I’m a cheese bigot. I’m not proud of it, but I am fairly vocal about it. I know it’s not rational and that my life would almost certainly be better and necessarily easier if it were not the case. But I just hate cheese. I have no issues with mozzarella or ricotta, which barely qualify. I have no problem with dairy. Yogurt and ice cream suit me just fine. I love pizza and pasta. But, I find anything sharp or aged or stinky to be entirely revolting.  

As a child I used to eat Kraft singles by the dozen and mac and cheese by the bowlful. But then, one day, around the age of six, something turned. I don’t know what it was. But, since that time, I have not returned. Unsurprisingly, most of the people I love also love cheese. The best restaurants I have been to also are enamored of milk gone wrong. For decades, friends and food makers have tried to convince me that I will either enjoy a new variety of cheese (“It’s divine!”) or that I won’t taste it in the food (“You’ll barely notice it!”). But they are always wrong. I inevitably taste it and then try to suppress a gag and the nauseated dry mouth that persists. My bigotry is not a source of pride. I know that I am mostly in the wrong. But, forty years later, it is part of me. I hate cheese. 

In music, The Red Hot Chili Peppers are my cheese. I’ve tried to love their music. I’ve tried and tried to even like their music. For a few years in the 1990s, during the high days of Lollapalooza, I would suggest that I really liked “Give It Away” so that I had something generous to offer. When my friends would sing “Under the Bridge” during karaoke marathons, I would join in half-heartedly, but only because I knew the words and not at all because I enjoyed the song.

For many years, I worked in the music industry, and for several of those years I worked for the company that released The Chili Peppers albums. There was enormous pressure to conform. Not cheese level pressure, but a weighty consensus nonetheless. Anthony, Flea and Chad helped pay my salary. And so, under duress, I re-listened to each of their albums through “Stadium Arcadium.” But I was not turned. I did not like The Red Hot Chili Peppers. 

Some of this bias is likely a product of being from the east coast. We had our troublemaking, Hip Hop and Punk loving rascals turned Pop stars. And they were The Beastie Boys. Like The Chili Peppers, The Beasties began as teenage friends who started a band partially as a lark and partially out of devotion to music. They were around the same age. Their interests were similarly eclectic. They were rowdy and horny and mostly clever but sometimes really dumb. But whereas The Beasties skated, I presumed The Chili Peppers surfed. Whereas Anthony, Hillel and John had long, kind of beautiful hair, Mike and the Adams would never dare to grow theirs out. Whereas The Beasties could kind of play instruments, Flea, Hillel and John were accomplished on theirs. And whereas The Beasties never tried to sing, Anthony Kiedis really did. I could just never shake the feeling that my fellow New Yorkers (who moved to LA) were desperate for greatness while the LA funksters were desperate for affection. I know that my view was as much wrong as it was right. But that’s kind of the thing with bigotry. The facts matter less than the feelings.

Amazingly, and in spite of my incredible obstinance, I always held a soft spot for the men in The Red Hot Chili Peppers. It’s been a sincere joy to get even a narrow glimpse of Anthony and Flea growing into middle-age. Their constancy, in the face of trauma and tragedy, is moving -- even for a partisan like me. Both men seemingly processed childhoods that were blessed and cursed with an overabundance of freedom. They also appear to own their status as victims and assailants. They got clean and did the work. I mean, outside of the albums and the tours and the press, they did the other work. And, against most odds, they softened into very beautiful, open, grown up men. At least to my eyes.

Twentieth century Anthony Kiedis looked like a sinewy, caffeinated party starter who moonlighted as a model for romance novel covers. But the twenty first century version had noticeably matured. He cut his hair. He grew a moustache. He looked more than handsome. He looked like he was part masseur and part poet. I was kind of in. And, with age, Flea looked wiser and kinder. The lines on his face deepened as did something else. In interviews, he was quick to choke up but also unusually honest and considered in his conversation. Apparently, sometime in his forties, Flea became the most emotionally open celebrity I could think of. It seemed like a long, hard earned road from the opiated MTV interviews and hyperkinetic shows of the 1980s. It was not always easy to avoid their music, but it was simple to appreciate them as middle-aged men in progress.

It’s hard to know when this transition became fully apparent. When did they go from being big boys to grown men? By the definition of “transition,” it seems unanswerable. That being said, my interest was piqued sometime after “Stadium Arcadium,” an album which outsold every other Rock album that year by millions of copies. For context, the closest rival was The Beatles “Love” — and it wasn’t especially close. “Stadium Arcadium” featured nearly thirty tracks, produced three number one Alternative radio hits, and spawned a tour that lasted more than a year. It was the last album in John Frusciante’s second term with the band and the second to last album the band did with Rick Rubin. In almost every way, it was the commercial apex for a band that had already scaled the tallest mountains. 

Everything that followed “Stadium Arcadium” felt like a well-deserved and much needed descent. First, John Frusciante politely left the band after a historic, decade-long run. Anthony had some totally private, but ultimately public, affairs to clean up at home with his newborn and his soon to be ex. Flea enrolled in a prestigious music conservatory. And Chad just wanted to keep rocking, but harder. Somewhere in the midst of this, the band, whose future was far from certain, welcomed touring guitarist Josh Klinghoffer as a full time member. Klinghoffer was barely thirty at the time and looked positively doe eyed. He was good friends with John Frusciante and had toured with The Chili Peppers for some time. But these were giant shoes to fill, replacing a man who was the counterweight to Flea’s Adderall bounce and the co-author of the band’s most beloved songs. To make matters gianter, every news piece, review and interview reminded Klinghoffer of these facts. The story after “Stadium Arcadium” was the story of the “Frusciante-sized” hole in the band. 

If the previous version of the band could be described as “big” and “bold,” the version that made 2011s “I’m with You” could be accurately described as “medium” and “chill.” Anthony Kiedis emerged on the other side, perfectly coiffed and confident, though noticeably subdued. And Flea, having spent the hiatus learning music theory and collaborating with Thom Yorke and Tom Waits, was similarly pensive and doubly emotive. Chad appeared somewhat unfazed. And Josh -- sweet Josh -- seemed appropriately overwhelmed. Aside from the rookie, they were a vision of middle age that looked good and felt better. The hard work, the therapy and, mostly, the friendship, seemed to have paid off.

It was with my own forty-something awe and envy, that I began to reconsider my bigotry. Maybe I just wasn’t fun enough to appreciate “Freaky Styley” and “The Uplift Mofo Party Plan.” Maybe I was too pretentious and not L.A. enough to fall for “Blood Sugar Sex Magik” and “Californication.” Maybe so. But I found this band and their nearly fifty year old founders to be entirely charming -- in conversation, at least. Their stories were tragically beautiful. Their insights sounded genuine and revealing. They seemed profoundly honest. And they had taken this Josh kid under their wings. In theory, I was sold. All I had to do next was to press play and surrender to their first album in nearly five years. 

If “Freaky Styley” tasted like aged Gouda to me, “I’m with You” is much more of a mild Cheddar. It is also necessarily a response to the scale of “Stadium Arcadium.” At fourteen tracks and clocking in at under an hour, the new album was less than half the size of its predecessor. And most everything I saw and read from the band’s founding BFFs before the release can be heard on the record. Anthony sounds like he is pushing much less and stretching and spreading out much more. It is also very much a middle-aged album, full of nostalgia, sunlights and sunsets. 

As much as any of those variables, however, was the impact of a new and very different guitarist. Whereas John Frusciante was a true lead guitarist and Dave Navarro was a star guitarist, Josh Klinghoffer sounds much more like a “glue guitarist.” He fit himself into the songs, in between the bass, the drums and the vocals. Sonically, he is more of an impressionist than an expressionist. His solos are infrequent and rarely mixed forward. As a result, “I’m with You,” sounds both lighter at the top and slightly heavier in the middle and the bottom. On the other hand, Josh also seems intent on doing no harm. By all accounts, he was an able writing partner for Flea, helping try out ideas on piano before they made it to strings. And his voice has a sweet warble to it that complements Anthony’s hype with something decidedly Emo. 

Taken as a whole, “I’m with You” sounds like the album that a band would make after their fully sober lead singer had a baby and after their legendary bassist learned music theory and had a series of major breakthroughs in therapy. The results are mostly pleasant and noticeably not manic. There are no highs like “Give it Away” or “Knock Me Down” or anthems like “Under the Bridge” or “Scar Tissue.” But there is also very little excess and only a hint of cringe. The band does not turn their back on Funk or Hip Hop, but you do hear an openness that occasionally lands them closer to Disco and DFA Records. “I’m with You” is likable, but also its parts may be better than its sum.

“Monarchy of Roses,” which opens the album, is a decent summation of what’s to follow. A squall of guitar and a tribal beat give way to Anthony singing through a distorted megaphone which then gives way to a pristine Disco beat and an easy chorus. What you notice at the outset is that the singer sounds more subdued and the scale is half that of a normal Rick Rubin joint. As if to assure fans that they have not gone full Pharrell, however, they follow the opener with “Factory of Faith,” wherein Anthony reverts to his familiar rap-singing over a very elastic bass. The difference between this song and vintage Chili Peppers is that Anthony shouts far less and the story involves much less bragging and much more acceptance.

Most of the standout tracks from “I’m with You” arrive early. “Brendan’s Death Song” has heft to it, on account of its existential subject and the guitars, which go from acoustic, to electric to ecstatic. It might be the closest thing the album has to a Rock “anthem.” Two tracks later, they sound more composed and middle-aged on the very singable “Annie Wants a Baby.” Anthony was always a limited singer. He benefited from force when he rapped or shouted, but range was in short supply. With age, however, he figured out how to reuse the strength of his lungs to stretch out flat notes in order to imbue them with a sense of purpose. Here, he uses that trick to try less but achieve somewhat more. While not a banger, “Annie Wants a Baby” is as kind and empathetic as the band gets.

That kindness, however, is followed immediately by the insistence of “Look Around,” the third single from “I’m with You.” Over handclaps, “woohs” and heavy bass, Anthony raps his way into a tedious chorus. It sounds familiar and well suited for Modern Rock radio. But it does not sound good. Graciously, “Look Around” sets the stage for “Rain Dance Maggie.” With it’s slinky bass, pain free melody and extra cowbell, you quickly hear why the band selected this song as their first single for radio. Its edges are not as sharp as Indie Rock, but the guitar comes from a similar neighborhood. And the beat -- cheap and rich at once -- sounds a lot like LCD Soundsystem. It’s a likable song, the kind that makes you smile on account of its familiarity more than its own merit. It’s also the kind of song that demands comparison to James Murphy and his band. Like Anthony, James is a limited singer with broad-ranging musical influences. Unlike Anthony, however, James found more ways to affect his voice and style his songs. He had deadpan and falsetto and Berlin Bowie versions where Anthony mostly had shout and flat howl. In some ways, LCD Soundsystem market corrected The Chili Peppers. Moving forward, there was simply not much more The Peppers could do to enhance their legacy or to best the music that James Murphy’s band would make. As decent as “Rain Dance Maggie” is, it sounds kind of like a dull imitation of LCD Soundsystem.

While the second half of the album avoids any embarrassments, it does not outpace the first. “Did I Let You Know” is poolside fare, complete with Carribean flair, a solid trumpet solo and Anthony rhyming “cheeky” with “Mozambiquey.” It sounds like Vampire Weekend, but less neurotic and exciting. Later, on “Happiness Loves Company,” the band sounds as though they are playing in a new fashioned saloon. The piano marches through the joyous shenanigans of decades past while also celebrating the grown up cheer of still being connected through friendship. It’s an unusual song in the band’s oeuvre, but it is also kind of nice to hear Flea’s (or Josh’s) piano lessons paying dividends.

“Even You Brutus” is the album’s outlier -- shrill, tuneless and closed off. Whereas the rest of the record feels magnanimous, this feels like the opposite. More than being small, however, it undoes a lot of the goodwill previously claimed. Fortunately, the band turns towards the groove on “Meet Me On the Corner” and the album’s closer, “Dance, Dance, Dance.” The former stays in the pocket but does not do much else while the latter resembles something by Chk Chk Chk (!!!), from its polyrhythmic beats to its blissed out sentiment. It’s not a great song but it’s a fittingly pleasant end.

“I’m with You” goes down kind of easy. Compared to their earliest efforts, it is largely relaxed. And, compared with “Stadium Arcadium,” it is something of a reintroduction and a resetting of expectations. While as a musical thesis, the album is not resolved or committed, it succeeds in redrawing the lines. This is not the band with John Frusciante. This is not the biggest Rock band in the world. These are not aging troublemakers in constant crisis. This is not a two trick band. But, also, this is not a stinky cheese. I don’t have to hold my nose. I won’t gag.

I’ll take some pride in confronting my bias and derision. But I know I won’t get any credit or validation. Most of the world loves cheese. The mold. The smell. The lack of discernible health benefits. And almost as much of the world loves The Red Hot Chili Peppers. The problem is with me. At least partially.

by Matty Wishnow