Funkadelic “First Ya Gotta Shake the Gate”
When it comes to George Clinton, nothing is simple. Memories are unreliable. Facts are covered in Funk. Dusted with glitter. Stored on old, warped floppy discs, under piles of drugs, in the basement of a barber shop in New Jersey. By 2014, when Clinton turned seventy-thee, the story of Parliament-Funkadelic was something in between a cold case and a myth. Part of me thought that they were the single greatest influence on contemporary Pop music. Another part was convinced that they were the biggest tragedy in the history of Rock and Roll. I thought I’d never know the truth. But then, within a single month, George released his autobiography and Funkadelic released a thirty-three song, three and a half hour, triple album — their first new music since 1981.
Modest Mouse “Strangers to Ourselves”
Almost two decades into his unlikely career — in between his fifth and sixth albums — Isaac Brock got stuck. It had been many years since “We Were Dead.” Uppers and psychedelics weren’t helping. The line of producers wasn’t helping. The sleeplessness definitely wasn’t helping. He just could not move forward. He was stuck in a loop, like a fatal record scratch. All he could see was the end of everything and how we all knew it was coming and how we all distracted ourselves from it and how we all vacationed and partied and Netflixed, full well knowing that we were fucked. To compound matters, he was being stalked. In fact, he was being stalked by several people. There is little doubt that Isaac was in the throes of paranoia during this time, but — yes — he also really was being stalked. It was that version of Isaac Brock, who, along with seven other band members and four other producers, eventually released “Strangers to Ourselves” in 2015.
Pedro the Lion “Phoenix”
In 2006, after a decade as the mostly Christian, nearly secular, too fast for Slowcore, too slow for Indie Pop darling, David Bazan hung up Pedro the Lion. He was at a crossroads — in life, faith and music — and had to decide. The path Bazan chose was likely the harder one. He dried himself out, and returned as a solo artist, playing tiny, living room shows to anyone who wanted him. It was a living, but it was also lonely as hell. Years seeing his kids grow up over FaceTime. Nights in cheap hotels. Days on the highway, watching mile markers pass glacially while his his life flew by at twice the rate. When he finally ran out of gas, he did the logical thing: he reconvened Pedro the Lion and returned to Phoenix, Arizona, the place he was born and where he was taught to believe.
Journey “Revelation”
By 2006, Journey were on the ropes. The former heavyweight champs of Arena Rock had exhausted every possible alternative. Version 3.0 with Steve Perry broke down. Version 4.0 with Steve Augeri fizzled. Neal Schon didn’t need the money. And he probably didn’t need Journey, either. But we did. Those of us who grew up at skating rinks and on Atari — we could not stop believing. So, just like he’d done before, Schon found the best thing. On Youtube, he spotted a feathery haired, Steve Perry soundalike with a fairy tale backstory. And, just like that, Journey 5.0 released an affordably priced, three disc set through Walmart. One album of new material and two more of extraordinary karaoke. It was exactly what middle-aged, middle America needed.
Lynyrd Skynyrd “God and Guns”
Some things in life are hard to talk about openly. For example, sex and money. When guys talk about sex or money, we tend to resort to cliches or jokes or hyperbole. On the other hand, it’s much easier for us to talk about music. In fact, we love to talk about music. Who are your bands? Are you a Stones guy? A Phish guy? A Blur guy? A Smiths guy? It’s organizing and safe. It’s the way we talk about our feelings, without really talking about our feelings. And it generally works for us. Except, of course, when it comes to Lynyrd Skynyrd. And especially when it comes to their 2009 album, “God & Guns,” which — to complicate matters — is absolutely not terrible. It may even be good — even when it’s being awful.
New Order “Waiting for the Sirens' Call”
Is it fun to be in a band? I used to think so. But, then, why does it seem so hard? Is it the anxiety of performance? The inevitable imposter syndrome? The monotony of touring and recording that The Kinks described so well in “Do It Again”? That plight -- the tragedy of fun -- is part of what defines and unites Goths, I suppose. It’s also probably the thesis of Post-Punk’s greatest band: New Order. For many years, the band that was born out of death hunted for fun in every corner of every club in the world. That was, until 1993, when drink and drugs and feelings got in the way. After a trial separation, they reunited, and embarked on a well deserved honeymoon. The fun, however, was short lived. By 2005, when they released the “Waiting for the Sirens’ Call,” divorce was in the air.
Built to Spill “Untethered Moon”
If I had to design an Indie Rocker -- for a movie character or a book proposal, or whatever -- I’d start with a guy from the Midwest or the Pacific Northwest. He’d be above average height and lanky, but in no way muscular. Maybe he played some baseball in high school, but sports weren’t that important to him. He drinks beer and smokes weed but doesn’t think much about either. He’s introverted, but also has plenty of friends. He’s dreamy -- not in the Jake from “Sixteen Candles” way, but in the always kind of thinking of something else way. He can figure things out. He built his own computer. He can hang drywall. He apparently has a band that nobody has ever heard but that you assume is pretty good. And, though he’s only twenty-something years old, he looks like he could be forty. He’s even got the beard to prove it. That’s the guy — the archetype. His name is Doug Martsch.
Traveling Wilburys “Traveling Wilburys Vol. 3”
The Traveling Wilburys were a “Supergroup” in name only. In reality, they were just a casual hang among middle-aged friends and admirers, who also happened to be Rock royalty. In 1988, they looked like half of an over forty, softball team from the Hollywood Hills — bad hair, extra paunch and beers after the game. The Wilburys’ debut is appropriately remembered for its easy going harmonies, for a couple of endearing hits and, sadly, for Roy Orbison’s passing. Many years later, it survives as a celebration (and commercialization) of “Past Prime.” History has mostly forgotten, however, that there was a follow-up album, complete with a bad “dad joke” for a title.
Golden Earring “Keeper of the Flame”
Rock and Roll is littered with one hit wonders and spectacular flame outs. But Golden Earring were neither of those things. They had two, massive hit singles, both of which have oddly endured as canon. Decades after their prime, they were still superstars at home, in The Benelux, where their faces adorned postage stamps. But, as far as I knew, they had disappeared around 1983, soon after “Twilight Zone,” the four minute MTV mystery that altered my young life. What happened? Where had they gone? It all had a whiff of semi-Nordic true crime. Information was scant, especially in The U.S., where Golden Earring were the coldest of cold case files.
Jane’s Addiction “The Great Escape Artist”
By 2011, hell had frozen over enough that we began to expect the return of every legendary band. The Pixies, The Replacements, My Bloody Valentine, Pavement. The list was practically endless. It was simply too costly for those bands not to reunite. So, news of another album from middle aged Jane’s Addiction was kind of ho hum. For many, it was a curiosity, at best. At the core of this presumption was the belief that the great, unsustainable version of Jane’s had died in 1991. That they would return made only commercial sense. That they could recapture any semblance of their original brilliance made practically zero sense.
Air Supply “The Vanishing Race”
In retrospect, Air Supply seems unfathomable. Graham Russell looked like an overgrown Jeff Daniels with feathered hair. Russell Hitchcock was tiny, with a massive perm. Together, they looked like a Saturday Night Live sketch for a Hallmark ad about roller-skating buddies who loved cats. They were the naked, bawling men of Soft Pop who sang songs for exhausted, dejected, lovelorn ears. But, between 1980 to 1983, they scored eight consecutive top five hits, a feat only matched previously by The Beatles. By 1986, they were gone, off to redesign their Quaalude Rock for middle age and to celebrate their second career in the Philippines.
“Two Princes” (Spin Doctors) vs “Remedy” (The Band)
In 1993, The Spin Doctors gave MTV the winter hat plus hacky sack vibes the network sorely needed. Their unavoidable mega-hit, “Two Princes,” topped the charts and introduced Jam Band culture to the suburbs. Meanwhile, that same year, The Band reformed without frontman Robbie Robertson to make “Jericho.” One of the few originals from that album was “Remedy,” which charted nowhere and is remembered only by the most loyal of devotees. So, here’s the question: What’s better — an unforgettable song by a critically derided band in their prime or an unexceptional one from a beloved artist well past their prime?
KISS “Psycho Circus”
As success stories go, Kiss’ is perhaps the most unconventional. They’ve had thirty Gold albums, more than any band before or since. A 1977 Gallup poll named them the most popular band in America. Gene Simmons is reportedly one of the twenty wealthiest living musicians. To me, however, they were barely a band. They were comic book ghouls. They were a pinball machine. They were the faces that embellished a demonic laundry bin that my mother one day deposited in my bedroom, without explanation. In 1998, having recently reunited, Kiss made it very clear: Their product was still heavy and basic. And their mission was still profit.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion “Meat + Bone”
Right after Nirvana, but just before Radiohead, the Blues Explosion were the band that all of New York City wanted to happen. They emerged from the grime to make “Art&B” that was initially greasy, then sweaty and, eventually, glistening. But, slowly, and unexpectedly, the buzz quieted down. The albums got safer or weirder. A decade after their debut, they’d been market corrected by The White Stripes. In fact, they practically disappeared. But then, in 2012, they pulled the cover off the old muscle car, put the keys in the ignition and waited to see if the engine still ran.
Toto “Mindfields”
Toto was a lab accident. Obviously, not a tragedy, like Chernobyl. More like Bruce Banner getting exposed to Gamma Rays and becoming The Hulk. Back in 1982, they sounded both hulkingly awesome and completely normal. They won Grammys. They sold over ten million records. They were proof that Rock music could be sonically pristine and exceedingly popular; that musicians could look just like regular guys -- or worse -- and still be stars; and that Pop music could be “all encompassing” (“in toto”). However, like many great experiments, over time, the evidence proved less conclusive.
Allman Brothers Band “Hittin' the Note”
All these years later, I don’t regret the Leftover Salmon jokes or the Disco Biscuits cheap shots. For decades I used the term “Jam Band” pejoratively. It was hypocritical, to say the least. Bands that I loved — Television, Yo La Tengo, The Feelies — loved to jam. But, it was obviously not the same thing. They weren’t “Jam Bands.” And so, I simply would not apologize for my snark. The one thing I did regret, though -- the thing that has gnawed at me since I was a teen -- was the fact that I never gave the Allman Brothers Band a fair shake.
The National “Sleep Well Beast”
In 2017, after a decade being carried in the arms of cheerleaders, The National were understandably disoriented. There was the scary new President. There was their unexpected stardom pushing up against their middle-aged domesticity. There was even a small, but vocal, backlash accusing them of sameness. And, possibly, smugness. “Sleep Well Beast” was the band anxiously experimenting their way through the quagmire. Meanwhile, I listened and wondered: can we ever go back?
The Moody Blues “Strange Times”
Although they are considered pioneers of both Psychedelic and Progressive Rock, The Moody Blues always sort of defied classification. Their music frequently sounded either too slow or too fast. They were once Classical in Modern times. Then, they were the oldest of the New Wave. In 1999, after an eight year hiatus, they returned to the world of Limp Bizkit and The Backstreet Boys. And, as always, they seemed both timeless and time-less.
The Feelies “In Between”
If ever there was a band that was born to disappear, it was The Feelies. They were the cult band that, for over forty years, were not a band much more than they were a band. They were R.E.M. without the feelings and Yo La Tengo without the romance. They wrote songs about nothing. They made four albums between 1980 and 1991 and then faded like Halley’s Comet. But then, twenty years later, they returned. And, even though they had already said everything that there was to be said about nothing at all, they kept on saying it. Same chords. Same mumbled words. And it was still perfect.
Pearl Jam “Backspacer”
From the very beginning, I did not trust Pearl Jam. The yearning was too intense. The bass was too rubbery. They wore hats! I was certain that they were a Jam band in disguise. Over time, though, I realized that I was untrusting more than they were untrustworthy. And, by 2009, there were rumors of a “new wave,” “optimistic” Pearl Jam. Obama was President. Cheney and Rumsfeld were gone. Matchbox Twenty and Third Eye Blind were a distant memory. Hope had sprung eternal. I was not not curious.