Luna “Rendezvous”
And on some day—obviously not the first day and obviously not the day that he rested, and long after he made music but probably soon after he made and then regretted making corporations—God made an Indie Rock band. The drummer—erudite, effete and pouty. The bassist—androgynous, ethereal and not to be fucked with. But the singer—he was the pièce de résistance. They were a trio of Harvard students because, of course they were. They’d come of age together in Manhattan—the children of artists, intellectuals and upward mobility. Damon, on drums, and Naomi, on bass, were a kind of dreamy, more so heady couple—Cambridge’s answer to Ira and Georgia from Yo La Tengo. But, really, it was always Dean. Those pale blue eyes. The nowhere near the beach but still somehow salt and sea tousled hair. That New York by way of Australia by way of New Zealand accent. How he skipped over “Johnny B. Goode” and “Gloria” and went straight to the third Velvet Underground record and the first Dream Syndicate record. Dean Wareham was’t a Rocker or a Punk Rocker or even a College Rocker. Dean Wareham was an Indie Rocker—maybe the perfect Indie Rocker.
Except he was thrice cursed. One, he was diminutive—had he been any taller he might’ve been a model or, minimally, impossible to identify with. And so, he was an Indie Rock ideal, but in miniature. Two, he was so charming that major record labels could not not desire him, which for most bands would be fine but for the consummate Indie Rocker proved complicated. And finally three, he knew too much. Dean Wareham understood how relationships worked and how economic systems operated, which is to say that he knew exactly why he and his bands would never succeed. And yet, aside from some acting gigs and the occasional writing project, he has been a career Indie Rocker. It’s a Sisyphean tale—written and directed by Noah Baumbach—the Indie Rock hero whose bands can only lose money and then break up.
In the beginning, Wareham’s conundrum was not so apparent. But after three years spent thrilling John Peel devotees, Galaxie 500’s frontman informed Galaxie 500’s couple that he was done. Damon and Naomi—who went on to marry and make lots of art together—were understandably hurt. Their version of the story was that Wareham, in pursuit of more creative control, had made a secret solo deal with a soon to be Elektra A&R man. Dean, unsurprisingly, had a different and radically logical explanation: that he wasn’t making enough money and that being the third person in a band where the other two people are a couple was complicated to the point of insufferable.
Both versions have survived as non-contradictory truths, but it’s Dean’s explanation that always resonated with me. For its simplicity. But also for the ways in which it predicted the rest of his career. Soon after Galaxie 500, he parlayed his solo material into an Indiepop supergroup named Luna. Stanley Demenski, from The Feelies, on drums. And Justin Harwood, from The Chills, played bass. It was the addition of second guitarist Sean Eden, however, that turned the early version of the band—twee, woozy and deadpan—into the fully realized version of the band—twee, woozy, deadpan and mesmerizing. At their frequent best, no band has ever assimilated the sum of their influences with the dexterity of Luna. If you liked The Feelies, The Chills, The Velvet Underground, Television and The Dream Syndicate, you couldn’t not like Luna.
Three albums in—from “Lunapark” through “Penthouse”—things were going swimmingly. In 1993 they opened for the Velvet Underground reunion tour! The next year, Sterling Morrison, of said Velvet Underground, played joined them for two songs for “Bewitched!” In 1995 they released “Penthouse,” an album extremely similar to but slightly better than everything they made before (and after)! Tom Verlaine showed up to play with them! Luna was a band comfortable in their own skin, flexing their intentionally small muscles for a label drunk on Metallica and Third Eye Blind in an industry addicted to compact discs at a moment when said companies and industry could afford prestigious non-profit donations like Luna. Luna was not exactly like other charity cases—they were less striving, more melodic and aware of their (lack of) commercial prospects. But every major record company had “their Luna.”
Until they didn’t. By the late Nineties, the Alt buzz, which was loud enough to drown out the commercially inhospitable whisper of Indie bands like Luna, had faded. Everything regressed—the weirdness of Modern Rock, the sales of compact discs and, inevitably, the major label tolerance for prestigious, sub-popular bands. It was fun for a while, but it was never gonna last. In 1997 Lee Wall replaced Stanley Demenski on drums. And two years later, when financial pressures trumped Alt idealism at Elektra, Wareham was sent back to to the minors. Released in 1999, “The Days of Our Nights” was recorded for their former major, but ultimately released by a much smaller division of Sire Records (which had the same parent company as Elektra). The irony was not lost, but some of the hope was.
Ultimately it was not their being dropped or their lackluster SoundScan reports that doomed Luna—it was the departure of Justin Harwood and the arrival of Britta Phillips. Phillips is an excellent bassist, an enchanting singer and a captivating stage performer. Musically, Luna did not change very much when she joined the band. The issue was neither musical nor technical. It was a romantic. And, according to Dean Wareham’s prior logic, it was an existential concern. And it was also inevitable. At some point in the early Aughts, after months on the road, dueting Serge Gainsbourg’s “Bonnie and Clyde,” Dean and Britta fell in love. Which was idyllic and photogenic but also a major, twofold problem: Dean was married (to someone else) and also he knew from his time with Galaxie 500 that you have to choose—couple or band. You can’t have both.
And for that reason—even more so than the wonky economics of indie sub-stardom—“Rendezvous,” Luna’s seventh studio album and their second for Jetset Records, was meant to be the last Luna album. It’s a strange thing to announce your new record and the dissolution of your band at the same time, but that’s almost exactly what Luna did. “Tell Me Do You Miss Me,” the documentary of their farewell tour, revealed many truths about the life of a well known, well loved, but ultimately not known or loved enough indie band. There’s a lot of pleasure. And more pain. And the knowledge that when you operate at a certain level—Luna’s level—you make almost no money. On the surface, “Tell Me Do You Miss Me” was the story of a band breaking up because they couldn’t make a living. But you didn’t have to scratch too hard to uncover the other truth—the story of a band breaking up because their lead singer and bassist had fallen in love.
Which makes “Rendezvous” an object of intrigue—an album about new frontiers and great unknowns that are also fond farewells. It’s a complex sleight of hand but, more often than not, Luna pulls it off. And nowhere more so than on “Malibu Love Nest,” the love-drunk anthem that could have been a hit in 1994 or in 2014 but which was lost on 2004. Dean opens the song, which opens the record, with a coy coquetry generally reserved for flirtatious notes passed between college students:
Honey bunny come on
It's time to put the diamonds on
In the bathroom on the plane
On the bus and on the train
I'll write your name
In malibu
Each darling verse is punctuated by that trademark Wareham guitar—sharp and soft, melodic and pitchy. At their most lovable, Luna sounds like Television if Tom Verlaine, Richard Lloyd, Fred Smith and Billy Ficca were all stuffed animals. And—to be clear—I mean that as an extreme compliment.
From there, they coast gently westward and downhill, leaving New York City and drifting into big skies, wide eyes and starry nights. Drums get brushed. Words get hushed. And forty minutes after the honey bunny rush of “Malibu Love Nest” Dean gives a fuzzy wuzzy kiss goodnight of “Rainbow Babe.” Meanwhile, in between, and especially on “Speedbumps” and “Buffalo Boots,” they take the baton from the band that partially birthed them and largely informed them—The Feelies. But whereas the New Jersey cult band was nervous and suburban, Luna are reliably offhanded and increasingly countrified.
In Galaxie 500, Wareham was the frontman and also the odd man out. But coupled up in Luna, he attempted to protect the democracy. On “Rendezvous,” guitarist Sean Eden has three songwriting credits and drummer Lee Wall twice sings lead. It is a testament to Luna’s consistency and idiosyncrasy that, even when Wareham was not singing, they still sound just like Luna. In part, this is because the guitar tones were so specific. And in part it’s because Wall was so respectful of Wareham’s voal style. But mostly it was because the band’s thesis was unwavering: Luna equals the third Velvets record plus the first Dream Syndicate record.
“Rendezvous” was supposed to be a bid adieu to indie insolvency and a table setting for Dean and Britta, Wareham’s character acting career and his unsurprisingly excellent memoir (“Black Postcards” from 2008). Luna had to end for the very same reasons Galaxie 500 had to end—two band members were in love and zero band members were making enough money. Ten years later, however, a deeper, truer truth emerged. At the age of fifty, and despite being a happily married (to Britta) Californian, Wareham reunited Luna. Surely on some level it was for the money—anniversary shows pay well and Luna’s semi-Ivy, fully-bougie fans could afford the ticket prices. And surely it was more lucrative for Wareham to tour as Luna than as Dean and Britta or simply as Dean Wareham. But, also, he couldn’t not reunite Luna. Because, while he was a good enough actor, and maybe a better writer, and while he was cursed with financial pragmatism and a horse-sense for the perils of mixing romantic chemistry with music chemistry, Dean Wareham was an Indie Rocker. A fuzzy, wuzzy Indie Rocker.