Tag: #rage

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The Other Half of the Glass — More Filings From The Fifty Fifty Club

Continuing the theme from the previous post — and frankly the bulk of the year, for that matter — I thought it was time to share some more songs from the hit and miss roller coaster we’ve been on and ride into the weekend with a few more songs under our belts. For whatever reason the overarching pattern of this year has seemed to be moments of excellence and joy quickly tempered by those of mediocrity and frustration. (Some might merely call this “life” or “adulthood,” but I suspect an international conspiracy I’ve not yet managed to unravel instead — STAY TUNED for groundbreaking developments as I manage to unearth them…)

It’s held in everything from my professional and personal lives (relentless ridiculousness at work countered by momentary innovations and wins, an ongoing bounty of delights in my beloved city by the lake juxtaposed with COVID decimation and myriad other maladies) to my musical meanderings and most things in between. It’s been so pervasive it applies both between and within these categories — lousy day at work balanced by an amazing show or meal that night. Hellacious week shadowed by a heavenly weekend. Crummy song/album or two quickly followed by a couple winners. It’s been like this the entire year, with the past few weeks being perfect examples. Increasingly atrocious work weeks attacked afterwards by some amazing off hours adventures — shows by Jeselnik, Bargatze, and the Hives, along with a visit from one of my favorite humans. Outstanding show by MMJ last night preceding what will almost certainly be the worst work week yet.

The music by and large has been mostly the same — we highlighted a handful of examples last post from some long-time favorites and I’ve found several more since, each testing the old adage of whether the glass is half full or half empty. As always I strive to focus on the former (am I not Bobby Sunshine?) and we’ll keep those efforts up here with seven sets of selections to super-size your weekend. We’ll start with the ones that test that adage the most before sliding into those more obviously overflowing examples, with the first being another pair of underwhelming albums from old faves.

The first comes from Parquet Courts frontman Andrew Savage who recently released his second solo album, Several Songs about Fire. It’s been two years since his last Courts album (2021’s Sympathy for Life, which landed at #14 on my year end list) and close to six since his solo debut (2017’s Thawing Dawn) and unfortunately this one mirrors more of the latter than the former.

Savage and his band are always an eclectic (and often amazing) listen — there’s the more straight ahead punk/indie songs of the flagship entity and the noisier, more experimental work of their alter ego Parkay Quarts, while his solo effort showed a more subtle, at times country vibe that added an interesting element to their/his repertoire. He leans into the latter here, giving just a couple tracks whose pace surpasses a lazy lope, and those end up being the ones that work best. Too often tracks meander without ever taking off (if these are songs about fire, they’re flicks on a lighter instead of sustained flames), but these two work really well. Check out “Elvis in the Army” and “David’s Dead” here:

 

Next comes the latest from NY/LA duo The Kills, back with their sixth album, God Games. It’s their first in nearly seven years (2017’s Ash and Ice) and unfortunately it deepens the slide begun there — that one had some solid tracks, but didn’t land on my year end list, breaking the streak of their previous three — yielding their most underwhelming album yet. For a duo known for its irresistible allure (they ooze cool, like my English aunt does gin fumes) and their taut marriage of slinky, slightly dangerous sounding songs, they’ve for some reason rendered the latter almost entirely impotent here. They’ve achieved this by largely stripping away half of their signature sound — Jamie Hince’s primal, fiery guitar — and instead given us an album of slower, at times almost sedated songs.

Similar to Savage’s the best tracks are the ones that most closely channel their “classic” sound. (I’m not looking to penalize artists for broadening their sound and trying something new. Not all experiments end up successes, though, and this unfortunately erases most of the things I love about this band.)  Allison Mosshart’s vocals still occasionally exude a sensuality that could stir the sensibilities of even the most steadfast of curmudgeons, but without the punctuation of Hince’s guitar (or a beat that rises above the resting heart rate of a blue whale) the songs mostly fall flat, hitting with the force of a spitball out of a soggy straw. Two in particular rise above, the opening “New York” and “103,” both of which are worth a listen. Give em a spin here:

 

We’ll start making the move to more solid footing with some mixed outings from some newcomers and a trio of former #Fridayfreshness champs from the sister site.  The first is the latest from Toronto band Zeus, back with their fourth album, Credo. It’s their first in nearly a decade (Classic Zeus came out in 2014) and as alluded to before it’s a mixed bag of an album.

The band has three different songwriters — multi-instrumentalists Neil Quin, Mike O’Brien, and Carlin Nicholson — and those disparate voices/influences lead to a somewhat incoherent feel as they bounce from style to style. There’s an 80s era Dire Straits and the Cars vibe to some tracks, while others have more modern echoes of bands like Cold War Kids and War on Drugs. None of those are bad on their own, it just prevents things from gelling quite as strongly overall — perhaps if there were a few less voices/styles vying for attention it would seem less jarring. That said there are still several solid tracks that’ve been getting stuck in my head and are worth sharing — here’s a mini EP with three of my faves: “Air I Walk,” Kickin’ up the Dust,” and “Candy:”

 

Next up comes Nashville’s Natural Child, back with their seventh album, Be M’guest. (Their last, self-titled album came out in 2020.) As I noted on the ‘Gram during their coronation, these guys mix rock, country, and blues styles in their songs and there’s everything from swampy ZZ Top and Skynyrd elements to flickers of forebears like Jimmy Buffet and Chuck Berry on the album. For some reason the variety coheres a bit better here than on Zeus’ album (maybe because the influences are cousins instead of mere cohabitants), but the Southern-inspired songs are my faves.

Tracks like the Skynyrd-flecked “Mexican Adderall” or the ZZ-esque “Check the Mirror”/”Lost and Found” are all great, with most of them showcasing some ripsh#$ little runs by guitarist Seth Murray that’re sure to get the pulse/fist pumping.  Don’t sleep on the one that won on the sister site either, “Tell Me I’m Wrong.”  A fun, light album good for getting you in a groove — give the tunes a taste here:

 

Speaking of ripsh#$ riffs — Boston’s Palehound. Otherwise known as frontwoman/guitarist Ellen Kempner, bassist Larz Brogan, and drummer Zoe Brecher, they’re the last of the former #freshness champs, back with their recently released fourth album, Eye on the Bat. (Their third, Black Friday, came out in 2019.) This one brings to mind 90s era acts like Liz Phair and Tracy Bonham with its confessional lyrics and toughness (alongside some of the aforementioned grungy guitars).

Kempner toggles between a delicate coo and a slightly more ferocious wail with her delivery and her guitar playing definitely throws off some sparks. (The rhythm section of Brogan and Brecher isn’t too shabby either…) I really dig some of the melodies, too — similar to the last two there’s a trio of faves to note here as well. Check out the killer triple play (which hit 2-3-4 on the album) of “Independence Day,” “The Clutch,” and the title track here:

 

We’ll close with another duo, this time a pair of Spots spillovers and new finds, the first of which is South Carolina’s SUSTO. Primarily the product of singer, songwriter, and multi-instrumentalist Justin Osborne (who’s since been backed by a medley of supporting musicians) the band is back with their fifth album, My Entire Life. They last released an album less than two years ago (2021’s Time in the Sun), but they’re back for more with another dozen songs here and it’s a mostly solid bunch.

This one kept coming on after I’d listen to other albums, constantly hitting me with one song or another, and after the fourth or fifth time I decided to see why the Spots was being so forceful with its recommendations. (Maybe this is part of that international conspiracy I mentioned at the top? — I’m adding it to the flow chart. We’ll get to the bottom of this yet!) Writ large this one’s got a nice feel good vibe that reminds me a bit of Mt Joy/Caamp/Oliver Hazard, and while sometimes things veer a bit too close towards Christian rock for my taste, there’s more than enough for secular heathens such as I to enjoy. Check out three of my faves — “Mt Caroline,” “Hyperbolic Jesus,” and “Cowboys” here:

 

Last but not least is another album full of good tunes, the self-titled fourth release from Athens, Georgia’s New Madrid. It’s a bit of an older album — it came out nearly two years ago — but similar to SUSTO’s it slipped in after listening to one of my other albums and immediately grabbed my ear. (Unlike the aforementioned this one only came on once, but that single listen was enough to drive me straight to the album and I’ve been obsessively listening to it ever since.)

It’s a really good album — it reminds me a bit of Vundabar and the Shins at times — and there are loads of good tunes filling its forty minutes. Opening “I Want It” and “Are You the Wind” have an effervescent energy and pace, while back half tracks like “I Tried to Wait” add some heft with its gonzo sax freakout and muscular riff. Three of many faves include “It’s OK (2 Cry),” “Queen for a Day,” and “Q&A” — give each of em a listen here:

 

We’ll close with some reading material, walking us through some recent anniversaries of some classic albums. First up is the 30 year (holy fu#$, how is that possible) anniversary of the Smashing Pumpkins’ monster breakthrough Siamese Dream. The article does a good job highlighting both the importance of the album, as well as the issues frontman Billy Corgan causes fans (then and now). He’s undeniably been the driving force behind the band since the beginning (although I’ll argue drummer Jimmy Chamberlin might be the most important), a fact that’s done almost as much damage as good, particularly in recent years — the right-wing conspiracy theories, marrying someone he himself joked seemed young enough to be his daughter (in his own wedding speech!), and just misunderstanding what made albums like this so special and beloved.

It wasn’t just how hard it rocked, it was how it balanced that with sweet, swirling subtler notes and sincere, vulnerable lyrics. (See Zeitgeist for what an album solely full of rawking Pumpkins sounds like.) For years I took it for granted how great this band was — Corgan went to the high school across town and the band was constantly on local radio before they blew up and dominated MTV — but albums like this remind you why they were never going to stay secret for long, the songs were simply too good. Take a listen to two of my faves, the thundering “Quiet” and the understated “Spaceboy” here:

 

Up next comes the other side of the coin and what should have been a monster band — NY’s The Rapture and the 20th anniversary of their masterful Echoes. The fact these guys didn’t become sustained superstars remains something of a headscratcher, though the article (as well as the fantastic Meet Me In The Bathroom, which is required reading for any fan of 00s indie music) do a good job giving a glimpse of why — bad timing of the album’s release, battling egos and oversized personalities, etc — which only makes it more unfortunate when you listen to this album.

This remains among my top five albums from that era and one of my overall faves — it still sizzles 20 years on, and that’s even if you ignore the irresistible juggernaut that is “House of Jealous Lovers.” (Which you can’t do, even for a silly hypothetical exercise — the track is that good.) Frontman Luke Jenner’s nasally, slightly deranged falsetto was the perfect foil to the rest of the band’s sledgehammer grooves — he’d draw you in on slower songs like “Open up Your Heart” and “Infatuation” and then soundtrack your screams as your brain broke down on jagged bangers like “The Coming of Spring” and “Heaven.” (He also stars in some of the funniest stories/has some of the best lines in Bathroom — yet another reason to read that fantastic book.)

The band mostly kept the groove going for their follow on Pieces Of The People We Love, but by the time they recorded their final album In the Grace of Your Love they were almost a completely different band — far more subdued and spiritual, with barely a glimpse of the punky dancefloor destroyers they used to be. (Still a good album — it landed at #8 on my 2011 list — just a completely different feel, like going to church Sunday morning instead of the club the night before.) Like I said, it still bums me out 20 years later, but we’ll always have this gem to hold onto — crank up the title track and the equally unstoppable “Sister Saviour” and remember why here:

 

Last but not least we’ll close the library with another 20th anniversary remembrance, this time for the beloved Kentucky quintet My Morning Jacket and their perennial classic It Still Moves. As the eight of you occasional readers are abundantly aware, this is one of my favorite bands — their albums often end up on my year end lists (their last two landed at #4 in 2021 and #10 the year before), I’ve ranked all their albums and even given a concentrated starter kit for which songs the uninitiated should listen to first. In short, I love them, and this album (as the article notes) remains the pinnacle for a great many fans. (Including me.)

I’ve enjoyed the odder, funkier moves they’ve made since (the outer space explorations of Jim (or Yim’s) cape era) as well as their frequent returns to the warm, pastoral elements so often in view here, but it’s this album’s masterful collection of the latter which remains the high point. Its songs remain a stalwart of the live shows, accounting for anywhere from 15-20% of their setlists even now, despite having released six studio albums since then. I had the distinct pleasure of seeing them perform the album in its entirety the other night and it was every bit as transcendent as it’s so often been over the past 20 years. (This is a band that knows how to nail mind-wreckingly uplifting live shows — they’re flat out one of the best performers out there — but even having seen them do it a dozen times or so over the years, this show was on a whole other level.) It’s almost impossible to pick a favorite, but here’s two I always come back to, the slowly building face melter “Run Thru” and the fall on the floor beauty “Steam Engine.” Give em (and then the entire album) a spin here:

 

Finally I’ll leave you with the speech from Tom Morello last weekend for Rage Against the Machine’s induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame. Morello was there on his own — not entirely unexpected for Zach to be absent (although he did induct Patti Smith in 2007), but I was somewhat surprised that Brad and Tim weren’t there. Nevertheless, the Rage guitarist delivered an outstanding speech, a call to arms every bit as undeniable as the band’s songs. If you aren’t moved to do something — start a band, run for office, protest (or stir up a SH#$load of trouble) — I don’t know what’s wrong with you. So do as the man says — crank up the Rage and go make this place something worth shouting about.

Until next time, amici… — BS

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Back in Time: Buds of Bobby, Old and New

The recent passing of DMX and a bunch of album anniversaries have had me roaming around with my rose-colored glasses on lately, meandering down memory lane to revisit the songs and my life at the time I first heard them. (Cuz what else am I going to do with my free time? I may have superpowers now that I’m vaccinated, but there still ain’t many options right now…) Since I know how much joy it brings you, figured I’d share some of both to fill up your weekend, really make this one for the history books.

In honor of Terry we’ll put it in reverse and go forwards to backwards, chronologically speaking, diving ever deeper into the annals of Sunshine lore with an increasingly excellent soundtrack to accompany us.  First up, then, is the recent 15-year anniversary of the Yeah Yeah Yeah’s second album, Show Your Bones. Released three years after their classic debut, Fever to Tell, the trio reportedly struggled mightily trying to decide what direction they wanted to go in for their follow-up, recording and scrapping several albums’ worth of material (and nearly breaking up) before settling on what became Bones.

Unfortunately for those of us who loved the raw, fiery sound of their debut and the preceding EP, it marked the last time you’d ever really see that band again (and even here, only in fleeting glimpses).  After this album, Nick Zinner’s flamethrowing guitar licks would be largely doused by buckets of safer, dancier fare. Drummer Brian Chase, whose wild, unhinged beats could previously send even the most resistant punks into a frenzied state (look no further than gems “Black Tongue,” “No No No,” and “Date With the Night” for easy examples) would recede further into the background, invoking all the danger of his accountant-like appearance on subsequent albums. And the bleeding heart of the band, frontwoman Karen O, whose untamed shrieks and psychotic energy represented one of the signatures of the band’s early sound became more and more subdued as they kept releasing material.

Not that this — or much of what followed, actually — was bad, mind you. Just that after you’ve seen what irresistible, life-altering feats bands like this are capable of, to see them do anything else is inherently going to be a let down. And so it is with Bones. You get your last tastes of that former band on tracks like “Way Out,” “Honeybear,” and “Mysteries” (which might be the best farewell to that old version of the band, with Zinner’s frenzied guitar throwing sparks next to O’s anguished wails and Chase’s galloping beat).  You also get acquainted with the band’s future on tracks like “Gold Lion,” “Phenomena,” “Cheated Hearts,” and “Turn Into,” which are at turns weirder and more straightforward than anything they’d done before.

It’s very much an album of a band in transition and for that reason never fully grabs you or brings you back. Those of us who love the early version of the band have our handful of tracks, those who prefer the later fare have their handful, but none of us are completely happy and none are going to come to this album to scratch their respective itches.  It’s textbook compromise (everybody loses!), but there’s still enough good stuff here to come back to now and again. For me it’ll always be for tracks like this one, the ripshit finale of the Yeahs v1.0, “Mysteries:”

Hopping back into the Delorean we’ll jump five years further into history to revisit the release of two fantastic debuts from artists on opposite sides of the sonic (and coolness) spectrum, yet two favorites of mine nonetheless — Pete Yorn and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club. The former is heartfelt and melodic pop, the latter is dark, noisy rock. One summons the brightness and warmth of sunshine and love, the other the cold, black of shadows and death.  One gets cracked on for being soft and overly earnest, the other for being inauthentic and insincere. Statements like the last ones prove my hypothesis that most people are mouth-breathing idiots with terrible taste, but will let you make up your own mind.

Yorn’s debut 20 years ago, Musicforthemorningafter, came packed with all the things that make it easy for people to nitpick — handsome, long-haired singer/songwriter bursts on the scene with a bunch of songs about busted hearts, booming hooks, and a TON of hype. He plays all the instruments on the album, which simultaneously impresses and chagrins, and he gives intimate performances that only enhance the effect, leaving onlookers gooey and snipers more steadfast in their snippiness.  Only once you tune out the latter (if you ever listened to them to begin with) you realize just how good these songs are. And how many of them there are! This isn’t a scraped together affair with one or two songs surrounded by a bunch of half-baked demos — this is the quintessential classic debut, bursting with material that’s been polished to a scalpel’s precision over several years of hustling and gigs, just waiting for that elusive record deal and the potential shot at stardom.

No, this is a swing for the fences shot that absolutely murders the ball, clearing the wall by a country mile. It’s fifteen songs (fifteen!) that almost ends better than it began — and it begins with “Life on a Chain,” which is about as catchy a song as most artists hope for once in their career, let alone as the first track on a debut with 15 songs. (Yorn immediately follows that up with songs like “Strange Condition,” “Murray,” and “Closet,” which are every bit as good, just to rub salt in those other artists’ wounds.) In between booming heart anthems like those (and “For Nancy (‘Cos it Already Is),” another fave) are softer, more stripped back gems like “Just Another,” “On Your Side,” “June,” and “Sleep Better.”

It’s these latter tracks that really sunk their hooks into me all those years ago, speaking to the love-addled (and acne-riddled) fool I was. Two in particular left me routinely flat on the floor, the perfect soundtracks to my unrequited mess of a love life (and the many mix CDs made to that end) — “Lose You” and “A Girl Like You.” Even today those two immediately take me back to that time, laying in my dorm room trying to find “The Perfect Song” to break through the wall(s) of indifference plaguing me with the opposite sex. Unfortunately neither track worked, but that’s not Yorn’s fault — they’re still beautiful songs on a fantastic album. Check out “Girl” here:

The other half of this 20/20 split comes from the opposite side of the country (sunny California to Yorn’s fabled New Jersey), which is only fitting because of how dissimilar these two albums and artists are, representing opposite ends of almost all spectrums, as mentioned before. If the former hit you in the heart, this one hit you in the gut. If the former spoke to some of the ache and desperation one had in the romantic world, this one spoke to the hope and aspiration one had in the regular world — to be this mysterious, this dangerous, this flat out COOL.

And man, was this ever those things. The sound, reminiscent of faves like Jesus & Mary Chain and the Velvets before them. The look, all darkened silhouettes and black leather jackets.  (Surrounded by swirls of smoke and blistering backlight on stage, further enhancing the effect.) Even the album cover was cool, looking a bit like the poster for some old film noir you might see in the early morning hours on TV. It was absolutely irresistible and borderline hypnotic — from the ominous opening strums of “Love Burns” you’re pulled in, waiting patiently for the beat to drop while the tension and danger build, and when it does it’s like being caught in the beam of one of those giant halogen lamps. You’re frozen in place, everything around you thrown into crystal clear relief, and you know trying to escape it will only invite more problems, so you stand transfixed, slowly simmering in its gaze while the album’s roar surrounds you.

That’s what it felt like then and what it still feels like now — this album just sizzles. From that opening track to successors like “Red Eyes and Tears,” “White Palms,” “As Sure as the Sun,” and “Spread Your Love,” the visceral mix of roaring guitars, bitter, almost threatening lyrics, and wave after wave of feedback almost literally fry your brain. Even more straightforward songs like “Whatever Happened (To My Rock and Roll)” cook (music about music is always a somewhat dicey proposition, but they, like JAMC, manage to pull it off effortlessly), while cooler, more subdued tracks like “Awake,” “Too Real,” “Head up High,” and “Salvation” provide the perfect counterbalance to the punishing rays.

I still remember stumbling onto these guys and immediately falling under their spell — you couldn’t tell if it was some long lost band surfacing again or some magic reincarnation of those older acts, but I loved it immediately and still do 20 years (and hundreds of listens) later. This album (and this act) remain one of my faves, even if they’ve lost some of their initial heat in recent years/outings. You can’t go wrong picking a highlight from this album, but this has always been one of my faves, particularly live, as they slowly build the menace and dread before destroying you at the end. Check out “Rifles” here:

We’ll take a brief pause in our time travel to note the passing of DMX again, whose death was a really unfortunate surprise last week. We’ll do so now because this is where X first burst onto the scene, chronologically — coming out of virtually nowhere 23 years ago to drop not one, but two huge albums in the same year (he remains the only rapper to have his first four albums debut at #1). From that point on he was virtually unavoidable for the next five years.

Fans knew from listening to his lyrics that he’d had a hard life (abuse, drugs, and prison were apparently just the tip of the iceberg, as described in these excellent homages) and unfortunately those demons increasingly got the better of him over the past few years. X had seemed primed for a potential comeback (and apparently has an all-star studded album recorded that we’ll maybe get to hear), so it was sad to learn that wasn’t in the cards.

I still remember the first time I heard him — it was at that hot mess of a festival Woodstock ’99 and I was somewhere back in the crowd, working my way to the front when this guy in orangish overalls EXPLODED onto the stage, growling, shouting, and exhorting the crowd, literally barking at us and telling us he couldn’t hear us/he was not playing.  I may have heard his songs before, since they were everywhere at this point, but this was the first time I HEARD them, taking note of who this guy was in no uncertain terms as he annihilated the crowd. I was in from the opening salvo, which as I noted on the ‘gram I think I still have burns from 20 years later when he melted our faces off.  Give that intro another watch or listen to its album version here (it remains one of rap’s best opening shots on album/stage), and tip your cap to the passing of one of rap’s greats…


Last stop on our magical mystery tour is for should-be Hall of Famers (honestly, how are these guys behind Todd Rundgren and Chaka Khan right now?!?) Rage Against the Machine, whose second album Evil Empire came out 25 years ago this week.  This band, and these two albums, perfectly framed my high school experience and my exposure to them both at the front and the back end centered around a guy named Mike. When Mike first introduced me to the band it was our freshman year and I remember him handing me their debut CD and saying “these guys are great.” I remember looking at the guy on the cover, engulfed in flames, and thinking “ooh man, that seems aggressive” and then being almost literally blown back by the titular rage that erupted from the speakers when I actually put the disc on. It was too much for me, at the time — WAY too much.

At that time young Sunshine was still basically a child, blissfully listening to softer, safer things, like Moms’ Breakfast with the Beatles on Saturdays or Pops’ Soul Sundays with Reverend Al, Brother Ray, Sam, and Otis. Luckily, anger hadn’t really come into his life yet then. Fast forward four years later, though, and booooooooooooy was he ready. By the time Rage came back with Empire, I was an angry senior, seething at the loss of my mom, pissed at having to be in school and deal with all the nonsense surrounding college (something I didn’t really give a sh#$ about at the time, with all the jockeying for acceptance letters from prestigious places to try and impress those around you — people whose opinions I couldn’t have cared less about), so when Mike came into electronics class with their new album and started playing it on repeat, I was ready.

It was the prototypical island of misfit toys in there — burnouts and truants just looking to get an easy credit, supernerds taking refuge from the ridicule outside while building strobe lights and computers, a rebellious teacher being punished for his actions by having to deal with miscreants like us until he could finally retire. All of us packed in this room under the stairs in the basement next to the boiler room, as perfect a setting as you could pick for a posse such as ours.

And into this midst came Mike, who since the band’s debut had gone from straight-laced, clean cut kid to borderline burnout himself, rocking Zack-like mini-dreads while smoking pot and skipping class. I can’t say the transformation was caused by the band (though I’m pretty sure the hair was, in retrospect), but I can say his playing this album non-stop for almost an entire semester caused one in me. I still didn’t really understand WHAT they were so mad about (racism and injustice, sure, but talk of Mumia, Chomsky, and five-sided fistagons went straight over my head), but how that anger made them feel — from Zack’s seething howls to Tom’s frantic scratching, Tim’s lurking bass lines, and Brad’s thunderous drumming — made total sense. That cacophony was the perfect complement to my anger and would become a long-running soundtrack to similar seething over the years.

And what a tremendous racket it was. Even coming through tinny console speakers in the classroom, it was undeniable. This was when the video for “Bulls on Parade” was CONSTANTLY on MTV and I remember how unsettling it was at the time with its footage of random militants (“were these guys really trying to start a revolution/overthrow the government?!”), but even more indelible were the images of the crowd from the band’s live performance that were stitched in between. I’d never seen anything like it before — not only the violence and intensity of their response, but how it seemingly affected the entire crowd, bouncing and rippling like a cohesive wave across the entire stadium. That was the first glimpse I’d get of it and thankfully it would not be my last. (I’d see them several times over the years, including at the aforementioned festival with X, and they remain the most explosive, incendiary thing I’ve ever seen live.)

Over the course of that semester everyone in class got to know the album’s songs, whether they wanted to or not — Mike loved “Vietnow” and “Tire Me,” particularly its Jackie O line at the end, and would play them back to back over the outcries of even the most soft-spoken nerds after a while. I was drawn to the lurching “Snakecharmer” and “Down Rodeo,” which pulled at me like a riptide. And the closing “Year of the Boomerang,” with its stop/start dynamics, was one of everyone’s faves. 25 years later I still don’t understand everything they’re referencing — or necessarily agree with it when I do — but I continue to be amazed at how powerful a band this was. As I’ve noted here before, they’re the band I’ve thought about most during our tumultuous recent political history — first during the Bush reign and then even moreso during the previous administration, which dialed things up to infinity — and still consider it a bit of a shame they were only around so briefly.

This album marked the halfway point in terms of releases — they’d only put out one more of original material before the final covers album (which bucked the phone-in signal those albums can send, as they picked deep, unexpected cuts and made them sound like their own) — before breaking up and never recording together again (that we know). Tom, Tim, and Brad kept going under the Audioslave and then the Prophets of Rage monikers, while Zack all but completely disappeared, only appearing on one or two singles since. I was hoping maybe the reunion tour that got scuttled thanks to COVID might spark some of the old magic and a desire to record again, but we’ll have to wait until next year to see if that dream comes true. In the meantime we’ll have gems like this to keep us going — just like it has for the past 25. Check out “Snakecharmer” again and rock out with the rest of the basement dwellers:

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Insta’ Replay —

We’ll close with some more highlights from the ‘gram, so we can add them to the ongoing Sunshine Radio stream (always available on the Spots and in the upper right corner of the page here):

    • Check out the Joe Strummer compilation, Assembly, which pulls the best selections from his post-Clash solo work. It’s an interesting listen – the fire of his former band is nowhere to be found, but you definitely hear the reggae elements that helped create such an iconic sound when paired with their punk attitude and energy. Start with this one, “Tony Adams:”

    • In honor of the Yorn/BRMC combo above, check out Burning Jacob’s Ladder who (like the former) plays all the instruments on his EP and (like the latter) “nails the sound of that band’s first two albums, all fuzzed guitar and darkened mood.” Check out “Dystopian Blues” here”

  • In honor of X and rap’s rougher side, check out Gravediggaz’s debut, “where RZA of Wutang fame cut his teeth and first played with some of the elements that made that group so legendary. There’s the gritty subject matter, the martial arts elements, the wild man rapper routine that would later be perfected by ODB.” There’s even samples that will sound familiar — check out “Nowhere to Run, Nowhere to Hide:”

  • And while we’re at it, just cuz I’ve had this song in my head a bunch lately, check out Kendrick Lamar’s “DNA:”
  • Give a listen to Finnish find Swires whose “frontman Allu Kettunen’s voice reminds me a bit of Alice In Chains and some of his riffs call to mind Machina-era Pumpkins (both good things).” Check out “Wait and Yearn” from their debut EP here:
  • Also check out Dean and the Dagumn Space Villains, who aside from an excellently ridiculous/old-timey name, also make some really pretty music. Check out “Caveman,” a straightforward little love song that knocks you out despite barely being sung above a whisper most of the time. Lovely stuff!

  • And last but not least check out New Orleans’ Yes Ma’am, a throwback band (like dust bowl old) whose high energy songs are sure to get you smiling (if not dosey doing) in your living room. Check out “Squishin’ Bees” here:

    That’s it for now — until next time, amici… –BS

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Anniversary Blend — Veruca and the Stone Apple Rage Machine

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