And if I ever lost track of why I did what I did, there were the live shows. A few words about the Dieselmeat lineup: when I first saw the band, Sean was on lead guitar and vocals, Chris LaPlante was on bass, and Eric Davis, Lou's brother, was on drums. As per rock and roll cliché, the drummer was the "revolving door" in the band. Eric was at least the second drummer, and he left the band about six months after I came onto the scene. Chris LaPlante was the band's second bassist, and it was Chris who really solidified the Dieselmeat lineup and created that something that separates local bands from bands that really have a shot.

In their definitive lineup, Dieselmeat was a live force. Sean had this unforced perfection to everything he did on stage. Everything about him looked and sounded right. He could take over a song on a whim, but was content to pick his spots. As his rhythm and confidant, Chris brought out a different side of Sean. With his shorts and long underwear, Chris kind of reminded me of a sadder, sweeter Angus Young, albeit on bass. He didn't jump as high as Angus, but he had a little hop to him. It's hard to put into words, but Chris seemed to correct something in Sean, to pull him back from the worst of it, back into a world where things could be overcome. The end result was very loud music that could go anywhere the band wanted to go, from wistful and poppy to sulking and moody, from end-of-the-road love songs to blistering, Sabbath-to-Soundgarden riff sessions.

Lyrically, Dieselmeat contrasted its loudness with a simple honesty that stripped the band of pretense. Sean might not have been on the level of Kurt as a lyricist, but he made up much of that gap through his emotional directness. He let you in with a line here and a line there. Sean didn't always blow you away with his writing, but he was someone you could relate to, fighting a battle with himself as well as the world, working his way through the time-honored themes of the rock and roll life - love, sex, and drugs, and all three of those things in any and all combinations - usually ending badly.

But while the themes were familiar, Sean dwelled in plain-spoken autobiography rather than the "I'm a badass" clichés of the '80s or the calculated cynicism of the '90s. In the middle of the unreleased song "Ten Whole Days," Sean sings "I want to know the sunshine," and each time he implores it, you realize that even the best songs require only a few key lines, as long as they are rendered without a contrived attempt at cool.

Sean had that rare, natural cool about him, that Snoop Dogg kind of flow. He could have easily sheltered his songs with some of that hipness, but he didn't. He begins "Happily" by confiding that "I've been the fool to tell you what you mean to me." And on the haunting "13," probably the best song on the first CD, Sean sings, "My attitude is stripped away/I'm naked to your gaze/you're naked to me too." In the chorus, when he says, "You remind me of someone that I've met before/would you like to stay," it sounds less like a pickup line and more like pure emotional hunger. Sean could also write about the women in his life without evoking standard rock-chick clichés. On "She's Not Around" (from Happily), Sean opens with these lines: "She found some faces/tried on a smile/she laughs and kisses me like a child/in darkness dreaming held me in her arms/then when the sun comes up, she's not around."

But if the lyrics accounted for the band's soul, it was Sean's guitar heroics that raised Dieselmeat to another level. You can trace the near-death of the guitar solo to the early '90s. True, even hair-band-killer Nirvana used solos occasionally, but the solos were intentionally simple, designed to distance the band from the classic ambitions (and excesses) of rock stardom. Slash excepted, the '90s were the beginning of the end for the guitar god. It's doubtful that Sean could have altered such trends single-handedly. But he did bring the lead guitar back into the mix as a tool of Hendrix-like emotional interpretation. Jimi's lyrics were a lot like Sean's too - honest, simple, sometimes a bit mystical - but the peaks of emotion always came from the guitar itself. Even in the song "13," it was the guitar break after the chorus, more than the words itself, that laid the song down in loneliness.

When I first turned out for Dieselmeat shows, the aforementioned "Dreams" was the highlight of the live set, always reaching a breaking point that could only be resolved by Sean's solo. At certain points in every Dieselmeat set, the intensity of the moment demanded something of Sean, and every show came down to how he would respond. But Sean didn't favor Van Halen-type histrionics. He could play fucking fast if he wanted to, but the trick was making each note count. I've taken guitar lessons for the last seven years, and I still can't make a guitar play what I am feeling. Sean could always nail it.

There was only one guitarist I ever saw in Sean's league, and that was Kirk Hammett of Metallica. Every other guitarist on my list would come after. Of course, that betrays my allegiance to the Mark Knopfler/David Gilmore school of guitar, one which prizes the integration of technique and emotion over the worship of virtuosity for its own sake. For those who value technique alone, there is always Eddie Van Halen and Yngwie Malmsteen; I'll take Kirk Hammett and Sean Keefe. Dieselmeat's press bio took it further, appointing Sean as a "fuzz-drenched demi-god." It wasn't as much of an exaggeration as it looks like on paper.

It was only after seeing Sean play that I realized stars are born, not made. Fame for Sean would have been a formality. I used to assume that you weren't a star unless everybody knew your name. But in fact, very few stars are famous, and few of the famous are really stars. It's always special to meet a real star, rather than one created by the machinery of hype. And Sean Keefe was a rock star.

Meeting Sean was a quick, hard lesson in what I wasn't. From that point forward, I knew that I was not, and would never become, the rock star of my adolescent aspirations - a vague fantasy that had hovered over my post-collegiate life. It stung, but the sting was tempered by the chance to help someone find the massive stage they deserved.

And it looked like they might be headed in that direction. Right after I hooked up with Lou Davis, Dieselmeat had just released its music video for "The Line," the first single off Happily. The video was MTV-friendly - fast-panning shots of the band mixed with shots of artist Franck Cordes painting in a frenzy on a huge canvas behind them. It was the kind of low-budget-cool that could have shown up on "HeadBanger's Ball" and picked up rotations from there. I never did see the video on MTV, but the opening riff of "The Line" was sampled heavily on an "MTV Sports" promo spot for at least a year.

It was that kind of tantalizing bit that made it seem like Dieselmeat was on the verge. All-too-aware of my subjective passion, I was always looking for supporting evidence. Of course, I've loved plenty of bands that I knew in my gut had no chance beyond a headline gig at the "Taste of Northampton." And I've seen flashes of brilliance from bands who had talent and drive but didn't have it. Hard world indeed: "it" - that nucleus of charisma and momentum which leads to success on the largest scale - requires a host of factors beyond a band's direct control.

You can break down a band's chances to transcend their local scene using these criteria: sound, timing, management/promotion, lineage, buzz/scene, and the real x-factor - star power.

The sound and the timing: in Nirvana's aftermath, record labels were scrambling for darker, heavier sounds. Bands like Alice in Chains, Pearl Jam and Soundgarden were garnering serious radio play with heavy, lyrically incisive music. The scene: Northampton, Massachusetts was on the labels' radar screens. Northampton had been dubbed "mini-Seattle" by some industry insiders, and talent scouts from New York City were not uncommon in the valley back then. The lineage: alterna-rock maestro J Mascis of Dinosaur Jr was from these parts. J had even played in the same band as Sean Keefe - GobbleHoof - though not at the same time (J also played drums on "Deathwagon," which appeared on the Dieselmeat record). GobbleHoof was not a trivial band either. While in GobbleHoof, Sean toured with the likes of Bad Brains, Sonic Youth, and Nirvana.

The valley's musical pedigree went further. A few years earlier, Sonic Youth themselves had emerged from these parts, and a band with UMass origins, Buffalo Tom, was making waves in alternative rock circles, well on their way to becoming one of the great unsung bands of the 1990s. The Pixies were also from around here, and the Scud Mountain Boys, later to achieve a national following as the Pernice Brothers (though with some lineup changes), were also picking up steam. There were even some decent clubs for bands to build their reps in. Dieselmeat was in position to capitalize on all that. And as for the most important ingredient, they had star power to spare.

In the mid-90s, I had three local bands on my "most likely to succeed" list* - at the top was Dieselmeat; next was the Unband, a punk/garage rock blitzkrieg that many around here dismissed as an immature joke. But in classic punk rock fashion, the Unband eventually got their shit together, and the ultimate joke was on their detractors. As documented in SPIN, the Unband helped to lay the foundation for this decade's garage rock explosion. Before they were done, the Unband had toured with the likes of Def Leppard and Motorhead and landed a song on the Scary Movie soundtrack. In the end, the Unband were just a few years ahead of themselves. Those who saw them in their prime know the truth: the Strokes had nothing on these guys. Give the Unband their due, but consider this: I saw those guys at a number of Dieselmeat shows, and they looked like every other fan in the room when Sean did his thing.

With all that going for them, it was hard to imagine Dieselmeat needing much help from anyone. But fate turned on them when their second record label suddenly folded. It was a real momentum-buster; the marketing muscle behind the band vanished overnight.

***

My chance to do something useful had arrived. Lou dropped off a notebook of record company info, a box of Happily CDs and the original copy of "The Line" video. My job was to target record labels and strike up interest.

I was not exactly king of the cold call; direct sales was probably the one thing I hadn't done during my "kitchen sink" days at the Optimist. I'm sure I sounded excitable and naive, but I made the calls. Over time, I mapped out the major labels and the key contacts at each. I'm sure some label reps said "yes, I'll give it a listen" just so I would stop calling.

In retrospect, it was probably my marketing strategy, rather than the cold calls, that was open to question. Since I wanted the band to be huge, I focused on the eight or so major labels and their subsidiaries. But given their desire for creative control, Dieselmeat probably would have been better off with a small, aggressive independent and building from there. But then again, they would have been better off if the person making the calls knew what they were doing. But there was one benefit to my representation: I was happy to work for free.

I wasn't going back to the band empty-handed again. Trial and error polished my presentation, and that led a nice moment with a big power broker at one of the majors. She fell victim to my best pitch and said "Dieselmeat, huh? They've already got two CDs under their belt? Send me a kit right away."

The kit didn't generate a response; I couldn’t get even her on the phone again after that. It didn't matter. From that point on, I knew it was just a numbers game: no one was going to sign a band they didn't personally respond to. I had to get the calls made and the CDs out the door. If it landed on the right person's desk, it would resonate. I wished the CD was a little stronger, but I figured lots of bands got signed on the basis of raw demos. Selling potential was what the music biz was all about. I was emboldened.

A bit further down the line, I started trading voice mails with a talent scout (A&R) from Island Records, whose number was surrendered to me by a PR person who was sick of my phone calls. Island was a major-label offshoot whose big-name signings included U2. From the beginning, the vibe with this contact was different. The numbers game had paid off. I struck up a friendship with her from the get-go. She knew about the Northampton scene; her response to my big talk about Dieselmeat was "prove it."

So we made it happen. Lou was already lining up a gig for industry insiders at CBGB in New York City; it was easy enough to invite the Island rep along. Up to this point, my work for Dieselmeat felt like hot air. But now, maybe I had done something.

Running around New York the day of the CBGB show was something. The day is a blur to me now, but I have this image of Eric Davis running across the street to the club in slow motion, the wind blowing his hair back in gusts, straight out of one of those slick shots you see in music videos. It was an odd sensation to feel life clicking on all cylinders. CBGB bills itself as the "home of underground music;" putting that club on your resume gives your band a lifetime bill of cool. The Ramones and The Talking Heads were just two of the notable groups who had played early gigs at CBGB.

Lou and I met with the Island A&R rep and her husband before the show. I couldn't tell if they were disappointed that we didn't bring the band along. I was hardly aware of that kind of protocol anyhow. The conversation was nice enough, but there is only so much you can say. The sales pitch is the gig itself. If the band didn't blow 'em away, the only hope was a big, raucous crowd. You can't argue with a rabid following.

That night, we were 0 for 2. Nothing about that show felt right. Publicity snafus had occurred; the audience was meager and sitting on their asses. There were supposed to be other label reps there, but no dice. Our Island people sat behind me. It wasn't Dieselmeat's night. Feeding off their fans was not an option. The tiny crowd was passive; the band sounded noisy and distant. Labels sign onto momentum, but Dieselmeat was stuck in neutral that night - hardly the electric presence I had advertised. Their weaknesses were transparent. It seemed like you could see the whole dream hanging by a thread.

I couldn't tell what the AR reps thought of the performance, but you don’t go to Dieselmeat and sit around drinking shots. No way were they leaving that show without a vivid example of a real Dieselmeat fan - even if that fan was me. When Dieselmeat launched into "Dreams," they picked it up a notch, so I got up and thrashed along with the music.

It was a futile gesture. I talked with Rose a few times after CBGB, but the band was not for her. She wanted me to look for other bands; I wanted to force Dieselmeat down her label's throat. Underwhelming gigs suck. Not too long after that, Lou left the music business and went to cooking school. I think he was just burned out by all the industry games and high-stakes letdowns.

For a while there, I was the only PR or marketing option the band had. I was ready to carry on, but Sean mostly preferred to go it on his own. Lou was my link; the band kind of eluded me after that. Sean did stop by my office once and ask if I wanted to call a bunch of independents for them. He would tell me which ones to call. I really wanted to, but I didn't hear from him again.

The last good time I had with those guys was right after the CBGB gig, back in town at the Northampton Brewery. It was nice to hold some beers in the air with Sean and Lou and commit to the dream.

But it was not to be. Things moved in a blur. Eric left the band; Lou went off to cooking school. Eventually, Chris left as well. Sean replaced him and soldiered on. The lost chemistry between Chris and Sean was a blow. Without Chris to take off a bit of the edge, the band seemed a bit impenetrable sometimes. You could still rock out to them, but it was a little harder to love them.

***

The course of my life was about to change dramatically as well. Somewhere around that time, Lou told me about his father's recruiting business in Amherst. He thought I would be an excellent technical recruiter. Motivated by financial desperation, I signed on to become a full-time, commission-only technical recruiter. I had never been in sales before, but it looked like the best way to pull out of a quagmire of debt. So, in January of 1995, I officially left my freelance writing career behind. My inauspicious beginning as a recruiter began in the basement of a house in Amherst.

I wasn't meant to be a salesperson. But if my talents didn't line up, my timing made up for it. The fast times of the Internet era were right around the corner. The bar for success was about to be lowered substantially by powerful economic forces. Of course, when I first started, I didn't know anything about that. My first months on the job were gritty. The cold calls were no harder than the ones I had made for Dieselmeat, but there was one small difference: this time, I was selling something I would never care as much about.

I quickly realized I was never going to be a world-class recruiter, but it was one of those times where the only way out is forward. Five months into the job, I was in a pickle: I hadn't made a placement yet. The draw against my commission wasn't enough to cover me; debts were piling on debts. Life was putting the whipped cream on top of me. In May of '95, I was backed into a corner. I had three guys interviewing; I needed all three to take my job offers if I was going to stay afloat.

For the first (and last) time, all three came through at once. I was in the game. I would have a number of good years with that career path, ending with a couple of brutal ones. My love life would be dramatically affected as well, through an office romance that wrecked my life in the best way possible.

It took a while to establish my niche as a recruiter. How I did that is not relevant to this story. The one thing worth noting is that I fell back on my writing skills to accomplish what I could not have otherwise. Realizing I was outmatched in my sales abilities, I developed email newsletters, writing about career trends as a way of attracting sought-after job seekers who could see that I was obviously not a typical "headhunter." With the help of the forgiving Internet economy, I eventually became a so-called "world authority" in my focus area, and that's how I pay most of my bills to this day - though the heady days of money hand-over-fist are well behind me, another casualty of the dotcom collapse.

By the time I finally left that company in the summer of 2000, I was pretty jaded. But in the first years - the big money years - it felt like anything was possible. I wiped away debts that had plagued me for years, even knocking off a debilitating load of college loans.

***

During the early part of my recruiting career, Dieselmeat was still around, though Sean and I didn't cross paths much. He didn’t seek me out or tell me about their gigs. I would look out for flyers and show up whenever I could.

One time, I heard through the grapevine that Dieselmeat was going on a tour of the midwest. Doing a tour without label support is a hell of an undertaking - this was going to be an old-fashioned, Henry-Rollins-style "sleep in the van" tour. At the time, I was well into my first year as a recruiter, making pretty decent money for the first time in my life. I couldn’t help but feel indebted to Sean for this miraculous change in financial circumstance. So when I heard they were doing one last gig at the Bay State before heading out, I got a couple hundred bucks in cash together and put it in an envelope.

After the gig, I pulled Sean aside. He seemed pretty irritated. It was one of those gut-check moments you never want to have with someone famous or popular, an unwanted window into where you really stand. He said something like "I can't to talk to you right now," but whatever the exact quote, the message was clear.

I jammed the envelope into Sean's hand anyway, wished him good luck on the tour. I could see the look of surprise on his face when he opened it. To me, a couple hundred bucks was nothing compared to those days dialing for dollars in a dark little office, nagging record labels who didn't give a shit about me. But it seemed to make an impression on Sean. The way I looked at it, the money in that envelope had less to do with helping the band, and more to do with paying off a karmic debt. Whether or not I could ever explain this to Sean, I was pretty determined to pay it.

It was a complicated moment. Perhaps I had won a bit more of Sean's respect, or at least his gratitude. But the first look on his face was hard to forget also. I tried not to take it too hard; the biggest problem was probably my own pride. Back then, I would put a lot of stock in a moment like that, reading more into it than the other person intended. And once that line in the sand was crossed, I wouldn't look back.

So if Sean perceived me as a hanger-on, then by god, I wouldn't hang. I vowed to pull back from any situations where I could be perceived as wanting something from him. I recalled Dave Dickson's warning from years ago - that writers and bands just don't mix. So I gave back the original copy of "The Line" video and some extra copies of Happily. My days on the fringes of the Dieselmeat camp were officially over.

***

go to the conclusion of "Remembering Dieselmeat"

* For the curious, third on my short list of "valley bands most likely to succeed" was Hydrox 1-4-5, an inspired rock/jazz/rap hybrid that eventually moved to San Francisco but never broke out nationally.

Dieselmeat on Tour, November 1995