(as I mentioned earlier: so, since I decided to relaunch this blog on May 4th (2017), I decided to start reposting some older stuff — material that was on here before I abandoned this blog / picked it back up. Cheers.)
ATTENTION: hack-ish omphaloskepsis set to commence.
Every single last living person on this Earth has that album – that one album – that they will hold on to for the rest of their lives. It’s a peculiar type of ownership, this listener-to-album relationship. For most people, there’s several “favorite albums,” but the kind of album I’m talking about is the one that you’ve listened to a million times and still can’t find the point where you’re supposed to grow tired of it. Most of time, you never will. Ever. It’s a peculiar type of ownership. I’m talkin’ ’bout the kind of album that you connect in your mind with the monumental moment(s) in your life, and from this the album becomes a part of you on an almost cellular level, like a friend or an old love or – maybe this is more fitting, since albums become infectious – like a disease would. Maybe it reminds you of summers spent in the suburbs, laying on the grass with a boombox and a blanket; or, maybe it reminds you of an old girlfriend and all the wonderful memories you have of her, as my “special” album does. Maybe you were listening to it right before your car crashed, and now you can’t help but get goosegumps as that guitar solo comes up, the one that hit its high notes just as the front of your car wrapped itself around a tree-trunk all those months ago. It’s cellular, it’s infectious, it’s the album that will probably get played in an endless, sonic loop at your funeral. There’s also the weird chance that it gets played endlessly in your version of the afterlife, but that’s retarded.
Like a film that you love, or a book that you’ve read every goddamn summer since that summer you exclusively wore Superman pajamas and ate S’mores under the stars, it has become apart of you and will never leave you. Some people will tell you with wide eyes and a hushed voice about the time they first heard Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band, how the acid they had dropped earlier on in the afternoon made the album come alive and POP! and push their state of mind past the bounds of reality. They’ll remember that album and the crazy persian rug they were laying on and all those wonderful colors that assaulted the room as they were led through a kaleidoscopic look at The Summer of Love. My mom still talks about the first time she heard Frampton Comes Alive, discussing it as if she were describing what it was like to bump in to Jesus at the supermarket. I can understand listening to a Beatles album and describing it as if you had bumped in to Mr. Jesus Christ himself in the bread aisle (no, I don’t care that the dude buys whole wheat bread instead of the cheap stuff) but I can’t understand acting that way about Peter “wah-wah-wah-wah-wah” Frampton. To each their own, I suppose.
You get my point – in fact, you (probably) did several sentences ago. My bad. We take these significant songs and albums and artists that we listen to and we internalize what we’re consuming, and by doing that the art becomes part of who we are as an individual.
For me, that album is Weezer’s 1994 self-titled debut, Weezer, affectionately known by fans as The Blue Album. Is it my favorite album of all-time? Nope, it is not; my favorite album – caveat: at the moment, since my pick has been known to sometimes change daily – is always a question that’s in a constant state of war with itself, but right now – if I had to pick – it would be a toss-up between In the Aeroplane Over The Sea or London Calling with The White Album waiting in the wings. I’m a pretty big music nerd, so it would be impossible for me to even try to pick a favorite album of all-time, but in terms of meaning pertaining to my own life, no album comes even close to this one. In fact, it might as well be the soundtrack playing in the background over footage from the first twenty-four years of my life so far, the words “Joshua, This Is Your Life” in big, bold, blue letters at the bottom like subtitles. The only thing that compelled me to even write this article in a flash was that while I was working on something else earlier, my Spotify jumped to the next song (on random) and it turned out to be “My Name is Jonas,” the opening track from The Blue Album.
Now, as I started writing these words, I realized that writing a “standard review” was out of the question – I’m not a very good critic, and whenever I think of this album and all the memories I’ve attached to it, I knew that there was no way for me to be objective, which is a very, very good way to explain why I do such a terrible job at writing reviews. Whether I hate something or love it unconditionally, my passion often drowns out all attempts I make at being unemotional (I blame it on discovering that I loved to write at eight years old and deciding to follow that love to the ends of the Earth). And, since I knew that there was no way in hell I was even going to come close to being objective about this album, I decided to write something a little more navel-gazing, a little more unencumbered by rules and critical nature, a little more, I done’no, “spacey,” or, if you prefer for me to use words like a fully-grown adult male, free-form and lackadaisical…
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