Tesco Vee of the Meatmen on punk in Michigan, Meatmen album covers and Touch and Go

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The pages of Touch and Go were filled with the kind of opinionated rhetoric and willingness to take it all in that should inform most music journalism but often doesn't. The zine ultimately ended, but the record label it spawned became one of the most respected of independent labels of its time, releasing some of the most important albums of the '80s, '90s and '00s.

We spoke with Vee recently, before he left on tour, about the climate for a nascent punk-rock fan and musician in Michigan, the Meatmen covers album and how Touch and Go came to be reissued in one volume.

Westword: When you were starting Touch and Go and going to see punk shows way back then, as a teacher, did you have to, in any way, hide that from the people with whom you worked?

Tesco Vee: I did. I don't know if I had to, but I thought that was a good thing to do. Like I've admitted in interviews that actually ran in a local Lansing alternative paper, I did print it on the copy machine at school. So it wasn't exactly something I wanted them to know about.

I was dancing around it and trying to keep the two worlds from colliding, for sure. It's even worse now than it was even then in terms of political correctness and that kind of thing. But I'm a telephone man now, so I don't think it's as big of a deal. I'm not impacting the youth of America like I used to. Except through my music, of course.

Growing up where you were and living where you were, how did you find out about the stuff that was very different from what most people were listening to at that time?

I've always been a fan of music. I had subscriptions to various music magazines throughout the '70s. When the whole underground, whatever you want to call it, independent, punk thing happened, I was at the newsstand looking at the music magazines, and there was Melody Maker with the Bromley Contingent on the cover -- Johnny Rotten and all of that. That was like, "What the hell is going on?"

So I bought it and started reading about the U.K. happenings. I'd already been a fan of what you might call "proto-punk" like the Dictators, the Stooges and that kind of stuff. Early- to mid-'70s stuff that was a little left of center that you could call punk. So it was just a natural progression, and I started to read about it mostly through English magazines -- you know, Trouser Press -- and started to realize there was a lot going on, and eventually I had to write about it myself.

It was definitely through going to the local music stand and going to the music section, and I could shift away from Led Zeppelin or Yes to something a little bit more exciting. Not that I don't like Led Zeppelin and Yes, but something with more of an edge to it.

Obviously, no one called that music "proto-punk," because punk hadn't quite happened yet. How did you people talk about that back then?

It was just rock. I felt weird that the Dictators got signed to a major label, because it was so nutty, and Dick [Manitoba] had those bits: "I could be baskin' in the sun in Florida! This is just a hobby for me!" I just thought it was hilarious because these goofballs from New York, Long Island, or wherever the hell they were from, got a major-label contract. The music had a sense of humor, and that was big deal to me, because a lot of music was way too serious.

I don't know what we called it. We just loved it. When we saw the Dictators, it was here at an ice arena. It was the Dictators, the Stars and another band. But the Dictators stood out. A lot of bands came to Lansing back in the day, and we don't get a whole lot now. I just called it fun and different and not so serious, and I'm still a fan. That's good that you can pigeonhole and file it away -- it is what it is.

You started the Meatmen in 1979. You had some pretty funny song titles, like "One Down, Three to Go." Did you get any hate mail for that sort of thing?

Not really. Sure, some people don't take it well. Not as much as I would have hoped. When you're writing incendiary stuff like that, you're kind of secretly hoping there's a big to-do about it because there's no such thing as bad publicity. Well, there is, but that's how the saying goes. But I was definitely going for shock value.

I wanted to have a punk band. I wanted it to be funny, and I wanted to get people's attention -- thus "Crippled Children Suck." It was definitely a concerted effort to get people's attention just by saying the most outrageous things I could fathom when I was under the influence of marijuana -- which is how I wrote most of that music, if you can't tell. "That guy's high on dope!" as my dad would say.

A couple of years ago, you put out that album Cover the Earth...

It's a reference to the Sherwin-Williams logo with the earth and some paint dripping down it. It was my attempt at double entendre, to do something clever. Doing a cover album is not a new concept, but I'm a big fan of music, and I got a chance to pay homage to some of my heroes like Black Randy, Thin Lizzy and "Big Bad John," by Jimmy Dean, and the songs I enjoyed when I grew up.

You covered ABBA for this album?

Yeah, because I've been a big ABBA fan since the early '70s, whenever I first heard "Waterloo" blasting through my AM radio and I was like, "Wow, this is some good stuff!" I was way ahead of the curve on the ABBA worship. There's no denying they set the world of pop music on its ear.

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Tom Murphy is a writer, visual artist and musician from Aurora, Colorado. He was a prolific music writer for Westword and a documenter of the Denver music scene.