Fishbone’s Persistence of Existence
by Matt Parish [April 27, 1998]

	Angelo Moore, thirty-two-year-old front man of the band of music technicians
called Fishbone, struts into the front of the ballroom club with a sharp grin
and a case of CD’s under his arm.  He’s headed to the soundboard to play DJ
before his show.  His old gray polyester suit pants ride up his calves with
each stride, showing off his clunky blue boots.  A gray suit jacket covers a
black Looney Tunes T-shirt and his bald, brown head is topped with a Panama
fedora.  
	He flashes his eyes towards the people walking up the stairs to the ballroom
and but keeps moving ahead of them towards the doors of the club.  They all
paid $25 to funk out at one of Boston’s most upscale night clubs, The Roxy.
Dressed in pressed jeans and loafers, they’re anxious for sax maestro and
tonight’s headliner, Maceo Parker.  As Angelo walks past the line at the box
office, a guy in glasses and a receding hair line quickly turns to his friend
and whispers “Look, it’s Fishbone!” 
	Moore, a.k.a. Dr. Madd Vibe, takes his place alone at the sound board and
unzips his overflowing cache of CD’s and pulls out an old Gospel call-and-
response, Southern Baptist style, to start off the night.  The people steadily
fill up the dance floor as he slips his jacket off and leans against a table,
impatiently searching through his CD’s for his next selection.  
	Norwood Fisher, Fishbone’s bassist, appears out of nowhere to join him before
the first songs ends.  “We pretty much been doin’ this the whole tour, playin’
the music before the show,” he says in a deep monotone.  A single dreadlock
shoots out from under his bright puffy hat.  “We’re just tryin’ to throw a
party wherever we go.”
	This summer, their nineteenth as a band, Fishbone is tentatively scheduled to
enter the studio once again.  Moore calls their current tour, much like their
last three years, “a fly-by-night operation.”  Three of the six original
members remain with the band.  The label they released their last CD on folded
a year and a half ago, leaving them back where they started--begging for a
record deal.  That’s a large step back from their position in ‘93, poised to
take over the alternative music scene by storm.  Touring the small club scene
for the last two years now, they find themselves at a major crossroads in
their lives--to call it quits and move on to other things or to keep working
the clubs, doing what comes natural to them and just being Fishbone.
	“I think we protest just by staying together,” says Moore of the band’s
endurance.  It started in South Central L.A. in ‘79 as an idea to just get
together and “play the music we liked.”  Along with the music came messages
politically tinged and spiritually inclined.  Fishbone tries to keep their
messages of self-awareness in focus at every performance to this day.
	The all-black rock band has faced racial discrimination from both ends,
lackluster label support, and lots of line-up changes as of late..  Their
albums have consistently addressed racism and concerns of black culture (“I
will not grow up to be the President”).  Hell, Moore even shouted “Kill
Whitey!” in one of their songs, yet whites still make the vast majority of
Fishbone’s following.  Moore describes his feelings about trying to get
through to crowds as a black band from South Central playing “white” music
with frustration.  “It’s just like you, a white dude, gettin’ up in front of
an all black audience and trying to tell them what your life is like, and they
don’t want to get past what’s on the outside.  They’re probably gonna have a
hard time hearing what you have to say.  Unless they cover their eyes.”
Despite all this, the band’s eclectic music and hyperactive live performances
have made them a living legend all across the States.    
	At The Roxy, Angelo bounces around on stage like a four-year-old on a sugar
high.  Kids endlessly struggle to jump up on stage and skank for a few seconds
with their heroes before security throws them offstage into the masses.
Angelo returns the favor by throwing himself offstage repeatedly throughout
the set.  On-stage, the band commands the willing crowd to “party like it’s
your last day on earth,” before jumping into the sacred anthem “Party at
Ground Zero”.
	Their legendary status, though, comes at the expense of monetary success and
lifelong friendships.  Right before the release of Give a Monkey a Brain and
He’ll Swear He’s the Center of the Universe, the band’s assault on mainstream
rock in ‘93, guitarist Kendall Jones suffered a nervous breakdown and left the
band under the influence of fanatical religious beliefs and his father.  His
father charged Norwood with kidnapping after he attempted to keep Jones from
leaving the band.  All this came right before launching a huge summer on the
main stage of Lollapalooza.  The band’s label, Columbia, stopped promoting the
album in the middle of the tour, perhaps because of the legal troubles of
Norwood and Jones.  The album failed to make major waves in the charts.  The
next spring, founding keyboardist Chris Dowd left the band citing creative
differences.  After the disastrous year of bad luck and timing, Fishbone split
with Columbia and took a year off from touring.
	Things appeared to be over for the band until they announced a deal with
startup record label Rowdy Records and a new album in May of ‘96.  Legions of
underground fans rejoiced with the release of Chim Chim’s Badass Revenge, a
confident statement that the band was still going strong.  The ‘96 tour was a
celebration of the band’s survival as a more compact unit-- “It’s no longer a
Cadillac band, it’s now a ‘63 Jaguar SKE band,” said Moore during the
unveiling of the new stripped-down sound.  
	Just as they were gaining momentum, things started to break down again as
Rowdy Records folded.  “You know, we were on a label that had just released a
record for us and a few months later, it was gone.  It just ceased to exist,”
Norwood said of the disappearance of their label.  Last spring, guitarist John
Bigham left to try his hand at a solo career.  Founding drummer Fish took off
this spring to back up an up-and-coming female R&B singer.  “He’s making more
money now.  That’s why he did it,” says Moore, disappointed in the loss of
another founding member of the band.  “The way I see it, if you’re in a family
or a gang or a band like Fishbone, that’s for life.  Especially if you were as
dedicated as Fish was.”
		Me:  “Especially when he’s got a big Fishbone tattoo all over his back.”
		Angelo:  “That’s what I’m sayin’!!  What’s he gonna do, take a pencil eraser
to 				    it??  Damn!”
	Getting into the studio is the band’s main goal right now, trying to fulfill
plans that have been simmering for two years.  It’s a simple objective
compared to the aspirations of the last three records they released--one to
get into the mainstream, one to become rock heroes, and one to prove to the
world they could “endure contractual yet cruel...techniques of torture only a
monkey infected with Ebola Zaire would be subject to,” (referring to their
eight year record deal with Columbia).  Simplicity is what it’s about now.
	After a show at MIT, half of the Fishbone clan and its respective groupies
are walking around the comparatively quiet streets of Cambridge, Massachusetts
with no particular destination in mind.  Stopping outside of a party to pick
up some friends, Angelo tenses with impatience.  John McKnight, the burly new
keyboard player, wears a sleeveless button-up, black shades (despite the
midnight hour), and a dreadlocked mohawk on his head. He offers few words
about his situation with the band-- “I just don’t know why they waited so long
to call me.”  	
	Clinton, the new drummer, stands at about five-six with a short beard and
intelligent glasses.  “I grew up with Fishbone, man.  I was in Fish’s
Chemistry class in high school.”  Six months ago, he was drumming for an
opening band at Fishbone shows in California.  Angelo explains that they’d
only been playing with Clinton for a few weeks, making for visual cues on-
stage and restricted set lists.
	The assembled posse starts moving in the general direction of The Middle East
club, where surf-guitar guru Dick Dale is said to be playing.  Moore, in a
sleek black suit, derby, and blue boots, seems set on finding a car to get us
there.  “How long will it take to walk there?  Ten minutes?!”
	A girl walking into the party stops and yells at him, “What are you, from LA
or something?  Can’t walk four blocks to a club?”
	Defeated for the moment, Moore uses the walk to discuss that night’s show.
“The crowd was a little stiff tonight.”  Stiff?  Some of them were doing
homework in the bleachers.  “We were preaching to the unconverted.  Maybe most
of them have never heard Fishbone before, and maybe they heard something
that’ll make them think of the reality of their surroundings.”  Possibly, but
most of the kids I saw were more worried about Moore getting his sweat on them
(“Ewww, she touched Fishbone?”).
	A block and a half away from the club, someone pulls up in a little white
Honda offering a ride to the club and everyone piles in.  Moore lays across
laps with his head between the front seats, still attempting to answer
questions.  Fifteen seconds later, we pull up to the club and he jumps out
onto the sidewalk.  “Phew, we’re here!” he exclaims with his hands on his
hips.  Clinton, who got there earlier on foot, stands on the curb waiting for
us. 
	Besides training new Fishbone soldiers and crisscrossing the country two or
three times a year on tour, the members have found plenty of things to keep
them busy.  Moore has a brief cameo two MTV videos for songs that get more air
play than Fishbone ever got.  Walter Kibby (founding trumpets and vocals) and
Norwood have played in the studio for all kinds of artists.  Together the band
appeared on Comedy Central to play a new song in February.  Most importantly,
though, are the plans for recording new songs again.
	“We can’t play the new songs on tour yet ‘cuz our drummer doesn’t know them
yet, but we’ll throw ‘em down in the studio.”  Norwood still seems amused by
the band’s situation.  “Sometimes it’s like nobody wants us on their label
anymore,” he says with a shrug.  He’s the only one in the band sure of the
studio date in May.  
	Moore is distrustful of the record industry and is always careful about such
plans.  “I think they’re afraid of what we might have to say.  We’ve talked to
a few major labels who seem interested but they’re all kinda iffy, you know?” 
	Whether companies are afraid of Fishbone or not, it is certain is that these
guys could use a break anytime soon.  “We really aren’t making any money.
Just what it takes to pay the bills back home,” confesses Moore.  On top of
that, both he and Norwood have children to support.  “Norwood’s wife took his
eight-year-old son to Hawaii so he never sees him.  Plus he’s still gotta pay
a lot of money for child support that he doesn’t have.”  The mother of Moore’s
one-year-old daughter is trying to keep him away from her as well.  “Now I
have to go to court just to see my daughter.  It’s like the very last thing I
wanted to be, like I wrote in ‘Ma & Pa,’” (“There’s lots of moneys/For all the
attorneys...”).  The home life is just as uncertain as the future of the band.
	How do they deal with it all?  “This,” says Moore as he gestures to the tour
busses loading up equipment after the MIT show.  “We keep on the road.  We can
always reach out to our underground”  On the road is where the band is most
focused.  They don’t have to think about the past and they don’t have to worry
about the future.  “Fishbone’s greatest accomplishment is that we’re still
together and on the road,” Moore states without question.

Walking towards Massachusetts Avenue we pass an old factory, bellowing smoke
out of a dark smoke stack.  The top of the stack is lit with small amber
lights that lend their tint to the smoke until it floats away into the black
sky.  Angelo looks up through tightly squinted eyes.  “See that?” he asks in a
hushed, secret whisper.  “Fishbone is like the smoke coming out right there.
It starts off all potent and bright, like where those lights are, but then it
diffuses into the atmosphere and starts getting in people’s lungs and shit.”
	“Killing off the ozone layer?” I ask with a mischievous grin.
	“Yeah, escaping and movin’ on to the next place there is.”
	“Another universe?”
	He turns back to me with grin.  “I think you’ve got the idea now.”
 
	It’s closing time at The Middle East.  A bartender sweeps up empty beer cups
from the empty dance floor.  Dick Dale has left the building and Angelo and
company are without a way home.  McKnight expresses his “logical confoundment”
in the problem of the subway closing an hour and a half ago.  “I will not be
at ease until I know how we’re getting to the hotel,” he says with nervous
smile.  
	Angelo seems the least concerned with the fact.  “Maybe we could just sit
here and watch those plastic cups pile up on the floor,” he says as he
slouches in his wooden chair, confident that he’ll be on the road tomorrow
regardless of what happens tonight.
	As we go back upstairs to the bar, he’s quickly approached by a stranger
offering him drinks.     
Angelo doesn’t hesitate to ask “Hey man, did you drive a car here?” 
	“Yeah, why, need a ride?” says the guy with an expectant openness in his
eyes.
	“Yeah, kinda, me and my friends need a ride to our hotel.”  
	“No problem, Angelo,” 
	Moore looks turns around to us with a cocked eyebrow.  “See?”