by Coury Turczyn
They were a band of scrappy kids from the hard streets of
Kingsport. With their pale complexions and abundance of college
degrees, they seemed an unlikely group to one day be called "rock
gods." And they weren't. But as the Swamis, these four scrawny boys
stunned the nation (or certain parts of Knoxville) with their
revolutionary, turban-powered rock sound. They climbed aboard the
party train of the '90s alternative rock scene and rode it straight
to the top...until they were derailed by their own voracious
appetites.
Drugs, fashion models, expensive sports cars, and Pabst Blue
Ribbon... not much of that really happened to the Swamis (except for
the PBR), yet they still managed to self-destruct at the height of
their success. But for their fans, the Swamis will live forever as
legends in the pop-oriented, somewhat-danceable,
garage-rock-with-lyrics-that-manage-to-be both-silly-and-literate
genre.
And now, these aging rock heroes are at last reuniting for a
one-off performance, not just to cravenly exploit local Gen-X
nostalgia for their long-past glory years, but to introduce a whole
new generation of fans to such timeless hits as "Wrap Your Cheese."
But what can be learned from the rise and fall and semi-rise of the
Swamis—and more importantly, how can we use their story for our own
profit? Join us now as we look... Behind the (Knoxville)
Music!
BEFORE
THEY WERE ROCK STARS
The Swamis story begins with the friendship of its two creative
geniuses, John "Immature Scientist" Tilson and Dave "Nickname
Pending" Kenny. Not unlike such songwriting partnerships as Lennon
and McCartney, Jagger and Richards, or Peaches and Herb, the "Tilson
and Kenny" credit would someday become a rock 'n' roll trademark (in
this case, for really goofy songs about ice cream-selling Vietnam
vets). But this soon-to-be-legendary duo had humble beginnings in
the late '80s.
"Dave and I began writing songs together in high school,"
remembers Tilson, ensconced in his palatial estate in East
Knoxville. "We would rather spontaneously create musical comedy
tapes using instrumental selections from albums in Dave's record
collection."
Sadly, this bizarre practice would continue for years, even as
the two small-town boys kicked the dust of Kingsport off their heels
and headed for the dizzying sights and sounds of the Big City:
Knoxville! As roommates at the University of Tennessee,
though, they eventually progressed to writing their own music. Not
long after, they instinctively decided to actually learn how to
play their instruments, with Kenny taking up guitar and
Tilson noodling on bass.
After spending a few years refining their talents, they were
ready to start a band. Now living in squalor in Knoxville's toughest
neighborhood—the notorious Fourth & Gill—the boys called upon
another Kingsport ex-pat who knew (roughly) how to play guitar,
Daniel Moore. All they needed now was a drummer, and after an
exhaustive search they hired Kenny's housemate, Iron Maiden fan Paul
Doughty.
The mix of personalities made for a perfect rock 'n' roll
cocktail: Kenny was theatrical and stylish, the teen idol; Tilson
was earnest and thoughtful, considered the brains of the outfit;
Moore was the quiet, sensitive one who nevertheless developed his
own songwriting abilities; and Doughty... well, not much is known
about Doughty, who soon became noted in history as "The Fifth
Swami." They combined to form a new sound in rock 'n' roll: nerd
rock.
"Sloppy, listenable, danceable, juvenile, erudite, naturalistic,
contrived, populist, elitist. We had all of those elements and yet
none of them," muses former heartthrob Kenny, now employed as an
efficiency consultant to global corporations.
The world (or certain parts of Knoxville) would never be the
same.
MAKING
THE BAND
The Swamis' first gig—barely a month after forming—was on
February 2, 1991 at Kenny's house for a Groundhog Day party.
Knoxville's music-scene elite—including members of the Judybats, the
Planet Earth nightclub, and Raven Records—gathered for the
auspicious debut of an important musical force, a night that would
become immortal.
"I can't remember any particular shows," admits music impresario
and former Raven Records owner Jay Nations. "I probably breathed
second-hand smoke and drank some first-hand beer at a Gryphon's show
and heard some first class yuk-it-up rock 'n' roll. I was always
fond of the bright yellow cassettes they sold. And their press
releases were always funny."
As a tidal wave of buzz crashed across Knoxville about the
Swamis' victorious house party, the band was soon on the 8-track to
success. In those primordial days of the Knoxville music scene,
bands would actually encourage one another, and the group was
invited to play with the biggest band in town at the hippest club.
"Soon after that we opened for Smokin' Dave at Planet Earth,"
says Tilson, relishing the memory. "We really struggled because we'd
never been on a stage before, and we couldn't see our frets to play
the right chords."
Nevertheless, the Swamis had something, and that something was
hard to describe. Jangly, mostly on-key, and so smart they verged on
being smartasses, the Swamis brandished a new style of pop music
that did away with rock-star poses and replaced them with the
confidence of multi-talented nerds who didn't care what other people
thought. Their music ranged across '60s mod-pop ("Al Capone"),
semi-Californian psychedelia ("Phallocratic Campfire Song"), country
romps ("Mother in Law"), funk ("Hefty Cleft"), sick-in-the-head
weirdness ("Ice Cream Man"), even spoken word ("God's Green Elves").
Along with Smokin' Dave and the Premo Dopes and the Taoist
Cowboys, the Swamis formed a new wave in garage rock that one local
music critic for a disreputable bi-weekly publication fruitlessly
tried to dub "hightop rock," after their preferred footwear.
"The Swamis weren't the first band fueled by cheap beer, bad
food, and the need to have something do besides sit around in their
filthy apartments, but they were one of them," says Lee Gardner, now
music editor of Baltimore's City Paper. "Whenever the Swamis
were having a good night at Gryphon's, they were undoubtedly the
best rock band for several blocks in any direction. They usually had
the Gryphon's regulars in their pocket like a pint bottle of peach
schnapps."
Swamis shows became legendary as the group tested the boundaries
of musical expression, inspiring a following of loyal "turban-heads"
who would follow them from gig to gig (which would sometimes mean
more than one show a month).
"Being a Swamis fan had the same appeal as being a rubber-necker
at an accident scene," says Kenny. "It was the one band you could
count on bandmembers and fans alike to say, 'What the hell were
they/we thinking?' The songs practically wrote themselves. Anyone in
our audience could reflect on the art unfolding in front of them and
say, 'I think I could easily do that, but I don't want to.' We tried
to make each live performance a poorly choreographed musical train
wreck. I think we succeeded."
Recording that energy in the studio was no small task, but the
band knocked it out one day at Tilson's house. The eponymously
titled cassette release—also known to insiders as Coin Laundry
Lounge—instantly launched the Swamis into county-wide success.
As regular headliners at Knoxville's most exclusive venue, Gryphon's
Laundromat, they were spin-drying their way to fame and fortune.
Until disaster struck.
ALL
ACCESS
Although there were no heroin overdoses, sex-crime charges, or
car crashes involving a Ferrari (though Moore once did get stuck
behind a stalled Fiero customized to look like a Ferrari),
the Swamis nevertheless had to face a crushing personal blow:
Drummer Paul Doughty quit the band to become a evolutionary
biologist in Australia. He decided to trade rock 'n' roll glory for
what he felt was his true calling: the study of lizards in the
outback.
Rather than break up after such a common rock-band disaster, the
remaining members bravely chose to struggle on, employing local
drummer-for-hire Jeff Bills. The bespectacled, cardigan-wearing
Bills immediately super-charged the Swamis' sound with a funky
backbeat that endeared the group to legions of new fans. Thus, out
of the ashes of despair, the Swamis rose phoenix-like to even higher
heights of popularity, releasing their fresh sound on the
now-classic Turl.
The new cassette immediately rocketed off store shelves at the
breathless pace of several a week, putting the Swamis into a whole
new echelon of success. They weren't just a group of pals playing
odd songs—now they were rock stars. The Swamis lifestyle became
intense: Kenny surrounded himself with groupies, not all of them
imaginary; Tilson became a reclusive genius, recording
never-released, 3-minute yodeling masterpieces in his basement
studio; Moore's addiction to Pop-Tarts went dangerously out of
control, as he sometimes ingested as many as two an hour; Bills
bought more cardigans than he could ever possibly wear. Something
had to give.
"This should have been the best time of my life," confesses Bills
today from an undisclosed rehab center in Vestal. "The Swamis were
moving along at the peak of their popularity. I mean, we were
playing once a month to at least 30 to 40 people. But all the
partying and carrying on just left me empty inside."
So much so that Bills was driven to the precipice of suicide,
which he reveals here for the first time:
"One night after way too many Jack and Blacks, I came home
depressed as hell. I took a whole bottle of what I thought were
sleeping pills to just escape to the other side. But they turned out
to be Walgreen's aspirin instead. I couldn't feel my left leg for a
week. On the flip side, I haven't had a headache in eight years."
Despite their public image of fun-loving goofballs, deep inside
the Swamis were torn by personal conflicts. The breaking point was
reached when the band members discovered that their record label had
been ripping them off for years—and since they weren't actually on a
record label, this was particularly troubling. Finally, they called
it quits in 1993, drawing the curtain on a blazing two-year career.
To this day, the members are reluctant to talk about the final
moments of the band.
"We didn't break up, we imploded," insists Tilson. "One does not
even have a chalky residue of emotion when one properly implodes."
WHERE
ARE THEY NOW?
After calling it quits, each Swami followed his own musical muse.
Bills joined a series of short-lived outfits, including a
suit-and-tie-wearing Jamaican reggae band called the Viceroys. Moore
and Kenny boldly introduced surf music to confused Knoxville
audiences as the Ray-O-Vacs (a defamation lawsuit by the
battery-maker is still being pursued). Tilson created one of
Knoxville's most beloved experimental ukulele bands with the
Vacationist League.
Nevertheless, despite their personal successes, each musician
considered himself to be a Swami at heart. Together, they had
espoused a musical ethic that is missing from Knoxville's current
music scene: fearless experimentation in the face of deep
embarrassment.
"Dave once said our musical goal was 'to finish the same song we
start.' And I've always liked that line," says Tilson. "We were
totally unedited—whatever anyone thought of to play or sing or say
got thrown right in the songs. A Swamis song was akin to a 'suicide'
from the snack bar."
Sensing that perhaps Knoxville could use one more dose of
Swamis-style soda pop, the guys decided to get back together for a
reunion show to celebrate the CD-releases of their discography (both
of them). Reached for comment through his lawyers, the traditionally
press-shy Moore had this to say: "We thought it would be fun."
"It's more REAL this time around," Bills adds. "We're no longer
fumbling around in the drug/alcohol/sex haze we used to be in. Now
it's only about music. And trying to remember the songs."
As usual, frontman Kenny has more flamboyant hopes for the
Swamis' musical legacy:
"I hope we'll inspire a whole new generation of earnest
dilettantes. Knoxville is the cradle of all that is truly beautiful
in D.I.Y. music. Hopefully, the spirit of rebirth and community that
has recently emerged will lead to the opening of a new D.I.Y. venue.
I'd like to see a place that booked bands on a 'first-come,
first-serve basis.' No previews of material, no restrictions on
content, just a wide-open opportunity for self-expression. That was
the Knoxville scene in the late '80s through early '90s. Sometimes
the results were surprisingly sublime, sometimes the results were
the Swamis.
"Long live Turban-Powered Rock!" 
June 21, 2001 *
Vol. 11, No. 25
© 2001 Metro Pulse
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