Reclaiming Wolfmother

/

Look, I’ll come out and just say it: Wolfmother rules. When the Australian rock band’s debut album was released in 2006, it quickly became skewered for a number of reasons ranging from legitimate to completely superficial. Amongst the Pitchfork indie music crowd, this album came hot on the heels of bands like Jet, who were taking the leather-jacket-clad aesthetic of The Strokes and Interpol but commercializing it even further into a less-cool version of AC/DC karaoke. In the broader pop culture landscape, Wolfmother quickly became synonymous with video game soundtracks and commercial rock music. “Woman” specifically struck a marketable trifecta of then-still-cool Jack White affectations, a simplistic riff you could air guitar along to, and a five-syllable chorus that anyone could belt out in their most cartoonish rock and roll voice. It was iPod Commercial Music at worst and admirable psych-rock revivalism at best. But I love it all the same. 

To a certain extent, Wolfmother paved the way for bands like Greta Van Fleet, who are picking up the torch of my dad’s music and seeing how far they could run with it. Upon release, Wolfmother instantly received comparisons to Led Zeppelin, Jimmi Hendrix, and Black Sabbath alike. While not entirely accurate, lyrics like “The purple haze is in the sky / See the angel's wicked eye” didn’t exactly do a lot to combat those connections. 

Simply put, Wolfmother’s debut was, and still is, a fascinating album. More than that, it actually kinda kicks ass. No two songs sound the same, resulting in a record that never drags despite its nearly one-hour runtime. I’d get it if you don’t like the sound that this band is going for, but part of me listens to this album in 2022 and doesn’t understand how anyone could hate on this. I’ll admit, as someone who first heard this record at 13 years old, it is inextricably tied to an early-adolescent appreciation for “Rock Music” with a capital R. In other words, this is all highly biased but still a genuine attempt to translate the redeeming qualities of Wolfmother to an audience who otherwise probably couldn’t give two shits about it.

Along with fellow Guitar Hero II alumni The Sword, Wolfmother is often cited as an important part of the second wave of the modern stoner rock revival. Propped up by placements in mainstream video games ranging from the aforementioned Guitar Hero II to Madden NFL 07, Wolfmother quickly ascended to popularity at an unprecedented rate. However, this popularity soon became a double-edged sword as the group reached a saturation point in music licensing and radio play. Even a cursory glance at the band’s video game soundtrack page reveals a staggering sixteen placements between the years of 2006 and 2007 alone. And this isn’t even counting usage in television shows, movies, or NFL commercial break interstitials. 

It’s no wonder why people started to turn on this band so fast; there are only so many times you can hear “WOman, ya know ya, WOman, ya know ya, WOman” before you want to pull your own hair out. But for a thirteen-year-old music lover just discovering the world of classic rock, Wolfmother represented a grander cultural affirmation that I was pointed in the right direction. I distinctly remember thinking some variation of, ‘oh wow, there are still bands making music like this.’ These songs felt like a natural extension of the genre I had just uncovered and fallen in love with. It felt like I was witnessing the extension of a lineage. Everything felt connected, and for a moment, my burgeoning music taste made complete, logical sense.

I delved into Wolfmother unencumbered. The group’s debut album quickly worked its way into my rotation alongside classic acts like The White Stripes, Guns N Roses, Nirvana, and everything else a young boy could want on his 4GB iPod Mini. Wolfmother became a quintessential album in my musical world, standing shoulder to shoulder with classic records like Are You Experienced? and Led Zeppelin IV, and somehow it fit in seamlessly. 

Today I listen to Wolfmother with a tinge of shame, but only because most of the world remembers them as the band that wrote “Woman” and “Joker and the Thief.” This is partly due to how massive the hits off this first album were but is also thanks to a string of (mostly) diminishing returns that came in its wake. I have some genuine adoration for pieces of Cosmic Egg and most of New Crown, but nothing stacks up to the unashamed and omnivorous approach the band took on Wolfmother. 

In an effort to convince you of this album’s artistic merit, the remainder of this article is a track-by-track breakdown. I encourage you to revisit the album today with fresh eyes, free from the preconceived notions of late-Aughts irony and radio overplay. I genuinely believe this record is better than it has any right to be… or maybe I’m just blinded by my own nostalgia.

Album opener “Dimension” begins with a cartoonish isolated howl that would have made Robert Plant blush. Seconds later, a fuzzy bassline, stoner rock guitar, and bouncy drum pattern set the pace for the opening charge. Soon after that, we’re introduced to lead singer ​​Andrew Stockdale’s particular brand of psychedelic lyricism. As scenes of deserts, angels, and lightning all flash before us, the song all but tells the listener, ‘don’t overthink this.’ The riff is chunky, accompanied by crashing cymbals and a persistent bass lick. Things die down for each verse only to ramp back up for the choruses leading to a grungy loud-quiet-loud dynamic. This instrumental rise and fall also means that each time the group hits you with the riff, you can’t help but headbang along. For as over-the-top as this song is, the band also displays a remarkable amount of restraint with the instrumental, expertly withholding catharsis and deploying it at just the right times. 

“White Unicorn” is an early album cut that also doubles as my favorite song on the entire record. To this day, I can’t believe this track never rose to the same level of prominence as the other singles, but maybe that’s a blessing in disguise. This song even received a dedicated radio edit, but I suppose the longwinded maximalist approach taken here is a huge reason why I love this song so dearly, and it’s easy to see why that wouldn’t translate to a cutdown. “White Unicorn” begins with a jangly chord progression that, much like “Smoke on the Water” or “Wonderwall,” feels primed for baby’s first guitar riff. The lyrics are expectedly psychedelic but eventually bottom out into the real star of this song, the album’s most overtly stoner rock riff. 

Looking back, I actually view “White Unicorn” as a fantastic entry point to the stoner rock genre. This song, combined with Songs for the Deaf, The Sword, and Fu Manchu, paved the way for my personal journey into stoner rock, so for that, I’m forever thankful. The track has a beautiful internal motion but most notably erupts into a nice little instrumental jam halfway through. As that jam culminates, the band brings it all back to the riff in a moment that would fit in at the jammiest Phish show. It’s essentially everything great about those genres squeezed into a digestible 5-minute sample platter. It’s also worth noting that the demo version of “White Unicorn” takes these same stoner rock sensibilities and stretches them out into an even longer 8-minute rendition for a true showcase of what the jam song structure is capable of. 

Then there’s “Woman,” and honestly, I don’t even know how to talk about this one. It’s undoubtedly the biggest song off the album and will likely be forever viewed as Wolfmother’s legacy. As previously discussed, you’re probably familiar with this track from its overuse in the world of commercially licensed music, but I suppose it’s still worth talking about here for completeness’ sake. I almost don’t even view “Woman” as a song; it’s more of a high-octane pit stop within the larger album. The guitar work is nothing short of iconic, and the high-note vocals are both easy to grasp and fun to belt. This song deploys a similar trick to “White Unicorn,” bottoming out into a jam midway through; however, the addition of an organ during this section feels particularly inspired and gives the track a nice Deep Purple flair. Other than that, it’s just “Woman,” you’ve probably heard this song a million times and can call it to mind with ease. The worst thing about this song is how overplayed it got because other than that oversaturation, this track just plain rocks. With any luck, this song will endure and become as revered as fellow 00’s megahits like “Seven Nation Army” or “Mr. Brightside,” but the deck is certainly stacked against it. 

“Where Eagles Have Been” offers a nice change of pace from the blistering full-throttle stretch of the first three songs, if only for a short while. This song opens with a pleasant, naturalistic “Going to California” ditty paired with a soaring whir that instantly evokes lush mountain peaks and tree-dotted valleys. After some scene-setting lyricism, the band launches into a standard fare rock passage that all ladders up to a proficient guitar solo and eventually loops back to the natural wonder of its opening passage. This song is like a hike where you exert all this effort for the gorgeous view of earthly wonder waiting at the top. It’s a very grounded track that unfolds in its own time and isn’t mired with (too many) over-the-top psychedelic lyrics.

And if you thought that song was boring or slow, well, guess what? Wolfmother knew that, so they bust out “Apple Tree” immediately after for the album’s fastest, most thrashy punk song. Pacing-wise, this is exactly like how The White Stripes would take a track like “I’m Finding It Harder to Be a Gentleman” and punctuate it with a punk rager like “Fell in Love With a Girl.” It’s an unexpected one-two punch that has existed for as long as album sequences have been considered. Within Wolfmother, “Apple Tree” is a solitary powder keg that propels us through the remainder of the album. The lyrics are absolutely nonsensical but are surrounded on either side by a circle-pit-inspiring momentum that makes you want to recklessly slam into other concertgoers. A fun, mindless, and necessary rock diversion that serves to remind you what kind of album this is. 

Upon writing this, I was surprised to find that “Joker and the Thief” has eclipsed all other Wolfmother songs on Spotify. In some ways, it has all the makings of a great classic rock song, but it always felt less pervasive than “Woman” or even “Love Train.” The track begins with an engrossing series of cascading hammer-on/pull-off noodles that feel tailor-made for Expert-level Rock Band FCs. Slowly the band layers on drums and bass in a cinematic build, which sets the scene for the storytelling that unfolds with each verse. Clearly inspired by “All Along The Watchtower,” this song weaves an even more vague tale of two figures just vibing. The joker laughs, the thief… steals things? It’s all very directionless, BUT that doesn’t mean it doesn’t rip.

After this unbelievably stacked first half, the band spends the remainder of the record playing within the space they’ve fleshed out, dialing up and down the psychedelia and the classic-rockiness of the affair to varying degrees across the last seven songs. The back half of the album is essentially a good-to-great collection of serviceable mid-tempo rock tracks. Almost none of these are favorites of mine, but they keep things moving along nicely, and each add a different flavor. Most importantly, each of these songs have interesting elements that make them feel distinct from each other. 

“Colossal” lives up to its name with a spacious riff that winds up to another thrashy punk passage. “Mind’s Eye” is yet another slow burn, but this time with more restraint and breathing room than “Where Eagles Have Been.” “Witchcraft” busts out a flute in one of the most memorable late-album moments, and “Tales” captures a sort of lackadaisical late-afternoon vibe. The penultimate track “Love Train” is a late album single that evokes vibrant iPod commercials with a sort of hoppy “Hotel Yorba” bounce. Finally, “Vagabond” is a stunning album closer that wraps everything up in a nice little bow.

I write all this not necessarily to extol the artistic virtues of Wolfmother, but to say there’s probably more to this album than you might think. This goes doubly if you’re only familiar with the band’s singles or most popular songs. As a whole, this record is a little front-loaded, but it’s easy to see how a teenage boy would listen to this album and discover some level of comfort and affirmation within its classic rock-worshiping walls. 

I’m willing to admit that my love for Wolfmother is informed by a fair bit of decade-old nostalgia, but even when I listen to this album in 2022, there’s still something here that appeals to me on a deeper level. Between an ever-shifting mix of classic rock sounds, a well-sequenced tracklist, and a stacked collection of singles, it’s hard to hate Wolfmother. You can say this record is played out, over-the-top, or lyrically substanceless, but a bad album this is not. 

Ultimately, Wolfmother is a product of its time, and that’s something that gets harder and harder to translate with each passing year. I can sing this album’s praises, talk realistically about the musical landscape at the time of its release, and even asterisk my own praise by acknowledging some of the more goofy lyrics and deliveries, but none of that will change the content of the album or how you hear it. I myself sit at a weird, conflicted cross-section. Part of me wants to say this album is genuinely great, but another part knows that personal history and nostalgia are tainting any sense of objectivity I can feign. I don’t know if this album will stand the test of time, hell, it might have already failed that test, but that consensus of validation is not something I need to enjoy these songs. Wolfmother might not be a timeless classic to anyone else, but it is to me, and that’s enough.

MICHELLE – AFTER DINNER WE TALK DREAMS | Album Review

/

I understand the temptation to roll your eyes when any piece of art– a book, a film, an album –is described as “a love letter to New York.” I myself am hesitant to burden a body of work as exciting and multifaceted as MICHELLE’s with such an overused cliche. To do so would overlook all of the little idiosyncrasies that set this band apart from the many run-of-the-mill bedroom pop acts currently plaguing algorithmic ‘Good Vibes’ playlists the world over. My first encounter with the 6-piece collective was in 2019 when I had the privilege of seeing them play at my college’s annual spring music festival. Following that intimate yet enchanting live performance, the group’s self-released 2018 debut, HEATWAVE, became my go-to summer soundtrack. In HEATWAVE’s tight 30 minutes, MICHELLE express their love for their native New York City through quirky references to “[eat]ing the East River” and Animorphing into subway rats in a citywide “rat-volution.” Even its more conventional analogies– “STUCK ON U” casts the city as an unreliable yet addictive love interest who runs hot and cold –are imbued with the specific love-hate pendulum that comes with growing up in fun hell.

Fast forward almost four years from HEATWAVE, an album born of home sessions during one sweltering summer: MICHELLE are signed to Atlantic Records and are currently opening for Mitski on her North American tour. On their sophomore LP AFTER DINNER WE TALK DREAMS, their sound is bigger, more elaborate, and more polished, but their collaborative DIY spirit is as bold as ever. While their first album was made up mostly of pieced-together contributions from each of the group’s individual members– Emma, Jamee, Charlie, Layla, Sofia, and Julian –MICHELLE’S latest release sees them meshing together into what feels like less of a loose collective and more of a solidified band. Their star power was apparent on HEATWAVE, but now they’ve got the resources and exposure to go full popstar mode– all while maintaining the integrity and creativity that made their first project so compelling. Standout diva moment “POSE” is one of many shining examples. The music video for this single has MICHELLE members hitting their titular poses all over the New York City subway system and telling an ex, “don’t you dare come and dance with me!” Like many of the tracks on ADWTD, “POSE” is a celebration of oneself, of being happy to dance on your own. 

The LP opens with “MESS U MADE,” a slow breakup ballad that acknowledges feelings of pain and loneliness but prioritizes self-care above empty companionship: “home is a circus/I’m done feeling worthless.” This emotional maturity is not without its humility and humor– in the second verse, Emma Lee’s serene, airy lilt turns into a shriek as she admits, “last summer vacation/I was a bitch!” Layla Ku carries the soulful Songs In A Minor-era Alicia Keys-esque melody of the song’s hook, her bandmates backing her up with soft, bluesy harmonies.

Themes of being content with solitude are present throughout the LP. As the listener, you get the sense that it’s a self-knowledge understood on an even deeper level when it's being sung about by a group of people whose camaraderie and teamwork is so apparent in their music. Take, for example, “TALKING TO MYSELF,” a bright, bouncy track about exploring one’s inner world. Sonically, it calls to mind the likes of both Sheryl Crow and Remi Wolf– the latter seems like an especially apt comparison once you reach the outro, which consists of the members spitting goofy gibberish muppet noises over a steady snare beat. “NO SIGNAL” serves as a sequel to HEATWAVE opener “GET OFF UR PHONE.” Both songs feature guest vocals from founding (now former) MICHELLE member Isa Reyes and extoll the joys of logging off. The track’s snappy, infectious hook– “no signal, phone down, off the grid/you know I care about you, but I need a minute” –has been stuck in my head since I first heard it. Its mellow acoustic guitar and sparkling keys perfectly complement MICHELLE’S seamless harmonies. On a “LAYLA IN THE ROCKET,” our titular heroine becomes “one with the cosmos,” blasting off in her own personal spaceship. MICHELLE’s Y2K girl group throwback stylings on this tune make it easy to imagine them singing it in a retro-futuristic space station. 

“50/50” is another track that wears its late 90s/early 00s inspiration on its sleeve, but never in a way that feels derivative. It’s a DIY-infused homage to iconic girl groups like Destiny’s Child and TLC that succeeds in doing these influences justice, delivering some of the album's catchiest pop hooks, smoothest R&B harmonies, and most emotionally resonant lyrics. It’s yet another song that sees its narrator recognizing her own needs and choosing them over a withholding, self-centered partner.

Of course, the album’s thematic throughlines don’t always center on solitude– some are far more concerned with the exact opposite. Lead single “SYNCOPATE” is catchy as hell and rife with innuendo, choosing to hide its sexually-charged themes in plain sight, meanwhile “END OF THE WORLD” takes these to even more audacious extremes. Not only does the latter lean all the way into its turn-of-the-millennium pop influence, but its lyrics show MICHELLE being more forward than ever about their desires. The song takes place on the eve of the alleged Y2K apocalypse, and MICHELLE intend to, well, go out with a bang:

City’s crumbling, but I don’t mind
I think you’re hotter than the burning sky
Channel surfing at the end of days
Quick enough to death at the digital age
Y2K, fuck me like the end of the world!

The delightfully raunchy track’s punchline comes in its outro– spoiler alert: the world doesn’t end. Among overlapping chatter and a muted countdown, an exasperated voice can be heard shouting, “are you fucking kidding me?”

Generally speaking, the songs skew softer and more introspective towards the back end of the LP, though this isn’t to say that they lose steam. “SPACED OUT, PHASED OUT” is a sweet, head-in-the-clouds tune whose dreamy harmonies float over hi-hat taps and moody guitar licks. On “HAZARDS”– a slow-burner reminiscent of the more R&B-tinged tracks on Billie Eilish’s Happier Than Ever –MICHELLE put a deceitful lover in their place with badass bars like “oh baby, you might be in danger/of ending up a stranger/that I could arrange.” “FIRE ESCAPE” perfectly evokes the feeling of watching the city streets on those summer nights when it’s too hot to sleep. If there’s one constant about MICHELLE, it’s their uncanny ability to encapsulate summer in New York. Four years ago, they closed out their debut album by lovingly musing that, especially in the warmer months, the city “smells like trash and piss/but I know that’s never gonna change.” Anyone who’s been rained on by an air conditioner or had a pack of rats run across their path will tell you: New York in the summer is gross. But it’s also kind of magical, at least for those of us who aren’t too cynical to see the golden hour glow through the unbearable humidity.

On ADWTD, MICHELLE continue their trend of closing their albums with odes to New York, this time namechecking Citi Bikes and the Halsey Street subway stop. “MY FRIENDS” is a love song to their hometown and to each other:

They look like Brooklyn, that’s where I found them
Twenty-four-hour linoleum and no ID, forty ounces
We’re mean to these streets and what you mean to me
We’re raising hell, fuck a polite, we bump tunes and playfight til Halsey

MICHELLE are New Yorkers, through and through. They express their love for the city that raised them, but don’t reveal all their secrets. “Where we go I’ll never tell them/They’ll just go and build a hotel there,” one of the members sings, with a desperate desire to protect what’s left of Real New York from further gentrification. It’s a bittersweet sting I feel each time I walk through one of the neighborhoods I grew up in and realize that half the places I used to go to are gone or unrecognizable.

I discovered MICHELLE while I was away at college and feeling terribly homesick for the city, and the following summer I let their songs welcome me back home. Now, I’ve been back in Brooklyn for the past two years, but I am getting ready to move to another state in just a few months. It’s been a long, harsh winter here, and coincidentally, the release of ADWTD fell on a weekend where the weather in New York felt like spring for the first time. My first listen soundtracked a walk I’ve been taking for over a decade. As I made my way through Gowanus– once populated by heavily-graffitied old warehouses and hidden gems like the Batcave, not a Whole Foods in sight –it began to sink in that soon I wouldn’t live here anymore and that there was no telling what I’d come back to. But like the members of MICHELLE, I know what will stay with me wherever I go:

Choked up when we’re apart, you’re what I need to breathe
Too much history ‘cause we have been through everything
I’ve been runnin’ through the grid
But every single path I’ll cross with you
I might roam, but baby, I can’t stray that far from you
It’s in my sneakers
The bass that shakes my speakers
My little slice of heaven
Extension three-four-seven

Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @grace_roso.

SASAMI – Squeeze | Album Review

/

My musical DNA was cultivated by the airwaves of Sacramento radio in the late Nineties and early Aughts. The variety wasn’t that much different from today; I had access to alt-rock, hard rock, classic (dad) rock, and whatever the hell adult contemporary is, all of which was available to scan through on my Chrysler Crossfire boombox from The Sharper Image. I was a devout listener to these stations because they gave me access to an ever-expanding catalog of music. My favorite station was the alt-rock haven, KWOD 106.5 FM. KWOD embraced the catch-all term of “alternative,” playing all kinds of genres ranging from goth rock, jangle pop, grunge, alt-metal to ska. Eventually, I got the nerve to plug my headphones into my stereo after my bedtime so I could listen to the late-night programming where the programming became more akin to college radio. Through this radical act of disobedience, I was introduced to “cool” music like Joy Division that alerted me to the fact that there was music beyond what was usually played on air.

When I got to college in 2011, I started listening to the campus radio station, KSMC 89.5 FM. It was here that I dove deeper into music that was actively transgressive of the mainstream. I was listening to local Bay Area bands like Thee Oh Sees and White Fence as I searched for music that I felt could be my own. My taste in music and listening habits have continued to grow over the years, but my early adolescence, when I was largely listening to the radio, will always be the most impactful period in the development of my musical identity.

The recontextualization of grunge and nu metal over the past few years has been a welcome trend to my ears and heart. Not only have I enjoyed immersing myself in the fresh spins provided by bands like Loathe, but I’ve returned home to bands like Soundgarden and System of a Down with a new perspective. These retreads aren’t done as a bit or as a nostalgic soak; instead, it feels like I am coming full circle to the understanding that a lot of that music genuinely kicks ass.

SASAMI’s Squeeze seems to fall in line with this wave of nu metal revivalism, but for me, this album is so much more; it’s a map of my own musical journey. Squeeze is a sharp left turn from the hushed shoegaze found on SASAMI’s debut, trading those soft, sentimental sounds for punchy heavy metal riffs. “Skin A Rat” kickstarts the album with incendiary guitars and drums, the latter courtesy of Dirk Verbeuren from Megadeth, complemented by harsh distorted vocals where SASAMI sings about crushing you under her big boot. “Say It” brings to mind the arena-sized industrial bravado of Nine Inch Nails, and it’s clear that she understands that what makes Trent Reznor a great artist is that underneath all of the noise and theatricality, he’s a melodic savant. The opening riff on the Daniel Johnston cover “Sorry Entertainer” is reminiscent of Weezer’s “Hash Pipe,” but infinitely heavier. SASAMI isn’t just paying homage to metal; she’s bending it to her will to create something that is unique to herself.

This attack of the senses dates all the way back to 2020 when SASAMI released a cover of System of a Down’s “Toxicity.” While her rendition is an acoustic interpretation, SASAMI was tipping her hand to her influences before unveiling her master plan. When she released “Sorry Entertainer” as a single in July of 2021, there was no mistaking the depths of her musical DNA.

But SASAMI isn't just making a metal album with Squeeze; in a stroke of brilliance, she has juxtaposed the snarling vitriol of songs like “Skin A Rat” with a stunning collection of radio-friendly pop songs and ballads. “The Greatest” is a pained love song with a massive chorus that begs to be played to a crowd of thousands. “Call Me Home” and “Tried To Understand” both call to mind the unimpeachable badass Sheryl Crow as SASAMI dissects American ideals of careerism and masculinity. Not only does she sing about some similar themes as Crow, but SASAMI’s voice and delivery feel like direct descendants of one of America’s great artists in the best way. Album closer “Not A Love Song” is a colossal ballad that pulls from SASAMI’s past shoegaze aesthetics as guitars screech and swirl behind her lyrics of attempting to express her feelings to a loved one.

Something fun about Squeeze is that it’s an album that rewards those who are fans of reading the liner notes. There are so many talented people who helped make SASAMI’s vision a reality. Artists like King Tuff, Hand Habits, Vagabon, Mitski, Ty Segall, Patti Harrison, and the aforementioned Dirk Verbeuren are just a handful of musicians who contributed to this record. Personally, I get a kick out of seeing so many people collaborating seamlessly on a project that feels so different from what they are most known for. Beyond that collaborative spirit, it's thrilling to see these artists treating this style of music that I grew up on with such genuine reverence. It goes to show how deep this appreciation goes for all of us. But despite the exciting list of musicians who helped, this is still SASAMI’s show. 

I think what I love most about the album is its refusal to be quiet. Everything is so loud and emphatic as SASAMI is taking charge, almost as if she’s peeling your eyelids back and forcing you to bear witness to her raw power. The heavy songs are nasty and brutal, but it's the pop songs that benefit most from this shift in philosophy as they pull from the in-your-face energy of metal to ensure that you hear SASAMI loud and clear. While these songs might not bear the sonic trademarks of metal, they are infused with an emotional heaviness that hits you harder than any riff can.

Squeeze is a chaotic album that feels all over the place as SASAMI shifts between styles, but have no fear; she is in full control. When I listen to the album, I feel like I’m back in my childhood bedroom traversing the airwaves on my Crossfire boombox. I’m in a space of discovery, and SASAMI is my guide.

Connor lives in San Francisco 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.

Follow him on Twitter or Instagram.

I AM GOING TO TAKE THIS A LITTLE WHILE LONGER: 20 YEARS OF ALL HAIL WEST TEXAS

/

It is beautiful, sure, but a lot of it is empty. Empty in a way that feels heavy, like the big cities in Texas are just fronts to hide that most of it’s an empty state, with a population trying to be as loud as possible so no one will notice that all of them live tucked away in the east. All Hail West Texas, right? I mean, most of this could be said about America as a whole, but I’m not in America right now– I’m in Texas.

(Keisha, narrator of Alice Isn’t Dead)

I have never been to West Texas, or to anywhere in the American Southwest for that matter, but I’ve often entertained fantasies of escaping to some quiet, near-empty place in the desert. Mitski songs aside, Texas is not a landlocked state. But the vast flatlands seem as infinite as the stars above them, making it easy for one to fall for such geographic optical illusions. These are, as Darnielle described on an episode of I Only Listen To The Mountain Goats, “places where you’re alone with yourself.” In my fictional West Texas, my closest neighbors would be miles away, but my home would be open to a revolving door crew of lonely drifters and passers-through, not unlike the ones in Color In Your Cheeks:

They came in by the dozens, walking or crawling
Some were bright-eyed, some were dead on their feet
But they came from Zimbabwe or from Soviet Georgia
East St. Louis, or from Paris, or they lived across the street
But they came, and when they finally made it here
It was the least that we could do to make our welcome clear

It’s a fantasy defined by solitude, but in such a way that somehow– much like The Mountain Goats’ music –makes me feel less alone. Part of my love for All Hail West Texas lies in this contradiction and keeps me coming back to a central question: How can an album that evokes such emptiness and isolation simultaneously be a deeply powerful celebration of community and human connection?

Like all of my most beloved Mountain Goats albums, All Hail West Texas feels like a collection of overlapping short stories. As its indicatively minimalist album cover promises, it is “fourteen songs about seven people, two houses, a motorcycle, and a locked treatment facility for adolescent boys.” You won’t hear Darnielle giving a breakdown of these seven characters in interviews or definitively saying which songs each one of them is featured in. Some are mentioned by name: Jeff and Cyrus, the two members of the titular Best Ever Death Metal Band In Denton; William Stanaforth Donahue, a 17-year-old ex-running back who gets a federal prison sentence for selling acid after an injury ends his football career; Jenny, a recurring character in The Mountain Goats’ discography who’s seen tearing through the desert on a Kawasaki motorcycle. Other characters are left more ambiguous: somebody who drives two hours to Austin every week just to retrieve postcards from a former friend or lover; Jenny’s admirer whose infatuation prompts him to hop on the back of her motorcycle and ride off into the sunset; a hard-spending and even harder-drinking couple who refuse to part ways no matter how miserable they make each other (some have speculated that these two might be the Alpha Couple, the subjects of the following Mountain Goats album). Darnielle’s storytelling is non-linear, and the information he withholds is as crucial as what is revealed. Recognizable plot points are scattered across a sonic landscape that feels as wide and as empty as West Texas itself. 

As we celebrate its 20th anniversary, it feels necessary to highlight the timing of this album. It marks an important turning point in the band’s history as the last album of the fanbase-splitting “lo-fi era.” Production-wise, it was the swan song of Darnielle’s Panasonic RX-FT500 before the long-suffering machine broke down for good. Though most of my favorite Mountain Goats albums are from 2002 onward, my ears perked up upon hearing the return of that familiar tape hiss crackling through 2020’s Songs For Pierre Chuvin. 

It’s also worth noting that All Hail West Texas was the first Mountain Goats album released after 9/11. In some ways, it feels like an unintentional post-9/11 cousin to Lift To Experience’s 2001 cult classic The Texas-Jerusalem Crossroads– a sprawling post-rock concept album about the second coming of Christ set in Bush-era Texas. Darnielle’s values– religious, political, philosophical –are made clear throughout his discography, despite his general aversion to stating them overtly. Even though it lacks direct references to specific political stances or issues, All Hail West Texas is arguably the most political Mountain Goats album. The closest thing to a protest song Darnielle has ever written, “Fall of the Star High School Running Back,” tells the tale of a teenage victim of mandatory minimum sentencing. The narrator of “Pink and Blue” lacks adequate resources to care for their new child who’s been abandoned by a birth parent with even less. In the wake of 9/11 and subsequent racist and xenophobic backlash, “Color In Your Cheeks” takes on an additional layer of political significance. It’s a song about the true meaning of “southern hospitality”-- about sanctuary, about community, about opening homes and hearts to those seeking refuge and telling them “you are welcome here.” During its episode of the aforementioned podcast, Darnielle emphasized the importance of the song’s first-person plural perspective: “There’s no ‘me and you;’ it’s ‘us and y’all.’”

Like much of The Mountain Goats’ catalog, the songs on All Hail West Texas recognize that ‘home’ is a multifaceted, often tenuous thing. Pockets of refuge almost always stand on a precarious foundation. The safe havens provided in “Color In Your Cheeks” and “Pink and Blue” are makeshift ones, implied to be temporary. Teenagers Jeff and Cyrus find a home in their shared passion for death metal– a passion also shared by Darnielle himself –but are separated from their music and from each other by disapproving adults. In “Jeff Davis County Blues,” a man who’s just spent three nights in jail “dream[s] about home” while driving, but it’s unclear whether he even has a home to return to. “Riches and Wonders'' chronicles the slow death of a dysfunctional relationship punctuated by sporadic moments of genuine affection, summed up by a simple yet crushing line: “I wanna go home, but I am home.” It’s a fan favorite Darniellism, one that reads like the devastating flip side of Talking Heads’ loving declaration: “home is where I want to be, but I guess I’m already there.” 

If you were to make a Venn diagram of fans of the Mountain Goats and people with a complicated relationship to the concept of home, you might as well draw a circle. Though all of us have unique personal connections to the band, one of the constants among Mountain Goats fans is that each one of us has, in some way, found a home in their music, however fleeting that may be. 

The first time I saw The Mountain Goats live was almost four years ago, during my sophomore year of college. It had been a tumultuous spring semester, to say the least. I’d gotten caught up in my friends’ infighting and said things I regretted in an attempt to protect the reputation of someone who didn’t deserve my loyalty. I felt as though all my peers had found some sense of academic and professional direction that I couldn’t seem to attain. My childhood cat had recently been put down while I was away at school and unable to properly say goodbye. I was just starting to process traumas that I’d spent months, even years repressing, believing that if I pretended hard enough that these things hadn’t happened, it would eventually become the truth. 

For a couple of hours, a venue located inconspicuously in an Upstate New York strip mall became a sanctuary. With the second encore came a moment I’ll never forget. During a slowed-down rendition of Transcendental Youth’s penultimate track, “Spent Gladiator 2,” I locked eyes with John Darnielle from the back of the darkened concert hall as he sang the words, “just stay alive/stay forever alive.” His words have stayed with me ever since, their meaning evolving alongside my own growth. Sometimes it’s a command, sometimes a mantra. Sometimes a plea, sometimes a prayer. Whatever shape it takes, it’s a promise I’ve made to John and to myself. 

At its core, All Hail West Texas– and The Mountain Goats’ music as a whole –is about staying alive. John Darnielle’s characters are flawed, but what makes him such a compelling storyteller is that he doesn’t judge them for trying to survive. These are songs about doing the best you can with what you have. Darnielle isn’t here to show us the way out of whatever darkness is plaguing us, but he can remind us that a way out exists. 

“Absolute Lithops Effect” ends the album on a quietly hopeful note. It’s in good company with some of my other favorite album closers in which “night comes to Texas” (including one from The Mountain Goats’ 1997 album Full Force Galesburg). When Darnielle sings, “I’m going to find the exit,” it isn’t boastful or even declarative, but it’s life-affirming in its simplicity. He might not be able to offer us a sure solution, but he gives us what he can: “a little bit of water, and a little bit of sunlight, and a little bit of tender mercy.” Our narrator– alive but still hurting –describes the “tiny steps forward” that he is taking: “I will bloom, here in my room.” Later in the song, we see him emerging from said room and telling us: “I will go to the house of a friend I know/and I will let myself forget.” It’s something of a cyclical album– starting with two friends being torn apart from one another and ending with two friends reconnecting. In both songs, statements of perseverance cut through the characters’ suffering:

When you punish a person for dreaming his dream
Don’t expect him to thank or forgive you
The best ever death metal band out of Denton
Will in time both outpace and outlive you
Hail Satan!

Darnielle has called this song a hymn, which, understandably may confuse some due to the “Hail Satan” of it all. But it is, by definition, a song of praise, of giving oneself over to a higher power– in this case, the almighty power of death metal, self-expression, and adolescent rebellion. Through adversity there is victory, even when victory just means living another day. “Hail Satan” is more than just a silly reference to the boys’ transgressive rockstar personas (complete with pentagrams and edgy, already-taken band names). “It’s a celebration of two people being true to themselves,” Darnielle has explained, “It’s a celebration of the later Satanic principle of self-knowledge, which isn’t really Satan at all– it’s actually godlike.” By saying “Hail Satan,” what Jeff and Cyrus are really saying is “Hail Us.”

Last fall, I went to my second Mountain Goats concert and was lucky enough to hear this song live. It was a solo show, just John and his guitar and a room full of people singing along, our “Hail Satan!”s echoing off the high ceilings. I thanked whatever God I may or may not believe in that I’d taken John’s advice and stayed forever alive. I was not what I used to be. All Hail Satan, All Hail West Texas, All Hail Us. 

STAY WHEREVER THE HELL YOU ARE. TAKE THE TRAIN DOWN HERE IF YOU GET A CHANCE. DRIVE OUT TO THE AIRPORT. YOU CAN’T MAKE ME LEAVE. I LOVED YOU. I LOVE YOU. THERE ARE NO WINDOWS OR DOORS AND THE WALLS ARE ON FIRE. YOU CAN GET OUT IF YOU’RE COMMITTED TO THE EFFORT. IT’S EASY TO GET OUT IF YOU BELIEVE IN YOURSELF. YOU HAVE REALLY LET YOURSELF GO. YOU ARE NOT WHAT YOU USED TO BE. YOU ARE LOVELY BEYOND COMPARE, BEYOND COMPARE, BEYOND COMPARE. WE HAVE NO HOUSE. OUR HOUSE WOULD BE A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH HOUSE. OUR HOUSE WOULD BE A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH IF IT HAD A ROOF. OUR HOUSE IS A LOVELY SOUTHWESTERN RANCH. I’LL TAKE AS MUCH OF THIS AS I CAN POSSIBLY BEAR. I AM GOING TO TAKE THIS A LITTLE WHILE LONGER. I AM NOT GOING TO TAKE THIS ANYMORE. 

(Excerpt from the liner notes of the 10th-anniversary reissue)

Grace Robins-Somerville is a writer from Brooklyn, New York. You can find her on Instagram and Twitter @grace_roso.

Cry On, Space Cowboy: Cloakroom's 'Doubts' Sings the Sorrows

/

Have you ever heard a song so affective that it ruined a band for you? It’s the sort of song that infiltrates every fiber of your being and sinks its claws deep into your soul. It becomes a fascination as you play it on repeat or skip straight to it. You feel that the song was made only for you. Anything else from the artist, no matter the quality, is rendered meaningless because you have this one song, and for you, that is enough.

I have this relationship with Cloakroom’s “Doubts.” The penultimate track from the Indiana stonergazers new album Dissolution Wave leaves me breathless with each lesson. It’s a relatively simple song, four short verses, a couple of short breaks, and a gentle guitar solo that plays as the music drifts to a close, but it’s how the band puts it all together that makes “Doubts” so special. Cloakroom are masters of texture, and they put their skills on display here. Negative space is filled with pristine guitar chords, and while infrequent, each strum is purposeful and emotive. A low, purring bassline provides warmth as a patient drum pattern crackles in the background. All of this is befitting of the album’s space-western concept as Doyle Martin’s lyrics feel like the slow-moving thoughts of an astronaut floating away in the ever-expanding universe.

I find the song chilling, and I believe it is the most beautiful thing Cloakroom has recorded. Maybe I’m too close-minded, but I don’t need anything else from the group. That’s not to say that I don’t think their bone-crushing riffs don’t do it for me, but when I put on “Doubts,” there’s nowhere else in the world I’d rather be than in those four minutes.

As I realized that I kept returning to the song, I tried to puzzle out why. Each time I listened, I found myself getting hung up on this brief guitar motif trying to think of what it reminded me of. After a week of it looping in my head, I realized that it’s reminiscent of a melody in “Goddamn Lonely Love” by Drive-By Truckers, a song with which I have a similar relationship. Now, I’m accusing Cloakroom of being copycats, but I can’t unhear what I’ve heard. In fact, I’m thankful for this great-minds-think-alike moment because the two songs have so much in common beyond some short melodies.

Like “Doubts,” “Goddamn Lonely Love” is a wistful yet gorgeous tune. Jason Isbell might sing his blues with more gusto than Martin, but both are blue nonetheless. These songs traffic in sorrow and regret more than they do in outright pain and misery. Upon this revelation, it became clear to me that much like “Goddamn Lonely Love,” “Doubts” is tears-in-your-beer music. It’s the kind of song destined to play over the speakers of a gloomy bar while a sad cowboy huddles over his third round of a beer and a shot combo. This, my friends, is very much my shit. While I may be just another city boy, I routinely find myself sympathizing with depressed plains walkers. Like these melancholic rancheros, I am not inclined to divulge my feelings. Healthy or not, I know I can always find solace in the company of songs like these.

I have no idea if Cloakroom intended to link themselves to crestfallen troubadours such as Isbell, Jason Molina, and the unimpeachably dolorous Townes Van Zandt, but this style of music fits them so well. They’ve hinted at their appreciation of this brand of song with covers of Songs: Ohia and Tom Petty, but this feels like their first true foray into downtrodden cowpoke-dom. Their interpretation of the tradition is earnest and done without pastiche. With “Doubts,” the band has hit upon something timeless, which is why I can, and will, listen to it forever.

Connor lives in San Francisco 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.

Follow him on Twitter or Instagram.