Also, the incomprehensible vocals. I will never have the dedication to learn whatever the lyrics are to those gurgling and screeching noises.
Folk-punk, however, came into my life at just the right time. It's perfect blend of existential angst, cries from the queer gutter, and radical politics hooked me hard, and labored under a much more relatable, sensitive guise than the stone faced relatives in my regular agitprop-auditory diet. Bands like Defiance, Ohio, Mischief Brew, early Against Me!, This Bike Is A Pipe Bomb, and Andrew Jackson Jihad won me over to varying degrees of obsession, and even, uh, Ghost Mice was involved at one point. They may trigger my gag reflex, but Europe is still a pretty cool storytelling album, and it definitely inspired me to travel when I finally gave up on normal shit.
Nowadays, I have little to no interest in the scene nor the music, but there's still a few bands out there that catch me off guard every once in a while, namely Days N' Daze, Songs For Moms, Wildebeest (yeah I know, [genre argument]) and Ramshackle Glory, with the latter crowning the whole heap. Or well, their debut does, at least. Let's get going before further analysis unravels the whole thing:
Remember Pat The Bunny? And that awful, nihilistic shit he released under the Johnny Hobo And The Freight Trains moniker? And how dumbass train kids still talk shit over the fact that he never really hopped trains at the time? Because that's a form of thriving currency to anyone with actual concerns? Because Ramshackle Glory is his most recent project following a few year absence for personal reasons, mostly involving rehab, I'm pretty sure. I've never really cared for the aforementioned band or almost any of the Wingnut Dishwashers stuff, so I was really surprised when Live The Dream dropped in 2012. Standing in for the cringeworthy REAL TALK bullshit and shrill, preachy politics (with a dash of Plan-It-X cutesiness, of course) was a far more relaxed, optimistic, yet bitter approach, and where the earlier material was either entirely solo or sounded like the it was written solo, then later embellished upon by studio musicians, Live The Dream has the tr00 full band feel. While Pat's immediate approach is still the core of each song, the addition of regular percussion, horns, accordion, piano, violin and singing saw feel completely natural and up the emotional impact significantly without ever getting soggy or smirk inducing. I mean, for folk-punk standards.
It's hitting me again just how difficult it is to critically assess albums that hold such emotional weight for me (which is why I've spent three blogs talking up The Broadways yet have never reviewed Broken Star), but I suppose there's nothing to do but harp on that angle. What strikes me again and again, despite having flogged this for the past three years, is just how emotionally affecting these songs are. "We Are All Compost In Training" hits me like a train every time. It's a much fuller (and superior, imo) re-recording of the last song Pat wrote under the Wingnut Dishwashers Union name before he entered rehab, and it sounds painfully caught in the moment. The themes here fit distinctly into the timeline, with lyrical concerns revolving around recovery, sobriety, reflection, looking for meaning, and of course, the standard anarcho-critiquing we all know and make love to, all passionate and deeply consensual. While I feel a creeping desire to hail this as a 'perfect album', it's really just testament to the strength of the best material on here. Otherwise, there's "Of Ballots And Barricades" and "Bitter Old Man" to contend with. The former of which is just kind of unmemorable but the latter is a lethargic Voltron of No Hooks, Changing Into A Totally Different Song At The End For No Reason, and Too Great Of A Running Time For So Few Ideas.
It... it doesn't have legs because I ran out of things to fit into the metaphor.
CONCLUSION: 8 fantastic, endlessly re-playable sing-a-longs of surprisingly posi ex-junkie/nihilist songwriting goodness and two clicks of the fast forward button. I realize it's kind of an obvious choice for an example, but this has to be the most immediately catchy song on here, so check it out:
This is where things get a little sour for me.
Pat in the beginning of Intro: "We think it's important to mention that this album contains stories about people's experiences, including suicide, racism, sexual assault, addiction, and violence."
Me: Alright. *takes headphones off*
Is it possible for something with no thinkable comparative to become the ultimate cliche in one stroke? Because while I've never heard an album begin with a spoken trigger warning before, it's undeniably the most folk punk-y thing I've ever heard. Who Are Your Friends Gonna Be? kicks things off with a nearly formless, 4-and-a-half minute instrumental introduction over which a quasi-comprehensible woman's voice speaks of personal reflections on rape and peer suicide in the radical and traveler communities. Why wasn't this relegated to the album's insert or a .pdf on their bandcamp page? I have no fucking clue, but hopefully you like the merger of these two things because this album is littered with them. There is over 11 minutes on here entirely comprised of that one shitty instrumental and various people telling muffled stories over it. This album isn't even 30 minutes long. Hmm.
The thing that sucks even worse is the fact that the actual *songs* on here are pretty good. They might even be great, but it's sort of hard to tell since the production here is literally the least sympathetic I've ever heard. I spent a big chunk of my life listening to shit with the auditory finesse of a 4-track held up to megaphone, but at least with all those goregrind demos from the 90's, the sound quality actually suited the griminess of the music. Here, though, it sounds like the band may as well have recorded their parts on different continents for how little this sounds like a convincing full set. For instance, the drums sound like they were recorded on an early 2000's cell phone, encrypted several times, and then played through another cellphone sitting in a metal bowl so to amplify the sound a little while you wash dishes alone in your dive-y apartment. Have you ever heard the first Suicide album? Pat totally sounds like Alan Vega on here. Which is to say: a ghostly, echo-y voice significantly cleaner and louder than the rest of the instrumentation. No weird breath shit and "HOO" noises. If you need an example, try this:
Skip to the 1:20 mark. This is a pretty good song, but it's also keen how the acoustic guitar sound practically unaccompanied despite the crashing symbols. I realize I've only really focused on the production and filler tracks here, but this has to be one of the most challenging albums to enjoy I've heard in a long time.
CONCLUSION: some pretty solid songs on here, but they're almost all ruined by the samples and worst production ever. Give it a go if you love Live The Dream, but don't be afraid to hit skip, either. I don't want to diminish the weight of the experiences spoken here, but I kind of listen to this band to hear Pat articulate these issues with lyrics and melodies, not randoms reciting Tumblr posts over one drone-y, recurrent instrumental for a third of the record.
Here's a kyewt little somewhat relevant story you can skip if you want:
Back in real early 2011, I'd started to pick up the socially crippled, directionless shards of my life and began confronting all my insecurities head on. I'd been socializing with strangers for the first time in my life, and ended up in a collective of likeminded kids who did the whole weekend social justice thing I was warming up to. Sometime in March, they'd organized a benefit show for the local Anti-Fracking (hydraulic fracturing, if you're not from the NE) committee, and I attended to great affect with my typical wingmen (ur, adderall and booze. I was really anxious and awkward otherwise. Enough to italicize "really"). Somewhere in the night I met up and chatted with this cute, sad-eyed tomboy who sidled on the sidelines, but exuded a lot of confidence when we spoke.
When I went home that night, the encounter made me pull out my journal for the first time in months, and I wrote something along the lines of "Dear diary, I'm a lightly reverbed, disembodied voice narrating this entry for the viewers and tonight I met someone for the first time in three years who I felt anything for in my cold, rotting cabbage-like heart. I can't imagine anything coming of this, but it's good to know I'm still alive in there".
A few meetings later, and I ended up at my first house party with the denizens of our collective and some random free radicals (fnar fnar). One 40 oz in, I found her sitting alone, sipping a little too lightly to socialize with the teeming mass of ineligible drivers. I sat down next to her and the ragged old Ghost Mice patch on her hood sparked a long, rambling conversation where we swapped our favorite folk-punk bands and talked until the party cleared out. A few days later she invited me to hang out and blah blah blah we traveled and lived together and helped each other turn our lives around.
I still don't know if I'd recommend hitting the folk punk trails in 2014, but hey, sometimes you get a long term partner and a series of life altering events out of it. Good luck.
