The Brian Jonestown Massacre – Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees | Album Review
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I’m a firm believer in not engaging with art until the time is right. I didn’t see Goodfellas until I was twenty-three; the movie had somehow fallen through the cracks for me, but once I felt like an embarrassing amount of time had passed, I finally gave it a watch, and it changed my life. Sure, if I had seen it earlier in my life, it still might have left a sizable impact on me, but I don’t think I would have appreciated it to the level I did at twenty-three. There’s something cosmically gratifying in allowing yourself to engage with a piece of art when the time is right.
This approach also goes for things that don’t click right away. Sometimes I will listen to a band and find something interesting in their music, but we just aren’t syncing together. It’s like when you’re listening to the radio in your car and you spin the dial just a bit off the station–you can still hear the song, but there’s this fuzzy distortion that prevents you from fully experiencing it.
For years, this was my relationship with The Brian Jonestown Massacre. In hindsight, I judged the band without really knowing much about them. What I knew about the group was that they made spacey garage rock that rested in the middle of a Venn diagram containing 60s psychedelia and shoegaze. Music like this is very much my kinda thing, but in a stroke of sophomoric arrogance, I thought, “I have My Bloody Valentine and Spiritualized; what do I need this band for?” I lived in this ignorance for over a decade until earlier this year when a friend gave me an extra ticket to their show at The Fillmore in San Francisco.
I’m not one to turn down a free ticket, plus the show was on 4/20, so I figured it was a sign from above. Stoned, I packed into the back of the crowd with my friend and his buddies and proceeded to have one of the most entertaining live experiences ever. Having little frame of reference for Brian Jonestown Massacre, I was tickled by frontman Anton Newcombe’s primadonna behavior as he complained to the sound tech that his vocals sounded too much like opener Mercury Rev’s, scolded the drummer for not playing the parts correctly, and argued with the keyboardist about whether or not he was being too much of a dick to the band. To some, this might have been off-putting, but I found it hilarious and even charming because, despite all of the potentially staged antics, the band sounded great. I left the show a convert.
The following day I waded deep into the internet as I tried to learn as much as possible about The Brian Jonestown Massacre. I watched videos containing literal fights on stage and an appearance Newcombe made on Anthony Bourdain’s Parts Unknown, but when it came time to dive into the actual music, I found myself overwhelmed. This band embodies what it means to be prolific, having released nineteen albums, not counting compilations, live albums, EPs, and singles. There’s just so much. Should I start from the beginning, or would I be better off listening to landmark albums that stand as pillars in their discography? I still don’t know the right answer.
My path toward unraveling the group’s history has been fittingly tumultuous. I tried variations of these methods which left my brain in knots, but then I was given a promo of their nineteenth album, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees, to review. To say that this album unlocked what BJM is all about for me is wrong, but I feel like it grounded me as I listened to it day in and day out for almost a month.
The album opens with “The Real,” which sets the tone for the next thirty-eight minutes with its trancelike guitars and drums that repeat without relent. Like any intense high, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees is riddled with euphoria, paranoia, and melancholy. “It’s About Being Free Really” is a blissful psychpop ditty soaked in warm fuzz and upbeat rhythms. Disguised as an infectious, warm worm, “Silenced” sees Newcombe almost rapping as he rapidly rattles off thoughts about hearing gossip and feelings of isolation. The low and hazy lullaby, “Before And Afterland,” appears halfway through the album, climaxing with a glimpse of clarity as Newcombe sings, “I was born in this world to lose / My destiny’s not for you to choose” before slipping back into its stupor. The remaining songs are well-constructed garage rock fare that maintain the feeling of stoned relaxation rather than continue the wild excitement of the first half. Ultimately, Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees goes down smooth as the record’s constant buzzing of distortion locks you into a singular headspace. You’ll get close to a full panic, but in the end, that feeling subsides in favor of tranquility.
After emerging from my den, I began to hopscotch through BJM’s discography. I checked out a few albums that preceded Fire Doesn’t Grow On Trees to see if maybe they spoke to one another. Maybe they did, but who can really say? It’s certainly far removed from the shoegaze of their debut Methodrone. I guess that’s where the beauty lies when an artist is genuinely prolific. When scrutinized under a microscope, you can see the individual strokes and discern the differences, but when you take a few steps back, you begin to see how it all blends together, creating a cohesive body of work.
If I could see into the future, I would be able to tell you if my relationship with The Brian Jonestown Massacre deepens and flourishes to the point that I become a real head, but I can’t. It’s not about that; it’s about appreciating the music for what it is when it’s clicking. And right now, I'm deep in the groove.
Connor lives in Emeryville with his partner and their cat and dog, Toni and Hachi. Connor is a student at San Francisco State University and is working toward becoming a community college professor. When he isn’t listening to music or writing about killer riffs, Connor is obsessing over coffee and sandwiches.
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