Monuments

Fire in the Radio

Monuments

(Wednesday Records)

When I was a young teen working my first job, I saved up all of my money in order to buy a big ole Hi-Fi component stereo system with tower speakers.  It was my pride and joy.  Late at night, I would sit in the dark on a canvas chair in front of the system with my headphones on.  I would stare into console, as I marveled at the power boost a strong FM signal would give to music – an added buzz and increased separation of sound.  I would lose myself in the music and the lights that illuminated the otherwise dark components of the stereo creating a warm glow.  It looked like little city grid in there, or like a little fire burning inside.  My family constantly made fun of me for staring at the stereo with such intent, which could happen at any time and for hours at a stretch.  “Enjoying the view?” my Mom might quip as she passed by my room.  Though some of those components have broken down or petered out over the last 35 years, I still have the same basic system.  It is still an alter acting as a nightlight in my darkened bedroom, and the music it plays keeps me alive.

What does all of this have to do with the new album, Monuments, from Philadelphia band Fire in the Radio?  Other than the fact that their name brought those memories to the fore, the music does make me feel like a kid again.  This is the first I’ve heard of this band, though it is their third LP, and it is filled with punk inspired guitar anthems.  This is the type of thing that used to mystify me.  Like, why isn’t this hugely popular?  These guys rock!  There are chiming power chords, propulsive throbbing basslines, relentlessly upbeat drumming, and sing along choruses everywhere.  The lyrics are thoughtful and can draw out all kinds of personal emotional connections.  Plus the production is big and bright and radio ready.  Yet, here we are.  I found the album via Bandcamp just like most of the other criminally underappreciated artists on there fighting for an audience.

I do not know anything about Fire in the Radio and there is no information about them on the record sleeve.  To me, it sounds like there are two lead vocalists, which is always a strength if you ask me, because it creates a nice unforced variety.  The album opens with an instant favorite “Let’s Get to the Start,” a song about needing to reset after a crippling disagreement.  It reminds me a ton of early Idlewild’s incredible 100 Broken Windows album, as does the excellent “Tulare” and the more Remote Part-ish “This is My Document.”  On the other hand, you’ve got the more difficult (not as straight-ahead), heavier songs such as “Gravity” and “Breaking,” which hint at Bivouac -era Jawbreaker as played by a mid-90s Washington DC band, are still infused with ear appealing choruses.  Speaking of Washington DC, the cranking “Ex-SF” reminds me of Fugazi.  Another highlight for me is the wistful “I Said,” which cruises along like a Chris McCaughan led Lawrence Arms heartbreaker.  I am a sucker for sparse lyrics about quiet moments in time that feel emotionally monumental.  Which brings me to the closing song “Save Me.”  This is exactly the kind of song I was referring to earlier.  This universally understandable song should be massive!  It is so damn catchy, it rocks, it’s easy to sing along with (and to get stuck in one’s head), and it is tragically sad in a desperate identifiable way (“Save me now / save me from the demons I once brought home / I don’t want to be left alone”).

It has been too long since I’ve had this kind of punk rock band come into my life, and there is always room.  It's energizing and exciting.  There's a certain cathartic enjoyment I get out of loud, emotionally charged upbeat songs that are also tender and, at times, heartbreaking.  It doesn’t hurt when the bulk of the songs stick with you and repeat over and over in your head – in a good way.  “Wake me up / It’s time.”

(https://fireintheradio.bandcamp.com/)

Fire in the Radio "Tulare"

Metropole

The Lawrence Arms

Metropole

(Epitaph)

I must be extremely hard headed - my skull so thick that not much leeches in and certainly no insights are allowed to escape.  I seem to need constant reminders to mentally engage with life.  Even when I do make an effort to sort out important aspects that I have allowed to lag, all the other stuff gets all dusty and disheveled.  It’s an endless cycle that generally winds up with me giving up all efforts out of feelings of futility and letting everything around me decay for awhile.  Once I wake up again and give it another go, I find myself further behind and less likely to be inspired to reach whatever lofty and elusive goals I set for myself.

Life always feels so fleeting and disposable.  I spend way too much time focusing on the emptiness I often feel about how fast and difficult things always seem, and lose focus on actually living what little time I have available.  What is the point of life?  Is there one?  Things continue on – people die just as more are born and each generation continue to make the same mistakes over and over again as everything is eventually forgotten.  Similarly, I find myself continually sinking into patterns, repetition, and lethargy as the days pass and turn into weeks and months and then years.  It seems I need to be reminded that I hate feeling complacent and barely aware of another year passing by.  Yet, here I am - still hoping to get myself sorted out and find a direction that doesn’t overwhelm me with stress and frustration – right where I started.

The Lawrence Arms have always understood this.  They shook me out of my state of sorrow and self-pity back in 2003 with their amazing album The Greatest Story Ever Told (see why here) and now nearly eight years after their shredding last album (2006’s Oh! Calcutta! – my #1 pick of the year seen here), they’ve returned to kick my sagging ass with their sixth full length Metropole.  Much like The Greatest Story, Metropole is a unified work.  Every song hints at the passage of time and the struggle to keep one’s spirit alive at least as long as our bodies. 

A sample snippet of the closing track, “October Blood,” opens the album with the line: “I was born and I died, and just a moment went by” and it serves as the de facto thesis for what the next 30 or so minutes of punk rock have in store.  Both Brendan Kelly and Chris McCaughan are clearly agitated by the realization that all of those dreams and goals of the young all wind up futile and lost.  The first verse of “You Are Here” – the first sneak peak we had of this album in December begins with: “Where you are is where you are / and it’s just the way it is / days keep rolling on / they won’t miss me much when I’m gone.”  The wash, rinse, repeat dominance of our lives is a constant target throughout (“most days I take the train from here to there / then back to here” – from “You Are Here”).  The shouted vocal of the rousing “Hickey Avenue” urges us to “get rolling out of this shitty yellow light / ‘cuz we’ve been droning through this endless parade of identical days / nothing changes / it only rots away,” as they are trying to wake us up: “What are we doing here?  Nothing.  That’s what’s killing me!”  Elsewhere, in “Acheron River” (or ‘river of woe’ for the ancient Greeks), Brendan sings “I’m just on this train and stuck in several thousand different ruts” as he teeters on the edge of giving it all up completely (“take me down to the river / take me to where all the poisons flow / and let’s ride this fucker home”).  Fittingly, this rambunctious, yet fatalistic song is followed by even more fatality.  “Metropole,” which opens quietly, as Chris strums an acoustic guitar and sings of “years on repeat” and “years of defeat,” while Brendan steps in with the line “the traffic lights blinked a million times / I blinked twice and twenty years went by” before they both repeat at the conclusion “This is the end of all things.” 

The end of all things indeed, as a dark “Raskolnikovian Gloom” ( see Dostoyevski’s Crime and Punishment) takes over the middle third of the album, as Brendan’s explosive, could give a shit rant “Drunk Tweets” slaps anyone and everything in sight with loads  of ‘F-you’s’ as he cuts down our society’s waste and blind belief in ignorance, before concluding that we’re shooting ourselves down as a whole  – “but there’s no unraveling the rings of the tree / Lord keep my soul…the fuck away from me.”  Then, Chris’ “The YMCA Down the Street from the Clinic” guides us through a melancholic tour through more moral decay and emptiness (“Back when I was a boy there were okay ways to go / but baby, I got old / and somewhere I ditched my soul”). 

There is a lot to take in here.  The Lawrence Arms have always exorcised major demons in their expertly performed songs, but usually with a lot of humor and cynicism.  But this one, after the first few listens, brought back all of my memories of being a little kid sitting in the bathtub with plastic boats floating around me and imagining only blackness after death and becoming inconsolable.  But there are moments of light that eventually come through.  The aforementioned call to action in the fitful “Hickey Avenue” shows signs of life.  And though “Seventeener” dwells on the sudden realization of getting old (when, let’s face it, if we’re 40 or 50, or whatever, there’s still a big part of us inside that feels like the same little kid we always were inside.  Somewhere along the line, we miss our own passage of time); he still manages to find a way to restart – even if it means going back to writing ‘teenage’ poetry.  In “Beautiful Things,” Chris also finds solace in his desire and passion for writing songs as a way to search for “truth in the dust.”  Meanwhile, in “Paradise Shitty,” (they continue their occasional Guns and Roses song re-titling) the fight against complacency is handled by hurtling oneself into life and not worrying about dangers and potential consequences.  Luckily, the album closes with the most uplifting song.  “October Blood” brings us back to the beginning: “I was born and I died and just a moment went by,” but instead of dwelling on this tragic notion as much of the album, Chris defiantly states in the chorus “I burn on / I burn on / endless summer in my heart,” as he takes the time to take in the beauty and majesty of what we do have in life - which is probably the simple answer to the meaning of life question: do your best to enjoy it while you can.

(facebook.com/thelawrencearms)

"Seventeener (17th and 37th)"

The Greatest Story Ever Told

“I was frustrated and angry”

Sometimes a band and/or an album come along at the perfect time. When I was spending three years strapped into a dialysis chair for three days a week for four to five hours at a time there wasn’t a lot to look forward to each day outside of trying to make it through a work day and surviving. One might think with all that downtime at dialysis, I could at least get in a lot of reading, listen to a ton of music and maybe even write. One might think that, but for the most part those years are blank. I pretty much lost my fanatical taste and exuberance for music, I did read my way through many sleepless, restless nights, but couldn’t focus while going through those awful sessions. There are a few exceptions. Every once in a while an album or a song would come along to breathe new life into my waning soul. It was at a 2002 summer time Dillinger Four show (a rough and tumble Minneapolis punk band, who I discovered in the late 90s through another Allied Records punk compilation Invasion of the Indie Snatchers in my constant search for a new punk rock band to replace Husker Du, then Jawbreaker and J Church, then V Card, etc. in my weird little lexicon – see the prior two posts Ache and Letter to Hope), when opening act the Lawrence Arms cranked out the soaring and heartfelt “Nebraska” and blew my friend Jeff and I away. Initially, during their set, we exchanged accepting glances, because we were surprised to find an opening act we’d never heard of, earning our jaded attention. It was when we heard memorable lines from “Nebraska” like “your sarcasm radiates unhappiness / so withdrawn and rooted deep inside” over a dry repetitive guitar pluck, before exploding into an earnest desire to help a depressed friend (“your bitterness doesn’t surprise me / as these pointless days go screaming by / rejected sour eyes / can’t imagine blue skies / I wish you could find something to live for / besides the agony of bleeding towards this last breath”) that completely won us over. It was those understanding words that I needed to hear during a time when I felt sick and weak all of the time and wasn’t sure if I would ever get an opportunity for a kidney transplant. It was hearing those words coming from a self deprecating loose punk band that made it seem somehow more poignant.

Nebraska live 2009

The Lawrence Arms are (or were) a punk rock trio from Chicago, who have released five albums along with a couple of split albums, singles and a ton of punk compilation tracks (so far between 1999 and 2009). I love every single one of them. However, it was their 2003 fourth album, The Greatest Story Ever Told, which stands as their high point both creatively and for me personally. It is also their most overlooked. It’s one of those album albums. Most of the songs connect together and reference each other creating a big picture theme. In other words, it’s not the type of album where it’s easy to pull out a song or two for mixes to share, nor is it easy to listen to just one song. It is an experience. It isn’t a bloated double or triple album mess. It is concise at just over 30 minutes and stays true to their roots – roots that land firmly in the long standing sensibilities of Midwestern punk rock. Their hard partying tales of ineptitude and debauchery provide a picture perfect postcard into the life of the disaffected and downtrodden in an insightful and an alternately blunt and poetic way. This album is brilliant at mixing odd pop cultural references with literary masterpieces into a cohesive message of frustration and anger (there are mentions of Juggalos and Hot Shots Part Deux slipped in between references of Mikhail Bulgakov’s The Master and the Margarita, painter Elhajiman Young, writers J.D. Salinger, Tobias Jeg and Gustav Meyrink among others – and yes, there are actually footnotes for the lyrics!). It is that message of frustration and anger and feelings of helplessness that I not only identified with during those dialysis sickness years, but fed off of. Their music and this album inspired me and filled me with an energy that I had forgotten I was capable of. It was the 2003 holy trinity of albums spewing social and political outrage TSOL’s Divided We Stand, Killing Joke’s second self-titled masterpiece along with this, The Greatest Story Ever Told, that helped me find my outrage and verve and passion for music and life again. It became impossible for me to listen to a song like “Alert the Audience” and ever feel sorry for myself, while reclining in the pleather dialysis chair, hearing bassist Brendan Kelly’s raspy voice shouting at me in my headphones during the shredding climax of the song:

“I’m a clown and I’m choking on blood, teeth and tongue

Fuck the spectators. Fuck the ‘he was so young’

Fuck forced sympathy through lifeless glass eyes

Povichian voyeurs drinking my cries

Fuck faced trilobites waiting to die

I can’t stand the humor, and I can’t stand the lies”

Instead I became instilled with a desire to take back control of my failing health and fight to overcome or at least fail trying my hardest to make a difference, while scratching to survive.

“I’m a clown, we’re only here to entertain” is the thematic link that spreads throughout this album, starting with the ‘Hobo Clown Chorus’ that acts as the introduction amongst a hacking cough and the sound of a beer can opening. Could it be a statement of dissatisfaction and disaffection from the faceless masses (the 99%) who help earn fortunes and glory for the few and are left with little recognition and reward? I think so (“Tear us up and stuff us down the drain” is the Hobo Clown Chorus’ concluding outro). Fittingly, the incredibly detailed and impressive sleeve art is loaded with old fashioned circus imagery to go with the repeated circus references in the lyrics. From that opening introduction, the album unwinds as guitarist Chris McCaughan and Brendan Kelly alternate the lead on each song. This is an important distinction, because they are two very different sounding vocalists and have very difference styles - Kelly’s more profane lyrics and chaotic bursts of noise pair perfectly with McCaughan’s more refined punk balladry (whatever that is). I can honestly say that I have no favorite song from this astounding collection that sweeps by too fast to fathom – begging for repeated listening.  I absolutely love this album from beginning to end.

Come to think of it, listening to this album now reminds me that I need to heed the lessons I learned ten years ago. It’s time to stop the slide into lethargy and regain some fire. Isn’t that what rock-n-roll has always been about?

The Disaster March 2003

100 Resolutions

“Where have I been all your life?

Sitting on fences, a Novocain for all the senses

Another year will pass us by

Making sense of nothing in defense of something

I laughed too late and dug myself into a grave”

7:58 AM 3rd floor

Filling out more health history paperwork. I can fill these things out in my sleep. I love how on the MRI questionnaire, they ask if you’ve had surgery (yes, or no) and if so, “list.” The space given for “list” is tiny. It always makes me laugh, though I would hope that most people check ‘no.’ I’ve developed a special method of providing all of my past surgeries using a tiny shorthand to squeeze all the info into the single spaced line provided, despite knowing that no one ever looks at these things. This morning I am distracted by one of the receptionists at the radiology desk. She is really really pretty, her smile is friendly, her voice is amazing and she’s dressed up like people just don’t generally do much anymore. Why do I have such a thing for medical receptionists? I spent a good part of last summer trying to win over my nephrologists’ receptionist who also happened to be in the bowling league I temporarily joined. That didn’t go well, and now, I’m sure that my constant glancing at this receptionist over the top of the clipboard in my hand is completely creeping her out. I’m waiting for a quiet moment to return the useless form to her, but the steady stream of fellow scan patients keep flowing in. It seems odd to me that there are so many people scheduled for MRI’s, CT scans, ultrasounds, PET Scans, and the like and that the waiting room was designed to only allow for a few feet of space for patients to wait in line between the “Stop Here for Patient Confidentiality” sign and the door into the clinic (Really? Like we can’t hear any conversation from 4 feet away? Is this TV world where side conversations seem to go unnoticed by people in the same room?). It amazes and saddens me that these places are so busy at all.


8:16 AM 3rd floor

The MRI tech brought me to the changing room area, where I would normally dump all of my things and climb into my favorite tie-in-the-back dressing gown and a pair of grey grippy socks. Instead I was told to wait here until the radiologist could come ask me some questions. After all of these years, I don’t think I’ve actually ever spoken with a radiologist. I normally deal with the techs and those dreamy receptionists. One other person has already gotten started, as one of the eight changing rooms has clothes piled up on the bench. I’m sitting directly across from the clothes in the room opposite with the curtain open wondering why this person didn’t use one of the lockers that are provided. I’m also wondering if I should be using one of the lockers. Maybe I misunderstood? Maybe I’m supposed to be getting changed? They didn’t give me a gown. An attractive blond woman, the apparent owner of the clothes, strides by from the scanning area and is startled by my presence as she catches sight of me in her periphery. Once again, I feel like an unbelievable creep, sitting silently in a changing room with the curtain open. It’s unfortunate, because I’m harmless and was placed here through circumstance. Somehow, I don’t think it would’ve helped my case if I had sat in here with the curtain drawn. I’ll just keep my head lowered writing this while I wait for the radiologist. The woman across the way changes quickly and rushes out the door. Maybe security will greet me soon instead.


9:57 AM 1st floor

Another MRI done. This one was quicker than usual. Maybe advances in technology are finally speeding these things up. The jackhammer noises seem a little softer around the edges. I used to imagine that these sounds were a source of inspiration for the old industrial bands I used to like so much back in the late 80s and early 90s and that I could hear music inside the noise. The vice grip cage around the head and claustrophobic oppression of the machine have not changed, however, which leaves the oppression and discomfort at high levels. After doing these things for the last 20 plus years though, I just doze off nowadays.

My new receptionist crush was not at the desk once I was released. I was going to ask her to validate my parking (I remember when I used to love turning almost any sentence into terrible double entendres), in lieu of actually asking her out or engaging her in any kind of personal way in order to save her from my general terribleness. Too bad. Now do I go grab a quick bite to eat at the café or keep sitting around in the lobby unintentionally spooking out more innocent bystanders? Since the IV contrast always leaves me feeling full and mildly nauseous, I think I’ll keep writing until my next appointment.

What am I going to do with this year? I suppose if the results of my MRI are bad, my year will be waylaid by some surgery or a procedure with more radiation, but I’m pretty sure everything will be stable. What concerns me though is that the turn of the calendar generally comes with some optimism. It offers a chance to reflect on what has passed and what kind of goals I’d like to achieve during the upcoming year. Instead, I am left feeling completely adrift. I’ve never been a New Year’s Resolution kind of person, but I like to have a few general goals to focus on during the date change. Last year I was focused on being more social and active and I was. I was out and about last year more than I’ve been since I was in my twenties, but by the time the rainy and cold weather arrived with darkness, I have found myself wanting to avoid almost any kind of interaction. Last year, I had hopes that my job would continue to improve and help me find some kind of financial stability, but by the end of the year, my job had me feeling stressed, irritated, and broke – despite working a relentless schedule. Last year I had planned on doing a lot more writing, and I did. I wrote and completed at least a piece every couple of weeks and I spent a huge amount of time at the end of the year writing about my favorite music of 2012, and it all left me wondering why I write at all. I’m not very good, I don’t generally enjoy the process, and when I do share it, about 85% of the traffic to the blog site comes from some spam website. All of this has been very discouraging. I honestly don’t know what to do next. Some friends have mentioned that writing a journal might help get my weird need to write out of my system, so that’s why I brought a pad of paper and a pen with me today, but journaling in the past has always been fleeting after I tire of berating myself on paper for a few entries. Not sure what to do. Not sure what to look forward to. I need a spark. I need a resolution.


10:24 AM 8th floor

Neurosurgery waiting room and another useless form on a clipboard. This time the receptionist is some twenty something guy who called me “bro,” which always brings a smile to my face. He then gets up and leaves. I wonder if he was really an employee. He seemed too friendly. I have always hated this specific appointment. It has very little to do with any potential nerves regarding my test results, but everything to do with the pain of the appointment itself. Everything about visiting this doctor has always been terrible. The scheduling process with “Todd” is always difficult, frustrating and awful. This time it only took about three weeks to get something set, but there have been times when getting an MRI and follow-up has taken 15 to 20 calls to achieve. He rarely answers his phone and when he does, he is always short and mildly rude before declaring that he will call back with the appointment times. This rarely actually happens. Once the appointment has been secured, the visit itself has always been an ordeal. It generally starts with the useless form and an epic wait before finally being led back to an exam room by a nursing assistant who collects vital signs and asks questions that were on the form about medications and pain levels before lying about how the doctor will see me in a few minutes. I have previously written about a typical wait in these exam rooms before (seen here), which can become so long and harrowing that I am not sure that I leave with all of my faculties. When the doctor actually arrives, he brings with him an air of a major God Complex and four or five students. He did do an amazing job with the dangerous brain cyst removal when I was quickly and painfully losing my motor skills, so I do feel a fondness for him, despite his demeaning arrogance (Stockholm syndrome?). Actually the last few years, he hasn’t even bothered to spend those two minutes with me telling me that there have not been any significant changes with the six cysts that they are monitoring. Instead a few students have been sent in to do this effortless deed, along with confusing and inaccurate information, since they have no idea who I am.

I set the clipboard on the unguarded receptionists’ desk and wonder if the entire staff went out for brunch. I should be thankful. This is still better than the alternative. This 7+ year stretch without a surgery is the longest I’ve gone without since my first 13 years.


lyric quote from the Lawrence Arms