With today being the annual family free gathering of unrelated adults (plus two underprivileged youths and some rescue dogs from the neighborhood) known colloquially as “Friendsgiving,” I thought it only appropriate to stop in and give thanks for some good music. Unfortunately, almost none of it is from this year. (This is becoming a frustrating trend of late — as I begin to contemplate what will make my annual year end review, the number of winners so far can barely fill a sedan. (Sorta like today’s gathering!)) Thankfully there’s plenty of goodness in our not too distant past, as a few recent anniversaries remind us. There’s four in particular worth noting, each hailing from the 90s — that halcyon time when carpenter jeans, bajas, and backwards ballcaps were signatures of style. (Particularly when worn at the same time.)
We’ll start with the seniors and respect our most elder, the 25th anniversary of Veruca Salt’s debut, American Thighs. AV Club does a nice job walking through the recording of the album and the almost instant backlash to its ubiquity. As a pimply-faced kid walking around Chicago when it came out I remember both vividly — its lead single “Seether” was EVERYWHERE back home and the snarkiness referenced in the article was almost equally prevalent, sorting kids in school into either the “passionately for” or “passionately against” camp. (Which, it being high school, was a neverending pasttime — “pizza?” — passionately for. “Becky?” — passionately against. “Becky’s pizza?” — passionately for how against it I am.) Truth be told, this is one I mostly left behind with my bajas and ballcaps over the years (I will NEVER stop wearing carpenter pants!!!), but going back and listening to it again makes me reconsider those decisions.
The album sounds great — the guitars are sharp and twice as loud, in contrast to some of the grungy, muddy tones prevalent on so many albums at the time, and the hooks are big and meaty. What really stands out, though (and what I’d forgotten worked so well) were the harmonies between singers Louise Post and Nina Gordon. Sprinkled throughout most of the songs, they’re a pitch perfect complement to each other and really balance the enormous guitars well. (They were also an element that got copied over and over by other bands through the remainder of the decade, though rarely as effectively.) Aside from rediscovering some old favorites while reading the article, what’s remarkable is learning that the band had about as much experience musically at the time as I did, with a whopping four or five gigs behind them before being signed and pushed into the studio to record the album. It just reminds you of the batshit crazy feeding frenzy that Nirvana and Pearl Jam had created at the time, with everyone scrambling to find more “grunge” bands and the next quintuple platinum megastar. These guys were never able to match the heights of their debut (unsurprisingly), but it remains a pretty perfect time capsule to the era it was created in. So throw on your drug rug, twist those ballcaps, and pop on “Victrola,” one of the many sing-song sweet delicacies within.
We’ll fast forward a bit to the 20th anniversary of Fiona Apple’s second album, the still ridiculously titled “When the Pawn…” Stereogum does a nice job recounting the history of both Apple’s debut and its much awaited follow on, which for some people was never as good a story as Apple herself or that intentionally pretentious title. That’s unfortunate, because as the article lays out Apple delivered a near perfect album, one that still sounds great two decades on. This was a favorite of undergrad era Sunshine, listening to Apple’s seething anger as he sat in his dorm room, as stunned by its intensity as its juxtaposition with such lovely melodies. Apple was routinely taken apart in the media for being self-important or belligerent, but rarely lauded for being as fearless as she was.
This is an incredibly honest album, with both her rage and her nakedness being relative rarities amongst artists, let alone in such quantities after such a gigantic debut. The far safer path would have been to chase the sound of “Criminal” and tone down her prickliness, but Apple did neither, creating an album that signaled its non-conformity before a note was even played, dropping that infamous 90 word title like an anvil on an egg. It’s a great listen — as uncomfortable as her unbridled anger can be at times, it never feels artificial or insincere. Tracks like “To Your Love” and “Limp” are withering in their assault, while the closing duo of “Get Gone and “I Know” are quiet devastators. (Both of the latter two made appearances on Sunshine mixtapes back in the day, though likely never to as appreciating ears as my own. (Stupid, Becky and her “we’re just friends” mantra…) It’s one I’ll admit I don’t go back to as much as I used to (or should), but that’s no indication of its decline. (Just my poor judgment and continued inadequacy.) Be better than Bobby and go back yourself, starting with one of those velvet sledgehammers, “I Know,” here:
We’ll stay with the 20 year olds (not a creepy thing for someone in their 40s to say…) and go back to the rock realm for the next two, the first one mirroring the sound of Veruca, the second sharing the rage of Fiona, and both being divisive “love em or hate em” entries like the aforementioned were. We’ll start with the former and the 20th anniversary of the Stone Temple Pilots’ aptly named fourth album, “No. 4.” Stereogum again does a great job walking you through the album and the band, highlighting both their polarizing nature and (similar to Apple) how that might be unfair, causing folks to overlook a really quality artist/album. Now STP will never be accused of soul-baring lyrics or righteous indignation like Fiona — they are much more in the traditional rock lane of blissful thrashing and throbbing sexuality — but that doesn’t mean their music was insincere or without value. True, they erupted with the same velocity and intensity as Veruca with their 1992 debut Core and they faced similar backlash for their seeming lack of pedigree. (As the article notes, these guys always get knocked as copycats and/or hacks that hadn’t paid their dues, perfecting their craft through years on the road.)
In contrast, though, they not only got better after their “manufactured” debut (their 1994 follow up Purple is damn near perfect), they experimented with new sounds (particularly on their quirky third album, Tiny Music…) and lasted a whole lot longer than a bunch of their competitors (their four albums in seven years were all pretty solid, despite the near-constant criticism). They also had one of the great rock frontmen, both in voice and antics, the departed Scott Weiland. His persistent drug addictions and that cacophony of critiques made for a ton of copy, but it largely overshadowed what really mattered — STP was never a band that was going to crack you open emotionally or reveal nuanced layers to your soul. They never claimed to be. What they would do, however, was give you dozens of reasons to crank up the volume and rock out. And there’s nothing wrong with that — for every nutritious vegetable and brain-friendly salmon there needs to be guilty pleasures. Sometimes I want Brussels sprouts, and sometimes I want cake. For breakfast. So fuck off. It’s worth going back and listening to these guys through that prism — not just on this album (though it is as good in retrospect as the author argues), but particularly on things like Purple. (I still play “Army Ants” at maximum volume and go ripshit after the drums at the end.) From this one the bookends were great — opening “Down” was a classic throwdown, while the quieter closer “Atlanta” was always a favorite — with plenty of treats in between. The soaring “Glide” is but one example — give it a listen here:
We’ll close with an all-time fave and the owners of the most exciting news of the week, Rage Against the Machine. Not only did their third album Battle of Los Angeles just turn 20, but the band announced on the anniversary they were reuniting for a tour next year (their first in over eight years) that I will most eagerly look to attend. Stereogum again sets the table for us, talking us through the album and its impact, but this is one I’ve kept in rotation ever since it came out so don’t need any reminder (other than I’m O.A.F., something this entire post has relentlessly reiterated). That’s not simply because this album still slams (the ominous snarl on the opening “Testify” is the perfect scenesetter, one that immediately gets your head nodding and lets you know you’re in for a hell of a workout), but mostly because this band is one whose absence I’ve missed more than any others in recent years. Twice now, for prolonged periods, I have found myself thinking how inexplicable it was that this band — above all others — had not reunited. First during the Bush years and then especially during these current ones, I’d find myself watching the news thinking “how the hell does Zack not have something to say about this nonsense?!”
As mentioned before, these guys among all their other postmates, are as polarizing an act as you can find. I’ve never fully agreed with (or understood, frankly) some of his politics, but that never really mattered — part of this band’s allure was how evocative they were and how effectively they harnessed their titular rage. You don’t need to know what a fistagon is or agree with his thoughts on poverty, police, or immigration to enjoy the utter, primal release of tracks like “Bullet in the Head” or shouting “Fuck you, I won’t do what you tell me” at the top of your lungs. If anyone should soundtrack as tumultuous and upsetting a time as our recent history, it was these guys. And yet minus a throwaway single or two, Zack has been a total ghost since the band’s last release. (2000’s cover album, Renegades.) Maybe that’ll change once they get back together next year and some of that old magic (and current insanity) will inspire them to record some new tunes. If not we’ll still have their near-perfect catalog to keep us company, including this one, whose unabashed gems (“Sleep Now in the Fire,” “Guerrilla Radio,” the aforementioned opener) ride alongside underappreciated winners like “Maria,” “Born as Ghosts,” and “Ashes in the Fall.” I can’t wait to see em all come to life again in person — in the meantime, listen to another fave, “New Millennium Homes,” here (the joy of repeatedly shouting the menacing “A fire in the master’s house is set!” line really can’t be overstated):
We’ll throw three new ones in for good measure, just to prove all is not lost in the modern world. First comes the lead single from that dog., a band whose last album came out…………in the 90s. (sigh) Sporting similar sing-song vocals as Veruca, they’re back with their first album in 22 years and the lead single’s a good one — “If You Just Didn’t Do It.” Give it a listen here:
Next comes the latest from Canadian punks PUP, whose recent album Morbid Stuff hasn’t really wowed me, but has a couple catchy tunes again. Case in point “See You at Your Funeral,” which is almost as winning an FU as the lead single from their last album, which gleefully sang “if this tour doesn’t kill you, I will.” Check out their latest here:
Last up comes the latest from the Shins and this Hawaii inspired ditty, “Waimanalo (Fug Yep).” Not sure what inspired the song (other than a gallon of tiki drinks and a bag of Pineapple Express), but it’s an enjoyable romp in the sun. Give it a spin here:
That’s it, my friends — suffice it to say, I’m thankful for the eight of you, too.
— BS