Pavlov’s Dog refuses to roll over and play dead
By Daniel Durchholz
Photograph courtesy of Pavlov’s Dog
If you want to see David Surkamp perform these days, just buy a ticket … on your favorite airline, that is.
Though the Pavlov’s Dog lead singer still makes his home in St. Louis, he seldom plays here anymore. But he’s found continued success in Europe, where over the past several years he’s played festival shows in front of huge audiences—and on television, too. He’s also released an album, Dancing on the Edge of a Teacup, on the Germany-based Rockville label.
His touring band is billed as Pavlov’s Dog, but the new album bears the somewhat unwieldy credit “The Pavlov’s Dog Trinity Sessions.” That’s because it was recorded by the trio of Surkamp, his wife Sara and producer “Bongo” Billy Costello.
“I don’t know where David Surkamp leaves off and Pavlov’s Dog starts,” says Surkamp. “If I do this really intricate progressive rock, I guess it’s Pavlov’s Dog. If I’m sitting around with an acoustic guitar, I guess it’s David Surkamp.”
The Dog, for those not in the know, recorded two well-regarded prog-rock albums in the ’70s, Pampered Menial and At the Sound of the Bell. By the time of their third, Has Anyone Here Seen Siegfried?, the band had begun to splinter, and has only resurfaced occasionally since, coming close to a full-on reunion at a 2004 Pageant concert that benefited the Make-A-Wish Foundation.
“The best thing to do at that point would have been to just go out there and bring back Pavlov’s Dog’s name to its rightful place,” Surkamp says. But renewed squabbling among band members prevented that, so Surkamp rode the show’s momentum to get his own career back on track.
“We’ve gotten some really good reviews so far,” he says of the new album, “except for a couple of bad ones, which are always my favorites, because they go about trying to describe my voice.”
Indeed, Surkamp’s high, tremulous voice is at once his trademark and the easiest means of separating Pavlov’s Dog fans and detractors—sometimes within seconds.
“It’s the main target, good or bad,” Surkamp says. “I can live with that.”
The Rockville label has also reissued the Siegfried album, as well as 1990’s Lost in America—this time with bonus tracks, which is Surkamp’s attempt, he says, to “bootleg the bootleggers.”
“There’s a bunch of things that shouldn’t have gotten out there, but that are out there, and the record company said, ‘Do you think we could use this?’ I said, ‘Well, they’re stealing from you already. Let’s take the bootlegs, clean ’em up, remaster ’em and stick ’em on the records.’ Will they be as good as the stuff I just recorded? Probably not. But the people who really love this music will be thrilled to have it.”
And so, more than 30 years on, the Pavlov’s Dog story opens a new chapter. Though it’s been anything but a smooth ride, in some ways it’s worked out just as Surkamp had planned.
“The truth is, when I wrote the songs—and some of them I wrote in high school—I meant these things to be timeless,” he says. “I never wanted to play stupid music. I really meant to write stuff that has a life of its own, that wouldn’t get outdated. Maybe that’s just romantic bullshit, but I don’t think so.”
To keep tabs on Surkamp’s gigs—he has some coming up at the Shanti in Soulard, as well as in Verviers, Belgium—and for news on new releases, visit surkamp.com.
