All the women in my life love Elton John (and I’m pretty sure my dad does secretly as well)…I’ve never got it. To me, he seems like the punchline to his own joke. That’s not a bad thing, however, especially for a guy who started his career during an era when rock’n'roll mistakenly took itself way too seriously. Anyone want to convince me to give Goodbye Yellow Brick Road a few spins?
I’m sure I’m not the only 20(something)-year-old who grew up on Blink in the late 90s/early 00s, but I’m of a dissolving crowd that doesn’t mind admitting it. When I first started on the WECB music staff two (three?) semesters ago, I mistakenly introduced myself as, “Mike Flanagan, sophomore Journalism major from the South Shore. I grew up on pop-punk…” I might as well have cut myself off right there, because everyone stopped listening and started wondering how in the name of Surfer Blood I slipped through the cracks. Since then, I’ve been subject to the occasional (lighthearted and chummy) ridicule from my staffmates and forced to review all the beggarly 2010 pop-punk shit that plops its way into our inbox (I’m looking at you, You Me At Six).
Yes, Enema sucked me in with it’s hooks that stuck to me like a fresh booger on a windsheild…I was nine when I heard “What’s My Age Again,” for the first time, so you can’t get me for that. Perhaps had I been 13, I would have already been gunned down by Cheshire Cat, Blink’s first studio album, on which “Sometimes” is the seventh track. I won’t dive too deep into the track for fear of coming up with my spine poking out the side of my neck. If Mark Hoppus and Tom DeLonge are preteens stuck in nearly middle-aged bodies, “Sometimes,” and the rest of Cheshire Cat, for that matter, is what you would expect them to produce in teenage bodies.
Devout Blink fans can argue that their dog-sodomizing heroes were seminal in the development of punk all they want; they weren’t. I could even change the wording of the previous sentence to make it sound less absurd, and the answer would still be an eager “no.” They were, however, a valuable and now-nostalgic snapshot of what life was like for suburban white kids whose parents generally loved each other and treated them fairly, but just not fairly enough by their tubesock-wearing standards. As sarcastic as that proclamation comes off, it’s as serious as “Adam’s Song” was supposed to be; why should the middle-class white kids from the 90s be wiped off the radar just because they grew up in an era where black people enjoyed constitutional rights, women could hold public office, and politics were just too damn boring to interrupt a hard day’s loitering in front of the local Mexican joint?
And for old times’ sake:
For some reason, the Beatles never stuck with me until very recently; even so, they’re just beginning to adhere. I knew it was inevitable, I suppose, if I continued to listen to, write, and write about rock music for much longer. This semester, I took a music journalism class that was more like a rock history crash course. I was the only one in the class not impeccably versed in Beatles history and discography (conversely, I was the only one who knew anything, or gave a fuck, about the Band, and one of few who could sing back a Bob Dylan song other than “Blowin’ In The Wind”), and I felt sorely out-of-place.
After reading my professor’s book, Tell Me Why, and listening to nothing but the Beatles for a few weeks, I finally got it. It’s hard for someone like me to fully delve into the Beatles because they are so ubiquitous in Western culture that their songs almost sound like white noise now. But to think about how they evolved from “Love Me Do” to Sgt. Pepper and back to Abbey Road in just seven years is an absolute mindfuck. At the risk of employing too many hyperbolic cliches, they defined a standard in rock that will stand until the rock’n'roll generations become the societal oppressors and another revolution takes over.
Anyway, “Norwegian Wood” is a good song off Rubber Soul.
I’ve been struggling to organize and distinguish my own biases ever since Band of Horses put out Infinite Arms in May; I just can’t seem to figure out where what frontman Ben Bridwell called “the first Band of Horses record” ranks in their discography. The songwriting is certainly more refined, and the musicianship more impressive than the first two releases, the nearly flawless Everything All The Time and its doppelganger, Cease To Begin. But is it more charming? Bridwell and his Horses have built a dedicated fanbase, poked the mainstream surface, and nabbed ad deals with their almost unbearably endearing take on country-pop (I defy anyone to argue that makes less sense than ‘indie-folk’…).
Songs like “The Funeral,” “The First Song,” and “St. Augustine” might have been more democratic than the cuts on Infinite Arms, but Band of Horses 2.0 continues to advocate for fireplaces, novels, and flannel pants with songs like “Evening Kitchen.” The album’s resident lullaby ollows the minimal “St. Augustine” model: two nectarous voices, one guitar, and no picks. Infinite Arms‘s biggest asset might be its departure from the band’s debut and sophomore twin records, but here’s to hoping Bridwell never completely abandons his winning formula that has made Band of Horses one of the most lovable pop bands on the planet.
Socratic is straight-up, shameless piano pop from the early 2000s. They came up at the tail end of Drive-Thru Records’s era of prosperity, which, as we all know, was also the beginning of the pop-punk label’s monstrous downfall. “I Haven’t Seen You In Years” appeared as the second track on the band’s Just Turn EP that nobody bought, which followed the 2005 LP, Lunch For The Sky, that nobody bought. Socratic’s melodic hooks were just a little bit too clever for the average dumbass music consumer, but not quite interesting enough to convince anyone who has a shit to give to give one. Unfortunately for Socratic, unless you’re name rhymes with Shmuce Shmingsteen, you can only write the same song so many times and expect anyone not to forget about you real quick.
Every day (or so) (starting today), I put my iTunes on shuffle. Whatever song comes on, whether it’s an old favorite, current gem, or something straight out of left field, will be the subject of my as-of-now obligatory daily blog post.
Of all Thrice’s albums, I’ve always felt Vheissu has the most to offer and stands up better than any of the others. It’s still pretty much the only one I go back to every now and then. “Stand And Feel Your Worth” fairly represents each element of Vheissu‘s core: it creeps into actuality from a smokey ether and detonates promptly into a barrier of steely guitars punctuated by Dustin Kensrue’s catlike whisper-to-scream vocals. It comes up for air with a subdued Wurly solo just before Kensrue’s dynamite stick of a growl wills the equally burdensome guitars to blow the rubble out of physical existence. That’s Vheissu in a nutshell.
To me, Vheissu is the penultimate to the end-all-be-all of what hardcore has become (call it “post-hardcore,” if it makes you feel better). The Receiving End of Sirens’s Between The Heart and the Synapse takes it about as far into the philosophy sphere as it can go without breaking, but Vheissu gives it a vital boost in that direction. As far as music that strives to be as overwhelming as possible, Vheissu is the cream of the crop (in the interest of immediacy, I’ve neglected to edit this post for cliches. My Music Journalism professor would be peeved).
Enjoy “Stand And Feel Your Worth” to a Final Fantasy montage. If I can, I’ll dive into the coding to minimize the picture as much as possible. But no guarantees.
