One
of the reasons I love music as a form of expression is that there are almost
endless avenues to follow in that expression. A plethora of instruments,
styles, genres, and dynamics allows for ideas to blossom in limitless
directions, and by utilizing these well, a great artist can completely capture
any essence, emotion, or experience. Yet while every artist strives to do so
and do so well, so many options can also become so many limits. Adhering to
boundaries and standards can certainly make for focused art or a driven music
scene, but some acts just need more room to breathe and bloom. Pinback is one
such artist, and as their record Autumn
of the Seraphs proves, when the right minds are given the musical room to
work, what they produce is pure magic.
Coupling
an amazing pop sensibility with intricate technical skill, Autumn of the Seraphs provides us with eleven delightfully diverse
tunes in which even the most close-minded of listeners can find something to
appreciate. Between the slow and drooping feel of “How We Breathe,” the hectic
picking of “Blue Harvest,” or the aggressively dark “Off by 50,” Pinback
touches upon a wide range of feeling and fury, all tied together with their
incredible sense of melody. Rob Crow’s distinctly gentle vocal style disperses pop
elements throughout each tune, his singing expertly synthesizing with the deft
instrumentation. Even the mix, which was shaped to mimic the band’s hard-hitting live sound, still retains a measure of beauty and grace, implying vigor
without overloading the listener’s speakers.
Pinback
really runs the gamut of both energy and timbre on Autumn of the Seraphs, carefully selecting each song’s instrumental
palate to complement the intensity of the composition. Album-opener “From Nothing to Nowhere” relies heavily on driving guitar and live drums, while the
slower, more somber “Bouquet” is loaded with bleepy-bloopy synths. Pinback’s
specialty is melody, and in their standard approach, Rob Crow’s sparse guitar
work coalesces with Zach Smith’s unique bass style into an aurora of
color and feeling. Still, the band does not shy away from exploring other
territories, employing electronic beats in “How We Breathe” and relying heavily
on keyboards in “Good to Sea” and “Torch.”
While
virtually every aspect of Pinback’s style is exciting, for obvious reasons,
nothing gets my blood up more than Zach Smith’s incredible basswork. Autumn of the Seraphs is loaded with
tunes that spotlight his unique, rule-breaking style of playing, but no song
exemplifies his versatility as a bassist better than “Barnes.” The drums set up
a powerful groove from the get-go, and Zach sticks his low notes to the
percussion, accenting the rhythm section and slamming his strings on the
downbeats. That punchy groove in “Barnes” is what is most important, and
although there is a ton of room in the verses, Zach keeps it simple, keeps it
low, letting the drums and Rob’s smattered guitar shine. It is only towards the
end of the song [2:22] that he finally crawls up into the high register, his
fingers winding chords and melody simultaneously into a flourish of beauty.
While other pieces on Autumn might
better flaunt Zach’s crazy technical skills, “Barnes” exhibits a dedicated restraint
that allows his little excursions to shine even further.
Pinback
has a habit of being heavily metaphorical in their lyrics, almost to the point
of being vague. There is also certainly a level of aloofness to their approach,
evidenced by the fact that the album title is just a play on words of a Mayhem song. Still, their writing never fails to match and deliver the emotional
experience of their songs. Indeed, the often interwoven counterpoint vocal
parts shared between Rob and Zach add further layers of harmony and sentiment,
turning their lyrics into moving, interacting sensory pieces.
This
duo can certainly write like a couple of kids sometimes (take the opening line
from “Blue Harvest:” “Goody for me!”), but when they do take it
seriously, Pinback can combine story and sound into a masterpiece of humanity. Autumn of the Seraph’s best example of
this is the tune “Walters,” which shares the extraordinary tale of Lawn Chair Larry, a man who took flight using weather balloons tied to a lawn
chair. The song opens into a dreamy strings piece led by Zach’s bass, as Rob
croons his respect for Larry’s boldness: “Anyone else would not deserve your life.”
All
in all, Autumn of the Seraphs is a
triumph in its depth, dexterity, and drive. Pinback fashion eleven brilliant
pieces of music on this record, using honed technical musicianship and
intelligent writing to completely dominate their craft, giving every kind of
listener something to love. Truly, I can think of few acts that have such a handle
on all things music as Pinback does. Autumn
of the Seraphs reinforces how limitless human expression can be through the
medium of music, and each listen gives me yet another reason to keep hacking
away at my craft, if only because I love the sound of it.
As I've been saying across the entire existence of this blog, I could go on
and on about how the soundtracks to the Tony
Hawk’s Pro Skater series seriously informed my musical tastes. They were my
first exposure to alternative music, to punk and ska and metal, genres which I
would hasten to explore more thoroughly as I grew older. And while I’m sure I
could write at length about every single tune from those games (and probably
will someday), there are few I’ve connected with as fully as Lagwagon’s “May
16,” a ripping punk rock tune with a very emotional backbone, and one that
holds a very important place in my heart.
Winding
up with a few hectic guitar chords in the intro, “May 16” quickly reaches full
velocity, a mess of power chords and rumbling bass taking off at high speed.
Dave Ruan smashes complicated fills in between slash beats while Joey Cape
croons his mournful vocal. The structure of the song avoids standard
verse/chorus form, instead following a long and complex chord progression that
runs head-on at a blistering tempo throughout the piece. The band also peppers
small sections of 12/8 time in between the onslaught of 4/4, a theme they more
deeply explore in a melodic outro stilted with syncopation and a soulful yet
simple guitar solo.
Lagwagon
creates a wonderfully chaotic masterpiece in their composition, but the vocals
are what drive the emotion home. There is a subtle presence to Joey’s singing
as he avoids flash, flair, or even significant volume, instead focusing on
delivering the feeling of the tune.
Joey’s voice is laden with introspection, holding a deep sadness at bay with
words of numb nostalgia: “I can paint a picture in a moment / of memories, and there aren’t many left.” His sparseness, his general noninvolvement in
both the story and the song itself, gives a serious weight to every word.
Lagwagon
as a group delivers the depth of sound, but it is Joey’s execution that makes “May
16” a song you can feel. This stems
from the emotional and very personal situation in which the song was written.
“May 16” describes a very real “turning point” in Joey’s life: his
waking up in a strange apartment after a one-night stand, only to watch from
the window as two former friends—people with whom he was very close at one
point—get married in a park next door. Turning to a nearby acoustic guitar,
Joey immediately began processing his feelings on this situation real-time,
staring out the window at the ceremony and writing the song
stream-of-consciousness as a reaction to a very personal scene from
which he had been excluded.
Through
his lyrics, Joey expertly captures the painful realization of his situation in
that moment. The chorus line of “It’s just another Saturday” acts as a
sort of denial, an initial refusal to acknowledge that he is being left behind,
until he finally gives into the hurt of his rejection (“I am extradited, uninvited”). Yet even so, there is eventual acknowledgement that this
moment is beyond him and more important than his pettiness, so that he comes to
terms with that rejection, allowing himself to be proud of this couples’
milestone “from afar” as they “take a step to freedom.” Through
“May 16,” Joey uses introspection to analyze an extremely emotional moment in
his life and alter his perspective, during a time when his life was “off the rails.”
May
16 was the date of Joey’s realization, and thus the song acts as an eternal
reminder of that day for him, a sonic monument to a very emotional moment in
his life. So too does this date hold significance for me, albeit a little
differently. On May 16, 2010, I awoke very early in the morning to find my
mother had suffered a debilitating stroke, which put her in the ICU for a long
while and scrambled the speech center of her brain. While she fortunately made
a relatively speedy recovery, to this day she still deals with the
aftereffects, including visits to multiple doctors and a very occasional speech
impediment.
Thus,
just as the song serves to remind Joey Cape of this turning point in his life,
so does Lagwagon’s “May 16” remind me of how I almost lost my mother. But every
time that song slips into my shuffle, I do not lament, but instead celebrate,
because I didn’t lose her. She survived then and continues to now, and so hearing
this punk banger brings me great joy, because I still get to spend time with my
mother, and (hopefully) will get to share many more May 16ths with her.
As
I’ve mentioned from the very beginning, the original Tony
Hawk’s Pro Skater games have a special place in my heart. They were my introduction
to the genre of punk rock, my original exposure to music that was fast,
energetic, and honest. The first installment in the game series ignited my love
affair with Goldfinger and ska-punk in general, while the sequel
acquainted me with the likes of punk legends Lagwagon and Bad Religion. For an eleven-year-old homeschooled dweeb living in semi-rural
Connecticut, these games were more than just entertainment: they were my
gateway drug into the world of alternative music.
Among
the more acclaimed names like Rage Against the Machine, Anthrax,
and Powerman 5000, there was also a lesser-known band on the soundtrack
of THPS 2: Millencolin, a European
group then just beginning to get recognition in the U.S. “No Cigar” was an instant
hit with me, its angsty no-fucks-given attitude arriving just as I was becoming
a teenager, and I was absolutely enamored. I would play the game for hours just
so I could learn the lyrics, all the while wishing I could get my hands on more.
Thus, when on my fourteenth birthday I was given a blank check of sorts for CDs
(the same haul that brought me Bender’s monumental debut), at the top of
the list was Millencolin’s Pennybridge
Pioneers, the parent record of “No Cigar” that came to define my standard
of punk rock for years to come.
From
my first spin of Pennybridge Pioneers,
I knew that I had found something worth cherishing. There is no lack of prowess
or personality on this record; every song, whether in major or minor key,
offers catchy melodies and precise instrumentation too juicy to ignore. The
sound is very reminiscent of So. Cal punk, which is no surprise given that Pioneers was recorded in Hollywood
and produced by punk icon Brett Gurewitz. Yet this Swedish quartet
layers in a large amount of catchy writing onto their music. Instead of shying
away from pop in favor of gritty punk, Millencolin dives right in, smashing
along a swing beat in “Fox” and chugging at a slow, danceable pace in “The
Mayfly.” Similarly, Nikola Sarcevic’s straining and raspy vocal lines seem to
rattle out pages of lyrics in seconds, all stuck to a delightfully fun melody.
While
pop is definitely the driving factor in Millencolin’s music, the vehicle is
their impeccable punk rock aesthetic. Fredric Larzon smashes his drums with
quick and precise strikes, bullying along “Highway Donkey” and “Duckpond” with
blurring cut beats. Guitarists Erik Ohlsson and Mathias Farm alternate their
rhythm and lead sections to create perfect complements to each other’s playing.
And at the center is Sarcevic’s rumbling bass, thumping down the foundation
beneath the band or growling in the spotlight in “Devil Me” and “Right About Now.”
On
Pennybridge Pioneers, Millencolin
takes their skate-punk roots and injects them with a healthy dose of pop, and
no song epitomizes this as well as “A-Ten.” Opening with a dolorous yet driving
guitar riff, Ohlsson and Farm weave their rhythm pieces together, enveloping
the entire spectrum of the instrument’s sound and spinning it into a
masterpiece. Nikola’s vocals are laden with emotion as he attempts to console a
friend through a loss, his mournful exclamation of “You wanna see her back again” wringing every ounce of feeling from the song. His melodies and the
instrumentation belie the song’s minor key, instead drawing hope and happiness
from a situation that would usually imply darkness. “A-Ten” drives its emotional
content home with relentless energy, a deft blend of mosh and melody that
invariably gets stuck in my head long after the song is done.
Undoubtedly,
Millencolin has their composition process down to a science, producing pieces
that feel as passionate as they sound. As is often the case with this style of
music, however, the lyrics on Pennybridge
Pioneers want for that same precision and attention to detail. Many of Sarcevic’s
lines feel sloppy, his images ill-defined. Lines like “to prevent something like a theft I got her locked around a tree” in “Fox” are laden with
unnecessary words, while the phrase “does never get a pass” in “The Ballad” doesn’t even make grammatical sense, perhaps a result of English being the second language choice for these Swedes. Still, I can’t stress
enough how absolutely sincere Nikola’s vocals feel, so that even his laziest
writing comes across with as much intensity as if he were shouting it right in
my face.
Although
most of the lyrical work on Pennybridge
Pioneers fails to invite anything more than a cursory read, one particular
piece manages to fully encapsulate and communicate its ideal with surprising
ease: “No Cigar,” the song that had me hooked from the very first slap of the
snare. Across a backdrop of searing skate punk, Sarcevic unravels line after
line of distilled teenaged angst and alienation. His verses clamber across the
various judgmental attitudes we all encounter in our youth: “Tell us where you’re from / what you want to become / and we’ll say if you’re OK,” or the
still resonating “We will shut you out / We’ll put you in doubt / If you think that you’re special.” In the face of this negativity, Nikola’s chorus
lines cast aside the darkness with a powerful mission statement as he shouts “I don’t care where I belong no more / What we share or not I will ignore / And I won’t waste my time fitting in / ‘Cause I don’t think contrast is a sin.” It
is this message of self-acceptance, defying expectations and norms in favor of
individuality, that slammed into my 12-year-old ears like a shotgun blast,
resonating fully with the budding angst that I was just getting to know. “No
Cigar” introduced me to both the sound and ethos of punk rock, values that
still reside at my core fifteen years later.
Pennybridge Pioneers is the record that “took [Millencolin] to the next level,” and while it may sound dramatic, in a lot of little
ways, it has changed my life too. It gave
me my first real taste of So. Cal punk sound (even if they weren’t from Cali),
a sound with which I would soon become obsessed. It provided me with the
material (and the guts) to start playing bass like a punk, as well as the
inspiration to take that bass work to a band setting. It inspired me not just
to value my own individuality, but to assert it, to push it through to the
forefront in all that I do. And though I can’t imagine it will have the same
life-shattering effect on you that it did on me, I urge you to give this record
a spin, because at its very worst, it’s still a damn good listen.
Disclaimer: The following piece is a
super-in-depth look at one of my favorite records, and as such, it is riddled
with personal opinions and praise for said record. This cannot be helped.
As
I can’t help but continue to express, the Smashing
Pumpkins have always been a super-important act to me. Since the first time I
heard “Muzzle” fighting its way through static on the radio, I have been hopelessly
in love with this band’s music. I spent much of my high school years burning a
hole in my copy of their comp CD Rotten
Apples, all the while putting aside the change from my lunch purchases
until I could buy a proper album. I loved everything on that CD, and even
before I’d learned anything about the band, I wanted to own everything they’d
ever put out.
When
I finally had enough cash, I rode over to my local FYE, my heart set on a copy
of the epic Mellon Collieand the Infinite Sadness about which I
had heard so much. Yet when I arrived, I was stupidly surprised to find that as
a double album, Mellon Collie was almost
twice the price that I had expected to pay. Though disheartened, I refused to
leave without some new Pumpkins in my collection. So I picked up the next best
thing, a record with which I would face a vigorous love/hate relationship over
the next ten years: the Pumpkins’ universally lauded sophomore effort, Siamese Dream.
The
record that made TSP a household name, Siamese
Dream shows the band taking a step away from the psychedelia of Gish in favor of harder, more
straightforward, and unabashedly loud rock. Songs like “Mayonaise” and “Today”
feature massive, blooming distortion blasting through the speakers in a
veritable wall of sound. This apparently is partially due to the band’s recent discovery of the Big Muff Pi fuzz pedal, a legendary effect which upped the intensity
of Corgan’s and Iha’s rigs to the limits of human hearing. Coupling that with a
mixing job by Alan Moulder, one of the craftsmen behind My Bloody Valentine’s Loveless, and the overall sound
of Siamese Dream is that of a wall of
Marshall stacks, all cranked to eleven.
Although
it is well known that Billy Corgan played most of the instruments on the record, the composition of those songs was mainly a full-band effort.
Amid deteriorating band member relations, Jimmy Chamberlin’s increasing drug addiction, and pressure from media to be “the next Nirvana,” the Smashing
Pumpkins still managed to bring their best to the table, writing thirteen unique
pieces that explore a diverse palate of sound. Songs like “Geek U.S.A.” and
“Quiet” are loaded with roaring guitars, rattling drums, and booming bass,
while “Hummer” and “Luna” opt for prettier and quieter feels. There is also no
shortage of orchestration, with “Disarm” and “Spaceboy” prominently featuring a
string section that elevates their sound to the grandiose.
The
instrumentation may haven taken months to develop, but the lyrics on Siamese Dream are a far different story.
Suffering from both a period of severe depression and a terrible bout of writer’s block, Billy Corgan left much of the lyric writing until the last
minute, despite his perfectionist nature. However, his lack of
intellectual inspiration served only to stoke his emotional investment in his
writing. Billy uses these thirteen tracks to access parts of his life that he
had heretofore avoided, addressing topics such as lost love, suicide, and child
abuse. He holds nothing back in his lyrics or his performances, his voice
breaking painfully in “Soma” or roaring in “Silverfuck.” Though some of his
lines might go off like duds, the rest explode with the fury of a mortar shell,
resonating in heart and mind alike.
Siamese Dream is considered to be one of those
records that changed the face of music, a pivot in the history of rock. While I
don’t love or even like every song on this record, I know how important it is,
and so I know that I owe each a closer inspection at the very least.
1.Cherub Rock
One
of my very first favorite songs by the Pumpkins, “Cherub Rock” opens the record
by kicking the door down with thundering drums and bombastic guitars. Amid
layers and layers of distortion and a rocking rhythm section, Billy delivers a
thinly-veiled rant against the corporate side of the rock world, specifically
the paradoxical expectations of delivering a polished product that it still
somehow pure at heart.. His opening lines of “Freak out / give in / doesn’t matter what you believe in / stay cool” reflect this Catch-22 dilemma,
simultaneously demanding conformity and self-awareness. Despite objections from
the label, Billy even managed to release this song as the first single,
forcing them to provide corporate promotion for his anti-corporate rock song. “Cherub
Rock” delivers heavy riffs and a very solid groove, and remains one of the most
kickin’ rock songs I have ever heard.
2.Quiet
In
stark contrast to the preceding track, “Quiet” pushes the anger to front lines.
Billy’s lyrics are virulent, his vocals scratchy and furious with bare honesty.
Although the song is of course crushingly loud, the overall energy is brooding,
like a simmering rage that is always just kept at bay. Billy’s stern command of
“Be ashamed / of the mess you made” snaps like a leather belt, but even
his vocal deliveries are tempered into obedience. The instrumentation reflects
this underlying rage, featuring a gritty syncopated chorus, a rushing chromatic
progression on the guitars, and a bridge section that cycles between 12/8 and
4/4. Driving and manic, “Quiet” is without question mv favorite tune off this
record, a song that drives its poignant subject matter home with some vicious
performances by the band.
3.Today
Beginning
with the littlest guitar riff in existence, “Today” could be called the tune
that catapulted the Smashing Pumpkins into the public eye. The divinely inspired tiny intro, a piece Billy heard note-for-note in his head, quickly
erupts into a gargantuan wall of fuzzed guitar and bombastic bass. Billy’s
vocals stay subtle throughout, juxtaposing the largely bright melodies with
lyrics that are an ironic musing on his own suicidal tendencies. “Today”
was Billy’s first step out of the quagmire of both writer’s block and
depression, a quickly-written piece that would soon become an iconic example of
this act’s potential.
While
“Today” is one the first tunes to really sell me on the Pumpkins’ sound and
style, it has since grown to be one of my least favorite songs by them. When
placed against pretty much any other tune in their catalogue, “Today” seems to
lack the both intelligence and integrity that have drawn me to this band’s
music. The instrumentation and lyrics certainly have presence, but both want
for the “epic” emotion present throughout the rest of Siamese Dream. Even
Jimmy’s drums feel lackadaisical, his take completely devoid of his usual jazzy
flow or improvisational approach. Still, while it hasn’t aged all that well for
me, I fully recognize the importance of “Today” as both a Pumpkins song and a
rock anthem, especially since if it hadn’t been such an immediate hit with the band, fans, and record executives, there’s a real good chance I
wouldn’t have ever found the Pumpkins’ music.
4.Hummer
Unlike
“Today,” “Hummer” is a tune that has blossomed with both age and acquaintance. Opening
with a scratchy loop beat and an entrancing D’Arcy Wretzky bassline, this song
lacks a traditional chorus, starting with sickly sweet vocals that lead to a
simple but grandiose guitar solo, followed by a gorgeous and whimsical outro
that invites listeners to lose themselves within. The instrumentation and
uneasy structure call back to the band’s psychedelic Gish days, a pleasantly subtle reminder of Smashing Pumpkins’ sonic
evolution. And although nondescript lines like “Happiness will make you wonder / Will I feel OK?” and “Ask yourself a question / anyone but me / I ain’t free” make it apparent that the lyrics were tossed together at the
last minute, Billy’s deliciously earnest deliveries make them not only
forgivable, but worthy of crowd participation. “Hummer” is the feel-good piece
of Siamese Dream, a strolling
composition that continuously evolves in the ear and the heart as it progresses.
5.Rocket
If
“Cherub Rock” is the scathing yin of stardom, “Rocket” represents the ambitious
yang. Billy emphatically expresses his wish to “bleed in [his] own light,”
to dissociate himself from the other rock stars of his day and make a name for
himself. While not quite hopeful, his lyrics are far more empowered, especially
Billy’s ultimate exclamation of “I shall be free.” This affirming
proclamation is backed by the Pumpkins’ take on a shoegaze sound: the band
drones over a single colossus of a chord for most of the song, the drums and
bass driving through two guitars absolutely inundated in fuzz and reverb until
a climactic glissando and syncopated hits send the piece into the atmosphere.
Although it struggles to break into my list of top tracks from Siamese Dream, “Rocket” expertly
exemplifies this band’s versatility in sound and energy, an idea they would
later explore more fully on Mellon Collie.
6.Disarm
A
quintessential Pumpkins classic at this point, “Disarm” is sonically a massive
departure from the tunes that precede it. Billy sits far forward in this tune,
thrashing away at an acoustic guitar as he delivers an acerbic vocal that may
be his best on the record. He delves deep on this piece, addressing with very
little metaphor the disaster that was his childhood, during which his parents were largely absent. “Disarm” shows Billy accessing a part of his
psyche he had heretofore feared to explore, meeting again the “boy / so old in [his] shoes,” forced to grow up too quickly. The viciously personal
nature of this song really justifies the sparse, Billy-centric instrumentation,
and though the whole feels a little pompous for my taste, I cannot deny that
his delivery of the accusatory line, “The killer in me is the killer in you,”
still shakes me to the core with each spin.
7.Soma
Featuring over 40 guitar overdubs across its length, “Soma” flaunts one of the darkest
and most dynamic sound palettes of any tune on this album. The first of two Corgan/Iha collaborations on Siamese
Dream, the instrumentation features a built-in dichotomy that reflects
Corgan’s derisive indictment of a former lover.The first half of the song is brooding, almost passive-aggressive,
featuring a slightly dissonant chord progression and a gentle build of energy.
Amid a wash of clean, sleepy strings, Billy almost whispers into the mic as he
turns his partner away: “Hush now, don’t you speak / to me.”
There
is no question of distrust in “Soma,” just quiet and contained frustration
slowly building under the tinkle of cymbals and strummed chords. Yet when the
piece reaches its halfway mark, the band suddenly explodes into powerful
distorted chords, reversing that agonizing energy into something far more
brutal. Billy’s guitar rips one of the most visceral solos I’ve ever heard,
while his whispers become spits of venom: “So let the sadness come again / On that you can depend on me, yeah / Until the bitter, bitter end of the world.”
The Pumpkins drive this antagonistic sound all the way home, before ultimately
slipping into a little reprisal coda of the first section. “Soma” is a tune
that spans the spectrum of anger, exploring the full field of an abhorrence
that never seems to find resolution.
8.Geek U.S.A.
Ripping
right out of the gate with some extreme drumming from Jimmy, “Geek U.S.A.”
combines both speed and energy into a frightfully tight powerhouse tune. The
band tears their instruments apart with each passing second, shredding guitar
chords and thumping bass notes almost struggling to keep up with Chamberlin’s
firecracker drum rolls. “Geek U.S.A.” insists on tearing forward at a breakneck
pace, only to suddenly crash into a drowsy bridge that features the single most
lovely little guitar melody I’ve ever heard. Yet this respite lasts only
seconds, until the blasting chords return at what seems a doubling of the
original tempo, before culminating in a riotous riffstorm for the outro. “Geek
U.S.A.” foregoes the emotional encumbrances of the rest of Siamese Dream, instead opting for straightforward rock’n’roll that
sears like corrosive acid.
9.Mayonaise
So
pretty, so sad—this is the only way I can describe the spell that “Mayonaise”
puts over me with each listen. The second compositional collaboration between
Corgan and Iha, this piece is almost cloyingly dolorous, a syrupy symphony of
sadness. Billy’s vocals are weepy and delicious in their deliveries as he drowns
in his own self-loathing: “We’ll try and ease the pain / but somehow, we feel the same.” Though the song structure seems to meander between verses,
choruses, and interludes without any real definition, its sound is far more
defined; Corgan and Iha slam on those Big Muff Pi pedals and unleash a tsunami
of distortion, broken only by the well-timed feedback in the chorus, delivered courtesy of Billy’s broken guitar. With its emotion-driven performances and
mushroom cloud of sound, “Mayonaise” is in my opinion the most powerful song on
Siamese Dream, encapsulating the sincerity,
vitriol, and morose musings that define the music of the Smashing Pumpkins.
10.Spaceboy
"Spaceboy”
is another Billy-driven piece, a melancholy ballad of sorts that starts with a
tender melody and slight open chords on the acoustic guitar. His voice floats
somewhere between a whisper and a whine, each note oozing pure emotion. Although
the song is allegedly dedicated to Billy’s younger autistic brother,
wandering lines like “Spaceboy they’ve killed me / before I’m dead and gone”
suggest they may have again been a last-minute addition to a finished
composition. Still, the band sews a substantial layer of sincerity into this
piece, completed by some subtle orchestral arrangements that perfectly seal
what little cracks the Pumpkins leave in the instrumentation. “Spaceboy” is a
song that has grown on me, its whirling melodies and somber mood a nice
spotlight on this band’s potential when the distortion pedals are kicked
off.
11.Silverfuck
Siamese Dream was meant to be a “big” album, and it
doesn’t get any bigger than this song. “Silverfuck” is a sprawling nine-minute monstrosity,
the opus of Siamese Dream rivaled
only by “Geek U.S.A.” in its vehement ferocity. The band launches into a
syncopated torrent of destruction, as Billy, James, and D’Arcy thrash their
instruments into oblivion while Jimmy rolls out fills like artillery
bombardments. With its primeval energetics, it’s no surprise that the Pumpkins
regularly chose “Silverfuck” as their set closer through much of their initial career,
and indeed, the live versions of this song are where its full force
comes to bear.
One
of the most captivating aspects of “Silverfuck” is its extreme use of dynamics.
The first half of the song wavers between lighthearted verses and incendiary
choruses, the energy always at least brimming and often at full-boil. But this
violent race of distortion literally collapses into the middle section, a
drifting and spacious bridge featuring zen-like vocals from Billy and a simple
heartbeat emanating from the rhythm section. This lullaby bridge is so
soothing, it almost erases any memory of the insanity that preceded it, until
the band again bursts forth at double-time, racing to a climactic outro of hits
and feedback. “Silverfuck” is the epitome of intensity on Siamese Dream, right down to the title, and one of the songs that I
look forward to most when I slip the disc into my car’s stereo.
12.Sweet Sweet
A
small and sparse ditty, “Sweet Sweet” clocks in at just under a minute thirty,
and really feels more like an aside than a proper song. Featuring an ascending
vocal from Billy, crooning to his “sweet little agony” alongside
sparkling layers of clean guitar, its inclusion on Siamese Dream, a record slated as the “next Nevermind,” is certainly a bold choice, and still one I am working
to fathom—especially considering the multitude of tunes recorded during those sessions, most of which are both more cohesive and better suited to
the record’s style. Still, Billy knows what is best for his band, and though I
will almost invariably skip over it, at the very least “Sweet Sweet” acts as a
simple and pretty transition from the monster “Silverfuck” to the album’s
closing track. Speaking of which…
13.Luna
If
by now you feel that the one thing Siamese
Dream wants for is beauty, look no further than “Luna.” This gorgeous and
soft love song features a blooming bass line underneath swelling guitars and a
tinkly sitar riff. The main section of the song remains in the realm of quiet
and cute, until the symphonic coda arrives, marching along over 7 measures and
lifting Billy’s starry-eyed vocal to a crescendo. It is this vocal that really
gets me: Billy’s calm yet earnest statements of “I’m in love with you”
are so infectious that I can’t help but sing along. Despite the insane
maelstrom of emotions that fill out this record, “Luna” brings to it
resolution, winding out the emotion and energy into a melodious and meaningful
three minutes that eases the listener out of the vast and dynamic dreamscape
that is Siamese Dream.
Listening
back to it now, ten years since the opening snare rolls of “Cherub Rock” first blared
through my car speakers, I’m still completely floored by how uncompromisingly
huge this record sounds. The cymbals crash like hurricane waves against the
sheer cliff face that is the guitar sound. Every note of every song feels
sculpted to its truest, most pure form—which is no surprise, since Billy Corgan
and producer Butch Vig attacked Siamese
Dream with an uncompromising vision of perfection. Butch has called it “the hardest record I ever recorded” because of how high that bar was set,
stating that “Billy would work on a section of a song for hours” until
he was satisfied.
Though
the record was largely tracked live, Billy was responsible for overdubbing most all the strings on the record, and as much as I hate to admit it, it
may be his unified vision that makes Siamese
Dream sound so iconic. The massive production value, the use of loud/soft
dynamics, and the simply gargantuan layered guitar tones keep this album
resonating almost twenty-five years since its release. It has since become one
of the seminal 90’s albums, a testament to how huge and heavy alternative rock
could become if left in the hands of driven and visionary madmen.
Though
I wouldn’t include Siamese Dream in
my top three Smashing Pumpkins albums, I cannot deny its lasting effect on both
myself and the world. The Pumpkins manage in thirteen songs to assemble an
entire world of sound and feeling, and deliver it on an impeccable platter of
production that manages to be both polished and wholly sincere. Siamese Dream deserves every single
accolade it has garnered, and despite my periodic misgivings about it, I still
find myself coming back for more. It is both an icon and an inspiration, and if
I can someday create music with even an iota of that lasting potential and
power, that can access the human heart as deeply as Siamese does, then I will have truly succeeded as an artist.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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.”
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.
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.
