THE 6OGs GET CRANKY on HOOTIE, F'ED UP, AND THE BEEHIVE
With the exception of a takedown by OG Brian of Rumours, the OGs have been pretty affable and generous in our reviews, trying to give some love to new records that deserve praise, to boost the live shows we're seeing, and to use the wisdom of our collective years to reflect on the vinyl of yesteryear. But this week, the gloves come off, and we follow Statler and Waldorf to the balcony to do things like compare a band of the 90s to a coed naked lacrosse t-shirt (if you know, well, you are also old). Other than some solid tracks by Toronto punk legends Fucked Up on their otherwise disappointing new one, we spend the week taking shots at music that does not live up to the hype and makes us yearn for more ELO. We'll try to be nicer next week, but in the meantime, enjoy the crank.
New album: One Day by Fucked Up. The first time me and part of the 6OGs went to a show together it was to see the Descendents with Fucked Up opening. I think we all agreed that Fucked Up stole the show. Damian Abraham surfed the crowd to the side bar (which is no small feat if you’ve seen Damian’s size) where he performed a few songs and taught the crowd DC hardcore history—literally, as in he gave a long speech about DC punk bands during the middle of his set.
This isn’t to say the Descendents weren’t great. They were. I had mostly lost the thread on the Descendents since the early 90s. Without my noticing, they had continued to put out albums of tightly-crafted, pop-punk shout-along anthems tinged with teen angst. I didn’t know about 90% of the set, but that 90% didn’t differ much from the 10% I did know, so I still knew the songs even if I didn’t quite “know” the songs. The band knows its lane, sticks to it, and does it well.
Damian is one of the best vocalists in punk rock. His punk growl/yell is immediately distinctive, engrossing, and provides a superlative texture to the band’s sound. But sometimes that voice just seems like a bad fit with what the band is trying to accomplish musically.
Charles
Fucked Up both does and does not have the same issue. Musically, Fucked Up have never been content with sticking to a single sound. They have consistently demonstrated their musical ambition, putting out concept albums (David Comes Alive), techno freakouts (Mechanical Bull), movie soundtracks, and a series of releases related to zodiac signs that range from the psychedelic to ambient and everything in between.
They do, however, have the problem of what to do about Damian. Damian is one of the best vocalists in punk rock. His punk growl/yell is immediately distinctive, engrossing, and provides a superlative texture to the band’s sound. But sometimes that voice just seems like a bad fit with what the band is trying to accomplish musically. While Fucked Up often let other members take over vocals, the songs without Damian seem to lack something, yet Damian’s vocal seem to be an impediment to the band’s musical ambitions or even just a poor fit.
One Day highlights this problem. The album is mostly enjoyable and has some great classic Fucked Up songs that are elevated by Damian’s growl. "Found," for instance, is the album’s opener and a down-the-middle Fucked Up jam. On other tracks, Damian’s voice seems to save the band from going too schmaltzy, like in "Lords of Kensington." The song flirts with new age-y sounds with its airy background vocals, but Damian drags it back to Earth before it becomes too Enya. But other times, it feels the band wants to try something where Damian’s voices doesn’t seem to fit, such as with "Nothing’s Immortal." But that said, I’m not sure I’m ready to go where the band wants to take me. Some of the album’s chimy pop just can’t be saved by Damian. It’s just tepid and boring.
Overall, there’s some interesting part to the album—and I’m sure it’s better live, but all together, I’d say it’s mostly for the diehard fans. (Charles)
Album from an upcoming/recent live show: ENTERTAINMENT, DEATH by SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE. It's hard to know where to start with this band, but I'll start with excitement. SPIRIT OF THE BEEHIVE (which I will choose to call SOB in this post) is a Philly band that has generated its share of indie buzz, and I've seen and heard the name any number of times in connection with the remarkable crop of bands to come from the city (and my hometown) in the last decade. But I'd never actually given them a shot, which made me all the more excited to see they were the openers for Dry Cleaning. I was on edge because SOB spells its name and the name of all of its songs in ALL CAPS--because, well, of course they do--but ready to forgive and let the live show carry me past my annoyance.
To sum up the show, as they were ending, I whispered to OG Brian that they sounded and performed like an SNL skit seeking to make fun of the current indie rock music scene. Bad jokes, too many ideas, back and forth between irony and earnestness, and really, just a mess. They go from sounding like Tame Impala to Mac De Marco to Fleetwood Mac to Neutral Milk Hotel to Pink Floyd back to a Radiohead outtake and then to Washed Out in a matter of two minutes but lacking the cohesion or chops of any of those acts (most of whom I also do not like but can at least respect).
Because of my devotion to 3A60G, or because I am a sucker, I decided to give their last full-length record a chance. Between the ALL CAPS song titles and the cover that appears to be ripping off/paying homage to King Crimson's In the Court of the Crimson King and placing it at a carnival, it was a tough start. The opening track, "ENTERTAINMENT," captures the essence of the album: 20 ideas, with likely as many instruments poured into 3 minutes, yet leading nowhere. Tempo and texture changes are always welcome, but when they devour the song, then it's not clear what the point is. Especially when, at about 1:30 of the song, a lovely acoustic track blossoms with a sweet melody. Only to be devoured by a drum machine and distorted vocals for the track "THERE'S NOTHING YOU CAN'T DO," which appears to be almost a dare to the musicians. By the end of that track, which is a messy psychedelic song ending with a proto-industrial screamo blitz, I yearned for the order and sanity of "Revolution 9."
The most eye-catching song on the album is called "I SUCK THE DEVIL'S COCK." (Because, of course they have a song called that). True to form, the first two seconds draw you in, with an oddly-tuned keyboard (I think) of some kind and speedy and catchy guitar riff. But after 20 seconds, it all slows down and devolves, again lost in a mess of psychedelia, distortion, and effects. After about a minute, you think you are in a video game or maybe some kind of Zappa-inspired mess, and if you scroll to 4:30 of the song, I defy anyone to tell me how the band got there, let alone why. There are moments in songs like "BAD SON" or "THE SERVER IS IMMERSED" that are genuinely beautiful and make clear this is a band with a ton of talent that has just decided to let it all sprawl out. Maybe there's an audience for that in 2023, but if so, it ain't likely among the 6OGs.
In my last attempt to be generous, I assumed the name SOB was a reference to, well, a beehive. Which made me think of chaos that is actually ordered, collective work toward a clear end that, a cacophony that retains a strain of clarity and beauty, sweetness through the occasional burst of pain. And I thought, huh, maybe they're just living up to their namesake and inspiration, and well, hats off for trying to musically conjure a beehive. It may not be my thing, but I could appreciate the effort.
Silly me. Then I did a bit of reading and realized they are named after a 1970s Spanish art film. Because, of course they are. Entertainment, Death indeed. (Brad)
Album being rediscovered (at least 10 years old): Cracked Rear View by Hootie & the Blowfish. You know the meme that starts with “I was today years old when I learned that…”? Well, I was today years old when I learned that, per the RIAA, the 10th best-selling album of all time by units sold in these United States of America is – I shit you not – Hootie & the Blowfish’s Cracked Rear View. If you gave me a thousand guesses, I would not have named Hootie’s 1994 debut as the album that sold slightly more than Fleetwood Mac’s Rumours and slightly less than Garth Brooks’ Double Live. Maybe this doesn’t surprise you. But to me, it is mind-boggling that Cracked Rear View sold more copies than Appetite for Destruction, Jagged Little Pill, or Born in the USA. Aside from Garth Brooks, the only albums that sold more copies are (in reverse order): The Wall, Billy Joel’s Greatest Hits, the White Album, Led Zeppelin IV, Back in Black, Hotel California, Thriller, and Eagles Greatest Hits (cue Lebowski quote of disgust.)
Hootie & the Blowfish were the backward South Carolina “Cocks” baseball cap of ‘90s rock. They were the co-ed naked lacrosse t-shirt of ‘90s rock. And yet they outsold ‘90s dorm-poster mainstays like Bob Marley’s Legend and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon...They were the C-student who charmed their way into a high-paying job and now drive an S-class.
Brian
Again, this is astounding. Hootie & the Blowfish were the backward South Carolina “Cocks” baseball cap of ‘90s rock. They were the co-ed naked lacrosse t-shirt of ‘90s rock. And yet they outsold ‘90s dorm-poster mainstays like Bob Marley’s Legend and Pink Floyd’s Dark Side of the Moon. They were inoffensive and likable, yet despite some individual strengths, they collectively never sounded more than adequate. They were the C-student who charmed their way into a high-paying job and now drive an S-class.
It’s a cliché, but selling records and making a ton of money really was both the best and worst thing to happen to Hootie & the Blowfish. They were never cool or critically acclaimed. They were grouped with the decade’s fratty/neo-hippie bands like Blues Traveler, Spin Doctors, Dave Matthews Band, etc. If those bands weren’t your thing, you found them insufferable. I found them insufferable. Hootie & the Blowfish weren’t like those bands. Cracked Rear View doesn’t have the ham-band noodling of Phish or the harmonica-scatting of Blues Traveler. They weren’t insufferable, they were just… there. In the background. Mega-selling and ubiquitous. But are they as bad as their reputation among critics? As good as their album sales indicate?
The answer to both questions is yes and no.
Musically, Cracked Rear View takes few risks. Almost as a response to the grunge explosion from earlier in the decade, the songs sound as if their primary goal was to make FM pop radio brighter and sunnier. Granted, Darius Rucker sings the hell out of these songs, but the lyrics don’t give him much to say. The biggest hits (“Hold My Hand,” “Let Her Cry,” “Time,” “Only Wanna Be with You”) are loaded with sensitive-guy drivel. Every other song involves Rucker crying, or someone else crying, or everyone crying. “Running From an Angel” sounds like their attempt at a Black Crowes song. The one exception is “Drowning,” a song in which Rucker asks questions like “Why is there a rebel flag hanging from the state house walls?” It’s not “What’s Going On,” but maybe it was a sign that the band had more to offer lyrically than crying over the Miami Dolphins or mansplaining Bob Dylan.
How did Cracked Rear View sell so many records? Hootie & the Blowfish were a bar band that leaned a little too far over their skis and made a bloody fortune in the process. Their debut was released at a time when mainstream radio was moving beyond grunge, and they had more long-term appeal to the music-buying public than, say Blues Traveler, a band led by an abrasive gun-nut with 17 harmonicas in his vest. And in perhaps the ultimate backhanded compliment, their music was just bland enough to sound very ‘90s but not too ‘90s. Given Darius Rucker’s future success in country music, maybe that’s the sweet spot that Cracked Rear View hit – the not-really-rock, not-really-country album with wide appeal.
So I guess it’s only natural that Hootie & the Blowfish sold almost as many records as the fuckin’ Eagles, man. (Brian)
