Month: October 2017

A couple weeks ago, I began writing about the bands I’ve previously had intense infatuations with. Here’s the promised part two of that article.

The Format/fun.

Height of infatuation: 2011-2012 (ages 28-29)

Then: I’ve combined these two bands because my infatuation was mainly for two albums that shared certain people and elements. The Format’s final album, Dog Problems, and fun.’s first, Aim + Ignite, both combined the talents of singer Nate Ruess, producer Steven Shane MacDonald, and arranger Roger Joseph Manning, Jr. And both albums amalgamated a wide range of pop influences usually too square for the 2000s: the melodicism of Harry Nilsson, the bombast of Queen, the baroque arrangements of ELO.

These bands also marked a reentry into music fandom for me. The years between the end of college and this period found me stagnating a bit, mostly listening to favorites or new-to-mes like XTC. But 2010 also marked the start of a streaming music service called Rdio that made me care about music again. It came out a bit before Spotify in the US, and it’s social features were still the best I’ve seen in this type of service. I managed to make a bunch of internet friends who shared playlists and chatted about music. I heard fun.’s song “Light a Roman Candle With Me” on one of these playlists and suddenly felt like new music had something to offer me again.

Special soulmate: I’m a borderline Millennial, and Nate Ruess is very close to my age. He’s probably the first Millennial songwriter I’ve loved and the first who has a sensibility and set of experiences that felt more like real life than a fantasy. Nate is almost uncool in the way he sings about things like loving his parents (“Snails” and “The Gambler”) and a kind of earnest need for self discovery (“But between MTV and Mr. O’Reilly/I’ve come to find, that I cant be defined”). Unlike many pop stars, he seems less interested in rebellion or provocation than in being a good person and doing the right thing.

Now: fun.’s Some Nights album was a big change in direction. It was produced by Jeff Bhasker, who has produced for people like Beyonce and Kanye West. As such, it had a much trendier sound, full of autotune and hip-hop influences. Some Nights was still a pretty good album and continued many of Nate Ruess’s favorite lyrical themes, but it definitely marked the end of the old pop sound. It hasn’t helped that fun. have not released anything since. Still, I consider Aim + Ignite and Dog Problems to be two off my all-time favorite albums, and I continue to listen to them regularly. I also haven’t stopped dreaming of a reunion of either band with their production/arranging dream team.

Oasis

Height of infatuation: 2013-2016 (ages 30-33)

Then: Oasis is a strange one, because my infatuation with them developed after nearly two decades of passing acquaintanceship. I bought (What’s the Story) Morning Glory? back in 1995 during the height of Oasis’s U.S. popularity. I saw them as being a bit like the Beatles — a melodic British rock band out the conquer the states. My middle school interest didn’t last long, but I have a crystal clear memory of putting on Morning Glory near the end of high school and being blindsided by the mix of familiarity and freshness upon hearing it again — my first brush with nostalgia. It was such a strong sensation that I immediately bought Definitely Maybe and rekindled a casual interest in the band.

Fastforward to 2013. My husband rented us a copy of a documentary called Live Forever. It’s not about Oasis per se, but about the Britpop phenomenon more generally. It featured extensive interviews with the major players, and it was love at first sight for me and Noel (or at least me). I hadn’t realized that he was so funny and insightful. I started listening to Definitely Maybe and Morning Glory again and expanding into the rest of the Oasis catalog. The next thing I knew, I was buying old CD singles so I could have all their b-sides and reading cheesy-looking (but actually good) books about the Gallaghers’ childhoods.

Special soulmate: Noel Gallagher is one of the best ever melodic songwriters, and his compositions radiate a kind of pure emotion that makes me feel understood in a non-verbal way. Noel is also a compelling figure to me because of the contrast between his rude, curmudgeonly exterior and the sensitive, wistful nature of his music (and occasionally his comments when he stops being snarky). Oasis as a band is cut from the same pattern. They’re known for being big, dumb, and loud, but actually I think most people who love them do so because of the way Noel lets that soft underbelly peek out.

Now: I’d say my Oasis infatuation ended shortly after I saw Noel Gallagher live in July 2016. I kind of knew it would happen. The infatuation had been too strong for too long to really hold for much longer, and the live show provided a capstone to the whole experience. I still love the band and listen to them a lot more moderately. There’s obviously still a spark there, since the release of Noel’s new single has got me excited for his new album and U.S. tour.

It’s funny that there are certain people in my life (real people who’ve made an impression on me, not just pop idols) who I still dream about, despite not having seen them for years. I think when you have that true connection, it never really leaves you. Silly as it may sound, I seem to have that connection, one-sided though it may be, with Noel Gallagher. (Like seriously, I just had a dream that I told Noel about my favorite restaurant in Raleigh. He seemed really interested and said he’d check it out.)

The Bee Gees

Height of infatuation: 2017-Present (ages 34-?)

Then/Now: The Bee Gees have been my current obsession, and they’re a good one. They have a lot of albums, and they’ve worked in a wide range of styles, so there’s plenty to delve into. I began getting into The Bee Gees mainly because of Noel Gallagher’s endorsement of their early work. Then, I read the excellent Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! by Bob Stanely, which contains an entire chapter that’s basically a paean to the band. That really set me off, and I’ve been getting to know their catalog over the past year.

The Bee Gees synthesize a lot of what I love about the other bands listed here: the melodicism of the Beatles, the uncoolness of fun., the obtuse yet emotional lyrics (and brotherly dynamics) of Oasis, and occasionally even the country-pop hybrid of the Old 97’s. There’s a passage in Yeah! Yeah! Yeah! where Stanley contemplates his favorite bands. He lists the The Bee Gees as a contender, but ultimately concludes, “Too much to explain.” I actually kind of like how hard it is to explain the disconnect between the band’s popular image as avatars of disco excess and the real wealth of diversity that actually marks their catalog. Like my initial discovery of The Beatles, I feel once again that I’ve discovered a treasure trove that only the privileged few appreciate.

Special soulmate: As much as I’d like it to be Robin, who I think is well under appreciated, Barry is the Bee Gee I think about most. It’s a little hard to say that he’s The Bee Gee’s best song writer, as Maurice and especially Robin were such essential contributors to the band’s compositions. It’s more a collection of compelling things about him. He’s certainly got a swagger, as evidenced in the Stayin’ Alive video, as well as a sense of humor. (Read  almost any Wikipedia entry for a Bee Gees song for some great Barry quotes). It makes me happy that he’s been married for 47 years and has a zillion kids and grandkids. He’s also a bit of a tragic figure at this point. I watched a recent Grammy Salute to The Bee Gees, and it was super sad to see Barry stand up and talk about how all three of his brothers are gone, leaving him to accept the honor on his own. But he also seemed genuinely touched at the celebration of his music, and it really made me like him.

Final thoughts

I’ve read that infatuation is a useful tool because it gets you to fall in love with someone and (theoretically) reproduce. But you can’t stay at that level of obsession forever, because you’d never get anything done. Either the relationship ends or it settles into a much more manageable level of enjoyment and commitment — often known as love. Looking over these bands I’ve been infatuated with, I’m pleased to see that most of have settled down into that mature love state.

I remember once a teacher in high school telling our class that a long term relationship has its ebbs and flows. Sometimes things between her and her husband were fine, and other times they felt like teenagers again. That reflection stuck with me. I see these waves reflected in my relationships to my favorite bands as well. Once the initial infatuation has passed, I’ll experience periods of stability and of renewed interest.

That said, I do still enjoy the fact that new infatuations come along from time to time. It’s exciting to get to relive the feeling of falling in love with a band. And as long as it keeps happening to me, I continue to feel alive and young as a music fan. I hope that I always will.

Relationships with bands can be a lot like relationships with people. Some are pleasant acquaintances who you like, but only seem to run into once in a while. Beck, for example, is someone I want to get to know better, but I just don’t meet him often enough. Others are more like friends in particular circumstances. Like co-worker who’s always up for a coffee break, Real Estate is a band I only listen to when I need something to make my work day a little more bearable, without completely derailing productivity. And then there are the steady, lifelong friends — the ones I can always reconnect with, no matter how long it’s been since we last hung out. Belle and Sebastian, Fountains of Wayne, John Wesley Harding, The Zombies — they have been some of my constant musical companions.

But I can also fall in love with a band, the way I’d fall in love with a person. These relationships are true infatuations. I start neglecting my other musical interests to listen to the beloved band all the time. I find myself thinking about them during work meetings or before falling asleep at night. I develop a conviction that I would connect with a certain songwriter on a deep, personal level, should we ever meet.

These infatuations usually last a couple years, and they always end at some point. Recently I was chatting with an friend about The Old 97’s, a band that we both loved in college, but who I never listen to anymore. It got me thinking about some of these past loves and the way my relationships with them have evolved over time. While the height of infatuation can never last, the experience of being in love with a band leaves its mark, just as it does with people.

The Beatles

Height of infatuation: 1995-circa 1997 (ages 12-14)

Then: I’ve already covered my Beatles obsession quite extensively in a previous post, so I’ll be brief here. The Beatles Anthology television show, which aired in 1995, kicked off my first real music infatuation, which lasted for at least the rest of my middle school years.

Special soulmate: At the time, I suppose it was John. He was the leader, the clever one, the symbol. And he was dead, which somehow made him seem more romantic. My connection to him was vague and immature, but I remember it had something to do with an idealized vision of the 1960s, a time period I became obsessed with after discovering The Beatles. It was a fantasy world of peace and meditation, Agent 99 dresses, and the best music being the most popular. I liked to imagine I had been born in the wrong time, and this perhaps tied into my general feeling of not always fitting in at school. John let me believe I was different in a good way, and that gave me comfort.

Now: While I still love the Beatles, I only listen to them occasionally. I’ve heard their songs so many times that it’s almost like I can’t hear them anymore. But once in a while, I still catch a particular album just right and enjoy it in a fresh way. And I still think about them. I adopted Paul as my true favorite Beatle a while ago, and recently, for the first time ever, I decided on a favorite Beatles song — “She Came in Through the Bathroom Window.” It so perfectly encapsulates Paul’s melodicism, coupled with nonsense lyrics that nonetheless seem to convey wistful depths on lines like “She could steal, but she could not rob.” Most certainly an influence on Oasis and my future love for Oasis.

The Old 97’s

Height of infatuation: 2001-2005 (ages 18-22)

Then: The first Old 97’s song I heard was “What We Talk About” from 1999’s Fight Songs album. DJ Vin Scelsa played it on his Idiot’s Delight radio program, one of my early gateways into non-mainstream pop. I liked the song, but didn’t get fully into The Old 97’s until their next album, Satellite Rides, came out in 2001, a few months before I graduated high school.

In contrast to my previous obsession with the Beatles and the ’60s, I now loved a band whose creative peak matched the peak of my infatuation. Between 2002 and 2005, I saw The Old 97’s or Rhett Miller about a dozen times, always accompanied by my friend Tom. I remember he told me that I smiled in a different way during these shows, a way that he didn’t really see during my everyday activities. I take this as an indicator that I was enjoying the band in an unselfconscious way that only true love could inspire.

Special soulmate: It didn’t hurt that the Old 97’s lead singer, Rhett Miller, was exactly the kind of frontman that I could without hesitation or embarrassment describe as a dreamboat. (Which I once did, memorably, at a meeting of my college newspaper staff. I think people were surprised, because I’m not usually emotionally demonstrative.) Rhett looked like a model, but and his music was a perfect melding of pop melodies, sex, and literary references. “Rollerskate Skinny” is probably the apotheosis of this combination, from the title allusion to the line “Let’s knock nine down and leave on in the hole.”

Now: The end of college, along with a couple less than perfect albums, spelled the end of my romance with the Old 97’s. I sill love Fight Songs and Satellite Rides, as well as much of their early catalog, but they haven’t had an album I’ve really gotten into since then. On the whole, I’d have to say that The Old 97’s are the past love that I engage with least these days. That’s a little sad to contemplate, but it doesn’t undo the great times I had with the band and what they gave me. They helped me understand the value of country music, discover the transcendence that can be found in a live show, and begin listening to a greater variety of music.

XTC

Height of infatuation: 2008-2010 (Ages 25-27)

Then: XTC was a band who I never got, until I did. As I began to define my music taste more deliberately, I found that I could identify bands I might like using terms like “power pop” or “melodic pop.” XTC always came up as something I should like. I bought a couple of their albums at some point — I think Oranges & Lemons and Wasp Star — but I never really got into them. They sat on the shelf for quite a while.

My interest in XTC was renewed by two events that would prove to be pretty influential in my life. First, I moved in with my then-boyfriend, now-husband Josh, who owned and liked the album Skylarking. Second, we started DVRing 120 Minutes on VH1 Classic. The second item might seem trivial, but Josh and I still watch these music videos together today, and they have been the source for countless music discoveries over the past decade. I think it was “Mayor of Simpleton” — a shimmering, gleeful romp — that resuscitated my interest in the band. From there, I got really into the albums from the second half of their career: Skylarking through Wasp Star.

Special soulmate: I think I needed to be a little bit older to appreciate Andy Partridge’s songwriting style. While he’s certainly capable of crafting the pure pop of “Mayor of Simpleton” or “Stupidly Happy,” he also comes closer to writing intelligently about the meaning of life than any other songwriter I can think of. “The Ballad of Peter Pumpkinhead” looks at the power of heroes, but also acknowledges that nobility potentially lies within all people. “Harvest Festival” beautifully conveys the sharpness of first love and the nostalgia of its contemplation. “The Wheel and the Maypole” captures the ever changing nature of existence and the futility of resisting this change. I couldn’t appreciate these sentiments until I had a little more life experience — and it may be a bit laughable to assume I’ve full appreciated them even still. The upside is that there will also be more meaning to find and contemplate in Andy’s songs.

Now: There was no one event that ended my XTC period, it just kind of faded out. The depth and emotional clarity of their songs still resonates for me, and I’d say I now listen to them a normal amount compared with other bands I like. In some ways, they are like an ex-boyfriend who actually manages to become a friend.

Note: This article got very long, so I’m breaking it up into two parts. Part two should be along soon.