Lookout Records – The Cold Reality of My Warm Perception

During the writing of this essay, the memories and vinyl just kept piling up.

Let me first say that I am the wrong person to write an accurate history of Lookout Records. Not only do I not know it, but over the years I’ve actually engaged in the creation of my own set of facts regarding the independent record label and the people associated with it.

To be clear, I didn’t plan that. In fact, when I heard my first Lookout release at age 13, all I wanted in life was access to the actual facts surrounding the label. But since the Internet wasn’t an option and MTV was more concerned with Color Me Badd, all I could turn to was the liner notes of Operation Ivy’s Energy, from which I gleaned a few names, a PO Box address, and a handful of other bands to pursue. That was enough. Already, an image of a bustling punk community began to emerge.

One Kerplunk and a Quit Talkin’ Claude later, the pieces really started to fall in place. More names came into focus, several of which appeared repeatedly, and I was soon noticing what seemed to be inside jokes running rampant throughout the album art. By the time GunCrazy, LoveSongsForTheRetarded, and my first-ever issue of Cometbus showed up, I felt like I was really starting to know and understand these people.

Still, I kept on.

The mail orders became more frequent, and I was now waist-deep in JumpSaltys and BoogadaBoogadaBoogadas and AndTheWomenWhoLoveThems. New names, a few black and white photos, and more inside jokes that even an outsider like me could follow had arrived. And besides the life-changing music, I now had upon my shelf a full cast of characters participating in my innocently contrived fantasy of the goings-on within the Lookout Records family. What’s more, an uncalled-for certainty had even asserted itself around it all.

The perception of a typical day at the Lookout headquarters, as imagined by my bored-ass teenage self, went something like this:

A door tagged with the iconic “eyeballs” logo opens to reveal a guy named Patrick seated at a desk, drawing a cartoon and listening to the members of Green Day work out a set list; Pat’s friend, Erika, leans in to grab a handful of stickers, which she neatly arranges before stuffing into an addressed manila envelope; in the next room, recording guru Kevin Army tends to the daily ritual of coiling cables and setting mixer knobs back to unity, while Ben Weasel and Joe Queer, pens in hands, argue over a bitter love lyric; guys with names like Sluggo and Eggplant roam the halls making everyone laugh (occasionally on purpose); a teapot begins to whistle as Jesse Michaels and Jeff Ott ruminate about how, even though it is an essential subject to understand, politics is not the answer to our problems; Dr. Frank, meanwhile, sits in a beanbag, looking up from his book only when he senses one of the others can’t quite find the word they’re searching for; finally, at the helm of it all sits Larry Livermore, a quiet, behind-the-scenes, big-brother type of guy who, when he isn’t writing up contracts in his office, wanders the Berkeley streets from warehouse to garage, personally discovering and tending to new bands, ready to offer a few dollars and pats on the back at just the right moment.

In a word, my two-dimensional version of reality was completely and wholly not-at-all-reality. But it was all I had.

Throughout the 90s, I went ahead and kept on aging, feeling more and more akin to the Lookout crew as I did so. And no matter where I was (home) or what hi-jink I was partaking in (none), a recent release was no doubt by my side, containing yet another piece to the puzzle.

Then something happened. The Internet started in with its version of the facts. Message boards lit up, blogs came of age and began shining a light on my belief system. But why? I wasn’t harming anything. My fantasy was not being pushed on anyone. It was simply running through my veins.

But the Internet persisted with its precious “articles” and “interviews” and every couple of years I found myself face to face with a new, truth-based “fact.” Staff shakeups? Pending lawsuits? Back catalogues being pulled and re-released elsewhere? What’s-his-face, it turned out, actually hated so-and-so? Larry Livermore, now no longer associated with Lookout, was by all accounts anything and everything but quiet?

Disheartened, I chose not to engage further. It didn’t matter anyway. If I had learned anything at this point in life it was that perception was always more real than reality, so I needn’t worry about inconvenient information or tidbits contrary to my heart’s desire.

And, you know, I did pretty well at remaining happy and clueless for a long, long time. That is until earlier this month, when Chris Applegren had to go and make it “official” in a blogpost: yes, after 25 years and a long, draining attempt at survival, Lookout Records was closing up shop for good.

After the bitter swallow of this unfiltered reality, my grief has either dissipated or has yet to rear its head, because almost immediately I began to smile. Maybe it was the instant flood of memories or the reminder of all the great music embedded in my head and iPod. Either way, I feel strangely confident that the dustbin of history will treat Lookout well and that the bands and records will enjoy a well-deserved bump of attention in the coming months and years.

Yet, as I turn off of Memory Lane and make my way back to the safe, generic Highway of Now, I can’t help but wonder what’s ahead. The ingredients that spawned Lookout Records cannot be manufactured and any attempt at emulation is usually uninteresting or just plain sad. Still, in an age where record labels are becoming thought of as quaint and obsolete, part of me hopes that someone is trying. Or at least I hope it can be perceived that way.

In memory of Erika Hynes

Listen to Matt’s version of “More Than Toast” by the Mr. T Experience, an early Lookout classic:

This entry was posted on January 25, 2012 at 12:00 am and is filed under Media, Music. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed.