What did any of us know back then? We were eighteen — freshman in life. We didn’t know who our friends were. We didn’t know if we were gonna be vegetarians or whether Doc Martens were still cool. We didn’t know what hard work was or what a dollar was worth. We didn’t know about love and sex was very much still a mystery. We had our suspicions about everything. But most of them were wrong.

At eighteen, my curiosity was a mile wide but my knowledge an inch deep. I craved confidence and conviction but I didn’t know shit about shit. Except for one thing — the thing that I was totally, completely certain of: I knew that R.I.S.D. had the cool bands and that my neighboring college had the totally uncool ones.

After all — they were artists. Their bands sounded like Talking Heads and Devo joined forces to deconstruct Fugazi. They made their own costumes. They made their own instruments! They released limited edition seven inches with covers that they silkscreened themselves. They seemed both feral and highly advanced. Our bands, on the other hand, were comprised of sweaty fraternity members in white polo shirts. Ours had horn sections and sounded like guys who’d played in high school marching bands or orchestras and who’d recently discovered weed and James Brown.

Our bands sounded like noise, but not like No Wave or Hardcore Rap or Heavy Metal noise. Not in the ways that the R.I.S.D. bands sounded like noise. Ours sounded like overserved “Econ majors” playing for hormonal co-eds who cared much less what the music sounded like and much more that (a) they did not stand out too much and (b) that they did not go home alone.

One of the two house bands at our campus bar was called Martha Dumptruck. But their more established and polished big brother band was called Dowdy Smack. Everyone knew that Martha Dumptruck was a college diversion for lacrosse players and future lawyers and MBAs. But Dowdy Smack was rumored to be the genuine article — a band of competent musicians who were good enough play “real” venues. Good enough to tour regionally. Maybe good enough to get a record deal. 

Dowdy Smack sounded like the bands I’d heard the year before when I’d snuck into the two bars that high schoolers in New York knew they could sneak into: Nightingales Lounge and Wetlands Preserve. Those two bars were known to have lax doormen, cheap beer and eclectic music played by musicians who looked like the patrons, except with more facial hair and better drugs. Vintage denim, tie dyes and knit hats were also frequently involved.

In addition to their unfussy admission policies, both venues did also provide a genuine public service, hosting and promoting unsigned bands. Wetlands was the more socially conscious of the two, born from a mission that extended far beyond cheap beer and fake ID blindness. Original owner, Larry Bloch, and torchbearer, Pete Shapiro, shared progressive ideals, diverse tastes and an inclusive spirit. Over the years, their vision and their patronage — not to mention their affluent, collegiate customer base — attracted everyone from Phish to Rage Against the Machine to Erykah Badu.

In spite of their multi-cultural aspirations, however, the Wetlands primarily looked, sounded and smelled like Phish. Fans and bands traveled from far corners of the country to the west side of Manhattan, hoping to catch a whiff of Trey, Mike, Page and the guys. Hundreds, possibly thousands, of post-Dead acolytes made the trek. Most of those bands either burned out or never had it to begin with. But a select few broke through, including Spin Doctors, Dave Matthews Band, Widespread Panic and, of course, Blues Traveler.

Chan Kinchla, the guitarist for Blues Traveler, is the older brother of Tad Kinchla, who throughout the mid-Nineties, played in Dowdy Smack. Yes — that Dowdy Smack. The not from R.I.S.D. Dowdy Smack. In 1992, and before they were called “Jam Bands,” it made complete sense that Dowdy Smack was genetically connected to Blues Traveler. The Wetlands Preserve was just a bigger, better sounding version of our tiny, shitty college bar. But, otherwise, there was virtually no difference. The bands toiled in funkless funk and the audiences reeked of privilege.

My aversion to Jam Bands runs deep. For a long time, it felt almost elemental. We had our Sonic Youth and Pixies and Yo La Tengo and they had their hacky sacks and skunk weed and caucasian dreadlocks. While in college — and probably for a while afterwards — I sneered in the general direction of all things Jam. But, in time, I mellowed. I knew it was silly and biased and hypocritical. After all, my favorite bands liked to meander. I liked guitar solos, too. I grew up with tremendous privilege. Who was I kidding?

And so, in time, I stopped fighting it — whatever “it” was. I learned to appreciate Phish and to not hate (and maybe admire) Dave Matthews. I embraced the “jamification” of Indie Rock — Kurt Vile, War on Drugs, The National, etc. I relented. I grew up. I either forgave or forgot them all. The Disco Biscuits — forgiven. moe — forgiven. Strangefolk — forgiven. In time, I even began to remember them all fondly. All, except for Blues Traveler.

On so many levels, my aversion towards Blues Traveler is ridiculous. Of all those Nineties Jam bands, why them? There were so many lesser variations. Bands who couldn’t play. Singers who couldn’t sing. Horrific Dead covers. Endless guitar solos. Blues Traveler was barely any of those things. They were a very competent Roots Rock band with a mascot for a lead singer. They were not particularly self-serious. Musically, they were far more exciting than their closest predecessor — Spin Doctors — and their more successful, distant cousin — Hootie and the Blowfish. Their success, though massive, was short-lived. If anything, their brief apex was a fluke — a product of commercial radio’s (and MTV’s) inability to separate Beck from Better than Ezra. For one strange moment in 1994, Modern Rock, Mainstream Rock, Pop and Adult Alternative formats all sounded oddly similar — jangly and toeing line between earnest and ironic. Basically, like the sound of Blues Traveler.

On the other hand, reducing Blues Traveler to a bad haircut, or conflating them with their Wetlands’ siblings, does a grave injustice to the band. It also obscures the harmonica in the room — the dozens and dozens of harmonicas in the room. Because, whatever you think of Blues Traveler, I suspect those feelings are entirely correlated to their larger than life, harp blowing lead singer, John Popper.

Like his friend Dave Matthews, and like his contemporary Adam Duritz, and like his successor, Rob Thomas, John Popper has a vocal affect that involves simultaneous clenching and pushing. It’s the sound of a man who desperately needs to take a shit while attempting, with equal force, to hold something back. It’s a delicate — uncomfortable — balance of soulful belting and restrained pinching that effectively mirrors the sound of his other instrument (the harmonica), but which very few singers can pull off. In fact, aside from Van Morrison and Otis Redding, I cannot think of another male singer who has successfully pulled it off.

Generally speaking, vocalists are either “pushers” — bluesy wailers and howlers — or “pinchers” — precision crooners and technical aces. The average singer cannot do either particularly well. But John Popper attempts both — constantly. His voice aims left and right, but misses high. And the result is aggressively shrill, a feature exacerbated by the range, speed and constancy of the band’s other lead instrument — the mouth harp.

To be clear, John Popper can absolutely sing. He possesses both range and control. And, by most accounts, he can play the hell out of a harmonica. Many knowledgeable people consider him to be the most virtuosic harmonica player in the history of Rock. My ungenerous assessment of him and his band is truly not an evaluation of talent (or lack of). It’s something else. It’s that holding back. It’s the speed of his melodic runs. It’s the fourteen holsters in his belt slash vest contraption. It’s an abiding sense that John Popper, and I guess by extension his band, is hiding something.

Though I was always convinced that Popper was hiding something, I really had no idea what it might be. I didn’t know if it was a lack of skill (it wasn’t). I didn’t know if it was a lack of material (honestly, the songs are not really the issue). I wondered if maybe it was the drugs (in part, for sure, but also not the thing). Or if all that harmonica flair and those silly hats and his jokey banter wasn’t simply a defense mechanism for Popper’s physical discomfort (seemed reasonable but also I’m no doctor). Of course, I also wondered why I even cared, whether it wasn’t my own bullshit casting suspicion — wishing I was more like Talking Heads but feeling I was more like Dowdy Smack.

It shouldn’t have mattered. The zeitgeist moved on. After their breakthrough on “four” (1994), Blues Traveler was relegated to Adult Alternative purgatory. They were never again a Pop band or a mainstream Rock band or a Modern Rock band. H.O.R.D.E., the festival that Popper co-created — the older, higher, jammier brother of Lollapalooza — was put out to pasture. And then, in the summer of 1999, Popper suffered a “coronary event” that may or may not have been a heart attack (sources vary on the matter). Just two months later, Bobby Sheehan, Blues Traveler’s founding bassist, died of an accidental overdose. 

In the aftermath, Tad Kinchla — yep, the star of Dowdy Smack — finally joined his brother and realized his destiny as the bassist for Blues Traveler. It was a wistful conclusion to what was an otherwise tragic season for the band. When the rest of the world was either offering their sympathies or sighing, however, I was still wondering what John Popper was hiding. Not actively. Not anxiously. But whereas I recalled Spin Doctors with a wry smile and where I imagined Counting Crows still very capable of making good music, I considered Popper and his band with a raised eyebrow.

In the early Aughts, Blues Traveler reemerged as a back to basics outfit. Popper lost weight. The band toured constantly, albeit in smaller venues. Side projects and solo projects emerged. But the band stuck it out. Every other year they made an album. Most of them no more or less interesting than the last one, but occasionally — like in the case of “¡Bastardos!” (2005) — they seemed on the cusp of something more. Something closer to the roots of Roots music. Something with less harmonica. Something with less pushing and clenching.

But then, in March of 2007, while driving in Washington state, Popper (who was riding shotgun) and his buddy were pulled over by state police and arrested for possession of marijuana. Those charges — which were both no surprise and no big deal — were eventually dropped. However, during their search, the patrolmen unearthed further, more vexing surprises. A police dog found multiple hidden compartments that contained four rifles, nine handguns, a switchblade knife, a Taser and night vision goggles. The vehicle was also found to have flashing emergency headlights, a siren and a public address system.

While all of the ammunition, equipment and customizations were perfectly legal, a representative for the Washington State Police commented, “The sheer amount of weapons and the modifications to the vehicle are not something we see everyday.” Further reporting added, “Popper indicated to troopers that he had installed these items in his vehicle because (in the event of a natural disaster) he didn’t want to be left behind.”

There it was, all laid out. It wasn’t so much the guns that Popper was hiding — he’d been a very public proponent of the second amendment for years. His libertarian streak — which at first I did not understand and which then I rolled my eyes at and which I ultimately came to accept and respect — was in no way repressed. The abject fear, however, was less apparent. Fear of death. Fear of rejection. Fear of “being left behind.” Fear of everything.

Ironically, in those hidden compartments, Popper revealed himself to be not so dissimilar from the Talking Heads, whose “Fear of Music” is a musical catalog of phobias, including the post-apocalyptic variety. John Popper was (likely still is) “a prepper” — a guy who hears “Life During Wartime” not as art but as prognostication of the inevitable. A guy who is convinced of the likelihood of some attack — personal, institutional, federal or environmental — and whose fear inspires militant preparedness.

All that pushing and clenching. All the harmonicas and those harmonica solos and those harmonica cases and those harmonica belt vests. All the canes (which I assume hold swords inside) and the hats (maybe check for grenades). All the jokes. The guns and knives and tasers. They were all signs and symptoms of and redirections away from something so obvious: fear. Fear is such a natural and human function — it’s in no small part what has allowed us to survive and adapt as a species. However, with the possible exception of Talking Head’s aforementioned album, and Lou Reed’s “Waves of Fear,” it is not great source material for Rock and Roll. Anxiety? Yes — definitely. Fear, much less so. Fear inspires rapid, often impulsive decisions. Anxiety is taut. Fear is shrill. Fear is the sound of pushing and clenching. It’s the sound of a three minute harmonica solo played at hummingbird speed.

Released in 2008, a year after Popper’s arrest but three years after the rather assured “¡Bastardos!,” “North Hollywood Shootout” is a mildly terrified album. Mind you, the fear is not always on the surface. Two decades removed from their Wetlands debut and fourteen years after “Run Around,” the harmonica is less frenetic, the pace is more varied and the vocals are less sharp. But, listen closely, and you’ll hear an unmistakably unsteady album fronted by an unmoored singer. It’s music unsure whether it wants to go hard or soft. Whether the turn is towards the Adult end of the radio dial or towards the fuck it, who needs radio side of the spectrum. At times, Blues Traveler sounds like they’d prefer to be David Gray or Ben Harper. Elsewhere, they sound interested in The White Stripes. Too often, however, they sound like Tenacious D imitating Blues Traveler — Popper’s pushing and clenching resembling a Jack Black parody.

And then there’s the title. Named for a horrific shootout between two bank robbers and the LAPD — wherein the outgunned police eventually killed the assailants, but not before a dozen policemen and eight civilians were shot and over a thousand rounds of ammunition were fired — the words “North Hollywood Shootout” are trying to say many things at once. Part comment on the need for military grade weapons as protection, part comment against them, part reference to where the album was recorded and, likely, part snarky provocation, the title is less about the songs themselves and much more about the singer.

Blues Traveler’s tenth studio album starts off promising enough. “Forever Owed” is a modern folk-rocker, suited for those outdoor festivals where fans of Phish and Radiohead peacefully co-exist. It has tape loops that may or may not actually be harmonica loops (I’m a little paranoid), a light jangle and some atmospheric synth. It’s really not that far off from The National when they dial it down or Sufjan Stevens when he dials it up. Popper does no harm. In fact, his restraint is admirable and, when he does eventually press the slightest bit forward, the contrast feels well earned.

“You, Me and Everything,” with a title ripped straight from the notebooks of Dave Matthews, is up next. And, despite the glitteringly general sentiments, it has a nifty (programmed) beat and a synth hook that recalls Stereolab. It’s miles from the Wetlands Preserve. It’s better than OK. It’s interesting. It’s good. In fact, two songs in, “North Hollywood Shootout” sounds eclectic and confident — like a letting go of fear. Like a relinquishing of weapons.

It turns out, however, that these are simply whispers before the siren. “Love Does” briefly sustains the kind of modern, kind of folky romance of the opener. At first, it sounds like an innocuous song about the intoxication of love. But then Popper sings: “She lies out on the grass/Her bellybutton fascinates me.” Aside from Dave Matthews, who would sing something like that? It’s the exact opposite of romantic — it’s creepy. Vaguely terrifying.

And it’s only the beginning. “The Beacons” tries to answer the question: “What if The White Stripes preferred harmonica to guitar — and drums?” It’s aggressively shrill — the sort of song that Pearl Jam could maybe, barely pull off but which is murdered by a band enamored of multi-octave vocal (and harp) runs. Tonally, Popper is the inverse of Eddie Vedder. Until itself, that’s neither an indictment nor a problem. But a song like this requires a heavy gravity in the bottom that this particular band is particularly ill-suited for.

“How You Remember It” suffers in the same way. Too insistent. Forceful on the surface but brittle inside. Against the grain of a band that likes to run around and play. It’s four minutes of soulless Soul interrupted briefly by Popper who stops the song, as if to say, “wait — now, get a load of this,” before launching into a wild harmonica solo. The song wants the earth but the harp craves air.

In between the light clenching and heavy pushing, there’s a lot of well made, exactly what you’d expect from middle-aged Blues Traveler — but with slightly more synth and slightly less harmonica. There’s the existential reflection of “Borrowed Time,” where Popper’s strong vocal performance is betrayed by the utter banality of the words. There’s the talk singing and harmonica showcase on what I assume is a song about love in a war torn locale (“The Queen of Sarajevo”). And then, finally, there’s the one where John invites the most famous harmonica player in the world to join them for a song. Yes — "Free Willis (Ruminations from Behind Uncle Bob's Machine Shop)" — features Bruce Willis (who tried to make the harp cool again on “The Return of Bruno”) vamping his way through six minutes of random asides and splintered conversations. It’s both less bizarre and more fun than it sounds. The band is loose and ragged for the first time in half an hour. Maybe the first time decades. No pushing. No clenching. No fear.

Following “North Hollywood Shootout,” Blues Traveler faded from my rear view. They continued to release albums roughly every three years. They kept their annual New Year’s date at Red Rocks. John Popper switched from Team Ron Paul to Team Bernie Sanders (I think). But, thankfully, there’s been no more tragedy. No more police reports. No apocalypse. I’m mostly certain that Popper still has his arsenal and his emergency supplies. However, I’m even more certain that he has not been (and won’t be) left behind.

As for all those Blues Traveler fans — the legions who snuck their way into Wetlands or Nightingales — they’re fifty years old now. They traded their red Solo cups and poorly rolled joints for careers in finance and high end edibles. And though their bands were once the opposite of my bands, decades later, we all landed someplace similar. Trying our best. Raising kids. Looking forward to our next vacation. Eating outside when the weather’s nice. Enjoying some Wilco when the algorithm finds it, knowing that some paths start out with Blues Traveler and others with Talking Heads, but a lot of them lead to the same destination. In spite of all that pushing and clenching.

by Matty Wishnow