Hater's Delight – March 2023

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We’ve reached the end of March. Or, as I (a guy with a music blog) like to call it, “the end of Q1.” *pushes glasses up nose* That means this month, we’ve been treated to clumsy attempts at “important” albums from big-name indie acts, tasteless tour announcements from talentless hacks, and desperate swings from pop stars for an early bid at the “song of the summer.” In short, there has been no shortage of things to hate, but hey, at least the year is a quarter over, right?

If you’re joining us for the first time, Hater’s Delight is a micro-review column brought to you by our team of Swim Into The Sound writers and a guest or two. This is a space where we can vent about the things online and in music that have gotten under our skin this past month. Each writer gets a paragraph or two to bitch about their chosen topic, then once we expel the Haterade from our systems, we all go back to loving music and enjoying art. Speaking of which, if you’re more in the mood for some positivity, here’s a playlist of all this month’s new releases that I enjoyed (or at least found notable) to help you keep up on everything that’s happened in March. 

Now, let’s drive a stake into the heart of March with another edition of Hater’s Delight.

“Mother” by Meghan Trainor 

I was reluctant to write about Meghan Trainor’s new song since it’s the easiest possible target, and everyone on my timeline has already torn it to shreds, but I can’t get it off my mind. With every second I listened, I kept thinking, “This can’t possibly get any worse,” and then, somehow, it would. Meghan’s really hit all her bases with this one: a clumsy and utterly sexless attempt at 2010s-era horny girlboss pop, TJ Maxx spring sale commercial production, the word “mansplaining” sung in a white lady riff, vague gesturing towards a possible Oedipal complex, a Mr. Sandman interpolation straight out of the Leah Kate school of songwriting, “You Need To Calm Down”-levels of shameless LGBTQ pandering (though I guess Meghan didn’t have the budget to hire RuPaul or Ellen Degeneres or anyone else from the Middle America-approved list of people who come up when you Google “gay celebrities,” so she had to settle for having two random twinks pop up in the background at the end of every line like Oompa Loompas). 

“Mother” is a once-in-a-lifetime dud, a perfect storm of horribleness that’s frankly impressive. It’s not easy to make a good pop song, but it’s also not easy to make a pop song that sucks this bad. It’s almost inspiring to see someone flop so spectacularly, I kinda gotta hand it to her. 

Grace Robins-Somerville – @grace_roso


Donn’t Namee Youur Bannd Liike Thiss

As a longtime metalhead, I’m used to the best bands of the genre forgoing conventional spelling. Kreator, Megadeth, Mötley Crüe, the list goes on. Even going back to two of the biggest bands of all time, The Beatles and Led Zeppelin, improper spelling in rock’n’roll is canon at this point. But there’s a new trend I’m seeing more and more lately that I just don’t understand: adding extras of the same letter where one is not needed. Caamp, Miirrors, Siiickbrain, Slayyyter. I thought we were past this with Miike Snow and Wavves. Run For Cover Records has TWO current signees in this vein, Lannds and Runnner (seriously, how many N’s does this label need?). Both are relatively inoffensive bands musically but frustrating to Google or to recommend. All these bands have to live with their word-of-mouth promotion having a qualifier, “but with (x amount of letters) instead of the usual amount.” Seems counterproductive. While we’re at it, no more family band names (I’m looking at you, Great Grandpa and Grandson).

Logan Archer Mounts – @VERTICALCOFFIN


LEAVE PINKPANTHERESS ALONE

I’d like to preface this by saying that I’m old. I’m turning 30 this year, and PinkPantheress as an entity has only entered my life recently with the inescapable Ice Spice-assisted “Boys a liar Pt. 2” From what I understand, she’s a buzzy bedroom pop artist who blew up on TikTok thanks to her image, occasionally catchy tunes, and reverence for late-90s and early 2000s aesthetics. A few weeks ago, a tweet showcasing a particularly unenthusiastic PinkPantheress performance went viral. First off, she was (allegedly) paid just $250 for the concert. That’s issue number one, fuck SXSW, how little they pay artists, how they let the literal feds into attendance, and their lack of oversight allows creeps to run wild. But I’d like to talk specifically about people criticizing PinkPantheress for a litany of petty grievances. “She had her purse on her during the performance!” Gimmie a break. “She used a backing track!” So does every other pop star. Most egregious was the criticism that “she’s giving us nothing,” to which I say go back and watch that video… the CROWD was giving her nothing. She’s performing a song with nearly 300 million streams on Spotify, and I don’t see a single person moving. How’s an artist expected to give a decent performance when every single attendee in the audience is motionless, staring at their phone, trying to capture the moment for their own social media account? This is neither a defense of PinkPantheress nor a condemnation of SXSW; this is saying if me saying if you are a shitty crowd, you can’t give the artist too much shit for doing the bare minimum. Dance, bob your head, and move around. Be better. 

Taylor Grimes – @GeorgeTaylorG


Missed Opportunities - U2’s Songs of Surrender

U2 are a pillar of my musical identity. They were the first concert I went to. All That You Can’t Leave Behind was one of the first CDs I remember buying. Hell, I even took a class about them during my freshman year of college. I haven’t liked much of their output since No Line on the Horizon (it’s a good album, fight me), but I was intrigued when I heard they were releasing Songs of Surrender, a compilation of reinterpretations from their catalog. I thought it had the potential to have a ceiling of being really cool and a floor of being interesting. I was wrong. Songs of Surrender is neither of these things. Songs of Surrender is deeply boring. All forty songs are relatively stripped down, presented as Tiny-Desk-core singalongs. For some of the tracks, this would be a natural reimagination; think “Who’s Gonna Ride Your Wild Horses” and “Stay (Faraway, So Close!),” but when each song is in this style, it loses effect rapidly. Bono also does that thing he does in concert, where he adds new lyrics that (to him) might seem profound but mostly come off as wincingly embarrassing. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed in Bono and the boys or if I’m disappointed in myself for getting my hopes up. If you need me, I’ll be listening to my Zooropa CD in my car.

Connor Fitzpatrick – @cultofcondor


It’s A “Good Time” To End This Whole Indie Sleaze Revival Thing

I wasn’t always so against this attempted revival of the manufactured indie sleaze movement. Crystal Castles were one of the first “indie” acts I ever got into, and I love plenty of music from LCD Soundsystem, The Rapture, and Interpol, bands/artists from the early 2000s NY scene that have largely inspired where we’re currently at. But upon hearing The Dare’s “Girls” too many times at cramped bars and venue PA systems, I had enough of this fucking guy. His smug aura mocked me. But now it looks like the major labels are placing their bets on this indie sleaze revival, with The Dare being their top prospect with his signing to UMG and the release of his follow-up single “Good Time,” which is actually, in fact, a bad time! While the lyrical content of “Girls” was groan-worthy, at least there was a solid tune behind it. But “Good Time” is uninspired, as it so clearly tries to bite from Peaches’ “Fuck The Pain Away” but squeezes every bit of charm that song has. It could be worse though, as we’ll see if the industry tries to make Blaketheman1000 happen for real. Now that’s a truly untalented hack!

Matty Monroe – @MonrovianPrince


Using the Merch Table When the Band Isn’t There

More and more music workers are taking the opportunity to advocate for ourselves at gigs; we’re meeting the moment with reasonable requests, some relational, some systematic, all hand-in-hand with an appreciation of connecting in our shared meatspace again after years of the virtual. Here’s my lil’ addition, a pet peeve, to the choir, typed out between stops on my first post-lockdown run of shows: Please wait until I get back to the merch table before you buy my merch.

I really, really, love that you want to directly support me and bring home a token of a night we shared. It’s a small miracle! However, finding a few dollars underneath the sign that says, “Please wait until Andy’s back for merch!” or getting an unexpected Venmo notification while loading out, only to come back and find a shirt missing, rubs me the wrong way. At its most forgiving, it’s an “Oh, sorry, I wanted to grab a button, and you weren’t there” kinda deal. At its most cynical, it can become a slight, cold reminder of our transactional relationship.

Even barring the fact that I’m more conscious than ever of how touring finances move, it’s preventing an invaluable conversation that has become rarer in these pandemic times: a minute or two where you and I, across a [always… sticky??] table filled with stickers and Sharpie-written, “pay what you can” dollar amounts, get to push air – sure, from behind an N95 or two – and shape it into the form of “Thank you for stopping by!!!”

In other words, in-person networking. Just kidding. Haha ha.

Please… don’t fall into the trappings of an anonymous consumer. Let me know you’re here with me, and I’ll do the same for you. Or, at the very least, give me a heads-up before you grab a size large, black tee.

Andy Waldron – @ndyjwaldron

I Want to Believe: A Retrospective on Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher

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Dead Oceans

I live in the “downtown” area of my sleepy slice of suburbia- it’s not as busy as a metropolitan Red Light District, but it’s way more active compared to the rest of the city. The weekend nights are usually colored with crowds of people hitting the array of bars and hookah lounges down the avenue, with the rhythmic pulse of reggaeton coating the neighborhood air until the sleepy hours of the early morning. After the clubs and bars have closed and ushered the last of the guests out to the street, I can hear snippets of drunk conversations, of friends laughing about whatever happened hours ago, yelling to pose for a quick Insta story, stumbling back to their cars through the otherwise quiet neighborhood that surrounds the once-busy strip.

Of course, this setting changed dramatically at the onset of the pandemic. The first quarter of 2020 was a bloated corpse of fear, uncertainty, and isolation, wrought with waves of misinformation and hate being spoon-fed to us through opaque algorithms that keep the social-media machine turning. The bar-going crowds had disappeared into the ether, the reggaeton drums replaced with the silence of a city stuck at home. The only conversations I heard came through my gaming headset, as my entire social life was absorbed into cyberspace via Discord and webcams- a ghost of a social life that had so suddenly been eviscerated. 

This isolated world, under these bleak conditions, is where Phoebe Bridgers’ Punisher found me. The first time I heard these songs was when I tuned into a Pitchfork YouTube livestream that Phoebe performed from her home in early 2020. I had never heard any of her work prior, but having been laid off from both of my jobs and being unable to leave my house, I decided to stick around for her performance. I was instantly captivated by her gentle fingerpicking, her silvery vocals, her devastating lyrics- it felt like she was addressing me specifically, an intimate performance between us two, despite the “NOW WATCHING” number creeping into the thousands. As soon as the performance ended, I opened up a new Chrome tab and looked for her music. Unfortunately, it would be a few months yet before Punisher would be released in its entirety. 

The studio versions of the songs on Punisher are, understandably, a far cry from the solitary duet between Phoebe and her acoustic guitar that I watched near the start of the year. Phoebe’s beautiful, gentle fingerpicking is present throughout the record, but it frequently brushes up against more experimental and digital production. Take the lovely “Garden Song”- a wandering melody, played at the volume of a whisper on a guitar that almost sounds like it’s deteriorating at the frets, is blended with a pulsating electronic noise that seems to reluctantly hold the rhythm in lieu of a traditional drum beat. On “Punisher,” Phoebe’s voice is multi-tracked with harmonies of her own voice that are so digitally artifacted that it makes her dreams of meeting Elliot Smith all the more devastating. Elsewhere, Phoebe expertly adds and subtracts pieces from her arrangements and brings them back in for an emotional eruption. “Moon Song” is marked by one of these masterful depravations, as Phoebe is joined by explosive percussion and strings as she wrestles with her lack of faith in the supernatural- religious or otherwise.

If the music alone isn’t enough for you to fully fall under Punisher’s spell, then the lyrics might just be the final ingredient needed. Phoebe is one hell of a writer, equal parts humorous, candid, and insightful. The lyrics found within Punisher are dreamlike, coating the ordinary in a thin coat of the surreal. “Wake up and start a big fire / In our one-room apartment,” she writes in “Savior Complex,” capturing the volatility of a relationship plagued by petty arguments in an impressionistic metaphor. “So we spent what was left of our serotonin / To chew on our cheeks and stare at the moon,” goes another line in the boygenius collab “Graceland Too,” turning our brain’s happy chemical into a finite currency that can be exchanged for fleeting moments of contentment (or perhaps it’s a slight nod to using MDMA?). Phoebe’s characteristic conversational delivery drives home how well-written these songs are, yet they feel like a cafe catch-up with a friend telling you about an exceptionally futile week. 

In fact, it’s difficult to escape the futility that forms the emotional undercurrent flowing underneath Punisher. But Phoebe is too great a writer to boil the futility of life into a one-dimensional pity party. As much of social media will tell you, there is much sadness to be found in this record. And yet, the vivid details Phoebe paints in her songs make you think that these small, painful moments are what make it all worth it in the end. Or, at least, that the constant pursuit of connection, whether romantic, familial, or platonic, is something that unites every single one of us. The world is devastating, cold, and cruel- but there are others here, and while they can sometimes be responsible for the strife we scrape against, they can also help us find our place in the world even when it feels like they are breaking it apart. 

Punisher ends with the apocalyptic “I Know the End,” a song dressed with colorful imagery of the world ending. The song ends with a cacophonous choir of cathartic screaming from Phoebe and others as the music crescendos in a wall of noise, making a significant departure from the quiet verses earlier. At the end of the song, we hear Phoebe exhaling at an exhausted rasp, almost as if she has given every fiber of her being to us throughout the record. Or, maybe, she is imitating the roar of a crowd after an emotional performance, an experience none of us would have until years after the release of Punisher. Perhaps even more brilliantly: a melody reminiscent, if not identical, to the one found on opener “DVD Menu” is heard before the exhausted silence is earned. A narrative circle has been created, a mirror that bluntly reflects our world right back at us. We find ourselves right back where we started. We’re ready to make the same mistakes- and live- all over again.

Nickolas is an artist based in Southern California. Described by a beloved elementary teacher as an “absolute pleasure to have in class,” his work wrestles with the conflict between privacy and self-expression in the digital age. You can find him shitposting on Twitter @DjQuicknut and on Instagram @sopranos_on_dvd_ 

M83 – Fantasy | Album Review

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The ‘Midnight City’ Band is, unfortunately, not a forgotten funk group from the ‘70s. This shorthand actually refers to the French electronic group M83, who formed almost 25 years ago. Their 2011 breakout album Hurry Up, We’re Dreaming spawned the “indietronica” mega-smash “Midnight City,” which finds itself in playlists alongside other anthems of the same ilk. See “Walking On A Dream” by Empire Of The Sun or “Little Secrets” by Passion Pit.

M83 garnered much blogosphere praise in the years leading up to Hurry Up becoming a modest household sensation. Pitchfork awarded their coveted Best New Music distinction to their sophomore LP Dead Cities, Red Seas & Lost Ghosts in 2003, with a 9.2/10 rating. 2008’s Saturdays = Youth was revisited by Stereogum in its 10th anniversary year, calling it “lush, overwhelming synthpop… more complicated than the handful of new wave and dream-pop giants everyone compared it to.”

So, the band had their longtime celebrators, and by 2011 they had amassed tons of new listeners. The long-awaited Junk appeared five years later in 2016, which writer Ryan Leas calls in that same Stereogum piece “zonked-out.” Between the album cover and title, I’ll take his word for it. And aside from 2019’s DSVII – M83 mastermind Anthony Gonzalez’s second installment of video game-inspired ambient music – the band hasn’t released a proper album in seven years. Fantasy scratches the itch instantly.

M83 approaches the idea of “fantasy” from beautiful and strange vantage points, both in the music and the imagery. Gonzalez explained further on Twitter, “I want to keep having fantasies about worlds that I don’t know and creatures I don’t understand, and that’s the story behind this record.”  The album cover spotlights a strange alien figure and juxtaposes it with shiny neon lettering, giving an unsure first impression of exactly what type of fantasy the listener is about to be taken on. The serene introduction of “Water Deep” leading into the first single, “Ocean Niagara,” is a prog-rock adjacent couplet that suggests a more positive trajectory out of the gate. An odd choice for a first taste, as “Beyond adventure!” is the only lyric sung across its four-and-a-half minutes of steady electronic bliss. If patient fans weren’t satiated by that first track, maybe they were when M83 released the entire first “chapter” of the album, six songs altogether, to stream on February 9th.

Fantasy has quite a few moments of songs blending into each other, enhancing the seamless feeling of a fantastical trip throughout the listening experience. Tracks three and four, “Amnesia” and “Us And The Rest,” are M83 doing what they do best, an emotive mix of dream pop and dance music, making an instantly comfortable listen. “Amnesia” is sung from a fantasy skeptic’s perspective. “I believe in the darkness, it’s just a sound. I’m in love with some sadness, it’s just a sound.” Later, on “Earth To Sea,” Gonzalez takes a more Seussian lyrical approach: “Where will you go? Just say it, you can let go.”

Chapter Two opens with “Deceiver,” a groovy, sparkly disco-tinged number that sounds like it could have been a b-side to the Daft Punk & Panda Bear collab “Doin’ It Right” from Random Access Memories. While I dig this song, I believe it serves better as an ending to the first chapter as opposed to the start of a new one. Especially with Fantasy’s title track up next, serving as a statement of intent just as “Oceans Niagara” did at the start. Tracklist placement aside, this song is an absolute dancefloor smoker. “Shout it! Fantasy! Into a fantasy, into a wasteland, living in a fantasy,” Gonzalez refrains throughout. It’s an outstanding centerpiece of the album’s core themes.

“Laura” is a very pretty ballad that has one of the many mentions of traveling with another soul in this fantasy universe. “Take us on a ride, I’ll take you on a voyage through the night sky.” In the previous “Deceiver,” this character is a “distance driver;” similarly, “Amnesia” pleads to “Ride with me, slipping through my virtual magnet.” Throughout the album, Gonzalez channels classics like Elton John’s “Rocketman” or David Bowie’s “Space Oddity” through a more millennial lens. It’s lonely out in space, but he finds his companions within the great wide open. One of these companions is “Sunny Boy,” the crown jewel of the album. It’s the punchiest dance number with the strongest and most overt spatial fantasy lyrics. With an almost ABBA-like phrasing, Gonzalez swoons, “Cosmic adrenaline, she’s young and fierce. / Such a radiant queen.” Its reprise towards the album’s end is a welcome callback after the eight-minute, blissed- and blipped-out, almost-all French “Kool Nuit.”

This all leads up to the Fantasy finale, “Dismemberment Bureau,” suggesting the fantasy we might all be living in is one of televised overload. Gonzalez repurposes the legendary Gil-Scott Heron mantra, “Do you miss the day of human revolution? What a good way to learn from the hand of a legend. An illusion on color television.” Musically, I love the synth tones being laid down and think the track’s pacing is a strong compositional wrap-up. But it’s a bit of a ham-fisted topical ending, being the only moment on the album where fantasy and reality interweave. Maybe unexpectedly facing reality was M83’s intention after an hour of electronic sonic escapism.

I love any record that takes you on an otherworldly journey that presents you with things you don’t get in typical radio or supermarket music. On the whole, Fantasy delivers that journey, with the exception of a few curious elements regarding how it’s segmented. However much of the seven-year gap M83 took to put this together, it was clearly worth the wait. Maybe fantasy, reality, and the cosmos are all one and the same. If they are, a band named after a galaxy 15 million light years away certainly has the authority to say so.

Logan Archer Mounts once almost got kicked out of Warped Tour for doing the Disturbed scream during a band’s acoustic set. He currently lives in Rolling Meadows, IL, but tells everyone he lives in Palatine.

Full of Hell & Primitive Man – Suffocating Hallucination | Album Review

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Closed Casket Activities

Finding comfort in expressions of grief, anger, pain, and disgust has become commonplace in the modern era. It isn’t a comfort that evokes feelings of peace, necessarily, but more so a sense of understanding and even community. The world we’ve been sentenced to inhabit has been gutted by capitalistic greed, and society is being consumed by corporate, political, and religious zealots. Bigotry and hate flow freely from the mouths of these cretins, often to roaring applause, and any sort of resistance is violently snuffed out by militarized cops who stand for property over people. It’s difficult to trust your own blood these days, let alone your neighbors or a stranger. Metal bands Primitive Man and Full of Hell capture that tension and the overwhelming dread of modern life within the pummeling walls of disquieting noise and aggression on their collaborative album Suffocating Hallucination.

It’s easy to let the noise of it all wash over you and not dig deeper. That’s a lot of what I love about it. That overwhelming wall of noise is part of the comfort. It’s all so massive. Experiencing it live, really feeling it, is like immersion therapy. But to leave it there is to miss the bleak, poetic despair of the lyrics. You won’t be able to decipher what’s being said without having the words in front of you. However, following along as the album unfolds truly enhances the experience and allows for that understanding, or commiseration, to be reached.

“Today a cherub, whose hand I held, spit in my face,” opens the record and sets the unflinching tone of what’s to come. For five tracks that span over half an hour, Primitive Man and Full of Hell conjure chaos through vocals, riffs, percussion, and noise. While this sonically feels more in line with the towering doom metal that Primitive Man are known for, Full of Hell’s contributions are undeniable on every track. This is most clear on “Bludgeon,” a 25-second grinder that acts as a perfectly placed centerpiece with the lyrics reading, “Nothing to hold on to that has not been killed from being set free.” The effort to effectively communicate such emotions often goes unremarked when discussing bands of this ilk, but I’d be remiss not to shine a spotlight. I cannot read lines like the ones above and not feel a punch to the gut that forces me to reflect. The world is a horrifying place for a lot of people right now. Someone you once knew and loved is now unrecognizable in their hate and delusions. The government is actively suppressing the existence of trans people. It’s endless. It’s suffocating.

“Undefinable suffering: punishment built for the spiritually blind. Crushing weight of nothing. Now a gift to all his children, the absence of non-existence. Worse than hell.”

My history with both Full of Hell and Primitive Man began in 2017 with the respective releases of their albums Trumpeting Ecstasy and Caustic. At the time, I was engrossed in the emo scene, but I’d cut my teeth on hardcore/hardcore-adjacent bands, so wading into these grindy, doomy waters wasn’t uncommon. While I was open to and familiar with plenty of music I would deem as “heavy,” I can pinpoint my first listen of Caustic as a turning point in my life. I’d never heard anything quite like it. I’d certainly never heard anything that was heavy in that way. The music was ginormous and punishing in a way I’d never experienced before. The vocals were guttural shrieks straight from hell, with the lyrics and artwork matching the barren, dilapidated ruins in which the album exists. This isn’t heavy in a fun way. This is devastation expressed through the loudest, darkest sounds imaginable. Once the door was opened, there was no closing it. I was hooked, and it didn’t take long for me to shed my skin and return to the heavy realm I grew up on, only now it was meaner, bleaker, and heavier than ever before. 

And rightfully so. Caustic, as well as Trumpeting Ecstasy, felt urgent upon their release as a spotlight was shown on the struggles of life that hundreds of thousands of people endure on a daily basis in 2016 with the election of Trump (at least in the States, specifically). Hell, in my personal life, 2016 is the kickoff year for a mountain of strife that would fall upon me and my family. I didn’t intentionally seek out meaner, bleaker, and heavier music, but when I found it, it connected like nothing else. I hadn’t cognitively processed or addressed my afflictions when I dove into modern death/grind/doom/metal, but the feelings it pulled from me were palpable, and the power was undeniable. I was converted. I had found my church.

Primitive Man and Full of Hell have both been at it for over a decade, and they’ve been prolific from the get-go. Since their albums in 2017 alone, Full of Hell has released two LPs, a collaborative album with The Body, an EP, and a split with Intensive Care. Primitive Man released an LP, two splits (one with Unearthly Trance and one with Hell), the Steel Casket demo, and the Insurmountable EP, which is longer than most albums, including Suffocating Hallucination. Through their output, they’ve consistently proven that they seek exploration and collaboration in their work. Both bands began with more of a straightforward approach and have evolved over time to the behemoths they are today by incorporating more harsh noise and experimental soundscapes. The two crossing paths for Suffocating Hallucination is a logical pairing. They’re at the height of their powers and firing on all cylinders making the album tight and ripe for repeat listens. Passages like the hypnotic ending of “Trepanation for Future Joys” and the instrumental “Dwindling Will'' showcase how well their sensibilities meld together and how they’re still able to be a looming giant without utilizing their entire arsenal.

Since finding them years back, both bands have continued to draw from the well of brutal inspiration to exhilarating results, and their first collaboration together is no different. I’m curious to see how this union rubs off of the two bands in their solo efforts moving forward. What’s evident is that connection through dissonance can yield frighteningly compelling results. There’s a lot to be found within all the noise. The anguish is communal, and coming together in shared desperation can produce captivating art if only you take the time and dig a bit deeper to understand it. 

Christian Perez is a member of the band Clot and is always trying his best to exist gently.

The Toms – The Toms (2023 Reissue) | Album Review

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Feel It Records

When Paul McCartney released his self-titled debut in 1970, formalizing the breakup of the biggest band in the world and foraying into solo stardom, the prevailing sentiment was one of resounding disappointment. While still reeling from John Lennon’s request to break up their songwriting partnership and leave the group, Paul had begun experimenting with home-recording equipment, eventually tracking a whole album in secret from his flat on which he played every instrument. Contemporaneous reviews were skeptical of the concept, to say the least; Melody Maker went so far as to suggest that Paul’s “debt to [Beatles’ producer] George Martin [was becoming] increasingly clear…” after hearing the record.

Not even a decade later, a devout disciple of the Fab Four named Tommy Marolda was earning a living recording artists using a similar home studio setup from his basement in suburban New Jersey. And not just friends and small fish–Richie Sambora (of Bon Jovi, with whom Marolda works to this day), members of the E Street Band, Earth Wind & Fire, and The Smithereens were all clients. In fact, it was the latter who canceled a session with Marolda at the last minute one fateful weekend in 1979, leaving him with equipment primed for use and three to four days of uninterrupted time. Marolda took an acoustic guitar and a notebook full of lyrics and ideas out to his back porch, where he began fleshing out full songs before putting them to tape, recording every instrument and singing every harmony into his trusty Tascam 16-track recorder. By the end of the weekend, he had roughly 40 songs, packaging the 12 he deemed most “commercial” into the self-titled debut of The Toms. 

The Toms was a minor masterpiece, bouncing from minor-key Beatles worship to raucous new wave and back, finding inspiration everywhere from Motown to Boston. Take the standout “You Must Have Crossed My Mind,” a harmonious marriage of blissful pop melody and universal sentiment (“Flowers need the rain / As much as I need you”) that could have topped charts in an alternate universe. Every second sounds carefully considered, the drums keeping steady time under a chiming haze of guitar. A lumbering bassline pushes the song forward (Marolda tracked bass last in these sessions, scrapping any song for which he couldn’t write a line he liked) and provides a counterweight to keep the sugary melodies from ever becoming cloying. 

Guitars on the opening track “Let’s Be Friends Again” chime like horn stabs as Marolda splits the difference between rekindling a friendship with an old flame and engaging in a sly bit of dirty-macking. Later, on “Hook,” he folds the act of songwriting in on itself, marrying a gleaming refrain to the lyrics “Repeat this hook line / over and over / til you’ve got it memorized.” And while power pop often appears regionless by nature, an amorphous genre defined by influence more than sound, The Toms feels decidedly of New Jersey–Marolda’s soul-inspired vamping at the end of “You Must Have Crossed My Mind” and “Wasn’t That Love in Your Eyes” shares more than a little bit of DNA with Springsteen.

Eventually, Marolda moved out to California looking to get The Toms signed, but labels proved wary of the whole “one-man band” thing when not helmed by a Paul McCartney or a Stevie Wonder. He found work as a songwriter in the studio system, and The Toms quietly ascended to “cult classic” status in the ensuing decades, its distinct red and white cover becoming a kind of secret handshake amongst power pop fans with the rise of Web 1.0 and forum culture. This renewed interest culminated in a slew of reissues, including this latest one by Feel It Records. 

The original 12 songs, newly remastered here by Caufield Schnug of Sweeping Promises, crackle with renewed intensity. Every component instrument is rendered crisper than before, emphasizing the astonishing feats of Marolda’s imagination and musicianship. It’s perhaps never more apparent than on “Other Boys Do,” where a resurfaced guitar lead soars above the mix in glorious fashion. The reissue also features 12 bonus tracks, including seven more songs recorded during that weekend session in 1979 which were included in prior reissues beginning as early as 1997. 

A few of these session tracks feel like standout additions: the bluesy rave “You Put Me Up to This” is propelled forward by an excellent falsetto hook, and the lightly psychedelic “If I Am Dreaming” would have slotted in perfectly on the original LP. Others feel less essential, never quite reaching the giddy thrills of The Toms or even the further-out ideas from that weekend that have since been released. Several of those ended up on 2020’s The 1979 Sessions, such as “She’s So Lovely,” which stretches a single chord into something resembling the late David Crosby’s compositions with The Byrds. Of the five other bonus tracks, the most interesting is a demo of “It’s Needless.” The blown-out snare hits on the demo are a fascinating glimpse into Marolda’s creative process, a direct contrast with the pop sheen applied to the album version. The only brand new inclusion is Peter Noone’s cover of “The Flame,” which mostly serves to emphasize just how compelling of an on-record presence Marolda is.

Ultimately it’s difficult to come away from this expanded track listing anything less than excited by the chance to celebrate an unheralded masterwork anew. Marolda made the right choice in culling the original release down to a tight 12 tracks, but what better way to put The Toms in conversation with its influences than reissues that show off what got left on the cutting room floor? The Toms, in any form, is a testament to restless creativity; one man, whirling around his basement, fueled only by boundless possibility and dedication to craft.

Jason Sloan is a writer from Brooklyn by way of Long Island. You can find him on Twitter or occasionally rambling on Substack.