February of 2006, I saw mewithoutYou in the Kokomo Convention Center. They had wrapped up a tour a couple months before, had done some writing, and were driving to California to record their new record.
That night, they played some of songs from that record for the first time. And immediately, it was obvious that things would be different.
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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.
Few groups have as varied a discography as mewithoutYou. They’ve forged a musical niche for themselves that is as diverse as it is consistent. Their records have run the gamut from blistering post-hardcore to intense indie rock to charming folk.
But looking back across eighteen years and seven albums, it can be easy to forget that mewithoutYou (whispers) sorta started out as a joke.
For all of its simplicity, there’s something about punk that’s just slightly inaccessible.
If it keeps too close to the formula, it’s derivative. If it strays too far, or even if it has the right sonics but the wrong attitude, it’s a sell out.
Even if a band captures all of the fury and wrath of punk live, capturing that energy on record is as difficult capturing lightning in a jar.
But nobody must have told METZ.
Iggy Pop once called Iceage “the only dangerous-sounding punk band in the world.” After listening to their sophomore record You’re Nothing, I completely agree with the Lewd One.
Their newest record finds them gunning to reclaim that title after a brief detour, and it does not disappoint. Continue reading
How do you follow up a breakout hit that managed to mix political protest with dancefloor-ready art pop?
If you’re M.I.A., you turn up the dial on every element of your debut and set those suckers to eleven.
“What is my age again?”
That’s the question I found myself asking when, at the age of 31, I purchased my first copy of this record (I had Napster’d it originally. Oh, sweet Napster).
The mid-to-late seventies were a great time for punk. An unvoiced rebellion finally found its eloquence wearing ripped denim and filling CBGB & OMFUG (Joey Ramone having convinced the owner to let punk bands play there instead of just country, bluegrass, and blues acts).
Punk was fresh, it was real, and most importantly, no one knew what punk was supposed to sound like yet. Whenever I hear Heart of Glass between Brothers and Allman on the oldies station (my town’s radio stations are weird), I shake my head incredulously muttering, “these guys used to play with the Ramones.” And Television too, but Television isn’t exactly what you think of when you think of punk either.
On their second full length, Fugazi decided to keep control of the boards to themselves. The way they tell the story, none of them wanted to offend any of their bandmates by turning their parts down or suggesting second takes, resulting in a very democratic mix and a very safe album.
I am a very late arrival to the Black Flag fan club, and I am kicking myself for it. In high school, I was all over the Drive-Thru, Victory, Tooth & Nail, Dischord, and Kung Fu records catalogues, not realizing that almost every single one of the bands I had on repeat had cut their teeth listening to Black Flag.
And this record is truly worthy of its following.