Failure of the Day: Trouble Breathing
Just got the new Weezer …what do I call it? It’s not a record anymore, and it’s not even a CD because I downloaded it as a group of files to my iPod. Things are suddenly very intangible. Anyway, I was very much looking forward to the new songs because I am all with the loving of Weezer, and I was well-pleased with the single, and so, YAY! it came out today.
I am an understanding person. I understood that the Green Album, that collection of catchy tunes with no emotional content whatsoever, was Rivers’ way of hiding from the disappointment he felt when Pinkerton was not hailed as brilliant , as it damn well should have been. I further understood that Maladroit was a baby step back toward emotional expressiveness hidden behind kick ass rock tunes. So I am not surprised that Make Believe is an unabashed return to Pinkerton levels of longing and insecurity. But I am very surprised that it is expressed in a language that just barely succeeds at reaching junior high levels of emotional complexity. To misappropriate a better line, it’s as though Hello Kitty puked, and that puke wrote these lyrics.
I will certainly listen to it several dozen more times and check my first impression because I am after all very often too quick to judge. And maybe I am losing my ability to discern subtler shades of popular culture. Is there a level of irony that I’m missing? Or is it just that this baby talk drek is what passes for heartfelt these days? I mean, of course it is, but from Weezer? Weezer, late of songs about tranny hookers and angsty lesbian crushes?
I’ll withhold final judgment until I’ve listened to the whole thing more than just once during rush hour on the 22 Fillmore. But unless my cultural dip stick is seriously out of whack—which I don’t deny is entirely possible—I think we’ll all just have to wait till the next album for Rivers to finish up with this foray into trite sentimentalism and get back to the yummy songs about being a psychosexual fuckwit.
I am an understanding person. I understood that the Green Album, that collection of catchy tunes with no emotional content whatsoever, was Rivers’ way of hiding from the disappointment he felt when Pinkerton was not hailed as brilliant , as it damn well should have been. I further understood that Maladroit was a baby step back toward emotional expressiveness hidden behind kick ass rock tunes. So I am not surprised that Make Believe is an unabashed return to Pinkerton levels of longing and insecurity. But I am very surprised that it is expressed in a language that just barely succeeds at reaching junior high levels of emotional complexity. To misappropriate a better line, it’s as though Hello Kitty puked, and that puke wrote these lyrics.
I will certainly listen to it several dozen more times and check my first impression because I am after all very often too quick to judge. And maybe I am losing my ability to discern subtler shades of popular culture. Is there a level of irony that I’m missing? Or is it just that this baby talk drek is what passes for heartfelt these days? I mean, of course it is, but from Weezer? Weezer, late of songs about tranny hookers and angsty lesbian crushes?
I’ll withhold final judgment until I’ve listened to the whole thing more than just once during rush hour on the 22 Fillmore. But unless my cultural dip stick is seriously out of whack—which I don’t deny is entirely possible—I think we’ll all just have to wait till the next album for Rivers to finish up with this foray into trite sentimentalism and get back to the yummy songs about being a psychosexual fuckwit.
posted by Nancy @ 12:25 PM
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