Cokie The Clown – You’re Welcome

There are only a few solid anchors from the 90’s punk scene that were able to turn a few good years in the spotlight into a fully sustainable career.  Although I suppose even that’s a generous assessment of the situation for many considering that most icons found longevity in the industry by launching iconic record labels.  Of all those still around, Fat Wreck Chords remains one of the most relevant, guided by the larger than life personality of NOFX front man Michael Burkett, best known by the nickname “Fat Mike.”

Fat Mike has become a bit of a brand himself over the years.  Like Greg Graffin of Bad Religion or Brendan Kelly of The Lawrence Arms, Fat Mike is an outspoken frontman who doesn’t mince words about his values and beliefs.  He also doesn’t hesitate to open up about his personal life and the emotional anguish that accompanied the darkest moments of his upbringing and career.  Most of Burkett’s past can be pieced together through various interviews, but there’s more to the story than mere transcripts. That’s where his alter ego, Cokie The Clown, comes in.

Cokie The Clown represents a medium through which Burkett can express the darkest moments of his life with the full emotional baggage that comes with the territory.  Nothing is omitted, censored or ignored. No thought is deemed too personal or damning. It’s like being a fly on the wall in a therapist’s office, but the patient knows there’s an audience of flies and and just keeps talking.  We’ve known about the Cokie The Clown alter ego for over a decade, but Burkett’s debut album, You’re Welcome, is only just seeing the light of day now.

Musically, You’re Welcome finds Burkett far from the comfort of his NOFX home, perhaps sharing the most in common with his stage musical, Home Street Home, which tackled some very heavy content.  That being said, Home Street Home feels tame by comparison.  You’re Welcome’s unbridled honesty and horrific imagery truly makes it a difficult album to digest.  If this was merely a fictitious concept album it would feel forced and motivated by shock value.  But the claims to autobiography mostly invoke empathy. “Tag me what you need to,” invites Burkett at one point, completely capturing just how vulnerable and open to judgement these songs leave him.  

Burkett’s honesty finds him sharing stories of childhood neglect by his parents and the scarring effect on his adulthood and capacity for intimacy.  While each track could no doubt be psychoanalyzed, the strongest impact can be found in a handful of ethically faulted and visceral narratives. The first is “Bathtub,” which is told from the perspective of waking up in a hotel and finding your love overdosed, floating face up with a mouth full of water in a bathtub.  There are no redeeming melodies for the first minute – forcing listeners to contend with one of the most horrific experiences imaginable. Burkett explained in the press release, “I sang that song in my kitchen at 3 a.m., super-drunk. It’s not rehearsed or recorded in a studio. It’s heartbreaking.” As an album opener, it may even be too much for some listeners, who may choose to excuse themselves within the first few lines.  I wouldn’t blame them.

The second most painful moment to fathom is in “Swing and a Miss,” which gives the story of a nineteen year old Burkett and his friends finding their friend dead, hanging lifelessly from the ceiling.  The details of “Freeing his neck from the coaxial cable,” and the liquor drenched smell of his final exhaled breath are deeply traumatic, but worse still is the regretful admission of how inappropriately Burkett and his friends responded to the whole ordeal.  Both ignoring the warning signs of a failed first attempt, responding to the news by treating his room “like a used record store,” and forgetting to clean the bloodstain on the floor make for a series of events that rightly haunt Burkett into the present. A close third is, “That Time I Killed My Mom,” the story of Burkett’s mother’s final moments before asking Burkett to do the unthinkable and engage in an act of mercy through euthanasia.  It’s a morally taxing song, sure to test the ethics of all listeners. The song further highlights the tension between Burkett and his parents, which is explored at length in album closer “Punk Rock Saved My Life.”

French musician and collaborator Baz shares writing credits with Burkett, who discovered his talents through happening on a symphonic version of the NOFX classic, The Decline.  You’re Welcome’s instrumentals are a hybrid of conventional punk rock and symphonic accomplishment.  Violins, flutes, and piano notes all reflect the various moods and states of mind that flash through each event.  Curiously, the instrumental score doesn’t come across angry or vengeful. Most of what Burkett explores is rooted in the past, and that through self reflection he has come to accept himself for who he is, even if it’s been a challenging road.  “Punk Rock Saved My Life” is a roundabout way of celebrating the most meaningful connections in in Burkett’s life, concluding on the line, “my parents were just relatives, my family was always NOFX.”

You’re Welcome plays like like a memoir.  The emotions are raw and each song hits you like a ton of bricks.  Burkett claims the entire entire affair is true to his experience without a word of exaggeration.  Given his public profile, there’s no reason to doubt any of the pain fuelling You’re Welcome.  Without a doubt You’re Welcome will become a polarizing album.  But like any memoirs, they’re not really there for you to judge.  You can experience them as intended or pass them over at your choosing.  Burkett made You’re Welcome for himself, so you’re enjoyment or rejection really doesn’t matter.  It’s one of those rare moments in the music industry of art over sales.  Embrace or reject You’re Welcome for what it is, Cokie The Clown is here to stay.