Butterflies Don’t Go Away: Majesty Crush’s Long-awaited Moment 

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Numero Group

I often find myself consumed by life’s “what if” moments. The chance of it all. The little things that never happened. There are different levels of “what if”—missing a train, leaving a party early, deciding to move across the country—but the sentiment remains true: in some other reality out there, there’s a version of you that is living with the repercussions of catching the train, staying at the party, or not moving. You have no idea what their life is like, and you just have to be okay with that. Most of the time, I’m not.

Some people like to think the things that are supposed to happen will happen, one way or another. Like meeting your partner on a dating app in your twenties, then learning you overlapped a few years at summer camp as kids, or finally landing the dream job you were rejected from at the start of your career. They’ll say it’s all about ‘timing’ and ‘alignment’ and ‘what the universe has in store.’ That’s too much relying on external forces for me, but I’ll admit it’s nice to relinquish control of your life for a second.

Is it obvious I was just emotionally wrecked by Past Lives? Anyway…

A lot of the time, life isn’t that simple. It’s sprawling, multifaceted, and confusing, with no direct answers or guaranteed results. Even when good things happen to us, it’s easy to nitpick what’s wrong with any given situation. But you’re still allowed to feel joy when a dream you had is finally coming to fruition.

This back-and-forth about fate versus control mirrors Majesty Crush’s journey over the last three decades. Back with a career-spanning double LP thanks to Numero Group, Butterflies Don’t Go Away combines a repress of their 1993 record Love 15 with a second disc of singles, rarities, and previously unavailable tracks. I’d argue it’s one of the most important reissues, at least in the last five years, but to understand that, we need to take a look back.

Photo By Amy Harlan

Majesty Crush is often referred to as one of the ‘forgotten’ bands of the early ‘90s shoegaze boom. The Detroit-based four-piece differentiated themselves with an innate ability to mutate from shoegaze to dream-pop to punk to grunge and back again. David Stroughter led the band as a reluctant, Syd Barrett-type frontman whose piercing vocals glided over the instrumentals, with Hobey Echlin on bass, Mike Segal on guitar, and Odell Nails III on drums. Together, they created a sweeping and all-consuming sound that made them stand out, mostly because people really couldn’t pin them down. The group quickly gained notoriety within their Midwest community, earning significant airplay on college and alternative rock radio stations. Opening for everyone from Mazzy Star and Sonic Youth to Royal Trux and The Verve, Majesty Crush seemed to be able to win over audiences in just about any scene. Yet no one could figure them out.

Majesty Crush’s mixed-race lineup made them something of an anomaly in the predominantly British shoegaze scene. It was hard to get a read of the band’s sound just by their appearance, something bassist Hobey Echlin says he thinks made the group so special in their local scene: fans had never heard anything like Majesty Crush, let alone from people that look like them. 

Immediately following the release of Love 15 in 1993, Majesty Crush’s label Dali, an Elektra subsidiary, shuttered, making it their first and only full-length LP. Here were these local legends, ready to spread their sound way outside the confines of their city, who suddenly had no backing or promotion to hold them up. Because of this, Love 15 fell through the cracks. As grunge quickly swept up the remains of a shoegaze/dream-pop scene in the US, Majesty Crush remained under the radar. The group went on to release one final EP, Sans Muscles, on their own Vulva Records before disbanding in 1995. 

Over the next 30 years, the band members split off into a disparate web of careers, including but not limited to yoga instructing, graphic design, law, and journalism. But the music remained, especially for Stroughter, who continued to record and release as P.S. I Love You, even recruiting Crush bassist Echlin to play drums on some tracks.

Eventually, the group settled in different parts of the country. In 2017, years after his last communication with anyone from Majesty Crush, David Stroughter was killed by police in El Segundo. Stroughter’s mental health continued to decline throughout the aughts, and his nomadic lifestyle made it difficult for him to regularly have access to his medications. While the LA County District Attorney deemed the police’s use of their guns lawful, the need for such force remains heavily debated, making this another case of unnecessarily escalated police violence against people of color.

And now, in 2024, Numero Group is offering listeners the most comprehensive collection of Majesty Crush music ever. In 2019, it was revealed that Stroughter had left Majesty Crush master tapes in an old roommate’s closet and had asked his sister to be the custodian of his music. Without realizing it, Stroughter left the rest of Majesty Crush (and the world) a gift he never could have anticipated. 

With this reissue, Majesty Crush’s discography is newly available to day-one fans who remember seeing them live in Detroit all those years ago, as well as newfound shoegazers hungry for more sounds. This is especially true as the shoegaze genre is enjoying a renaissance, thanks in part to TikTok, opening the door for Majesty Crush to finally get their long-deserved recognition. Some would argue that a shoegaze resurgence and social media virality was exactly what Majesty Crush desperately needed back in the ‘90s (I can see the ‘Our label closed right after our debut album dropped’ multi-part TikTok series so clearly), but it came at the price of Stroughter losing his life, prompting the discovery of these masters. Now, Stroughter isn’t here to see how many new ears have found his music and are moved by his gutturally passionate vocals and ultra-specific storytelling. It’s heartbreaking to think that Majesty Crush’s “time” came after they lost the man who tied them all together and became the beacon of their sound. 

Photo by Jack Nelson

Butterflies Don’t Go Away takes listeners on Majesty Crush’s tumultuous journey through early versions of Love 15 tracks (“No. 1 Fan - EP Version,” “Horse - EP Version,” “Purr 7” Version”), their first-ever release (“Sunny Pie”), and songs from the post-label shuttering EP Sans Muscles. Through these tracks, we see a band finding, then possibly attempting to change, their sound. The humble basement beginnings are clear on the noisiest tracks like the 7” version of “Purr” and the EP rendition of “No. 1 Fan,” but the stars align on Love 15 tracks like “Boyfriend” and “Grow.” The group’s post-label loss anguish clearly rips through Sans Muscles songs like “Seine” and “Ghost of Fun.” 

On Love 15, “Purr” is a minute-long cascade akin to Pink Floyd’s “Breathe (In the Air),” however, on the 7” rendition, we hear the song as it was originally released: as a four-minute single, complete with expansive, brain-scratching guitar textures. While the single version of “Cicciolina,” a song Stroughter wrote about an Italian porn star, is sauntering, moody, and slowed, the album version more fully encapsulates the rage-meets-desire feeling Stroughter felt for this woman, with Mike Segal’s crunchy and grating guitar, Hobey Echlin’s hypnotic bass lines, and Odell Nails’ pulsing backing rhythms propelling the track forward. 

Stroughter escalates the idea of female obsession throughout these songs, with most lyrics toeing the line of a twisted psycho-sexual fantasy. These songs are often the darkest yet poppiest tracks, which was at the heart of Majesty Crush’s approach to songwriting: take these pop sensibilities, blow them out, and then share your deepest, darkest secrets on top of them.

While researching this piece, I found myself so consumed by everything about Majesty Crush’s music and story that I eventually came into contact with bassist Hobey Echlin. I got to speak with him in March and hear his perspective on the group’s writing processes and how it feels to reenter the musical conversation. On Stroughter’s lyricism, Echlin told me, “No one could write about having a crush in such a multidimensional way.” 

“Boyfriend” starts Love 15 off with a thesis statement about torturing and killing a girl’s partner so she would fall for Stroughter instead. The scene-setting in this song alone highlights the rapid escalation of Stroughter’s internal monologue, with the opening lines explaining that he sees this beautiful girl on the train and immediately spirals into an internal dialogue of ‘Why is she with that guy when she can be with me?’ He uses his wit to prove he is superior (her boyfriend apparently can’t even get her soup order right: “He’ll bring you minestrone when you want egg drop”—Stroughter would never do that). But it doesn’t stop there: the next two songs are also about crazed feminine obsession. There’s “Uma,” presumably about actress Uma Thurman, then “No. 1 Fan,” the band’s most popular song that takes inspiration from John Hinkcley Jr.’s obsession with Jodie Foster, leading to his attempt at assassinating Ronald Reagan (depicted in on-the-nose lyrics “I’ll kill the president (For your love)”). Both tracks are all-consuming and massive; on “Uma,” Segal breaks into psychedelic guitar passes that sound like so much more than just the distortion, tremolo, and delay effects he stuck with. Meanwhile, “No. 1 Fan” completely immerses the listener into its crazed, modern-day stan POV through Stroughter’s desperate wails, Nails’ deep drum textures, and Echlin’s melodic bass tying the whole thing together. Other tracks hit on this theme, including “Seles,” “Grow,” and “Horse.” Even “Sunny Pie,” the first song Majesty Crush ever released, was about an experience with a girl working at an adult book store. 

The truest peek inside Stroughter’s mind listeners ever get in the Majesty Crush discography is “Brand,” a middle-of-the-A-side track that Echlin recently called “a step away from album filler” in an interview with Stained Glass Stories. In speaking with him, he clarified that he was mainly talking about the repetition in the instrumentation, saying, “Musically, it’s not the one with the fireworks, but lyrically, it's the most down-to-earth and personable, and it's Dave turning his lens on himself.” This track is one of my personal highlights, featuring Stroughter delivering a confessional of his everyday existence rather than spinning the narrative onto his latest craze. “I’m always so fucking drunk / I wake up with a bottle in my hands / I go to bed with a bottle touching my lips” paints the perfect picture of a man clinging to his vices to get through the day-to-day. The repetition, both lyrically and instrumentally, is overtaking, with Stroughter’s echoing vocals sweeping around listeners. These crisp deliveries also set Majesty Crush apart from the other shoegaze groups at the time: where many were mumbling through fragmented lines, Stroughter was telling a whole story, creating an entire atmosphere, and you could actually understand what he was saying. The emotions in his voice cut through your ears and go straight to your heart. “Brand,” specifically, is even more profound now as we look back, as it’s one of the most authentic looks into Stroughter’s mind that we will ever receive. 

Fundamentally, Majesty Crush wrote pop songs. The group approached songwriting in three elements: Part, Break, and Window, each time taking little liberties and twisting the structure in unique ways. Echlin compared their process to riffing off of an idea, continuing to make it better and take it farther. The most important part of a Majesty Crush song, in my opinion, is the Window: the chance for the cathartic and anthemic release that often comes at the end of their tracks. The perfect example of this songwriting approach is “Penny For Love,” a song that gives the same feeling as The Smiths doing a rendition of The Cure’s “Just Like Heaven.” One of the most straightforward tracks on the record, the up-tempo melodies and catchy guitar riffs mask the story of prostitution hidden in the lyrics. But you can hear the release in Stroughter’s vocals, the overflow and sighs he adds to lines like “Cause honey tastes so good.” Penultimate track, “Feigned Sleep,” is at the other end of this spectrum: it’s one of the most expansive tracks on the record that still utilizes the Part/Break/Window song structure. It sends the same shiver down my spine that I get when listening to something like “Jesus Christ” by Brand New, with the rhythm section acting as the song’s heartbeat. The repetitive drawl of the guitar and vocals builds a gripping intensity to the end of the song. The catharsis eventually overflows as backing vocals, drilling drum patterns, intricate bass runs, and circling guitar riffs layer on top of each other, emphasizing how Majesty Crush can take anything standardly pop and make it their own.

The tracks off of Sans Muscles see the repercussions of the post-shoegaze musical landscape Majesty Crush found themselves in by 1994. Grunge was taking over, and you can hear the pressure to be heavier on songs like “Seine,” which sounds like an alternate rendition of Nirvana’s “Scentless Apprentice.” Then there’s “Ghost of Fun,” which utilizes electronic patterns, hinting at a possible future direction the band could have taken. Left with nothing after Dali folded, Majesty Crush took out their frustrations through brooding backbeats, heavy guitars, and Dave’s aggression tying it all together. The group got meta with it, too. Take “If JFA Were Still Together,” a track that combines Deftones-esque blown-out drums juxtaposed with a melodic bass and glittering poppy guitars. Echlin says the track was their ‘what if’ moment after losing it all at the end of ‘93: “It’s kind of like, what happens when your favorite band breaks up? You lose your sense, you lose your bearings.”

“Space Between Your Moles” sounds the most like a Love 15 b-side, with lyrics even calling back to the debut as Stroughter delicately intones, “15 for you and love for the space between your moles.” The track has a Mazzy Star-type of relaxation, sounding like the closest thing Majesty Crush would ever get to a shoegaze ballad. Another instance of Majesty Crush simultaneously fitting into these rock niches and defying the category completely. Echlin says the Sans Muscles tracks were “the logical progression of Majesty Crush,” the emotionally charged next step that propelled them into this angrier sound while still keeping their shoegaze mastery close.

Butterflies Don’t Go Away perfectly encapsulates the Majesty Crush story: from noisy basement beginnings to the moments it all came together, and what happens in the aftermath of having the rug pulled out from under you. In speaking with Echlin, he told me he loves the Numero repress because it “gives just as much emphasis to the footnotes of our career as our big stuff,” offering listeners a chance to hear their trajectory in real-time. Stroughter had said, “If anything happens to me, I just want my music to be heard.” While he’s not here to see it, it’s nice to know that his music is finally reaching more ears and finding its audience. There’s now a whole new generation of shoegazers finding their solace in David Stroughter’s immersive storytelling and the sonic journey of Majesty Crush.

Cassidy is a music writer and cultural researcher currently based in Brooklyn. She loves many things, including but not limited to rabbit holes, Caroline Polachek, blueberry pancakes, her cat Seamus, and adding to her record collection. She is on Twitter @cassidynicolee_, and you can check out more of her writing on Medium.

Um, Jennifer? – The Girl Class | EP Review

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Final Girl Records

It’s an unspoken rule that if you are a queer person who wants to be taken seriously as a purveyor of modern rock music, you should be miserable. It doesn’t necessarily have to be abject misery: melancholy, disaffection, and unrequited longing will suffice. This was as true of Melissa Etheridge’s wailing lamentations that she’s “the only one who’ll drown in [her] desire for you” in 1993, down to the three boys genius combining the strength of their collective ennui to Grammy-winning success more recently. From Tegan & Sara, to Perfume Genius, to Girlpool, and Ethel Cain, this much is true: to succeed as a queer rock musician, you must be willing to bleed.

I’m hopeful, dear reader, that you can not only recognize hyperbole but forgive it as well.

To say there has never been a happy queer rock act would be patently untrue. One of the very first rock stars, queer or otherwise, was Little Richard, who built his career on frenetic party bangers. Classic rock stalwarts Elton John and Freddie Mercury famously brought queer joie de vivre to everything they ever did. Even Rob Halford has a sort of playfulness–at least, as much playfulness as his subgenre allows for. But listening to Um, Jennifer’s new EP, The Girl Class, had me wondering when the last time I heard a rock band be this queer and this effervescent at the same time.

“Girl Class,” the title track, opens the EP with a throwback to late 90s/early 00s alternative rock: the answering machine message–not just an answering machine message, but the dialing of a rotary phone (in this, the year of our lord, two-thousand-and-twenty-four) that goes DIRECTLY to the machine after one ring.

I’m packing my bags for Camp Nostalgia.

I love this motif, and it’s used to great effect. Our singer, Fig, introduces themself and delivers the thesis statement of the song to the person they’re calling: “I’m having a lot of trouble being a girl, and you’re really good at being a girl, and I was wondering if you wanted to hang out, or we could get coffee or something, or whatever, yeah, give me a call back.” What follows is an ode to friendship and self-acceptance that concludes with actual, fool-proof instructions on how to be a girl: “Step 1: say you’re a girl; Step 2: you are a girl.”

On “Glamor Girl,” our second vocalist, Eli, moves in a different direction. They take an outside perspective on how a devastatingly sexy lady is driving them crazy and ruining their life. This theme continues with a later track, “Cut Me Open,” where Eli addresses someone who has them consumed with desire to the point that they want to be torn open and cannibalized by them: a universal experience I’m sure we can all relate to.

Something I really like about this band is the salty/sweet dynamic between the two singers. Eli’s songs are characterized by a frank and expressive discussion of sexuality, while Fig’s are more whimsical. For example, in “Jazz Machine,” Fig describes their paramour as a sort of fabulous intergalactic entity, a “roller rink jazz machine,” and still somehow very human, with insecurities and an absolutely filthy bedroom.

Photo by Avery Davis

The unifying factor between these two collaborators seems to be a willingness to just let things be fun and unserious. In fact, one could say that the overarching theme for this collection of songs is affirming the things that make you feel insecure don’t have to be the end of the world unless you treat them that way.

It's this sense of levity that really distinguishes Um, Jennifer from other, perhaps more established artists talking about their queer experience. Their willingness to say, “I’m not feeling all that great about myself, and I’m painfully horny,” while treating that like a hilarious anecdote, really sets them apart from queer singer/songwriters who would say the same thing and treat it as a dirge. Not to diminish either method, both are valid, but the lighthearted approach makes them feel distinct in the moodier musical landscape of 2024.

It also goes without saying that being witty and self-effacing is just naturally more inviting. It makes people want to like you and want to relate to you. Um, Jennifer is extremely charming in this way. This is a band that pitched the release party for this EP as “an exhilarating night of trans slut rock,” further describing the theme as “inspired by Jennifer’s Body - blood, guts, and being really hot.” I don’t know about you, but that sounds like my kind of party: they sound like the kind of people I want to be friends with, and I think this approach will win them many fans.

When it comes down to it, it’s no secret that we, as queer people, often face a lot of harrowing circumstances, a lot of sadness, and a lot of loneliness and inner turmoil. Likewise, it’s a well-documented fact that channeling hardship into creativity can generate powerful works of art. I think it speaks volumes about the way we're feeling in the current political climate that so many queer musicians are writing tons of sad songs. I think it’s important to acknowledge this. But I also think it’s important to see the joy in your queerness, to find the humor in it, and to celebrate it. So, in that way, I think we have really needed a band like this loud, funny, over-the-top duo of trans kids from Brooklyn to remind us that it’s okay to let loose and be ridiculous every once in a while.

Brad Walker is a writer, comedian, and storyteller from Columbus, Ohio. Find him on the World Wide Web:@bradurdaynightlive on Instagram and@bradurdaynightlive.bsky.social on Bluesky.

Carpool – My Life in Subtitles | Album Review

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SideOneDummy

After working in several movie theaters throughout college, I've spent my fair share of time in projection booths. My favorite was filled floor to ceiling with old movie posters, each haphazardly taped on top of the other, with the oldest posters just barely peeking out behind the latest. The shelves were filled with odd memorabilia (Jurassic Park dinosaurs, B-list celebrity standees, promotional shirts for forgotten A24 films), and the lights were permanently low. 

Carpool’s latest album, My Life in Subtitles, takes me back to that projection booth. The Rochester band’s sophomore album captures the feeling you get watching a movie through a small glass window—the sensation of watching something bigger than you, something that excludes you, but something you still can peer in on. Projection booths are niche liminal spaces, rooms caught between an audience and invisibility. Like the complexities of the projection booth, this album operates from above, crafting story and sound from a secluded vantage point, and that all starts on the first track. 

Following a melancholy piano introduction, Carpool throws the listener directly into their lead single, “Can We Just Get High?,” a song the band dubbed the spiritual successor to their 2020 entry to the emo canon, “The Salty Song.” On the surface, “Can We Just Get High?” is a full-force rocker that feels like the rush of a sweaty beer pong win. The song has an anthemic quality that makes it feel like the performance a hot new pop-punk band would blast through at a house party during their minute-long cameo in a 2000s dramedy. The track practically demands to be chanted along with, featuring a binary chorus of, “Love me / hate me / can we just get high?” The band intersperses that kinetic energy with musical tricks that push the entire song into overdrive — extended guitar notes, signature Carpool screams, and a solo from lead guitarist Tommy Eckerson that flows like a knocked-over Miller High Life. 

In the music video, the band leans into the chaos through a disorienting backyard rager and a well-placed Animal House reference executed by bassist Torri Ross. Directors Kevin Flanagan and Christian Payment capture the surreal panic of the song through a musical fantasia of beers in the tub, high-stakes poker, and falling into a pool with your suit and tie on. The band followed this video up with one for “Open Container Blues,” a slightly more mournful track with a stunning feature from Briana Wright of Cliffdiver. While the song balances on frustration and tragedy, the video intersperses lyrics with glowing footage of the band’s joint tour in the summer of 2023. A joyous reminder that at the end of the day, Carpool will always be for sharing smiles with friends. 

The final music video released for My Life In Subtitles was for “CAR,” a post-hardcore departure from Carpool’s typical pop-tinged emo sound. With this tonal shift in music came an accompanying change in visuals. Directors Kevin Flanagan and Christian Payment moved away from the absurdity of “Can We Just Get High” and the camaraderie of “Open Container Blues” for something darker – a nightmare designed to knock listeners off-kilter and keep them on their toes. Soundtracked by his own screaming, the video depicts lyricist/vocalist/guitarist Stoph Colasanto trapped on the roof of a building and being chased through a parking garage by cloaked cult figures. For an album as thematically broad as My Life in Subtitles, the diverse array of genres and emotions depicted through the music videos do a good job representing the vast emotional complexities found throughout these songs.

Between the first stretch of songs of this album, I found myself asking, what does it mean to feel doomed? Not be doomed; just feel it. This theme is familiar territory in Carpool’s lyricism; their debut album, Erotic Nightmare Summer, was tinged with this urgency and pangs of frustration. The band’s follow-up EP, 2022’s For Nasal Use Only, offered a synthier, sunnier companion to the TV-static melancholy of ENS. It also provided a five-song glimpse into Carpool’s growing sonic capabilities, suggesting that the band was ready to fly.

Perhaps no one understands that sensation of soaring doom more than Icarus, the mythological boy who flew too close to the sun in search of freedom. Shifting away from broken-in emo and power-chord pop found in the opening stretch of the album, “Kid Icarus” sits comfortably in the middle of the record as a highly visual song with a winding, stadium-like delivery. It’s a song that takes up the whole room, with Stoph Colasanto envisioning himself as Icarus, affirming that, “If I could fly towards the sun, I would fly towards the sun.” Not to be confused with soaking up the sun, don’t get it twisted. Like many Carpool songs, the music and lyrics weave two conflicting emotions, in this case, an aerial melody paired with free-falling notions of self-doubt. That tangible longing and sense of closeness with something just out of reach echoes my projection booth memories. Do you join the crowd? Or do you keep your turmoil to yourself?

Of all the tracks on the album, “Thom York New City” was the song I found myself replaying the most: listening to it in the still of the night, listening to it while lying flat on my back and staring at the ceiling, listening to it while walking home from seeing friends. “Thom Yorke New City” is a hell of a final act. Lyrically, it illustrates the repetitive balancing act of choosing to look on the bright side even though that bright side is never guaranteed to happen, moving forward with a knowing and predicated voice. Sonically, it mirrors the flight patterns of “Kid Icarus” and calls back to the comfort of prior Carpool songs with a song-shifting drum fill from drummer Alec Westover.

 But that can’t be where this album stops, so it isn’t. Instead, My Life in Subtitles ends on punctuation, a small button in the form of “Every Time I Think of You I Smile.” This is the musical equivalent of the lights slowly coming up in a theater as the credits roll. After an album full of contemplating what it means to feel doomed in your own life despite your best efforts, this final track relies on memory to offer evidence that the doom isn’t forever and that the sky will clear eventually. This song bookends the opening titular track, forming an infinite loop of gray uncertainty turning into wavering assuredness, and then back again.

The credits end, and I am left in the projection booth, accompanied by the soft clicking of the projector. I turn it off, stretch my legs, and leave to get the broom to sweep up popcorn, reflecting on what I had just watched. I feel as if I have truly witnessed a full story play out through this album, one chronicling the ups and downs of Stoph Colasanto’s recent life and the distance between reality and subtitles—the difference between what’s said and what’s shown. 

From my view in the projection booth, I can feel the atmosphere created by this album. I immediately knew the script, the characters, and the setting, but I also didn’t know them at all because I was only watching from afar. Years of songwriting, musical experimentation, and life have gone into this record. While other Carpool projects have looked back or yearned forward, My Life in Subtitles looks from above. This is an album where the entire band soars. With its earnest lyricism, acrobatic guitar solos, and genre-shifting delivery, My Life in Subtitles is an album with altitude.

Caro Alt’s (she/her) favorite thing in the world is probably collecting CDs. Caro is from New Orleans, Louisiana and spends her time not sorting her CD collection even though she really, really needs to.

Barely Civil – I'd Say I'm Not Fine | Album Review

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Take This To Heart Records

How are you doing? Like, how are you really doing? This is a question that terrifies me, especially if it’s asked by someone who doesn't just want to make polite chit-chat.

To answer my own question, I’m not doing that great! To be honest, I’m depressed and stressed out. And I’m fully aware of how depression manifests in me: it’s less that I feel like I’m sad and more that I feel so exhausted I can't even be bothered with anything. It’s a lack of hope that things will get better, so I just either cruise or self-destruct. That’s how I’m doing right now, to be real. I’m coasting, mostly, but I want to get better.

Milwaukee emo band Barely Civil is familiar with this reality. Each song on their third LP, I’d Say I’m Not Fine, attempts to answer the question, “How are you doing? Really?” 

The sound of the drums is deafening.
I can’t take your questions at this time.
Alive in the sense that I’m not dead.
I think I would say that I’m not fine.

When asked about the lyrical themes, lead singer Connor Erickson said, “We had to, obviously, take a break when everybody else did for COVID. And the sort of pent-up frustration and aggression that came with losing your job, and losing the friendships that you have, and trying to pick up those relationships, virtually over the phone, and then try and figure out how to how to piece those back together, I started to feel like a lot of the people that I cared a lot for sort of stopped caring about me. And not in a way where I’m bitter about it, but in a way where it was just like, wow, this is the reality of the world we live in.”

Staying still now, there’s a bad man,
he’s stealing my wage.
I hope that he dies soon.
How else will I pay back my rent?
I’m taking a long walk, try to cool off,
does that make much sense?

It makes sense to me, my guy! I am also run through with a sense of exhaustion and ennui. I am trying my best, showing up faithfully to the friends around me, and mostly trying hard at work and in my other obligations. But I am tired, man. And almost everybody I know feels this way. 

Calm down. Everyone’s got doubts.

Barely Civil is Connor Erickson (vocals, guitar), Eric Doucette (bass, vocals), Alex Larsen (guitar), and Isaac Marquardt (drums).

Let me stop and say that I like Barely Civil a lot. They are the sort of band that I’ve always wanted to be in. They are aggressive, melodic, catchy as hell, and grounded in thoughtful lyrics. I rank Barely Civil with some of my favorite bands who are accomplishing this same level of poetic and musical excellence: Manchester Orchestra, mewithoutYou, Valleyheart, The World Is A Beautiful Place… Speaking of which, TWIABP’s own Chris Teti recorded and produced this record, as well as the band’s last album, 2020's I'll Figure This Out. 

Barely Civil are writing about real shit and recording music that sounds so good and fun and heavy and heartfelt. This album makes me ask myself: what do I do with the feeling of “I’m not fine”? Where does it come from? How can I move forward as if my life was a redemptive story? 

In my experience, a breakthrough is really only possible on the other side of a breakdown. Wholeness and healing only show themselves to those who are desperate enough to want to see them. Nobody builds an appetite for a better world unless they become thoroughly disgusted with the world as it is. 

And there’s plenty to be disgusted at: Working class pain. Cost of living. The feeling of loneliness that results from carrying hurt that’s invisible to others. A society that rewards unkindness. The death of childlike dreams. The pain of showing up for friends that don’t show up for you. The knowledge that you’re being taken advantage of by your bosses, by your landlord, by the system. 

There’s a desperation that manifests in anger. Where do you direct it? Smoke another cigarette? Crush another six-pack? Distract yourself again with the television or the computer? Speak unkindly to your loved ones? 

Where does relief come from? From which direction? From outside or in? What do you do with the anger in the bottom of your belly that just lives there all the time? 

If I could breathe again,
I swear I would breathe again,
I swear I would.

Barely Civil doesn’t totally give us any advice about what to do with all our frustration and disappointment, and that’s appropriate! All my favorite artists ask good questions and don’t put too much pressure on themselves to tie it up with a bow by the last track. But there are hints:

Right now I’m finding out
what it takes to feel let down.
How to take that and swallow it down.
It’s a process, but I digress.
I’m shaping a town of stone.
It’s a new age, a singing bowl.
It’s a belly ache, a cosmic drone.
Wait, there’s that sound again.

The cosmic drone! The ancient sound from before the beginning of the world! The ineffable, the unexplainable, the unknown! Maybe there’s something there.

I’m learning to speak in tongues again.
I’m burning the candle at both ends.

I’m not sure where that breakthrough is coming from, but I, personally, really hope to experience one. It would be nice to feel like I’m in relationships where care is mutual and reciprocated, not just one-sided. It would be nice to be able to comfortably afford rent in the city I live in. Would be sick to feel like I’m able to find some answers to these lingering questions.

If a breakthrough is really on the other side of a breakdown, maybe I’m not actually in a bad spot. Regardless, it would be a nice surprise to be asked, “How are you doing?” and legitimately say, “I’m fine, actually! Things are getting better!”

Ben Sooy lives in Denver, Colorado, where he writes songs and plays guitar with his best friends in the band A Place For Owls.

Crush Fund – New Fixation | EP Review

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Blixworld Records

I do not dance. Whenever I try to dance at a show, I feel deeply self-conscious as I shuffle my feet back and forth in a box the width of my shoulders and swing my arms out of time with the band. So I don’t dance. I do, however, find catharsis in diving into the pit occasionally. I enjoy writhing around in a mass of humanity that swirls me across the floor regardless of where I want to be. Diving into the pit is cathartic because it lets me release control of my body. I don’t have a chance to get self-conscious about my dance moves because I’m more worried about staying on my feet. 

I’ve seen Crush Fund ten times since they released their debut EP, Drama, back in 2021, and I love that their shows offer a chance for trans girls to experience liberation. Even still, I’ve never been the one to start the pit, even when they tried to peer-pressure me into it the time I saw them in D.C. But the first time I put on New Fixation, I felt compelled to dance. Any moment I found myself alone, be it in the office, the bathroom, the elevator, or the kitchen, was a chance to two-step to “Womanhood.” Only one other album has triggered this impulse: Gel’s Only Constant.

The songs on New Fixation are manifestations of the pure reactionary impulse that comes from roiling under the patriarchy. The EP’s centerpiece, “Unwanted Attention,” features vocalist and drummer Nora Knox gazing back at someone treating her like a piece of meat over a knotty, bouncy riff on the verses before things escalate to a boiling hardcore chorus. The first time the chorus comes around, we only get one run-through of it, just a taste of the feeling of pushing back, so when they immediately go into the second verse, we’re already craving another chance to shout, “fuck you! Get off my dick!” It’s a fabulous pop songwriting trick tucked into a song you can two-step with.

My favorite track is “Tender is the Night” for how it turns being desperately horny into a minute and a half of pit-churning fury. In the first verse, Knox details an illicit tryst in the park that quickly dissolves to reveal it is a masturbatory fantasy. The choruses don’t just revel in that solo pleasure; each repetition of the cyclical guitar and bass hectically races towards collapse, and each bar adds another layer of Knox’s vocals, all coming together to mimic the taut, singular sensation of the body and mind being overwhelmed by pure feeling until she finally cries out, “right there!” The short stop between the second chorus and coda is a satisfactory reprieve, a chance to catch your breath. 

While “Tender is the Night'' is all about reaching satisfaction, “W.W.Y.D.” offers no reprieve as it crams a panic attack into each 5/4 bar. Each chorus ends with the instruments piled up on each other like a car wreck before pulling themselves back together. The song is a neverending cycle of doubt in yourself and desperation for someone to tell you what to do. “W.W.Y.D.” is a song trying its hardest to keep you from dancing, but you just can’t be stopped. 

This is the beauty of Crush Fund’s version of dance music. It taps into your impulses and gives you a chance to hand off control of your body to the beat. New Fixation is an offer to dance yourself clean of your frustrations.

Lillian Weber is a fake librarian in NYC. She writes about gender, music, and other inane thoughts on her substack, all my selves aligned. You can follow her burner account on twitter @Lilymweber