In the years following Ten Stories, a few things happened to mewithoutYou.
They added Brandon Beaver, who was a session player on Ten Stories as a full-time member. Then, they went on a special tour to celebrate Catch For Us the Foxes. Finally, they signed to Run For Cover Records, a haven of post-hardcore and punk bands.
You could look at that set of datum and conclude that they were returning to their punkier roots. And you’d be right.
As much as I’ve looked forward to this section of my collection, I’m sitting here with “January 1979” blaring at a complete loss of what to say about this record.
Do I talk about the broad scope of Aaron’s lyrics as he dissects theology, philosophy, and his own mental state in a yelping shout? Do I talk about how the rest of the band broke the doors off of punk music to create some of the greatest soundscapes put to tape? Do I talk about how over the last fourteen years, no record has meant more to me?
Because this record is all that and more. And if I didn’t have work to do today, I could write about this record all day.
In the summer of 2004, I found a copy of [A–>B] Life by mewithoutYou in the church camp bookstore for $7. I had seen the name trudging through the Tooth and Nail website (the things we used to do to find new music), and I was enchanted by Vasily Kafanov’s album art, so I took a chance on it.
On first listen, I hated it.
But following along with the lyric sheet, I realized that there might be a worthwhile experience if I could dig in deeper. So I listened again. And again. And a few more times.
And over a few listens, I became fully convinced of the genius of this bookish, experimental post-hardcore outfit.
Following the dissolution of At The Drive-In, vocalist Cedric Bixler and guitarist Omar Rodriguez-Lopez splintered off to make a project inspired by Pink Floyd’s Piper At the Gates of Dawn.
While it might not have much sonic similarity to that influence, their debut full-length, De-Loused in the Comatorium is an absolute masterpiece marked with aural chaos and intricate composition.
For a new band, a successful debut can be more a curse than a blessing. How can you escape the record’s shadow without making something so different that you alienate existing fans? It’s such a conundrum that there’s a term for it: the Sophomore Slump.
Bands rise or fall on the strength of their second record. Hundreds of acts fade into obscurity after failing to deliver on the promise of their debut.
But some bands make an indisputable masterpiece.
Let’s set the scene.
It’s the year 2000. I’m a thirteen-year-old kid. I’ve just started to get into music, mostly through pop punk and ska. But at the same time, I’m coming to grips with how heavy the world can be.
Then, on a Thanksgiving trip to California, I stumbled upon Hybrid Theory by Linkin Park.
The year is 2000. I’m a nerdy kid who’s been transitioning from listening to nothing but Weird Al to getting into harder stuff like punk and hardcore.
As much as I loved heavier stuff like Zao and Project 86 (Drawing Black Lines is still an incredible album, fight me), there wasn’t really an output for my wacky sense of humor.
Then, on a youth trip to Washington DC, I discovered ska.
There are two jazz albums that you’ll find even in the collections of non-jazz enthusiasts: Miles Davis’ Kind of Blue and John Coltrane’s A Love Supreme.
And it’s worth noting that Coltrane played on both…
And in the pinnacle of cool jazz, Coltrane was there filling the same role. His solos on Kind of Blue remain some of the most iconic saxophone lines in music history. And like Miles before him (and most of the Kind of Blue band, honestly), he quickly grew too large to remain under his bandleader’s shadow and made a name for himself.
Taking the same modal harmonies of cool jazz, Coltrane added a sort of manic energy to it. Where cool jazz’s drummers largely rode the beat, rising from the background only occasionally, Coltrane lit a fire under his rhythm section, pioneering what would be called hard bop, before going full tilt into free jazz.
Like Kind of Blue for Miles, A Love Supreme is Coltrane’s capital G Great record. It is for hard bop what Kind of Blue is for cool jazz. It is a monolith of immaculately played hard bop that reaches far beyond jazz’s typical sphere of influence.There are hints of frenetic free jazz he would go on to write, but A Love Supreme is intricately composed, returning to a small handful of motifs throughout the record (the sung “Love supreme” melody that opens the record also closes it, appearing a few times in the middle section).
In the liner notes, Coltrane writes a beautiful psalm dedicating the record to God, and the devotion is easy to hear. Each breath of the saxophone, each hammered piano chord, each drum fill, each sliding bass line is a devout act, an act of worship somewhere between bliss and toil.
To say that Beck is one of the most celebrated artists of the last twenty years is a bit of a misnomer. Beck is in fact three or four separate artists fighting for power. You have the hip hop ironist (Mellow Gold, Odelay, The Information), the rock & roll archivist and experimentalist (the Record Club, the Song Book), pop classicist (Guero, Midnight Vultures), and space-bound, heart-rending singer-songwriter (Sea Change). Of all of Beck’s faces, his earnest face has always been my favorite. Sea Change is one of my favorite records of all time, its tender ballads paired with Nigel Godrich’s ambient production. And as much as I love The Information, and Guero and the like, I’ve long wished for a return to Sea Change’s earnestness. This year, Mr. Hansen delivered.
I recently stated that I haven’t cared about hard music in something like eight years. While that’s true, there is one exception.
Even as I dismissed the more fist-in-the-air tastes of my youth in favor of more cerebral tastes like folk, electronica, Krautrock, and the like, As Cities Burn’s debut has always been near the top of my favorite albums.