Songs of a Lost World

 

The Cure

Songs of a Lost World

(Fiction/Capitol)

My introduction to The Cure was around 40 years ago with their jaunty single “The Lovecats.”  I absolutely cannot describe how big that song was in helping determine my musical journey as a teenager.  Never had I heard a song so exuberant.  There was unbelievable feeling inside those three and a half minutes in such a silly little pop song.  There was a distinct noticeable passion, a sense of free experimentation, and an uncanny tunefulness that captured my heart.  I couldn’t stop listening to it.  This led me to seek out more and I learned how different they were before that song.  That passion was always there no matter if we’re talking about their earliest spiky garage punk, or their mysterious sparse post-punk, or the bleak, unrelenting darkness of Pornography, to the synth-pop of that time I first heard them.  The Cure paved their own varied path and even in their lesser moments (in my opinion) have always been intriguing and worth notice.  Their long and storied discography is varied, exciting and refreshing. 

Here we are with a new album, Songs from a Lost World, sixteen years after 2008’s 4:13 Dream.  To be honest, I haven’t been very engaged with their output since 1992’s Wish and even that one took me awhile to fully appreciate.  I think a big part of it is that I had changed my tastes away from those early teenage years – not that I didn’t listen to the hell out of their post Disintegration releases, because I still felt Robert Smith’s path and how he has never phoned in a record.  He has staunchly continued to be wildly creative, varied, unceasingly heartfelt, and authentic..  

When Songs of a Lost World finally showed up, after years of leaks, and live performances of some of these new songs, I was excited like I was as a kid anticipating the release date of Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me in 1987 as a 16 year old – snagging a random ride to the nearest town that might have a record store that would offer a copy.  On the actual release date of Lost World on November 1^st, before I ventured out to the local record shop, I was surprised at the immediate social media nitpicking of the record.  Everyone’s opinions are welcome and at least as valid as mine, yet I wonder why so many were so immediately critical.  Why listen to it once and complain about the long intros before Robert Smith’s vocals come in.  Have they actually ever listened to The Cure?!  It’s been a staple for years!! Having said that, my early critique is that the mix is too compressed and in your face.  I think I’d prefer for the sound to be more dynamic, allowing the brilliant arrangements to rise and fall, though through endless repeated listens it has started to expand for me and reveal more subtleties. 

Robert Smith had a huge influence on not just my musical tastes, but also introducing me to an unhealthy fear of aging.  As a 14 year old, I would listen to The Head on the Door’s timeless ode to growing old “Sinking” like an old man fearing his oncoming and inevitable death.  The day I turned 22, I told a 15 year old kid I occasionally worked with that I was “over the hill.”  Now, close to 40 years later, this album has connected in a similar way, as a realistic sense of mortality has crept into my life.  Smith’s lyrics on this album are as incisive as he’s ever been.  There’s a laser like focus of someone obsessed with finding a way to navigate the fear of death as decay sets in.  This has hit home for me, in a similar way the Cure first began guiding me through my formative tears.  Every song feels both tragic, yet redemptive and exciting.  So many of those ancient Cure songs helped a lot of us along with relatable songs, while offering a lot of amazing tunes and commiseration.  Words that can be comforting and help us not feel so alone. 

“Alone,” the first song and single is a sad lament about the finality of death.  It is so heartbreakingly relatable, yet woven inside a catchy meditative tune that repeats the line “where did it go” refrain with a genuine worry.  The orchestrations of the aging love ballad “Nothing Lasts Forever” makes me think of a senior prom slow dance only aimed at a roomful of people who no longer feel safe going out after dark.  Meanwhile, “A Fragile Thing” sounds a lot like one of those great album tracks that may not attract attention initially but eventually becomes the favorite over time that the Cure are so adept at creating.

“War Song” comes on incredibly heavy the way “The Kiss” did with Smith’s distinctive wailing unsettled guitar easily describing the conflict long before the bitter lyrics hit.  “Drone: No Drone” is an in your face grinder that flows with a groovy classic Simon Gallup bassline and a great Smith vocal chorus that lands somewhere between “Hot Hot Hot!!!” and “Burn.”  

Overall, Songs of a Lost World, reminds me of Disintegration (1989).  Back then, many of us thought that that album was going to be the Cure’s final album, but this feels like the perfect follow up.  “I Can Never Say Goodbye” hints at “Prayers for Rain,” while referencing the orchestration and the less resigned side of “And Nothing is Forever.”  The penultimate song “All I Ever Am” begins with a warbled keyboard hook before pounding into an urgent refection of past mistakes and regrets.  Would anything have mattered?  The closing “Endsong” is an epic in every way, but the long opening builds and builds much the way “Closedown” did in 1989, as it leads into a truly sad lament about losing everything.  All the work we do in life.  All of the goals, the dreams, the successes, all lead to “Nothing” in the end.  Perhaps it’s just me, but in “Endsong,”Smith sounds less hurt than the opening “Alone.” It’s as if he has guided us toward more acceptance along the way through these eight numbers.  It’s an incredibly intense song that pulls no punches.  It may sound strange, but such a direct sad song is inspiring to me.  The sadness is truly felt, in the way that The Cure have always delivered the gamut of emotions in such a genuine way.  The directness and harsh reality of the words, help in addressing my own feelings regarding death, amongst many other realities. 

Welcome back to The Cure!  This album is excellent in so many ways.  Songs of a Lost World is exactly the balm I needed in these strange, uncertain, and confusing times.  As I continue to read various complaints about this album, I can’t help but wonder if a fairly new band put out an album of this quality, how many would be drooling over it as the landmark great release of our time?  Personally, I hope that this is an album I will hungrily listen to for a long time to come.  Leave it to the Cure who initially inspired a passion in me for seeking out truly honest music that confronts a lot of those emotions many of us fear to come along and chisel away the hardened coating that has grown around my heart through a lot of experience.

(https://www.thecure.com/)

The Cure "Alone"

Whichever Way the Wind Blows

Last summer I was introduced to reruns of a show from the early 90s named Tropical Heat, or as it was known in the US, Sweating Bullets – a part of Crimetime After Primetime *.  It was a basic private detective TV show set in on a fictional Florida Key, kind of a Rockford Files updated for the 90s.  I had not previously heard of it.  It took me several episodes to warm to it.  The show was a low budget affair that recycled a lot of actors that are often cringe worthy.  It was clearly a vehicle for fist fighting action and bikini clad women and the shirtless hero, Nick Slaughter, in sunny tropical beach environs.  I became obsessed.  When I first heard the terrible, reggae-lite theme song, all of my sensibilities rejected it, but soon enough, I began watching the opening of the show regularly on YouTube just to listen to the song.

 

Strangely I began to feel wistful while watching these subpar episodes of a show that I couldn’t find anyone who had ever even heard of before.  It reminded me of my late high school years, when I had mostly given up sleep and would find myself getting weepy over a silly plot from The Patty Duke Show at 3AM.  I tried chalking it up to spending too much time alone, but this felt deeper.  I began to feel an emotional attachment to all of it – the main characters, the environment, that awful theme - rivalling long lost happy memories, as one might reflect on a summer fling from a teenage week spent at a fun away camp – déjà vu. 

 All of this felt wrong to me.  Why?  Why was this stupid show getting to me?  Eventually, it dawned on me that I have a history of highly rating superfluous TV shows and movies.  Like the aforementioned Patty Duke Show.  The movie I’ve seen more than any other is the late 70s Chevy Chase/Goldie Hawn vehicle Foul Play, though the original Fletch is a close second.  For years I have claimed that Ski School and its odd sequel, Ski School 2, are my favorite movies ever.  I’ve always said this with a sardonic tongue in my cheek, but knowing full well that I’d rather watch those than a universally acknowledged masterpieces. 

The answer I’ve come up with is that many of these characters, like the misfit ski school hero gang Section 8, Fletch, and Nick Slaughter are all wise cracking goofballs who say and do what they want – consequences be damned.  Of course they all have hearts of gold, but it’s the chaos they create with their honesty and combination of no bullshit and lack of concern for serious consequences that I find so appealing.  In Ski School, the thesis statement of the movie is: “in order to succeed you must lose your mind.”  Rumor has it that there may not have been a script, which would surprise no one who has seen the movie. 

I have lived my life following rules.  I’ve always been wound pretty tight.  One time my friend Wil convinced me to hop the commuter train for a few stops without paying the fare, and the entirety of the trip (<10 minutes), I was sweaty, itchy, and terrified.  Towards the end of our journey a pair of security guards boarded the train and my anxiety about being caught pushed me into a full on panic attack.  I didn’t get drunk or high growing up – not out of any kind of moral or health stance, but for fear of losing control.  This must be why characters who throw caution to the wind have such an appeal for me.  I’m not talking thrill seeking behavior, like skydiving or what not, I’m talking about those who challenge authority, when authority is in the way of justice - whatever that means. 

Don’t get me wrong, I am fully aware that these shows and movies I’m referencing are very of their time and incredibly unrealistic.  There can be an uncomfortable level of misogyny, lack of diversity, and of course a prevailing white male privilege – I mean, only a white guy could get away with being such a wise-ass malcontent to the police or any authority and avoid any consequences right?  Newspaper reporter Fletch broke all of the rules AND essentially gives the middle finger to the police chief, Nick Slaughter regularly mocks the local police, the mischief making misfits from Ski School constantly play cruel pranks on essentially everyone and when confronted with possible retribution, simply double down and intensify their wacky pranks and beer consumption.  The only threatened reprimand for their misdeeds is that their skiing privileges will be taken way, so the inevitable conclusion is: “They can’t stop us from partying, so they can’t stop us from skiing.”  I’m also aware that these ridiculous characters would be frustrating in real life.  Whatever charm they may have would burn away the instant that they get you involved in some kind of horrific street fight, or worse. 

After slowly working my way through watching the entirety of the show Tropical Heat, I learned that there had been a documentary made in 2012 named Slaughter Nick for President, which chronicles lead actor Rob Stewart’s visit to Serbia fifteen years after the show’s demise.  Apparently, this show had developed a cult popularity in Serbia during the 1990s civil war in the former Yugoslavia.  It seems that the sunny environs and freewheeling, yet doggedly loyal, lead character, Nick Slaughter, resonated with some of the populace in amongst that country’s darkest days.  I think I managed to tap into this strange idealism in some small way. 

 

Recognizing that I have had a buttoned up fascination with the idea of being more of a risk taker has been valuable.  At this stage of my life, I’ve grown to be content with who I am to a certain level.  I do not want to push the envelope too far and suffer very real consequences from stupid actions – I never have – but now I refuse to feel regret over risks not taken.  Perhaps I can simply enjoy watching these goofy shows, enjoy watching the freedom that these fictional characters exhibit, and do my best to take small leaps every once in a while. 

My refusal to stream movies and be involved with all of the high quality television available today frustrates a lot of people.  I clearly watch way too much TV, but I have little patience for getting involved with something that demands time and attention.  I like my rabbit ears sketchily picking up broadcast channels mostly airing old family friendly reruns and other formulaic shows.  If I can watch Tropical Heat reruns on channel 29.4 most evenings and daydream about being a reckless hero, then you know what?  I’m good with that. 

 

 

 

 

* 

·        In 1991, the CBS television network had abandoned their many failed attempts at competing with NBC’s late night talk show dominance against Johnny Carson’s The Tonight Show with similar talk shows hosted by a variety of celebrities.  Instead, they began filling that post late local news programming slot with a bunch of “edgy” hour long crime dramas that they advertised as Crimetime After Primetime.  Other than seeing the occasional promotion for these shows, I never bothered to watch any of them.  They were all unceremoniously canceled after a couple of years, as soon as CBS scored a deal with David Letterman to host a talk show against the Tonight Show.  The only show (I think) that survived was the colorful and titillating cop procedural Silk Stalkings, which moved to the cable channel USA and thrived throughout the entirety of the 90s.  At any rate, back then, I became obsessed with the idea of Crimetime After Primetime and would find any excuse to say it in my best gravelly  and deep announcer voice.  I have a strange memory of practicing the voice alone in a public restroom with especially interesting acoustics and emerging to a couple of mystified onlookers.

 

We Should Have Walked But We Ran

For a lot of people, talking about dreams is a deal breaker.  I love dreams.  Even the really dark ones spark a deep wonder in me.  I enjoy hearing about other’s dreams and am fascinated with the mystery of them.  My interest doesn’t go so far as deep diving into trying to interpret them, but it can be an enjoyable conversation.    I’ve never been a good sleeper, but have always been a good dreamer.  After experiencing a couple of creepy in hospital sleep clinics, I’ve been told by the professionals that I do not delve into all of the stages of sleep, but instead only drift into the first stage - a semiconscious state, which can provide incredibly lucid dreams.  Clearly, I have not done a lot of intensive research of this phenomenon, but I can confirm that I do, and always have had vivid and memorable dreams.

A  couple of years ago I stopped working due to medical disability, yet my mind seems to want to continue work, because I continue to frequently have restless dreams involving work, which generally include not being able to accomplish tasks and finding myself overwhelmed.  Because I’m not currently employed these dreams generally are a strange mishmash of many of my previous jobs, which give them an added stress due to their incongruity. 

All through my high school years, which was an unbelievable amount of years ago, I worked at a small town pizza joint.  While working there, my fellow co-workers and I often discussed our shared dreams caused by working long hours there.  It turned out that many of us had similar nightmares about falling behind during the crazy busy stretches.  One that still haunts me is being afraid to fall asleep because of the danger of burning an oven full of pizzas.  Several times, I remember waking up in my bed actually physically trying to use a pizza paddle to remove finished pizzas from my headboard.  Aside from those moments, the job was mostly fun.  The place was run by teenagers and my co-workers were also friends and confidants.  We had our own lingo and our shared experiences made us a tight family of sorts.  Our stripes were made up of bleach stained jeans and rotten sneakers.

I still occasionally dream about that place.  Recently, as usual, I was having a restless night trying to sleep.  I gave up several times, got out of bed, and managed to accomplish some chores and watch TV to try to settle my thoughts before attempting sleep again.  Next thing I knew i was standing with my cane next to that pizza place’s salad bar, which stood across from the beverage bar.  It was all there: the ice packed around a couple of dozen plastic canisters of salad toppings, adorned with kale fronds, both stained with beet juice and dribbles of various dressings freckled with strange rust colored bacon bits.  

The layout of that place consists of two side entrances – one on each side of the restaurant, an upper balcony of booths that run along three quarters of the rectangle that makes up the seating area, an open lower area offers large group sized tables behind the salad bar and beneath the upper level, and it’s designed so that customers order their meal at one counter fronting the open kitchen, and then order beverages at a different counter further into the building.

 

In the dream, my cousin Nikki and her husband Brett (cousin-in-law?), who are successful purveyors of hospitality businesses in Moscow, ID, had purchased this long-time pizzeria and were holding a grand opening of sorts.  They were there near where I was standing, along with three of my old friends/former co-workers: Ken, Eric, and Jamie – all of us filled out and decaying at various stages from age.  Apparently, Sylvester Stallone was sitting in a booth above us, surrounded by a small posse of security.  He was a celebrity guest of honor.  The biggest celebrity invite since Annette Funicello had been a confirmed no show for a high school dance that was held in the restaurant back in 1987.

 

At that point, I noticed that the front counter was empty of customers and the pizza maker and oven runner were folding pizza box flats into their finished state.  They were creating an impossibly tall stack, so that anyone trying to access one to put a finished pizza into will most likely knock the entire stack over.  This had been common practice back in my days of employment.  I decided to go stand at the counter and let the two teenagers know about my approval of their shenanigans.

 

As I approached the counter, the teenage girl who was there to take food orders, kind of made eye contact with me, before ducking down the hallway that takes one to the back are of the restaurant.

“Hey guys!” I stammered loudly, without warning, “Nice job with the Mega-Stack!”  I leaned into my cane with my right hand and waved my uncontrollable left hand in a useless effort to indicate that giant stack of folded pizza boxes.  “Just like we used to do!” I added, for unnecessary emphasis.  I hated every word that I had shouted.

The two guys looked at each other across the work table that divided them, instead of looking back at me, and after a pause, the pizza maker on the right, after a pause, while still maintaining eye contact with the oven guy, replied: “Thank you SIR.  I bet you got some tall stacks back in those days” 

The acerbity in his voice was exactly as it should’ve been and exactly how Ken, Eric, Jamie and I would have responded to such an invasion 30-40 years ago.  I spun slowly around and scooted back towards the small gathering of people standing on the main level below where Sylvester Stallone was holding court.  My cousin Nikki made eye contact with me, and as I approached, she asked me if the two guys had been rude to me, and looked prepared to scold them. 

“Not at all,” I responded.  They treated me, exactly as they should have, I looked back at the kitchen and the oven runner was tossing three pizza cutters into the air over the work table, as the pizza maker shouted out random instructions about how to juggle.

 

Bother

 

None of us want to be a bother, yet we all have differing ideas of what that actually means and likely apply it differently to those around us.  Trying to not be a bother has played a huge roll in my life and I’m not exactly sure why.  When asked why I’m so afraid of being a bother, I generally resort to an answer involving not wanting to be the center of attention or a nuisance, which is true, but it doesn’t tell the whole story.  Much like my recent realization that much of my decision making throughout my life has been made with a very temporary mindset, me realizing that I worry too much about being a bother to others has hindered my growth.  In both cases there’s nothing I can do about the past, but I can try to recognize it going forward and potentially do better going forward.

Abecedarians "They Said Tomorrow"

In 1990, I first heard the amazing song “They Said Tomorrow” by Abecedarians, which has a repeated line about the singer trying to build up the nerve to approach a someone he is drawn to: “If I bother you/please tell me to go away/I don’t want to bother you/but it’s not for me to say” and it hit me at the time like a ton of bricks.  It encapsulated so much of what I’ve always felt.  I’ve always felt like my presence alone is an unwanted intrusion.  I do not have a ready reason why this is and I don’t think it’s particularly important.  What I do know is that feeling this way has prevented me from trying a lot of things.  In that song “They Said Tomorrow,” it displays the other definition of ‘bother,’ which is to not try something period.  The narrator of that song keeps putting off this supposed urgent need, instead saying to himself “I’ll try it again tomorrow.”  This other side of the coin is intriguing me today, because it calls to motivation.  Have I been more concerned about disturbing others, or does it have to do more with me not wanting to disturb myself?  Did I not ask the girl out on a date, because I was afraid of bugging her, or was it because I was afraid of her saying yes?  It cannot ever have been about rejection, because that was pretty much my expectation.  After missing a week of school as a little kid, and falling woefully behind in math, did I not ask the teacher for help, because I didn’t want to draw attention to myself, or be a burden, or because I didn’t want to do the extra work to catch up? 

Not sure any of these questions are answerable in a definitive way, or if they’re even relevant.  The important part is to recognize, going forward, when I am about to use ‘bother’ as an excuse, I need to consider the response further.  If the past week has proved anything to me is that I am not far from needing to be taken care of to survive.  During the past week or so, I have fallen in public, which is scary because there’s little chance that I will be able to get up again on my own, I have found it nearly impossible to climb out of bed, I am struggling to eat or prepare food or even obtain groceries, I struggle to focus to fill out or even read health insurance paperwork, I canceled a doctor’s appointment, because it was too much effort to get there.  I will have to be a bother.  This cannot go on.  It’s depressing as hell.  I don’t know how to ask for help.  Perhaps, ‘bother’ to me, has always meant ‘burden’ – a heavy load to be dragged around.  I am trying my damnedest to get through this.  I wish it were a switch I could flip off.  

I have been blessed with family and friends that want to help, but I honestly don’t know how to accept it.  I do not feel like I deserve it.  It’s not so much that I don’t want to be a bother, it’s that I don’t think I’m worth the bother.  Perhaps that is where I need the most assistance – help to find the ability to accept assistance and accept it gracefully. 

Overkill

 

Apparently, I’m a very nostalgic person.  I was thinking about how during the fall of 1988, my senior year of high school, I made a melancholy mix tape made up of songs from my earliest purchased records, so we’re talking stuff from like 81-83.  I remember being a huge Men at Work fan in 5^th & 6^th grade and digging their goofy schtick.  By 1988, I was fully immersed in the darkness of a lot of postpunk, gothic rock and industrial, so I was pleased to choose songs like the hyper reflective and nostalgic “I Can See it Your Eyes” and the underrated “Overkill” as choices for my mix.  It was fun rediscovering these things from my then distant past.  It seems silly now, because that was only five or so years prior, but it was almost a third of my life at the time.  Now that I am officially old, five years is a blink of an eye in an ever-unchanging lifestyle.

 

Men At Work "I Can See it in Your Eyes"

I realize that it is quite meta to be reminiscing about a time that I was reminiscing about songs about reminiscing, but that’s how I seem to be built.  Besides, if one listens to these two songs closely, they will tell my story here much better and more eloquently than I can.

 

Men At Work "Overkill"

As summer turned into fall in 2004, I was sick.  I was really sick.  I’ve written about it before, so I won’t dive too far into it here, but I had been on kidney dialysis for almost three years, I was going through treatments to kill my immune system, and my skeleton was withering away.  I was dying.  I hadn’t given up, but unconsciously, I think I knew my time was coming.  I had stopped sleeping, so every night I would weed through all of my stuff and box most of it up to get rid of.  I began perusing through old stuff like all of my comic books from the early 80s and all of those old mixtapes I used to make for car rides.  Before getting rid of these things, I read the comic books and listened to the tapes.  Both would transport me not only into the world’s within, but to the times that I originally encountered them.  It was pretty powerful.  It was a slow-cooked version of having much of my isolated life pass before my eyes.  There was a particular mix tape from 1987 that blossomed a very powerful flashback to a very particular day.  It included the song by the Cure, “Why Can’t I Be You?”  I think the fact that the tape had been put together when that song was brand new, took me back to that time.  When I say “took me back,” the memory became so vivid and real that it became a powerful beacon that I began to strive for. 

 

The Cure "Why Can't I Be You?"

The flashback was from a day in 1987, likely June, just after school had ended (sophomore year).  It was a rare bright sunny and warm Saturday on the Oregon coast and I was blasting music in my bedroom, and I remember feeling antsy and likely bored.  My dad told me he was driving to Salem to drop off some commercial art he had done for a client.  I asked him if I could ride along as long as he dropped me off at a record store.  He did and I purchased the Cure’s wild new double album Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me and Concrete Blonde’s debut.  When we got home, I put on the Cure’s new album, and my headphones and was completely drawn in.  The album was epic and more than I could’ve ever hoped for.  It was everything!  Not long afterwards, I got a ride to the south end of town for a dance at our city’s Masonic Temple.  It was there that I hit the dance floor for the first time in my life (to “Why Can’t I Be You?” and Depeche Mode’s “Strangelove”) and later sort of tried my first clove cigarette (so 80s).  It was a good day!   As a memory, in 2004, it was so real – so tangible, I began to feel like I was living that day again.  I’m not sure of the significance of that day, but I wanted those feelings again.  I loved that Kiss Me Kiss Me Kiss Me felt like it was brand new again, that I had not yet heard “Just Like Heaven” 40,000 times and had developed a dislike of the final LP single “Hot Hot Hot!!!”  Not long after this recurring flashback began to dominate all of my thoughts, I got a call for my life saving kidney transplant. 

Like a lot of people, my memories are generally tied to the music I remember from those times.  It’s an old cliché, but it is truly a soundtrack to our life stories.  Personally, I am fascinated by stories.  A lot of the old stories I’ve shared on this page, are moments in time with some deep significance for the narrator/character.  This is why I’ve been so thankful and excited about the handful of Song Stories people have sent in.  It’s these personal attachments to important songs that can sadly get lost when we go. 

A couple of weeks ago, I was listening to some Northern Picture Library and Field Mice songs in my car, as I was stuck in traffic.  I became overwhelmed by the emotion behind some of those songs.  Old wounds from heartbreak bubbled up to the surface, as did an intense longing.  I began to think about how important, not only those songs are to me, but those feelings that they still bring to the surface, which are tied to moments from my life that are only meaningful to me, and hopefully to the other players from those moments.  Then I began to think about how fleeting those moments are and how easily they disappear.  When I finally do pass, all those important moments that make up what and who I am will be gone. 

It brings up all of those old questions everyone asks themselves: “what is all of this for?”  Believe me, I’m not just now asking these things, but for some reason, it has been on my mind a lot lately.  Perhaps it’s because I’m older, wildly unhealthy, and feeling a lot lost.  There is a strong sense of purposelessness happening in my life right now.  I do not feel like I’m contributing, but instead just taking up room and valuable resources.  Perhaps it’s because I don’t feel like I used to.  I’ve reached a point in my life where I am too numb – too calloused from past physical and emotional distress.  Most news is bad news, so when I get positive news, I don’t trust it!  That life soundtrack is getting old and outdated.  New memories are rare and rarely as affecting as they used to be.  I kind of miss feeling dramatic and alive!  Am I alone on this? 

This is a long-winded call for more Song Stories!  Please share them here (tangledrec@hotmail.com).  Every story is important and I’m personally interested in why it’s important.  It can be any song and it can be anonymous.  Let’s explore these hidden moments together.

Thank you Alexandra Smith for sending me the "Overkill" video.

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)"