Song Spotlight: "If It's Bad News, It Can Wait" by Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate)

The arts of song composition and storytelling have been bedfellows about as long as humans have had spoken language. Just as the words we choose communicate the details of our narrative, so does the musicality of our language allow those details to stick in our minds and hearts. Rhyme, cadence, rhythm, and meter all play their roles in both speech and song, and it is hardly surprising to hear musicians use their instruments to reinforce these devices. Yet few other songs so perfectly intertwine tune and tale than “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” by Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate).

For You Will Eventually Be Forgotten, the parent record of this tune, lead singer Keith Latinen decided to “write [his] songs like short stories more than anything else,” and the lyrics of “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” completely reflect this. There is a distinct lack of rhyme, meter, repetition, or really anything that could define the piece as poetry. Keith instead focuses on the narrative, doing his utmost to give the listener a true and uncut account.

With “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait,” Keith tells us of a trip he took with friends during spring break of his senior year, when they were still “untethered and free and grown.” He and his hopeful friends, excited to be out on their own, revel in their new surroundings on Virginia Beach: “The boardwalk was teeming with youth / brashly claiming adulthood like it was the last day on earth.” Yet just as they are beginning to feel free and invincible, the trip is suddenly cut short by a late night phone call “when only bad things are on the other end,” informing Keith’s friend Danny that his brother has died. The group then packs up and heads home, making it back “just in time for the funeral.”

The musical backdrop for this story is just as vibrant and emotional as the text. Keith begins his tale just as the song launches, the whole of Empire! moving through a slow, melancholy groove spaced out over five measures. Jon Steinhoff’s drums stutter right before each gentle guitar chord is plucked, while Keith sets his memories to melody. This A-section is gentle and somber, soaked in a bittersweet nostalgia that is reflected in hopelessly intertwined guitars and booming bass notes.

Yet as the B-section blooms in our ears, so do the story and the emotion. The band picks up the energy and the excitement, bringing the song into a more major key. Keith’s vocals take on the tone of the invincible youth, only looking ahead. There is hope resting between the notes of the song, ringing in the cymbals and in the guitars’ strings, a hope that is suddenly squashed as the song returns to the A-section, louder this time, more insistent, before coming to an abrupt and jarring end just as the news of the death is passed onto us.

To my ears, the lyrics and instrumentation of “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” are not just connected, but wholly reliant on each other. Though the music is completely finalized before lyrics are even written, both are combed through by Keith with an extreme attention to detail. Every piece, played or penned, must prove its worth, because “if it’s not serving a purpose it needs to go.” Both the instruments and Keith’s mourning vocal are two inseparable parts of this tale, and a closer listening only accentuates this.

The opening A-section is tentative, expectant, just like the four boys looking forward to their trip. When the B-section arrives, laden with joy and energy, so do the friends reach their destination, delighting in their first foray into adulthood as they “[venture] out into the world.” The hope and enthusiasm of their youth peaks in this part, until the A-section returns, the energy now hectic and quickened, carrying back the weight of the worst news a person can receive. Both elements of the song are so fleeting and fickle, heavy reminders of the Keith’s theme that “anything can be taken away from you at any time.”

Between the emotional performances of the four musicians in Empire! Empire! and Keith’s haunting, dolorous tale of crushed youth, “If It’s Bad News, It Can Wait” is a tune that truly affects me with each listen. There is so much intention written into every facet of the song: not a millisecond has been left to chance, and every syllable is uttered with the weight of sincere truth. Empire! Empire! (I Was a Lonely Estate) brings the listener along with them on that car ride, imparting the real emotions of that experience without any pomp or frill, and I can only hope that someday my own creative endeavors might attain that level of sincerity.

A Tribe Called Quest - We Got It from Here...Thank You 4 Your Service

Maybe it’s because I found punk rock first, or because I had been surrounded by rock’n’roll since the cradle, but for a very long time, rap and hip hop made no sense to me whatsoever. I already had punk and hardcore to soundtrack my rebellious early teens, and the largely processed and synthetic instrumentation just didn’t connect with my sensibilities. To top it off, the radio was just dominated by hip hop in the early 2000’s, so I scoffed at the genre over and over, writing it off simply as the sound of selling out.

What a dumbass I was.

Only after college did I start to hear and feel hip hop’s intrinsic honesty and powerful influence. This knowledge soaked in very slowly, and really didn’t evolve to a true appreciation until a few months ago, when I saw A Tribe Called Quest dominate SNL’s stage. Within the first thirty seconds of “We the People,” I was completely enraptured by their soulful, aggressive, and wholly meaningful music, and I knew undoubtedly that I wanted more.

Hardly a week passed before I found myself a copy of ATCQ’s new record, We Got It from Here…Thank You 4 Your Service, and I think it’s fair to say that my head simply melted from the complexity and sincerity this act has pressed to tape. We Got It from Here features an array of sounds and styles so comprehensive that it plays like a best-of record, taking off with lightning fast vocals in “Space Program,” grooving gently through “Enough!!!,” and even rocking a reggae sound for “Black Spasmodic.” Add to this insanely varied palate a massive list of esteemed collaborators including Consequence, Busta Rhymes, Kanye West, and André 3000, and this album feels less like a collection of songs and more like a monument to the power of music.

Between the cast and the composition, We Got It from Here could have become a gigantic, overproduced, made-for-radio spectacle, yet one thing that really strikes me about this record is how real the production feels. Many of the songs are based around a traditional, boom bap acoustic drumbeat that is focused on groove rather than bass drops or awkward cuts. Much of the compositional work is also rooted in jazz, with songs like “Dis Generation” featuring complicated chord progressions as their foundations. This is only complemented by some incredible bass, guitar, and piano riffs, which include contributions from Jack White and Sir Elton John together on “Solid Wall of Sound.” Even the audio samples taken from films such as Dolemite and Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory further the feeling of this record being carved by hand rather than simply assembled on a Macbook.

There isn’t a single song on this record that doesn’t flaunt a distinctive instrumental sound, but in my opinion, none does so better than “Melatonin.” Atop some funky basswork and one of the coolest guitar licks I’ve ever heard, Q-Tip dominates vocal duties, his words riding a stilted rhythm that is as infectious as the beat beneath it. Q describes with vivid sincerity the feelings of anxiety that can plague the mind right before sleep, from the personal (“The sun is up, but I feel down again/ On just one hand, I can count all my friends”) to the political (“The world is crazy and I cannot sleep but… / I read the paper so that I can seewhat”). Yet the funk-driven track soon takes priority, evolving into a tight R&B piece featuring the soulful vocal stylings of Marsha Ambrosius and Abbey Smith. Like many of the songs on We Got It from Here, “Melatonin” refuses to remain static, instead blooming into a complex and beautiful composition along the way.

The effort and attention to detail in Q-Tip’s production is as present as any instrument on We Got It from Here, and since it was recorded in his home studio, he was able to apply his perfectionist lens to each piece, tweaking and tinkering truly until the last minute. Thus it is no surprise to see this intense intent applied to the lyrics as well. While the record covers a wide range of topics, one of the most present is that of the untimely passing of member Phife Dawg during recording. Though grief threatened to leave Q-Tip and Jarobi White as “two puddles of goo on the floor,” they soon rallied their strength and sought to celebrate their friend through music.

Both the closing track “The Donald” and “Lost Somebody” are written in memory of Phife, the former featuring one of his last recorded verses while the latter shows Q-Tip and White dealing with his passing. While White calls “Lost Somebody” “one of the hardest things I ever had to do,” the duo uses it to rejoice and honor their friend’s life with lines like “You and I, we never pretended /Rhymes we would write it out, hard times fight it out.” The remaining members of A Tribe Called Quest acknowledge Phife Dawg as an integral part in both their band and their lives, and thus use We Got It from Here…Thank You 4 Your Service (a title Phife suggested) to remember and revere him.

While much of the record is weighted by the deeply personal, the scope of the lyrical work on We Got It from Here extends far beyond Tribe’s circle. Q-Tip has stated that this record transcends each individual contributor, an idea plainly present in the many political lines these rappers deliver. “Who could be blind to racism?” Q-Tip asks in “Movin Backwards” before describing a scene that has been all too apparent these past few years: “Feds lining up in riot gear / and everybody’s hands in the air.” Similarly, the opening track “The Space Program” attacks the powers that be with lines like “They planning for our future / None of our people involved.” ATCQ constructs this elaborate and tight metaphor of space travel in the song, weaving the image of all the poor and non-whites being left behind, before poignantly tearing down the illusion with the decisive and repeated line: “Imagine if this shit was really talkin’ about space, dude.”

A Tribe Called Quest use their lyrics to conjure awareness in their listeners, capturing a true and strong snapshot of what it’s like to be African American in today’s America. While the entire record confronts this theme, no song does so with such candor and vitriol as “Killing Season.” Jarobi’s verse leaves no room for question as he confronts many African American caused by the police: “Need an abacus to tally / through all the peaks and valleys, yo, I recognize them sadly.” His lamentation of “these fruitful trees are rooted in bloody soil and torment / Things haven’t really changed, or they're dormant for the moment” pulls forward the idea of institutional racism that still creates barriers in our primarily white society. Yet instead of simply complaining about these conditions, A Tribe Called Quest uses songs like “Killing Season” to open “communication and real dialogue,” the weapons that will put an end to the violence and strife by destroying “the constructs that restrain you from being yourself.”

Front to back, We Got It from Here…Thank You 4 Your Service is a record loaded with intelligence, passion, emotion, and brutal honesty, and that alone makes it worth repeated listening. Whereas once I would have snorted in derision at hip-hop, I have truly been unable to put this album down. Between the heady lyrics and intricate production, I find in myself a newfound craving for hip-hop, to learn it, to listen to it, and to understand it. I now know that hip-hop has never had anything to prove to me—I’m the one who’s waited to step up to its level. And damn it, I’m very glad I finally have.

Tunes to Check Out:

1) Whateva Will Be

2) Melatonin

3) The Space Program

Green Day - Insomniac

As I try to peer into my increasingly-foggy youth, I realize that my very first introduction to punk music of any sort was via early Green Day. I was maybe ten years old, standing in the room of my friend’s older brother as he put on “Nice Guys Finish Last.” Just standing, just listening, just loving it. A few days later, I managed to borrow Nimrod and Dookie to burn my own copies, discs which have not worked for almost a decade now due to overplay. 

I knew I liked Green Day then, and I liked them A LOT. So years later, when I was finally old enough to purchase my own CDs and found myself browsing the “G” section at Walmart (undoubtedly on a fruitless search for more Goldfinger), I found the “Green Day” tag and sifted through the cases, pulling out an album of theirs that I hadn’t yet heard, one that would change entirely the way I thought about music: Insomniac. 

As their third full-length and second major-label release, no one would have been surprised to see Green Day repeat the successful, accessible sound of their previous record, but that is exactly what the band avoids on Insomniac. Tré Cool lays into every single drum beat with fervor and fury, driving the tunes at tempos that mainstream radio had never even approached before. Billie Joe Armstrong thrashes his guitar strings, his tone soaked in distortion. He completely ignores even the concept of a guitar lead, favoring simple and biting power chords—and so Mike Dirnt’s rumbling bass fills that void, running through bright yet brooding basslines in “Stuart & the Ave” and “Stuck with Me."

While there is no lack of the pop sensibility that endeared them to the world, Green Day focuses the sound of Insomniac through the infuriated energy of their punk rock roots. And yet, Insomniac remains the band’s darkest release, and shows them testing the limits of the genre in which they began. “Geek Stink Breath” and “Brain Stew” feature slow, chugging progressions drenched in distortion and low frequencies, adding a morbid depth to their historically pop sound. “Panic Song” takes off with an extended jam intro, Dirnt frantically strumming a single screaming note while Armstrong and Cool crash against each other for two full minutes before launching into the song proper. Even the cover art features a layer of the strange and sinister, an adaptation of a Winston Smith collage entitled “God Told Me to Skin You Alive.” 

Insomniac chronicles a step in Green Day’s evolution, the meat of which is contained in Billie Joe Armstrong’s lyrics. Billie Joe is no longer singing about getting stoned, masturbating, or dreaming of distant girls; “Geek Stink Breath” tackles the destructive results of his methamphetamine use, while “Brain Stew” furthers the horrid after-effects of one of those benders. Many songs feature a bleak self-reflection: Billie Joe labels himself as “my own worst friend / my own closest enemy” in the opener “Armatage Shanks,” while further ragging on himself in “Bab’s Uvula Who?” with the line: “I’ve got a knack for fucking everything up.” 

Green Day’s Insomniac was written during a confusing and violent life upheaval for the band, a paradigm shift from which their abrasive instrumentation and darker lyrics are bred. Their previous release Dookie, being both their major-label debut and a monster hit, had propelled the trio into stardom overnight, a veritable accident. And yet the fact that they had attained it, even through dumb luck, led to their expulsion from the DIY punk scene at 924 Gilman Street, which had been their home and family since their high school days. Suddenly, Green Day stood in the spotlight of the world, completely abandoned and derided by their once-musical peers.

This sudden disconnection from the reality of their lives is the main theme that they explore through Insomniac. Despite having changed literally nothing but their distributor, the band fell ass-backwards into fame and new fans, and so lost the support and credibility of their old fans. And rather than fawn to either side, Green Day wrote Insomniac, a resounding “fuck you” to literally everybody. The sound is abrasive, raw, borderline violent—exactly the antithesis of radio. And yet their lyrics tell all the old, stuck-up punks from Gilman to piss off as well: “86” mocks the “holier-than-thou” attitude of their former friends, while “No Pride” calls out the hypocrisy of the punk scene with the lines “You better digest your values / cause’ they turn to shit” and “No culture’s worth a stream of piss / Or a bullet in my face.” 

Insomniac is a record about frustration and fury, about being stuck in a situation never asked for, and no song captures the complete insanity of that situation better than the album’s punk banger, “Jaded.” Clocking in at a minute and a half, “Jaded” was tacked onto the third single, “Brain Stew,” because of the crossfade between the tracks, and thus received far more promotion than it ever would otherwise. Amid a breakneck pace set by Tré Cool’s thumping kick drum, Billie Joe and Mike Dirnt give their strings the beating of a lifetime as they thrash and scrape. The instrumentation feels like a building about to collapse, yet the band holds it together long enough for Billie Joe to deliver his ranting, raucous lyrics. 

Immediately, the loss of control is made apparent: “Somebody keep my balance / I think I’m falling off” before commenting on the meaninglessness of at even attempting to control the situation in the chorus: “Always move forward / Going ‘straight’ will get you nowhere.” “Jaded” is Green Day’s swift kick to the face of fan and foe alike, a deriding commentary towards the bizarre situation they’ve ended up in, as well as their complete lack of interest in taking a side. 

Whatever your view of Green Day, if you give Insomniac a chance, you will find at least a true sincerity that most bands would sell their souls (and have already) to mimic, let alone embody. These three goofballs perform the most punk-rock of all actions by creating a record so unforgiving and unrelenting in its honesty that both the mainstream and the underground refused to accept it (just check out this angry letter written to Billie Joe, as well as his cheeky response). It is this record that showed me how to be true to oneself, wholly disregarding critics and sycophants and idols to create something that is simply and brutally the soul. Even if it is somewhat juvenile, bleak, or even nihilistic, Insomniac forces the listener to reevaluate the musician’s target of their music—the listener, or the creator—and that is a topic no other record even dares to approach. 

Tunes to Check Out:

1) Westbound Sign

2) Panic Song

3) Armatage Shanks

American Football - American Football (LP2)

About a year ago now, I absolutely fell in love with American Football’s debut LP, a rite of passage that had eluded me completely until it was reissued. If I had one lament at that time concerning American Football’s music, it was that there simply wasn’t enough of it to be had. Thus, you can imagine my ravenous delight when I got my grubby mitts on their brand new follow-up album, American Football (LP2), seventeen years after their break-up. The prospect of more sprawling songs in which to lose myself certainly had me excited, and yet the fact that this band could not only recapture the magic of their youthful songsmithing, but also improve upon it, has left me amazed and impressed beyond measure.

It may be a bold statement, but to me, LP2 seems a massive step forward from American Football’s debut. While Mike Kinsella, Steve Holmes, and Steve Lamos have retained the emotional honesty and gentle but penetrating technical musicianship for which the act is known, there is no lack of evolution on this record. The musical and lyrical themes explored on their first album, both now considered quintessentially “emo,” are still present on LP2, but expressed in a more mature fashion. The band members use the wisdom and experience gained in the last seventeen years as lenses, giving the act a new light that is both profound and extremely relevant.

This maturity is most obviously present in the lyrics of the record. Although most songs started as interlocking guitar parts before being fleshed out in the band’s Dropbox, each piece feels written with vocals in mind, a distinct departure from the more instrumental-driven first record. Kinsella actually spent the entire recording sessions writing and rewriting his vocal parts to fit the songs, and this intense amount of attention certainly provides a solid product. Kinsella allows himself to be extremely vulnerable in songs like “I Need a Drink (Or Two or Three)”, where he admits an unhealthy dependence on alcohol, or with obscured acknowledgement of a tendency towards infidelity in “Desire Gets in the Way” and “My Instincts are the Enemy.”

As Mike states, he “feels more comfortable being sincere…in [the songs of] American Football,” an honesty which rings heavily in the tunes on LP2. He takes the tropes of introspection and sincerity for which his younger music was known and adapts them to fit his life as an adult. His statement of “We’ve been here before / But I don’t remember a lock on the door / Is it keeping me out or you in?” in “Where Are We Now?” brings a temporal aspect into the music, speaking of distance growing between two individuals over a long stretch of time. The lines “Wild nights when we were younger / We thought we’d live forever,” in “Everyone is Dressed Up” conjure a longing for the feelings of youth, yet in “I’ve Been Lost for So Long,” the album’s first single, Kinsella presents a very aware, if not humorous, version of those same feelings in the statement, “Doctor, it hurts when I exist / This isn’t the pain I’m usually in.”

But as LP2 exhibits, American Football’s music has grown in the interim, so much so that it is now able to look beyond the emo introspection of its youth. Kinsella’s writing has become more aware of the world around him and concerned for those who people it. “Give Me the Gun” is a track about “checking in on a distressed loved one,” while “Home is Where the Haunt Is” examines the effects of grief and loneliness. It is in this latter tune that Kinsella’s writing really shines, as he first acknowledges the heaviness of the situation: “the past still present tense / you need more time to mourn,” before finding some understanding and acceptance: “The ghost in the corner of the room / knows how you’re feeling / ‘cause your dead to him too.” LP2 shows this band’s growth from self-centered youths into responsible and responsive adults, connecting outward concern with the inward contemplation for which they are known.

The lyrical composition is hardly the one facet of American Football to have matured. Just as the scope of Kinsella’s writing has enlarged, so to has the band’s instrumentation. Both Kinsella and Holmes have retained the “sparkly” guitar sound which is their signature, and put it to work hard, but it is no longer their limit, as acoustic guitars, vibraphones, and bells all work their way to prominent spots in the songs. Similarly, the odd time signatures and interlocking melodies that define American Football’s sound are prevalent, but dialed back just enough to let Kinsella’s powerful, heart-wrenching vocals to take the center. And last but not least, their inclusion of Nate Kinsella as a full-time bassist has made all the difference, his unobtrusive yet poignant lines filling the low end that was so notoriously missing from American Football’s sound.

Perhaps the best example of the band’s sonic evolution is the second release from LP2, “Give Me the Gun.” The overall structure appears relatively simple, alternating just between A and B sections, but American Football brings its technical skills to the forefront with their time signature choices, writing the A section in a convoluted but harmonious 6/4 (one measure of 11 and one of 13), while the B section alternates between 8 and 7.  Kinsella’s vocals are sparse, his lyrics even sparser, allowing the intertwining guitars to meld together in between spotlights on Steve Lamos’ soft yet syncopated drum lines. “Give Me the Gun” is a perfect example of how this band brings its big guns to bear—subtly, letting the mood and music carry the true weight and adding flourish only when appropriate.

 

Whether or not you choose to place it against the band’s small but significant legacy, LP2 is an American Football record that easily stands on its own as awesome and evocative. The picturesque instrumentation, laden with both thought and feeling, couple perfectly with Mike Kinsella’s painfully truthful lyrics to design nine unique composites of the band members’ lives. LP2’s delicate beauty is both resonant and easy to absorb, and if it gives any hint as where these men are headed, I know I will continue following them with eager eyes and ears.

Tunes to Check Out:

1) Home is Where the Haunt Is

2) I Need a Drink (Or Two or Three)

3) Born to Lose

Norma Jean - Polar Similar

As I am prone to telling almost anyone who will listen, Norma Jean has long been one of my favorite bands, and since its announcement about a year ago, I had been jittery with excitement in awaiting their latest release, Polar Similar. Despite this act’s fluid nature as a musical collective, my faith in their ability to deliver music that is both groundbreaking and yet true to the legacy has been unwavering. And though there are no longer any founding members present in the band, this fresh lineup succeeds in honoring the tradition that is Norma Jean while producing what may be the best record yet released under the moniker.

Norma Jean has perpetually been a heavy band, and Polar Similar delivers fully on that promise. Guitarists Jeff Hickey and Philip “Philly” Farris pull heady, ground-shaking chugs from their instruments, playing predominantly in tunings as low as Drop-A or Drop-G. Bassist John Finnegan thunders out angry bass notes that reverberate through the chest, while Clayton “Goose” Holyoak bludgeons his drums towards a violent end. The band is loud and brutally heavy, pulling as much metal from their instruments as possible, smashing melody against mania without compromise.

Norma Jean has loaded Polar Similar with the same raging heaviness we expect from the band, yet never before has the music been approached with such fearlessness. As lead singer Cory Brandan states, the intention behind the record was “to do things [our] own way, and not care if anyone gives a shit about it,” and indeed there is no lack of innovation on the record. Norma Jean explores completely new territories in some pieces, using sampled recordings in “II. The People” and “A Thousand Years a Minute,” featuring a spoken-word piece in “Synthetic Sun,” and mixing in a gentle grand piano coda for “1,000,000 Watts.” This experimentation even extends through recording techniques, as apparently the band recorded guitar parts over an indoor pool at the studio as well as through the walls of the house they stayed in.

This willingness to delve into new, unexplored areas is truly the drive behind Polar Similar, and one of the most notable undertakings is Cory Brandan’s increasingly melodic singing. Although the man can scream and growl like a rabid and furious jaguar, songs like “Reaction” and the band’s tribute to the late great Lemmy, “Everyone Talking Over Everyone Else,” show Cory concentrating his vocals in a beautiful yet still edgy singing voice. This choice allows for him to play with the emotion of the song, to let his anger seethe rather than shout. This also creates a new dynamic in the music, so that when Brandan does scream, it shakes the listener all the more by contrasting with the quiet that came before it.

Further nuance and innovation are present in the lyrics, both in theme and in presentation. Apparently Polar Similar involves a loose concept, reflected by the numbering of four of the tracks that break up the movement of the record. And while that concept seems rather vague and broad, that massive scope is apparently the point; as Cory puts it, the thematic pieces arose from a desire for “Polar Similar to really tell a story and be disconnected from us as people.” The four titles seem to zoom in on one another; “I. The Planet” being a superficial lump of us all; “II. The People” representing the individuals; and “III. The Nebula” an ode to the undefined, amorphous boundaries that separate us. Thus, the final and explosive track, “IV. The Nexus,” references the connecting thread that ties us all together, the uniting sameness at the heart of all of us that shatters those boundaries.

This idea of connection is one of the main themes that the record’s lyrics explore. While every band member contributed to the writing in some way, much of the songs center on an abusive relationship that Cory was once in. “An Ocean of War” embodies the accusing and arguing inherent in such a relation with the lines “Give me a chance to say everything / You’re not thinking it through at all,” while “A Thousand Years a Minute” delves into self-destructive tendencies: “I’m taking what you’re giving but the giving takes away.” Yet, in the recognition of the unhealthy atmosphere this relationship created, Cory is able to walk away and save himself from further suffering, as presented in the line “I’m leaving this sea, never to return”  in “The Close and Discontent.”

The creation of Polar Similar is a form of catharsis for the band, and for me, no tune defines this feeling better than “Death is a Living Partner.” Amid some of the most intense, unrelenting instrumentation of the record, Cory dissects at full volume his passage from youth into adulthood. His wail of “The invincibility of our youth has just given way…to the inevitability of our death” starts with rage, yet settles into a full, heavy understanding of his own mortality, before naming death as his “living partner / a consummate, consummate one.” This pounding, furious coda is the audial equivalent of gazing into the void, a gaze that results in either peace or annihilation, that sucks me in every single time.

Undoubtedly, Polar Similar is an album of evolution, of maturation, and of experimentation. Norma Jean has poured every piece of their hearts into this record, filling it front to back with unbridled emotion and power. Whether exploring new frontiers or treading carefully across old wounds, this band strides forward without fear or hesitation, turning that journey into the brutal truth that lies at the heart of every song. Polar Similar is a record full of surprises, but it leaves me without a trace of doubt that this band’s trajectory leads only upwards.

Tunes to Check Out:

1) Forever Hurtling Towards Andromeda

2) Everyone Talking Over Everyone Else

3) Reaction

Streetlight Manifesto - Somewhere in the Between

If there is a soundtrack to my turning eighteen, it would have to be Streetlight Manifesto’s Somewhere in the Between. Streetlight’s extremely technical yet thoroughly delicious brand of ska-folk-punk was the dominant sound of my last year of high school. The complex, multifaceted, and most of all catchy compositions inspired me to shoot beyond power chord progressions and straightforward lyrics in my own music, sensibilities that continue to inform my own writing.

Truly, Somewhere in the Between was a pivotal listen for me in those days. And yet, with my eventual distancing from ska, a solid five years had passed since I had actually listened to it front to back. So when I shoved the scratched, burned copy into my car’s CD player a month ago, I felt a twinge of fear that perhaps I wouldn’t really like it, or even understand it, anymore. Yet as the explosive first notes of “We Will Fall Together” pealed through my speakers, my anxieties dropped to the floor as the glory that is Streetlight washed over me.

Though they try their hardest to come off as uncaring goofballs, Streetlight Manifesto is an act unfamiliar with the term “good enough,” instead whittling down each composition until it as cerebral as it is beautiful. These seven men load each song with nuance, the rhythm section peppering in syncopated hits and massive dynamic shifts until every song plays like a symphony. The four-piece horn section furthers this by taking lead singer Tomas Kalnoky’s hummed suggestions and turning them into intense collages of harmony and counterpoint. On top of all this musical majesty, every member of the band contributes to the singing in some way, taking the ska cliché of gang vocals and elevating it to the echelon of a punk choir.

The band’s technical approach alone on Somewhere in the Between is enough to get the head spinning, but Streetlight also chooses to explore a plethora of sound palates. Refusing to be labeled as simply ska, they instead give the listener a veritable buffet of musical flavors: Pete McCullough’s running bass lines suggest a heavy jazz influence, while Kalnoky’s raking guitar chords simultaneously draw from punk and Middle-Eastern folk. The horn section’s melodic structures go even farther, calling to mind the music of gypsies in “We Will Fall Together” or the early days of big band with “The Blonde Lead the Blind.” As Kalnoky puts it, he wanted Somewhere in the Between to breathe with “a world influence,” and with seven members exploring seven different musical backgrounds, they easily succeed in unearthing a whole new continent of sound. 

One of the best examples of this married complexity and catchiness on Somewhere in the Between is the thunderous “Would You Be Impressed?” Sporting a Spanish influence in the composition, Streetlight races like a bull through each verse. Chris Thatcher’s snare drum blasts as he holds the insistently insane rhythm at a speed that would spell death for a less-cohesive band. The song eschews a traditional chorus, opting instead to end each verse with the punctually shouted line “It’s not my fault,” intermingled with ever-varying horn arrangements that explode in juxtaposition with the vocals. Virtually no part of the song features a true repeat, the band instead taking each idea and turning it on its head the next time it occurs, suggesting continuity while continually evolving. “Would You Be Impressed?” flaunts every aspect of Streetlight worth acknowledging, an intricate masterpiece that truly blooms in the ear.   

The instrumentation on Somewhere in the Between received borderline obsessive attention in its creation, and the lyrics are no different. As his break-neck singing style demands, Tomas Kalnoky fills each song with tons of lyrics, but not a single word seems facetious or accidental. He wields both repetition and alliteration with the skill of a famed poet, such as in the vehement line “So fuck the flocks of sheep that keep amassing masses / asses being led so far astray.” Additionally, his continuous use of small, gripping refrains, such as “mercy, mercy, mercy me” in “Watch It Crash,” create a constant stream of moments for his listeners to latch onto, so that no matter how long or complex the tune, some part is guaranteed to seize both attention and heart. And even when his lines appear to make no sense—“Little Miss Dismiss cannot miss like a detuned radio”—well, damn, they sure are fun to sing.

Each song on Somewhere in the Between is as distinguished as a snowflake, yet some Kalnoky also manages to tie them all together thematically. A major motif in his writing involves man’s destiny to fail: “Forty Days” references the Fall of Man with the line “What a way to begin, we inherit sin,” while “Down, Down, Down to Mephisto’s Café” calls on the futility of man’s battle against his nature: “No matter what we do we’ll be wrong.” Another prevalent image is that of a sinking ship, referenced in both the last two tracks on the record as well as visually in the music video for “We Will Fall Together.”

With his effective synthesis of flourish, depth, and honesty, Tomas Kalnoky proves himself to be a powerful writer, and no song says it better than the album’s opus “The Receiving End of it All.” Above a maelstrom of heady instrumentation and perhaps the best breakdown ever written, Kalnoky tears through a tale of lost connection, reminding his dear “Marigold” that “though sour grapes will turn to wine, it’s all just vinegar with time.” He flirts with the image of an innocent romance fading away with the lines “We used to be in love (my love!) but now we’re just in like,” before finally placing the blame on himself: “When you needed someone most, I wasn’t there, I wasn’t even…” The entire troupe that is Streetlight pours their broken hearts into the performance of “The Receiving End of it All,” backing Kalnoky’s hectic, earnest tale with their own sincerity to create a song that to this day gives me chills with each listen.

After returning to this record like a prodigal son, I can’t believe how silly I was to think it would mean anything less to me. Somewhere in the Between is a phenomenal album, ten intensely crafted songs that awaken mind and body with their energy and intelligence. And even now, after a month of non-stop spinning, I am still discovering little moments of nuance or integrity, moments I had missed again and again in my younger years. Somewhere in the Between remains a seminal record for me; I did not have to grow to love it, and with the way it continually proves its worth and wonder, that will never change.  

Tunes to Check Out:

1) The Receiving End of it All

2) Down, Down, Down to Mephisto's Café

3) Somewhere in the Between

Song Spotlight: "Blue Boy" by Texas is the Reason

My musical fascination for the last year and a half has been post-hardcore and emo from the 90’s. Since falling in love with the music of At the Drive-In, I have continued backwards through the rabbit hole to find the bands they toured with, or the bands that share their influences. I’ve encountered many monster acts on this journey, becoming caught up in single songs or whole albums of melodic madness. But for the past year, one song in particular keeps rising to the top of my queue, a truly beauteous composition: “Blue Boy” by Texas is the Reason.

Two tenuous guitars open this tune, Garrett Klahn’s simple melody mixing with Norman Brannon’s wavering chords. The rest of the band sidles in behind the strings, until Texas is the Reason explodes into the song proper, layering distortion and wailing bends over the chaos. There is a subtle heaviness to the song, hiding in the drop tuning and Chris Daly’s quick drum fills, that colors the initial feeling of melancholy into something darker. Amid this prismatic instrumentation, Klahn begs for a chance to prove himself to a distant lover, struggling to keep her near with the line “maybe with you on my side / I’ll be able to reach the sky.”

“Blue Boy” is one of those tunes that grip me right at the beginning, leading me like a small child through an emotional journey. The lilting and tilting intro is laden with trepidation, not unlike the feeling buried in the stomach before talking to a crush. Yet the subsequent explosion of overdrive, crash cymbals, and earnest vocals suggests a newfound confidence, a statement of intent and purpose. Where once there was only nervous energy, suddenly the band finds a conviction, a belief in itself that is perfectly summed in the refrain “to me, this is for real.”

This new and confident identity is not just a feeling I’m imposing on the song, but actually a representation of the band members themselves during this time period. While initially released on a split EP with The Promise Ring, “Blue Boy” was one of a few new songs written for Texas’ next full-length, one intended to be their major label debut. As Norman Brannon states, these songs show the band finally “[figuring] out what Texas is the Reason sounded like.” The band truly felt that these songs “actually were” Texas is the Reason, showing their sound evolving into one both original and progressive, and thus Garrett’s exclamation in the coda of “you finally found me” suddenly seems far more personal.

That evolution from boys in a band to men making music is what lies at the heart of “Blue Boy.” The “reactionary spirit” inherent in each vibrating string, each thumping drum hit—that is the goal of music, to capture the human journey in a succession of notes. As Texas is the Reason’s only true sophomore release (the other two songs written at the time were only recently recorded), “Blue Boy” is the notch carved into the doorframe of this band’s house, the only true testament to that moment in their existence.

To lead singer Garrett Klahn, “Blue Boy” is a song that “pinpoints exactly where [Texas is the Reason] were and where we were maybe going.” For me, it testifies to the strength of soul-searching in a band, in discovering what truly makes up the experience and putting it out in as faithful and honest a version as possible. Those first few notes of “Blue Boy” strike my heart with truth and excitement like few other songs can, a feeling of which I could never grow sick. They are notes laden with uncut integrity and pure potential, and I have no doubt they will ever get to me.