The Worst Albums I Own #1

The Worst Albums I Own

It is well documented throughout music history that trying to follow up a great album is a difficult task. There is the concern of putting out the same album twice, almost a surefire way to draw criticism for not trying. Many bands follow smash hits with complete variants, trying to distance themselves from the possibility of copying their previous success (think Radiohead after Ok Computer). Sometimes, the agony of following a beloved album is too much for the artist altogether, causing them to outright stop while there ahead (thanks a lot, Neutral Milk Hotel). All of these strategies point towards a universal inability to deal with newfound fame, an attempt to adjust to a new share of the limelight.
But what of the artist that never made it to the first plateau? It seemed like it was a perfect moment for them to hit their spots on an album and burst into the consciousness, but they ultimately failed. These acts are left unknowns, more in pain that those playing local bars three nights a week, because they might have had a shot to make it. Don't those pains of becoming stars seem so easy to them? It's never easy, and they know, but to have to worry about people knowing who they are wherever they are and constantly having to tour and travel seems like something they could at least take a stab at, if they could only have the chance.
My first encounter with An Angle came as a member of In A Story Told, a now-defunct Bright Eyes forum (note: I was 15). Kris Anaya's folk-pop collective had become the talk of the boards due simply to his amazing vocal likeness to Conor Oberst. As the website was passed from member to member, two things became clear to us: he was obviously copying Bright Eyes, and he was very very good. His album ...And Take It With A Grain of Salt became an instant member of my rotation, gaining guilty pleasure status and, eventually, an honest spot of admiration. It was a great album for me at that moment; it balanced earnest lyrics and delivery with poppy arrangements, occasionally opting for a more morose stance. I gained immediate interest when I heard about their 2005 release, We Can Breathe Under Alcohol.
This is where we hit our fork (or, more accurately, landmine) in the road. Every positive adjective that could have been applied to his previous effort was matched here with a negative counterpart, making it failure not only for what it was, but for what it could have possibly been. This makes it a prime candidate for The Worst Albums I Own, as it something that hurts to hear. It causes cringing. It sparks laughter and, for those of us who knew what this could have been, it makes for a simple sad feeling that builds in the pit of our stomachs.

An Angle
We Can Breathe Under Alcohol

The album begins with the fairly peppy "Green Water", setting the tone for this semi-concept album. The constant references to alcohol and friends begin early, allowing for a sort of us vs. them mentality to start. If this sounds like a lot to stuff into an album opener, it is; the major problem with WCBUA is its' inability to sort out themes. From what I can tell after repeated listening, the themes this album puts forth are (in order of importance):

- Alcoholism
- Politics (war, peace, AIDS)
- Friendship
- Love

All of these fall under an umbrella of confusion in Anaya, who is obviously having some issues with who he is. The confusion bleeds into the songs, as he can't keep his symbolism or meaning straight in any of them. For instance, "A Way with Words" starts off being a tale of disillusioned love, but quickly devolves - bizarrely - into a statement about American's destroying this country and, once again, a review of his alcoholism.
"True Love" also attempts to review his pessimistic view towards love ("There's no such thing as love"), but once again turns into a rambling a statement of America's standing in the world and his alcoholism. By this point, it's hard to tell if the lyrics were written by a sober mind or someone who has become a little too indulged in his muse.
"Rambling" and "Indulgence" are actually both very good descriptors of this album. For the most part, the songs both a) cannot keep themselves straight and b) will not end. Six out of the ten songs clock in at over five minutes, with three of those being over six. One song comes in under four minutes. Perhaps clarity could have come through the art of editing, as cutting some songs off at the roots would have kept some of the pesky pet messages from bubbling to the surface, saving the listener from another awkward and pretentious comparison of one's personal problems to geo-political strife.
There are really only two bright spots in the album, coming in the back-to-back "Angry Drunk" and "White Horse". Both of these songs show both the songwriting ability of Anaya and a template for how this concept album could have worked: work the message into the songs, don't make the message the song. "Angry Drunk" is a deeply personal, morose telling of an alcoholic hitting rock-bottom, while "White Horse" serves as the morning after companion piece, attempting to build the sad man back up from the gutter and help him to what he could be. These two provide the poetic and climactic heart of the album, forcing the listening to develop pity, anger and, eventually, hope for the main character.
Sadly, this couplet is followed by "Born in a Bottle", a massive affront to all that is good and musical. It plods in at a mere seven seconds shy of nine minutes, with no musical heart to carry it through; the repeated riff is a lazy, sloppy act of plucking, which is absolutely awful for a song that lacks any sort of a hook. Lyrically, Anaya is absolutely scattershot, shifting from anti-religion and political rhetoric to damning the indie music scene to self-aggrandizing his abilities against the evil music industry with all the ability of the drunken protagonist he portrays. As the song mercifully draws to a close, with Anaya barely whispering "I'm gonna sing as loud as I should", the anger built up inside of me makes withholding laughter difficult.
The album officially comes of the tracks after that, with more aggrandizing, and a bizarre sing-along focused on - of all things - the end of war correlating with the end of network television. On the final monster of a track, "St. Augustine", Anaya loses the thin layer between his art and himself. He becomes the subject matter, the drunken rambler who hasn't a clue. He is seems more content scream along with his friends than string together coherent thought. He is, essentially, the drunk amongst friends; spewing nonsense, he clutches close to them for support, almost like a stumbler throwing an arm around a buddy's shoulders and slurring "I love you, man!"
This album is not a failure; it is a majestic, grotesque, disgusting failure. Anaya seems to have lost the ability to write a song that has even the most basic of pop leanings, but without taking them out of their pop stylings, leaving them empty shells of broken thought and confusing lyrics. He sounds like he's having fun with his friends throughout the recording process, and that provides some respite for him. However, something that is essentially drunken rambling with buddies does not an album make. This album exists as a warning for those who look to become one of the ordained in the musical Canon, and it is a thorough and distinct warning; completely avoid doing anything this album does, and you should be fine.

It's Twilight and Dusk, Billy

As a formative teenager, I did many things that make me cringe in hindsight. I bleached my hair, which gave me the disgusting orange hue that comes from bleaching black hair at home. I painted my fingernails. I wrote terrible, terrible poetry. One thing that I refuse to feel bad about, however, is my taste in music at the time. Certainly, it set me back a ways (I didn't hear a Sonic Youth song until I was 17) but it also provided a lonely teenage boy without the mental ability to talk to girls an outlet, or a sense of belonging. The three music entities that had the largest effect on my teen years are (in chronological order): The Smashing Pumpkins, Jimmy Eat World, Bright Eyes. One essentially begot the other, with the Pumpkins stemming from my love of metal and the Bright Eyes forum I read leading me straight into Broken Social Scene.

There was a time when I would defend all three of those artists' artistic merit with all the fervor I could muster. Sure, every Pumpkins album was impeccably polished, but that doesn't change the power and raw emotion they embody. Yes, much of Bleed American's lyrics read like a self-help book, but that remains the exact type of encouragement that awkward teen boys need (not to mention the strength of their previous efforts). And of course, Conor Oberst yelps like he's just seen a ghost, but what makes his voice more troublesome than Tom Waits? (also, what makes his lyrics more "emo" than Elliott Smith? Note: I am a huge fan of both Tom Waits and Elliott Smith.)

Of course, age has caused me to rethink my positions more than once, and I have softened a bit on my stances while retaining the main points. Bright Eyes could be pretty grating, and many of his songs come off as petulant and pretentious, but Fevers and Mirrors is still more aurally ambitious and varied than any of his endeavors after it. Jimmy Eat World has been way too teen-friendly with post-Clarity efforts, but it simply allows for an aged appreciation for the back catalog.

However, I've given up on defending Billy Corgan and the Smashing Pumpkins. This resentment actually started back when I was still a huge Pumpkinhead. I began to read items about the band that not only made Corgan out to be ego-maniacal, rude, and all around unpleasant, but also presented the pure, unadulterated angst of his songwriting as fabricated at worst, petty and stupid at best. The more I read, the worse the news became; the other members of the band (besides Jimmy Chamberlin on drums) were chosen as much for their ability to sell the band as their musical ability, Siamese Dream was recorded almost entirely by Corgan himself, they were consistently called out as being careerist and souless by more indie-friendly bands like Pavement. More and more, I began to question what was probably my first real musical love affair.

Then, the real badness began: Zwan, the unacceptable "I reach for Jesus like I reach for ketchup" comment Billy made on MTV, Zwan, the Chicago newspaper ad, Zwan again, the accusations towards James Iha about the breaking up of the bad, Zwan for a final time. If this were a relationship post-breakup, the Pumpkins gained 40 pounds, started dating some bible-thumper, alienated all her friends and got drunk and cried at parties. I wanted to feel bad, I really did.

Understandably, my excitement at the announcement of new Pumpkins material was tempered. As a younger man, it was my only lament that I had never seen them perform live. Now, I was on to more modern concerns, like how awesome the Arcade Fire is, or how I should have heard Guided By Voices way before I did. Still, the news did have an effect, as I began to scour for new information. Who would replace D'arcy and James? Would it sound like older Pumpkins, or newer Pumpkins? Would they tour? The interest was only furthered after hearing the first single off Zeitgeist, "Tarantula", a solid rocker that echoed "Jellybelly" and "Bodies". For the first time since I was 16, I was excited about the Smashing Pumpkins.

That intrigue was brought to a screeching halt today when I learned from Pitchfork that the new album would have four fucking versions, two of those being tailor made for two huge chain stores, Target and Best Buy (whom, despite their Minnesota roots, receive no love from me). Those versions, plus a special iTunes versions, contain a bonus track, while any other retail spot gets the shaft (read: normal version). Much like much of the Pumpkins catalog, there wasn't much to this:

1) To get the full experience, I'd have to spend over $35 for three songs
2) Ain't no way in hell I'm spending $35 for three songs.


Finally, it appears that all the rumors are true. All Corgan wants from this endeavor is a return to commercial viability. All he ever wanted from the Pumpkins was commercial viability. He is the worst rock star in the history of rock stars, not simply because all he wants to be is a rock star, but because he's willing to fake pain and emotion for rock stardom. He's a meaner, uglier Rivers Cuomo, without the failing of a shockingly blatant and personal album to redeem him either. I won't buy a single version of the new album.

Fuck Billy Corgan.