Imperial Teen “Feel the Sound”
By any reasonable standard, they never should have survived. All of those nineties “Buzz Bin” bands are gone. Fastball. Gone. Harvey Danger. Gone. Semisonic. Technically not gone but also gone. Marcy Playground. Either buried deep or gone. But Imperial Teen — the gender equitable, semi-queer group, who that sounded like ABBA if they’d swallowed The Pixies and who had that guy from Faith No More — kept going. Even after their first can’t miss single somehow missed. Even after they moved away and got other jobs and had kids. Even after their record sales dwindled. Even then, they’d get back together and make near perfect records full of bratty swagger, three part harmonies and hooks for miles. They’re the secretly Pop band who refused to get popular but also the Twee Indie act who never cowered. Which makes them a minor miracle.
Clap Your Hands Say Yeah “The Tourist”
Twelve years after Pitchfork landed on his head, Alec Ounsworth was still making music as Clap Your Hands Say Yeah. And while he may not have been the first guy to go straight from the basement to the main stage, he was likely the first one to do so without a record deal. Ounsworth was never exactly famous, but he is famously introverted. And that disposition led him from the brink of stardom to a career of relatively minor albums and concerts inside the living rooms of fans. At forty, married and with a daughter, but still proudly without a record label, Ounsworth reconstituted CYHSY to sing us some songs about middle age ennui. “The Tourist” is almost exactly what its title promises and mostly what long time fans were hoping for. Ten oddly melodic, predictably anxious tunes about an introvert who wants to be seen almost as much as he needs to disappear.
Hot Snakes “Jericho Sirens”
Hot Snakes are a miracle. They are a miracle for how they survived the legends of Drive Like Jehu and Rocket From the Crypt. They are a miracle for how John Reis rolls riffs from a twenty-sided die. They are a miracle for how Rick Froberg screams so loudly, so precisely on tune. They are a miracle for how much force and tension they create and how quickly they release it. They are a miracle for how they disappeared and how, more than a decade later, they came back. But, mostly, they are a miracle for how they marry Rick’s fuck-it-all-ness, with John’s fuck-yeah-ness. That is their greatest miracle.
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.
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.
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.
Beck “Hyperspace”
Since we finally met Beck, the grown up man, on “Sea Change,” a lot has happened: He got married. He had two children. He got divorced. He released seven albums -- most of them appreciated, and a couple beloved. He stayed in California. He stayed thin and pretty and a little weird. To the casual observer, he barely aged. But, with each successive album, he impressed less. There were no more “Odelays” or “Midnight Vultures.” In fact, to some fans and many critics, Beck became kind of boring. In 2002, I had firmly concluded that Beck could never be uninteresting. By 2019, however, I was less sure.
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.
David Kilgour “The Far Now”
What’s it like to be a treasure, buried deep inside an island halfway around the world? What’s it like to be a semi-legend who cannot make a living doing what you are revered for? What’s it like to be a middle-aged artist who means so much to so few, but absolutely nothing to so many. Eventually, David Kilgour, the darling, Kiwi uncle of Indie Rock, gave up worrying about these sorts of things. “The Far Now” is his exhale — the sound of sunrise and sunset.
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 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.
Wire “Change Becomes Us”
Wire was an argument against the zeitgeist. Anti-Rock. Anti-New Wave. Anti-Electronic. The alternative to Alternative. And, for decades, they despised nostalgia. They did not revel in the myth of “Pink Flag.” They were constantly present and stepping forward. But, what happens when the argument is futile? What happens when the future is gone? What comes after “posteverything”?
The Shins “Port of Morrow”
James Mercer had a decision to make. Was he going to be the boss and the star of a beloved band? Or would he remain a coy teammate, holding on to his indie ideals? First, he opted to punt and half hide alongside Danger Mouse. Eventually he reemerged like a bearded, prettier Kevin Spacey and without his bandmates. It seemed like a daring step forward but it still sounded exactly like The Shins.
Graham Parker “Struck by Lightning”
Of that class of 70s Pub Rockers, Graham Parker was once considered the surest of sure things. He was it -- both the next big thing and the through line between Van Morrison and Bob Dylan. But, in time, something amazing happened. Graham Parker did not happen. And by 1991, we found him, without The Rumour, at the end of his major label run, trying to choose between passion and professionalism.
The Brian Jonestown Massacre “Aufheben”
After a decade teetering between revelation and annihilation, Anton Newcombe followed his heroes and moved to Berlin. There, he got married, got sober, became a dad and hit reset. His music, which had always contained multitudes, sounded just slightly different in middle age — more curious and eclectic. The auteur I first heard in 1996 seemed like a man living to die. New Anton appeared open to the alternative. There’s a German word for this relationship between thesis and antithesis. It’s “Aufheben.”
Guided by Voices “Earthquake Glue”
“Earthquake Glue” is the second to last album from GBVs legendary first run. It is the music of a brilliant Pop chemist, forced to choose between the tiredness of a job and the joy of amateurism. It is the music of a middle aged man who can can write a thousand songs. Who can teach elementary school. Who can throw a no hitter. Who can drink an ocean of beer. But who can’t do it all at once. At least not professionally.
Spoon “They Want My Soul”
Though he strikes a formidable pose in concert and in photos, Britt Daniel is an unlikely, and grudging celebrity. By 2011, and against all odds, he was in a full blown relationship with stardom. And Britt maybe wanted to break up. Divine Fits seemed like the perfect distraction — all fun and little fame. It seemed like exactly what he needed. It may have been close. But, it was evidently not enough. The evidence, in this case, is Spoon’s 2014 release, “They Want My Soul.”
LCD Soundsystem “American Dream”
The first time I met James Murphy, we passed each other as he entered the tiny South Williamsburg bathroom that I was exiting. It was 2001. It was very late. It was barely a moment, but I do recall thinking that he looked like an imprecise man. Within a couple of years, I would realize how wrong that impression was. James Murphy, the musician, was impossibly precise. Now, nearly two decades later, I find it hard to conjure any such precision in writing about LCD Soundsystem’s 2017 “reunion” album, “American Dream.” My challenge is in part a challenge of psychiatry -- how well can I parse memories. But it is also a challenge of ego -- how well can I avoid projection without sounding like the desperate subject from “Losing My Edge” or like I am plagiarizing “All My Friends.”
Yo La Tengo “I Can Hear the Heart Beating as One”
In early 1997, the internet was barely a thing. It was late Clinton era. There was no war. People had jobs. Nothing felt great but everything was “pretty good.” Music, on the other hand, sucked. Those first few months of that year were an odd moment. We were just months away from a seismic event in music, after which, everything would be different. Bigger. More meta. Radiohead would soon release “OK Computer” and Earth would shake. But, just before then, Yo La Tengo did something impossible. On their eighth LP, in middle age no less, the trio from New Jersey quietly, almost reluctantly, became the best band on the planet.