Measure Up

GIGATON 

3/27/2020

Album eleven, the first in seven years, how convenient. Ha! Since when, for whom, how come?

Global uncertainty is a given. How much it affects someone depends on how much of the evidence they are willing to witness and weigh. Hope floats? Hope erodes? Hope exists. Hope is a prerequisite for the very act of creation. Art made with trembling hands and wet eyes and a lump on the heart is ultimately hopeful. 

I hope this album is actually good. 57 minutes, their longest yet. The last time I thought this much about Pearl Jam was the 2016 World Series, when the Cubs were down 3-1 and my mind reeled with visions of Eddie Vedder, Bill Murray, John Cusack, Billy Corgan and maybe even Chris Chelios looking sad in their comped seats during Game 5 (heartbreaking nail-biter, heartbreaking ass-kicking, take yer pick).

"Who Ever Said"--Wow, this melts my thinking cap. (Ugh.) A meandering intro gives way, a muscular missile commander makes hay. I dug it, I dig it, I thought about even dancing a little.

"Superblood Wolfmoon"--Who's the she? I wanna trade gibberish with this chick. Stadium rock was then, sternum rock is now. 

"Dance Of The Clairvoyants"--As far as "first singles not indicative of the project's overall sound" go, this is tops. (There are keyboards throughout, however.) Bruce Springsteen and Tina Weymouth skip mirrored tiles across the river on this tech-heavy, funk-addled outlier. Misled fans are the best. 

"Quick Escape"--Blessed are the fence-makers. Guitarists are all right, too. Chorus singers are...okay? Fedora dogs and doomy Dudleys irritate me.

"Alright"--Yeah, thanks for the self-awareness. Next, teach me the point of fishing.

"Seven O'Clock"--Cool heads prevail for six minutes. Wherein we learn fire cools, amid other flexible truths. Dread is a choice. 

"Never Destination"--This is old PJ, begrudgingly pleasing glittery swelter-seekers. Real dogs bark and bite, but only the saddest cats bat the Bob Honey hive. 

"Take The Long Way"--Meagan Grandall makes history with her backing vox on this, a tribute to the endless beef jerky strip sustaining the boys since the Andrew Wood days.

"Buckle Up"--Daydreaming on a back porch. Ain't no party like a search party, 'cause a search party knows when to stop.

"Comes Then Goes"--Don't it though. "Wilder" doesn't always mean "better." Unless you're talking about Willy Wonka films.

"Retrograde"--The tumbling ninety-second echo at the conclusion is a sneak(ish) peek at a world sans resolve. Made for rock radio--not a complaint. 

"River Cross"--There's two types in this world: those who vilify addicts, and those who vilify addiction. Bodies of water exist for people freaked out by churches. I can never hang out by either for too long before catching a whiff of corpse.

Gigaton is pretty good, yeah I know, same here. Eddie Vedder sounds comfortable with how uncomfortable he sounds, and the sonics are succotash that can play the feature role on most dinner plates. 

For reasons best known by the unknown, hope sounds/feels a lot better than love to me these days.

Blank Stares and Broken Chairs

RAINIER FOG 

8/24/2018 

So Alice In Chains have now released as many full-length albums with vocalist William DuVall as with vocalist Layne Staley. And people still listen. Rainier Fog received a Grammy nod for Best Rock Album, an indicator of how moribund mainstream rock has become.

On August 20, four days before the album's release, the Seattle Mariners hosted "Alice In Chains Night" at Safeco Field (now T-Mobile Park, probably Amazon: The Baseball Experience by 2032). Jerry Cantrell threw out the first pitch and lucky fans received a shirt and CD. The next night, the band played an acoustic set at the top of the Space Needle. 

If the Seattle Kraken organization isn't run entirely by imbeciles (and pre-expansion and entry drafts, no definitive opinion can yet be stated), they'll have "Tacocat Night." Free tacos, half-price felines, and a Zamboni ride raffle. The members of the band Tacocat may be present at the game, they may not. 

"The One You Know"--Basic, bendy, yeah no shit you're not the one I know. Flow black water, keep on flowin'. Aged aggression that makes up for in sonic honesty what it lacks in sonic artistry.

"Rainier Fog"--Layne's spirit is forever in the smoke tendrils wrapped around the vocals. Not just on this song, either. Terra firma sentiments, identity utterly lost.

"Red Giant"--Color's off on the TV; hence, sludge-foot's unique hue. Marvel at the volume, rage, and density. DC at the heart, soul, and beauty.

"Fly"--Blows bubbles through a window fan set on "low."

"Drone"--Kinda, but not enough. I'd love to hear a song called "Drone" that's like ninety seconds long. Here, six and a half minutes of a shadow-clad, sleep deprived figure robbing from the homeless. 

"Deaf Ears Blind Eyes"--Sitting in a room that's gradually being disassembled, licking my navel between mournful beer belches.

"Maybe"--All the leaves are orange, except for the ones that are yellow. Jerry Cantrell was born too late to make a career off 80s balladry, and clearly has not reconciled this fact. 

"So Far Under"--Set champions up as underdogs. Every individual in a band comprises a band all by themselves. Groove is in the taint. 

This is the first song wholly written by William DuVall, making it the first AIC song ever without Jerry Cantrell or Layne Staley somewhere in the songwriting credits. Black holes are a big focus on Rainier Fog. I've never been a big fan of the great universal death traps, despite my fascination with outer space. Maybe because I never looked at a planet, or a star, or a quasar, and thought Wow instant oblivion. 

This song wishes it were so devastating. 

"Never Fade"--Survivor's guilt turns every floor into a sticky one. Making it across is not impossible, just difficult as hell, and there's times when the reward outweighs the risk by at least a class. Left me dry-eyed and frog-lipped; might be different for others.

"All I Am"--Wow, the saddest maggot in the bag. Do you think Cantrell's ever had an agemate for a bedmate since the Columbia contract?

 Recommended for music fans with a fog fetish. Everyone else, prepare to feel like a contestant in a game where the winner is whomever vomits last.

Portland, Oregon Women Are Too Much, Not Enough

PATH OF WELLNESS  

6/11/2021

I'm so old, I remember when AIDS meant the ruination of sex. 

I'm so young, I remember when technology meant the ruination of music.

Sometimes I like to act as though I were just born yesterday.

Sometimes I like to act as though I've been here forever.

A new Sleater-Kinney record makes me happy as a horny hare. 

Lion and lamb, looking to curry favor from the main attraction. 

1-2-3, stop counting, not the point.  

"As-is" or "as-you-were." This ain't no Sheetz, this ain't no Chipotle, this ain't no life in the round.

 

"Path Of Wellness"--Wherein the "you" isn't up for debate. Thoughts (hopes, fears) that Carrie Brownstein and Corin Tucker would rush back to the tried and true are squashed, pretty quick. This isn't: what came before, nor is it what came before that. This is: cutting up dynamite sticks like boiled carrots.

"High In The Grass"--Queen Harvest time! 

"It's what we want to do."

Pointless joy is always in season. Corin's vocal game, like her hair game, never calls a timeout. Disappointed fans, do well by discovering the new ways the ladies play off one another in songs these days. 

"Makes no sense to you."

The intro is Homer bursting into Bart's bedroom with fresh brownies. 

"Worry With You"--First single. Stealthily creative. Pandemic life demands one new wonder for every new worry. Glue rocks together. Tear the fridge apart. Update your goddamn Goodreads.

"Method"--Carrie's more "me/I," Corin's more "we/us," and of course the line separating precious and pretentious wobbles with every note. 

"Shadow Town"--How could any S-K fan not fuck with "Shadow Town"? Hot Rock rendezvous with No Cities To Love, it's a quarter to midnight and Ray Bradbury is cobbling together the last few paragraphs of his latest killer story involved a supposedly-interred local legend. 

Run a 5K five days a week for five weeks, and lose both baby toenails in the process, that's what's happening here. The siren blare, the shadow of imminent impact, it's here, and it's at once.

"Favorite Neighbor"--Stone-throwers, your 9:35 is here. Another angle to exploit, doesn't it start to stink after awhile? Do yourself a solid, kill your idols and order a Ledo's sub. Or save money and OD on butter. Try and matter, you'd do no better.

"Tomorrow's Grave"--Reminds me of those mornings I can't decide what Snoopy shirt to wear 'cause they're all so awesome. So instead I throw on the armor of slain gods, one piece for each pound of flesh.

"No Knives"--You know, how kids eat. 

Initially the album intro, and essentially two women letting everyone know the "never let 'em see you sweat" credo is kinda bullshit. Another day of the kitchen. No paunch to pat here. Everybody happy? Bye bye, good night.

"Complex Favorite Characters"--Pitchfork's 6.8 review laments the lack of "bleary-eyed rage." Where oh where the songs that make us want to strike brick walls, and spit in stranger's faces? What's the appeal of a punch anyway? 

Suck it up and hold it in, 'cause letting it out is bad. Especially if women do the shit. (Why is it so irritating when we do the shit?) Ease up, please. Enough of women catching blame we don't deserve. Incels exist because women won't lower their standards? The entire human race exists only because women lower their standards! Sleater-Kinney don't sound angry enough anymore, the riffs are rollicking, the beats aren't organ-shifting, the screams aren't squirm-inducing...in other words, they aren't borrowing as much from the well marked "masculine moves," so they're suddenly lesser than. That's the gist, yes? Introspection, inhibition, these are bad things, or if not bad, inferior to the other options. 

Point being, for all her thesaurus-taunting self-dissection, Carrie lands upon the lyric of the land. 

"You can't escape my imagination." 

Oh no, it's true.

"Down The Line"--It's in all in my heart. Katie Harkin's all heart, hear her here. A minuscule pickle lost amid fat leafs of lettuce, daunting circles of fried onion and a tomato wheel. Placates my stomach, anyway.

"Bring Mercy"--Heartfelt, so you know it's Corin. She's the owl and the tree, wise as fuck. What falls, rises. What rages, rests. What lives, dies. Questions are only as valuable as the answers they inspire, and even the silliest query is less of a time-waster than weaponizing your entitlement. 

Twenty-six years in/on/of, old enough and still too young.