Rancid wasn't interested. Epitaph felt like home. According to Freeman, friendship and that whole punk family thing made the decision easy.
"Epitaph is where all our friends are," he explains. "We thought about it, but in the end we decided to just stay where we are. I think they'll do better for us just by the fact that we'll be happy being there."
A fortuitous decision.
Instead, Rancid went into the studio with producer Jerry Finn (Green Day, the Muffs) and 40 to 45 songs (their own estimates vary). For approximately 40 days and nights, Berkeley's Fantasy Studios and New York's Electric Lady rocked around the clock while the producer and musicians ground it out.
"I can't remember the exact number," he says, "but I think 25 actually got completely done. And out of that we got, what is it, 18 on the record (the actual count is 19). And we wanted to make the thing fit on a regular piece of vinyl this time, that's why we cut it down so much. We didn't want to put out a double record or anything. So some of the songs will be showin' up on b-sides and some will just get recycled like they always do."
Now there's a phrase - recycled - that punk bands in the 90's have probably heard one too many times. The members of Rancid don't much like comparisons to their forefathers of the 70's. Though the look and the attitude may appear quite similar, Freeman wants it known that Rancid and their contemporaries are not recycling riffs nicked off of Never Mind the Bollocks, Here's the Sex Pistols.
"I wasn't around in the late '70's," he says, "or at least I wasn't into punk rock. I was like 10 years old or something. It's not the late '70's; it's the late '90's. I think it's just a different time." And different times call for different tactics (Epitaph's Brett Gurewitz would attest to that). The Sex Pistols didn't have MTV, or the strong do-it-yourself ethic on which today's punk bands and their labels rely. But as far as Green Day and Offspring - and to a degree, Rancid - getting big, Freeman won't bet against Lady Luck.
"I think a lot of bands could have got big like that. For some reason they started gettin' played on MTV and they got radio hits. People just found out what it's like about and started listening to it and really liked it. It helped us out, obviously."
Of course, with the good always comes the bad. As if it were not enough to be chastised for impersonating the original punks of the '70's, now, with "Time Bomb," Rancid has a pop hit on their hands as well. You can already feel the restlessness from those Rancid fans who prefer their bands obscure.
"I don't think it's a lot of fans," Freeman says of the bail-out rate. "I think a lot of people like to have bands and have it be their own little band that they discovered, and that's fine. And if they get popular, then [fans] don't like it and they don't like dealing with it. I can't control that. A lot of our fans have stayed with us and some haven't. People drift in and out of the punk scene all the time, you know what I mean? That's just sort of life, you know. Continual change."
And change is good. But the funny thing is, whether they're from the '70's or the '90's, punks just won't change their attitude about ska. It seems so unlikely, but there's no denying it: punks love ska. And Rancid is living proof.