PATERSON, N.J. — Local garbage collector Vince LePaglia couldn’t believe the putrid stench emanating from the tour van of punk band The Oozing Lesions that he was driving behind, according to sources who now believe they have smelled death.
“My eyes won’t stop watering and think I’m gonna puke,” said LePaglia while stuck in traffic behind the band. “I’ve driven a garbage truck for twenty years hauling the most horrific smelling things you can imagine, but this is next level. I think I’ve been in and out of consciousness and I’m worried I’m about to pass out. I don’t think there was anything that could have prepared me for this, even though trash is in my blood. I’ve never really been a religious person, but after the offensive waft from that van I not only believe in Hell, I believe we are living in it.”
Lead singer Tommy “Tongues” McCree explained how they purposely target pungent-smelling vehicles to hide their odor.
“It’s no coincidence. We like to do most of our driving on collection day to mask our filth,” stated McCree as he drove by pedestrians plugging their noses. “We’ve memorized all the garbage routes in the area and also like to follow manure trucks around so the local health authorities don’t catch wind of us. We had to adopt these tactics after we were once pulled over by cops at gunpoint thanks to an urgent CDC bulletin that notified them of a reported biological weapon on wheels targeting dive bars. We did make the paper though, which was cool.”
Expert in environmental pollution Nia Jacobs described the punk community as one of the world’s largest contaminators.
“If you think fossil fuels are bad for the environment, I’ve got news for you,” Jacobs stated. “The punk lifestyle is undoubtedly ruining our planet, with more CO2 gasses emitted from the backseats of tour vans and squats than most people realize. The film that grows on their unwashed skin breeds bacteria so resistant to antibiotics that it can threaten entire populations. The problem is so dire that many researchers believe punk-caused global warming is now the second biggest existential threat to human survival. The first is obviously climate change caused by major corporations. Either way, we’re all screwed.’”
At press time, LePaglia was finally able to get some relief after his truck broke down in the slaughterhouse district.
Coming in at last place is a very good album, “Give a Glimpse Of What Yer Not.” Do you think a titanic musical institution like Dinosaur Jr. cares about which one of their albums comes in last? Gimme a break. There’s a reason these guys didn’t get into competitive sports. Pretty sure Lou Barlow has never thrown a football. Murph might hunt. Sure, J’s been seen skiing and golfing in the music videos, but there’s no way he’d ever have a “coach.”
A touch more pared down than their previous album, “Sweep It Into Space” captures a living room recording quality akin to a “Poledo” or some Mascis solo stuff. It’s elegant, simple, and shockingly quiet for a Dinosaur Jr. album. Feels great, to be honest. Imagine you’re on Facebook Marketplace and stumble upon J Mascis selling his effects pedals after this record drops. That might not actually feel so great, to be honest.
You gotta smile when listening to this one. While not the ultimate exploration of a more chipper Dinosaur Jr. (see “Take A Run At The Sun,” or as we lovingly call it, The J Mascis Beach Party), it feels pretty damn close to having a locally sourced grapefruit quadruple IPA on an outdoor patio. The jams don’t quite set their roots in like they did on their previous post-reunion effort (which we won’t name just yet for dramatic purposes) but “I Bet On Sky” is an undeniable hit.
“Green Mind” is cool. What’s not cool about Dinosaur Jr.? Their music sounds like a bunch of amplifiers having a gunfight. And on “Green Mind,” sometimes there aren’t even amplifiers at all, just loudly strummed acoustic guitars that also sound like they might have a pistol on their hip, ready to shoot somebody in the head. That’s right, even the acoustic stuff can kill you if you aren’t careful. Don’t you forget that.
There’s something immeasurably sad about “Without a Sound,” which is no doubt what makes it great. While other Dinosaur Jr. records like to be unfussy about the volume of noise, this one doesn’t fuss about getting real quiet, falling to basically whispers toward the end on “Seemed Like the Thing to Do.” J Mascis isn’t the type to fuss, man. The guy barely raises his voice above a mutter, there’s no way in hell that he’d even consider fussing.
Don’t sleep on the first album, it rips. Obviously the production isn’t the highest caliber, a pretty crusty affair overall – but c’mon man! This is where it all started, the primordial soup, dog! “Mountain Man” is like, a character study about a survivalist? “Heard the snowcats calling?” Basically high fantasy. And in “Quest,” he talks about eating caterpillars. This might as well be Baldur’s Gate.
Uh, yeah…I’m thinking they’re back! While perhaps not reaching the highs of another post-reunion record that you’ll see shortly, this is a hell of a comeback album. Reunited in earnest for the first time since 1988, “Beyond” molds the ashes of the original trio into something new, joyous, sustainable. There’s an airy quality to the jams that feels new for these guys, and you can’t help but think that they might be pretty damn happy to be at it again.
Genuinely experimental and a product of the (essentially) one-man Mascis Orchestra, “Hand It Over” is certainly out there. And we’re not talking about “Out There.” That’s a different song and it’s not on this record. Don’t expect anything else about “Out There” on this blurb, okay? Strange percussion, trilling horns (see “I’m Insane”), the echoes of a Brian Wilson movement are strong here. No radio hits? Who cares! It’s J’s favorite of this era, and we love it too.
Okay, now we can talk about “Out There.” They put strings on this record! Yeah, that’s right, strings. Imagine, for a second, J Mascis conducting the LA Philharmonic. Big long suit tails, hair tied back into a ponytail like a teen stoner showing up to their court date. That’s basically the vibe on this one, when we’re not being treated to some truly gruesome reverb (‘you know what’ might be the best opening track of any Dinosaur Jr. record) and the most delicate Mascis vocal to date on “Not the Same.”
A cacophonous, openly hostile listening experience, the impending crack of the band’s sanity is written all over this banger, which is likely what makes it so damn tasty. Worth noting that “Freak Scene” was their first real radio hit, as “Bug” kicks off with this earworm-y single before devolving to complete and utter sonic chaos. Mascis hates it, his least favorite album of the bunch, but we’re not J Mascis, now are we? No, we are not.
“Farm” is a minor miracle, there’s no getting around it. The soloing on “Pieces” and “I Don’t Wanna Go There” goes as hard as any of the first three records, while the sincerity on a track like “Plans” feels more poignant than anything we’ve heard from the boys before. The expected wall of sound starts to feel more like a fortress – with like, a big deep moat around and everything. And not even any crocodiles or archers, either. They know this shit’s gonna hold up.
Sorry, not gonna reinvent the wheel on this one. Alternative rock scholars and weird guys in garages across America agree that “You’re Living All Over Me” is a perfect album, deep shreds bolstered by the sparse musings of alternative rock’s great poet laureate. The clarity in their sound a mere two years after “Dinosaur” is pretty unreal. It’s a showstopper. And can you believe this baby clocks in at 36 minutes? If you take out Poledo, that’s like, an episode of Curb. But don’t you dare take out Poledo.
Born in Silver Spring, Maryland, Melinda Stumkins was a devoted wife, a loving mother to three children, and a loyal and honest friend to all who knew her. Then, four days ago, she learned what grindcore is.
Born in Frankfort, Kentucky, Roy Croce briefly relocated to the town of Fiddlewit before being forced to evacuate when it was violently taken over by nonunionized carnies. At an early age he taught himself to play an instrument of his own invention: a bucket full of nails.
Kandace Sprockets was born in Salem, Massachusetts, to parents Exavior and Mysticlina-Hyperboob Sprockets. After dropping out of correspondence college, she worked briefly as a skeleton poser at Spirit Halloween.
So, actually Dad liked this one because he said he knew this song from when he used to hang out at the F.O.P. lodge and that it reminded him of the music from the old country. He also said you couldn’t do that one song anymore because of cancel culture and how come I don’t call anymore?
Regarding this one, Dad didn’t really say much other than that guy’s mother must have done a number on him. Then he reminded me I need to call my mother more, which is a whole thing.
We don’t think Dad had any issue with the music, per se. He just didn’t understand why nobody takes any pride in their appearance anymore and that when he was that age you didn’t go on Carson looking like that. And would it kill them to get a goddamn haircut?
Dad was mostly just amazed that “that Bjork wackjob” had been around since the ‘80s and was in a punk band. He followed that up with something about something in the water and socialism.
I think Dad retroactively tried to claim he liked the Clash because he associates the song “Rock the Casbah” with Desert Storm back when America was still kicking ass. Mom said just take everything he said with a grain of salt because being on disability for so long was getting to him.
Pamela Anderson hosted this one so I think Dad was mostly just pissed off that she wasn’t on the TV at the exact moment. Mom wasn’t sure if it was a good idea for Henry Rollins to be performing barefoot as that stage didn’t look very clean.
Gerald Ford’s Chief of Staff hosted this one and Dad said it’s no wonder that peanut farmer won in ‘76 if that “liberal” Ford approved of this sort of bullshit. He said he was thankful Reagan came along four years later, but by then the damage was probably already done.
My old man said these guys reminded him of those goddamn slackers with their skateboards that are always hanging around the 7-11, up to no good. Used to be a time when kids their age spent their summers mowing lawns and flipping burgers instead of going on TV with their cocks out like a bunch of goddamn hippies. (
First things first, “Reverberation” should consider itself fucking lucky to be on this list, even in last place. We would gladly kick this album out of here for not featuring Ian McCulloch in any capacity and replacing him with singer Noel Burke, but at the end of the day, it’s still officially in the discography. The funny thing is, it’s actually a pretty decent early 1990s alternative rock album, but this band is Echo & the Bunnymen like Dunkaroos are edible food: just barely.
“The Stars, the Oceans & the Moon” is that most dreaded of cash-ins, a re-recorded album of greatest hits that just remind you how good the band used to be. That said, Ian McCulloch’s now-weathered voice and new arrangements by Will Sergeant at least give a lesser-known banger like “Nothing Lasts Forever” a little more air, even if the opener “Bring on the Dancing Horses” isn’t bringing anything a 55-year-old with four bourbons in them can’t give you at karaoke. Stick to the originals.
The best cut on an album is called “It’s Alright,” and that’s an easy joke we’re not above making. By the time Echo & the Bunnymen proper had gotten back together, British retro-psychedelia was beginning to peter out on the last fumes of Brit-pop, and “Flowers” just didn’t have much to offer than weird titles and McCulloch’s still powerful voice. It’s not quite an album treading water, but this is unquestionably an album that can’t quite decide what kind of band made it.
Okay, the guys managed to get their shit together. “Siberia” is a significant step up from “Flowers” on pretty much every level, even if it seems designed in a lab to make guys with horn-rim glasses say they liked the early stuff better. It is unreasonable to ask a band in its fourth decade to come up with something as good as “The Killing Moon,” so we’re not going to. By this point, the band was whittled down to just Ian McCulloch and Will Sergeant, Les Pattinson having left after the first two reunion albums and Pete de Freitas dying in a tragic car accident. “Siberia” is pretty solid for half the crew being gone.
With “The Fountain,” Echo & the Bunnymen managed to do something astonishing for a veteran band: making something fucking weird. There’s a looseness to the band’s 11th album that was missing over the last few releases, which doesn’t exactly put it up there in the pantheon, but it’s good to hear Ian McCulloch and Will Sergeant having fun again. While the band has always been known for its eccentricity and intense guitar lines, discovering they knocked out a bizarre 1960s pop throwback like “Proxy” or the pun-filled “Shroud of Turin” really does make you appreciate that they still try. Plus, “Proxy” really is goofy.
“Meteorites” is the kind of album that you expect to act as the capstone to a legendary career, full of deep emotions that are wasted on idiots like us and infused with a palpable world-weariness. Then Echo & the Bunnymen kept making albums, so it does spoil the effect somewhat, but this is still the best of the band’s post-2000 albums by a fairly wide margin. Teaming up with producer Youth (formerly of Killing Joke) infuses the album with a more full, polished sheen than Echo & the Bunnymen fans might be used to, but honestly, what could you expect from these guys by this point?
Didn’t expect to see the band’s debut album, “Crocodiles,” all the way down here on the list, did you? That’s right, we’re crazy. But while “Crocodiles” has ferocious, astonishing tracks like “Rescue and “Do It Clean,” Ian McCulloch and the rest still had a lot of work to do before they really figured out the trippy, abrasive near-pop that that would make them immortal. “Crocodiles” is like watching a future champion play in a minor league; impressive, but still just AAA ball. Plus, they called a song “All That Jazz.” Just… don’t do that.
“Evergreen” was Echo & the Bunnymen’s big shot at relevancy during the Britpop years; hell, they even brought in Liam Gallagher at his hoarsest on backing vocals for “Nothing Last Forever,” which he probably did for half a bottle of vodka and some shit-talking. In many ways, “Evergreen” is the band’s most elegant work, full of huge, immaculately constructed ballads like “Forgiven” and “Empire State Halo.” Of course, the 1990s were a stupid time, and “Evergreen” didn’t get the rapturous reception it deserved. Instead, it went to the Spice Girls, so think about that for a while.
After “Evergreen” briefly charted and then disappeared into the dreams of middle-aged music nerds, Ian McCulloch and Will Sergeant regrouped for the softest, most pensive record of their career together. That doesn’t mean that Sergeant tones down the legendary angularity of his guitar work or that the duo was above throwing a brass section into a few tracks like “When It All Blows Over.” “What Are You Going to Do with Your Life?” can be summed up in a word: bittersweet, which feels appropriate for a band that, on some level, knew they had their last real shot about breaking big.
Echo & the Bunnymen’s second album improves on “Crocodiles” in virtually every way, including not having a terrible title. According to Les Pattinson, the band’s laziness basically corralled them into finding some kind of rhythm together, and thank god for that. “Heaven Up Here” stands shoulder to shoulder with the Cure’s “Faith” and Pornography” in terms of sheer atmospheric dread and spiraling instrumental madness, which probably means the two bands were sharing some of the same dealers. It is also likely the least commercial of all the band’s efforts, but sometimes you don’t need to be trying to achieve greatness.
“Echo & the Bunnymen” is the apex of the band as an attempted commercial entity, which makes sense when you know they fired the weirdo from the KLF as manager and got Duran Duran’s tour guy instead. If the band had been able to get Ian McCulloch from descending into Jim Morrison-like drunken stardom, it might have been their finest achievement, up there with huge cultural crossovers like U2’s “The Joshua Tree.” But as it is, this is still a band that, for just a moment, was able to lock into a perfect pop sensibility and produce a near-masterpiece.
WEA, Echo & the Bunnymen’s label at the time, rejected “Porcupine” as being too uncommercial, and the band themselves described the mood during recording as horrible and strained. Naturally, this produced one of the great bleak post-punk records of all time, a howling maelstrom of shattered pop like “The Back of Love” sitting alongside the trippy layered vocals and depressive poetry of “Higher Hell.” It’s a nervy, nervous album made by a band that was in its first phase of nearly falling apart, and it sounds like it, in the best way. We’re not saying that great music is always made by four white guys upset with each other in a small room, but “Porcupine” makes a pretty good case for it.
For decades now, Ian McCulloch has told the world not just that “Ocean Rain” is Echo & the Bunnymen’s best album but that it’s the fucking best album ever made. The thing is, he might actually have a point. “Ocean Rain” is a perfect synthesis of everything that the band has ever done, from the glorious shimmering strings that open “Silver” to the melancholy, wanderlust fantasy of “Ocean Rain.” This is an album in which “The Killing Moon” has serious competition in mystery and guitar hooks, like the wistful “Seven Seas” or the absurdly catchy “My Kingdom.” It’s an immensely dense album (literally, in that every instrument in the world, from a marimba to a 35-piece orchestra, shows up), but at the same time, as accessible as any pop album of the 1980s. Alright, McCulloch, you made your point.