KANSAS CITY, Mo.— Local man Zane Starzyk is beside himself with stress and frustration after taking a mental health day that completely fucked up the rest of his week, sources annoyed by his incessant bitching confirmed.
“I just fucking knew this was going to happen,” said a visibly shaking Starzyk as he tried to fold his laundry, clean out his car, and catch up on some work on his laptop while debating the possibility of a much needed grocery run. “I decided to give myself a break and take Monday off, binge on some Netflix, have a couple beers, slack off on my chores, and treat myself to some takeout, ya know? But now I have one less day to do the same amount of shit at the office, and my weekend is gonna be totally fucked.”
Hanna Stein, Starzyk’s supervisor at a data processing center, suggests that her subordinate either take the rest of the week off, or stop taking personal days all together.
“Zane does this same exact thing every couple of months,” said Stein. “Our team has a shared workload, and everybody is encouraged to take some time off when they can. The difference between Zane and the rest of our team is that he barges into the office the next day complaining about how unforgiving the endless forward march of time is, brings his pillow from home so he has something to scream into at his desk, and calls everybody else a bunch of ‘scum-fucking shit suckers’ under his breath when they take a day off of their own.”
Life Coach Gavin Brenner asserts that employees like Starzyk need to consider alternate ways of managing their work-life balance.
“The reality of the situation is that if you’re always putting a little bit of work in on a personal or professional level, then you’ll never be overburdened with having to do a lot. What Zane should be doing is compressing his time by getting his errands done while he’s still on the clock. Hell, he could probably automate two-thirds of his workload without anybody noticing. If he truly wants to disassociate, he shouldn’t wait and set aside a specific day to do so, but rather just do it every day like everybody else does.”
At press time, Starzyk was spotted at Barnes & Noble, purchasing a dozen self-help books that he’ll never read.
The band’s first release without Gilbert, and their last with god-tier bassist Peter Hook, “Waiting For the Siren’s Call” boasts only a sprinkle of highlights in what is otherwise kind of a snoozeworthy collection of songs. “Hey Now What You Doing” invokes “Out of Time”-era REM, while “Turn” echoes back to the band’s most indie rocking late ‘80s moments. Just like pizza and sex, though, even the worst New Order is better than no New Order at all.
If the thought of Billy Corgan doing a guest spot on a New Order record makes you want to retch, proceed with barf bag in hand. “Get Ready’s” third track, “Turn My Way” features the head Pumpkin in charge on its chorus, and the whole thing comes off sounding a little too similar to that Moby and Gwen Stefani song for comfort. Let this be a lesson: Never let an ugly bald guy duet with a gorgeous blonde ever again. Opening track “Crystal” is a banger, though, and one of Hook’s finest performances on record. You can hit stop right there.
New Order’s highest Billboard charting album, and their first after longtime label Factory Records folded, “Republic” kicks off with the marvelous lead single “Regret,” accompanied by a charmingly awkward “Baywatch” collab music video featuring the Hoff himself. The remainder of the album shows the band leaning further into the house and italo-disco they helped to pioneer, with piano and strings paying each other compliments on tracks like “Spooky” and “Young Offender”, and even a touch of hip hop on “Ruined In a Day” and “Times Change”.
Anchored by the enduring hit “Bizarre Love Triangle,” the band did us a favor on this album and made one side all rock songs and the other side all dance songs. So no matter if you picked your date up at the rave or the Cure concert, you’ll know exactly which side to throw on to get busy when you’re home. Convenient!
A decade break in between albums this far into a band’s career can produce dicey results, but “Music Complete” is a pleasant surprise. We’re still Hookless here, but Gilbert is back behind the keys for the first time since 2001, and what we’re served is a very listenable set of tracks that lean much more into the dance than the rock. We’re also treated to some fun guest vocals courtesy of La Roux’s Elly Jackson (“Tutti Frutti,” “People on the Highline”) and The Killers’ Brandon Flowers (“Superheated”). Oh yeah… Iggy Pop shows up, too. He does the same weird spoken word schtick on “Stray Dog” as he did 23 years prior on “Black Sunshine” by White Zombie. It sounded much cooler then.
If Joy Division wrote the blueprint for moody post-punk, New Order called in the contractor and poured the foundation with “Movement.” With the loss of Curtis still fresh in the air, Hook assumes vocal duties on “Dreams Never End” and “Doubts Even Here,” while Sumner sings the rest. Bernie’s innocent quiver proved a more compelling contrast to the cold synths and proto-industrial grooves, so the front seat became his permanently. It’s worth pointing out that this album might have inspired the Edge to buy a pedalboard, so feel about that how you will.
It would be remiss not to mention that the bulk of the band’s biggest hits were released only as singles, and 1987’s two-disc “Substance” compiles all of them up to that point, with some 12” mixes and re-records to boot. This is the one you can throw on at the barbecue and your guests won’t hate you for it.
With the promise of a ‘90s electronic music renaissance looming over the horizon, New Order did what any forward-thinking dance group would do and made a pilgrimage to Spanish party island Ibiza to record a good portion of “Technique.” The result is a fun push and pull of club bangers like “Round & Round” and “Vanishing Point” aside breezy rockers like “All the Way” and “Dream Attack.” Longtime visual collaborator Peter Seville provides a super cool album cover depicting a cherub statue bathed in purples and blues; an aesthetic borrowed by countless alt-rock bands in the early ‘90s. If there were any doubts that New Order were from the future, they laid them to rest with this one.
Any record that features the drummer on the cover immediately gets bumped to the front of the line, but honestly, this album should be rebranded as “The Peter Hook Show” because homeboy is in beast mode for the entire 40 minutes and 7 seconds. This is undoubtedly the point where New Order came into their own, with production value taking a significant leap forward. Stephen Morris is a monster out of a Cronenberg film, morphing himself into half man, half machine, and in turn, creating a trunk-rattling drum sound that propels tracks like “The Perfect Kiss” and “Sub-culture.” If the band called it quits right here they would have already cemented their reputation as legends of alternative music until the end of time.
New Order’s piece de resistance and the apex of post-punk, inspiring just about every worthwhile musical artist you can name ever since. From Hook’s beautiful hiccup at the beginning of “Age of Consent,” to the lucid dreamy synth leads in “Your Silent Face,” to the dancefloor-ready “586” and “Ultraviolence,” “Power, Corruption & Lies” is a marionette string tugging at your very soul. You’re crying, you’re dancing, you’re nostalgic yet hopeful. Released in 1983, but it’s everything we’re feeling in 2023. Not to mention Saville’s beautiful still life cover art looks equally chic in a record frame as it does on a $500 Raf Simons crewneck. Long live New Order. Thank you for not breaking up.
Converge’s debut release is a lot like a freshman high school yearbook photo—looking back, there was some good stuff even if the guy in the picture turned out to be a sketchy bartender that sells drugs and exotic meat out of the back of his hometown bar now. Good thing Jacob Bannon is the vegan, straight edge type. Otherwise, listening to this album would be depressing instead of nostalgic.
This album is the one your cool, older cousin Tony liked. Tony loved this album as much as he loved huffing glue and stealing bikes. He listened to it while you pissed the sleeping bag because you weren’t ready to hear this album when you were 10. But what were you doing hanging out with a 17-year-old, anyway? You weren’t ready for it then, and it’s honestly not worth dredging it back up and the subsequent therapist’s appointment now.
Overall, this album is classic Converge. However, it is the only Converge album featuring an alarm clock in a song’s intro. Alarm clocks are for cops. Fuck cops and fuck songs that remind us of cops. Also, why is our sleep paralysis demon Gabe painted on the cover? That guy is the worst. Cops and demons aside, this album is objectively better than the entire Rush discography.
This collaboration with Chelsea Wolfe is the only album in the Converge discography that you can properly do drugs to. We’ll stop short of calling it Boston’s “Dark Side of the Moon”, but if you light some incense and shotgun a couple Mountain Dews, you’ll really blast off, man. Tripping on caffeine and yellow dye 5 to this album is transformative. So transformative, you’ll forget you sublease a one-room apartment from your ex-wife’s step-uncle with two cats and a Russian man that hates cats.
You might remember this album for its tight transitions that make the songs seem to bleed together through a minefield of squelches and feedback as well as the surprise full-album visualizer posted to YouTube in advance of the album’s release. The video features vibrating colors and patterns interplaying with one another while the songs vary between jackhammers full of rage and plodding, glacial doom. Huh. Maybe there are two Converge records you can do drugs to. I’ll go get the Mountain Dew!
Imagine having a baby with a dude and he writes “A Single Tear” in response. Pretty sick, right? If there’s anything babies and new moms love, it’s thrashing guitars, guttural screams, and breakneck drumming that are the perfect soundtrack for chugging 12 warm beers. Almost enough to make you treat every day like it’s Father’s Day.
This album about failure and loss is a lot more fun than it sounds. First off, the album cover is a severed hand, and who doesn’t love finding one of those? Plus, it’s got these inspirational song titles like, “Death King” and “In Her Blood” which are—a better time than you think.
This album is the Sergeant Peppers for aging hardcore dudes clinging to their camo cargo shorts and ‘90s Honda Civic hatchback. Those dudes have it at number one, but if we’re honest, the cover is more iconic than the music. Good thing you’re cranking out that bootleg merch in your mom’s garage! Why should Converge be the only people raking in cash on hoodies, tank tops, hats, banners, bandanas, tee-shirts, onesies, ashtrays, coozies, and tumblers with the visage of a stoic woman emblazoned on it? Nothing says, “I had 00-gauged ears twenty years ago!” like Jane Doe merch.
“No Heroes” sounds like the band caught an eagle and put it in a blender—sorry, not sorry, PETA. The main ingredients in this bird smoothie include some of the most unintelligible lyrics in the Converge discography, razor-sharp guitars that only get better as the album progresses, drama, and the absolute wall-smasher that is “No Heroes”. This refreshing, feather soda should be played loud because it is the work of a group of musicians hellbent on playing heavy music at a blistering pace and killing rare birds at a rate captive breeders cannot keep up with.
When “Axe To Fall” came out, the 2008 financial crisis was fresh in the air, Millennials were ruining the restaurant industry with avocado toast, and Converge was ripping America’s underwear right over its head with this album. From the blistering opening of “Dark Horse” to the depths of “Cruel Bloom” and “Wretched World”, this album does it all. The anger and weirdness fit perfectly with the then and now—when things are totally fine and nothing is wrong at all.
Eric would use the phrase “I’m not racist, but” an uncomfortable amount, so I’d have no choice but to sneak out right after I ate without saying goodbye.
Jack would cancel his barbecue a half hour after everyone got there because, according to him, the grill “just didn’t feel right today.” I don’t know what that means but I won’t be asking follow-up questions.
Steve is going to go on and on about how the Pixies always threw a way better barbecue than Nirvana ever did, but they didn’t get enough credit in the mainstream for doing so. That’s not something I care about when I’m five beers deep.
The Black Flag guitarist would ask us all to chip in to help fund his barbecue despite making us pay a $5 cover to get in. Total cheapskate.
The Kiss guitarist would own an over-the-top flashy apron that says something like “kiss the cook” that he wears while barbecuing and you know he has a couple extra at a merch table he set up. But we all know it’s just a gimmick to distract us from the fact that he’s an average griller at best.
J Mascis would text me while I was on my way to ask if I could pick up a five-pound bag of ice. No problem, right? But 10 minutes later he would see if I could get some ketchup too since it totally slipped his mind. Then burgers. Oh, and hot dogs. Also, buns. I’d basically be supplying this whole thing.
John would make a lot of weird gestures with his face and mouth as he grills up a plate of burgers. Almost like he’s in pain. Something tells me that’s completely unnecessary and it’s making us all uneasy. But unfortunately there’s no good way to broach the “grill face” thing with him.
Zakk is an experienced griller, but he seems like he’d make us hunt and kill our own food for the barbecue. He’d drop us off in a forest, arm us each with a bow and arrow, and tell us not to come back until we’ve “bagged a deer.” I’m just not built for that type of hands-on barbecue.
Noel is definitely the kind of guy who would pick up an acoustic guitar at a party and play “Wonderwall” after saying something like “I wrote this on my own with no help from anyone.” Read the room, Noel.
Rivers would wear his shirt in the pool and I couldn’t get past that. He’d also ask us to keep the noise levels down to a minimum so we don’t disturb the neighbors, even though their party is already more boisterous than his. I might just go next door.
Yngwie would make everyone hang out in the front yard while he grills in the back because that’s all just “part of his process.” Evidently, his process also consists of boasting about how great of a cook he is. He’d make it difficult to separate the grill from the griller.
I’d feel like kind of a dork when I start complaining about the humidity and she’s over there grilling while wearing a leather jacket not even breaking a sweat. Outdoor parties are typically at their best when we’re all suffering from the heat together as a unit.
The Korn guitarist would host a barbecue that was sponsored by Monster Energy. He wouldn’t reveal that to us directly, but I’d put it together after seeing the coolers full of them, Monster Energy-infused snacks, and patio umbrellas with that “M” logo everywhere. Personally, I prefer barbecues that aren’t sponsored by energy drinks.
The My Bloody Valentine guitarist’s party would be a lot more fun if she assembled a livelier playlist. I mean, I like Slowdive and Elliott Smith as much as the next guy, but would it kill you to put on “Who Let the Dogs Out”?
The Strokes guitarist would invite us all to his barbecue in a condo in Brooklyn, only he uses a George Foreman Grill to cook hamburgers one at a time in his galley kitchen. I don’t think one bed, one bath apartments in Park Slope are meant for this sort of summertime event.
Scott would have nothing but cornhole boards strewn across his backyard and would constantly encourage us all to play in some sort of tournament. He would even call himself the commissioner and volunteer to keep score. Can’t we just hang out, Scott?
Everyone knows that when you show up to barbecues you exclusively talk about your favorite family sitcoms of the late’80s and early ’90s and the fact we would all have to tiptoe around mentioning “Full House” would be a problem.
The Minor Threat, Bad Religion, and Dag Nasty guitarist’s barbecue would feature six live bands, four of which he’d be in. Starting to think he’d see us less as guests to a barbecue and more of an audience he can perform to. Very sneaky, Brian.
Lars would have a designated fence we would all use to urinate on in his backyard. While it’s fairly convenient and surprisingly private, I’d likely have to take a dump at some point and it turns out his fence is the only form of plumbing on his entire property.