Market Value
I’m awake in a dark room. Except for a half-empty bottle of Jim Beam, with which I will have no further dealings, I am alone. The mirror at the foot of the bed reflects the sunlight beaming over the blackout curtains. There’s a knock on the door, and a high-pitched, male voice says, “Housekeeping.” I’m in Warrensburg, Missouri.
The voice at the door belongs to Sonny Remlinger, lead singer and guitarist for Super Black Market, the only band in Warrensburg that matters.
“Cough/Cool” by Super Black Market (Misfits cover)
I’m not in a motel but in a guest bedroom at the apartment of Sonny’s girlfriend, Nina Gann. Like me, Sonny is in last night’s clothes, though it’s possible that his black T-shirt and tight black jeans are identical to the rest of the garments in his super black wardrobe. Sunglasses donned, we leave Gann and walk down the stairs and out onto the sidewalk of Warrensburg’s main drag.
Fifty or so yards away from Gann’s front door is the 400 (formerly the Setlist), a rock club that Nina owns with her brother, Ian Gann, where Super Black Market played last night.
When I arrived around 10 p.m., the place was packed. A Kansas City emo-metal band called Seeking Surreal was starting to play. There were a few jocks in the audience, drinking pitchers of beer and acting tough, but the crowd was diverse for a town like Warrensburg. According to Remlinger and others, the 400 is the most tolerant club along a street where clubs cater mostly to the testosteronally overcharged — the only club that gay guys feel comfortable in.
That said, I wish Seeking Surreal had been tougher. Surreal took frequent pauses from rocking out to try to sound pretty, plunking on keys, crooning, picking outhandsome chords. Your little brother’s
day at school, interpreted by Tool.
The next band, Standpointe, from St. Louis, wanted to be Nickelback but didn’t have a dime. There was plenty of hoarse screaming and synchronized jumping, but it was the kind of flaccid angst-metal that unconsciously owes a huge debt to Alanis Morissette.
The third act of the night, a deep-fried metal band from Arkansas called Goodnight Fight, almost didn’t make it to the show. The group’s van broke down in Pleasant Hill, and the guys showed up during Standpointe’s last song. I haven’t seen real headbanging since Pearl Jam was on MTV.
Goodnight Fight was dirty, gangly and heavy. The members stood in a chorus line, feet splayed wider than their shoulders, banging heads and sawing out riffs.
To Fight’s delight, a mosh pit opened up. Dudes went down on their backs, legs flying up, faces locked in maniacal grins. That was for the first three or four songs, anyway; after that, dudes got tired.
Finally, around half past midnight, Super Black got up. After so much metal, it was good to hear the band’s hefty but tight punk rock.
What set the band apart from the others that night is that its members had fun. Sonny, along with his brother, Joseph (on drums), and guitarist Benn Bluml, know that rock and roll ain’t no goddamn audition for Hamlet. The preternaturally energetic Sonny typifies that attitude. He smiles almost constantly throughout sets — a wolfish, savage smile — and jigs around like an extra from Oklahoma!
It’s not pop, though. Super Black’s songs lash out at an unthinking, commercialized society, lambasting corporate radio and the Iraq war.
Pitchers and water bottles arced through the air toward the end of the set, and afterward the floor was covered with curds of mud and beer. The afterparty took place at a townhouse down the street, past a giant, spooky, grain-silo-type building.
The next morning, I had breakfast at the Corner Café, a diner owned by the Remlinger boys’ parents, where all three of the band members work. The place was so busy that Sonny decided to sneak into the kitchen and prepare our orders himself. He fried me up a pancake so big and fluffy that I had to decide whether to eat it or curl up on it and go to sleep.
In fact, I could have used more mattress time, but poor Benn, Sonny and Joseph had only a couple of hours before they had to leave for a gig at the Beaumont.
Punk never sleeps. Not even in Warrensburg.
