April/May, 2009 Laguna Beach Magazine

Straight Shooters: The Missiles of October

By: Bruce Porter

There are two kinds of bands: those that make it, and those that don't. Success is usually measured by that elusive record deal, and once bands have paid their dues in the bars and clubs, they can kiss all that goodbye to cut an album, play bigger venues, go on tour and more. But some groups never get a chance at rock's brass ring; instead, they're forever relegated to continue life at club level. For Laguna's beloved Missiles of October, major-label success has eluded them, but despite that, they've reached a different level of achievement: a devoted, enduring fanbase, critical success and enough cajones to continue playing out and enjoying it.

Equal parts Bob Dylan and Al Green, the Missiles of October ably reference iconic artists of the late-'60's era. More Memphis that Motown, the band sounds as though they lost their way somewhere between Hi and Stax and never cared finding their way out of Tennessee. Whether the gospel-affected celebration of "Late at Night" or the dreamy seduction of "Girl Song," the tunes carry the emotional resonance of a Southern romance novel that's all grit and wanderlust.

At first, the opposing architectures of the Missiles and Laguna Beach may appear mismatched. After all, the town is breezy, full of vibrant color and perhaps better suited for a soundtrack comprised of chiming guitars, surf basslines and Beach Boys harmonies. But anyone familiar with the Laguna Beach art colony knows it doesn't define itself by one-dimensional seascapes; its art comes from a broad range of influences coalesced and then baked under the California sun. These attributes are why the Missiles have fared so well here.

The band is anchored by singer and rythm guitarist Poul Finn Pedersen, whose disciplined ear and cogent songwriting provides the basis for his band-mates to flourish. Lead guitarist Richard Bredice sparks the arrangements with elegant riffs that complement Pedersen's sandpaper vocals. Lyrics tend to focus on the darker side of desire, though upbeat tempos and shuffling grooves temper its angst. The rythm section is taut and vital. Jimmy Perez on bass and Frank Cotinola on drums offer a sturdy platform from which Poul showcases the band's dramatic flair.

The Laguna Missile Crisis

Formed in 1991 by Pedersen and then-guitarist Bob Hawkins, the band flirted with mainstream success on a number of occasions, but was never able to get the nright people in their corner at the right time. "They couldn't put us in a bag," Frank says. "How would they market us?" In 1997, the Missiles self-released their debut effort, "Tropic of Soulfolk," to critical acclaim. The Los Angeles Times heralded the Henry Miller wordplay-entitled album as "near-perfect" and named the band one of Orange County's best-kept secrets. Years later, however, it remains difficult to wash away all remnants of disappointment.

Perhaps victims of ageism or lack of a readily identifiable Top-40 hit, the long-sought-after record deal never came. "There were some bitter attitudes toward the music industry, but it's really pointless," Frank says, reflecting on their situation in the late '90's. Without the support of a major label, the mental, physical and monetary demands of trying to break through by playing every two-bit club across the country are enormous. Nevertheless, Frank espouses gratefulness for their local popularity. "I may never be a millionaire, but so what—I'm happy," he syas.

Détente

Band members have good reason to feel this way. Not many people enjoy the opportunity to live out their childhood dreams. Poul recalls his passion to make music as far back as 6 years of age. "When I'd visit my great-grandmother, I used to walk down a series of dirt roads, where there was this holy-roller church—the First Baptist Church in Prescott, Ark.," he says. "They had drums, bass, organ and saxaphone players, and I would peek through the window to watch. That's when I knew I wanted to be a musician." Son of a career Marine officer, Poul grew up in a number of states along the Gulf Coast and Eastern Seaboard. He learned the guitar at age 12 by playing Beatles' songs, and he's been performing professionally ever since. "The other guys in the band have similar stories.,"

Onstage at their resident club, where they play every Sunday afternoon, the Missiles are able to stretch out in a way that doesn't necessarily show on recorded versions. Tiny imperfections add character to Pedersen'd distinctive songwriting. They play with the confidence bred from years of fine-tuning, and the resulting music gives the boisterous crowd reason to cheer.

The Marine Room is a quaint, friendly bar and grill with black-and-white photos of local celebrities and trophy fish mounts hanging from the walls. The demographic is a curious mixture of young and old, denim and Rolexes, motorcycles and Blackberrys. They open the set with their signature song, Van Morrison's "I'm Not Feeling It Anymore," stamping the track with their own personality, and then follow with an inventive selection of covers and originals.

Although better suited for casual listening, the audience can't help themselves. Except for the few playing pool in the back room or chatting away on bar stools, middle-aged men and women are on their feet, dancing and singing along to familiar jams they have come to know and love over the years.

For gentry who didn't get the Live Music Is For Teenagers memo, it's a terrific opportunity to re-energize that youthful passion for music so many peers have traded in for mortgages, overtime and reality television. It's too bad, too, because these are very likely the same people who could use a dose of the Missiles the most.

"In today's economic climate, I think it's important—now more than ever," says Poul, somewhat philosophically. "I can't tell you how many times people have come up to me to say how they're leaving the club feeling a little better than when they came in."

There's genuine affection in Poul's voice when talking about fans that frequent the Marine Room. "It's not a place where guys are obsessively hitting on all the chicks," he says. "Everybody is there to hear the music. On the other hand, there have been many times when couples will tell me how they hooked up while listening to us. Some even got married. I think that's pretty great."

Arms Embargo

Band members have not been immune to the pinch of the economic recession. Falling revenues and other business related downturns led Marine Room owner Kelly Boyd to scale back on live entertainment. In January, Boyd eliminated the Missiles' Thursday-night slot, and it's been a troublesome concern for these professional musicians whose primary source of income comes from live performances.

Thus far, the guys have been able to pick up the slack with mostly musical endeavors outside their main focus. Richard runs a commercial studio where he produces other artists' records, and Poul has pursued additional solo outings. Jimmy works as a caregiver to the elderly and infirm, while Frank teaches percussion at Kenny's Music and Saddleback Church in order to help make ends meet.

Frank also delivered the Laguna Beach Independent on Fridays, until cutbacks at the paper laid him off there, too. "It was good escape," he says of the job. "I've been a resident of Laguna since the '70s, but I've gotten to know parts of the city I never knew existed. I've never really applied for a job before, and even this job I got from a chance encounter with the newspaper's editor at the supermarket. The only time I almost applied for a job is when I was young and went on a job search to Northrop or some such. I looked at this job application and it was so serious. I thought if I'm going to take something seriously, it's going to be music."

Love Bomb

Being in a band is alot like being in a marriage, only with several partners, which is why even the most successful groups often end in divorce court. But the Missiles remain close knit. "I would like it if we were able to get together more often, but at our ages we have a lot of responsibilities outside the band," Poul says. "So we tend to just get together when we're playing. But we're definitely good friends and have no plans to change." That's good news as far as we're concerned.