Rivers Cuomo and the Mysterious Devolution of Weezer

At one time I would have been proud to proclaim myself a Weezer fan.  In fact up until 2001, which saw the release of Weezer's green album, the musical landscape had seen only positive contributions from Weezer, specifically Rivers Cuomo who is frontman and songwriter for the group.  As the release of the group's six album, dubbed the red album due to its cover art, approaches this listener felt a sense of nostalgia and a desire to listen to the Weezer's past catalogue overcame me.  As I turned my ear to the hours of released music a curious thought struck me.  Weezer is devolving.

The blue album, first in the lineup, is a classic record.  I love every song and can listen through the album in its entirety without once feeling the need to skip over a track.  The lyrics, though not overly deep or profound, have a quaint and reassuring consistency to them.  At times Cuomo seems to poke fun at the over lyricism some groups are given to.  The guitars and drums set great pop rhythms and are not overbearing nor do they fade into obscurity.

Pinkerton, Weezer's second release, is a completely different record but at least shows growth.  The lyrics keep to the same simplistic form from the blue album but are overly specific, referring to girlfriends by name and are very literal.  There is no room for interpretation as Cuomo is telling you what is happening.  The guitars have a much grittier lo-fi feel to them but given the dark nature of the songs fit well with the lyrics.  Many proclaim the album shows growth but as you go back through and listen to Weezer's catalogue this is clearly identifiable as the cracking up stage.  It is not a record that one can listen to straight through.  The dark tone doesn't vary, the first four songs are essentially the same, and by the time the listener is half way through its about time for a break. 

Their third release, the green album, is an attempt to return to the pop ballads that created such a diehard fanbase with the blue album.  It falls flat on its face.  It is the first album that Cuomo openly acknowledges his use of marijuana in his songwriting process, a fact that will continue to be loudly proclaimed and seen as detrimental on later releases.  The album has only three unforgettable songs, regrettably Hash Pipe, Photograph, and Island in the Sun.  The rest can be disposed of as, similar to Pinkerton, all other songs on the album are essentially the same tune just timed differently.

Maladroit is even more deplorable.  The guitars are all overbearing, fast paced, and the guitar solos, so unique and beautiful on the blue album, all unimaginatively follow the vocal line on each song.  Its as though Cuomo wanted to add another verse but decided to play the guitar instead of sing.  There is only one truly great song on the entire album, Keep Fishin', and the music video featuring the Muppets is more memorable than the song itself.  

To even mention Make Believe as a Weezer release hurts.  I would still have called Weezer a great group, despite their inability to remain consistently good, had this record never been released.  There is not one redeemable song on the entire album.  The lyrics have devolved into childish rhymes such as "When you're out with your friends/in your new Mercedes Benz/ and you're/on drugs."  Are you kidding me?  That is the LAMEST line in almost all of musicdom.   I would rather listen to Biz Markee warbling "You, you got what I need" than subject myself to the idiocy expressed on this album.  It is quite obvious Weezer, or at least Cuomo, wanted merely to cash in on their once good name for something.  Gee, is now a good time to bring up Hash Pipe from the GREEN album?  Seriously, that can't be a coincidence.

With Weezer's latest single, Pork and Beans, from their upcoming sixth album the group seems to have, musically, gone back to the Maladroit era.  Cuomo, though, still displays his wretched inability to write coherent or meaningful lyrics (lay off the ganj man).  I now cringe when asked if I like Weezer and must qualify my answer by excluding most of the green album and Maladroit and all of Make Believe.  I had to ask several acquaintances to stop bringing up the group around me as I realized that when they did I began to grind my teeth.  

So we come to the conclusion.  While the sixth album may show an evening out of sorts for Weezer, fans may be better off tracking down Single b-sides and listening to those.  There are about 17 studio b-sides the group released on their export Singles and if Pork and Beans is any indicator they should be better than the upcoming album. In other words, don't waste your time on what was once a good group and, in the name of good dental hygiene, don't talk about them around me.

I made the cut!

To any and all who read this, I made the cut! I'm in the Animation program at BYU!  Now the work begins...

Free Write

I am an unabashed, self-proclaimed, outspoken cinephile.  I watch movies and then judge them, sharing my opinions often where no one has asked to hear them and emphatically defending whatever position I have taken.  This has caused no end to strife in my marriage, as my wife is one of those who foul the earth by their desire to watch movies simply for “entertainment.”  It sickens me. 

Our major clash comes over the move Rocky, the first film in the string of never-ending boxing movies starring Sylvester Stallone.  The first, however, is a triumph of authentic acting and writing, showing the poor underdog at his best yet still losing the opportunity of a lifetime to a superior athlete.  It is full of the complexity and authentic characterization that makes a truly great film. 

My wife’s loathing for the film is deep and dark, much like the overriding look and feel of the movie.  She despises the movie so much that for my birthday, when she made me a coupon book of things she would do for me, things she usually detests, “Watch Rocky” was one of them.  Then when I tried using it she told me that particular coupon had expired, though no written expiration date had been written in.  

Over the years I’ve tried to bring her over to my way of viewing movies.  Watching first those films that bridged the gap, that were slightly mindless yet still fun to watch, classics like the original Parent Trap, the Princess Bride, or The Frighteners.  We never moved beyond that point.  In fact once she got wise to my plan she reverted and has since forced me to sit through films like Just Like Heaven, My Little Ponies (the Movie), and Steel Magnolias. 

I’ve since given up and have had to go underground with my film watching.  Now when I want to watch something truly great I call a friend, invent an excuse to be out of the house, and meet at a pre-determined location.  The only refuge I have left is my refusal to couch my comments when forced to watch the tripe my wife considers enjoyable. 

Free Write

Justice takes strange forms.  Generally it is understood by religious peoples that vengeance and retribution belong to God; that those who conduct lives of wickedness while on earth will be punished in the hereafter if not while they are yet alive.  Or for those that are truly vile, I speak here of those cretins that talk loudly or use cell phones while in the movies, perhaps they will be punished both on earth and in the life to come. 

It is frustrating when we feel we have been wronged by a person knowing they might not get their comeuppance until after they have passed on.  Occasionally, however, someone who has mistreated us is punished while we are around to enjoy it.  No, we should not enjoy seeing another punished but it does feel nice to gloat until the guilt hits. 

While working at her retail job my wife was recently screamed at by a small woman with an irritatingly high-pitched voice.  She wanted to buy a living room set on her husband’s account and didn’t understand that without her husband present to authorize the transaction legally the company could not push through the order.  The woman, finally fed up by being told ‘no,’ made a disparaging comment directed at my wife then stormed out. 

A few weeks passed then I got a call from my wife while she was at work.  Apparently the woman above had been arrested for fraudulently using her EX-husband’s account, a fact she neglected to share with the sales associates at the time she was trying to use it to buy her furniture.  Now one of the women from work has to appear in court to testify against the woman who was illegally using her husband’s account.  

My wife has commenced gloating and due to her lack of a soul will probably not stop.  I, on the other hand, must wait until the hereafter.

Free Write

I live in a constant state of terror.  My life is constantly threatened and I am only safe at school, where I am too ashamed to speak out about the abuse I receive at home.  My wife, having both Irish and Scottish ancestors, has a temper of legendary proportions.  She has deep red hair that seems to ignite with an internal flame as her anger rises and spills out into the physical world in the form of verbal and non-verbal cruelty directed at me. 

 

Recently, for seemingly no reason at all, she informed me I was a “doody mahoodie.”  I responded with, “Oh yeah.  Well, you’re a doody mahoodie with a dirty patootie.”  Her reply, which I was quite impressed with, was “Well, you’re a doody mahoodie with a dirty patootie and a pony named Judy!”

 

Not wanting to be outdone I shouted “Well, you’re just a mean old woman!”  The onslaught I faced was unlike any my imagination could conjure.  Such a torrent of slapping accompanied by girlish wailing the world has never seen.  I tried to hide myself under a layer of pillows and blankets yet foolishly left one of my feet exposed.  She grabbed my foot and pulled me crying from under my protective layer and slapped every inch of exposed skin until a pink glow filled the room.

 

I was left lying on the bed, my skin too raw to move, sobbing quietly until sleep overtook me.  The next day at school, when my classmates asked me where my bruised and sunburned look came from I thought of my wife and hurriedly responded, “I fell down the stairs.”  It’s just safer that way. 

Free Write

College has been a trying experience for me on many fronts.  One in particular that distresses me is my personal health.  When I started my formal schooling in the winter of 2004, yes it’s 2008 and I’m nowhere near to being done, I was a svelte 6’3, 210 pounds.  Now, four years later, I’m still 6’3 but have put on about 140 pounds.  How is such a feat possible?  Simple, I have no time to cook or exercise and so eat the majority of my meals from fast food restaurants.

 

What most interests me about the various fried food dispensing chains is not the food but those who work there and keep the place running.  Typically McDonald’s is worked entirely by Mexicans with a white manager.  Wendy’s is almost always all Mexican staffed while Del Taco keeps a better mix of ethnicities.  Only stoned college and high school kids work at Sonic so I don’t go there.

 

As most, if not all, fast food consumers are white people looking to avoid the work of preparing a meal themselves at times the clashing of cultures leads to difficulties and hilarity surrounding an order.  After a long night my wife and I went to Wendy’s and obtained our order with no difficulties until I asked for salt.  Observe:

 

“May I have some salt,” I ask, loudly as I’m sitting in the passenger’s seat.

 

The drive-thru clerk looks at me, tilts her head to the side like a cat might do and does nothing.

 

“May I have some salt, please?”  I figured she might be waiting for the magic word.

 

“Sal…Wha…?”   She continues to stare at me.

 

“May I have some salt!” Now my ire is up and I don’t understand why this person refuses to hand me a package of salt.

 

“Sal…tuh?”  She then shakes her head and walks over to the manager who comes to the window.

 

“What can I get you?”  the manager asks.

 

“Salt.” I reply curtly.

 

“Salt?  Oh yeah we have salt.”  Then she too stares at me, doing nothing.

 

“Can I have some?” I shout.  My wife by this time is shaking with a fit of giggles, trying not to laugh at my difficulty in obtaining a simple table seasoning.

 

She looks startled, grabs enough salt packets to re-salinate the Great Salt Lake and thrusts them into my car.

 

We drive off and I vow to never again come to Wendy’s at 9:45 p.m. on a Wednesday evening.  All other times are free game though.

Free Write

There are very few people who can say they have accidentally altered their body in a permanent way. Other than a distant relative living in Canada who has only one eye my friends and acquaintances remain wholly intact. I, however, am among those few who have accidentally altered their body in a more or less permanent fashion. Do not mistake this declaration for boasting as, more often than not, those permanently disfigured have become so by idiocy.

When I was six years old, living in Euless, Texas, with my family and new baby brother, I had an adventurous group of friends. We explored the woods not far from my home, without first disclosing our location to our parents, could often be found jumping from the second bunk of a bunk bed onto bean bags below, and to this day, though I do not remember why, are banned from a certain Wal-Mart in the Dallas, Texas region.

It should come as no surprise then that one afternoon, with not much to do; we decided we would join the circus, each specializing in a certain talent we wanted to learn. My friend Casey wanted to be a trapeze artist, his younger brother Ricky wanted to train lions, and I wanted to walk the tightrope. As we did not have lions or a high pole from which to rig up a trapeze swing but did have rope we could string across a three foot section of tall fencing, it was only natural that I develop my skill first.

I decided my tightrope walking act would be revolutionary so, after Ricky and Casey strung the rope across the fence, holding it tight, I instructed the fourth member of our group, Josh, to begin hitting the rope with a plastic bat. I climbed the fence, a good six feet tall, took one step and fell headfirst onto the fence latch which for some reason, in Texas, was on the ground.

I now have a dimple under my left eye that can be seen when I smile or scrunch up my face and had not been present before my foray into the circus world. Needless to say my friends scattered like the rodents they were, my parents were merely relieved I was able to keep my eye, and now a picture of the vicious swelling and bruising of my face hangs in the entryway to my parent's home. My mother tells anyone who will listen it is, to date, her favorite picture of her oldest son.