The "What Is Punk?" debate has been a raging topic of contention since Sid met Nancy. Like foreign policy, the argument seems to boil down to whether or not we protect our borders with a decree of isolationism, or do we welcome everybody into the tree house until the whole damn thing topples over? Punk as a departure from corporate rock product tickled the ears of a select few during its genesis, but as time wore on and more people grew tired of gnawing on the bone of musical convention, the select few became an alienated army--and an army needs regulations. "I thought the punk ideal was broad and undefinable," Perry says. "Something exploratory and experimental."

Eugene, Oregon, in the latter part of the 1980s was a fertile time for fledgling musicians, with bands forming and breaking up every three minutes or so. Enter one Steve Perry, fresh off the boat from Binghamton, New York ("A gritty little shithole," he recalls), in town to pursue his dreams of track and field excellence. Once the jock bug went south, Master Perry decided to give punk rock a chance. Fortunately, the town was awash in punk talent, fortified by local legends like Moose Lodge and E-13, but more emphatically by Greg Sage and the Wipers from up Portland way. "If there's anyone I truly idolize, it would be Greg Sage," Perry says.

"I was in Snakepit [training ground for Billy Karren (Bikini Kill), Al Larsen (Some Velvet Sidewalk), Mike Johnson (Dinosaur Jr.) and Joe Preston (Melvins)] before Mike Johnson, but after a while I got bored with the music," he remembers.

"Then I was in St. Huck, who were more like an ethereal, jangle-pop band, but we were still accepted by the whole punk and alternative rock community. In those days, my conception of punk was doing whatever the hell you wanted as long it had vitality and wasn't overly stupid. Even a band like Surf Trio was considered punk."

Perry's desire to play a more unconventional brand of music than his regimented peers was inevitable. "I always preferred the Butthole Surfers to Minor Threat," he says. "I just thought they were more varied and interesting." At the time, however, he was unaware that he was planting the seeds for his own bumper crop of ostracism. Apparently, the punk-rock commandments turned out to be top-heavy with "Thou shalt nots."

"I'd started listening to swing music and I really liked it. I'd always wanted to do something with horns so I got some guys together," Perry says of his original plans.

"I didn't realize how against the grain we'd be perceived. For one thing, the Daddies were a very physical band. Not only were we working hard and sweating up a storm, but we were inciting people to dance."

Unknowingly, Steve Perry had broken the code. During the hegemony of sensitive guitar-whackers like R.E.M., the Replacements, Husker Du and the Meat Puppets, not only was dancing frowned upon ("Just stare at the floor and bob yer head, Jimbo!"), but the people that showed up to dance were either clean-cut, athletic types, or nouveau hippies who wanted a more cardiovascular workout than they'd get at a Dead show. In other words, the very people that the punk crowd tried to maintain a safe distance from.

"It caused my whole world to change," Perry maintains. "I was instantly alienated from the Northwest rock scene. I became an overnight object of ridicule. I was a traitor, singing for the most uncool band in the world. We had an evil name and played fascist music.

"Even The Rocket contributed to my alienation. For years I was like, 'Look at my pretty red socks!' and I'd get told, 'Sorry. We only like green socks.' I'd read The Rocket and watch as they helped sell this whole 'Northwest Rock' lifestyle to everybody, defining what the cool crowd should be into, while gushing over the latest Mudhoney record. It's all too precious and non-inclusive. I think the struggle for identity is a horrible thing."

Having lived in Eugene for over a dozen years, I can attest to the hysteria caused by the coming of the Cherry Poppin' Daddies, particularly from those who felt the band name was a celebration of incest and rape. Concert posters (most were hand-drawn gems courtesy of ex-Rocket cartoonist Wayne Shellabarger) were torn down by politically correct posses who followed a few discreet blocks behind the poor slob who was putting them up. Shrieking pickets were organized at gigs and, for a time, the Daddies were forbidden to play at the WOW Hall, arguably the best venue in town.

"The name caused a lot more hassle than I would have liked," Perry admits. "I've had hot coffee thrown on me, I've been burned by cigarettes and all in a supposedly liberal college town.

"On the other hand, it's sort of contagious to do what people don't want. Those bad experiences strengthened my resolve. Originally we just wanted a kind of swinging, Dixieland band name. Looking back on it now, I think it suggests a loss of innocence. Plus it works as a line of demarcation for people who like the band and people who don't."

Adding to the ever-swelling snowball of band misconceptions is Perry's rather murky lyrical bent. In songs like "Drunk Daddy," "Pink Elephant," "Master and Slave" and others, Perry peers through windows into the lives of the sleazy and sinister, giving the bright, bouncy music an unexpected bite. The dark subject matter, coupled with the band's fury-inducing moniker, have led some to peg the Daddies' frontman and songwriter as a somewhat sick puppy.

"I get that all the time," he groans. "The last review in The Rocket referred to my lyrics as misogynistic. The thing is, I'm not my songs. My songs frequently have an unreliable narrator. It's a common literary device. I really shouldn't have to explain myself this way. I wish people would invest a little more thought when listening to music. I always have.

"This is sort of corny, but I consider myself a tiny short-story writer and I think of songs as little stories," Perry continues. "My life isn't especially interesting, and I have very little to say politically. I'm not John Lennon. I like people like Randy Newman, or Ray Davies or Elvis Costello. I write about humanity; I write about what I see. My songs have a pessimistic core, but it's more like strength through adversity. I also try to lampoon stupidity whenever possible."

Since late 1988, the eternally touring Daddies have made their bones as shit-hot, outrageous performers from Alaska to Zanzibar, with singer Perry manning the spotlight as a combination white-boy Cab Calloway, cheap nightclub emcee, sequined lounge lizard and sweaty, shirtless rock god. From the cocky strut of "Dr. Bones" to the shamelessly crooned "Skyline Drive," to the rude-boy anthem "Sockable Face Club," the band shakes out an incredible variety of sounds with peerless verve and polish, effortlessly exploding the rap that it's just another sassy, horn-driven, frathouse funk band. The Daddies were busting out the swing before the Squirrel Nut Zippers, stirring cocktails before Combustible Edison and skating the ska before Sublime.

"I think most of the current crop of swing bands try too hard for that retro sound," Perry says of his competition. "That's why if you listen to a Cherry Poppin' Daddies song, you know that being traditional is not what we're about."

Considering their recent signing of a contract with Mojo Records (home of Reel Big Fish and Goldfinger), it's none too difficult to believe that taste and the times have finally caught up with the Cherry Poppin' Daddies.

"We've had interest from labels in the past, but no one ever came up with what I considered to be a really good deal," Perry explains. "I figured we'd just stay independent with our own label [Space Age Bachelor Pad]. We did a good job of looking after our own interests; we put out four albums by ourselves. I told the guy from Mojo, 'Look, we're doing swing right now, but I may not want to do that next year. I may not want to play ska.' The guy just went, 'Fine.' It's usually hard work to get the business people to trust your creative instincts.

"We've been at this a long time, and we're finally getting signed," he says with growing animation. "I think a lot of bands these days get together, play a few shows and expect some guy with a big cigar to show up and hand them a bag of money. They buy themselves a publicist and then start believing what the publicist says."

It's pretty obvious that Steve Perry still smarts over what he considers the mercurial nature of the punk and alt-rock crowd. Yet time and plenty of ass-breaking labor have proven him to be a determined individualist, indifferent to the fickle winds of the trendy.

"I think when our regional contemporaries were enjoying their day in the sun during the Northwest Rock gold rush, we were probably playing in some shitty bar in Wisconsin, or someplace," he observes dryly.

It won't be the last one, Daddy-O.