The Story Thus Far 2011 Edition: Neighborhoods by Blink-182

Opening up like a turbo charged millenial version of the Cure's "Disintegration," Blink-182 sets the tone with "Ghost on the Dance Floor." It's all swirling keyboards and punk rock drum fills before settling into a melodic dystopia that's more Brave New World than 1984. If Blink-182's music used to represent the heady buzz of 90's punk pop then this is the hangover. The rays of their once sunny southern California punk pop is now shot through with streams of darkness.

Conceived as a reconciliation of sorts, Neighborhoods is an excercise in bridging common grounds from what used to be enemy territory. Propelled by Tom Delonge's arena sized sonic ambitions, the album is anchored by Mark Hoppus' austere faith to the church of punk and its ability to keep the band's reach from exceeding its grasp. The real star here, however, is Travis Barker. Honoring a progressive tradition in old school punk that predates hardcore, he manages to mine punk for more stylistic advancements than Topper Headon, Stewart Copeland and Chris Frantz combined. His presence ultimately takes this album from an ambitious statement of artistic intent to a lazer guided missile of execution. And while Neighborhoods displays neither the stylistic expansiveness nor the loose limbed ambition of its eponymous predecessor, it still succeeds with it's disparate but singular vision.

essential listening:
Ghost on the Dance Floor
After Midnight
Snakecharmer*
This is Home

*denotes deluxe edition track

RetroActive: Achtung Baby by U2

With all the hoopla surrounding the twentieth anniversary of this album, I thought I'd dig out an old piece I'd written on it. Of course, this won't stop me from writing a new piece on it and why it's still a relevant piece of work today.

With the addition of Daniel Lanois and Brian Eno as producers on 1985's Unforgettable Fire, U2 proceeded to make emotionally geographic albums. These were albums that evoked a sense of place and time in the listener, a trait that made them both iconic and timeless. I remember the first time I heard The Joshua Tree and this certainly ain't it. This was better; darker, funkier and dirtier. The journey from the deserts of The Joshua Tree to the musical heartland discovered in Rattle and Hum was nowhere to be found on this disc. Instead, this was the musical Heart of Darkness, only if Conrad's classic novel was set in the darkest and dankest of underground metropolitan dance clubs populated by the most desperate hedonists this side of the new testament.

U2 set their stalls out immediately with the industrial groove of "Zoo Station." A hedonistic call to arms, this song makes a declaration to get lost- damn the consequences. Leaning on the reliable swagger of Adam Clayton's bass, they create a groove unheard since the earliest of their albums. Following up on any promise of anarchic glee, they move into "Even Better Than the Real Thing" in which Bono channels Jim Morrison at his poetically sleaziest. Exhorting the listener repeatedly for "one last chance," Bono plies for a rendevouz at the end of the world. Such promises and exhortations rarely come without consequence, however. Track three, the tragically misunderstood "One," quickly cuts to the real gristle and bone of the album. A more sincere and accurate portrayal of relationships would be difficult to find. Suckered in by the opening hedonism of the album, the themes of the album begin to surface quickly and brutally; love, betrayal, uncertainty, accusation and doubt. Whether it's the conversation taking place between Jesus and Judas in "At the End of the World" or the self recrimination of "Acrobat," no one gets out unscathed. Fear not, however, there is still plenty of fun hedonism to be found whether it's the contrarian mantras of "The Fly" or the mythic fascination of "Mysterious Ways." Ending with the dark, languid "Love is Blindness," this album sports every facet of romantic warfare and should not ever, ever be listened to during a break up. Unfortunately, due to its incredible breadth, it will be and it will hurt some feelings.

Best Moments: "Acrobat," in which Bono spurns the two predominant stereotypical associations made with his band; the church and Irish political movements. Or the opening guitar funk that opens the album in "Zoo Station."

The rest of their 90's Catalog? Zooropa, which featured the band at their most experimental in terms of song structure. At the same time, it also contained one of their prettiest songs; "Stay (Far Away, So Close!)."
and
Pop, Giant lemons be damned. This was an awesome album and the ultimate result of their experimentation during the 90's. Or at least, it would have been if they took the time to finish it properly. Nonetheless, if this was the debut effort by a new band, it would have crushed the world.

Up All Night with Blink -182: Neighborhoods

If the video for "Up All Night" is any indication, Blink-182's worldview is one still sorely lacking of adults. Unlike the sunny disposition of their earlier California punk pop, however, this worldview is no adolescent fantasy of poop jokes and porn stars. Instead, Neighborhoods, their first new release in eight years, is almost dystopic in its darkness: it's filled to the brim with menace and an almost subtle dread that could be ironic for a band that's so loud.

Viewed as an extension of 2003's Blink-182, such grandiose grimness could easily be excused. The eponymous release featured a more mature sound as the band experimented with larger sonic palettes. They embraced larger arrangements, punishing precision and a wide range of post punk influences that veered from new wave keyboards to hardcore brutality. Even the Cure's Robert Smith stopped by to join in the fun for a song. And by "the fun" I can only mean an almost romantic sense of yearning for a world beyond the stifling growing pains of adulthood. Anyone hoping for a reason to stop being turned off by Blink's meandering sense of juvenalia could only be happily suprised if not highly enthusiastic about this turn of face.

Eight years later, we're treated to Neighborhoods, an album that serves as a reminder as well as a rejuvenation. And while long time fans are celebrating this as proof of the band's renewed existence, skeptics should celebrate too. This is a second chance for the band that never really got to stretch and enjoy the confident new footing they found in growing up.

Of course, the adolescent pangs of loneliness, guilt and aimless drift are still there. "The universe has left me without a place to go," they sing in "Ghost on the Dance Floor." But there's also a doggedness to Neighborhoods that goes beyond any previous yearnings. Vocally, the songs are delivered with the confident defiance that arrives only with age and survival. Tom Delonge, in particular, sounds years older. His vocals are delivered with pained youthful optimism but he backs it up with the conviction of an older soul who knows its true worth. Mark Hoppus, the band's more conventional vocalist, is the ballast of the record as he locks into step with Delonge. At moments on the last album, he seemed in danger of falling behind in his band's more "emo" conversion. But here, his vocals pinball off his partner in kinetic little phrases that still manage to be hummable. And hummable is good when the majority of your songs take place in the vast emotional wasteland of late night isolation where the only company you keep is your own thoughts.

Still, there's a solidarity to Neighborhoods that could never come close to telling the story of Blink-182's last eight years. Check off any "behind the music" style checklist, it's all there: band tensions, hiatuses and eventual break ups, communication breakdowns, addiction, hit and miss side projects, public divorces and a very high profile airplane crash that almost killed one member. And eventually, the final renciliation. Instead of sullying the new material with a jaded bitterness, however, the trials of the last eight years has simply justified their grit.

Travis Barker, whose near death experience spurred the reconciliation into action, brings more grit than anyone. The precision and style of his drumming is more than artistic achievement, it's a physical feat and one that he consistently performs through the whole of the record. Whether its ambient keyboard flourishes or long drawn out guitar notes drenched in reverb (at moments, it's hard not to imagine Delonge dressed in black with lipstick as he sits in his room and listens to old vinyl), there's Barker pushing the songs along like the Cure's Disintegration on hi-speed dubbing. Just by presence alone, Barker manages to make the record feel like a celebration and reaffirmation of life. Especially if your idea of celebrating involves sprinting a marathon after a head on collision. And while Neighborhoods doesn't possess the stylistic breadth of it's eponymous predecessor, it still manages to make both the marathon and the collision pretty damned thrilling.

Living Well is the Best Revenge

After 31 years and 15 albums, R.E.M. called it quits today.

To put it mildly, I was shocked. And, possibly, a touch sad. R.E.M. has been a perennial presence throughout my life. From the WTFness of their "PopSong '89" video to their emergence as alt rock royalty amongst the flannel and converse crew, they informed my adolescence in innumerable ways. Their second life, without drummer and songwriter Bill Berry, has not been without its touching moments either. I'm very fond of the last two records and Up, their first without Berry, still jumps out at me as a hauntingly pretty piece of work.

But really, this news makes me happy in a lot of ways.

In April, I wrote an afterward on this year's Collapse Into Now . In it, I mentioned the album's resemblence to Document and the coincidence that they both fulfilled their respective record contracts. At the time, I wondered "What's next?" It seems I was not the only one.

Granted, as thrilling as it would have been to see them take control of their career in the same manner that their progeny have (see Pearl Jam, Radiohead), the challenge that presented had to have been daunting. But not nearly as daunting as the possibility of them losing the plot again. This year's Collapse Into Now and it's predecessor, Accelerate, have been thrilling albums to be sure. But both of the albums they followed, Reveal and Around the Sun, yielded lots of shaky ground. Going out now allows them to go out with an incredibly tuneful and fun disc. They get to go out with a win, which is nice and probably a lot better than waiting for death (U2, we're looking at you).

Also, 31 years and 15 albums. Do the math.

As much as we take for granted and treat our favorite artists like natural resources, they don't owe me or anyone a damned thing. They've made more than a handful of my favorite records (which I'm sure I will extol the virtues of later). The only thing I'll truly be missing is the anticipation of what a new record holds.

So kudos to you, R.E.M., I tip my whiskey back in your honor. You've managed to make a catalog of good to truly brilliant records and ended it on a positive note. Thanks for that.

And it's not like, y'know, you can never change your mind.

RetroActive: Pearl Jam is My Hot Rod

In honor of Pearl Jam 20 coming out, I decided to pull this piece out of the past. It was originally written on May 7, 2006 as a reaction to the release of their self titled album (or, as you may know it, "Avocado." So sure, the review is a little old. But I like it because, at moments, it captures a huge catalyst of my adolescent life pretty well. Enjoy.


1993 saw the release of pearl jam's sophomore effort, Vs., and the resulting launch of the band's profile into the stratosphere. with the inevitable touring to follow, the band seemed scrappy and ready to take on the world. by the end of the tour, they had headlined the united states and opened for both U2 and Bob Dylan in europe. a learning experience to be sure.

as 1991 surely saw the floodgates open on a new demographic of music listeners, it was an exciting time to be a music lover and listener. even in albuquerque. touring behind Vs., pearl jam pulled into the albuquerque convention center in the fall of '93. while not my first concert ever, it was certainly the catalyst for something bigger in my life. washed out in hot red lighting, the band took to the stage and furiously bashed out their opening number, "animal." frenetic and furious, the band were a daunting proposition to watch. the whole hall seemed as if it could break out into a riot of catharsis amidst the guitars and screaming.

ultimately, this is what sealed my allegiance to music. realizing that lyrics could be poetry and music could be freedom, if only for three and a half minutes. as far as adolescent experiences go, this beats out losing my virginity by a long shot. while intimacy usually just gets better after your first time, this concert has seldomly been topped (but i am looking at you david byrne).

but pearl jam's career since then has been frequently messy, confounding and occasionally transcendental. always a brilliant live act(and one i'll never pass up), i've never seen them in this fighting form since. their albums have often opted for the difficult and unexplored way out; definitely a frustrating proposition for anyone expecting ten mk.II.

having followed them as a fan since their first appearance on saturday night live, however, i've come to appreciate this. i'm older. they're older. do we really need the same old song and dance that posers like scott stapp have so successfully co-opted? i think not. make mistakes. i'm sure they've got the money to. let the live wires dangle and make your dangerous pronouncements as you bully the pulpit of rock and roll.

the biggest frustration for fans, however, has got to be the overwhelming feeling that they stopped writing as a group about halfway through vitalogy. so what are we to make of their new eponymous cd?

quite a bit, methinks.

there's been quite a bit of noise over the fact that the band wrote, recorded and arranged this record together. immediately, there is an overwhelming feeling of greater cohesion to this record sonically. there is a lot of railing to be done by vedder here, whose voice is not nearly the rambled and bellowed creature it was on their first two records. instead, he seems to be reaching through emotions and melody in an attempt towards whatever his next destination is as a singer.

vedder, however, is not on his own here. the guitar work on the album is certainly sharper than the last few albums as stone gossard and mike mccready seem to be more in focus and more in step with their band. matt cameron's drums can only be described as being matt cameron-ish. if you don't know what that means, go listen to some soundgarden you hippy freaks. it's good for you. some of the most sublime moment's, however, belong to bassist jeff ament as he uses haunting but subtle basslines in the quieter moments of the record (mostly leaning towards the second half of the record).

there are songs (again, closer to the second half of the album) that almost sound like pearl jam aping the old stax records soul sounds before ripping the songs' arrangements open like only they can. in fact, the biggest surprise may not be how nice it is to hear such a ruckus from an older band. the real surprise here is how consistantly melodic vedder has become. in a manner not unlike a second coming, vedder (and the band by extension) reinvents himself as older, wiser, better but still vital. befitting the self title of this record, it's almost like a scrapbook of my favorite moments this band has had since vitalogy.

The Twilight Singers Play the Clubhouse in Tempe, 28 May 2011

Taking to the stage awash in a sea of red light, there's a disconcerting look firing up Greg Dulli's eyes. He looks like a wolf in the wild as he surveils the audience and it's hard to tell exactly what's fueling this look of menace. Is this Dulli the killer of Blackberry Belle or the penitant from Powder Burns? Maybe he's the doomed narrator whispering hushed confessions from 2000's Twilight as Played by...

Actually, scratch that.

The band, dressed to the black nines like some sort of Johnny Cash army, hardly looks like they're here to whisper any damned thing to any damned person. They prove as much when they open with the new album's "Last Night in Town." The song starts Dynamite Steps with a haunted piano refrain over which Dulli makes his latest exhortations to the rock and roll devil. But here, live and in person, the band plugs in and hits a full throttle from the get go. Powered by the jet fuel that is the rhythm section, this band isn't interested in haunting anyone. Instead, they rip open, reimagine and reinvent their catalog with a heady brew of muscular rock that's amphetamined with punk but tapered with soul.

Unlike the desparately introspective band that toured behind 2006's Powder Burns, this group wastes little time romancing the audience. The 2006 tour seemd like a high stakes excorcism in which Dulli played like his life and soul were on the line. But these Twilights play with the cocksure swagger of Steve McQueen behind the wheel: their playing is tight, focused and unsafe at all speeds but thrilling nonetheless. This is a brilliant band and they play like they know it.

Of course, this heady self awareness should hardly be shocking as it's been a hallmark of Greg Dulli's career. As the main instigator (singer/songwriter/producer) of the Afghan Whigs and now the Twilight Singers, he projected himself as the last of the great rock soulmen- a true alt rock lothario. No longer that svelte or young, the middle age spread of his frame now does little to diminish that power though. He, and his band by extension, play with the ferocity and precision of boxers past their prime but still primed to dangerous capability. Even the music acknowledges this when they open the smoky "Bonnie Brae." Easily one of the most trancendant songs of their catalog, they rope-a-dope it with a sad and sweet violin opening before the rest of the band kicks in with an almost martial explosiveness.

That volatility and the band's ability to control it through an entire set revealed a new and heretofore unseen identity of the Twilight Singers to me: survivors. Older and possibly wiser, they played with the precision and ferocity to let us know that still, even now, to this day, they can still fuck us up. And the audience still begged for more.

This weekend marks the end of the Twilight Singer's tour in San Francisco as they play 2003's Blackberry Belle with Mark Lanegan and Petra Haden in tow. I really wish I were there. Instead, I decided to publish this long overdue review from May. Special thanks to Travis Lewis who did a little post work on the photos.

"mary jane*"

When night falls, I drive out to the middle of the desert and watch as the stars creep in over the dusk. Stretching my fingers out, I believe I can almost touch them as they invade our reality.

For every star I see, I imagine a planet just like ours- far away but close enough to the light to support life. Except, there, I get to be someone else.

I think about how most ancient cultures predicate their calenders on the return of their gods. Like little girls, they dreamt of a prince charming who will sweep in and save us, save the day... awaken us with a kiss.

But every morning, I wake up under that huge desert sky knowing this- no one is coming to save us. It is up to us to save ourselves.

"hardy*"

*taken from the life and death of w.j.hardy

Pushing yourself to an (un)natural extreme is not about wanting to die. It's about wanting to not die. Or rather, it's about proving to yourself that you won't die... until you do. But the things that will actually kill you are few and far between and in that space there's a lot of life to be lived.

And once we know that we won't die, we scream for a little mercy between the beating of our hearts.

So enjoy it, this moment in time, because it's all we get.. Live. Love. Take that punch to the face. Because there's always farther to fall.

Priorities: I haz them!

Lately, this front has been quiet as I've been trying to push my life along in other areas. One of which has been searching out a new day job. My job now pays more than the mall and, as someone who's held down plenty of those jobs, I'm grateful. Still, even in this economy, I've had the feeling for a while now that I can find something a little more satisfactory.

It occurred to me tonight that, even though I was never offered the job, the most promising lead I got this year was one based on my writing. I wonder if that's supposed to mean anything...

RetroActive*: Cool'n Out with the Mighty Joe Strumm

*This piece was originally written and unleashed on the world on December 26, 2005. So it's safe to assume that I was probably plied with nothing but time, whiskey and records. Still, I had to go digging cause there was something in here that resonates for me still, to this day. Enjoy.

Steel yourself citizens, this just might be a little more myopic navel-gazing than you're used to. But, for whatever reason, this has been on my mind a lot in the last week or so. Maybe it's the notable dates of this month weighting heavily on my mind. Maybe it's a resurging interest in Jeff Buckley and soul music. Maybe it's just a need for the thirstfully honest music that only Joe Strummer could make. And while I'm not sure what brought this train of thought on, I know this much: I'm still bummed we didn't get more music out of Joe Strummer.

We never got a chance to get disillusioned with his post glory days output like say,... Johnny Rotten (that's Lydon to us), Rollins(yeah, I said it... but can anybody tell me what the album after Come In and Burn was?) or even Joe's Clash compatriot Mick Jones. True, Mr. Strummer released three albums on Hellcat Records before driving that great big cadillac in the sky, but i never felt disillusioned by them.

Actually, that's not entirely true. I believe it was about halfway through his sophomore effort, Global A Go-Go, that I realized the Clash were never coming back. And god forbid, if they did, they should've been making a reggae record. But still, once you got past the initial shock of Strummer sans Jones, these were good records. Truly global music as they incorporated his gutter folk music vibe with a little punk, a little hip-hop and whatever else his band could throw at the wall.

And then, there was that voice. I always joked with my friends that you knew who was singing for the Clash by how intelligible the words were. But underneath that, there was always this voice screaming for a little more humanity in the world. A voice that would threaten to hobble the hippies for, despite wanting the same goals, not being hard core enough. In a different time, it would have been interesting to see if Strummer would have been a Communist or a Socialist(i.e. guns vs. no guns).

Nonetheless, Strummer's Hellcat output featured an older, more somber and wise voice that at moments seemed to want to escape the weight of the Clash legend. At turns however, his voice still seemed to brilliantly rage with the intonation of "I AM Joe Strummer, dammit!" That uncontrollable fire- I think that's the sort of thing I miss the most. Strummer always held a gravitas that most others could only aspire to. Like Eddie Vedder. Does anybody else miss Mr. Vedder's wino antics?

I am saddened to think that I've only these three Hellcat records but happy at the same time that I've got them at all. It may just be time to move on to Bruce Springsteen. It could be argued that Strummer is what Springsteen would have been were he English. It could be argued that Springsteen is what Strummer would have been if you could understand his words. It could be argued... but I'm not sure I'm ready to understand the words.