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This album and a few others (Pebble) have convinced me that this was a good year for the “coming-of-age” punk rock album. It’s such a cliché to say this sort of thing, but both Lemuria and Bomb the Music Industry! have matured on their newest efforts, with wonderful results, taking what both had done before, and then turning it into a brand-new, bittersweet, catchy, and earnest listening experience.
Jeff Rosenstock’s lyrics are still dripping with unparallelled cynicism and alcohol and wit. In a world where everyone you love is annoyed at you, where tomorrow is the best day to clean up your act, and where the party eventually ends, Rosenstock teases bits of optimism through the absolutely, brilliantly dour. As he sings on probably the album’s catchiest song “Hurricane Waves,” we “Cuddle all through the storm”.
Musically, BtMI! is continuing in the direction they’ve been hinting at since the beginning, but put down on paper on 2010’s exclamation point-laden EP Adults!!!: Smart!!! Shithammered!!! And Excited by Nothing!!!!!!!. Gone are the spastic chiptune/hardcore bits, and most of the third-wave ska touches that initially drew me to the band are as well. This is not a problem, though. For largely leaving behind some influences, BtMI! picks up something else that distinguishes them even more from everyone else. The guitars make melodies that stick to you like carmel in a tooth, but fast drum-heavy bits and slower folky parts both taste like morning coffee after a rough night. Rosenstock has perfected a ridiculously satisfying mix of pop-punk and indie rock that nothing else does.
Plus, you can get it for free if you’d like.
Bomb the Music Industry! is brilliant, and Vacation is another fourteen reasons why.
On certain days, it takes me a significant amount of time to get dressed. Not because I am some sort of stickler for staying color-coordinated or anything—as if I have some sense of fashion— but because I tend to wear t-shirts that have stuff on them. In saying “stuff” I mean comic characters, or the name of a band, or pop culture icons. While I type this post, I’m wearing a Ren & Stimpy shirt.
Now I’m going to justify my long moments at my dresser to you, Internet.
You may not be well-versed in the origins of early punk rock bands. If you are not, I forgive you. If you are, you probably know this story, so bear with me. I’ll make it brief.
Today was my first day of class in my second year of college, and it was okay. I spent a lot of money on books, and found myself fretting over classes and deadlines that I won’t even need to for a month or two. It doesn’t feel so long ago that I first walked into my Introduction to Creative Writing course almost exactly one year ago.
My jaw dropped just the slightest bit when I read the part of my teacher Nick’s syllabus that said we would have to write in a journal for fifteen minutes every day. I wasn’t dreading it, I was just surprised that a class demanded something like that. I thought, “Okay, college is demanding this of me. I’ll do this right and prove something to myself.” I was a bit excited for it, but I didn’t really realize what I had started.
People often misinterpret what the climate is like in Colorado. People sometimes assume the entire state is laden with mountains—these are same people who tend to think we’re constantly shoveling and wading through countless feet of snow to get to work or school. I find myself wishing I could see the faces of my family members on the East Coast when I tell them that it is colder there than it is here. This is not to say that the weather never gets the better of us, though.
Sometimes, the snow and slush is out and ready to destroy whoever is dumb or unlucky enough to be outside, and this seems to go doubly if you are, in fact, in the mountains. I could go and get some statistics about these incidents, but that wouldn’t really help with what I’m trying to say. It’s hard to quantify human altruism.
Anonymous asked: not an ask...just a comment
You have a true gift with words.
I hope you continue, as I would be very excited to see your name on the cover of a novel.
My heart skipped a beat there.
Thank you so much.
I don’t plan on stopping any time soon.
Hello, Delaware, I’m sorry I fell asleep. The walls of trees that surround this minivan on either side have got me doing what I can to stay aware and awake. I swat at a mosquito on my arm that isn’t actually there.
Now I’m awake, and Pat Benatar is giving me a wake-up call, reminding me how strong she and her crew of hookers are against the evil, evil pimp. Well, of course it’s only the song on the radio, but I can’t separate the video and song anymore—it’s signifier/signified, one doesn’t really exist without the other.
No offense to Ms. Benatar who I truly enjoy in my way, but I am gripped with the desire to instead listen to The Promise Ring, as they ask you over and over again, “Delaware, are you aware of air supply and television?” and “Are you there? Is this thing on?” We don’t know each other too well, Delaware, so I feel like this could potentially be a bonding experience for us.
“The crowd gathered around the body and took everything they could. Clothes, watch, wallet, gold fillings. They left happy. The vultures came and consumed the flesh until they were full and flew away screeching with delight. The insects came and picked the bones clean. The sun bleached the bones white. The skeleton got up laughing and walked away.” — Henry Rollins, Solipsist
I love a really great conversation, like anyone with a functioning mouth and brain set should. Last summer was full of them—staying up way too late as we started to delve into the metaphysical, getting a little too loud when debating matters of artistic taste that all come back around to the same places, and simply offering personal stories and anecdotes. This current summer is going in the same direction, and I can’t be happier about it.
There’s one story I always find myself telling when I’m wrapped up in a conversation with someone who has yet to hear it. Everyone seems to have an odd medical story of some kind, and this is mine. More details of the incident returned to me recently as my mom hearkened back to it when I visited home. Without further introduction, let me tell you the story of the day I sort of learned that I’m sort of a hemophiliac.
The other day I took a trip to the thrift store down the road, as I often do, regardless of location, with a couple of friends. I intended to go for a job application—I came back with a job application, and Meet the Beatles and The Kinks Greatest Hits on vinyl.
“I Want To Hold Your Hand” has never quite sounded as beautiful as it does right now.
For a moment, I just close my eyes and listen.