VIA PRESS RELEASE | Fig Dish returned from hybernation in 2024 with two sold out shows in Chicago and the release of Feels Like The Very First Two Times, the band’s unreleased third album, recorded in the late ’90s before resting in a dusty, Chicago vault for 27 years. On August 1, they’ll reissue their debut album That’s What Love Songs Often Do on vinyl for the first time, 30 years after the original release on Forge Again Records. The officially licensed 2xLP is limited to 500 copies on translucent blue vinyl, reworked gatefold jacket art by Wall of Youth, and vinyl mastering by Carl Saff.
Fig Dish will celebrate the re-release with live performances supporting former tour-mates Letters To Cleo in Milwaukee at X-Ray Arcade on Thursday, July 24 and Chicago at Subterranean on Friday, July 25. Tickets on sale Friday, August 25 at 10 am CT via Kickstand Productions.
A recent Reddit thread was titled, “Fig Dish might be the least popular band of the grunge era according to Spotify.” Now, you should probably emphasize the “era” in the phrase “grunge era”—Fig Dish wasn’t grunge and were far more likely to be compared to midwestern bands like Cheap Trick, The Replacements, and Hüsker Dü. And like those bands, Fig Dish had a penchant for pop melodies, noisy guitars, and angsty lyrics.
So, who was this band that Chicago magazine called “the folkloric Chicago outfit”? Fig Dish were four high school friends: guitarists/vocalists Rick Ness and Blake Smith, bassist/vocalist Mike Willison, and drummer Andy Hamilton. In their day, they were known for catchy songs, memorable (often booze-fueled) live shows, and self-sabotage. But before the Illinois Entertainer could write a sentence like “I would walk through a sniper’s alley to see this band live,” the band had to start drinking after rather than before shows to avoid eliciting reactions like this one, from a Pittsburgh music critic: “they were so sloppy they made The Replacements look like Rush.”
But what about this reputation for self-sabotage? Exhibit A: they once played an entire set of Neil Diamond covers when A&R reps from Geffen, Columbia, and Capital were in the audience. Let’s just say that a record contract was not forthcoming after that show. Or for the next several months. For a while, Fig Dish couldn’t get arrested, and it appeared that the band needed to resort to lies and deception to gain label interest.
So, in the Fall of 1994, they send a demo of new songs to several A&R people with a fake note reading, “Hey [insert A&R person’s name]. I just saw these guys at CBGBs. Really great band—totally your type of thing” and signed the note “Steve,” figuring most people probably know a couple Steves. The power of suggestion can be very powerful, and the ruse paid dividends remarkably fast. Polygram called a couple weeks later, flew to Chicago to see a live show, and then signed the band in early January of 1995.
Three weeks later they were in Woodstock, NY at Dreamland Studios recording basic tracks for their debut album, That’s What Love Songs Often Do, with famed producer/engineer, Lou Giordano (known for his work with Bob Mould, Mission of Burma, Big Dipper, and Sunny Day Real Estate). As you might imagine, Fig Dish learned a valuable lesson from this experience: deception works much better than Neil Diamond songs.
In July 1995, Fig Dish’s debut was released. And just like that, the band was catapulted from regional obscurity into national obscurity. The album cycle had an auspicious start. MTV played the video for the band’s first single, “Seeds” and Fig Dish toured the US and Canada relentlessly with bands like Veruca Salt, The Muffs, Letters to Cleo, Juliana Hatfield, Local H, and The Rentals.
But bad luck seemed to follow them. On their way to Vancouver, the band was searched by Canadian border patrol because they found the diabetic drummer’s syringes and thought they had caught junkies; they threw a half-eaten submarine sandwich from the 7th floor of the Hyatt in Hollywood, CA, which splattered on the head of Marilyn Manson (I mean, what are the odds?); Alex Chilton, after witnessing the band perform a 6-minute version of Big Star’s “You Can’t Have Me,” told them, “that song deserves to be ruined!” (Oddly, he was criticizing himself as much as the performance).
After the last show of the “Love Songs” touring cycle, Fig Dish had a near-fatal accident that serves as a apt metaphor for their Polygram tenure (perhaps even their career): their van and trailer spun out on some black ice on I-80 in Nebraska, tipped over, and skidded within a few yards of some oncoming semi-trucks. They poked the grim reaper in the chest. They should be dead, buried in a murky vault like their third album. Yet, they live.
