MU/FuKn spontaneous jam at Crunchy Frog, 2011.We’d tour together the next year. Photo: Lyle Frailing
I think a lot about the relationship between art and artist. Do you have to respect everything about an artist’s life in order to enjoy her or his music? Or, can you appreciate music simply on the basis of enjoying what comes out of the speakers?
The latter accords with the formalist literary movement of New Criticism argued for the consideration of art as a self-contained work; all that matters is the work itself, rather than details of the artist’s life or his/her agenda, political or otherwise. “Meta,” in the sense of its self-referentiality.
It’s a tidy idea. Granted, I’m a bit of a hound for context, and my curiosity always has me wondering about artists’ personal lives. (This is less driven by a desire to turn gods into mortals, and more informed by my own plight as a creative person; in learning more about artists, I hope to find inspiration from their struggle, e.g., “Wow, so-‘n’-so managed to make that album while raising a toddler?”) From there, I can decide if that additional context enhances, is a non-factor to, or detracts from the work.
As is, I have a hard time finding art that moves me, particularly contemporarily, so when I do find it, I’m biased toward wanting to like it rather than depriving myself of a rare good score. Anyone can be critiqued to death. Anyone. It’s more interesting and far braver to champion someone/something than to tear down. Who deserves a statue in the middle of your city? Are you sure about that?
I’m spit-balling a bit, if only because I’m coming off two days without caffeine and some morning coffee reawakened my brain.
Art’s subjective, because the lenses we’ve cultivated are unique (hopefully, anyway). As someone who has willingly put himself out there—on stage, on recordings, on video, and in published works—at the risk of whatever criticism, for his entire adulthood, well, I have above-average sympathy for any people who put themselves out there in their own way, via whichever medium. The world—in terms of art and creativity, but also civilization itself(!)—is built upon ideas, and it takes a degree of guts to expose those ideas to daylight where they might be applauded, or end a person’s ability to show her/his face in public, or, perhaps worst of all, be ignored.
My inspiration for these thoughts comes as I once again cue up the 2026 song “Bad Actor” by Sir Gregory FK. I hate to say it, but Greg “GD” Mills is not only an ex-bandmate of mine—from my beloved-if-brief time as touring bassist for his Minneapolis-based band, Fuck Knights—but also an ex-friend. I hesitate to equate that to “current foe” or enemy, but whatever we are/aren’t, it was his choice, not mine, and I disagree with it. Disappointing, to say the least. Haven’t heard from him in over a decade, and likely never will.
When I ran into an old mutual friend this year, I wondered if Greg had still been making music, because from what I’d heard he was never able to shake the pesky rock’n’roll possession any more than I could.
What I found was a song/groove that has now been in my head for weeks. When something improves my life like this, I can’t help but share it—maybe it’ll do the same for others who happen to need a boost more than I do.
So here it is. Despite my having sadly personal reasons to not like this song, I find it undeniably good. Song of the year for me so far.
Now, is that big of me? Or is it weak and unprincipled?
Enjoy, and/or judge away:
-Matty
Bonus throwback footage—personally, possibly un-dethrone-able—from the Muddy Udders/Fuck Knights tour:
Streamed music is still just too slick a concept for my soul; it just glides through me, rarely leaving a meaningful trace. I was privy to an early excerpt of Casey Rentmeester and Jeff R. Warren’s seemingly excellent book Heidegger and Music (Bloomsbury, 2022), wherein a spectrum is posited. On one end, the “earthy”—finite, ephemeral, physical—with its purist example being live music performance. The opposite is “liquidated”—”easily accessible, easily replaceable, and easily repeatable”—with maximally liquidated music being on-demand digital streaming. With regard to these terms:
“While liquidated musical formats are more convenient—I can simply tell my smart speaker to play Bob Dylan rather than find out if he’s on tour this year and see if I can commit to seeing a show—their very accessibility makes the music more readily prone to disposability.” ~ Rentmeester/Warren
With considerable disregard for my income and square footage, I continue to accrue music in physical formats. Perhaps I’ve been paying more regard to monetary and spatial limitations, though, as 2025 was the first year in probably the past 15 when I’ve bought more CDs than vinyl, and by a decent margin, particularly with used CDs.
However, I also bought more newly released albums in 2025—a combined total of seven CDs and records!—than I have in a long time, and as a way to possibly share some worthwhile new music, I’ve decided to rank these platters. We live in a dreadfully atomized culture these days, so it’s useless for me to qualify this list in terms of (un)popularity. This is as subjective as it comes; feel free to tread on this list:
I bought this one at the recommendation of Timebomb Tom Smith, with a dash of Timm Buechler and smidge of Steve Stengl. Sometimes your friends catch you at the record store when you have a lil more dough left in your wallet, and it feels good to roll the dice on something unsampled. I’m a big “context” guy, so it’s thrilling to purchase something unknown, on the off chance I end up loving it at first listen, and later bolster that appreciation with additional details—”Of course I loved it; it was produced by so-and-so, and the drummer used to play with so-and-so,” and the like.
Well, with no offense to the pals who endorse it, I didn’t love this album off the bat. Turns out I like it alright. It’s a slightly unique production—not as lo-fi as the nice ’70s-harkening cover art suggests, rather, it’s got a surprisingly clear punch to it that makes it feel like it could’ve only come out contemporarily. I think that’s what I appreciate most about it; it brings a unique, subtle update on the garage rock sound. I also appreciate the bountiful dual-guitar work throughout. My favorite tune on it’s probably “First Sight”, with it’s extra Thin Lizzy-ness.
You get the sense this band really could rock live. In a live setting, the songs might be powerfully veiled in energy. On record, though, there’s not a great deal of substance to the tunes. There’s not quite enough attitude, either, to put these certainly competent power-pop numbers over the top. Nor quite enough hooks, which, I get if straightforward rockers is the goal, but then, as per the great pop-rock sliding scale, one’s gotta rock more.
Might be my fault for hoping this one would immediately grab me. I’ve spun it a few times, though, and am still hopeful it’ll click more. Or, am I simply anti-Aussie?! Only in finding the above album link did I find out where they’re from. Call me soulless, but contemporaries Amyl and the Sniffers nor King Gizzard and the Lizard Wizard have not yet stirred me either. Notable exception: I really like the neo-soul-to-Kraut-rock odyssey/jukebox bargain of King Giz’s “The Dripping Tap”. Take heed, erstwhile Oz rockers: listen to more Can?!
Yeah yeah, I like these guys. If you’re not a fan, I won’t be able to convince you, although singer Justin Hawkins’ excellent YouTube channel has had a way of endearing the band beyond its most famous song/album.
I actually included their album “Pinewood Smile” on the last annual album list I did, back in 2017. I prefer their 2021 album “Motorheart” to “Dreams on Toast”, and I prefer their 2015 album “Last of Our Kind” to “Motorheart”, but “Dreams On Toast” has some outstanding highs that only they can manage.
Even for a band whose secret weapon is its intellect, this album does feel a tad brainy for its own good, which makes some sense. Imagine having a YouTube show where you discuss in detail the merits of songwriting to a subscribership of over half a million every week. Very, very few critics attempt to create music themselves, presumably for this reason. This also has to be the most songwriterly, composerly platter for The Darkness, which I can also understand. Tough to go from touting the whipsmart savantry of the likes of The Lemon Twigs and turn around hamfist a rocker of one’s own.
But hey, sometimes good songwriting’s just good songwriting, and same goes for talent and production. This album amounts to an odd ride, where sometimes it all clicks, but even when it doesn’t quite, it’s still interesting. Sorry for the lack of individual examples—this summation applies to just about every song on “Dreams on Toast”, where certain sections of songs are more compelling than others.
If it’s an uneven ride, the record’s conclusion is Immaculate: “Weekend in Rome”. I highly recommend listening to the full album and letting it culminate with this one rather than skipping right to it. What in the holy Roman hell is going on here? This is perhaps the most absurdly bombastic, hypercinematic album-closer you might ever hear—possibly outdoing the last track of The Darkness’ second album, “One Way Ticket to Hell… and Back”, “Blind Man”.
This one clearly takes the trophy for best album title of the year. Misfits’ nod or not, this one is the grooviest platter from the Shoppers yet. “Snack” is an absolute banger, which oddly could’ve fit in with the more fun side of indie-dance-punk stuff from the early aughts like The Rapture.
Compared to The (aforementioned) Prize, in this case, I’ve got almost too much context: this is a Green Bay band; I have both of their other records (here’s my review of their first one); I’m familiar with each members’ other musical exploits; before the band had a name (or was officially a band at all), the man now known as Joey Shops asked me to play bass; I’ve gotten to hang in the studio where they record; and to varying degrees I know them as people! Forget what they say ’bout familiarity: I am, in fact, a fan. This has been my favorite GB band since they started gigging. Maybe I should’ve taken up the bass offer, but come the hell on, we’re all better with Rev. Norb. (Was going to finish that sentence with “in that role,” but I’m leaving it as is.)
These first three Smart Shoppers albums hit a sweet spot of stupefyingly stupendous, standoffishly seductive songwriting. (How they managed to title every song on this LP with an “s” is seriously… uh… simpressive.) Catchy, at times antisocial (but anti- the stuff of society one ought to be anti- of), so tight it’s loose, highly rhythmic but with a satisfying dollop of sonic tomfoolery. Joey’s delirious, motormouth vocals (punctuated by those of Norbie ShopKo) run a grocery-list gamut of plastic luxury to surrealistic misery as Aaron Smart and Jash Thrift lock into the most sickly intricate concoctions coupons can buy.
I’ll mention the one-two punch of “Spurs” into “Shake” as a highlight example of the album’/band’s ‘s (if not the band’s overall) range of incite-ful ennui to gleeful oddity.
Here’s a new interview with them that just published yesterday. (See, I was just waiting for that to publish, and that’s why I’ve posted this list a month late. That’s it.)
This band… I don’t think they ever really swore in the previous six albums. Then they open up this one with line, “EVERYONE’S A LITTLE F*CKIN B*TCH!” God save ’em.
I was over-the-sun when they shocked the world and announced their last album, 2023’s “The Death of Randy Fitzsimmons”, after 11 years of no new music, due to some serious legal issues (involving, randomly, fellow Swedes The Cardigans). I loved the advanced singles/videos/promo from the new album—super creative in light of what had surely been a will-challenging decade. Admittedly, though, the rest didn’t end up hitting me crazy hard.
After coming off such a long delay, when the cover art for “The Hives Forever Forever The Hives” was suddenly promoted on social media on April Fool’s Day 2025, I had a good chuckle, i.e., “Look at the preposterous attire and album title.” The absurdity was underscored by its comparably hyperspeed turn-around—no way did they crank out a new album in under two years after how long the last one took. But apparently they don’t celebrate April Fool’s in Sweden, and not long after, videos for brand-new singles appeared.
THFFTH (the acronym for the album—not my Sylvesterian attempt to say “This”) was the opposite for me from its post-hiatus predecessor—these new singles didn’t floor me, but the rest of the album turned out really quite good. Part of why I love The Hives is their sonic homelessness; these songs could work at a basement show or a stadium, which is to say they aren’t tailor-made for anywhere, and doggunnit if that ain’t the stuff that’s always hooking my foolish ears. They’ve got innate pop sensibilities (I’m pretty well convinced this is a genetically Swedish thing) but actual garage-rock attitude. Just a dandy buncha Scandis.
The Hives started confusing people with 2004’s new-wavier “Tyrannosaurus Hives”, which I do believe’s my favorite of theirs. 2007’s “The Black and White Album” was a swing to the mainstream fences of sorts, with its team of producers even including the likes of Pharrell, but it was also one of their most experimental albums. Results were mixed, but the lasting impact was a vastly expanded production/songwriting palette, considering the band’s more primitive roots. (The Dwarves *kinda* come to mind as a band that’s taken a similar trajectory, where the polish almost comes off more punk than the punk stuff because it’s gutsy and defiant.) It may have been too much evolution too soon, but the albums since TBaWA stretched out their style have had a wide-open Hive-rton window in which to operate. 2012’s “Lex Hives” solidified this Hive New World, possessing almost too-sugary of pop alongside absolutely indispensable rock’n’roll.
With THFFTH, it feels like they’ve really arrived at this accumulation of all the chances and changes. There’s some more of the grit that got introduced on the last album, but the hi-fi sound is there with it. It took some getting used to; hate playing the “Is this pitch-corrected?” game, but that’s definitely going on here.
It took me a few spins before I had the great, most forehead-slappingest revelation: TURN IT UP, DUUUUDE.
Loud, it all made sense. Louder, more still. Must. Crank. Up.
Howlin’ Pelle Almqvist’s confidence is ultimately The Hives’ key asset, and he’s just kickin’ ass all over this album. It’s so satisfying in a post-Cobain world of reluctant rockstars.
What a silly thing to say, but: I love good production. I don’t even really know what production means, but we can always feel it, right? (Many a dork will use the word vibe re: this subject.) And sometimes the best production happens to be the lo-fi stuff. I went through a big lo-fi phase in my teens—the likes of early Modest Mouse, Pavement, and Guided By Voices. Of course, music from the mid-’60s and earlier is naturally lower fidelity, so the actual “lo-fi” distinction applies when more-advanced technology is available yet eschewed as an aesthetic and/or financial decision.
That’s not to say lo-fi production is the be-all-end-all; there are plenty of acts/songs/albums that simply sound like trash (in a bad way), and plenty of others who lean on the production to obscure what simply aren’t very compelling songs/performances.
In the case of Chicago’s Sharp Pins—the solo project of stylish wunderkind Kai Slater—I’m not going to try and read his mind as to why he’s chosen this aesthetic for this early output. Quite simply, it works, and I’m not interested in questioning the magic away from something this good.
I first learned of Sharp Pins from the aforementioned Tom Smith, who shared footage of them from the most recent Gonerfest. It struck me as some damn good power-pop, and while I’m pumped Kai and crew can pull it off live, holy cats, these recordings are truly fab. Bedroom-y in the best way possible (which makes the capable live reproduction all the more impressive). The record glides from glorious mod rock to profoundly sweet acoustic tunes. The melodies and hooks make it all work.
For deeper divers, Sharp Pins is informed by Slater’s rally cry—”Youth Revolution Now”—which was also the original name of this set of songs, before the last three were added on and it was renamed “Radio DDR”, casting these tracks as a sampling from the airwaves of a mythical, awesome radio station.
You recall all kinds of wonderful sounds in this set: not just Guided By Voices, but the early Who and the other mod-rockers. To paint with broad strokes, The Beatles show up in the best way (a.k.a. no self-conscious/satisfied McCartney “whimsy”), and a generally psychedelic sense throughout; this record sounds great on the stereo or in headphones.
Tom Smith looms large on this list! Like Sharp Pins, I owe Tom entirely for my introduction to Wesley & The Boys, as he booked them in Green Bay in 2023. It was positively wild to see a band like this attacking the stage at Frets, which is much more of a hippie bar, and it ruled. I want to say they were sold out of merch, so it wasn’t until last year when GBUFO got a few copies of their latest LP, “Rock & Roll Ruined My Life”, that I became a stockholder of WesBoy Inc.
You ever wonder if rock’n’roll ruined your life? I mean I know a number of people who have tragically sacrificed their brain cells, vital organs, families, careers, and very lives at this altar. Fortunately, I hang. However scathed one might be by the lifestyle, merely developing a taste for rock’n’roll is risky biz these days: once you’ve come to know the good stuff, you’re surrounded by rubbish from then on.
In a musically pathetic world, it can feel like a curse to love rock’n’roll. However, for those afflicted with The Boogie Disease, a band like Wesley & The Boys makes it all worth it.
Urgency, in this ennui economy? Yes, says Wes.
Righteous sounds rendered from a—gasp—guitar? Weedily-reeeeer!, says Jonny Ullman, who might be my favorite player out there right now.
Everything intense and interesting about Wesley & The Boys’ live set is represented here, thanks to Mr. Berryhill’s tunesmithery, the rhythm section’s switches from mighty thrash to swinging stomp and back, and Ullman’s damn fine axin’ and studio skills. A glorious blur of punk, rock, and new wave, veering into some satisfyingly Spits-esque territory at times.
So grateful this crew’s getting after it. Whatever’s driving them to grind out this caliber of fire, we can only hope they’re gearing up for much much more. They’re so aggressive and abrasive, but so catchy and groovy—such id, but you know they’re intelligent, too.
For a highlight, let’s go with the greatest song title of the year: “Fight On the Internet”.
In the long run, this record may wind up my favorite of the year’s batch.
Tough call, but I’m going with the latest entrant of the list.
After getting into “Radio DDR”, I was damn excited to find out this album was set to drop in November. The three songs added on to the end of the “Radio DDR” evinced something a jump in Slater’s songwriting, and he does indeed make a lovely leap up on “Balloon Balloon Balloon”. Honed yet still homespun. If only because the previous album was semi-Frankensteined, this tracklist—21 songs in all—feels a bit more of a consistent piece.
It’s not just the songwriting; it’s the (say it with me) production as well. Some beautiful new tricks and blends on this one. Killer harmonies… I mean, there’s not much I can say about this album that I didn’t say about “Radio DDR”. The highs just might be a tad higher, and it’s all stitched together with interesting experiments.
Curious to see what this cat gets after. Putting out a set as robust as this, one wonders if it was almost a clearing-out of sorts, preparing for a new approach. His new Silver Dolls project is interesting and a bit different, after all. Either way, Kai has tremendous potential, and it’s super exciting to see him realizing it at such a young age.
Conclusion
I’ve generally got what could be considered the opposite of Recency Bias when it comes to music. Partially because I’ve bought too many new albums over the years based on what I wanted them to be—and for the high-quality creativity I wanted to be possible in the present—versus what they actually were.
For me to up my new music purchasing game (however modestly) in 2025, I can’t decide if it means I’m getting more open-minded or if it was just an above-average year for new tune-age. At any rate, it’s not been altogether bleak out there in musicland. Top that, ’26!
If you see stuff on here that makes you think of other contemporary bands I might be missing out on, please let me know.
The inaugural BAMMY Awards show was a total blast. That collection of people in one sold-out room. I loved how none of us could act like we’d been there before. And yet Tarl and his crew, out of thin air, made this event that instantly felt well established. All the basic commentary people have about the WAMIs every year—the pious “music’s not a contest!” platitudes, the cynicism, bitterness, or denigration—were completely absent, and in their place just a vibe of “eff it, why not” and a succession of pleasant shocks—not just for the award winners, who were not notified beforehand, but for everyone of us surprised by such a well executed event. Pro graphics cued up for each segment. Frank Hermans as emcee. The Standard Collective playing a few bars of each just-announced winner’s music (Sam Stranz, you absolute mad man—that was so impressive for you to arrange all that). The incredibly designed and produced trophies. The incredible touch of the “In Memoriam” tribute.
It was a challenging honor to play the tune Ryan penned for The Priggs yet again, but bringing on Paul Becker was a huge boost for the rest of us (Andy Klaus, Tony Warpinski, Alex Drossart, Sam Farrell and me). Starting off with a half-assed Priggs prank would’ve been right up Ryan’s alley. His father, who graciously attended, told us how much he appreciated us bring the music to life once more. Really grateful Tarl asked us to do that.
David Wanie expertly handled the sound throughout the night, as well as the graphics on the projector.
I went to the show entirely ready to applaud whomever won the categories in which I was finalist and leave empty handed, and feel perfectly fine about it. Keep in mind I had sent the mastered “Meta Dada” tracks to the vinyl presser a good three months before the BAMMYs were even announced. Recording that album was so much fun, rewarding in every single way; it was seriously like getting to make my dream album. Then, driving home from Appleton after sessions, I would always resist the temptation to listen back to what we’d just worked on, instead saving it for the decidedly less exciting drive into work the next morning—and those moments were indescribably rewarding.
Then of course there were the record release shows, where I got to experience the thrill of showing the music to the people who took the remarkable chance of attending, with the absurd performances and stellar videos, alongside some of my best friends, my wife, and my daughter (and, by necessity, my baby daughter). I could not feel more fortunate for that experience. Beyond hoping to sell records, I could not ask for more.
The night was already so cool. I couldn’t have been happier for those whose talents were acknowledged. Of course I was happy for Travis, and then there was the criminally underrated Jamie Koebe getting love…. man, I’m going to stop there, though, because virtually every winner felt deserving. And for those finalists who didn’t win—the ranks of which I was well prepared to join—again, the work had all been done before the awards existed, so the music had already been made for its own sake.
That being said, of course it’s an honor to be recognized by peers. What a thrill to win these awards. Like I tried to express in my unrehearsed (preparing a monologue would’ve personally felt wrong, and asking for it to go undelivered) acceptance speeches, this recognition felt very much like a culmination of what I’ve done in the preceding 15-or-so years (much like “Meta Dada” itself).
I’m grateful to have experienced such a fun night, I’m grateful to Tarl and Kylie for making it happen, I’m grateful to the musicians, promoters, venue owners, record store owners, and the surly-yet-cerebral music supporters of the (real®) Bay Area.
These awards are just seriously encouraging. If you’re worried about them going to my head, well, after the ceremony, even in my fancy jacket, I could not get served a drink at a half-empty downtown bar, and I was back to regular work the next morning after changing a diaper. Life goes right on.
Even as some of the boring cynicism starts to creep in about this entirely good-natured event, it’s left me with some lasting inspiration.
First, having seen it in action now, I feel all the more inspired to work even harder to uphold my job as a committee member, if I’m brought back as one. Admittedly I could have spent more time researching the nominees I wasn’t familiar with. I’m hoping next year sees even more nominees, and Tarl mentioned more categories.
Second: yeah man, I want to make more music.
This city has never, ever felt to me like it has a unified music scene—there’s never been a “Green Bay sound,” and even when bands share members the music rarely resembles one another. But dangit, that room on Thursday night—shoot, if only for a night—felt like a bunch of people who happen to maintain our self-issued cards as members of the music cult, had mutual appreciation for one another’s efforts.
That first BAMMY Award show was a gem. Thanks to all who helped make it happen.
-Matty
P.S. My whole #MattyMonday series felt like the right thing to do, and it was fun to try something different, but I kind of assumed I’d be able to somehow make all the streaming platforms take those individual singles and turn them into a single album. Turns out that’s not the case.
So I’ve re-uploaded the album as a single entity. Which, unfortunately, is just going to make all of my streaming accounts look like a duplicated mess. I don’t really know what to do about that, so I’ll probably just leave it as is and rock my records at home and CDs in the car as usual. Turns out I am woefully stupid re: streamsville—not proud of it, just being real—so by all means, if you have advice on this stuff, I am so freaking open to it.
As always, the best way to experience the album is consecutively and on vinyl; records are available at Rock N’ Roll Land and Green Bay UFO Museum in GB, at Eroding Winds in Appleton, and online via my Bandcamp page. But hey, in this cultural economy? I’m glad you’re checking out the songs in any method.
If you haven’t heard the songs before, I recommend listening to them first before reading all the context and lyrics. For those who have heard the music, I hope these posts add mad magnificence to your “Meta Dada” experience.
All right, gang. Final stretch here. I’m finally making good on my original intention of just doing one song at a time. “Meta Dada” happens to end with the album’s two longest songs, so let’s give ‘em their own moment to shine.
This next song got the most feedback at the release shows, no doubt thanks to Oliver Anderson’s badass video, which is finally making its digital debut as well.
Electric Baritone Guitar, Upright Bass, Glass Jars: Matty Day
The session
As fate would have it, this would be the last song we recorded at The Refuge. There were some talks about some changes with the status of the property that had us sort of feeling like we were living on borrowed time for quite a while, but we finished tracking this one before any definitive moves were made. Well, almost; there was this weird little bell on one of the doors in the basement there—a door bell, if you will—that quite magically was in this song’s key of B-flat. I discovered this potentially righteous coincidence after we’d shut down for the night, and assumed I’d have a shot the next week to add it.
Alas, t’was not to be, though the song is hardly lacking for sonic curiosities.
For the opening monologue, we’d intended to have Sam’s old German foreign exchange student record it, but Sam couldn’t get a hold of him. As we’d had one of Sam’s friends who natively speaks a foreign language record the opening monologue for “In Our Coldest Time”, that would’ve been a fitting route, but nein.
Then, while visiting some friends at the delightful Green Bay spot Amphora, I was perchance introduced to a lady who lives here, but whose first language is German. We walked outside, and on the sidewalk on Broadway, she graciously recorded the monologue. I was hoping the spontaneity would yield an exciting, unexpected winner of a recitation, but I don’t think I was comfortable coaching her to get the right emotion, not to mention the cars on Broadway were far louder on the recording than they seemed in the moment. This was a bummer—I loved how random it was, the fact that she was a native German for authenticity, and since it’s a driving song, thought the sound of cars passing was a cool bonus.
Then it hit me: Chickenbone. Yes, my friend Jordan, while not a German native, is not only fluent in the language, but has a very distinct vocal timbre, and is an honest-to-goodness 60+-hours-a-week trucker. What he lacked in full-on Germanness he more than made up for with legitimate truckertude. Bless that man’s heart, he must have sent me 30 takes of this monologue, and it was very tough to narrow down to one, but I chose this one on account of the most like a dejected James Dean, and with all the great genuine diesel engine sounds.
My biggest splurge for the album was buying an electric baritone guitar specifically for this song. I tuned it down to B-flat because one of my other splurges was a set of harmonicas in different keys. Typically the low string on a baritone is B, but for whatever reason harmonica sets have a B-flat instead of a B.
Because we love Ryan Seefeldt and beg him to hang out with us all the time, but rarely get to unless there’s recording involved, we got Ryan to do the drums on this one. Oddly it was kind of like “Mild” where we looped him doing a bit of pounding on the toms. Sometimes we just know in our hearts when he’s the right guy for the job. His additional vocal bits are just perfect, too.
Also like “Mild”, my lyrics entirely dictated the structure, so again we basically just made an endless loop of the main groove, I threw down vocals, and then we built around it.
Part of that groove included upright bass. Go figure, with just one song left that needed it, the upright bass I’d indefinitely been lent by my pal Dan Kimpel was suddenly destroyed by my tiny kitten, who seriously weighed a pound, yet with a single bound, decided to jump onto and immediately off of the bass which was leaning in a corner, and tipped it over before it could be caught, landing headstock first on a stereo speaker and entirely snapping off the neck. It was devastating. The String Instrument Repair Shop in Green Bay took one look and said “nope.” Eventually my friend Jason Berken, who happens to be Bob Dylan’s guitar tech, somehow managed to get it rather back together, but that wouldn’t come until later. For this song I was graciously lent a replacement by my Muddy Udders/Gung Hoes/Rodeo Borealis brotha Roelke Barnhart. (I paid Dan for his bass, by the way, and he had several of his own, so it was all good. And I eventually forgave the cat. And bought a stand for the repaired bass.)
The other “instruments” I played were glass jars, which as humility would have it I was tuning (experimenting by filling them with different amounts of water) while my mother-in-law was staying over at our house one night, which made me feel not altogether cool or normal. And then there were the “tools” Alex and I played: electric shavers, blenders, a drill, and a hairdryer. Here’s a clip of us adding those sweet sounds.
Alex also had the idea to add some organ throughout, which turned out to be an ace move.
Then the real star was Marc Jimos. His session for this song predated the one for “Lust”, so this was my first time meeting him. Again, I sure felt cool and not at all ridiculous “playing” glass jars in front of him. He played baritone and alto sax, and man was he good, and was just game for whatever we had him do. I loved his freakout and free jazz playing in the middle.
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
As I’ve said, I had ideas for most of this album’s songs for quite a while, in some cases up to 15 years. The idea for this song, though, only came to me while I was sizing up the project and the tracklist. I just started plunking out that incessant riff on an unamplified electric guitar, and it felt like some kinda lost Bloodshot Bill groove. The rest of the riffs and rhythmic sax parts I came up with just jamming around on it. The main riff doubled by sax and glass jar clinks, though, is approximately one that I once brought to a near-supergroup few know was dangerously close to existing, consisting of moi, Travis Pashek, Bill Grasley, and Jason Bank (of Bron Sage, Twelves, and Threadmaker fame). What could’ve been! And still could be. But for now, I found too good a home for that chromatic sucker.
I loved the idea of giving this album some kind of cornerstone, some steady, heavy rhythm amid all the stylistic shifts and key changes and such. Trying to chase down a chord to switch to, as one would clearly assume would happen, proved almost comically fruitless—every time I tried, it felt like I was trying, and I’d laugh it off and just keep going in that same B-flat; anything else felt like it undermined the gravity or betrayed the potential mission. I had read in the 33 1/3 series’ (which is essentially what I’m writing about my own album across these blogs) book on Elvis Costello’s “Armed Forces” that “Big Boys” had been his attempt at writing a song in one key. I didn’t intend to actually meet that challenge, but the theme of the song was also well suited to a ceaseless key. (Adriano Celentano’s Italian-gibberish jam “Prisencolinensinainciusol” is another that achieves the feat.)
Like I wrote about “Untrue & Not Enough”, the stage felt finally set to make some kind of statements at this point in the album, which also coincided with the songs being increasingly skeletal as I set about finishing them. The themes of “Lust”, “Lady Circadia”, and “Midnight Diesel” are massive, and it was a trip to try and offer something original and interesting about them.
If all was ultra dandy having found love with Lady C, this one’s a reminder how “at the end of the day” it’s still just you, me—the individual, one’s sole thoughts, and above all, will. Pun intended: what drives you. Swagger in the face of nothingness. Active nihilism. I’ve referenced Nietzsche so many times throughout this album that I just ditch the pretense and start with a direct quote from the master existentialist, though Jung gets love, too, as does Shakespeare again—sometimes you’ve got to draw from mighty strengths and make it all mean something. Imposition, persistence, struggle, tactical monstrosity. Clearly more like beat poetry than any anthem, but I did want to make this a real-gone bit of post-post-Christian motivation for when only the psychotic survive. If the people on that foolhardy Titatnic-exploring submarine had had this song playing in there, they could’ve busted out and swam to shore.
Ohhh okay… sometimes I’m just having fun with words and vocals, like lifting from indecipherable Sly Stone-isms. But the wordplay on its own doesn’t add up to much unless it’s got some sort of ethos or virtue behind it.
Lastly, since the song begins with the quote from Thus Spoke Zarathustra (the subtitle for which influenced my album’s unofficial subtitle), I tried to have its ending resemble the dramatic music of Richard Strauss’ “Also Sprach Zarathustra”.
Lyrics
(Translated from Friedrich Nietzsche:)
O man! Take heed!
What saith deep midnight’s voice indeed?
(Approximately)
Ladies and gentlemen, now I’ll teach you
“Midnight Diesel”, by Matthew Day
I look in my backseat—still empty
We billow like banshees smokin’ wendigo teeth
(Puff puff pass)
Blast with a buzz, my stuff’s up to snuff
I top off n’ roll-a my rocks off the cuff
There goes the sunnn…
I keep on, with my Midnight Diesel, babe
I been up all night, but I’m lookin’ alright
Fine shape for roughin’ it,
Cruise through what I’m confronted with
Find a limit n’ forget it—
High beams n’ white-knuckle grip
If Hades takes the hindmost,
My road’s a blur of signposts—bygone
Thanks to midnight diesel,
Anti-freeze n’ Cecil B. Demille
The streets were damp n’ cinematic
I’m drivin’ with no music
Nothin’ good goes down post-midnight,
But this ain’t about good—evil, either
Initiate my engine with ether injection
If I need to
Whatever it takes, whatever it gives
Mileage and millimeters
No highlight reels
On these here theatre streets
Where the dark eats the details
And I devour midnight diesel
And prevail post-haste
With just a taste—just a measly drizzle
But I got tons: a gazillion glistenin’ gallons!
C’mon: let’s make another last run!
Roll through the tunnel!
Soon the sun’ll come up!
Rev like a devil!
Struggle is your gospel!
Ride the live coil!
Anything is possible!
…This, too.
The only way out is through.
To do, or not to do?
Ain’t but one A for that Q, Matthew
Man, screw the moon…
Shabby second-hand glare…
You who reject reality
And condemn the concrete,
Hem n’ haw like you’re writing a memoir
Last Man fantasy
Oh have fun on ze Autobahn
With your autopilot on!
So solemn, humble piety,
If I could be you…ugh…
To thee it means nada—
Price of beans in Guadalajara
To me it’s everything, the only thing,
My main squeeze—this is LOVE!
Just around midnight
Deeeez what?
Da-da-da-da Diesel
Ooh demoralized, distressed,
In the low-trust Midwest,
Yet onward I press,
The evening my easel
Annihilation assured,
Wrack my brain, frack my past
Tap my private reserves—
Swerve like a midflight eagle
Weave between warlocks,
Pursuin’ proverbial Fort Knox
Ain’t about arriving—
It’s becoming someone who can
And without that need to get through this,
I wouldn’t stand a chance
N’ ‘deed I do!
…With my midnight juice
I sip on, put the slip on oblivion
Tune up! Say the loud part loud!
No right route once the light’s out
No way but your way—hey nowwww
If this ain’t all in my head then where is it?
Grinnin’ like a butcher’s beagle
A boogle of weasels can’t
Cease this upheaval
Let the midnight diesel…
The video
A driving video made quite a bit of sense. I was originally thinking something real goony, along the lines of Rob Zombie’s “Dragula” video. I don’t quite remember when we decided against the green screen—this one came together super quickly, as in, Ollie and I got together three days before filming it. The deer monster was 100% his vision and construction. Sam and Ryan both helped immensely with the shoot.
My good friend Chris Quezada is the owner of that sweet car, a 1951 Chevrolet Styleline, affectionately known as Stella Diver. We filmed this in December, and I completely lucked out: Chris just happens to not winterize his car; virtually anyone else I would have asked would’ve had his car in storage that time of year. I had not thought about his stickers showing up on camera, but I loved how Muddy Udders made it in.
He also brought his stepson Andrew along, which was fortuitous. Not only did we end up needing every bit of help we could on the shoot, but Ryan, who donned the deer monster costume outside, turned out to be too huge to fit in the backseat while wearing it, so suddenly that was young Andrew’s job, and he aced it.
I was already on my way to Appleton for the shoot when I noticed I’d forgotten my switchblade. Go figure, Chris, classic car owner, happened to have one on him. Really blowing apart the stereotypes there, buddy! Really loved what that added, though.
Oddly enough we filmed this outside of Amano Print House and The Refuge, the two studios where the album was recorded. The very last scene we filmed at The Cold Shot. I bought us a bunch of tequila shots as props, not thinking about how free water would’ve looked identical. The bottle of Stella was necessary, though, as an Easter egg reference to Q’s wheels.
The first two videos for the album were obviously a bit more literal, or connected to the music, which is exactly what I’d wanted, and I loved how they turned out. Music videos always operate on a spectrum of being a straight representation of the music being performed, to something abstract and detached from the performance, and this one was clearly the latter. The fact that Ollie managed this absolute coolness for such a long song—while getting the projections for the release shows done and finishing his short film “Four White Owls” for the show opener—just makes him an all-time legend in my book and as impressively reliable as he is creative. Really pumped for his next projects; check out his website for more of his work.
——————————
And then there was one. Tune in next week for the grand finale of “Meta Dada”.
As always, the best way to experience the album is consecutively and on vinyl; records are available at Rock N’ Roll Land and Green Bay UFO Museum in GB, at Eroding Winds in Appleton, and online via my Bandcamp page. But hey, in this cultural economy? I’m glad you’re checking out the songs in any method.
If you haven’t heard the songs before, I recommend listening to them first before reading all the context and lyrics. For those who have heard the music, I hope these posts add mad magnificence to your “Meta Dada” experience.
We left off last week suggesting this album might actual start to stand for something—but what? I’ll tell ya what: falling for anything!
Movie Set: Ryan Eick, Ryley Crowe, Sam Farrell, Alex Drossart, Matty Day
Upright Bass, Electric Guitar: Matty Day
The session
Wow, 11 contributors on this one. Granted it’s got three different parts to it. The main part being the rockabilly part, which is what we tracked first. Ethan was of course the man for the drummin’ job. As I wrote in the blog about “Sunburn”, he was the outstanding drummer for The Blowtorches. Good rockabilly drummers are notoriously hard to find, but somehow this guy just gets it:
Speaking of The ‘Torches, we started this song after I’d finished my four-show run with them. Love how it timed out, what with my rockabilly chops being all tip-top.
It was also after we’d debuted Hang Ten as a live entity and we’d begun putting some cool work into the band. We all happened to be in the studio, possibly to record “Won’t Say It”, when we grabbed the “cut!” scene/section mid song with all five members.
The Dixieland jazz parts were one of the last things we did for the album, just on account of trying to get all the guys from Big Mouth & The Power Tool Horns together. Fittingly, if most uncomfortably, we happened to have those guys into the studio, with no air conditioning nor windows, on what was the most brutally hot, Bayou-like day of the summer. Here’s a clip of Marc, Steve, Bill, and Patrick tracking. Felt wild to have these pros contributing to this record. Sam had recorded Big Mouth before, so he wasn’t fazed.
Alex, every bit his Big Mouth bandmates’ musical peer, had guided Marc on what we were going for, and Marc arranged charts for the quartet. Here’s a clip of Alex doing his part.
The other aspect concerned all those wicked sounds woven into the tune. First, I did a pass or two just peppering it with vocal utterances—a Tony Joe White “uhhn!” here, a Roy Orbison “rowrrrr” there, numerous Bo Diddley “he-heee”s and the like—and Ethan did the same with the gaggle of percussion toys he’d brought.
Jaci, as on the album’s other coincidentally four-lettered title, was game to record a number of vocal snippets, trusting we’d put them to good use. I also grabbed a couple recordings of my dog Batman and cat Foxy, whom I forgot to credit in the liner notes, sadly. (She died peacefully at age 18 later that year.)
Then it was a matter of finding free sounds on the internet. In total I had ~30 sound effects, and mapped out a plan to place them throughout the song. Sam dropped them in, approximately at the intended places, and then for what would be the only time with my fingers personally “working the dials,” Sam showed me how to move the sound effects precisely where I wanted them. Ramshackling’s an art, I do declare.
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
If you’ve gotta ask, you might check your pulse! If the previous song was about declaring one’s own righteous liberation, this one answers that age-old query: “now what?” Well, whatever you want—with want being the ever-operative word.
Granted it’s up to each of us to cultivate ourselves and our character to decide what we really want, but there’s no greater problem to have than the task of answering that question. We’re bombarded with round-the-clock bullshit we never asked for, threatening to diminish if not drown out altogether our desires. This song celebrates your innate urges from being extinguished. This album, as obliquely stated out of the gate, is not concerned with Christian morality. Again, though, trolling Christians is a ridiculous pursuit. I’m glorifying lust as an exemplary human impulse, one as gloriously powerful as any when properly applied. Presently, it’s as misapplied societally as it is prayed away. Celibate Christians are banging at exactly the same rate as those who simply lust after another kudo at the office, another episode to binge, another social media dopamine rush, another pathetic porn or weakening video game session—basically all the stuff covered in Track 2. Man, is this the most political track? What can I say, but after 2,000 years of self-suppression and guilt, and amid modern, post-Christian celibacy, and really, in light of the present “hard-on” for artificial intelligence, it feels like a very good time to celebrate our humanity. Such is my case for lust!
Which is to say, that’s also my indulging in some revisionism. There’s no way all of that crossed my mind from the start. I simply came up with this while jamming on an upright bass lent by my friend Dan Kimpel, back in 2016. The Dixieland intro/outro came to me early on, too, perhaps from Gene Vincent’s “Bop Street”—which I totally wink to in the outro, with an additional dash of Alice Cooper’s “Alma Mater”. Then again I’d also done a strolling, descending intro on a rockabilly tune before, with Muddy Udders’ “Rage Red, Sorrow Blue”.
The main part is like a mix of Elvis’ “Treat Me Nice” and T. Rex’s “I Like to Boogie”. With the sound effects and everything, I wanted to lean into a post-modern feel; it’s so, so difficult to capture a real ‘50s vibe—Eddie Clendening is the king of that—so rather than try I wanted to take this one the other way, and capture the lively spirit of rockabilly rather than the sound. I’d really gotten into The Polecats for a while and loved how they used ‘80s production techniques to make something totally unique. Same with the aforementioned T. Rex track from 1976, which gave me the idea to add a super bouncy electric guitar part throughout the whole song. There’s also some fairly spare lead guitar work going on the whole time, giving it this groovy guitar gumbo vibe, especially with all the other sounds and percussion. I purposely kept the guitar solo short to keep it out of that more traditional rockabilly structure.
Lest you intellectuals believe yourselves above all this barbarism, note the lyrics laced with Latin, and Greco-Roman mythology.
Final note on the construction: the sound of the clapboard/slate for the “movie set scene” is in fact a real one. Sam nailed the timing of that!
“Lust” was actually nominated for a BAMMY Award, though it didn’t make it as a finalist.
Still thought that was rather cool, in light of the song not yet being streaming, and although I have a hunch who nominated it, I still appreciated it getting highlighted. Alex, Sam, and I all found it to be a highlight on the album, with Sam, who admits he doesn’t even really dig rockabilly, saying it might be his favorite.
Harmonies: Ryan Eick, Ryley Crowe, Sam Farrell, Alex Drossart
Keys: Alex Drossart
Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Electric 12-String Guitar, Whistling: Matty Day
The session
While Ryley wasn’t featured on Side A of the album he continues to factor in big time on Side B. I wanted him to drum this one because I wasn’t quite sure how I wanted it to turn out—“‘60s” is a very general term, but I knew he could help take it to wherever it ought be taken.
That was kind of our approach through the whole song. Some touchstones would be older groups like The Zombies, The Kinks, and on the choruses, Milwaukee’s The Robbs, building up to where all five members of Hang Ten are singing together. Absurd comparison, but it’s not entirely unlike the members of CSNY singing on each other’s records.
While the more obvious touchstones were classic ‘60s sounds, there’s again T. Rex (the lighter stuff like “Electric Slim and the Factory Hen”), but also a big Brit-pop influence on this one, too, between The Smiths, Oasis (“sunsheeeine”), and Suede, and as I mentioned on Into The Music (about 56 minutes in), The Dukes of Stratosphear/XTC.
Other notes: Sam helped me to figure out how to do the arpeggios on his 12-string. That’s my mate Travis Pashek’s Gretsch once again in there, at least on the bridge; I needed that Bigsby to make it sound all weird. I succeeded in getting a wah-wah pedal into The Refuge once more. A line of Spanish adds to one additional foreign language being featured. Then at the end, I originally planned to do some whimsical vocal bits like at the end of this Smiths song, but the whistling was a nice tie back to the intro.
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
My first ever love song? Maybe. There have been a share about lost love, past love, heartbreak, loneliness, and frustration. Maybe “I’d Trade It All for You”, and even “Tingly Hot Chick” and “Date With a Dead Girl” off of “Bloody Murders”, but those are all increasingly askew. I guess it makes sense to be more able to write about love the more I got to know it. Here the protagonist practically deifies his love interest.
If this song isn’t quite as sure of itself as some of the other songs, though, I’m okay with that. Love songs should be a bit vulnerable, and by the end of it the song does find itself. Almost all the songs on this album feel that way to me, though.
Lyrics
I never knew it was sunny outside
I’d skid along broke-down assembly lines
Perpetual question marks,
Central Park was never my scene
Way too green
For me there’d be no one,
Not even illusion
The clouds and moon, routine
Suppressed in the shadows
Where everything bad grows
Then, on cue: my queen
Lady Circadia
Oh how I’d await ya
When finally you came to romantic rescue
I knew I’d need no other muse…
I thought my heart had been played out
I bid “adieu” to a barrage of doubt
Whatever I thought I used to want,
I needed you all along
Dawn and dusk
Love and trust
With you there’s no pity,
Just possibility
A rosy pinky swear
You lighten the abyss,
My luminous goddess
With gold cascading hair
Lady Circadia
My senses, I came to
Since I’ve obeyed ya, it’s been so good
(Shinin’ on, flyin’ on, and feelin’ brand new)
Lady Circadia
The stars coronate ya
The crestfallen hate ya, they haven’t a clue
(No they don’t, no they won’t)
To dim to sing another tune
Withering without her, fading in the shade
Blighting in the nighttime
I’m in retrograde and grim
Without your warm rhythm
Oh how you upgrade me,
Sweet Lady Circady
You’re my very sunshine
You get my to see right,
My vitamin D-light
Revealing, concealing
Heliocentric lipstick: I’m so optimistic!
Lady Circadia
A Literal Day Maker
By nurture, by nature,
Right down to the roots
(Cheerin’ up, clearin’ up, n’ no longer blue)
Lady Circadia
Eres mi Dulcinea,
My Freyja, my Phaedra, and my Peggy Sue
(Wakin’ up, makin’ love, from mornin’ ‘til noon)
Only gloom ‘til there was you…
——————–
There we go, gang. Two tracks featuring Hang Ten and a boogle of others. Rounding out the three most traditionally structured songs of the album.
As for the other related BAMMY Award nominations, “Meta Dada” is a finalist for Album of the Year, and I’m still in the running for Artist of the Year. Gnarly, gnarly stuff and super touching.
Next week, the final of the three “Meta Dada” music videos!
As always, the best way to experience the album is on vinyl; records are available at Rock N’ Roll Land and Green Bay UFO Museum in GB, at Eroding Winds in Appleton, and online via my Bandcamp page. But hey, in this cultural economy? I’m glad you’re checking out the songs in any method.
If you haven’t heard the songs before, I recommend listening to them first before reading all the context and lyrics. For those who have heard the music, I hope these posts add magnificence to your “Meta Dada” experience!
Boldly barreling into Side B this week with two more compositions, starting with perhaps the most *striking* moment of the record.
Alex really made this sound super Dylan-esque, not just with his spot-on piano part but with suggesting what I did on bass. Not that there’s a ton to explicate on this one, but I talked about it on my Into The Music interview (about 30 minutes in) among a whole lot more.
Sam is ultimately the real star on this one, though, for taking it riotously over the top. I knew we needed the lightning strike sound, and I recorded my dog Batmanhowling, my then-two-year-old son crying, and as a nod to Hamlet my then-living rooster crowing, which I recorded just before I cut his head off (he’d started viciously attacking my kids; might have to write a blog on that). I hated that bird, almost as much as I hated killing him; in the cosmic scheme he’s been immortalized on this track, so call it a wash.
I had to step out of the studio at some point when Sam was whipping up this sonic masterpiece, and when I came back he and Alex were giddy with the results. They’d opted to lower the pitch and distort the crying to make it sound trippier and actually less disturbing. The other sounds—the twinkling bells, storm sounds, and volcano—were their inspired choices.
I want to say that was the only song we worked on that night. Tough one to follow!
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
Again, I tried to explain the inexplicable on Into The Music. But what developed a nickname of “Bob Dylan Dies and Goes to Hell” started out not quite as mischievous. Years earlier I’d come up with the lyrics out of some annoyance at generic Americana music, but we got to joking in the studio and it very quickly turned into Dylan parody. In whatever sense taste can be considered, believe it or not we did use some restraint, opting for the muffled sounds versus the poor vocalist yelling utterances like “Infidels!”
Tough to call anything audacious these days, but let’s just say I was overjoyed that one friend of mine in particular—who happens to work for a certain celebrity who happens to have created music which coincidentally resembles that which we’ve made here—was not offended by this piece.
The title is of course a Greco-Roman-centric play on Beethoven’s work. Give the gods their due.
Electric Guitar, Acoustic Guitar, Cigar Box Guitar: Matty Day
The session
First we set up Ryley to try and get the right drum groove for the verses—less a repeated part than a general vibe, somewhere between The Beatles’ “Ticket to Ride” and Aerosmith’s “Jaded”. Here’s a snippet from that session.
I knew Sam could nail the harmony on the choruses. He and Alex did the response lines (i.e. “it’s not the saaame”) during the verses. Sam also came up with the arpeggiated guitar part to add jangle to the choruses, and Alex added organ super tastefully.
You can see in the credits I added cigar box guitar. This was a gift from my late friend CJ Edwards. He had just gotten into building them, and he gave one to all three of us in Muddy Udders—on the condition that we play them on an album. That never happened with MU; the best I’d done was including the guitar in the stack of instruments on the back of The Priggs’ CD.
You’re supposed to play those with a slide, but I wanted to use the sitar-type sound it made when strummed open, so we just tuned it to the right key and added some effects.
For the actual slide part, that’s all Wild Bill. These sessions were never about shoehorning people in just for the sake of having them on the record. That being said, I loved getting to finally be on a song with Bill. We’ve been buds for quite a while and have certainly jammed live, but never on a recording. I knew I wanted him to play the slide lick during the verses, but it seemed kinda silly to not have him do much else. I want to say that gave me the idea to add a bridge, which was the right move, and I absolutely love Bill’s work on that part.
For the solo, I tried in futility a number of times to make it up on the spot, but ultimately had to put some time into it at home, using the Justin Hawkins technique of writing a solo just beyond one’s capabilities. Since “Sunburn” is an instrumental, this is arguably the first guitar solo on the album.
For the lead riff, I’ve got a wah-wah pedal on but stationarily, for a bit of, ya know, edge. I’m told this was the first time a wah-wah had been used in The Refuge. A true honor!
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
I showed a sketch of this song to Alex after The Priggs’ album, thinking it’d go toward perhaps our second album. The verses were inspired by trying to do an impression of the type of stuff Kevin Barnes was doing for of Montreal, where an unusual chord progression is tied together with a catchy vocal line.
Wish I had more insights than that, but like Rob correctly nailed, we were going for a Raspberries type of sound. It’s funny how aiming for something rather retro lands you somewhere less so; this tune sounds very ‘90s in a way I also appreciate, like Gin Blossoms or even “Tiny Music”-era STP.
In some ways this song and the next two are the three song-iest songs of the album. Surely anyone who’s made it through the previous seven tracks has earned that! The earlier Shakespeare reference in “Mild”—the line “will we ever get past the prologue?”—feels like it’s finally resolved. Whatever arc there is to this album, it seems like, after a pair of lyrically scant tunes, it’s just now ready to assert itself following this power-pop kiss-off.
Lyrics
Darlin’ if you’ve been untrue
Then I will have to set you free
It’s gonna be so hard on you
You’ll wonder
How you blew your shot with me
And how forgiving I can be
Since the day you winced away
I have been so happy
Now I’ve seen what lies beneath
Your sweet velvet wrapping
(It’s not the same)
Such a cryin’ crime to consent
To self-kidnapping
Couldn’t tell if the spells we’re under
Were overlapping
(It’s such a shame)
Darlin’ if you’ve been untrue
Then I will have to set you free
It’s gonna be so hard on you
You’ll wonder
How you blew your shot with me
And how forgiving I can be
Is not enough
It’s not enough for you to miss what we had
That’s not what love should be
(It’s a luxury!)
I spent so long singin’ swan songs
You nearly made me make a martyr out of me
I’m settin’ you free!
(You’ll wonder)
Trusted you to heal me through
Some pseudo-Tikkun Olam
I handed you my heart and soul
You just freaked n’ stole ‘em
(Got to reclaim!)
Darlin’ if you’ve been untrue
Then I will have to set you free
It’s gonna be so hard on you
You’ll wonder
How you blew your shot with me
And how forgiving I can be
Is not enough
To take you back—NO
The video
Ridley Tankersley did excellent work Hang Ten’s video for our song “Don’t Get Me Started”, so heck yeah I was wanting to work with him again. He had this great idea of getting us a soundstage from one of the buildings at Lawrence University, where he’s an alumnus, and Sam’s girlfriend works, so they figured it out. Admittedly I didn’t quite know what a soundstage meant, but it was perfect! I mean, we couldn’t drink there, but other than that.
I had the basic idea of doing a “band” video based on the context of the “Meta Dada” Soirees; with everything having been so abstract and dashing expectations for actual live music, I thought it’d be a cool, sort of grounding moment to have a representation of a band in the mix. Goes without saying I love n’ adore these dudes, so the chance to act like we were a band was a blast.
Couple other notes: 1. Sam had the idea for the giant pick, which I loved as a nod to my using a pick to play bass on this one, which I hadn’t done since “Stinky Hole Epidemic” for the first Muddy Udders album. 2. Alex is briefly seen playing the cigar box guitar in the video, too. Miss you, CJ.
I hadn’t given Ridley any direction beyond “you know, like a band video,” and I felt pretty bad about it, so I started to write what were some general suggestions but got super carried away, and ultimately gave him this huge document of time-coded shots and sequences for the entire video. Swung the pendulum from underguided to micromanaged. So I tried to walk it back and told him to take or primarily leave whatever ideas he wanted from it, but that dude seriously, mind-blowingly found a way to bring that mess to life, and do so way cooler than whatever I would’ve pictured.
Further, additional props for Ridley. Dude had total command of that soundstage, leaping across ladders, programming lights, scaling curtains and the like. Then he edited it masterfully and totally creatively. Man’s a gem. Ultra-talented musician, too. Thank you forever, Ridley!
And thank you for diving deeper on these tunes! We’re now two-thirds through. For some timeline context, at this point in recording we took a couple of months off; I had gigs with The Blowtorches and The Foamers? to study up on, and Hang Ten had our first shows to prepare for.
LPs are available at local record stores and on my Bandcamp page, but each Monday I’ll be rolling out the songs online—you name the platform, they’re gonna be on it. If you haven’t heard the songs before, I recommend listening to them first before reading all the context and lyrics. For those who have heard the music, I hope these posts will add to your experience.
*Note* — I am and likely always will be an Album Appreciator, and if you happen to also fall in that niche, you might consider waiting until all these songs are out (or, dude, just buy the record now) because I truly did try and shape these 12 songs for a single, continuous listening session. No judgment either way, though; mostly glad you’re checking out the songs, however be your bag.
I only meant to do two songs last week to introduce this concept, but I kinda like the way the two different songs can play off each other, so at least for this #MattyMonday, here’s another duo of “Meta Dada” ditties, starting with a particularly chill number:
This song, ornate as it came off, was perhaps the most brisk (pun: accepted) of all the album’s songs. The structure itself is quite straightforward, and beyond Valentine’s monologue, it features no guest performers, which can’t be said for any other tracks on the album.
For whatever reason Alex wasn’t around when we started tracking. I had the structure/chords, the lead guitar line, the vocal melodies, the lyrics, and an idea of what the drums should do; as I did with “Media Casualty”, I had completely forgotten to come up with a bass part. I showed Sam my impression of what the drums should do, and he wound up recording himself doing an improved version and looping it. For what was to be a pensive late ‘60s song, it had a surprising, underlying groove. That foundation helped me play the guitar parts more delicately, but also inspired me to play the bass part more groovily, too, doing some Donald “Duck” Dunn-type runs. We may have considered using the drum loop as a scratch/placeholder, but there was something so satisfying about it, and by that time we’d built around it, so we delightfully kept it. Again, I was so pleasantly surprised at this rhythmic bedrock—I’d never messed with loops before, nor would this be the last time on this album—after which Alex joined and added all this delightfully baroque, pastel color.
From start to finish this song took us four hours, including chill time, naturally.
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
I’d had the main melody, sans lyrics, for perhaps six years. This is the first of three songs on the album I had imagined would be Priggs songs.
Not that they’re nonsense, but the lyrics were almost entirely made to match the melody. Other than the recurrence of the song title, it’s a bit all over; Van Dyke Parks style of wordplay, with some pseudo-rhymed finishing phrases (“Andalou”/”out the blue”). Maybe it corresponds to some sort of icy, detached academia, though sung warmly enough with double-tracked vocals. Blue coldness + red warmth = perfect for purple prose?
I’d had the idea for the French monologue intro, probably inspired by T. Rex and The Mystery Girls. Sam happened to have a French friend, Valentine (“val-en-Teen”), and wonderfully she was game to do record and send a simple phone memo recording. I had used an online translator to change my English-written intro, but she graciously cleared it up—though to this day I don’t know exactly what she says. One change, though, was that originally I’d had her use the French word for “Day” instead of saying my last name as is, but then it just sounded like a random snippet of French dialogue, so she graciously re-recorded it, and Sam dropped the file in and timed it up over Alex’s keys. Merci beaucoup, Valentine!
For those keeping track, so far you’ve heard English, Latin, and French—who knows what else you’ll encounter on this expedition! Not Italian, though, as I mentioned in this list:
I won’t belabor the album concepts/motifs introduced/perpetuated in this song because they’re probably pretty obvious to you, though maybe the Chronos/Greco-Roman mythology bit deserves mention. But in terms of album arc, by my estimation, so far we’ve rejected Christianity, amused ourselves to death, and found ourselves left in the cold. Le sigh…
Upright Bass, Electric Guitar, Electric Bass: Matty Day
The session
This song has three basic parts, which required at least three, several-hour, Wednesday night sessions. It started with getting the main upright bass riff, then have Ryan pound away to that, and then do another pass or two adding some more improvised fills. Loved bringing Ryan in to do something so far out; Sam, Alex, Ryan and I have played countless shows together, with Cory Chisel, J-Council, and Adriel Denae, but also backing up Shannon Shaw, Chuck Auerbach, Rev Sekou, and tons more of incredible one-offs.
Building up that groove was a blast. Cory popped in and bolstered the vibe, and somehow the idea came up for Ryan to shake one of those giant tubs of cheeseballs for percussion. Alex did some free jazzish piano plinkery, Sam filled in the low end with some murky electric bass, and I added something of a trip-hop guitar line. We did this before I knew what I was going to do lyrically, so we actually recorded quite a bit more than we needed. Loved the disoriented, hypnotic groove. We decided it would add to that by disregarding a more rhythmic cadence for the vocals, opting for laconic sing-speak.
For the second part, as per usual I supplied an awful demo, and Alex simply took it home and made a full righteous synth piece. We dirtied it up a bit with some distorted breathing a la Depeche Mode. Doing the low octave on the vocals was wild; it felt like Syd Barrett singing “Maisie”.
I hadn’t planned for a third part—I was thinking it would just menacingly fadeout—but something about it suggested Alex request I go full-on pop with it. With that bit of homework, I came up with the vocal, and we went as pop as possible. Jaci was game to record some “Vogue”-esque vocal snippets for us, Sam came up with the Nile Rodgers guitar part, and I added the Peter Hook bass. At some point a Shirley Temple was drank.
Uh, Matty, what’s the deal here
Great question: I’ll… get back to you on that.
Well, I had the first bass part in my back pocket for almost 15 years, and for whatever reason always imagined it going from this organic dungeon to something darkly electro. Going to something brightly electro was a mid-session revelation. On it’s face this is the weirdest song I’ve ever been part of. I’ve so primarily worked in rootsier genres, but electronic music started blowing my mind in my late teens and shattered my rigid sensibilities of what rock’n’roll is.
Writing lyrics across the drastic changes, it sort of feels like this move from (self-)loathing to radical (self-)acceptance—a warming up process of sorts, after the previous song, but hey, careful now: the pendulum may swing too far in the coming tracks!
Lyrics
(Heavy) like a gas can
On the side of a highway
I endure this blurred survey
What I had for the week,
I went through by Tuesday…
My whole life is a Mild seizure
I move like a action figure
I squander this tenure
For strangers
I’m ex-ex-extroverted
Exoteric *and* subversive
I summon the sun
While you call the curtain
Mild
And yet I cannot get a witness
I’ve got a healthy sickness
I’m an analog mess
You’re wireless
So we do the new dementia
You resent me, I repent ya
Disparate business,
Compliments offend ya—
How can we even talk?
Frankly, I’m a flawless angel
All my ideas are anti-fragile
It’s true by degrees I wager danger
Eternal Blaise Pascal
I burn internal bridges
Endless
I drive private wedges
Creative differences
Nix my solo projects
Cautious, on the fence
Still I will this selfish slog…
Will we ever get past the prologue?
Condemned to engine
I wanna be your cog
Mild
The sound of a robot breathing
Half-open blinds, Venetian
Dialed to mild
N’ no longer freezing
I haven’t come to complicate things
Benevolent manipulatings
Keep it on the D.L. I am
M-I-L-D, my friend
You wear a silver harness
You call it virtue
I call you a masochist
Snow in June
Kicked out of the scene
Stylishly realize your mildest dreams
And when she wants some good
She comes to me—mildly
That’s how I put it
So mild…
———————————————–
Just like that, you’re a third of the way through the album, and yet—as I bat my bedroom eyes—fully through to my heart for reading these so far. ‘Til next Mondee,
Two extra special chances to hear these twelve songs for the first ever times, while sharing the experience with adventurous fellow music lovers. Hope you’ll join me in uncharted waters!
If you missed it, or if the previous video’s high-minded terms weren’t satisfactory, I spoke about the album a bit on Rooted Wisconsin (time-stamped here):
More details coming. Well… perhaps. Might keep things fairly under wraps, if only out of necessity as said things are likely going to come together the night before the shows. Yeah baby!
