Photo by Kathy Chapman
Salem 66 was the first band to sign to Homestead Records, the in-house label of New York music distributor Dutch East India. The Boston band’s self-titled six-song EP was released in 1984, the second item in a catalog that set a high watermark for independent music thanks to a roster that went on to include bands like Volcano Suns, Big Dipper (both hometown neighbors to Salem 66), Sonic Youth, Big Black and Death of Samantha.
The band stood apart from their labelmates from the beginning. Bassist Beth Kaplan and guitarist Judy Grunwald wrote individually and shared vocal duties in moody songs with lyrics that conveyed a strong literary base. Though the music sprung from the inspiration of punk rock, they weren’t exactly a punk band. They could excel at slower tempos, but they weren’t goth either, though that audience could have easily gotten lost in the swell of guitars and Grunwald’s husky alto voice.
Sometimes the songs felt like deep analyses of relationships, presenting the emotional tangles in a new way. “I lose my priorities/ like a cat that forgot how to hunt,” Grunwald sang in “Sleep on Flowers,” from that debut. A few years later, she would open an album with the line, “Here’s the story of Isabella/ she kept her lover’s head/ after her brothers had murdered him/ she dug it up from a forest bed.” Between those two releases, “Playground” included the question, “What do you see when you look into my eyes/ Do you see heaven/ that’s what I want to materialize.”
Kaplan’s higher voice provided a contrast to her partner’s delivery, but she could also temper sweetness with gravity. “Have you ever been arrested…by the weakness in your hero’s eyes,” she asked in “Bell Jar.”
For about 30 years following their 1990 break-up, Salem 66 could only be discovered by perusing used record crates or searching them on sites like Discogs. None of their music was reissued by other labels or available through streaming services. Then, in 2020, “Seven Steps Down,” from the self-titled EP, appeared on the compilation Strum and Thrum: The American Jangle Underground 1983-1987 (Captured Tracks). Now Don Giovanni Records has rallied to their cause, releasing Salt, 10 tracks that span their back catalog, selected by Grunwald and Kaplan. The compilation and the chance to finally stream the original albums on Bandcamp indicate, as musician/writer Chelsea Spear wrote in the Art Fuse following Strum’s release, the world is ready for a rediscovery of Salem 66.
Kaplan and Grunwald had each been part of the Boston music scene. Grunwald fronted the Maps and Kaplan played (but didn’t sing) with the Insteps. When the guitarist had moved into a house with Michael Cudahy (of Christmas) and Thalia Zedek (then of Dangerous Birds), she claimed rehearsal space in the basement for a band that had yet to form. Mutual friends introduced her to Kaplan and things clicked immediately. They hadn’t planned on having an all-woman band, but when Susan Merriam sat down behind the drum kit, their search was over. “She had never played the drums,” Grunwald says. “She just came over and said she couldn’t play a regular rock beat. So she started doing these sort of loping tom patterns. And I just thought it sounded perfect. She had good instincts. It really worked, and we had confidence that she would learn.”
Kaplan adds that Merriam “was a really hard hitter on the drums. She was really strong.”
While the band’s catalog contains a fair share of hooks, the lyrics nearly always became the focal point of the songs. Many of them often come off like novellas, so it’s surprising that neither of them cite any kind of literature as a driving influence. “It’s funny – if you listen to our lyrics, they’re so nature-based,” Grunwald says. “I think [with] both of us. Nature has always inspired me a lot. I played acoustic guitar as a teenager, probably starting at [age] eight or 10, and I used to write songs. So the songwriting thing was always there. I used to write about horses and stuff like that.”
As Kaplan talks about the writing process, she makes a connection between it and her current work as a yoga teacher. “I know, for me, it was like walking. Nothing like walking on the beach to just sort of free the mind, and come up with a melody or a lyric,” she says. “They sort of free you up to find something that was already there. That meditative, rhythmic thing of walking. I would start having little melodies and things in my head.” (As a good example, “Carry A Torch,” from A Ripping Spin, actually begins with a walk on the beach.)
Listening played a key role in the band’s work ethic. With Kaplan and Grunwald writing on their own, each would play new songs at practice. Rather than playing over the song ideas, everyone listened intently, picking up on the nuances. “It was kind of bare bones, like a guitar part or bass part, and the melody and words,” says Kaplan, recalling how songs were introduced. “Everything for me always felt sort of in service of the song. I really need to get to the essence of the song before I just start playing. And my basslines were fairly simple. I sort of saw them as parallel melodies going along a little bit.”
The time spent on new material represents one of Grunwald’s favorite memories with the band. “It was probably the closest you get to the way you feel about your birthday when you’re a kid, or Christmas, I guess,” she says, adding, “I didn’t have Christmas, but… a new puppy: you know, bringing a song to the band was just so exciting to see. To get drums behind it, then it was like, ‘Oh, this isn’t just me on my acoustic guitar. It’s a rock song!’”
This approach to the material resulted in something a bit different from the few recordings made by the Maps and the In Steps, which were closer to more upbeat punk influences. In “Sleep on Flowers,” Grunwald, in addition to singing lead, forgoes power chords in favor of a high-end single note melody, with an ascending bass line building on it. Kaplan’s spritely “Lemon Rind” features both singers bouncing syllables off one another in the chorus. In “Chinchilla,” from A Ripping Spin, Merriam shows her love of toms during the verses, never offering a snare crack until the chorus comes up. It works because she plays it with conviction.
The band christened themselves Salem 66 to combine a salute to the 1960s tv road show Route 66 with a nod to the Massachusetts town that supposedly once was overrun with witches. The alliteration didn’t hurt either. Debuting in early 1982, their second show was an opening slot for San Francisco band Flipper. If the pairing doesn’t sound odd enough, the venue made things even more surreal: an old man bar called Maverick’s, that also featured strippers, around whom all the bands had to weave during soundcheck. “Everybody was so mad that we got that show because everybody wanted it,” Grunwald says. They would go on to share the stage with acts like the Raincoats and Hüsker Dü.
Before Salem 66 released any of their own records, they appeared on the Boston compilation Bands That Could Be God in 1984, which was assembled by future Homestead Records (and later Matador Records) manager Gerard Cosloy who at the time published the ‘zine Conflict. They were also traveling to New York City regularly, playing venues like the Mudd Club and Danceteria. It was on one of those early trips that they caught the ear of Sam Berger, who signed them to Homestead. During a later trip to the Big Apple, they brought along a band that included former members of Deep Wound, who appeared with them on the Bands compilation. The new band was called Dinosaur, a few years before they were forced to add “Jr.” to their name.
Fueling the band’s work ethic, Emily Kaplan, Beth’s sister, became their manager. They saluted her commitment on the inner sleeve of one album, crediting her as “band leader” while on another cover, she appeared in a photo with the band, giving the impression she might be a fifth member. Described once as someone who “makes Madonna look lazy,” Emily was integral in getting the band on the road and maintaining that regimen. “Early on, she really hooked up with other people who manage bands and had an incredible network of relationships with college radio people,” Kaplan says of her sister. “And it was all about talking to people: ‘Oh, I know there’s a guy who books that show. You know who books that club? I can give you the number,’ and all about building up those contacts and kind of building up some credibility.”
Photo by Wayne Viens
The mid to late ’80s was a time when a lot of independent bands were on the road, but there weren’t all that many of them with women in the predominant roles. This often became a topic in interviews, for better or worse. “We used to get kind of mad, because that’s what everybody focused on,” says Grunwald. “I think it’s a valid thing to focus on. It was moving time forward. But I think it was hard, you know, to try to have something profound to say about it.”
It all depended on the city where they were playing too. “We would occasionally play in bars down south, where maybe they had New Wave night,” Grunwald says, her voice playing up how exotic the evening might have sounded in the late ’80s. “And then other nights were like, cage fighting, I don’t know. It felt a little predatory sometimes. You’re up there singing your little heart out, and you kind of feel like they’re not listening at all, but they’re checking you out. But if you were in a real college town or a city, I think it was not a big deal.”
But in retrospect, the band’s regular excursions — depicted in songs like “Postcard” in which Kaplan sings of being on the road — evoke fond memories. “It was so much fun. And talk about Route 66,” the bassist says. “New town every day. And this whole new cast of characters: the sound man and the club owner and the people who come to the show and the radio station and the record store. And where are we gonna eat? And who are we gonna stay with?”
They stayed with Homestead throughout their musical existence, releasing four full-length albums and a few singles. Robert Wilson Rodriguez joined on second guitar for A Ripping Spin in 1985, and the trebly twin guitars gave them a more expansive sound, almost sounding psychedelic in places. Stephen Smith replaced Rodriguez two years later for Frequency and Urgency, where their sound and songwriting evolved even further. Ethan James, the one-time keyboardist of Blue Cheer who had recorded bands like the Minutemen and the Bangles at his Radio Tokyo Studio, sharpened the edge of the 10 performances on the 1987 release.
Like most of their albums, the running order alternated between Kaplan and Grunwald vocals. The first four tracks Frequency and Urgency provide a quadruple punch which this writer ranks as some of the strongest material in their whole catalog, from the opening surge of “Postcard” to Grunwald’s moody-but-sweet “Grunzella Daze.” (“Wanderlust,” the final track on the album’s first side, could also be interpreted as a sign of the band’s love of the road, where they often tested new material before releasing it.)
Smith and Merriam left the band after Frequency & Urgency. Guitarist Tim Condon and drummer James Vincent brought the group a heavier sound to Natural Disasters, National Treasures (1988). Grunwald’s “George Washington Slept Here” had multiple dynamic shifts, and free verse lyrics. It was followed by “Tough as Nails,” which showed the singer at her sweetest. Kaplan’s “Lucky Penny” came close to a college radio hit, with a quick appearance on MTV’s 120 Minutes and a great sing-along chorus. (A high-quality version of the video surfaced during the production of Salt and can now be found on YouTube.)
Grunwald and Kaplan didn’t start the band with aspirations of making a career out of it. But as the band evolved, ambitions did too. “Initially, I think we wanted to play, and we wanted to make a record, and we wanted to play in New York,” Kaplan says. “Then we wanted to make another record. Being on this kind of, really great label with all these great bands, there was sort of camaraderie in that. But you can’t help but compare yourself to your peers. And so of course, you want to get more airplay. You want the radio stations to play your song.”
Grunwald adds, “The idea that you could not work another job or something is sort of appealing.”
Boston was getting noticed as a hotbed for potential major label acts, and friends from college radio were starting to get jobs with the majors, so it seemed like the time might be right to make the bold leap. But while Salem 66 might have been interested in moving to a bigger label, they grew tired of having to jump through hoops, such as making sure everyone was free to travel for a showcase night at a club. “It was kind of like chasing something that was never really going to be a good thing at that point,” Grunwald says.
The same lineup recorded Down the Primrose Path, this time back home in Fort Apache Studios with Sean Slade and Paul Kolderie (whose C.V. would range from Big Dipper to Hole and Radiohead). They might have sounded like a more of a rock band than ever before, but they were a thinking person’s rock band. From the classic chords that framed “Can’t Hold a Candle To You,” to the a cappella breakdown in the middle of “Beekeeper,” the music still had a sophisticated edge.
For the first time since their self-titled release, Kaplan sang the final song on the album. “Lost and Found” comes with a sense of heartbreak, the singer accompanied by little more than her bass during the verses, with spare guitar color between the lines. The rest of the band kicks in for the two choruses, where she repeatedly sings, “You ought to be with me.” It was a dramatic way to close the book on the band, and it felt perfectly in keeping with their tone.
The album came out in 1990. Rather than hit the road once again to promote it, the band packed it in. Both women walked away from music. Grunwald enrolled at Harvard University Extension School, married Neighborhoods’ guitarist/vocalist David Minehan (who produced the first two Salem 66 releases) and worked as a nutritional therapist. Kaplan became an archivist, working at the George Washington University Library before becoming a yoga teacher and relocating to Rhode Island.
In a recent interview discussing Salt, Kaplan indicated that that compilation is less a Best-of or overview and more a set of songs grouped together thematically. “Salt appears in a lot of our songs — salt water, tears, salt rubbing into a wound,” she told the Boston Herald. “We wanted something very New England and we wanted that image of a shipwreck. It seemed very elemental, taking things back to earth.”
Franklin Bruno (Nothing Painted Blue, the Human Hearts) contributes a thoughtful essay that offers insight and context to the band’s history. Kaplan and Grunwald both contribute reminiscences as well. The song choices might come as a surprise to some longtime fans. Personally, I’m surprised that Frequency and Urgency is only represented by one track. But with the full albums available again, Salt does offer a great introduction to a band that has been overlooked for too long.
Grunwald laughs when talking about their final choices, saying that they might be second-guessing themselves already. “Why didn’t we put ‘Electric Avenue’ on there? And why didn’t we put —,” she stops short of mentioning another song. “It was hard. If we were picking the songs today, we might pick different songs. But I mean, ultimately, it’s fine.”
In the Herald article the band ruled out any possible reunions. But at the end of May, Kaplan accepted an invitation from guitarist Chris Brokaw to play a short set with him at Streetcar, a wine store in Jamaica Plain, MA. It marked the first time the bassist had been onstage since an impromptu set at a holiday party in 1997. In a message a few days later, she described the experience as both nerve-wracking and fun, with a flock of old friends coming out of the woodwork to cheer her on.
Before Salt even hit the streets, both Kaplan and Grunwald had been interviewed several times about it. All the excitement seems to have taken them a little by surprise, and time has given them a new perspective on Salem 66. “You know, you kind of feel like you were a tree falling in the forest at times back then,” Grunwald says. “But now I’m sort of realizing — no, there were a lot of people that our music meant something to them.”
Kaplan echoes her thoughts, saying it’s changed the way she thinks about the band’s history. “Over the past several decades. I thought, ‘Oh, that record wasn’t recorded very well, or we didn’t play that well on this song,’” Kaplan says. “Then, when that compilation with ‘Seven Steps Down’ came out, I heard that, and thought, ‘Oh, I kind of hate the way my voice sounds.’ And somehow, with all of this, [I thought], you know what? It was a long time ago. Who fucking cares? We made these records. That’s who we were. That’s how things sounded. It doesn’t matter. This was just a thing that happened. That has felt very freeing.”
