(Pictured Above [L-R]: Silkworm’s Tim Midgett, Andy Cohen and Michael Dalquist)
Michael Dahlquist, the drummer for long-running indie band Silkworm, was killed July 9 in a tragic act of selfishness, when a suicidal woman rammed her car into he and his friends’ parked vehicle.
But in the wake of this unfortunate incident, I have begun to rediscover the greatness of his now-defunct band. (After Dahlquist’s death, vocalist/bassist Tim Midgett promptly announced that the band would not continue on.)
Silkworm was a complicated and misunderstood band, and with that, it should be noted that its music is not for everyone. I can’t honestly be counted amongst Silkworm’s respectable and rabid fan base. But sometimes a hot/cold relationship is more intense and rewarding than steady but pleasant mediocrity. What I’m getting at is that, when a Silkworm song did connect with me, it made up fivefold for the ones that didn’t. Though the band’s chemistry appeared flawless (aside from the early departure of guitarist/vocalist Joel Phelps), Silkworm’s inconsistency was due to the kind of ego tripping typical in a kitchen choked with cooks. And this is probably why they were confined to hovering just beneath the radar during the course of their near-20-year career. Still, when they were on, they were really on.
The band was trend allergic. Sonically, the closest touchstone I can come up with is Crazy Horse by way of Mission of Burma: often bass-led, with plenty unobtrusive guitar soloing and unflashy, pounding drums.
Lyrically, guitarist Andy Cohen and Midgett both mastered a unique, intelligent and sometimes humorous way of communicating the universal confusion, sadness and turmoil that comes standard issue when one hits their mid 20s. In a non-alienating, un-sexist, subtle fashion, they wrote about being men. And when they hit their stride, it was emotive in the most affective way.