By Kelly Dearmore
By Jim Schutze
By Rachel Watts
By Lauren Drewes Daniels
By Anna Merlan
By Lee Escobedo
By Alice Laussade
"We were really popular in Minneapolis," he says of his previous incarnation as the front man of hard-rock indie heroes Lifter Puller. In 2000, the band collectively realized none of its members were willing to ante up for another album and tour; they dissolved, and Finn took off for a mythical place called New York City to join Lifter guitarist Tad Kubler, who already lived there. His motivation was simple: "I definitely didn't want to be the guy who used to be in Lifter Puller, walking around a small town."
If that's not reason enough, consider how goddamn depressing a musical scene can be that aspires to nothing more than boozing and, if it fits into the drinking regimen, playing live. Finn might be able to call Hüsker Dü and the Replacements local bands back home, but the real local bands--the ones you've never heard of for good reasons--never really got what it took to make it. "With Lifter Puller, we worked hard," he says, "but that was the exception more than the norm. In Minneapolis, it wasn't even cool to try. It's kind of like eighth grade or something--if you get good grades, you're a nerd. If you really went after something, it almost felt like you were halfway cheating."
The move to Brooklyn quickly saw Finn reunited with Kubler; there, they recruited Galen Polivka (bass), Franz Nicolay (keys) and Bobby Drake (drums) into what--judging by their ethnically diverse names--could either be the roster of a European soccer club or the disposition of a band called Hold Steady. Their debut release The Hold Steady Almost Killed Me sounds a lot like something that would make those end-of-year lists such as "The Number One Album You Didn't Hear in 2004"--which it did, topping even Rolling Stone and Spin's coveted countdowns. The irony, of course, is that means nobody except the scenesters the album relentlessly attacks were listening. Too bad, too, considering how ridiculously fun Finn's half-sung/half-shouted lyrics really are; to call him a singer is inaccurate, since he sounds a lot more like Elvis Costello would after gargling with asbestos. Nevertheless, his snarky character sketches play out with a lyrical clarity that indie rock probably doesn't know what to make of (just ask Stephen Malkmus).
"Almost Killed Me was more of a party album," Finn explains--this, when it comes time to figure out why the Hold Steady's second album Separation Sunday is, despite the accolades heaped onto their first outing, just...better. "The lyrics were really written off the cuff, a lot of times." Consider the party-starter "Knuckles": "I've been trying to get people to call me Freddy Knuckles/People keep calling me Right Said Fred/I've been trying to get people to call me Freddie Mercury/People keep calling me Drop Dead Fred."
"It wasn't as developed as Separation Sunday, lyrically," Finn continues. "I think the idea was really this sort of party record, which is why I think all the drinking and drugs came up on that one. But it's not autobiographical per se. Most of the characters are composites of people I've known or have been around, especially in my late teens and early 20s. When you grow up in the suburbs, getting your drivers license is this monumental thing because suddenly the world is so much smaller. So a lot of the characters are people or types of people who populated my life in the few years after I got my license and had this newfound freedom."
In other words, Almost Killed Me is the loser chronicle of that strange all-ages crowd you'll find in any town--the skaters, ravers and youthful malcontents that get drunk on Boone's and huff in Kmart parking lots. In fact, a few troubled characters make repeat appearances in Separation Sunday, conspiring to turn the album into that most dreaded of musical misadventures: "I wouldn't call it a concept album because, personally, when I think of concept records I think of Rush and Styx, but I don't think it would be unfair to call it that," Finn concedes. That's because Sunday is an epic of lost youth, a junky crusade for the redemption of a girl named Hallelujah, an album in novel form...or is it the other way around? Either way, Jerry Stahl's coffee table would look mighty nice holding Sunday up.
Hallelujah (or Holly) is a confused Catholic girl with some pretty naughty habits, we learn: "It's not like she's enslaved/It's more like she's enthralled/She don't need it, but she likes it," Finn narrates in "Charlemagne in Sweatpants." Every sort of miscreant pops up as copious amounts of drugs are consumed, a modern-day John the Baptist armed with nitrous tanks dunks her head in a river, and she's born again--spiritually or physically. Probably both.