Mötley Crüe “Saints of Los Angeles”
Two bands. Both inspired by The New York Dolls. Both with silly haircuts. Both with bassists who died, though only one of whom stayed that way. Both famous for leaving destruction in their wake. Both accused of nihilism. Both the subjects of gossip, books, movies and films. One was born in 1975 and, for the most part, was done by 1978. The other formed in 1981 and, though they’ve said farewell numerous times, is still going to this day. One of these bands is thought of as high art. Scholarly tomes obsess over them. Meanwhile, the other band -- the generationally popular one -- is the butt of jokes. One is English and enthralls me. The other is Californian and confounds me. The more I considered the two bands, separated by critics and 5,437 miles, the more I had to confront the idea that their Sex Pistols might be our Mötley Crüe.
Weezer “Weezer (White Album)”
Whatever twentieth century Weezer suggested, twenty-first century Weezer signified something else. According to their critics, each successive model of the band represented another victory for irony over vulnerability; a validation of generic Pop Punk and the commodification of Emo. They meant that Blink 182 and Sum 41 and Fallout Boy were the winners. Worse still, it seemed like Rivers Cuomo either embraced it all or just did not care. It was an unmistakable betrayal — like in “Revenge of the Nerds 3: The Next Generation,” when nerd-king Lewis Skolnick grew a ponytail and fraternized with the Alpha Betas. “Everything Will Be Alright in the End” (2014) was Weezer’s promise to be “good” again — a full-throated apology everything that happened after “Pinkerton.” But here’s the thing about promises: they are much easier to make than they are to keep.
Chicago “Chicago XXXII: Stone of Sisyphus”
Some albums remain hidden because they were not made for public consumption. “The Basement Tapes” comes to mind. Others sit on the shelf because of incessant tinkering. “Chinese Democracy” might fit that bill. Sometimes, as with The Beach Boys’ “Smile” or Jeff Buckley’s “Grace,” the issues are entirely more human. But “Stone of Sisyphus,” Chicago’s thirty second album, recorded to be their twenty second album, is a different sort of animal. It was not released for the most obvious and depressing of reasons: their record label hated it. In its wide embrace of Rap, Slow Jams and Phil Collins, “Sisyphus” marked a return to the band’s eclectic roots. But in its wanton disregard for hits, it also served as a final farewell to the Cetera afterglow and an uncertain hello to the great unknown.
Kool and The Gang “Still Kool”
Many artists straighten out and lighten up as they age. Phil Collins comes to mind. Early Genesis fans could not have imagined “Against All Odds” in the same way that “Sussudio” lovers could not have fathomed “You’ll Be in My Heart.” Similarly, there’s a massive chasm between Cream’s “Tales of Brave Ulysses” and Clapton’s “Change the World.” And yet, compared with Kool & the Gang, those other paths seem almost linear. After nearly twenty years spent dialing down their Jazz and cleaning up their Funk, Kool & the Gang made their way to the top of the charts and into every birthday party, wedding and bar mitzvah the world over. Then, their ensuing hits, from “Joanna” through “Cherish,” got so light that the group began to sound like El DeBarge fronting Chicago. Two decades later, though their classics survived in Hip Hop samples, Kool & the Gang had basically floated away.
Sugar Ray “Music for Cougars”
Years after the clock had counted down from “14:59,” when the endless summer was over and when Mark McGrath went fully blonde, Sugar Ray were on sabbatical. Meanwhile, wunderkind producer, John Abraham, was ascending, cutting records for everyone from Staind to Weezer to Velvet Revolver and Pink. And though in 2008 there was almost nobody on the planet -- including Mark McGrath and his bandmates -- clamoring for a new record from Sugar Ray, Abraham offered the group a deal. Where the rest of us saw a past prime hunk and his band, born from the gunk under Matchbox 20 and Blink 182, Josh Abraham saw unfinished business. So, in 2008, in the face of the zeitgeist, Sugar Ray began recording “Music for Cougars.” Yes — that really is the title.
Genesis “Calling All Stations”
We wondered how they could carry on post-Phil. But their story was all about carrying on. First they lost co-founder Anthony Phillips — the “Pete Best” of Prog Rock. Then shape-shifting Prog-king Peter Gabriel. Then guitar savant Steve Hackett. And then, finally, pop icon Phil Collins. By 1996, there were only two men left. Tony on keyboard and Mike on guitar. But, how do you know when it’s time to quit? Why wouldn’t you try to keep going? Sometimes you need tangible proof that it won’t work. And so, Genesis was reborn (again). This time, featuring a younger, grungier, Scottish singer — Ray Wilson of the band Stiltskin. It turned out that “Calling All Stations” was all the proof anyone needed. It was the final Genesis album.
Hot Snakes “Jericho Sirens”
Hot Snakes are a miracle. They are a miracle for how they survived the legends of Drive Like Jehu and Rocket From the Crypt. They are a miracle for how John Reis rolls riffs from a twenty-sided die. They are a miracle for how Rick Froberg screams so loudly, so precisely on tune. They are a miracle for how much force and tension they create and how quickly they release it. They are a miracle for how they disappeared and how, more than a decade later, they came back. But, mostly, they are a miracle for how they marry Rick’s fuck-it-all-ness, with John’s fuck-yeah-ness. That is their greatest miracle.
Van Halen “Van Halen III”
Gary Cherone never had a chance. He was the second step dad for a generation who didn’t want another step dad. Back in 1985, we were OK with divorce. It was a sign of the times. We rolled our eyes a bit at Sammy, but we also tolerated him and secretly liked him. We even understood the second divorce. Things happen. People grow up and cut their hair and take up golf. But the almost reunion with Dave and the ensuing PR stunts were not OK. And the ensuing addition of the guy from Extreme was so completely not OK that, by the end of 1996, the Van Nation was up in arms. To this day, “Van Halen III” ranks among the most reviled albums that, I suspect, very few people have actually heard.
Funkadelic “First Ya Gotta Shake the Gate”
When it comes to George Clinton, nothing is simple. Memories are unreliable. Facts are covered in Funk. Dusted with glitter. Stored on old, warped floppy discs, under piles of drugs, in the basement of a barber shop in New Jersey. By 2014, when Clinton turned seventy-thee, the story of Parliament-Funkadelic was something in between a cold case and a myth. Part of me thought that they were the single greatest influence on contemporary Pop music. Another part was convinced that they were the biggest tragedy in the history of Rock and Roll. I thought I’d never know the truth. But then, within a single month, George released his autobiography and Funkadelic released a thirty-three song, three and a half hour, triple album — their first new music since 1981.
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.
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.
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.
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.
Traveling Wilburys “Traveling Wilburys Vol. 3”
The Traveling Wilburys were a “Supergroup” in name only. In reality, they were just a casual hang among middle-aged friends and admirers, who also happened to be Rock royalty. In 1988, they looked like half of an over forty, softball team from the Hollywood Hills — bad hair, extra paunch and beers after the game. The Wilburys’ debut is appropriately remembered for its easy going harmonies, for a couple of endearing hits and, sadly, for Roy Orbison’s passing. Many years later, it survives as a celebration (and commercialization) of “Past Prime.” History has mostly forgotten, however, that there was a follow-up album, complete with a bad “dad joke” for a title.
Golden Earring “Keeper of the Flame”
Rock and Roll is littered with one hit wonders and spectacular flame outs. But Golden Earring were neither of those things. They had two, massive hit singles, both of which have oddly endured as canon. Decades after their prime, they were still superstars at home, in The Benelux, where their faces adorned postage stamps. But, as far as I knew, they had disappeared around 1983, soon after “Twilight Zone,” the four minute MTV mystery that altered my young life. What happened? Where had they gone? It all had a whiff of semi-Nordic true crime. Information was scant, especially in The U.S., where Golden Earring were the coldest of cold case files.
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.
Air Supply “The Vanishing Race”
In retrospect, Air Supply seems unfathomable. Graham Russell looked like an overgrown Jeff Daniels with feathered hair. Russell Hitchcock was tiny, with a massive perm. Together, they looked like a Saturday Night Live sketch for a Hallmark ad about roller-skating buddies who loved cats. They were the naked, bawling men of Soft Pop who sang songs for exhausted, dejected, lovelorn ears. But, between 1980 to 1983, they scored eight consecutive top five hits, a feat only matched previously by The Beatles. By 1986, they were gone, off to redesign their Quaalude Rock for middle age and to celebrate their second career in the Philippines.
“Two Princes” (Spin Doctors) vs “Remedy” (The Band)
In 1993, The Spin Doctors gave MTV the winter hat plus hacky sack vibes the network sorely needed. Their unavoidable mega-hit, “Two Princes,” topped the charts and introduced Jam Band culture to the suburbs. Meanwhile, that same year, The Band reformed without frontman Robbie Robertson to make “Jericho.” One of the few originals from that album was “Remedy,” which charted nowhere and is remembered only by the most loyal of devotees. So, here’s the question: What’s better — an unforgettable song by a critically derided band in their prime or an unexceptional one from a beloved artist well past their prime?