Archive for June, 2008

U2, Pop

Thursday, June 12th, 2008

When this record hit the pre-millennial streets, U2 were at the top of the pile and were setting the paces by ditching rock in favor of “going techno.” For those readers who might not recall, “going techno” was the pretty much the bubonic plague of the post-Cobain world. Basically, the entertainment powers that be were all looking for the *next* Nirvana — a paradigm shift that would likewise shift units. “Techno” was the great Eurodisco menace that *might* be able to convert an American audience that was vaguely aware of rave culture and technofuturism. That “wicked firestarter” fellow from the Prodigy was going to be the next Johnny Rotten. In retrospect, “techno” was the Y2K of musical trends, a lot of sound and fury signifying nary a blip or twitter — for better or worse, mind you. The US college-age music audience did embrace Phish and Creed instead.

Anyway, many alt-rock types were almost burnt at the stake for going techno, but the big dog in the “we dig the new sounds” controversy was U2. After all, the stellar Achtung Baby and Zooropa records used beats and looping and other dance music sleight-of-hand. If any band could pull the reactionary arena rock audience into the block-rockin’ future, it would be the reconfigured, reinvigorated post-maudlin, post-modern U2.

Too bad the band gave up on the future with Pop. Rather than embracing the new, the band retreated into its mid-80s finger-pointing mode, gussying up the tracks with some nifty bangs and whooshes hoping no one would notice.

The calculated, sensible All That You Can’t Leave Behind is often credited as U2’s return to mainstream form. However, that return begins with Pop — a hectoring, preachy record that subtracts the apocalyptic glee of Achtung/Zooropa and piles on the morning-after self-pity.

Damnation and salvation lurk in the shadows of all three of U2’s 1990s albums. Achtung Baby is the “Let’s ride out this hell train” record, all dark sexuality and sardonic humor. Zooropa is the purgatory record — all numbness and vague notions of having been vain and frivolous. The clearest morality comes through the voice of Johnny Cash’s “The Wanderer.” And all that business about a “bible and a gun” is hardly hopeful. These are ambiguous records.

If Achtung and Zooropa are the Inferno and the Purgatorio (and I don’t think they intentionally are), then Pop is the Paradiso — the boring one full of high-minded metaphysics and moralizing. “Discotheque” is the only fun track on the album, and this song is interrupted by a reminder that it’s time to get right with the great disco ball in the sky.

You’re looking for the one
But you know you’re somewhere else instead
You want to be the song
Be the song that you hear in your head

The should-be-naughty-but-isn’t “Mofo” is all about spiritual questing as well. Rock and roll (not techno!) is posited as part of the salvation process.

Looking for to save my save my soul
Looking in the places where no flowers grow
Looking for to fill that God shaped hole
Mother…mother sucking rock and roll (Mother…)

Additionally, the speaker (ostensibly Bono) is trying to find himself after a period of hedonism (perhaps whilst wearing devil horns and a gilded suit) — “Looking for the father of my two little girls.”

MacPhisto

The hits just keep on coming, too. Much was made about U2’s gargantuan PopMart tour in support of this album. The advance word was that the band was embracing Warholian pop art and American-style bigness much in the same way the ZOO TV tour made art out of new Europe meets old Europe sleaze. However, the tone of the tour — with its giant yellow arch and Dean Martin-sized martini olive seemed less fun-loving and more finger-wagging. It’s not just the props — take for instance “Miami” — gone is “Zooropa’s” ambiguous, campy play with advertising clichés –

Zooropa…a bluer kind of white
Zooropa…it could be yours tonight
We’re mild and green
And squeaky clean

Zooropa…better by design
Zooropa…fly the friendly skies
Through appliance of science
We’ve got that ring of confidence

Instead, U2 uses “Miami” to paint a wholly unflattering portrait of modern American values.

Weather ’round here chopping and changing
Surgery in the air
Print shirts and southern accents
Cigars and big hair
We got the wheels, petrol is cheap
We only went there for a week
Got the sun got the sand
Got the batteries in the handycam…

Her eyes all swimming pool blue
Dumb bells on a diving board
Baby’s always attracted to the things she’s afraid of
Big girl with the sweet tooth
Watches the skinny girl in the photo shoot
Freshmen squeaky clean
She tastes of chlorine
Miami, my mammy

Similarly, the lyrics go for the hard moral sell in “The Playboy Mansion.”

If OJ is more than a drink
And a Big Mac bigger than you think
If perfume is an obsession
And talk shows, confession
What have we got to lose
Another push and we’ll be through
The gates of that mansion

Basically, the sense of play and new values that U2 toyed with on Achtung/Zooropa is pitched out in favor of attacking obvious wrongs. With Pop U2 attempts to reclaim their mantle as rock’s progressive-ish conscience. The traditionalist modern rock of All That You Can’t Leave Behind helped this kind of strident material go down easier with U2’s mainstream audience. But Pop was the beginning of U2’s retreat from modernity and weirdness. The album closes with the unmistakably serious “Wake Up Deadman,” a song that actually asks Jesus to “rewind it just once more.” If that isn’t a retreat from the scary jumble of contemporary living, I don’t know what is. It took U2 another album for the music to match the nostalgia of Bono’s lyrics. However, U2 as a forward-looking band was pretty much over with this trend-hopping, problematic record.

“You can keep this suit of lights,” indeed.

Weezer, “The Red Album”

Friday, June 6th, 2008

It takes a lot for me to disown a band. I’ve cast off longtime friends with less hemming/hawing than when finally pulling a plug on a group that I’ve followed for years. Not to say that I don’t get tired of certain bands or grow out of a particular band. That’s not what I’m on about here. I’m talking about being thoroughly disappointed by a band that you love in such a way that you hold out no hope of their rehabilitation — no mere tiring of a band you only kinda liked (e.g., getting over Ted Leo after Living With the Living failed to thrill). I’m talking about when a band disappoints you so bad that you have to hastily listen to their complete back catalogue to determine if you were ever justified in liking them in the first place.

I’ve only ever ditched a band for good once before – U2 following All That You Can’t Leave Behind – but it seems that Weezer has joined the dread Irish bloat-mongers in my own personal torture chamber of pure sonic crapola.

I know what you’re all saying, “Wait a sec there, bro? Whattabout Make Believe?”

Actually, I quite dig Make Believe. It’s a misunderstood album – much like Pinkerton – a little ball of angst and existential crisis slathered in guitars and vocal harmony. It’s a little more sedate than Pinkerton, which makes sense given that the album is largely about achieving spiritual contentment and growing up and out of adolescent behaviors. It’s like a pop punk All Things Must Pass. It’s a lyrically-direct album that can seem self-helpy at times (and rightfully so).

Even the track that gets a lot of the Make Believe hate action “Beverly Hills” isn’t as dumb as it sounds. Sure it’s got that dippy, recycled Steve Miller Band vibe going on, but I absolutely love the bit about the housemaid cleaning the floor and getting “the spaces in-between.” That one detail is an almost Ray-Davies-worthy bit of precision. Social climbing is reduced to a desire to live in a very clean bathroom.

If Make Believe has a crucial fault, it’s the sing-songy “We Are All on Drugs” which manages to be simultaneously juvenile, phony, and preachy in a way that doesn’t fit the album’s reflective, plainspoken tone. In my expert analysis, Make Believe seems to be a renouncing of irony and pretense in favor of straight dealing. (Check the Shakespeare quote in the liner notes.) “Drugs” is the sole goofy, “ironic” move on the album and it sounds crap. (Sure, the schoolyard melody doesn’t help.)

Hey! Hold on a minute. The Record Desk is currently considering the Red Album, right? Why all the talk of Make Believe. This isn’t a belated review for the likes of RAWK! Magazine or somesuch, is it?

Basically, I wanted to make a case for my total devotion to all things Weezer. I had to separate myself from the rest of those foaming blog animals who still treat Weezer’s 2006 effort as a punching bag. I am not one of those, “I only dig the first two records” Weezer types. I’ve seriously found something to like about all of their pre-2008 albums. Weezer is one of the bands that has routinely reminded me that four-piece pop rock bands can still turn out touching, enjoyable records without any pretense or experimental frippery.

So when I say that I’m through with Weezer, it means something. I haven’t slowly lost the spark. The Red Album is a paradigm-shifting audio-turd that will forevermore change the way I think about all the discs stacked around the Record Desk. It sucks more than anything else has ever sucked. Just now, it ran over my puppy and made a pass at my wife. It owes me ten bucks. I hate it.

Now let me tell you how I really feel –

Over the course of the Red Album, Rivers Cuomo and company manage to use the word “underwear” in a rhyme twice, exhort everyone to “Get Dangerous” in the style of petty highschool vandals, and rip off “Simple Gifts” as part of a “Quick One While He’s Away” type multi-segment songwriting exercise. The two best songs on Red are the quickly-written, label-mandated single “Pork and Beans” and the back-from-the-demo relic “Dreamin’” – and the latter is pretty slightly b-side material carried along by virtue of its vocal arrangement. Very little of the album actually rocks in the crunchy, fizzy Weezer style. And the sensitive bits are cringeworthy and melodically slight with oozy arrangements that don’t boast the saturated guitar textures that usually keep the other albums’ slow material from devolving into total schmaltz.

The main problem with this Red Album is that Weezer doesn’t seem to know who they are with this release. Actually, my wife put it as “Who does Weezer think they are?” The attempted versatility is off-putting – the theme and variation stunt, the smug “smoove” “ironic” voice of the lyrics, the rotating singers, the tender slow jam dedicated to Rivers’ favorite FM craprock. (Seriously, “Heart Songs” is super-double god-awful. It’s embarrassing to even let people know that you’ve heard it.)

Lyrically, Rivers seems to have mistaken mere biography (“Troublemaker,” “Heart Songs”) for candor and intimacy. Musically, the riffs don’t justify the slight writing. All the advanced talk of “musically adventurous” recording sessions is puzzling. Perhaps experimentation in the Weezer camp means crafting songs that overstay their welcome – especially since the lyrics stink and the nifty guitar solos are mostly missing. Only “Pork and Beans” – which was likely cobbled together on autopilot to meet label demands for more commercial material – is worth a damn. This record sounds like band democracy run amok and a “fragile auteur” getting so fat and happy that he confuses his melodic dicking around for actual songwriting that might mean something.

Sometimes a band sticks it to the fans and to the man and makes the great album that they always wanted to make. And sometimes a band crawls up its own ass in an attempt to scale the pop charts.

I hate this album. I hope it gets pancreatic cancer.