Festivus Grievances 2014

For festivus this year, the taint ticklers did not even bother dressing up. We wore pajamas and drank hot apple cider. After complaining about the state of the world, we took turns airing our musical grievances. A few of the taint ticklers are asleep. Once they can be aroused and are coherent, we will add their complaints to the list.

Anita Papsmear:

I hate to sound like a broken record but my musical grievance for 2014 is much the same as in the past…Taylor Swift. I just don’t get it. Her lyrics are simple, her music is nowhere near “country,” and I still haven’t seen any real “art” from her. If I hear one more person say how they “caved in” and “now like her music,” I will literally projectile vomit until my uterus spills out over my lap. 

Class Warrior:

I am mostly okay with the state of the world’s music scene. Grievances are few this year. I saw live music performances more than once this year, so I cannot target myself as I usually do. Here are the grievances:

1. Cookie monster vocals. Enough already! What the fuck. This vocal style sounds like shit. It has always sounded like shit. You don’t sound angry or evil, cookie monster. You just make me want to listen to something else. Countless bands have been ruined by these vocals. I demand an end!

2. Band name creativity is at an all-time low. While it is true that good band names are getting harder and harder to come by every year, I don’t believe that all the good names have been taken. We just have to apply ourselves. Just for the hell of it, let’s try to think of some good names. I will limit myself to the theme of...enemas! This is an underexplored region for band names—perhaps justifiably so—but if you want the public to remember you, or if you want them to think “I wish I’d thought of that first,” you could do worse than an enema related name. On to the names!

Terminal Enema
Chronic Enema (that one’s for all you pot smokers/enema enthusiasts)
Enema School (title of first album: Expelled)
Enema Storm
Reverse Enema
Enema Friend
Enema Fiend
Enema Chuggers
Apples and Enemas
Metal Enema
Blood Enema (or insert your desired inappropriate enema fluid here) (insert! get it?)

That’s enough. Eleven (or more) bands now have names. Next theme: GG Allin song titles.

3. Capitalism kills music. Among other evils, it traps otherwise capable, talented musicians in shitty jobs. All that time these people could have devoted to practicing, writing songs, and playing music for people gets devoured by waiting tables, flipping burgers, selling useless shit to alienated people, or any other set of boredom and immiseration. Let’s kill capitalism instead.

Dave:

Like many of the contributors to Tickle Your Taint, I am a life long metal fan. However, I’m just not feeling it anymore. The whole metal community is really uninspiring to me as of late. The fans celebrate formulaic sounds, and bands put out insincere, formulaic records. I have only been interested in three national releases this year, the Eyehategod album I reviewed, the new Godflesh record, and the new Obituary record. I’m tired of stoic *insert sub-sub-genre here* metal fans who take that sound oh so seriously and snub their nose at anything that deviates from these specific musical values. It seems like whenever I try to share anything different with an avowed metal fan they look at me like I just pulled my dick out and started masturbating in their living room.  Fuck it I’m out!

Five-Inch Taint:

This year, fortunately, I do not have many grievances. It was such a magical time musically (see my best of list).

With that said, I have to air some grievances against one of our own (again). Null, you have steered me in the wrong direction musically for a second time in three years. A few years ago he directed me to Taylor Swift’s Red of which I enjoyed a couple of songs on the album. This year, he spoke highly of Lana Del Rey’s new album, Ultraviolence. Produced by my namesake, Dan Auerbach, this album is a big steamy turd. Another band, The 1975, comes to mind when thinking about mediocre music. I’m not even sure if Null recommended them to me but I’m going to blame him anyway, because it seems like something he would do. I would rather listen to paint dry then listen to this album again.

Another grievance is old women at shows who flash their nasty boobies to the band. Seriously, if I wanted to see some dried up leathery sacks of flesh I’d make some beef jerky. You ruined that concert for me and scarred me for life. I’m a little more dead inside after having seen you bare yourself in order to get the attention of the band. You almost ruined boobies for me…and I love boobies!

One final grievance about a local music venue: Damn you Burt’s Tiki Lounge for closing up shop right before my beloved Voo Doo Glow Skulls came to perform. I will miss your dirty, grungy bar with your television playing all the time (even during concerts). I saw some great shows there: Anvil, MDC, and some great local bands. But, you denied me from getting my punk-ska fix for the year.  

Jimmy “Explosive Diarrhea” B:

Albany, Oregon Art and Air Festival: I hate to do this, but for the second year in a row, the mighty Blue Oyster Cult – or more precisely the Albany, Oregon venue – makes my grievance list. The sound at this show was atrocious. It was boomy and indistinct. The audience was there to drink, and chatter. It seemed like nobody was there to listen to music. This may have been my last free outdoor show. The experience is always disappointing.

Dave: Our own wonderful and brilliant taint tickler, Dave, joined one of my favorite local bands, Paranaut, in 2014. But, he kept forgetting to give me a heads up when a show was in the works. As a result, I was only able to make it to one Paranaut show. It was awesome. But don’t worry Dave; I still love you.

Mrs. “Explosive Diarrhea” B: Yes friends, my spouse makes the list this year. She refused to attend a lot of great shows with me, the Meat Puppets for example.  She seems to have the reached a point in her life, for reasons I cannot explain, where she is only willing to go to a show if it involves Wishbone Ash, Blue Oyster Cult, or Murder by Death. But, don’t worry Mrs. Explosive Diarrhea; I still love you.

The Mississippi Studios, Portland, Oregon: I was able to get the wife to attend two shows in 2014, one of them was Peter Buck and Alejandro Escovedo at Mississippi Studios. The venue made the decision to cram so many people into a tiny space that we were literally hip to hip. It was so tight that I wondered if they guy behind me was trying dance or ass fuck me.

Portland, Oregon: Unlike my spouse, my daughter loves going to shows. But, there are few all ages venues in Portland. We get lucky sometimes and find something suitable. But, most of the venues let us down.

The Hawthorne Theater, Portland, Oregon: I didn’t even attend any shows at this horrible venue in 2014, but I hate it so fucking much, that I am angry at its continued existence.

Thrill Jockey: I was surfing the web one night when I discovered that a band I love, Guapo, had a new album. I immediately and figuratively plunked down 13 bucks on the album. Only after making the payment, did I notice I had paid $13 for a download. Fuck! I don’t download. Now what do I do? I emailed Thrill Jockey, the record label, to ask for my money back. I got no response. I now have a digital album on my computer I do not want. I am probably a dinosaur, but I hate fucking downloaded music. CDs and records make me feel like I am interacting with bands. I am holding what they produced, reading what they wrote, and admiring the art work they labored to choose. Fuck you Thrill Jockey and your $13 downloads.

The Unknown Reviewer (I forgot the man's name): I am in distress that this year is coming to an end, and Mr. T's undoubted musical talent continues to be unknown to music fans everywhere.  

Kloghole:

1. Cuntry music still is not country music. Given that the cuntry music business will always survive parasitically on the vagaries of fickle, faddish, public whim, I will never be able to listen to the radio or watch cuntry music award shows without wanting to wretch.

2. All the fuckers who have caused my friends and I grief over the past few years so that I has just given up on music. I can only recall going to one proper show, and that was after I sorted through my ticket stubs. I went to the DOA farewell show with fellow taint ticklers. I also crashed the punk rock reunion in Rapid City. Other than that, I stumbled into pubs where bands were playing, but I have been grossly negligent about getting to music shows.

3. There is a lot a shit that I would like to include in my grievances, but I am so fucking out of date, I thought they happened this year. J.J. Cale is dead? Queensryche sued each other? WTF? That was years ago? New metal sucks. New metal is already passe? Maybe, I will catch up in a few years to be pissed about the stupid shit in music that happened this year.

4. The iPod is dead! There, I said it. While I am not a big fan of oligopolies, I could put my whole music collection in one little device. I have my own private radio station. It was fucking great. Instead of updating the device with a flash drive or reinventing the device, it’s just been chucked in the bin. There is no fucking way I can fit more than a fraction of my music on my phone. Fuck it. I guess I just have to keep my fingers crossed that my current iPod will last long enough for flash memory to reach 200gig in some other portable devices.

5. While I am on the subject of iPods, Toyota can suck the fucking dingleberries off my hairy bunghole for their masochistic iPod interface on their radio. Had I known that their GPS is about as fucking useful as a monkey with a map in your glovebox and their goddamn radio locks up the iPod, I would have saved the fucking money and got the cheaper model.

I am glad as hell this year is coming to an end. Fuck 2014. May 2015 not suck an infected testicle on a leprous lion with Tourette’s.

Sweet Dreams Motherfuckers!

Null:

The worst thing about my grievances is that, over the years, they haven’t seemed to change much. The fact that major labels continue to put out multiple versions of the same record with various bonus tracks here and other bonus tracks there continues to infuriate me. It is an overt attempt to get consumers to buy several copies of the same album. Major record labels continue their longstanding tradition of being putrid corporate scum. I salute any artist that refuses to take part.

A further redundancy of my grievances is the waning quality of CD-Rs, or recordable CDs. I believe this issue has been addressed during every grievance list I have written here on Tickle Your Taint. Since the beginning of this site, the quality of CD-Rs has continued to worsen. These days one can look through a CD-R like a fucking lightly tainted window because they are all so cheap and thin. And as an added bonus most of them will play in one CD player but not in the next. If you can play it in your car then you can’t play it in your home stereo or visa versa. I searched the internet for good quality CD-Rs that would stand the test of time. I found some expensive CD-Rs called MAM-A Gold that have a lifetime guarantee. They are good, but guess what…they won’t play in my portable CD player. Fuck this shit. I’ll quote Lemmy, “All things come to he who waits but these days most things suck.”

U2 needs to go away. What came first the Apple commercial or the new U2 record? No one can tell. To simply infer that U2 have maintained a shred of integrity or concern for the outside world is an insult to humankind. If Bono maintains “free market” capitalism will save the world then he can burn in hell with the rest of ‘em. It is a shame too because I really liked their first 6 studio albums. Their plane went down in Germany 23 years ago.

I read a John Mayer interview where he said, “There is no such thing as selling out anymore.” We…are…fucked.

I am like a broken record and a digital transfer won’t make that any clearer.

Scott:

(Writing a term paper.)

SoDak:

1. R.E.M. Complete Rarities for I.R.S and Warner Bros. Both of these collections were released only as a digital downloads. What a fucking waste. Maybe I can burn them onto a shitty CD-R that will not even play on my stereo. The general trend toward disposable music is exhausting.

2. The lack of creativity for CD/album covers (also just bad covers in general). As part of the trend toward disposable music, album art seems to be experiencing a painful death. Fortunately, metal bands seem to still put some effort into covers, even I think many of them are silly. Bob Seger has never really had good artwork on his albums, but Ride Out, as well as his previous release, Face the Promise, are tired. Oh yes, Bob, an open road, a motorcycle, you are really making a connection now. The same is true of Bruce Springsteen’s High Hopes. I think a child with a brain injury created the covers for Johnny Marr CDs. Morrissey has completely lost his marbles. World Peace Is None of Your Business is attempt at being clever, but remains uninteresting. The cover for his Very Best of CD looks like he pleasuring himself in the bathtub. The cover on Swords, as Null has first told me, looks like his standing in the woods and he has to take a shit. The worst cover this year is U2’s Songs of Innocence. What the fuck? At first glance, it looks like a middle-aged man going down on a young boy. NAMBLA members are probably jerking off to the cover right now. To make matters worse, the boy is the son of the man (who is a band member). Now, it looks like a cover that celebrates pedophilia. I have read interviews where the band tries to explain the symbolism on the cover. Forget. If you have to explain the meaning so much, it is not fuckin’ clear. Horrible choice.

3. Many critics have noted the lack of originality in mainstream country music, given the endless slew of songs about parking lots, parties, trucks, tight jeans, etc. (Some of the older country music singers have indicated that the power of story songs has been lost.) This past year, I thought the most glaring example of this is represented by Lee Brice’s song, “Show You Off Tonight” and Jason Aldean’s song, “Show You Off.” Technically these are different songs—one song has the word “Tonight” in the title. I looked and was surprised to see that the songs have different songwriters. Guess what the songs are about? You guessed it: some asshole is excited to take his lady out on the town to present her as an object (or piece of eye candy) for everyone else to drool over. Somehow, I guess this elevates the guy in this situation. These songwriters must be drinking from the same toilet.

4. Disappointing/Bad Albums: I only list a couple, by artists who I generally like. Mark Kolezek is getting worse every year. His record, Benji, is a rambling diary of non-sense. I think he believes that he is being artistic. I now wish he would just stop making music. Lucinda Williams put out a stinker this year with Down Where the Spirit Meets the Bone. While her voice has been getting progressively rough, it still invoked plenty of emotion and felt part of the music. Here she sounds like she is croaking out the words and meandering outside of the song. The pain is spread over two CDs. Not sure how this record make the year-end lists for many folks.

Travis:

(Sleeping at the dinner table.)

The 1975- Self-Titled

(Vagrant, 2013)

Reviewed by Null

Apparently, when Michael Hutchinson was hanging himself and jerking off, there was a little jizz that fell on the carpet, crawled away, and started a band. I think this is how The 1975 came into being. Supposedly, they started the band when they were about 13 years old. At 22 years old, they made a record after several EPs. But I don’t really buy it. This record tests one’s tolerance for modern 80s cheese to its most challenging level. So the question is: How tough are ya? To provide an answer, I will quote Springsteen, “Babe, I’m tougher than the rest.”

This review is really a call out for help. I need to talk to someone. My musical guilty pleasures have reached a level that has made it hard to manage—of late. Should an alcoholic go to AA if s/he still really enjoys drinking? Probably, but music isn’t gonna kill me. But it sure can make me feel better—and soft, like a middle school memory.

“Step into your skin? I’d rather jump in your bones. Taking up your mouth, so you breathe through your nose.”

Like, before I had solidified my own identity—or even French kissed a girl.

“She said, ‘It’s your birthday, are you feeling alright?’”

Like, when smelling the girl that I passed in the hall was the height of my erotic experiences.

“She said. ‘Use your hands and my spare time—we’ve got one thing in common, it’s this tongue of mine.”

When I used to spend a lot of time alone, listening to tapes. And there were some good 80s pop tunes on John Hughes Soundtracks that seemed to resonate with this feeling.

“Your obsession with rocks and brown and fucking the whole town is a reflection on your mental health.”

What if a band were born of a make-believe black-and-white world where every aspect of the culture was based on a John Hughes disposition? Somehow, this album answers that question. I think they are from Australia circa 1982 but they say they are from the United Kingdom. Liars.

“Now everybody’s dead—and they’re driving past my old school […] Babe, you look so cool.”

Though a few tracks on this album are “tougher” than others. They write their own songs and turn their guitars up louder than the album mix when they play live. Too bad the guitars are mixed so low on the record. I mean, their great at what they do. However, sometimes they feel only a few frightening steps away from a boy band. Thankfully, they are a real band even if they are way too good-looking. Regardless, “Don’t Change” by INXS is one of my favorite songs. And if you don’t like Madonna’s “Crazy For You” and “Live To Tell,” then you’re just lying.

“She said, ‘It’s not about your body, it’s just social implications are brought upon by this party that we’re sitting in. I’d like to say you’ve changed, but you’re always the same. I’ve got a feeling that the marijuana’s rotting your brain.’”

Maybe Kajagoogoo really had more to offer than just “Too Shy.” On second thought, I don’t think I’ll go down that road. I listened to Cannibal Corpse’s Gore Obsessed earlier today just to make sure I was OK. It sounded great. I’m going to be OK. Music isn’t gonna kill me.  Besides, Springsteen’s “Tougher than the Rest” is a love song, anyway.

“She’s got a boyfriend anyway”

Still, I'm thinking about getting a poster of the lead singer with no shirt on for my rock room. I’m a 13 year old girl who loves music. So, fuck you, skinny jeans.

Vanishing Kids- Spirit Visions (2013)

By SoDak

http://vanishingkids.bandcamp.com/

Many years ago, Jimmy (Explosive Diarrhea) B introduced me to the Vanishing Kids. He shared their record, Skies in Your Eyes. I was immediately fascinated by this band, given the strong 1980s new wave influence. They captured the dark, moody sound on the early albums by The Cure, as well as the twisted conceptions embodied by Siouxsie and the Banshees. They made songs that were both unsettling and comforting. Listening to the record made me feel like I was discovering a missing gem by bands I loved. Of course, it is necessary to note that Vanishing Kids are not a band dwelling in the past. There influences are evident, but the band makes music that is modern and refreshing.

Last fall, Jimmy mailed me Vanishing Kids most recent album, Spirit Visions. I was thrilled to listen to their fourth full-length record. The compact disc lived in my car most of the winter and spring. Each morning and evening, I listened to a few songs, during my commute to work and back home. I digested the record in small portions, a few songs each day. My engagement with the music varied depending on the weather, traffic, and work. In the morning, as the inversion in Salt Lake City, settled into the valley, choking the population below, the song “Fire Dances” set the mood. The guitar was haunting and the drums swirled in my head preparing me for the day. Nik Nadz vocals are reminiscent of Siouxsie Sioux, but in a more controlled way. From time to time, her vocals mesh with the climbing guitar notes, sending chills down my spine. Jason Hartman’s guitar playing is captivating. He creates a drifting, hypnotic sounds on many songs. On “The Unlit Path,” he produces a clash of intense, angular sounds that build and threaten to explode as the song progresses. At times, the guitar parts in this song remind me of the chaotic, fast, jazzy parts found on Victims Family records, even though the bands are very different from each other. After work, I always welcomed the song, “Temporary Material.” All of the gentle and intense aspects of the band are represented here. The ethereal guitar part leads to heavy, loud volatile moments. The drums propel the song forward. The quirky changes and vocals throughout the album demand attention. Often, I was not sure quite where a song was going to go, even after many times listening to the record.

Spirit Visions helped sustain me during several stressful months at work. In the morning and evening, I entered the strange world they create with their songs. While I love the obvious influences that are represented, I am especially pleased by how Vanishing Kids manage to create unique songs that captivate my imagination.

It is my understanding that Vanishing Kids are currently writing new music. Give them a listen and your support.

The Naked and Famous

In Rolling Waves (Fiction, 2013)

Passive You, Aggressive Me (Somewhat Damaged, 2010)

This Machine / No Light EPs (Trip Mars. 2008)

Passive You, Aggressive Me B-sides (Somewhat Damaged, 2013)

Reviewed by Null

            I had to write a review of this band because they have invaded my consciousness. A few months ago, my lover/partner of 20 years, approached me to make me listen to a song she had heard on the college radio station in our town. She has a weakness for female-fronted indie bands—as long as they have a catchy riff and heavy beat that makes her feel like she is “being fucked by music.” Upon listening to the track, I understood the attraction to the music. It was romantic, youthful, and filled with a weary enthusiasm of life and unwavering hope. However, the music had an emotional intensity that resonated deeper than your average indie pop combo; it exuded the Whitman motto, “Carpe diem.” The song was called, “Young Blood” from their 2010 album Passive Me, Aggressive You, and it begins with an infectious beat and an angelic female voice singing, “We're only young and naive still / We require certain skills / The mood it changes like the wind / Hard to control when it begins.” As a manic-depressive romantic, I immediately felt a pang in my chest. I thought, well, so it is another indie band with a great single but the album is probably rubbish.

            As I knew my partner was basically playing the song for me to induce me to get the record for her, I picked up the record the next day. I threw it in the CD player as I pulled out of the parking lot. I figured I would give it a listen. I didn’t even tell my partner that I had purchased the CD for her until 3 days later, as I refused to give it up. 

            When I finally gave the CD to her, I told her it was great and immediately bought their latest album, In Rolling Waves. It, too, was excellent. Rarely, even with my favorite bands, am I smitten upon a first listening. It takes me time to acclimate. However, The Naked and Famous hooked me after only the first 2 or 3 minutes. The band preyed on a list on my weaknesses. Though I tend toward darker themes in music, such as, socially conscious punk rock and world weary songwriters, I have always had a weakness for male/female fronted bands that sing break up songs—combine this with sweet synths and 80’s stylings and I am doomed. The Naked and Famous fulfill these criteria, and then some. Once you moved beyond the obvious hits, the band has much more to offer. Their music is a tapestry of rich textures and glorious harmonies.

They are a five-piece band originally from New Zealand. They recently moved to Los Angeles to further their musical endeavors, which, honestly, seems like a mistake. As previously mentioned, they have male and female lead vocalists that often sing together or sometimes alone, depending on the track. They use many synths and keyboards that are weaved together with analog instruments, like distorted guitar, bass, and drums. One of things I love about the band is that they seem to serve the song. If the song requires a dreamy synth to reach perfection then they follow that line of thinking. If the song needs a fast beat and distorted guitars to reach perfection, consider it done. They are masters of the pop hook and often combine these into vocalized hypnotic meditations. They are dreamy and capable of creating walls of guitar distortion backed by beautiful melodies and big beats. In this way, they are akin to the beautiful blistering sonics and dynamics of The Joy Formidable with an added electronic element.

Simply put, the Naked and Famous are pop geniuses. They are at once, visceral and cerebral. Just when you think they couldn’t possibly add another swooning hook to an already angelic song, they do just that. They are unstoppable. They are the greatest 80s band that weren’t around then. It’s like The Human League had children, except that they don’t really sound like them. They’re kinda like M83 but a million times better—more rock. Somehow they weave the best elements of dance, electronica, shoegazing guitar chaos, and gorgeous thoughtful melodies into one package. What do they sound like? They are life affirming. Are they a dance band? A little bit. Are they a pop band? Yes. Are they a rock band? Yes. Do they make beautiful contemporary music? Definitely. Trust me; they stand out from their contemporaries.

They have had some pretty big indie hits. “Young Blood,” “Punching a Dream,” and “Hearts Like Ours” have garnished a lot of college radio airplay. They have appeared on many late night shows. They have had some of these songs appear on TV shows and I think they have a song on a commercial. This is all very disheartening to me, but the albums are so good that I overlook these disappointments because, at this point, I don’t think I could live without this band. I have drunk the Kool-Aid and I savored every drop. Sure, I can see this band being eaten up by sorority girls and boys all over the country, but who gives a shit? A great band is a great band. I was also initially worried because the band looked too clean. They could be one of the most hygienic bands I have ever seen, which make their occasional use of the word “fuck” that much more effective. I watched a few interviews with the band and regardless of all the media attention, they don’t seem like media whores like many of their contemporaries and they seem really down to earth and humble. They are a bunch of beautiful young people in the prime of their lives. Turn it up. “Sing like no one is listening, love like you’ve never been hurt, dance like nobody's watching, and live like it’s heaven on earth.”―Mark Twain

On a side note, the problem with electronic instruments is that they tend to alienate the listener, in my opinion, due to their inorganic nature. However, there are a few artists that use electronic instrumentation and somehow make them sound human and organic. Bjork comes to mind. The Naked and Famous also imply this technique effectively. Though there are many electronic instruments—the music still feels warm and organic. The lyrical content seems to revolve around love and life. They sometimes slip into dark, quit corners and the issues of loss and heartache are not absent. Passive You, Aggressive Me is a little more upbeat, while In Rolling Waves tends to be a little more ethereal and dreamy. If you check this band out and they move you, be sure to not miss the two EPs from 2008, This Machine and No Light, as well as the Passive You, Aggressive Me B-sides, that are, unfortunately, only available digitally, (I reluctantly downloaded them from iTunes). Don’t miss these because the B-side “Sow” is not to be without.

I won’t get into the lyrics or go through the albums track by track. Give them a listen. You will either disregard them as another pop confection that you have no interest in or you will immediately get sucked in and be singing these songs all summer. They may make you want to go for a walk at midnight, make out with your lover, or climb a mountain and go cliff diving.

My partner and I recently saw them in concert at the Boulder Theater here in Colorado. As I suspected, they were great. When the music ended I felt like they were just getting started. I wanted them to play every song. If you get into this band, you will understand. If I ever lose my drive to live, dance, and celebrate, put an icepick in my head. 

Boarders and horizon lines

We’re alone but side by side,

We’re yet to dream,

We’re yet to dream,

Nothing here is what it seems…

Half awake and almost dead,

Keeping empty beds elsewhere,

We’re yet to bleed,

We’re yet to bleed,

All the time and energy.

In silence…

Take me to the edge of night,

Till the dawn,

The end of time,

Till the fire blazing light,

Shines again within our eyes.

—From “Hearts Like Ours”

Yep. I’ll stop aching when I’m dead. This band is too good to be a guilty pleasure.

The Menzingers, On The Impossible Past (Epitaph 2012)

By Null

It almost seems redundant to write a review of The Menzingers’ On the Impossible Past record because it received many rave reviews upon its release a few years ago. However, it has resonated so deeply with me that I felt a review was in order. I also felt I should write a review because this album has returned me to a time before MP3s, iTunes, and the death of the long play album and record stores in general. This is because the process through which I acquired the album, and fell in love with it, harkens back to the old days.

Sometimes it is good to take a chance on an album that you know nothing about. I would often do this when my town had an independent record store. If I saw an intriguing album cover, I would just pick it up and take a chance. I have found some of my favorite albums this way.

The first thing that drew me to this record was the cover. The back-and-white image of a faceless woman with her hand on her heart seemed intriguing enough and the focal point of the picture is a mysterious ring—of a lost love, a fading love, or a lifetime companion that has weathered the hardships of life and loss.

I saw the album was released on Epitaph records, which made me hesitate. True, Epitaph has been the home of Bad Religion, one of my life-long favorite bands, but the ongoing problem with Epitaph, as with Fat Wreck Chords, is that all their albums tend to sound the same, with few exceptions. They tend to have the same production and “Southern California punk” sound. In many ways, I think these labels have contributed to the homogeneous sound of punk these days. The punk scene used to be very diverse and on many small labels I am sure it still is.

So, I took a chance and brought the record home. Upon listening to the first half of the album, I heard a production that was very familiar, and to be honest, pretty boring. The album contained the motifs and punk-pop structures that have been played into the ground. Yet, I had to admit that there was something different happening here. The slick California punk sound was evident, but this album has a more raw and salt of the earth feel. Another contributing factor was that the vocals had a very “wearing your heart on your sleeve” delivery, more akin to Gaslight Anthem or Springsteen. The album also had a literary feel. These guys were storytellers. And they are from the East Coast, not California.

            After listening to the second half of the record, I immediately started it over and listened again. This continued for about the next five days and the album bloomed like a fucking lotus of heartache, nostalgia, and loss. This is what leads me back to the old days. When I was a kid, I would get a cassette tape with my allowance, and listen to it over and over again. Some of these cassettes were great and some not so much. Regardless, the tape would sit in my car’s cassette player for days or weeks. Some of my most loved records were “growers,” and this is definitely the case with On the Impossible Past. The brilliance of the record only becomes evident when taken as a whole.

            If one were to hear a song from this album in isolation, it probably wouldn’t make much of an impact, which brings us back to the lost art of appreciating an album as a complete story, like a book. As the days went by, I started to hear the emotional wail of such beloved bands like Seaweed, the urgency of the vocal delivery found on Superchunk records, and the deep literary storytelling found in Springsteen. As a sentimental literature geek, this album began to resonate deep under my skin. Yes, it is filled with guitar-pop hooks and heartbreaking sing-a-long choruses but, unlike when I first listened to the record, it now all sounded like an old familiar friend.

            The lyrics began to sink in and my literary analysis was put on high alert. The album begins with, “I’ve been having a horrible time pulling myself together.” This sets the tone for the entire album, which is a meditation on life and loss. Its literary implications and tradition rock / punk structure are overt in the second track, as the formula for the album is laid bare, “Here’s to you, the same chords that I stole / From a song that I once heard / The same melody I borrowed from the void / I’d rather observe than structure a narrative / the characters are thin, the plot does not develop / It ends where it begins.” This is a synopsis of the entire record to follow. Except the characters aren’t thin—they are filled with complex and contradictory implications in an impossible situation. Such is life.

            It is said that the more specific something is, the more universal it becomes. This is definitely the case with this record. What follows are stories of specific times, people, and places weaved into catchy and heartfelt tales of times gone by, never to return. It is a sentimental and nostalgic journey, and it is one that anyone with any awareness of the passing of time can relate to. It somberly accepts loss while defiantly fighting against fading memories. It embraces the present while being haunted by romantic and vivid images of the past. The distinction between the past and the present becomes foggy.

“I’ve cursed my lonely memory with picture perfect imagery / maybe I’m not dying I’m just living in decaying cities.”

            The urgency of the present is often made explicit by the fading of the past, as each day counts down to our inevitable end. Painful or joyous memories can grip your throat at any unexpected moment.

“It’s like I’ve landed in the rubble of my past life and…never…bought a return flight, from the shame, the fear, the guilt that’s tough to mention, the kind that always pries your eyelids open.”

We are haunted by the people we have loved, who are no longer with us. Everything is fleeting like the pain of remembering the pitter-patter of young love.

“You’ll carve your names into the Paupack cliffs just to read them when you get old enough to know that happiness is just a moment.”

Fuck. This album is beautiful.

“Now I’m older and tired.”

            Music is one of those art forms that can have an immediate emotional impact. The dynamics between the often melancholic / celebratory mood of this record and the somber and sentimental reality of the lyrics make for an infectious mix that mirror the workings of my everyday experience and thought processes. I’m afraid to stay up and drink into the wee-wee hours while listening to this record because the cops might pick me up drunk, crying, naked, and dancing in the street, while the stereo is blaring this album through my open windows at 1:00 AM. It could happen. The sound is so youthful and at the same time so world weary. Like me.

            The record mourns the present meaninglessness of life while waxing nostalgic for lost friends and simpler times, “You were an old friend, the kind I could confide in and drink with, on random neighborhood porch steps, our glossy eyes painted portraits of the streets.’ Yet, as time goes by, “everything I do now is meaningless,” under, “the great pessimistic unknown.”

            The song, “Casey” is particularly touching, as the vocalist sings about meeting up and wondering the streets with his old friend after her shift waiting tables, “I sat and thought about you on the long ride back to Philly, from the way you’d wear your hair to the way you’d laugh when you drank too much.” A simple story of friends hanging out descends into desperation and the longing for escape, “So, Casey, tell me when you’re ready I’m all packed to go. To search for that old place we found forever ago….” It is heartbreaking because we don’t know what happened to Casey; we just get the sense that she is absolutely inaccessible.

For old sentimental romantics, like me, this shit is great, especially when the drums are getting pounded in unison with the melodic guitars as the desperation takes hold.

At first, the album seemed apolitical. It was just a brilliant meditation on being haunted by enviable loss. But then, with further listens, I realized that there is a backdrop for this personal pain and longing, a greater context and subtext. It is the myth of the American Dream that is lost in its infancy. There is a subtle but repeated motif of an “American muscle car” throughout the album. Though I have already quoted the opening lyrics to the album, the first track goes on to state, “…we would take rides in your American muscle car, I felt American for once in my life and I never felt it again.” The search for some sort of national belonging is lost before it even begins.

            This motif is revisited in a short vignette, “On the Impossible Past.” It also leads into the following song, “Nice Things.” In the short vignette, of the former song, the vocalist tells of him and his friends riding in the “American muscle car” while dreaming of “nice things.” They are sharing smokes and drinking, which results in the car sliding off the road and into a ditch. This song only makes sense when related to the song “Nice Things,” which directly follows it. “Nice Things” is reminiscent of Fugazi’s “Merchandise” from the album Repeater, in that, our identities become inseparable from the commodities we buy. Fugazi’s indictment of consumerism is direct and severe, while The Menzingers’ is much more subtle. We find that the “nice things” the kids were dreaming about in their “American muscle car” equates to objects, riches, etc.—the world could be falling apart but if you are surrounded by “nice things,” you are somehow safe from the realities of the outside world. As in, “Nice Things,” The Menzingers sing, “Do you want nice things? Sure you do. Do you call nice things your own? Do you want them? Do you want to feel safe?” The juxtaposition between the kids in the car dreaming about “nice things” exists in stark contrast to their reality of drinking and driving and ending up in the ditch. This is the reality of the American Dream. A million dollar house will not keep you safe or shelter you from the inevitable passing of time. Marx knew it. Fugazi knew it. And The Menzingers restate it in a much more subtle fashion, thus creating a backdrop and context for the further meditation on life and loss.

As I previously quoted from the beginning of the record, “the plot does not develop, it ends where it begins,” we find the last song mirrors the beginning. The album ends with a mid-tempo melancholy track with a constant rumble of floor toms like a slow palpitating broken heart called “Freedom Bridge,” which details individuals that have fallen between the cracks or succumbed to living with faded dreams and the fumes of memory. The last verse details the “freedom” that the bridge provides:

“Now we’re standing on the ledge /and we’re looking at the ground / I feel my body breaking on the asphalt, hear the sound / Red and blue lights, saying, / “Step up off that ledge” / So we wrap our hearts up in our heads / and take the fall instead”

Fucking amazing.

I was explaining all this to fellow reviewer, SoDak, on the phone. I was going on about the torture of our impenetrable and inaccessible haunting memory and loss. He said, “Well, it is called On the Impossible Past.”  It was at that moment that I knew it was a work of utter American rock ‘n’ roll genius.

I realize I have made this album feel like a somber affair. Though it is filled with world weary heartache throughout, it is also filled with hope and youthful energy. I will be blasting On the Impossible Past all summer in my car. It will be too poppy for many of you, but given time it will reveal itself as great literature. I suggest you put the cassette player back in your car. Buy this album on cassette and leave it in all summer, until it breaks, as everything, in time, does.