![]() ![]() “‘ Make Believe finds Cuomo donkey-punching the formaldehyde-soaked corpse of his former glory.’” When he came back in ten minutes later, I read mine first. “Let’s each try to write a quote about this album for Metacritic to use, okay?” When “Haunt You Every Day” faded out with an unbearable minute of turgid guitar wankery, I looked at my younger self and saw him hopelessly in the moment, a tear rolling down his freckled cheek. “I think he just really likes his friend a lot,” I said. “I really like the lyrics on this song,” he said during “My Best Friend.” “Like, I think I might be in love with this one girl, but I’m pretty sure she just thinks of me as her best friend.” I had to slap the fucking kid when he tried to turn up “We Are All On Drugs”: not only was the song unlistenably monotonous, but its lyrics were so laughably pubescent that only a zit-faced rebel could find its sentiment affecting. If this album was supposed to be a return to Pinkerton’s emotional heft, it should’ve borrowed that album’s loose, incidental production.” It sounds like Rick Rubin is trying to attain the polish of Ric Ocasek’s production on the eponymous albums, but this crisp, epic shit doesn’t suit the band at all. Cuomo really is taking a lot of risks here.” “What do you think of the production?” I said. “This is Such A Pity” sounded like Hall & Oates. “Perfect Situation” sounded like a “Green Album” reject: mournful, predictable chords chugged along mildly as Cuomo offered vague laments. “I fucking love the way Rivers uses handclaps,” he said. It was his preternatural songwriting abilities that elevated his otherwise hackneyed sentiments to something transcendent.” Which is incalculably damaging, because Cuomo’s lyrics were never his strong suit. You can’t just play two chords and yell words and call that a hook. “It seems pretty disingenuous to me,” I said. The kid started headbanging to the two-chord arena-rock stomp of “Beverly Hills” he was fistpumping along with the chorus within 90 seconds. Scott had given my 15-year-old doppelganger a copy of Make Believe, so we put it on. The 15-year-old version of me approached his future house with his hand raised. He had a spike and freckles, a sideways visor, and a Quiksilver shirt on he was wearing mesh cargo shorts and Airwalks. Whatever the case, I wasn’t in the mood for it.Ī CMG van pulled up in front of my house, and a fresh-faced kid stepped out. #WEEZER PERFECT SITUATION CGHORDS FULL#Either he was sending Chet over with a trunk full of thesauri or Aaron was en route with a head full of rambling, questionable anecdotes about past acquaintances. Just like his vicious gambling phase, I expected it to pass quickly and just like I had to sell my car to get him out of a loan shark’s basement, I expected this phase to have dire ramifications, too. I knew Scott was on a “collaborative reviews” kick. “He’ll be there in an hour,” he said, and hung up. The hopefulness at the edges of Scott’s voice burst into elation. “I’ve already got an angle for the review for you and everything. “Scott, I’ve got a lot of shit to do this week,” I said. ![]() My trembling, hungover hand gripped the cell phone pressed against my head I coughed into it, and my breath reeked of cheap cigarette smoke. “Clay, listen, Amir had some stuff come up, he’s gonna have to pass on that Weezer review. CMG Editor-in-chief Scott Reid called me early on Sunday. ![]()
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