There may have been no more voluble and volatile presence on the Boston rock scene in the late 1970s and 1980s than Jeff Conolly. The talented and temperamental Lyres singer and bandleader died Friday, July 31, after a bout with bladder cancer. He was 69.
When he was on stage, banging a tambourine with his left hand, playing his Vox Continental organ with his right, Conolly could be appear both cocky and gawky. Lyres music was resolutely rooted in the upbeat sound and spirit of ‘60s garage rock, with Conolly crafting hook-packed hits like “She Pays the Rent,” “Don’t Give It Up Now” and “Help You Ann.” (The latter was presumed to be a carnal exhortation, the word “help” subbing for another word that wouldn’t get on the radio.)
When we spoke in 1986 for a Boston Globe story, Conolly put it succinctly, discussing what made a song – either an original or obscure cover – work for Lyres: “The goal is to do songs about such pain, but rising above it.”
I asked him if he had any tips for a happy life. Conolly replied, “Get some pets and a nice girlfriend who likes animals.”
Long ago, Conolly took the nickname “Mono Man,” owing to his love of monaural ‘60s records — but in later years, after his second marriage, he ditched it and wanted to just be called Jeff. After his death, there were dozens of stories about Conolly spreading like wildfire over social media — tales telling of how irascible, irrepressible, talented, demanding and funny he was.
Lyres was an outgrowth of Conolly’s ‘70s band DMZ, and there were, over the years, at least 30 different Lyres serving Conolly’s whims and desires until they quit or were fired. After one gig in 1986, I asked who the new bassist was. “Who cares?” Conolly answered. The Lyres were always him plus three others: a guitarist, bassist and drummer. (The actual answer: Matt Miklos.)
“Jeff had his own language,” recalled Lilli Dennison, who booked Lyres numerous times into the club she booked, the Rat. “He could be incredibly sweet and helpful, but also wicked and selfish and diabolical. His sense of humor was often obtuse, but he’d get a sparkle in his eye when he’d repeat the joke and make you laugh eventually. He was a constant in my Boston days and beyond. I never got completely sucked into his vortex but sure enjoyed riding the wake of it all.”
While I was covering a gig in 1986 — with Lyres ostensibly promoting a new album, “Lyres, Lyres” — Conolly was backstage, post-show, waving a bottle of wine, veering between flip and self-flagellating: “This album is dead. Dead, man! I mean, I like the album plenty, but the next album will be even better. It will be called ‘Playpen,’ and on the cover I’ll be in an adult-sized crib with bottles of Stoli and porno magazines going ‘Wah! Why did she leave me?’”
Local DJ and former program director for rock station WBCN Oedipus was a long-time friend of Conolly’s. “He had major flights of fancy,” he said. “He was one of Boston’s true eccentrics and iconoclasts. He had his demons, big demons, which he acknowledged.”
That next album, in 1988, was not called “Playpen.” It was called “A Promise Is a Promise,” and it was the last of three studio albums various Lyres made for the prestigious Boston label Ace of Hearts.
Lyres’ final show took place this year on Feb. 13 at the Carousel Lounge in Austin, Texas, shortly before Conolly’s cancer diagnosis. A planned spring tour with the last Lyres — guitarist Bob Schena, bassist Kevin Pinkham and founding drummer Paul Murphy — was canceled.
Oedipus talked with Conolly about 10 days before his death and they were planning a dinner together. “We talked off and on for many years, but when he got sick, he’d call me at home and start ranting. He was a wild man — upbeat, crazy, witty,” he said. “I would let him go off and he sounded great; he didn’t sound sick. He said, ‘I’m getting over it, I’ve had the surgery.’”
In March, many friends from the Boston rock community – a briefly reunited Mission of Burma, the Dogmatics, Classic Ruins and Unnatural Axe, among them – gathered to play a benefit for Conolly at the Middle East Downstairs in Cambridge and packed the place.
Conolly, somewhat surprisingly, showed up, donned a wig and “sang” a Stooges song with Burma. “He was done up like a nightmare Roy Orbison,” said Burma bassist Clint Conley, “and joined us for a shambolic ‘1970’ that more or less crashed on take-off when he stumbled into the drums. Perfect.”
Conley grew up with Conolly in Darien, Connecticut. “We bonded over music that no one else had any interest in: Bowie, Mott the Hoople, the New York Dolls, and especially the Kinks,” Conley said. “Together, we discovered a world we felt impelled to be part of and he was first coming to Boston and joining DMZ. I followed along, in no small part because of his example.”
Conolly and his Lyres carved out an important niche for themselves in a town full of young art-rock/post-punk bands and roots-rock bands. He was unabashedly devoted to an exuberant garage-rock style that had fallen by the wayside. He brought that back or made it fresh for people too young to have heard it first time around.
Tim Sommer explained it best. Sommer is a rock writer, former member of the band Hugo Largo and ex-Atlantic Records executive. He said the image of Conolly performing is burned in his brain. “The man and his music personified the sweating, drooling, cough syrup-gulping heart of American rock ‘n’ roll.”