VIDEO PREMIERE: Kingston folk punk singer Jay Morgans confesses dark and storied ‘History’
I feel as though nobody talks about how society may have peaked in the 1990s. I say this with a pocket full of pointed jest, but think on it for a second.
The ’90s gave us the music of Soul Coughing, Morphine, Alice in Chains, Rancid, L7, Soundgarden, Quicksand, A Tribe Called Quest, Stone Temple Pilots, Shellac, Nine Inch Nails, P.M. Dawn, and a host of other compelling new acts, sounds, and scenes.
There was a lack of commercial and corporate interest in the purity of multi-cultural, multi-act music festivals. The concept and production of these events were still, at that time, in the hands of the artists. Lollapalooza 1 was curated by counterculture icon and lead singer of Jane’s Addiction Perry Farrell. Warped Tour was still an idea rather than a brand. And, lastly, we thought we knew what a bad president was.
I graduated from the Art Institute of Philadelphia in 1992 and stayed on there to teach two trimesters in place of a mentor of mine who had fallen ill. During this time, I was contacted (on my studio landline) by Northeastern Pennsylvania businessman and concert promoter Thom Greco.
At the time, Thom had an enormous entertainment complex located on the grounds known as The Station or Market Street Square in Wilkes-Barre. Greco explained to me over a few long phone calls that he wished to hire me as an entertainment director, booking agent, and concert producer. A deal was agreed upon and I moved back to NEPA. It was 1993.
My office at The Station was dope as fuck. It probably lies among the finest spaces that I have ever inhabited professionally. My space on 5th Avenue in New York City was a 6×6 sweatbox that I shared with the most insidiously British human ever created. The space housed marble pillars, gold sconces, and hand-painted cherubs – the works. Plus, directly behind my desk was a spiral staircase that went to the small observation tower at the center roof of The Station.
I was 23 and in the big league (or so my colossal ego believed at the time.). It is in this gilded office where our story today begins.
In addition to booking the four stages in The Station and working on the planning and development of the Bud Light Amphitheater at Harvey’s Lake, I had decided to also reopen a popular location from my own youth.
I repurposed the factory on North Main Street as an underground, all-ages space that hosted shows on weekends.
It was not so very long after the capacity crowd of 373 paid heads on the opening night of this Underground Factory that a young man, clad in tatters and “fuck you” hair darkened my office doorway. He started to explain his mission before I could tell him I was on a conference call with the owner of the Chippendales. I excused myself from my call, politely told this show seeker that I was busy, and asked him to come back later.
The Hudson (Luzerne County) native replied, “OK, I’ll wait,” then stepped to the other side of my office, began smoking cigarettes, and reading a Billboard magazine that was on my office coffee table. It was as if he knew that I was unable to object to his presence or jump off the call with this massive D-bag, so he just smiled and kept staring and smoking at me.
This was the ’90s. At that time, my appearance, my approach, and my overall demeanor were extreme. Others may tell you that this doesn’t adequately explain who I was, but this will work for now. I just wasn’t accustomed to having someone “eff me off” so passively and yet so forthright. My momentary anger became intrigue, as all of life’s anomalies are of the utmost interest and personal importance to me, even then.
Long story longer, this kid sticks around for 40 minutes (approximately 11 cigarettes). He, at last, introduces himself as Jay Morgans, frontman of local hardcore punk outfit So What! He thrusts a cassette demo into my mug, to which I volleyed with my tried and true pat response: “I never review artists’ music in their presence.” At the time, that was my personal preference and policy.
He returns my serve with a, “No. Let’s listen to now.” It was soon clear that this 14 or 15-year-old hooligan was going nowhere without knowing that I listened to his stuff. This, too, was interesting.
Did I admire this little jerk? Our first encounter ended via me listening to every song on their very noisy, very fast straight-edged hardcore demo, and we booked their band on an upcoming bill. With this in the books, he stood, slouched, turned around with unquiet confidence, and said, “We are gonna bring no less than 300 people,” and walked out. I laughed, hearing similar predictions all the time from bands who literally couldn’t “pack” their lunches, let alone a 450-cap room.
Their week comes and The Factory was a shitshow. They drew. They killed. Just angry, methodic sonnets warning the world of the dangers of drugs and alcohol, punctuated with witty and smart one-liners that were worth repeating: “A clique of free-thinking individuals is a contradiction of terms.” It was this one sentence that began my deep dive and critical interest in Jay.
We all became very close. A crew. A tribe. My sister was actually engaged to Jay’s brother, Jesse, who was the lead guitarist for So What/Soughwutt for a minute or two.
Upon my departure from Factory concerts and Thom Greco, we opened a new joint for the NEPA music scene. It was a much larger space that we converted into Wilkes-Barre’s first coffeehouse, Mantis Green, later giving way to more youthfully managed venues like Metropolis, Homebase, The Zoo, and others. Jay and the Soughwutt crew came with us, helping us with everything necessary to get our ideas off the ground. His boys were hands-on. Jay was mostly supported from the comfort of a wheelchair that was in the space when we moved in.
Around this same time, he began writing solo music that he would break out at 3 a.m. at after-hours sessions in a space within the three-story building that we called “The Red Room.” His songs and words were thoughtful, clever, and seemingly beyond his years. His body of personal work became prolifically intertwined with so many local and not-so-local “scenesters,” falling for most into an Ani DiFranco meets Dax Riggs kind of thing – introspective tales of spoiled love and self-hate. Taboo topics that most 17-year-olds weren’t even aware of. I loved all of it.
In subsequent years, I positioned Jay to perform as a warmer, opening for acts like Government Mule, The Tea Party, Xanax 25, Natalie Merchant (that one he blanked), and every other national act that I booked through. After a fun five-year run, Mantis Green and its production company, Liquid Sky, closed its doors.
The place was a wreck; our landlord was an outstanding liar and empty promiser. The lack of roof repair led to structural integrity issues, which led to the condemnation of 71-73 South Main Street. End of an era. Metropolis moved from its OG location within the historic Sterling Hotel to the building that is currently Loyalty Barber Shop and South Main Street Tattoo and the beat went on.
I, however, took a job first with the Cowboy Junkies, then Leon Redbone as tour manager, eventually settling with an international theatrical touring company that took me out on the road for six-eight months at a time. Jay’s demos were with me on the buses and tour trucks on which I traveled, keeping me tethered to a family that I valued and missed.
Here’s where the tale of Jay and I goes dark. We’ll say, to protect the innocent and maligned, neither of us liked ourselves at all then. However, against the odds, we still liked each other very much.
I moved into a storefront in Brooklyn with a jazz producer from Wilkes-Barre named Bill Ashton. Great guy. Genius-level music knowledge. Jay came to visit and work in the Brooklyn and downtown Manhattan live scene and became a frequent guest on all my Williamsburg joints, eventually taking up residence in the greatest 8,000-square foot loft, which became the site of many a strange and shameful night.
I will not detail these times. Use your imagination. I will, however, mention some highlights from our conjoined era:
1. On one cursed evening, our roommate, an adult film star named Courtney Cherry, implicated Jay and I in the destruction of over 30 outlaw biker club motorcycles on Bedford Avenue at closing time.
2. I accepted a tour on Jay’s behalf from NYC through Philadelphia, ultimately through onto Virginia to a great room called Iona with a cool punk band, Benzona. We stopped in D.C. for gas at a very well-lit, downtown service station. No thoughts were given to its relevance at all. Later, after our gig, we watched the capital city news in disbelief as the newscaster laid out how the latest victim of the “D.C. Sniper” had chosen this very station, just moments after our departure. We know damn well that this serial killer scoped us in, probably felt the despair oozing from our souls, and moved on to someone else.
3. I secured Jay a traveling job doing “merch” for Aimee Mann (‘Til Tuesday), from which my boy went missing on a yet unaccounted-for absence that lasted a stressful few days. I was in constant contact with the tour, assuring them that Jay, their “merch,” and money were absolutely safe… while blowing up Jay’s cell. He returned from his apparent abduction unscathed – with all the goods – days later with zero explanation. This dude is so authentic that nobody even cared once he materialized.
4. One time, I heard the boy band 98 Degrees actually four-part harmonize a Jay Morgans tune called “Pouring Rain.”
These Hunter S. Thompson-style stunts peppered our collective time like so many black stars in our cloudy skies.
Flash forward – we reconnect when I move back from NYC at rooms like Nak’s by the Tracks in Exeter and The Rattler in Pittston. These days are also hazy. Jay’s music maintains this cult status among artists in the know, like Jaik Miller (Xanax 25) and Lori Carson (The Golden Palominos). Before there was Alanis Morissette and clearly before there was Taylor Swift, there was Jay Morgans writing breakup songs that everybody sang along to.
In an interview from this chapter, when asked “why he believes the winning positions offered by myself and others have never manifested anything but underground status,” he is quoted as saying, in his customary Jay cleverness and satire, “Nobody anywhere is more adept at snatching failure out of the jaws of success than me.” Brilliant.
In closing, Jay and I are now still best mates but live very different paths than our former shadow-selves. I am proud of both of us. I am a firm believer that one will never appreciate the brilliance of the light without knowing absolute darkness. I know this place. Jay knows this place. It’s where we came from. If you don’t believe me, just dig in. You’ll get it if you’re alive.
Brian Quinn, former Pittston resident and lead guitarist of Seattle icons Candlebox, and Jay both donated their music to my family’s memorial nonprofit last week. Brian commented, and I quote, “Jay has always been this. He created his own niche 25 years ago. He is singular. He is his own thing.”
This barely scratches the surface of the complexity of Jay, his music, short stories, screenplays, or poetry. To begin your investigation, head over to his Bandcamp. Fans of folk punk, folk rock, dark folk, Americana singer/songwriter stuff, and witty yet cursed storytelling have been enjoying his distinct brand of percussive, staccato-style songs and stories since the ’90s.
Suffice it to say, Jay and I have history – 30+ years. My wife Kristin and I were excitedly anxious at the thought of creating companion visuals for one of his tracks. Submitted for your approval, this is my friend Jay Morgans and his song “History.”
