Mike Watt
The Secondman's Middle Stand
2004 Columbia/Red Ink


There's a thing about hero worship—it always ends up in disappointment for the worshipper. People who seem bigger-than-life have a tendency to eventually show their humanity by sucking or selling out or abandoning what made them great to begin with.

Disappointment is inevitable, that is, unless you're talking about Mike Watt. Since the Minutemen days, Watt's been this punk rock Buddha, seeking enlightenment and traveling a righteous middle path between maintaining integrity and making a living. He has managed to maintain an indie existence on a major label. He does it by jamming econo and keeping up a solid work ethic.

Watt makes such an attractive hero because he actively shuns any status that places himself above his audience. It's that same humble righteousness that keeps him credible long after his peers have sold out or faded away. Plus, he's honest about himself and his own shortcomings. One gets the impression that if Watt farted, he'd cop to it rather than trying to blame the dog.

It is that self-baring honesty that makes Watt's third solo album, The Secondman's Middle Stand, such an engaging and brilliant piece of work. The Secondman's Middle Stand chronicles an illness that came close to taking Watt's life in 2000. Watt's Hoot Page for a description of his infirmity that's as graphic as you want it to be). He based the work on Dante's Divine Comedy, and while the reflections are autobiographical and hyper-personal, it touches on universal themes.

Watt's bass playing is in fine form, and he's backed up by the Secondmen (Pete Mazich on organ and Jerry Trebotic on drums). The liturgical/philosophical theme of the record is well-served by Mazich's grand church organ swirling about.

From the roiling lead-off track "Boiling Blazes" through "Puked to High Heaven" and "Burstedman," Watt confronts the illness. He pledges to "make it through this hellride." But he's got a long way down, through fever and puking to high heaven before he finds out what's wrong. When he finally hits the bottom of the pit and bursts open, he still has a long painful road ahead, but it's a good pain because it is bringing healing.

"Pissbags and Tubing" is a really annoying song, actually, but probably only half as annoying as having a catheter jammed up yer weenie. So it relays its message. The song features some of Watt's most inventive lyrics. Here's how he describes the process of changing his catheter:  "like starting a lawnmower and then stuffing a turkey, "he sings. "Yankin' it out, then shovin' it in."

At the other end of the illness, Watt comes through with a greater appreciation for the preciousness of life and music and his beloved thudstaff (and for the Stooges' "Little Doll," which was like a rope he used to pull himself back to playing strength).

The Middle Stand ends not with a howl or buzz, but with the pensive "Pelicanman," in which Watt professes his newfound appreciation for life. "Trippy how this boat gets tugged in sync somehow with the stars above which in turn are moved by love," Watt sings. "Blending, bending, never ending."

This album has the musical sophistication and lyrical depth to prove that Watt's an American artist of primal importance—like a Hank Williams or John Coltrane. D. Boon must be proud up there.