Bent Knee – Twenty Pills Without Water | Album Review

Take This To Heart Records

You can never go home again. Some variation of this phrase has haunted me since migrating to the opposite end of the country immediately after completing high school in Alabama. It cut particularly deep in the throes of a pandemic while holed up in an apartment in a new city where the only person I knew was my aunt. Even after COVID restrictions had loosened and I visited my hometown a handful of times, the chokehold that phrase has yet to let up. My memories are all I have, but those are just snapshots of a place that is constantly growing at an ever-quickening pace, with new buildings and businesses replacing the ones I know while most of the people who helped me bear it for ten years have made migrations of their own. Even the house I grew up in is wildly different, as anyone who's left home for any extended period will recognize. This inability to return to a previous status quo is a universal experience, albeit one that weighs heavier on some than it does on others. If their new album is any indication, it’s been a similarly heavy load on Bent Knee.

Few bands in the independent circuit have covered as much ground in the last fifteen years as Bent Knee. Since their 2011 debut, the Boston natives have folded everything from string-heavy art pop and prog to crushing stoner rock riffs into their arsenal in a way that’s made them impossible to put in any one box. The one true anchor is Courtney Swain’s formidable vocal ability, with her bright soprano and mind-melting belts imbuing all their music with an undeniable sense of scale and melodrama. Their previous outing, 2021’s Frosting, saw them push that sound to the limit with their most heavily synthetic palette, yet as they took a plunge into the sounds of hyperpop that would have seen most bands falling flat on their faces. Against all odds though, their commitment to the style’s everything-and-the-kitchen-sink maximalism yielded plenty of winners in the tracklist; it’s home to both some of their zaniest and most emotionally direct material to date.

That said, Frosting was also the first time you might accuse the band of biting off a little more than they could chew. It’s a good but flawed record, sometimes feeling caught between too many ideas to coalesce into a satisfying experience. By comparison, Twenty Pills Without Water sees the band scaling back in favor of a more cohesive vision. The impossible desire to return to the way things were courses underneath nearly every moment, something that seems surprising from a band as ever-evolving as Bent Knee. With context though, it’s not difficult to guess why this might have weighed heavy on their mind. While this is their seventh album as a band, it is their first record as a four-piece, having parted ways with bassist Jessica Kion and lead guitarist Ben Levin, both of whom had been with the group since 2009 and left in 2022. Even though the separation was amicable, with the members citing the difficulties of being a touring musician, I can only imagine this was a significant loss for an outfit as creative and ambitious as this one. 

Rather than hide those feelings to prove that they’ve “still got it,” Bent Knee make the choice to soak this cocktail of uncertainty in and share the journey with their audience. After a scene-setting intro full of clinking and clattering, the hypnotic thundering of drums and mantra-like wails on “Forest” signal a triumphant return to a classic Bent Knee sound on the surface, but the foreboding atmosphere that hangs over the track like a fog indicates otherwise. It even threatens to overtake Courtney Swain as she’s consumed by echoes and forgotten voices. This fog rests over every part of the record, only ever lifting when the band can no longer keep in the nagging feeling that something is wrong. Every song plays like a waiting game of how long they can swallow their emotions before they leak or, in some cases, burst out. This is the sound of a group that is lost in the woods and knows it. They continue to trudge forward because within that forest resides not only the most morose and pensive material of their career but also some of the most beautiful and affirming.

Many songs start this search with a distraction. “I Like It” seeks comfort in shared desire between two partners over skittering drum machines and a lush string section courtesy of guitarist/violinist Chris Baum. The song soon underlines that pleasure with a bitter sting as the playful chorus concludes a list of would-be turn-ons with “I like it when you swear that you’re never coming home.” On lead single “Illiterate,” Swain responds to outside criticism and pressure with self-soothing late-night binges that stretch progressively further into the morning. The song’s chopped-up riff and stop-and-start build induce a nervous tension throughout the verses that each chorus has a harder time relieving, with Swain howling about how she’s not sure if she’s crying, “but it’s okay!” by the final refrain. It’s a hollow comfort that I’ve become all too familiar with through my own various attempts to escape into fiction or any art that offers an alternative to my present state. There are well-defined rules and characters you can know in and out as an observer, unlike the chaos of waking life that still waits at the end of an episode. 

Another song whose coping mechanism hits eerily close to home is “Never Coming Home,” revolving around a late-night drive with no clear destination. I often found myself on similar trips when I still lived in Alabama. I would waste gas exploring the twists, turns, and highways that crisscrossed my county with my stereo on blast, driving anywhere but home. At the time, I thought I was just making sure I could finish whatever song or album I was singing along to, but on some level, this was when I was able to most enjoy myself as a teenager. I didn’t have to think so much about where I was or what anybody thought of me; I could just move and sing. The bouncy, light-on-its-feet production courtesy of bassist Vince Welch manages to bottle that freedom in a smooth synth-pop jam while still capturing how bittersweet those rides were, with Swain expressing doubt and a need to escape at every turn in the lyrics. Unlike previous tracks however, she almost finds it, not in her words, but in the music, with the band cruising beyond the city limits and into a spacious horizon by the end. She may not know where she’s going, but it sure as hell isn’t backwards. 

That lack of direction can be just as oppressive as it is liberating. Take “Big Bagel Manifesto,” which sees the band at their most abstract, with Swain letting emotion rather than words guide her voice through a foreboding intro made up almost entirely of strings. The lyrics are nearly nonexistent, with the liner notes reading more like suggestions in the first half and willfully nonsensical in the second. The only clear anchor here is the pitched-up refrain of “Heads up, everybody sucks!” filling out the body of the song along with the rhythm section as the crooning reaches a fever pitch. The elusive nature of the song frustrated me at first, only clicking into place when I let go of concrete interpretation and let myself be guided by the one emotion that comes across clear as day: confusion. Bent Knee have never been ones to make their lyrics especially obvious, so the tilt into a borderline mood piece is an effective one, especially with the cumulative muscle of the band and several guest musicians expertly overwhelming me once the song kicks into gear. It feels like a sister to the despondent “Drowning” later in the tracklist, an appropriately titled song that wallows in uncertainty and frayed lines of communication. It’s far and away the prettiest song on Twenty Pills, with Baum’s violin leading an ever-growing mini-string symphony over keys that glitter like sunlight on water, but also the emotional rock bottom as Swain sings of literally sinking by the end.

One always seems to be right
To swim to survive
But I sank with the tide
So see if I care

As with most rock bottoms though, it’s from here that some resolution begins to take shape. Bent Knee have always sounded mighty and confident on past records, if also a little unknowable, consistently leaving me in a state of awe. Twenty Pills is the first time that hasn’t been the case, but leave it to Bent Knee to turn that weakness into a strength. “Lawnmower” was the first song the band released as a quartet, coming out in May of last year, and pretty transparently addresses a parting of ways.

Seventeen years in the dirt
We ought to live it up
If this is all we got
Honestly I know
We have to say goodbye sometimes

With a stripped-back build reminiscent of many current indie folk darlings, it’s a strikingly candid song from a band that I’m used to sounding out of this world. It was already a high point for the record, but it didn’t click into place how important this song is for the band until seeing them perform it at their Portland concert earlier this month. It was a small venue, not exactly packed to the brim, but everyone seemed to be such massive supporters of the band, with the band shouting out specific audience members and touring partners who made their shows possible. With every added instrument, it felt like a collective weight was being lifted until the song’s explosive finish had everyone around me floating. It reminded me of the penultimate song on the album, the mysteriously titled “DLWTSB,” another synth-led, Prince-inspired romp that stuffs in a host of cliches about overcoming adversity that it can feel a bit cheesy. After an album full of doubt and fear chased with the experience I had seeing them live, I can’t help but feel the band’s earned a fair portion of cheese when the song finds its groove and Swain defiantly asserts that “Underdogs gotta stick together when we can.” Sure, it could be just another coping mechanism, a retreat into easy platitudes, but comfort can lead to healing and, beyond that, growth. I can’t say for sure if the band has made it out of the woods yet, just as none of us can ever truly say the same for our own forests, but they’ve paved a road behind them so that others may follow and a select few already have. That road’s destination may seem unclear, but to borrow from another well-worn cliche, it’s the journey that matters anyway. 

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Wesley Cochran lives in Portland, OR where he works, writes, and enjoys keeping up with music of all kinds, with a particular fondness for indie rock. You can find him @ohcompassion on Twitter, via his email electricalmess@gmail.com, or at any Wilco show in the Pacific Northwest.

CLIFFDIVER – birdwatching | Album Review

SideOneDummy Records

I’m tired. Not just in a “Oh, I didn’t get enough sleep last night” kind of way or even a “This has just been a rough week for me” kind of way. It’s been a rough 29 years, and I feel like the past few have taken more than their share off my grand total. As the years speed along, I find new and creative ways to cope with the trauma of the pandemic, the stresses of growing older, and the horrors I witness on a daily basis through the rectangle in my pocket. Daily tasks feel like a struggle, and despite being a social person, spending time with others doesn’t recharge me in the ways that it used to. This feeling of exhaustion and my inability to deal with it is compounded by the sense that I don’t know what I’m doing most of the time. I’m almost 30 years old, and I can’t get through a day or two without feeling like I missed something crucial in my upbringing that makes me “less than” my peers. 

However, something I often find myself thinking about is how I’m not alone in feeling this way. Whether it's regarding my employment status, my consistently depleted bank account, general exhaustion and dissatisfaction with my life, or feeling ill-equipped for the world around me, it seems to be a shared trend amongst my generation – and bleeding into the next. There’s a strange, oddly comforting sense of solidarity in that fact, but along with it is an even greater sense of how fucked it is that we all feel this way. Some do a convincing job of pretending these struggles don't affect them in an attempt to push “normalcy,” but it is heartening to see the overwhelming number of people I know uplifting each other and tackling the minutiae of daily life together in the hopes that maybe one day things will improve.

While listening to their latest LP, birdwatching, it’s apparent that eerily similar thoughts are heavy on the minds of Oklahoma-based punk rock band CLIFFDIVER. As a fan of the septet since the release of their last album, Exercise Your Demons, that refreshingly real and uncompromising outlook on life is nothing new to them, especially given what the band has been through in recent years, and I was pleased to discover that this new collection of songs further commits to exploring difficult concepts. 

Opening track “thirty, flirty, and thriving!!!” highlights this struggle of being alive for three whole decades and still having absolutely no grasp of what is going on around you. Desperate, honest lyrics “thirty years and I still don’t know shit” repeatedly hit me over the head, echoing the little voices rattling around in my brain and making me feel like I’m the only person in the world who doesn't have their shit together. The single “dayz gone” further piles on these exhausted emotions, daily defeats, and mistrust in those around us and the systems we live in.

CLIFFDIVER have never been strangers to versatility in their albums, and birdwatching is no exception. Upbeat tracks like “team fight tactics” saunter through with bubbly drum beats, charming back-and-forths between vocalists Joey Duffy and Brianna Wright, and sultry horn tones satisfy the desire for some easy listening. A couple tracks later, “midnight mass” explores themes of devastating losses and dissipated relationships – as gutting to listen to as I’m sure it was to write. The unique beauty of CLIFFDIVER is how both of these tracks are about daily life and human relationships –  the former highlighting squabbles between sports teams and the ever-elusive decision of what’s for dinner, while the latter bemoans the pitfalls of nostalgia and missing friends whom we’re admittedly better off without. Each of the 12 tracks on this album is its own world, its own private story to tell, and we’re given the privilege of being let in, if only for a few minutes apiece. This particular kind of sequencing and formulation on display makes me crave far more than 35 minutes in these worlds. 

It’s not lightly or hyperbolically when I state that there are no bands doing it right now like CLIFFDIVER. The ninth track on the album, “would tho,” stands not only as my favorite track on an already spectacular collection of instant classics but as a testament to everything I love about this band. Seemingly possessed by a hardcore counterpart just one track earlier, "CLIFFDRIVER," sees the group take a page out of Pool Kids's book (or should I say POOL) by throwing down a one-minute hardcore track that acts as an exhilarating mid-album burst of energy. “would tho” continues this catharsis with a danceable rhythm and spacy synth notes ornamenting this infectious hardcore punk jaunt, delivering one of my favorite songs of the year. The feature by Stoph Colasanto of Carpool in the track “goin for the garbage plate” only serves to elevate this album into the greats of 2024 and flaunts how impressive this year has been for the punk scene. Carpool delivered their own essential punk offering, My Life In Subtitles, just a few months earlier, and their inclusion here only proves that birds of a feather do indeed flock together.

I think the knee-jerk reaction when you’re dissatisfied with your life is to torture yourself with what you could have done differently. Instead of dealing with the problem at hand, it’s easier to beat yourself up and pinpoint the exact moment where you fucked everything up. And when the sulking and self-pitying recedes, there’s the allure of nostalgia and uncomplicated escapism to satiate you for a while. The final track on birdwatching, “i reckon you might could i s’pose,” acts not only as a closing thesis statement for the record but a snapshot of these difficult cycles of failure and self-soothing. As a generation trapped by overwhelming nostalgia in the face of unparalleled grief and disappointment, we’re mesmerized by the idea of an alternate universe where these tragedies never happened. The melancholic guitar trills into triumphant brass and chanting gang vocals evoke mixed emotions and open the finale up to interpretation – is this the acceptance of defeat, or is it a rallying cry? 

This latest album by CLIFFDIVER provides something the scene desperately needs now more than ever – brutal honesty. Crisp production, signature vocals, and uncompromising instrumental performances engross from track to track. Joey and Bri continue to complement each other with their unique and unmistakable styles, which are as arresting as their lyrics. Musical prowess and impressive instrumentation are definitely enough to carry a solid record, but the feelings – the raw, unfiltered admissions behind birdwatching – are what make it a truly special experience. Flawless sequencing, just the right balance of songs to mourn to and songs to get into fist-fights to, CLIFFDIVER continues to elevate my hopes for the future of diverse, complex music that always has something important to say.

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Ciara Rhiannon (she/her) is a pathological music lover writing out of a nebulous location somewhere in the Pacific Northwest within close proximity of her two cats. She consistently appears on most socials as @rhiannon_comma, and you can read more of her musical musings over at rhiannoncomma.substack.com.

worlds greatest dad – Better Luck Next Time | Album Review

SideOneDummy Records

Lately, I’ve been thinking about what we mean when we talk about a band maturing. With artists from the past, the subject is often clear cut; if you listen to Sorry Ma, Forgot to Take Out the Trash followed by Don’t Tell a Soul, it’s not difficult to pick out which of the two was made by kids, and when you listen to the records that came in between the two, it’s easy to see the progression that took us from one to the next. With newer bands, especially those that are still active, the conversation becomes a little more gray. In the realm of emo-adjacent music, I often see maturation used to describe a band whose newest release features fewer of the genre’s stylistic hallmarks than the one that came before it. It seems if you turn down the knob that says “emo” and turn up the knob that says “indie,” you're bound to have your record described as your most mature yet.

I don’t necessarily disagree with this assessment when I see it, but I do wish that the way bands progress was talked about more from other angles. Maturation doesn’t always present as a band becoming more stripped down or reserved. Sometimes, it can look like further commitment to a style or adding new elements without subtracting others. It can be a band growing into their identity rather than moving towards what others might think “mature” sounds like. This is the kind of maturation I thought about when listening to worlds greatest dad’s new album, Better Luck Next Time. 

Better Luck Next Time is the group’s second full-length and their first since 2018’s get well soon. A lot happened in the six years between the releases, including a lineup of Kegan Krogh, Ben Etter, and Matt Hendler coalescing around bandleader Maddie Duncan, as well as the four signing with SideOneDummy earlier this year. Despite how much time has passed, Better Luck Next Time feels like a natural sequel to get well soon, improving on what came before without moving too far away from the band’s sound. 

Where moments on get well soon caught my attention, moments on Better Luck Next Time go a step further and knock me over. Album opener “Twenty Deer” starts with a minute of wistful vocals over acoustic and slide guitar, then, suddenly, the full band enters, and you’re hit with crashing drums and a strong, luminous guitar lead. Beyond sounding huge, when the instruments come together here, they sound clear; you can hear every part and how it compliments the whole with washes of reverb and subtle synths acting as a bed for everything else to lay in. 

This balance can be found throughout the whole album and allows the guitar leads, in particular, to shine. On the intro of “Bike Song” and chorus of “Concrete (A Love Song),” the guitar is the locomotive that pulls everything along, and its placement in the mix allows for a tone that’s strong and ear-catching without being abrasive. On “Taking One for the Team,” the lead takes prominence during the first hook in a more complimentary role, still strong but deployed to dance around the main vocal line before joining up with strings and the more prominent bass of the verses. Most of these elements have been there in past worlds greatest dad releases but generally with fewer, more compressed layers. Here, we see the songwriting and arrangements bloom fully, a more substantial structure built on similar bones. 

The scale of the songs here sometimes gives Better Luck Next Time an almost stadium rock quality. “Two Birds,” in particular, is a song that feels grandiose, pairing its massive sound with one of the record’s best hooks; Duncan singing, “Cause I was watchin’ when your head fell from the clouds / And you could correct me now if I was what knocked your feet off of the ground” is something I haven’t been able to get out of my head since my first listen. Fourth single, “The Ocean,” is another song with a huge earworm chorus that feels made for radio, with the instrumentation around the hook made extra lush thanks to the more staccato sections that precede it. Sometimes, with bands in this lane, you wonder how the sound will translate to larger stages when the time comes, but that’s not a worry when listening to Better Luck Next Time. These are big songs that feel like they’re meant to be performed in front of big crowds.

One of the more reserved tracks on the album that really stuck with me was “Fakin’ a Smile.” Part of why many of the tracks on Better Luck Next Time sound so big is the masterful use of vocal doubles, reverb, and harmonies, allowing Duncan’s voice to contend with the big instrumentation surrounding it. This always sounds cool, but it’s nice on tracks like “Fakin’ A Smile,” where we hear a bit more raw vocal that highlights the pure quality of their voice. The little vocal quiver we hear as Duncan sings, “I don’t think I can get out of bed” right before the chorus is just so good; it’s the kind of vocal affect that can sound trite if overdone, but here it’s executed so perfectly that you feel it in your gut.

Continuing into that song’s chorus, we’re hit with some of my favorite lines on the album, as Duncan sings, “And I got so drunk that I turned sober / And my stomach soured over / And I felt the floor fall with me.” I don’t know that I’ve heard a more succinct distillation of the moment that you realize that you’re too drunk and the consequences that come with it, particularly when your intention for drinking was to escape or find comfort. When the realization hits that the comfort’s not coming, but you’re already deep into a bottle, it really can send you into freefall, which is described perfectly here. 

One thing that’s tough about being in your late teens and early twenties is that you often engage in these cycles of behavior but aren’t equipped to fully identify them. I don’t think lyrics or realizations like those on “Fakin’ a Smile” generally can come from someone in the early throes of young adulthood, even though they’re related to behaviors and experiences that come in that part of your life. 

I feel similarly about the lines “It wasn’t that you gave up on your dreams / But at the same time you stopped believing in me” from “Bad Neighborhood” and plenty of other sections throughout the record. So much of the lyrical content feels like it can be summed up as reckoning with the inevitable mistakes one made when they were younger, specifically the type of reckoning that can only come with some time and distance. This ultimately is one of the things that really got me thinking about maturity when I was listening through. Better Luck Next Time is an album of progression for worlds greatest dad both sonically and emotionally. It’s their most mature record yet, and also their best. 

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Josh Ejnes is a writer and musician living in Chicago. You can keep up with his writing on music and sports on Twitter and listen to his band Cutaway Car here.

MJ Lenderman – Manning Fireworks | Album Review

On Monday, June 24, 2024, I woke up to great news. For one, it was my birthday, and I was thrilled to be turning a supple 31 years old… but that wasn’t the news. After making sure I was sufficiently awake, my girlfriend alerted me, “MJ Lenderman dropped a new song and has an album coming out in September.” Perfect. It felt like a little gift delivered right to me. 

Together, we watched the video for “She’s Leaving You” and basked in the bummer lyrics, soaring chorus, and charismatic talent show visuals. As MJ shredded a guitar solo while his band moved around him at half-speed, the song immediately felt like yet another masterstroke in Lenderman’s already full canvas of fruitful fuck-ups and off-putting weirdos. The melody is immaculate; the instrumental is covered in a layer of grit, while the lyrics embody a type of dejected divorcee energy that you’d usually find in a Drive-By Truckers song or, at the very least, penned by someone about twice Lenderman’s age. It's not like this is MJ’s first brush with these types of broken-down boomerisms (“TV Dinners” would like a word), but even still, it’s shocking to hear sentiments like these from the mouth of someone only midway through their twenties. Above all else, “She’s Leaving You” is catchy as hell and has remained on repeat all summer long, soundtracking sunny trips to the beach, lackadaisical days in the park, and sweltering excursions into the city. It was an excellent way to start my 31st year.

Between the record’s first three singles and MJ’s contributions to the incredible new Waxahatchee record, I was fully having an MJ Lenderman Summer. Blessed with an early advance of Manning Fireworks, I waited until just the right moment to crack this LP open and enjoy it to its fullest capacity. Turns out what that looked like for me was a sweaty day in Brooklyn on the Fourth of July. After spending the morning scraping and cleaning my girlfriend's family’s grill, I escaped to Prospect Park with a beach blanket, a half-smoked joint, and my AirPods. I spent a little while walking around the busy park, taking in the swirl of conversations, volleyball games, and family get-togethers. I absorbed all the smiles of passersby and inhaled deeply, feeling the sun on my skin and relishing the smell of hot dog smoke in my lungs. I found a nice little secluded spot under a tree, laid out my blanket, and hit play to enjoy all 38 minutes and 54 seconds of Manning Fireworks uninterrupted and unimpeded. It was one of my favorite music-listening experiences I’ve ever had in my life. 

If you’ve followed this blog for long enough, you probably know I’m a bit of an MJ Freak. While I’d been following his work for a minute, it wasn’t until a fateful Fourth of July a few years ago that I found myself kicking back to Boat Songs over the course of a relaxing four-day weekend on the Oregon Coast and felt everything click. From there, I became infatuated with his country-flavored guitar fuzz, one-of-a-kind observations, and funny-ass lyrics. If he wasn’t so thoroughly North Carolinian, he felt exactly like the types of dudes I grew up with, obsessed with wrestling, Jackass, and rock music. Over time, I tended to drift more towards the dirty lo-fi stylings found on his early work, like Knockin’ and Ghost of Your Guitar Solo, but Boat Songs grew on me more and more with each listen until I considered myself a pretty hardcore MJ fan. A couple of years later, a knockout live album helped his entire body of work coalesce into one hour of personable alt-country indie rock. A patio album through and through, And The Wind (Live and Loose!) offers a quick way to get up to speed with MJ’s body of work, acting as a career-spanning already-greatest-hits that feels like both an introduction to prospective new listeners and a celebration of everything Lenderman had released up to that point.

If you’re familiar with any of the three albums or four EPs that came before this, one of the first things you might notice about Manning Fireworks is how cleanly produced these songs sound. Gone is the garage rock haze of “Tastes Just Like It Costs” and sub-fi strums of “Dan Marino,” which were oftentimes more artistic affectation than technical limitation. Also gone are the winding runtimes found on MJ’s self-titled first album, where most of the tracks clocked in around 7 minutes. On his fourth LP, virtually every song hovers around the three-minute mark, save for the ten-minute closing track, “Bark At The Moon,” and even that’s kind of cheating since it ends with a long stretch of wordless drone. To that end, I’ve found Manning Fireworks feels much more spiritually parallel to Ghost of Your Guitar Solo than Boat Songs, but maybe that’s just because both lean into Lenderman’s impulse to throw a scratchy instrumental track into the mix. 

I think it’s easy to see Manning Fireworks as less raucous and “fun” than Boat Songs, but this really is an album of halves. There’s no song as upright and victorious as “Hangover Game” or as bright-eyed and loving as “You Are Every Girl To Me,” but this record still has plenty of energy, ideas, and riffs to dole out. I also think it’s easy to lose sight of how incredibly fun each of these singles have been since they’ve been strategically doled out over the course of 14 months. 

The origins of Manning Fireworks technically started back in 2023 with the release of “Rudolph” smackdab in the middle of July. Originally positioned as a standalone single meant to accompany his signing to ANTI-, the song signaled a level-up in more ways than one. Boasting an infectious four-beat countdown and whining pedal steel, the track recounts an ill-fated meeting between the famously outcast reindeer and Lightning McQueen of Pixar’s Cars franchise. Like all great MJ songs, these pop culture references mainly serve as goofy totems the listener can grasp onto as Lenderman uses them to ladder up to a more profound point. In the case of “Rudolph,” the song mounts up to a pathetically lovestruck confession as he sings, “I wouldn't be in the seminary if I could be with you.” 

A month later, “Rudolph” was revealed to be a 7” single that gave Lenderman an excuse to revisit “Knockin,” the original version of which is, on a good day, my personal favorite MJ song. While it’s obviously different than the scrappy rendition from a couple of years prior, MJ has a history of re-recording his own material: he’s got alternate versions of “TLC Cagematch,” “SUV,” and “Tastes Like It Costs,” just to name a few. This is an artistic quirk that I like a lot; it rewards longtime fans and offers the artist a new way to interface and interpret his own work. [Fun Fact: he does just this on Manning Fireworks, turning “You Don’t Know The Shape I’m In” from a crunchy homespun groove off a Bandcamp comp into a Beat The Champ-esque waltz adorned with clarinets, upright bass, and something called a “slide bebo”]. While I initially thought this “Rudolph b/w Knockin” package was just another in a long line of these re-recordings, I actually think it was MJ tipping his hand a bit in terms of shifting away from that lo-fi sound. It’s not exactly a rejection of the original “Knockin,” but it’s a revisitation that almost implies this is how the song was always meant to be heard. Maybe it was a primer for this record; maybe it was just a send-off to that era. 

This upgraded fidelity is noticeable throughout Manning Fireworks, but not a knock against it (see what I did there?). On the contrary, this record sounds impeccable. It was recorded by Alex Farrar at Drop of Sun Studios in Asheville, NC, which currently feels like an absolute hotbed of scene-shaping indie rock. Not only have the last few MJ releases gone through Drop of Sun, but Fararr has also touched records from Wednesday, Squirrel Flower, Indigo De Souza, Hotline TNT, and Horse Jumper of Love. Drop of Sun’s output ranges in scale from local North Carolina talent like emo punks Kerosene Heights and Durham folksters Fust all the way up to indie rock household names like Angel Olsen, Snail Mail, and Plains. The place also looks incredible; I’ll drop a gallery of photos here just in case you’re as struck by the vibes as I am. 

When all’s said and done, you have a very pretty album that feels like a clearly realized version of what MJ Lenderman’s music can be when he lets his singer-songwriter tendrils unfurl. Manning Fireworks is a fairly traditional-length album that posits a familiar structure. You’ve got a slow-starting opening, a Side A that’s slammed wall-to-wall with singles and heaters, then a more introspective (but still rockin’) back half, all capped off with a meditative six minutes of feedback. I’m here for it. 

Throughout the album, Lenderman phrases his words in endlessly mystifying and charming ways. Sometimes, the thing he’s Actually Talking About feels like it’s veiled in fifteen layers of mystery; other times, it’s only ten. Pretty consistently, Lenderman is obtuse to the point where it almost feels like its own language. You can parse his phrasing in a few different ways and get vastly different interpretations. Even when he’s just singing something as commonplace as Guitar Hero, there’s a specificity to it that suggests there could be a deeper layer. Other times, it’s just meant to be funny. No matter which way you interpret it, there’s an undeniably benign beauty to a lyric like “We sat under a half-mast McDonald’s flag.” 

This is not just esotericness for esotericness’ sake. In fact, it’s all so earnest that the listener is encouraged to take it all at face value, which becomes just one possible way to read the album. Lyrics on Manning Fireworks often feel like brief little barbs or self-dispensed idioms, leaving the listener to either laugh or fill in the gaps. As soon as one line lands, the next one is already there to sweep you off into a separate thought or tasty riff. Whenever Lenderman happens to settle in and tell a story, things are gripping and compelling. They usually depict down-on-their-luck people who are pathetic to various points of return. Are they losers for life or just in that moment? Did we happen to catch them on a bad day, or is this their irredeemable day-to-day existence? On the opening title track, Lenderman depicts a guy who’s ultimately surmised to be a “jerk.” 

Some have passion
Some have purpose
You have sneakin' backstage to hound the girls in the circus

Interestingly enough, he also chooses to address this all directly to the audience, sketching this caricature while attributing every quality to you. He continues on in a biblical batch of lyrics that hit me as Father John Misty-esque on first listen. 

You’ve opened the Bible in a public place
You’ve opened the Bible to the very first page
And one of these days
It will all end
Your tired approach to original sin

As this story unfolds, the rest of the band slowly emerges behind him: guitar, drums, and a fiddle that carves its way through the mix beautifully. This track also features an upright bass and trombone courtesy of Landon George and backup vocals from Karly Hartzman. Other than a handful of assists like these, the guitar, drums, and bass found throughout Manning Fireworks were all played by Lenderman himself. Many familiar occupants of the Wednesday Cinematic Universe still appear throughout the album: you’ve got Xandy Chelmis on pedal steel, Ethan Baechtold on piano, and Colin Miller on trumpet as well as the aforementioned “slide bebo.” 

For all the talk of Lenderman’s Rorschach-like lyrics, there are moments when even Lenderman himself seems befuddled by others. At one point in “Rip Torn,” he recounts a confounding exchange

You said, “There’s men and then there’s movies.
Then there’s men and ‘Men in Black’”
You said, “There’s milkshakes and there’s smoothies.”
You always lose me when you talk like that

It’s nice to know that sometimes Lenderman gets turned around too. Usually, you’re not sure if he meant what he said to be so profound or funny, but usually, somehow, it’s both. I think the man himself addresses this pretty succinctly on “Joker Lips,” where he sings, “Please don't laugh only half of what I said was a joke / Every Catholic knows he could've been pope.”

On his early work (especially), it was easy to draw a clear connection between MJ and artists like Jason Molina. Some of that’s vocally, but a lot of it is spiritual, too. I think there are similar connections to be made between Lenderman and Neil Young, David Berman, Jim James, and Doug Martsch. Across his discography, there are in-song nods to classic rock legends like Dylan, Clapton, Zevon, and The Band, so this dude obviously knows his stuff. Even with all those reference points in mind, above all else, MJ Lenderman sounds like himself.

Nobody else could pen a line like “Kahlua shooter / DUI scooter” and deliver it like that. Only this mind could come up with, “I’ve got a houseboat docked at the Himbo Dome.” Only MJ Lenderman could write, “It falls apart / We all got work to do / It gets dark / We all got work to do” and make it sound that revelatory. The balance between these two polarities is what makes him one of my favorite songwriters to emerge this decade. 

Throughout these incredible lyrical flexes, there are a handful of artistic throughlines. Religion comes up a few times, as does romance and separation or misinterpretation. While you could read into the interpersonal stuff any type of way, I tend to think of those examples as little brush strokes that add detail to each individual character and, ultimately, MJ as a narrator. When all’s said and done, I take Manning Fireworks as a depiction and rejection of being a jerk. On “Rudolph,” the record’s lead single, MJ bemoaned

How many roads must a man walk down til he learns
He’s just a jerk who flirts with the clergy nurse til it burns?

Then, on the album’s opening track, Lenderman and Hartzman harmonize as the two sing a verse that seems to explain the record’s namesake. 

Once a perfect little baby
Who’s now a jerk
Standing close to the pyre, manning fireworks

How does one start so pure and end up so muddled? Well, the answers are infinite, and Manning Fireworks delves into but a handful of examples. To me, this record reads as a tome dedicated to documenting a select few of these journeys from a faultless point of origin to a messy, conflicted, and flawed person. The record is populated with odd people who are at once relatable and sympathetic yet ultimately feel like cautionary tales of who not to be. Sometimes, it’s an outright condemnation; most of the time, however, MJ seems content just to tell these stories and let the listener take their own interpretation away from his words. Anyone can be a jerk, but there’s much to be mined from how they got that way. 

In an interview with The Guardian earlier this year, MJ Lenderman was asked about the concept of “Dudes Rock,” a term that emerged in shitposty left-leaning spaces online whenever a man was seen doing something stupid, kinda dangerous, possibly ingenious, but mostly harmless. Over time, the phrase got obscured, watered-down, and over-used to the point where it became tired and cringey. Lenderman rejects this notion outright, explaining, “I don’t really resonate with whatever ‘dudes rock’ is. I don’t want the music to come across like it’s not inclusive to everybody – like somebody who’s not a dude.” Which is totally right. 

While that phrase was once meant to evoke carefree institutions like Jackass or, musically, bands like Japandroids, it’s since been perverted into something a tad more sinister. As astutely pointed out in his essay “The Death Of The Dude,” Jay Papandreas lays out the solitary dark side of Dudes Rock, explaining an important distinction in the namesake: “The Dude cannot rock alone. It's Dudes Rock, not Dude Rocks.”

To that end, the record wraps on “Bark At The Moon.” The song begins with Lenderman in free fall and looking for a connection.

I’ve lost my sense of humor
I’ve lost my driving range
I could really use your two cents, babe
I could really use the change

This unnamed other offers some advice in return.

You said it takes revision
You said it takes finesse
Don’t move to New York City, babe
It’s gonna change the way you dress
It’s gonna change the way you dress

After throwing up an SOS, the pair within this song splits off, with one person drinking to excess and the other hopping on a plane. “You’re in on my bit / you’re sick of the schtick / well what did you expect?” Lenderman says, sounding world-weary as ever. Our narrator goes on to detail his perceived lack of experiences, singing

I’ve never seen the Mona Lisa
I’ve never really left my room
I’ve been up too late with Guitar Hero
Playing “Bark At The Moon”
Awoooo
Bark at the moon

We’re treated to one more rippin’ guitar solo, and then the instruments crash to a stop. All that’s left is a distorted singe of feedback. As this feedback sustains, it’s almost like you’re waiting for the band to come back on stage to play an encore. The air is still abuzz with energy and noise, but then… nothing. The band doesn’t come back. Instead, the drone stretches on for a little over six minutes until the song winds to a close and we’re left with silence on the other end of the record. 

I think that’s a super bold way to end an album, and I kinda love it. At first, I thought it was just a novel way to undercut a more traditional closer. I could close my eyes and practically see Lenderman’s guitar leaned up against an amp, each squealing into the other. Then I noticed something important in the album credits. 

Not only is this drone attributed to Lenderman, but practically every other featured player on the album. Karly Hartzman, Colin Miller, Landon George, Shane McCord, and Adam McDaniel are all credited on the track. To me, that attribution acts as one of the most poignant reminders of community and togetherness. This buzz that could have been achieved by one guitar is actually the work of multiple people. Imagining all these musicians in the studio (or on stage) sustaining this feedback like the shoegaze bands of yore, all building and mounting this one sound, is really beautiful. Most importantly, and most tellingly, that all-hands-on-deck feeling of bringing in all these friends and collaborators is a far cry from the jerk we heard about at the outset of the record, standing off by himself, manning fireworks.

Cheridomingo – Shapeshift | Album Review

everybody lives!

Musical genres can be tricky. In theory, they’re a kind of shorthand used to categorize bands with vaguely similar sounds in order to help match them up with the right audience. However, the result often leaves musicians pigeon-holed into certain scenes or expectations. Sometimes, though, a band will decide to throw genre conventions out the window, finding ways to bring all of their influences together. Examples of this include emo stalwarts The World Is A Beautiful Place & I Am No Longer Afraid To Die, “nü pop” favorites Cheem, and newcomers Cheridomingo here on their first full-length release, Shapeshift.

The name of the record couldn’t feel more appropriate, as the Ventura County natives spend ten songs rapidly moving between different alternative genres with clear appreciation and reverence for the music that came before them. Be prepared for a combination of pop-punk, post-hardcore, electronic, nu-metal, emo, and more. It might seem like a lot to take in, but the songs have continuity in the form of vocalist and guitarist Anthony Avina.

It’s clear that the title Shapeshift has a dual meaning, referring both to the way the band weaves together different styles as well as the themes found within Avina’s lyrics. Across the tracks, the singer runs through a list of fears and anxieties keeping him at a distance from the world around him, all written in a way that feels relatable to any listener or onlooker. The most direct example of this universality is on “/cry,” the third single off Shapeshift, which finds Avina lamenting, “If I die young or I grow old, it makes no difference / I’m afraid of where I will go after my life ends.”

Discussing the album, Avina stated that he never had someone in his life to reassure him that things would be okay, forcing him to create that person within himself. We all do this to some extent–shifting between personas we’ve developed depending on the situation we find ourselves dealing with. While those themes recur across Shapeshift, there’s plenty of lighter fare, too, like the chorus of “Limerence,” which is delivered in a melody that accurately captures the nervous energy of falling in love.

Caught on the line, reeling me into you
I’m terrified that I’d die if you tell me to

The fact that Shapeshift moves so seamlessly between styles is also a testament to the band’s musicianship and songwriting. Credit should go to lead guitarist Adam Dobrucki and production from Zach Tuch (Movements, Trash Talk, ZULU), as the guitars sound crisp and easy to define. Nothing on the record feels unnatural or disjointed, which can be a common pitfall while trying to bring this many different genres to the table. The rhythm section keeps the proceedings moving smoothly with their own moments to shine, such as bassist Alex Gonzalez’s work throughout “/cry” and how drummer Simon Beck intertwines physical drumming with electronic beats.

The catchiest song on Shapeshift is “Disconnect,” a pop-punk-post-hardcore track that brings to mind the best output of bands like Saosin or Balance and Composure. With the chorus, Cheridomingo shows that they’re capable of coming up with hooks that can stick in your head for hours on end. It’s songs like this that have the power to win over hordes of fans at live shows, so here’s hoping “Disconnect” makes regular appearances on the band’s setlist. 

Of the album’s three singles, “/cry” is a clear standout. This track brings the band’s nu-metal influences to the forefront, with elements that harken to Deftones as Avina’s effects-laden voice is heard over a thumping bass line. This mood feels like it stands in direct contrast to the more emo-tinged opener “Like A Chain” or the 2000s alt-rock found on “Peace of Mind.”

Cheridomingo even dips into straightforward pop music at points, most notably with “Get In.” which picks up immediately where “Disconnect” leaves off. The song starts off on a somber note but quickly turns into something that wouldn’t feel out of place on mainstream pop radio. Similarly, the song “Sympathy” includes sections with strong Panic! At The Disco vibes while also folding in some post-hardcore elements that bring a harder edge. 

Shapeshift is a good album with moments that are great. Avina’s vocal melodies are very strong, and together, the band has already shown they’re capable of writing quality songs across different genres. By offering so many different styles on the same record, Cheridomingo encourages listeners to keep an open mind and explore something different than they might normally listen to.

The state of music only changes through experimentation, and a lot of that happens through the blending of genres. With that in mind, if Shapeshift can be considered an experiment, it should be seen as a successful one on the part of Cheridomingo. As long as they continue to develop their style with future releases, they will undoubtedly be a band to keep an eye on.

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Nick Miller is a freelance writer from Ypsilanti, Michigan, primarily writing about the world of professional wrestling. He also enjoys playing music, reading, tabletop RPGs, and logging Letterboxd entries (AKA watching movies). You can find him on X at @nickmiller4321 or on Instagram at @nickmiller5678.