By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
Mr. Famous Fort Worth Fundamentalist Preacher might be OK with his son dating a male musician from America's premier queercore band; in many parts of the Christian church today, homosexuality is about as controversial as...well, rock and roll.
You have to wonder, though, if Dad has ever given a listen to a CD by his boy's boyfriend's band. Jon Ginoli and singer-bassist Chris Freeman, with the addition of brand new drummer Luis, pound out rough but relentlessly catchy quasi-punk ditties that extol sex between men--sometimes the spiritual and emotional high of it, but usually the sheer physical pleasure of the mechanics involved.
"The same way some people avoid talking about being gay, other people avoid talking about sex," Ginoli complains. "Most pop music is concerned with sex, but they call it romance. The musicians just aren't being honest. Now that we're in the middle of the AIDS crisis, gay sex has come to seem poisonous. Well, I'm a gay man, I'm HIV-negative, I know how to have safe sex, and I love doing it. It seemed like it was time for someone to step up and say that."
For six years now, Ginoli and his musical partner Freeman, who also writes and sings for the group, have been saying it through the medium of two- and three-minute songs. They began selling vinyl 45s to the cult they'd acquired playing in the clubs of San Francisco, then saw their songs distributed internationally by Lookout Records, a Berkeley label that also releases music by The Winona Ryders, Screeching Weasel, The Mr. T Experience, and a pre-Dookie Green Day.
Even a fan must admit that Pansy Division is distinguished less by its standard post-X sound--hard-driven, hook-laden, as tight and light as a rolled-up ball of tinfoil--than by its attitude, the childlike (some would say childish) joyfulness that ambushes you the instant the lyrics hit home. Whether sung in Ginoli's high-pitched, nasally quiver or Freeman's softer, sweeter whine, the typical Pansy Division tune is either: 1) an ode to sex or love or both, or 2) a lament about sex or love or both. Both are housed in lyrics that aren't so much gender-specific as gender-adamant.
"Everybody's toying with the idea of sexual ambiguity," Ginoli says. "And a lot of times, it's a joke. Everybody knows that Morrissey is gay. I knew that Bob Mould and Michael Stipe were gay years before they said anything, because those rumors were out there. But since no other groups had come out [in the early '90s], we decided we'd corner the market and be 'the openly gay band.'"
Into a stripped-clean song formula perfected previously by Buddy Holly and Brian Wilson step two unrepentant phallus worshipers. When the subject turns to horizontal refreshment, Jon and Chris are as giddy as adolescent girls at a Lemonheads concert--with Pamela DeBarres' imagination jacked into their frontal lobes. "Beercan Boy" champions sore jaws in the name of affection ("When I was little they said/That I had a big mouth/But now it comes in handy/When my Beercan Boy gets randy"), while "Fuck Buddy" pleads the case for between-love snacks ("Someday I'll find a guy/Who means something more/But that's not what/This relationship is for"). In the interest of community education, national hotlines for gay youth and illustrated instructions on how to use a condom appear in every Pansy Division CD.
The band occasionally flashes an introspective side with songs like "The Ache," an acoustic weeper about that scary moment when you realize love has devolved from security to imprisonment. Included on the trio's most recent album, 1996's Wish I'd Taken Pictures, it's only the third outright ballad Chris and Jon have recorded. They stick to a recipe Ginoli describes as "fast drums and loud guitars," and retain the label "punk" despite their melodic bent because, in Ginoli's words, "the best punk always had melody, anyway." He admits the combination of hard and soft has confused some people.
"Our music is very playful. If we decided to be harder and more angst-ridden, we'd probably go further faster. At the same time, people hear the word 'punk' and are afraid to come to our shows, because they think it'll be a dangerous setting."
That same label, he thinks, has intimidated some writers in the gay press because of the fascist reputation a few punk listeners have earned. Ginoli speaks with a little sadness about his earliest experiences as both a gay man and a fan of music that seemingly nobody liked.
"I went to high school and college in the '70s, when punk hit really big in the States," says the 37-year-old musician. "And a lot of straight people called me a fag because I listened to Blondie, The Clash, X-Ray Specs, and stuff like that. I remember when Patti Smith's album Horses came out. Here was this sexually ambiguous woman on the cover in a white shirt. Nobody wore a white shirt like that in the mid-'70s, so I went out and bought one just like it.