Modest Mouse “Strangers to Ourselves”
Almost two decades into his unlikely career — in between his fifth and sixth albums — Isaac Brock got stuck. It had been many years since “We Were Dead.” Uppers and psychedelics weren’t helping. The line of producers wasn’t helping. The sleeplessness definitely wasn’t helping. He just could not move forward. He was stuck in a loop, like a fatal record scratch. All he could see was the end of everything and how we all knew it was coming and how we all distracted ourselves from it and how we all vacationed and partied and Netflixed, full well knowing that we were fucked. To compound matters, he was being stalked. In fact, he was being stalked by several people. There is little doubt that Isaac was in the throes of paranoia during this time, but — yes — he also really was being stalked. It was that version of Isaac Brock, who, along with seven other band members and four other producers, eventually released “Strangers to Ourselves” in 2015.
Darius Rucker “Learn to Live”
For over a decade, Hootie and the Blowfish were the butt of jokes — a 90s cliche nested between bad Gap sweaters and Sugar Ray. The probability of the backlash, however, was only surpassed by the improbability of Darius Rucker’s reemergence in Nashville in 2008. While his reign as the most successful Black musician in Country music now appears obvious, it was once, briefly, the object of cynical eyebrow raises. Taken together -- the backlash and the genre hop -- Rucker’s career resembles that of the Bee Gees and Ray Charles. He’s not the writer that Barry Gibb was and he’s not a sliver of Ray. But, also, he’s not Shania Twain or Mark McGrath or Rob Thomas. And he’s definitely not Hootie. He’s Darius Rucker, Country Music Star.
Pedro the Lion “Phoenix”
In 2006, after a decade as the mostly Christian, nearly secular, too fast for Slowcore, too slow for Indie Pop darling, David Bazan hung up Pedro the Lion. He was at a crossroads — in life, faith and music — and had to decide. The path Bazan chose was likely the harder one. He dried himself out, and returned as a solo artist, playing tiny, living room shows to anyone who wanted him. It was a living, but it was also lonely as hell. Years seeing his kids grow up over FaceTime. Nights in cheap hotels. Days on the highway, watching mile markers pass glacially while his his life flew by at twice the rate. When he finally ran out of gas, he did the logical thing: he reconvened Pedro the Lion and returned to Phoenix, Arizona, the place he was born and where he was taught to believe.
Journey “Revelation”
By 2006, Journey were on the ropes. The former heavyweight champs of Arena Rock had exhausted every possible alternative. Version 3.0 with Steve Perry broke down. Version 4.0 with Steve Augeri fizzled. Neal Schon didn’t need the money. And he probably didn’t need Journey, either. But we did. Those of us who grew up at skating rinks and on Atari — we could not stop believing. So, just like he’d done before, Schon found the best thing. On Youtube, he spotted a feathery haired, Steve Perry soundalike with a fairy tale backstory. And, just like that, Journey 5.0 released an affordably priced, three disc set through Walmart. One album of new material and two more of extraordinary karaoke. It was exactly what middle-aged, middle America needed.
Bryan Adams “Shine a Light”
Almost forty years after he burst onto our radios, with a voice that humbled Rod Stewart and a style that translated Johnny Cougar into Canadian, Bryan Adams was still going strong. Arenas full of fans were shouting along to “Summer of 69” and crying along to “(All I Ever Do) I Do it For You.” He was closing in on sixty. He’d already sold a hundred million albums and topped every chart in the world. But, he still sounded exactly like himself, which is to say both like nobody else and like a hundred other guys. Naturally he looked older — more refined. His hair was richly coiffed and he’d swapped his leather jacket for a designer blazer. He’d even built a second career as a photographer — his pictures hung on gallery walls. There were only two things left for him to do: make new music with Ed Sheeran and prove to the world that “uncomplicated” is the opposite of an insult.
Duncan Sheik “Legerdemain”
In the mid-90s, after the crater of Alt Rock, a softer, lighter second wave followed, delivering Bubble-Grunge to Middle America. Though nominally inspired by their predecessors, Goo Goo Dolls and Matchbox 20 steered closer to the middle of the road than to its edges. It was during this flaccid period that Duncan Sheik appeared on the scene — similarly strummy, but better educated and mopier. His fans were certain that a nascent Nick Drake (or at least a Grammy) lurked inside Sheik. However, booze and pity partying ensured otherwise. That was, until 2006, when he wrote the music for “Spring Awakening,” an unexpected Broadway hit. It was not “Pink Moon,” but it was a narrative change. Nearly ten tears later, in middle-age, Duncan Sheik checked into rehab, got himself a blog and — against all odds — made the excellent record his college buddies had always hoped for.
Lynyrd Skynyrd “God and Guns”
Some things in life are hard to talk about openly. For example, sex and money. When guys talk about sex or money, we tend to resort to cliches or jokes or hyperbole. On the other hand, it’s much easier for us to talk about music. In fact, we love to talk about music. Who are your bands? Are you a Stones guy? A Phish guy? A Blur guy? A Smiths guy? It’s organizing and safe. It’s the way we talk about our feelings, without really talking about our feelings. And it generally works for us. Except, of course, when it comes to Lynyrd Skynyrd. And especially when it comes to their 2009 album, “God & Guns,” which — to complicate matters — is absolutely not terrible. It may even be good — even when it’s being awful.
Joe Jackson “Fast Forward”
You think you know a guy. He’s a jazzy New Wave Pop star. A classically trained pianist. A peer of Elvis Costello, who made it, and Graham Parker, who almost made it. As a young man, he made a couple of hit records that have held up. And then, in the mid-80s, he took the other road. For two decades, he scored films, paid tribute to his heroes and composed music for grad students. When he returned, many years later, he appeared startlingly different — all black clothes and a powder white face and hair. In middle age, Joe Jackson’s passion was still genre-defying music, but also, and maybe more so, libertarianism.
New Order “Waiting for the Sirens' Call”
Is it fun to be in a band? I used to think so. But, then, why does it seem so hard? Is it the anxiety of performance? The inevitable imposter syndrome? The monotony of touring and recording that The Kinks described so well in “Do It Again”? That plight -- the tragedy of fun -- is part of what defines and unites Goths, I suppose. It’s also probably the thesis of Post-Punk’s greatest band: New Order. For many years, the band that was born out of death hunted for fun in every corner of every club in the world. That was, until 1993, when drink and drugs and feelings got in the way. After a trial separation, they reunited, and embarked on a well deserved honeymoon. The fun, however, was short lived. By 2005, when they released the “Waiting for the Sirens’ Call,” divorce was in the air.
Built to Spill “Untethered Moon”
If I had to design an Indie Rocker -- for a movie character or a book proposal, or whatever -- I’d start with a guy from the Midwest or the Pacific Northwest. He’d be above average height and lanky, but in no way muscular. Maybe he played some baseball in high school, but sports weren’t that important to him. He drinks beer and smokes weed but doesn’t think much about either. He’s introverted, but also has plenty of friends. He’s dreamy -- not in the Jake from “Sixteen Candles” way, but in the always kind of thinking of something else way. He can figure things out. He built his own computer. He can hang drywall. He apparently has a band that nobody has ever heard but that you assume is pretty good. And, though he’s only twenty-something years old, he looks like he could be forty. He’s even got the beard to prove it. That’s the guy — the archetype. His name is Doug Martsch.
Jane’s Addiction “The Great Escape Artist”
By 2011, hell had frozen over enough that we began to expect the return of every legendary band. The Pixies, The Replacements, My Bloody Valentine, Pavement. The list was practically endless. It was simply too costly for those bands not to reunite. So, news of another album from middle aged Jane’s Addiction was kind of ho hum. For many, it was a curiosity, at best. At the core of this presumption was the belief that the great, unsustainable version of Jane’s had died in 1991. That they would return made only commercial sense. That they could recapture any semblance of their original brilliance made practically zero sense.
George Brett “The Bellagio Story”
At spring training in 2006, the greatest player in Kansas City Royals history told two minor league journeymen about the time he pooped his pants at the Bellagio, underneath the world’s largest installation of Dale Chihuly blown glass. The story is well known among Youtube diggers, Brett enthusiasts and, perhaps, baseball-inclined gastroenterologists. The mystery of this great story is not what plagues the Hall of Famer’s colon or how it relates to his Pine Tar Homer or whether it is even true, but rather why George Brett was so proudly insistent on the matter of his incontinence.
Beck “Hyperspace”
Since we finally met Beck, the grown up man, on “Sea Change,” a lot has happened: He got married. He had two children. He got divorced. He released seven albums -- most of them appreciated, and a couple beloved. He stayed in California. He stayed thin and pretty and a little weird. To the casual observer, he barely aged. But, with each successive album, he impressed less. There were no more “Odelays” or “Midnight Vultures.” In fact, to some fans and many critics, Beck became kind of boring. In 2002, I had firmly concluded that Beck could never be uninteresting. By 2019, however, I was less sure.
Jon Spencer Blues Explosion “Meat + Bone”
Right after Nirvana, but just before Radiohead, the Blues Explosion were the band that all of New York City wanted to happen. They emerged from the grime to make “Art&B” that was initially greasy, then sweaty and, eventually, glistening. But, slowly, and unexpectedly, the buzz quieted down. The albums got safer or weirder. A decade after their debut, they’d been market corrected by The White Stripes. In fact, they practically disappeared. But then, in 2012, they pulled the cover off the old muscle car, put the keys in the ignition and waited to see if the engine still ran.
Luther Vandross “Luther Vandross”
Luther was the most polite Soul singer to have ever lived. We always knew that Al Green was grooving with euphemisms. We knew Smokey Robinson was being a little too cute. Even Michael Jackson tried to convince us that he was “Bad.” But Luther did none of those things. He was more interested in holding hands and gazing into our eyes over a candlelit dinner and a glass of Chablis. He built his career around silky vocals, a cherubic smile and good manners. But, in 2001, at the age of fifty, he lost half of his body weight, slapped expensive beats on his tracks and started to flirt like a grown up.
David Kilgour “The Far Now”
What’s it like to be a treasure, buried deep inside an island halfway around the world? What’s it like to be a semi-legend who cannot make a living doing what you are revered for? What’s it like to be a middle-aged artist who means so much to so few, but absolutely nothing to so many. Eventually, David Kilgour, the darling, Kiwi uncle of Indie Rock, gave up worrying about these sorts of things. “The Far Now” is his exhale — the sound of sunrise and sunset.
Allman Brothers Band “Hittin' the Note”
All these years later, I don’t regret the Leftover Salmon jokes or the Disco Biscuits cheap shots. For decades I used the term “Jam Band” pejoratively. It was hypocritical, to say the least. Bands that I loved — Television, Yo La Tengo, The Feelies — loved to jam. But, it was obviously not the same thing. They weren’t “Jam Bands.” And so, I simply would not apologize for my snark. The one thing I did regret, though -- the thing that has gnawed at me since I was a teen -- was the fact that I never gave the Allman Brothers Band a fair shake.
The National “Sleep Well Beast”
In 2017, after a decade being carried in the arms of cheerleaders, The National were understandably disoriented. There was the scary new President. There was their unexpected stardom pushing up against their middle-aged domesticity. There was even a small, but vocal, backlash accusing them of sameness. And, possibly, smugness. “Sleep Well Beast” was the band anxiously experimenting their way through the quagmire. Meanwhile, I listened and wondered: can we ever go back?
The Feelies “In Between”
If ever there was a band that was born to disappear, it was The Feelies. They were the cult band that, for over forty years, were not a band much more than they were a band. They were R.E.M. without the feelings and Yo La Tengo without the romance. They wrote songs about nothing. They made four albums between 1980 and 1991 and then faded like Halley’s Comet. But then, twenty years later, they returned. And, even though they had already said everything that there was to be said about nothing at all, they kept on saying it. Same chords. Same mumbled words. And it was still perfect.
Pearl Jam “Backspacer”
From the very beginning, I did not trust Pearl Jam. The yearning was too intense. The bass was too rubbery. They wore hats! I was certain that they were a Jam band in disguise. Over time, though, I realized that I was untrusting more than they were untrustworthy. And, by 2009, there were rumors of a “new wave,” “optimistic” Pearl Jam. Obama was President. Cheney and Rumsfeld were gone. Matchbox Twenty and Third Eye Blind were a distant memory. Hope had sprung eternal. I was not not curious.