Two weeks after college, I was glued to my cubicle, answering phones at Elektra Records. I sat in a row of executive assistants, juggling three extensions on my trusty landline phone. It was 1996, the absolute peak for a bloated industry that was still drunk on compact discs. It was also the moment right before the internet would obliterate everything, including that trusty landline phone. For most of the day, all three of my boss’s lines would be lit up. The C.E.O. on line one. The manager from Better than Ezra on line two. The head of Sales on line three. And as soon as one line would open, it would flash red again. “Hi. Elektra Records Marketing, this is Matty.” All day. Every day.

It was fast paced, but also the opposite of exciting. Relief came several days each week, however, when bands would arrive to meet with the people who were laboring over their music. With everyone either in meetings or rolling out the red carpets, the phone lines would briefly quiet down. A low buzz would travel through the office. “Jackson Browne will be here in five!” Or “Third Eye Blind is in the elevator!” The anticipation was like a narcotic for everyone in the building. The atmosphere changed when artists appeared. This was true for everyone at Elektra -- from the senior most executives to the lowly assistants. For everyone, that is, except for me.

I honestly didn’t care about meeting Lars Ulrich or Missy Elliott or Dimebag Darrell or Keith Sweat. Seeing Björk in real life was actually less surprising than seeing the “Human Behaviour” video on MTV in 1993. It’s not that I was above the thrill of celebrity so much as I was bummed out by the sycophancy. It made me feel icky. Plus, these were not my celebrities. Paul McCartney never sauntered in. And, on the other side of fame, it’s not as though Joe Strummer or Patti Smith was passing through. It was just a glimpse of Third Eye Blind in between flashing red phone lights. I got used to it. In fact, I got bored of it. Except for when Tuscadero entered the building. 

Tuscadero were a four piece Indie Pop band from Washington D.C., who had previously been signed to the beloved Teenbeat Records. They were two women -- Melissa and Margaret -- on guitars and vocals, and two guys -- Phil and Jack -- on bass and drums. Prior to their signing to Elektra, they’d put out a few 7” singles, an EP and “The Pink Album,” which featured the iconic, black and white “composition notebook” for its cover. Tuscadero were twee to their core, singing about Nancy Drew and 1970s toys and replacing the “o” with a heart for their song “L♥vesick.” Their melodies were sugary sweet, their playing was naive and rickety and I loved pretty much everything about them. They were like Bikini Kill except without the bathing suit or the killing. They were like half Ramones and half Shangri-Las, but with more smiles and art school educations. Plus, I fully had a crush on Margaret from the band. So, when they entered 75 Rockefeller Plaza, I got to feel some of the giddiness that the rest of my co-workers felt when Huey Lewis appeared (to be honest, I did feel a little stirring when Huey showed up). Tuscadero were young and darling and cool and smart and in on the jokes and full of promise. And they were also, very obviously, not going to survive the ordeal.

They did not. Within three years, Tuscadero was no more. They probably never should have been signed to a major label. On Teenbeat, they could have spent another decade tending to their adoring, overeducated flock and their cardigan sweaters and Chuck Taylors. It would have been hard work and not much money. But it certainly would have extended their career. Instead, they managed just one, likable album for Elektra and then went back to their lives as designers and illustrators and parents and whatnot. 

In 1996, the same year that I moved into my cubicle, a band from San Francisco released a debut album for Slash Records that far surpassed anything Tuscadero ever made. Like Tuscadero, they were gender equitable. They were at least half queer. And they did a lot of the things that Tuscadero did, only better. They did three and four part harmonies. They played their instruments more competently. Their jokes were funnier. And their hooks -- oh my god — could they make a hook! They were compared to the B-52’s, presumably on account of their gender split and sexual orientations. But, in truth, they sounded much more like ABBA if the Swedes had swallowed The Pixies. Their name was a partial homage to Teenbeat Records. They called themselves “Imperial Teen” and their first album was a stone cold knockout. And, unlike Tuscadero, I figured that they had a real chance to survive. In fact, I was betting on them to win.

Imperial Teen is Jone Stebbins on bass, Lynn Truell on drums, Will Schwartz on guitar and, most famously, Roddy Bottum, of Faith No More fame, on guitar and keyboards. By the time they got together in the mid-90s, all four members had been around the block several times. And though Bottum was the most famous member, there was no obvious hierarchy in the group. They all sang and would frequently trade instruments between songs. Around San Francisco, Truell was known to be a high end Punk Rock drummer. Bottum had ably proven himself to be an expert tunesmith. And Schwartz had the most memorable voice of the quartet -- a bratty wail that is somehow also completely sweet. Individually, they were impressive. But, together, Imperial Teen was magical.

“Seasick,” their debut, was released in 1996 amid upheaval at their label, Slash Records. Nevertheless, at the tail end of a very brief time when the radio would play Beck into The Breeders into The Beastie Boys into Elastica, Imperial Teen squarely fit in. They were not Punk or Indie. They were the very definition of “Alternative Rock.” Equitable. Fun. Smart. Gay. Proud. Loud then quiet then loud. But always, always catchy. They had a thing and it was full of oohs and ahhs and harmonies and buildups and breakdowns. And hooks hooks hooks. Not riffs. Almost never riffs. Always hooks.

Imperial Teen’s first record received almost uniformly rave reviews. Eights and nines out of ten. Four and five stars. It sold reasonably well and set them up for a sophomore breakthrough. That second album, “What is Not to Love” doubled down on the formula, trading some of their “Punk” edges for “Pop” lacquer. On an album full of should be hits, the band connected for a grand slam on track three. “Yoo Hoo” is the sort of song that is so immediate and so overwhelming that you almost think the band is cheating — as though it’s not really a song so much as it is an addictive sound. It’s like Blur’s “Song 2” or Radiohead’s “Creep” or Pulp’s “Common People.” But more pleasurable and less English.

Unlike its English cousins, however, “Yoo Hoo” only barely scratched the charts. It was prominently featured in “Jawbreaker,” a Rose McGowan film that had many things going for it except for the fact that every one of those things had been done previously, and better, by “Heathers.” And though the film failed commercially (and critically), it provided a platform for Imperial Teen and an entree to MTV. While in 1998 the members of Imperial Teen were already thirty-something year old, Indie veterans, they suddenly had the feel of hot young prospects.

Unfortunately, their label was in shambles. In 1986, Slash had been sold to London Records, which was, in turn, distributed by Warner Brothers in the U.S. In 1996, London was then resold to Universal Music Group. Both Slash and their most valuable asset at the time were lost in the shuffle. The corporate machinations impacted the release date of “What Is Not to Love” as well as the band’s eventual tour. Meanwhile, the climate at radio and at MTV was changing beneath the band’s feet. Green Day was replaced by Sugar Ray. The Breeders by Third Eye Blind. In just a couple of years, and in spite of their unmistakable greatness, Imperial Teen had become an anachronism. They were a buzz band in an era disinterested in anything that could sting. It was no longer so cool to be queer. Twee was out. Cardigans and Chucks were replaced with Banana Republic sweaters and Sketchers. 1998 was no place for Imperial Teen.

As they had done before (with Spoon) and as they would again many times in the future, Merge Records came to the rescue. Laura Ballance and Mac McCaughan’s label, the one time home for Arcade Fire and Magnetic Fields and Neutral Milk Hotel, and the forever home for Superchunk, was the perfect landing spot for Imperial Teen. It was safe and warm and completely stable. But it was also a step back, or away, from the majors. The signing was an acknowledgment that the goal lines had shifted. That the “Seasick” moment had passed. They were not doomed in the way that Tuscadero once was. But, as they approached middle age, the members of Imperial Teen were likely in need of some career counseling. 

It seems they got just that. Jone Stebbins became a hairdresser. Roddy Bottum scored music for TV. Lynn Truell became a mother. And Will Schwartz formed another band on the side. Eventually, only half the band remained in Northern California while others drifted south and east. Almost any other band in their circumstances would surely have either broken up or given up. But, not Imperial Teen. In 2002 they released “On,” which predictably undersold their first two albums but which also received the same glowing reviews as their previous efforts. And, five years later, they released “The Hair the TV the Baby & the Band,” which both literally explained their long absence and completely picked up where they’d left off. 

As the new millennium marched on, Imperial were the rarest of things: a band whose partnership continued to thrive even when their business did not. They were not like singer-songwriters who could record and travel lightly, living off of show guarantees and passive publishing income. And they were not like 90s flash in the pans who could make bank off the nostalgia circuit. They didn’t lose or add any members. They never had that breakthrough. Their sales dwindled and then began to flatline. But they just kept making wonderful music. As the Aughts became the Tens (or whatever that decade is called), Imperial Teen were nothing short of a miracle.

How did it happen? Why did they persevere when everyone else had withered? Was it their enduring friendship? Was it their rare musical alchemy? Was it Merge Records’ warm embrace? In the second half of the 1990s, I’d played their first two CDs constantly. But, I generally missed out on the next two. Occasionally, I’d perk up when I’d hear KUTX play “Ivanka,” from “On.” And, at some point, I’d make note of the band appearing at SXSW. But whereas the passage of time had not swallowed up Imperial Teen, it had certainly gotten in the way of my fandom. My commitment had waned, but my curiosity had not. Eventually, I knew that it would be time to check back in.

That time was right around 2012, after I had moved to Austin, Texas and had caught wind of the Imperial Teen’s return to SXSW. Unbeknownst to me, they had just released their fifth album -- and their third for Merge -- entitled, “Feel the Sound.” It had been five years since their last record. The band members were closer to fifty than they were to forty. They all had other jobs and lives to tend to. And yet, there they were, promoting an album that I heard Will Schwartz describe as a “chain letter to each other.” I took this to mean both that it was written and recorded over long distances and also that it included messages and jokes and updates that only they could understand. Whatever the actual case, that description further endeared me to a band that, from my first encounter, I found to be completely adorable.

So much had changed since “Yoo Hoo” made its way onto MTV. Imperial Teen were galaxies away from anything “imperial” or “teen.” In fact, Jone, Lynn, Will and Roddy looked like parents. Maybe not like my parents. Perhaps like the coolest parents in the neighborhood. Possibly like the ones who had the best stories and the most style. But they certainly did not look like Rock stars. They didn’t even look like former Rock stars. They just looked like friends, reuniting in Austin for a good time. They looked their age. And they looked great. But what did they sound like? Honestly, I had no idea. That's what I wanted to find out. And, with the advent of Spotify, a service that would have been unthinkable when Imperial Teen debuted, I was just a few clicks away from an answer. Tap Spotify. Type “Imperial Teen.” Tap “Feel the Sound.” Tap play.

If early Imperial Teen was one part ABBA and two parts Pixies, the middle-aged version was more like one part ABBA and one part Stereolab, if that Anglo-French band was more interested in Pop than Art. Compared with their earliest albums, “Feel the Sound” is less frantic. Schwartz’s petulant howls are traded in for harmonies and the electric guitars are supplanted by bass and keyboard programming. It’s an album of layers. Songs begin sparingly, then instruments pile up and then strip down and then rev up and then slow down. In lesser hands, the record could sound piecemeal, as though Pro Tool files were emailed around and then reassembled. But Imperial Teen contains eight great hands, plus two more if you count producer (and Redd Kross co-founder) Steven McDonald. And so, while geography may have challenged recording, the resulting album sounds like teamwork -- like family. They know each other's voices. They know which singer and which instrument is needed in service of the song. And, most of all, they know not to get in the way of a great hook. And “Feel the Sound” is full of great hooks.

Imperial Teen’s fifth album begins like candy shot out from a cannon. “Runaway” opens with a pert synth program, fake strings and the tip of a high hat. By the time the guitar and bass come in, though, you’re already done. It’s undeniable. Will sings lead and the ladies in the band arrive like icing on a confection. It’s the sort of thing that James Murphy would make if he loved hooks more than beats. It’s not “Yoo Hoo,” but it’s not far behind.

And from there, they are off to the races. Track two, “No Matter What You Say,” includes several of the band’s trademark tricks, including breathy “ah has” as suggestive crosswinds for the bittersweet melody. Whereas the opener is unmistakable Pop, this is closer to the sort of New Wave that The Rentals and Elastica were toiling with in the Nineties -- only better. With age, Bottum has become a master of timing and restraint. His keyboards and synthesizers are the secret sauces of “On.” Each track is fastened to a succinct musical idea, which is then repeated until it is precisely the right moment to stop or start back up again. It’s the rarest and most delicious kind of gift.

Though they are riveting when they are loud, on “Feel the Sound” Imperial Teen keeps the volume near the middle of the dial. At times, they sing as if they don’t want to wake the kids or as if they need to be mindful of their respectable neighbors. But if necessity is the mother of invention, then the constraints of time and distance only serve to transform a very tight band into a completely precise one. There is barely a wasted note or a superfluous word on “Feel the Sound.” The lyrics read as though they were written for meter and melody rather than narrative. If you listen closely, you’ll hear about a stray set of sweaty pecs or some relationship asides or inside jokes, but there’s very little in the way of story. The words exist primarily to evoke pictures in time with the beat.

Though the Pop on the album never veers, as they settle in, Imperial Teen does add a dollop of Art to the Rock. “Hanging About” doubles Will’s hushed vocals over a bass hook that repeats itself the way Can might. But, unlike that more improvisationally-inclined group, Imperial Teen keeps it tidy. Before the four minute mark, they pull the plug, leaving you humming and wanting much more. The experimental undertones continue on "Don't Know How You Do It," which pairs Will’s older, wiser bratitude with a slinky bass line that recalls American Analog Set or Stereolab. And, finally, on “Out From the Inside,” Jone’s bass stays forward, just ahead of maracas, church synth and some Yo La Tengo-esque “ba ba bahs.” It’s perhaps a tick darker and dreamier. But they never belabor an idea. There are no jams. There’s no extended drone. It’s all pleasure, form and efficiency.

In the same way that the Lakers once ran through Magic and the Celtics through Bird, everything in Imperial Teen runs through the hooks. Nothing gets in their way. No single member. No amount of time or distance. No record company. Not fame or fortune. Sometimes the hooks have angles. Sometimes they are round. But once they are built, all eight hands come together to do their parts. They believe in the hook. They give everything to the hook for four minutes (or less). And then they move on to the next one. They are to Alt Pop hooks what AC/DC is to white Blues riffs or what The Feelies are to syncopated guitar strumming. It’s their mantra.

“Feel the Sound” may not be a minor masterpiece, but it’s definitely a minor revelation. And, by any reasonable standard, it never should have happened. All of those Nineties MTV2 “Buzz Bands” are gone. They might reunite for the odd money gig, but they are in no way active concerns. Fastball. Gone. Harvey Danger. Gone. Semisonic. Technically not gone but also gone. Marcy Playground. Either buried deep in the ground or gone. Remy Zero. Remember them? Gone.

Similarly, the very indie, very endearing Teenbeat Records catalog is littered with bands that existed only long enough to eek out a couple 7” singles and maybe an EP. Tuscadero was the exception in that they lasted half a decade. Most of their Teenbeat label mates called it quits even sooner, laying down their instruments and returning to grad school or the cafe or the law firm. But Imperial Teen was different. They should have been swallowed up but they weren’t. They made some sense in the days of Obama but zero sense in the years of his successor. I suspect that, as a part time job, Imperial Teen is a true labor of love. But, as a fan of their music, I find them to be the opposite of hard work. In a world where almost nothing good ever lasts, Imperial Teen somehow does.

by Matty Wishnow