More than a quarter century after he wormed his way into our ears, there are basically two takes on Stephan Jenkins. The first is that he’s a total shit whose music is total shit. The second is that he’s a total shit whose music is undeniably, generationally important in spite of his total shittiness. Mind you, there’s overlap between the two claims. Some in that first camp grudgingly admit that Jenkins has an uncanny knack for a hook and that Third Eye Blind was preferable to their un-alternative alternatives — Matchbox Twenty, Better Than Ezra and the like. Conversely, even the staunchest 3EB fans acknowledge that Jenkins’ reputation, which verges on infamy, complicates the case for his band. What is consistent between the two factions, however — what has remained consistent for over twenty-five years now — is that Third Eye Blind’s brief popularity pales in comparison to the enduring disapprobation of Stephan Jenkins.

The internet is littered with tales of Jenkins’ shittiness. Not scandalous, criminal level behavior — more like craven, duplicitous stuff. Seemingly anyone he’s shared a stage with — Green Day, Smash Mouth, Matchbox Twenty, Eve 6, Jimmy Eat World — left the experience eager to talk about Jenkins’ loathsomeness. Some of the testimony pertains to rude or spiteful comments and some is closer to “he’s an arrogant dick.” But none are sympathetic — there are zero “Stephan is actually a great guy” quotes out there.

Unsurprisingly, his former bandmates have more specific and litigious claims — the sort of arguments that happen when a frontman takes charge of the band without full consent. Plenty of Rock stars have been accused of everything that Jenkins gets charged with, frequently much worse. But what is so striking about Jenkins is the endurance of his ill repute when compared to the brevity of his celebrity. It’s hard to think of another musician who pissed off so many people in such a short period of time. And its harder still to name one who we are still talking about a quarter century later.

Despite the fact that Third Eye Blind have recently benefited from some Nineties nostalgia and Millennial overcorrection, the Jenkins’ hand-wringing is not new. But, to quote LCD Soundystem and to implicate myself, “I was there.” And I don’t simply mean that I was twenty-something at the time of Third Eye Blind’s debut. I mean that I was working for Elektra Entertainment between 1996 and 1998, when Jenkins, Kevin Cadogan, Brad Hargreaves and Arion Salazar were being coronated.

Even then, the legend of Stephan Jenkins’ preceded him. He was no kid — in his early thirties by that time. He’d been around several blocks several times. He’d tried it as a rapper and a rap rocker. He’d made a go as a songwriter. He’d had a couple of demo deals with majors. He’d released crickets from a piñata onto an audience of record label execs. He’d produced a moderately successful cover of “Bohemian Rhapsody.” By all accounts, he had a je ne sais quoi, except no one could explain whether it was the good kind or the bad kind.

In the summer of 1996, however, none of that mattered a whole lot. Despite the fact that they’d not released an album or scored a hit yet, Third Eye Blind was deemed too big to fail. They were proof of the bias of sunk costs. They’d received a historically large advance and everyone — from the C.E.O. all the way down to lowly assistant me — understood that Third Eye Blind absolutely had to succeed. There was simply no alternative.

This meant that budgets were lavish. That favors were granted and traded. That all hands were on the proverbial deck. Third Eye Blind’s debut was obsessed over with air of anxious excitement, but also with an eye-rolling half apology that amounted to something like: “We’re not sure if this album is good or great or terrible but we are positive that the lead singer is intolerable. And also, it doesn’t matter, because if we want to those end of year bonuses, we’d all better shake hands and kiss ass.” As it turns out, most everything you’ve ever heard or read about the music industry is true.

Although there was breathless uncertainty ahead of “Third Eye Blind’s” release, there was unanimity on 3EB’s frontman. Word at Rockefeller Plaza, months before he semi-charmed America, was that Jenkins was exceedingly bright, occasionally charming and wildly narcissistic. Anyone who interacted with him, no matter how briefly, walked away suggesting that something was just “off” with the guy. Too confident. Too strident. Too much. He had the vibe of a guy who was more interested in stealing somebody’s girlfriend than having a girlfriend. A guy who was smart enough to ace the test but who stole the answer sheet anyway, just because he could.

Any time Jenkins actually arrived in the building, everything and everyone got more taut. Smiles were more forced. Defenses went up. And then, once he’d leave, we’d all exhale, giggle and gossip about what we’d just seen or heard. This went on for the nearly three years I worked at Elektra, from the signing of Third Eye Blind, to the release of their debut, to the gradual, inevitable success of “Semi-Charmed Life,” through the next single, and the next one, and the impossible sounding rumors (which proved to be true) about Stephan and Charlize Theron, until the album went platinum, and then more and more platinum. Throughout all of that, nobody in the office could agree on the merit of their music, but everyone seemed to agree on the rattling power of Third Eye Blind’s lead singer.

In 1998, I left Elektra Entertainment and, for the most part, did not think much about Stephan Jenkins or his band again. My very limited, entirely back seat view of the star-making and the backlash was truly not so exciting. The boot licking was all fairly tame. I was never asked to score coke or procure sex workers or swear that I loved 3EB. And in truth, I absolutely did not hate their debut album. I accepted the irrefutability of “Semi-Charmed Life.” I admired the enthusiasm of “Graduate.” I respected the Dawson Creek-ness of “How’s It Going to Be?” But, by 1998, all of that had nothing to do with me. I was twenty-three, obsessing over Yo La Tengo and setting my sights on “Silicon Alley.”

While I was busy adulting, however, Third Eye Blind was foundering. Their sophomore album from 1999 featured one massive hit and a mountain of fallout. And the record after that was the one wherein Jenkins’ fired his guitarist and wherein Elektra disintegrated. More firings and lawsuits followed. Productivity slowed. By the Aughts, though I assumed that Stephan Jenkins was out there plotting something, I truly had no idea if Third Eye Blind was even a band anymore.

But then, a funny thing happened. Right at the moment Generation X was prepared to forget about 3EB, Nineties nostalgia took hold. Smash Mouth, Everclear, Marcy Playground, Gin Blossoms — the whole gang — started booking tours together again. Spring breaks. Cruises. State fairs. The fever spread. And whereas the forty-somethings appreciated the irony of it all, the next generation was less eye-rolly. For millennials, Third Eye Blind was not so far from Jimmy Eat World or Weezer who were not ground zero for Emo but who were close enough. For them, Third Eye Blind was buried treasure — the genuine article. And so, by the time of “Ursa Major",” when Jenkins was describing himself as an “Indie Rocker” and releasing albums on his own Indie label, a faction of a fraction of a younger generation took him at his word.

I’d not have noticed any of it, except that it went further. Pitchfork, who’d never once considered Third Eye Blind during their zeitgeisty years, began to review the band’s new releases. Histories were rewritten. New legends emerged. And by the twentieth anniversary of 3EB’s debut, Jenkins was reborn as a misunderstood, underrated Indie popsmith — a loadstar for arena emo and bedroom pop. And while he warmly embraced the lifetime achievement awards, he also maintained that Third Eye Blind’s best work — their truly important work — was yet to come. What’s more, he insisted that his band had less in common with his Alt-ending class and much more to do with Arcade Fire, Big Thief and (of course) Drake.

Decades earlier, back in midtown Manhattan, I’d heard Jenkins cite The Clash as his greatest inspiration. On the one hand, I completely related to the idea of The Clash compelling one to take up guitars like weapons. On the other hand, having listened to “Third Eye Blind” nearly every day at work for a year or so, I could not fathom even the faintest connection connection between Stephan Jenkins and Joe Strummer. Ultimately, I dismissed the comparison as myth-making — fodder for industry small talk and magazine interviews. Many years later, however, he really seemed to think that his music sounded like Arcade Fire and his lyrics like Drake. As a nearly sixty year old guy, Jenkins was attempting to convince audiences (but also probably himself) that his Nineties pop stardom was the glitch — that he was not the “doo doo doo” song guy. But rather that rather — deep down — he was an emo-ish, indie-ish singer-songwriter with a gift for flow. 

The more I read, the more I wanted to stand up and call bullshit. Except, I realized that I had absolutely no idea. I’d not knowingly heard a single 3EB song since “Never Let You Go.” I’d not talked to wistful old fans or the wide-eyed newbies. Moreover, I’d never bothered to separate my personal experience at Elektra from Third Eye Blind, the pop band. Nor had I ever really attempted to dissected the band’s music from their lead singer. I lacked both evidence and perspective.

Since I knew it would involve going back and actually listening to their albums, the evidence collection part felt unsavory. And so, I started with the perspective shifting. I read lots of reviews, interviews and features, searching for a new take on the band and their leader. But, no dice. It was all what I’d expected: the features reeked of nostalgia, the reviews suggested underratedness and the interviews insisted that Jenkins was defiantly forward looking — surer than ever that his best album was the current one and that his best work was ahead of him.

After a couple of weeks catching up, and without a shred of surprise or change of opinion, I was about to give up on the case. But then, at the eleventh hour, I stumbled upon Rob Harvilla’s “60 Songs That Explain The 90s” podcast. In between the Sinéad O’Connor episode and the Monica and Brandy one, Harvilla tries his best to explain the maddening, intoxicated power of “Semi-Charmed Life.” The show opens with some obligatory Jenkins-slagging, before turning into impassioned defense of 3EB’s debut single, and then concluding with expert testimony from Max Collins of Eve 6 (and Twitter) fame.

For about half of the episode, though I was thoroughly entertained, I felt no closer to revelation. But then, in the middle of his earnest analysis and back-handed praise, Collins pierced the veil of his former tour-mate. It starts innocently enough, with Harvilla and Collins discussing the vulnerability of Jenkins’ lisp and how it contrasts with the overconfidence of his delivery. Nothing new there. Next, Collins confirms something so obvious that it’s rarely stated — that Jenkins has limited range, mediocre pitch, a pathetic falsetto and a borderline personality. But then comes the riveting turn. Wilson concludes that, in spite of it all — in spite of his limitations and his many offenses (which Wilson experienced firsthand) — “Semi-Charmed Life” works. In fact, it works because of those defects. In fact, it more than just works — it thrills.

And it was in that moment that I began to reimagine Jenkins not as a cad or a heel or a villain but as a fully realized talent. I’d of course never even considered the idea. When I think about talent fully realized, I normally think about The Beatles and Prince or Michael Jordan and Lebron James. But those men were preternaturally gifted. The distance between their potential talent and their actual talent was perhaps not so great. Jenkins, on the other hand, was a vain dick who could only barely sing and play guitar, but who had a knack for making songs sound like hits and making his own narcissism sound universal. What if “I Wanna Hold Your Hand” wasn’t the miracle? What if “Semi-Charmed Life” was?

It was time. I had to go back and listen. My perspective had shifted. I’d done that work. But now, I had to actually collect the evidence. And so, I re-read the recent reviews one last time and hopped on the Reddit boards and — based on the recommendation of twenty people from a community of three thousand — decided to start my reassessment with “Dopamine.” “Dopamine,” which came out in 2015, six years after “Ursa Major,” was purportedly ground zero for 3EB’s reputation laundering. At the time of its release, Jenkins was sufficiently distanced from his massive debut and effectively reclaimed by a new generation. To understand fifty-nine year old Stephen Jenkins, I first had to understand fifty-one year old Stephan Jenkins.

Though Jenkins had been claiming as much for decades, “Dopamine” is the first Third Eye album to actually sound like an Indie Rock album. It’s hard to not hear Arcade Fire in the bass and drums and Spoon in the synths. Sure, the guitars can sound stadium-sized, but their grandeur only serves to accentuate the emo bravado of Jenkins’ vocals. The bigger Third Eye Blind sounds, the more vulnerable their lead singer presents. And the more vulnerable Jenkins sounds, the more you empathize with him. It’s a trick that works well for Will Scheff (Okkervil River) and Conor Oberts (Bright Eyes), whose voices are distinctly similar to Jenkins’. Similar ranges. Similar lisps. Lots of words. But whereas Oberst and Scheff are literary and folksy, Jenkins is diaristic and bombastic. Oberst and Scheff have the more distinctive instruments, but — and I’m shocked to admit this but — Jenkins has the more affecting one.

That effectiveness could be the product of uncanny self-awareness — Jenkins’ understanding of how his lackluster voice is exalted by the confidence of his delivery and the force of his hooks. Or there could be some darker magic at play. “Dopamine” sounds a good deal like the work of a wizard whose potion is two parts Arcade Fire, one part Spoon and half parts Coldplay, Kings of Leon and Weezer. Or maybe it’s not dark magic either. Maybe it’s the work of the honor student who stole the Indie and Alt cheat sheets.

If all great artists are also great thiefs, then Stephan Jenkins is at least a very good artist. But on “Dopamine,” he’s also much more than a swindler or an imitator. He is a skilled producer who can toe the line between slick and organic, between tired and familiar and — most of all — between bedroom and bombast. Jenkins tests those binaries much in the way that Rivers Cuomo does, albeit without the odd humor and utter originality. Jenkins is no Rivers Cuomo. But, when Jenkins nails it, as he almost does on “Something In You” and as he absolutely does on “Say It,” it’s easy to imagine how a Weezer fan might also gravitate to 3EB. Big, fuzzy riffs. Quiet, then louder, then louder still. The singer is not so much singing as he is demanding your attention. Cuomo is harder to figure out while Jenkins is harder to like. But, over time, their music has increasingly met somewhere in the middle.

Weezer’s influence on “Dopamine” is diffuse — baked in and spread out. The sharper ingredient, the one that pokes out like imitation more than like-mindedness, is that of Arcade Fire. “Everything is OK,” which opens the album, is an on the nose imitation of Win Butler and Co. From the roll of the bass, to the electric acoustic jangle, to the foot stomping beat, it would pass for an outtake from “Neon Bible” if not for the singer. And even when they're less successful, like on “Dopamine” (the title track) when they straight nick the drum tone from “Funeral,” or on “Exiles,” which desperately wants to be Arcade Fire’s “Rebellion (Lies),” there’s something endearing about Jenkins’ commitment to the bit. In the same way that Anton Newcombe used to take on a new identity for each Brian Jonestown Massacre album — Stones, My Bloody Valentine, Joy Division, etc. — Jenkins tries a similar ploy on “Dopamine.” Arcade Fire, then Spoon, then Okkervil River, then Jimmy Eat World, then more Arcade Fire — all in an attempt to prove — once and for all — that he really, truly is an indie rocker.

What’s amazing is that it mostly works. Not his case as a middle-aged D.I.Y. icon. Not his messages. No — just the songs. And, by virtue, the album. “Dopamine” is better than just OK. It’s well played and well made. It’s consistently melodic and very rarely boring. And even when Jenkins’ falsetto misfires — as it frequently does — or when he patronizes — as he constantly does — it doesn’t offend the same way it did in 1997. It’s less exciting but also less desperate than 3EB’s cloying debut. I don’t mind the scratch and screech of his upper range on “All the Soul,” nor do I mind his half-baked valedictory speech on “Rites of Passage.” They’re both really good songs. Better than any Matchbox Twenty song. Better than any Smash Mouth song. Better than Better than Ezra.

Though not a masterpiece or a breakthrough, “Dopamine” was a momentum shifting, ground swelling album. It begged my generation to reconsider an act that we desperately wanted to forget and it validated the next generation for their open minds and young hearts. I’m more than a little thrilled to have spent a couple of weeks with “Dopamine.” And then with “Screamer” (2019). And finally with “Our Bande Apart” (2021). For as much as I might want to avoid Stephan Jenkins, I cannot deny that he is absolutely, without any shadow of a doubt, the greatest Stephan Jenkins of all time.

by Matty Wishnow