Pride has the distinction of being the only deadly sin that can also be an admirable quality. Of course, it can easily be taken too far. It may not necessarily be admirable to aggressively and boastfully display pride. It is nice, though, to take pride in hard work. Therefore, it is the only deadly sin with a nugget of goodness. This discrepancy is hard to unpack.
Let’s look at a few of the other prime sins. Nothing positive can come from a little bit of wrath; severe anger quickly sets a person down a destructive path. Overt greediness leads to one taking more than they deserve. So too does gluttony, in addition to making one obese and unpleasant. Pride, on the other hand, has some advantages (in moderation). This is what makes pride so complex.
Few statements are more rewarding to hear than, “I’m proud of you.” It is a warm and comforting sentence. It means you have done something good, something worthwhile. When others have pride in something you have done, it means they happily associate with you or your accomplishments.
It is a combination of self-pride and that expressed by others that drives the creative process. Pride is a major part of expression. If an artist or creator did not feel pride at least once over the course of the creation, the project would never be complete. And if there was not a sense of pride at this completion, the person would never begin something new. It is a prime motivator.
It starts to fall apart when pride leads to arrogance and conceit. As good as it is for others to have pride in you, this can quickly lead to an over-inflated ego. Too much pride is at the root of any instance of a God complex. It is easy for pride to infect a person and make them think they are better than others.
Essentially, the opposite of pride is humility. Even a hint of pride should be accompanied by a healthy dose of humility. Possessing a humble nature can counteract pride and turn it into a strength. It can prevent a person from feeling more important unnecessarily than others.
So pride is good--to a point. The difference, then, seems to be a bit of self-pride is good if effort merits the feeling. Similarly, when people feel proud of someone, this is validated when work has been done to deserve that pride. It’s when pride leads to an over-inflated ego that it begins to be a problem.
Wednesday, May 9, 2018
Thursday, April 12, 2018
Nostalgia: A Weird Heat Companion
The snarky sentiment in pop culture today is “Nothing is new.” More and more new releases—in any form—are sequels, spinoffs, remakes, and remasters. We applaud any new idea for being original. Meanwhile, the massive amount of repeated stories exist because they are safe. They play off nostalgia. An audience has a built-in sense of enjoyment which naturally extends to the newer edition. Even if the new form is not any good, it does not need to work to get a following (which translates to money). How many atrocious sequels have we seen make boatloads of money for no reason other than the preceding name? Nostalgia is safe.
As the line between originality and retreading becomes increasingly blurred, what will become of this concept? Essentially, every iteration of follow-ups will bring in fewer fans. It’s the basic law of diminishing returns. Star Wars is a wonderful example. The films released in the early-00s, known commonly as the Prequels, are critically panned but well attended because of the fond remembrance of the original series. There is still a sense of nostalgia for those original films, but whatever feeling of affection for the Prequel trilogy will be markedly less. Since the Prequel film is generally seen as being of less quality, there is naturally less nostalgia for these specific films. Instead, that nostalgia is transferred to the older, better films, or it begins fading away altogether.
The Star Wars example is an extreme one. The sheer amount of materials in the franchise ensure that it will never truly fade away. For something with less of a foothold in cultural literacy, the sense of nostalgia will disperse even after newer versions. The original Robocop film was mostly excellent; the 2014 remake was mostly forgotten (as well as the original sequels, for that matter). Copies merely transfer nostalgia towards the original (at best), or deaden nostalgia for the original (at worst). The perceived lack of original material is not destroying nostalgia altogether, but it is causing a shift.
This shift is away from our mutual sentimentality, and it is evident in the way we consume entertainment. Our exposure to pop culture has changed so much in the past few decades. Even twenty years ago, people had access to such fewer outlets for entertainment. There were fewer television channels; music was harder to come by on the Internet; video games were more or less limited to the technology at hand. It was easy then to have a shared, unified culture around one thing. With the Internet, we can cultivate our own interests to specific points. We have access to a glut of ways to stay entertained. Twenty years from now, it will be harder to summon the sense of nostalgia if there is so many niche markets. Sure, the sense of personal nostalgia will not change; people will still remember their youthful experiences fondly. The communal nostalgia, however, will be altered completely.
Consequently, there are two types of nostalgia: personal and communal. As much as I enjoy the warm and fuzzy private feeling, I do still lament the probable loss of the public. Meeting people of a similar age later in life—in college, for instance—is about exchanging common threads. I wonder how different such an experience will be.
As the line between originality and retreading becomes increasingly blurred, what will become of this concept? Essentially, every iteration of follow-ups will bring in fewer fans. It’s the basic law of diminishing returns. Star Wars is a wonderful example. The films released in the early-00s, known commonly as the Prequels, are critically panned but well attended because of the fond remembrance of the original series. There is still a sense of nostalgia for those original films, but whatever feeling of affection for the Prequel trilogy will be markedly less. Since the Prequel film is generally seen as being of less quality, there is naturally less nostalgia for these specific films. Instead, that nostalgia is transferred to the older, better films, or it begins fading away altogether.
The Star Wars example is an extreme one. The sheer amount of materials in the franchise ensure that it will never truly fade away. For something with less of a foothold in cultural literacy, the sense of nostalgia will disperse even after newer versions. The original Robocop film was mostly excellent; the 2014 remake was mostly forgotten (as well as the original sequels, for that matter). Copies merely transfer nostalgia towards the original (at best), or deaden nostalgia for the original (at worst). The perceived lack of original material is not destroying nostalgia altogether, but it is causing a shift.
This shift is away from our mutual sentimentality, and it is evident in the way we consume entertainment. Our exposure to pop culture has changed so much in the past few decades. Even twenty years ago, people had access to such fewer outlets for entertainment. There were fewer television channels; music was harder to come by on the Internet; video games were more or less limited to the technology at hand. It was easy then to have a shared, unified culture around one thing. With the Internet, we can cultivate our own interests to specific points. We have access to a glut of ways to stay entertained. Twenty years from now, it will be harder to summon the sense of nostalgia if there is so many niche markets. Sure, the sense of personal nostalgia will not change; people will still remember their youthful experiences fondly. The communal nostalgia, however, will be altered completely.
Consequently, there are two types of nostalgia: personal and communal. As much as I enjoy the warm and fuzzy private feeling, I do still lament the probable loss of the public. Meeting people of a similar age later in life—in college, for instance—is about exchanging common threads. I wonder how different such an experience will be.
Thursday, March 29, 2018
Pets: A Weird Heat Companion
Have you ever stopped to think how odd it is for humans to let animals walk around our houses unchecked? While we're away at work or school, a furry animal is left to its own devices to wander from room to room, interacting with anything according to its whims. It is strange. Basically, the only thing that separates my cat from a raccoon crossing the street is the window between them.
The thing about pets, though, is there is an accompanying emotion around them which everyone who has ever had a pet of their own immediately and universally understands. Pretend I detest aardvarks. If you have a pet aardvark, I may not appreciate the animal itself, but I can appreciate the love you have for it at the very least. For me, this is evident with certain dogs. I’m a cat person, so I’m not a fan of huge dogs who jump all over me with the apparent intent of forcing me to the ground. But I can understand its owner the person feels the same way as I do about any cat I’ve ever had.
We have unbreakable positive connections with our pets. The bond goes much deeper than being cute and furry. Sure, there may be a disagreement about what time to wake up or when to go outside. Then, all of the annoyances melt away with one “curl up next to you on the couch” moment. I have heard of people taking grieving days after losing a pet. This does not even strike me as weird. It would strike me as more strange to lose a pet and not have this reaction. It is part of the process of having a pet, and anyone who has ever made that connection probably agrees.
We can sort of point at anything and call it a pet. Dogs and cats are often called pets. Lizards and spiders can be called pets. A single rock has been called a pet. However unconventional the type, though, there is an implied mutual relationship: giving care and receiving comfort. While a pet rock might be easy to care for, I would expect someone to be at least mildly troubled if they lost it. The comfort returned from a loved pet is nearly unspeakable. They are warmth and happiness embodied.
I have had overlapping cats for almost all of my life. Each had distinct personalities, but there were constant similarities as well. As any pet owner knows: we take them to the doctor, buy their food, clean their actual toilets, and pay their room and board. What do they offer in return? Financially not much; we’re still mostly in charge. And yet, I hesitate to use the phrase “pet owner.” The relationship is different than owner and property. I do not have a right over my cat’s life. I take care of him, and he provides comfort in return. That extreme comfort is a reward any pet owner can understand.
The thing about pets, though, is there is an accompanying emotion around them which everyone who has ever had a pet of their own immediately and universally understands. Pretend I detest aardvarks. If you have a pet aardvark, I may not appreciate the animal itself, but I can appreciate the love you have for it at the very least. For me, this is evident with certain dogs. I’m a cat person, so I’m not a fan of huge dogs who jump all over me with the apparent intent of forcing me to the ground. But I can understand its owner the person feels the same way as I do about any cat I’ve ever had.
We have unbreakable positive connections with our pets. The bond goes much deeper than being cute and furry. Sure, there may be a disagreement about what time to wake up or when to go outside. Then, all of the annoyances melt away with one “curl up next to you on the couch” moment. I have heard of people taking grieving days after losing a pet. This does not even strike me as weird. It would strike me as more strange to lose a pet and not have this reaction. It is part of the process of having a pet, and anyone who has ever made that connection probably agrees.
We can sort of point at anything and call it a pet. Dogs and cats are often called pets. Lizards and spiders can be called pets. A single rock has been called a pet. However unconventional the type, though, there is an implied mutual relationship: giving care and receiving comfort. While a pet rock might be easy to care for, I would expect someone to be at least mildly troubled if they lost it. The comfort returned from a loved pet is nearly unspeakable. They are warmth and happiness embodied.
I have had overlapping cats for almost all of my life. Each had distinct personalities, but there were constant similarities as well. As any pet owner knows: we take them to the doctor, buy their food, clean their actual toilets, and pay their room and board. What do they offer in return? Financially not much; we’re still mostly in charge. And yet, I hesitate to use the phrase “pet owner.” The relationship is different than owner and property. I do not have a right over my cat’s life. I take care of him, and he provides comfort in return. That extreme comfort is a reward any pet owner can understand.
Tuesday, March 13, 2018
Disappointment: A Weird Heat Companion
No one likes to be disappointed. It's an unpleasant feeling. No one sets out to do something with the intention of being disappointed. Why would anyone purposely seek out that feeling? Likewise, no one wants to be a disappointment. "I'm not mad, I'm disappointed" is an instantly recognizable, infamously devastating comment. It is an all-around lousy feeling. But disappointment is also essential to art.
I believe the prospect of disappointment is what fuels our appreciation for art. It's like making a bet. By partaking in any art-form, we are risking disappointment for the chance at enjoyment. That uncertainty is all a part of the experience. It’s great when it pays off, but an enjoyable experience is made even more so by a lead up of disappointments. It’s a rush. If every piece of art met our expectations, wouldn’t we eventually get bored?
This holds true for both consumers and creators. Art always begins as a perfect vision in the artist’s head, and almost always becomes a disappointment after its creation. It is rare to find an artist completely satisfied with the completion of a project. However great the finished product is, the artist is typically left with a twinge of disappointment. This striving to attain the internal vision, and thus avoid disappointment, forces artists to keep improving and creating. Here again, disappointment drives art.
At the same time, a creator is constantly negotiating with the disappointment of their audience. The disappointment of fans, and avoidance thereof, pushes artists to continue innovating, almost as much as the creator’s own personal judgement. It is a regular cycle. At every turn, disappointment is an essential cog to the creative process.
Disappointment is often intertwined with nostalgia, where something you remember is simply not as great as it once seemed. We tend to associate art with a certain time period of our lives: a cherished TV show from a childhood, an overplayed song from high school, a thoughtful book in college. Sometimes when we return to one of these, it may bring back memories of old but position them within our current situation. We look back fondly on those memories, but then question our interests if the object is no longer as good as we remember it. This has more to do with personal memories than the quality of the surveyed item. We tend to conflate the good memories of the time with the possibly average artistic worth of the thing itself.
The opposite of a disappointment is, of course, a surprise. Contrary to disappointment, everyone loves a surprise. To mitigate the risk of disappointment, we tend to lower expectations, to the point where a pleasant surprise is more likely. But disappointment often pushes art to new heights. It is a ceaseless push and pull between surprise and disappointment. The art is worth the risk.
I believe the prospect of disappointment is what fuels our appreciation for art. It's like making a bet. By partaking in any art-form, we are risking disappointment for the chance at enjoyment. That uncertainty is all a part of the experience. It’s great when it pays off, but an enjoyable experience is made even more so by a lead up of disappointments. It’s a rush. If every piece of art met our expectations, wouldn’t we eventually get bored?
This holds true for both consumers and creators. Art always begins as a perfect vision in the artist’s head, and almost always becomes a disappointment after its creation. It is rare to find an artist completely satisfied with the completion of a project. However great the finished product is, the artist is typically left with a twinge of disappointment. This striving to attain the internal vision, and thus avoid disappointment, forces artists to keep improving and creating. Here again, disappointment drives art.
At the same time, a creator is constantly negotiating with the disappointment of their audience. The disappointment of fans, and avoidance thereof, pushes artists to continue innovating, almost as much as the creator’s own personal judgement. It is a regular cycle. At every turn, disappointment is an essential cog to the creative process.
Disappointment is often intertwined with nostalgia, where something you remember is simply not as great as it once seemed. We tend to associate art with a certain time period of our lives: a cherished TV show from a childhood, an overplayed song from high school, a thoughtful book in college. Sometimes when we return to one of these, it may bring back memories of old but position them within our current situation. We look back fondly on those memories, but then question our interests if the object is no longer as good as we remember it. This has more to do with personal memories than the quality of the surveyed item. We tend to conflate the good memories of the time with the possibly average artistic worth of the thing itself.
The opposite of a disappointment is, of course, a surprise. Contrary to disappointment, everyone loves a surprise. To mitigate the risk of disappointment, we tend to lower expectations, to the point where a pleasant surprise is more likely. But disappointment often pushes art to new heights. It is a ceaseless push and pull between surprise and disappointment. The art is worth the risk.
Wednesday, February 28, 2018
Optimism: A Weird Heat Companion
Generally speaking, we view optimism as a good thing. Optimism as opposed to pessimism; positive as opposed to negative. When someone claims to be a pessimist, we assume the person is a downer, while an optimist is someone who is fun to be around. In the same breath, however, we could say it is the difference of idealism against realism. An idealist is a person who strives for the absolute best (the ideal) in a situation, a person known otherwise as an optimist. By contrast, therefore, a realist must be someone who expects the worst. Is being realistic such a bad quality? No, we would not say outright: idealism equates to positivity and realism to negativity. To my mind, idealism and optimism may be synonymous, but realism is certainly not pessimism.
Optimism is a difficult state of mind. It takes work. Any opportunity that goes wrong is a proverbial chink in the armor. For pessimists, on the other hand, they can offer a casual accepting shrug to any incoming problem. Even though optimists are, by nature, positive people, their attitudes are often met with annoyance by other people. As if optimistic people are too clueless to realize what is actually going on, their benevolent actions are nearly invalidated. This is not very fair. If we've already established optimism is broadly positive, where is the logic in attacking it? Staying optimistic is worth the effort. It's what makes having a favorite sports team fun. Optimism puts the excitement in anticipation.
Conversely, optimism can lead to heightened disappointment. Perhaps, it is the outward expression of disappointment which gives optimism a bad rap. If we are constantly expecting the best, it is more likely to fall short of expectations than to meet them. In fact, it seems optimistic anticipation is directly related to disappointment. In any case, if we could monitor our levels of anticipation and disappointment, optimism could be a more attainable state of mind. As for the phrase, "cautiously optimistic," could a person reasonably claim instead to be "hopefully pessimistic"? Unfortunately, this is not part of regular vernacular. Simply put, optimism is one complex feeling.
Everyone could attempt to be a little more optimistic. Simply being optimistic is not a choice, to be sure, like any emotion is not a choice. I know that. But attempting to minimize poor expectations while opening a mind to the possibility of a good outcome has got to be an overall good thing. An optimist (probably) goes through life with fewer stresses. A scientific person (so, not myself) could go so far as to argue optimistic people live longer. They might even be more fun to be around, in the long run.
A realist is someone who expects something somewhere in the middle, not the best possible outcome but nowhere near the worst. A realist would be far too neutral to claim one side over the other. Instead, we should call a pessimist--join me, I'm smithing a word--a "despairist," one who expects the absolute worst. This is a far more accurate comparison. Honestly, most people are mostly realists most of the time because we live in a predictable world. I know I am. Sure, it's easy to get excited about one thing or dread another. But isn't it better to be happy along the way? If we could shift our expectations a slight fraction for the better--and allow others to do so as well--we might end up a happier place.
Optimism is a difficult state of mind. It takes work. Any opportunity that goes wrong is a proverbial chink in the armor. For pessimists, on the other hand, they can offer a casual accepting shrug to any incoming problem. Even though optimists are, by nature, positive people, their attitudes are often met with annoyance by other people. As if optimistic people are too clueless to realize what is actually going on, their benevolent actions are nearly invalidated. This is not very fair. If we've already established optimism is broadly positive, where is the logic in attacking it? Staying optimistic is worth the effort. It's what makes having a favorite sports team fun. Optimism puts the excitement in anticipation.
Conversely, optimism can lead to heightened disappointment. Perhaps, it is the outward expression of disappointment which gives optimism a bad rap. If we are constantly expecting the best, it is more likely to fall short of expectations than to meet them. In fact, it seems optimistic anticipation is directly related to disappointment. In any case, if we could monitor our levels of anticipation and disappointment, optimism could be a more attainable state of mind. As for the phrase, "cautiously optimistic," could a person reasonably claim instead to be "hopefully pessimistic"? Unfortunately, this is not part of regular vernacular. Simply put, optimism is one complex feeling.
Everyone could attempt to be a little more optimistic. Simply being optimistic is not a choice, to be sure, like any emotion is not a choice. I know that. But attempting to minimize poor expectations while opening a mind to the possibility of a good outcome has got to be an overall good thing. An optimist (probably) goes through life with fewer stresses. A scientific person (so, not myself) could go so far as to argue optimistic people live longer. They might even be more fun to be around, in the long run.
A realist is someone who expects something somewhere in the middle, not the best possible outcome but nowhere near the worst. A realist would be far too neutral to claim one side over the other. Instead, we should call a pessimist--join me, I'm smithing a word--a "despairist," one who expects the absolute worst. This is a far more accurate comparison. Honestly, most people are mostly realists most of the time because we live in a predictable world. I know I am. Sure, it's easy to get excited about one thing or dread another. But isn't it better to be happy along the way? If we could shift our expectations a slight fraction for the better--and allow others to do so as well--we might end up a happier place.
Monday, February 26, 2018
Game Review: What Remains of Edith Finch
The term, "walking simulator," does a disservice to most games. Okay, the majority of such a game is spent walking around, interacting with, and discovering facets about surroundings. It is not a "game" in the traditional sense of challenging puzzle solving or action-based levels. Such games are experiences which tell a story through interactions with the environment. Think of it like a book with more to do than simply turn pages. The term, "walking simulator," is reductive. It may be an accurate description, but it should not be a derisive one. That said, What Remains of Edith Finch is a walking simulator. It is also one of the finest examples of storytelling I have encountered this year--in any art form.
I should be up front: the developer of this game did something very nice for me. They exchanged a digital Steam code on my ancient PC for a shiny new code for the Xbox One version. It does not affect my opinion of the actual game, but it should be mentioned. Regardless, please note: the developers are pretty cool.
The story is told in a dozen or so short vignettes over the span of two hours. The short time frame, however, does not deter from the overall narrative. It is a collection of fascinating stories--some which are better than others--all told in a sitting or two. Each chapter follows events or moments in the lives of individual members of the Finch family. The theme is macabre (I mean, death is constantly encompassing) but not necessarily horrifying. And honestly, to say anymore about the experience would be a detriment.
When I say some of the stories are better than others, each episode takes a different approach. They all follow a different character, take place in another wing of the house, and utilize a new gameplay mechanic. Will all of these variations, some do fall short. Some characters are less interesting than others, or the new mechanic does not feel quite right. The beauty of the game’s format, however, eases from one story to the next so a weaker one does not linger. On the other hand, the stories are diverse and inventive, so they feel fresh. The highlights are very high.
The events spread throughout the brilliant set piece that is the Finch family house. A massive, sprawling structure complete with secret corridors and hideaways, simply exploring the house is a marvelous experience. For the couple hours spent in the house, the player begins to feel like another inhabitant. The house feels handcrafted yet bolted together, like a jigsaw puzzle. In reality, it would be a desirable place to explore.
Suffice to say, What Remains of Edith Finch is well worth the time. It is the type of game anyone could enjoy, from experienced players to those who have never before used the machine. The actual gameplay is never too difficult to bar someone from enjoying it. At two hours long, the game is the length of a tight movie. It tells an impactful story in about a dozen vignettes. After confronting the game’s conclusion, and after a brief chill runs down your spine, you will witness video games as storytelling at its very best.
I should be up front: the developer of this game did something very nice for me. They exchanged a digital Steam code on my ancient PC for a shiny new code for the Xbox One version. It does not affect my opinion of the actual game, but it should be mentioned. Regardless, please note: the developers are pretty cool.
The story is told in a dozen or so short vignettes over the span of two hours. The short time frame, however, does not deter from the overall narrative. It is a collection of fascinating stories--some which are better than others--all told in a sitting or two. Each chapter follows events or moments in the lives of individual members of the Finch family. The theme is macabre (I mean, death is constantly encompassing) but not necessarily horrifying. And honestly, to say anymore about the experience would be a detriment.
When I say some of the stories are better than others, each episode takes a different approach. They all follow a different character, take place in another wing of the house, and utilize a new gameplay mechanic. Will all of these variations, some do fall short. Some characters are less interesting than others, or the new mechanic does not feel quite right. The beauty of the game’s format, however, eases from one story to the next so a weaker one does not linger. On the other hand, the stories are diverse and inventive, so they feel fresh. The highlights are very high.
The events spread throughout the brilliant set piece that is the Finch family house. A massive, sprawling structure complete with secret corridors and hideaways, simply exploring the house is a marvelous experience. For the couple hours spent in the house, the player begins to feel like another inhabitant. The house feels handcrafted yet bolted together, like a jigsaw puzzle. In reality, it would be a desirable place to explore.
Suffice to say, What Remains of Edith Finch is well worth the time. It is the type of game anyone could enjoy, from experienced players to those who have never before used the machine. The actual gameplay is never too difficult to bar someone from enjoying it. At two hours long, the game is the length of a tight movie. It tells an impactful story in about a dozen vignettes. After confronting the game’s conclusion, and after a brief chill runs down your spine, you will witness video games as storytelling at its very best.
Wednesday, January 31, 2018
Album Review: Jeff Rosenstock - POST-
Before I even put on Jeff Rosenstock’s new album, I wondered what the title meant. Because I had done no research, simply picking it up after a favorable review, I presumed the title POST- had something to do with genre. Typically in music (or any art form, for that matter), “post-” refers to a stylistic shift. I wondered if that was the case here, if the album was a departure from the artist's previous work. It did not really matter though, considering I was also unfamiliar with the artist. To be fair, I never do much research on music before I listen to it.
At any rate, since I had no expectations, I was pleasantly surprised when the album blew me away. My theory about genre shift was partly correct. Bookended by a 7- and an 11-minute song, the album accomplishes a variety of styles. Furthermore, each of the styles function incredibly well in their moment. Every song is given a chance to breathe. From the anthemic opener to the melodic close, the album resonated with me, fairly immediately and constantly.
Although musical styles evolve during the album’s run, each song has a personability which remains throughout. Even the most raw songs are endearing, as if Rosenstock is presenting a gift. The energy is both simplistic and brilliant. And despite the repeating oppressive nature of the words, there is a sense of hopefulness nothing short triumphant.
The best art comes from turbulent eras, and POST- feels very much a part of its time. The opening track is an angry, resilient yelling match about the state of life, appropriately titled “USA.” This bleeds directly into an equally angry, yet equally resilient “Yr Throat.” The finale reassures us that we will do anything but “Let Them Win.” (You can fill in your personal ‘them.’) All of this should come as no surprise in 2018. In fact, it becomes more difficult not to listen to the music without the lens of time and place.
Only a couple listens of this new album were enough to make me go back to his older material. With POST-, I found, Rosenstock doesn't really do anything new. I know this sounds like an indictment, but it's not meant to be. Instead, what I mean is that there is a melding of a variety of different sources. These sources are evident throughout the record. There are echoes of Weezer, shades of Titus Andronicus, even bits of DIY punk. In effect, I think this is why the album appeals so much to me. Is nostalgia enough to win over an album? Can you even call it "nostalgia" if it is for something you have never before experienced? Over the course of 40 minutes, POST- effortlessly manages to transport me to different eras of my musical tastes. It would not sound out of place to me in high school or in college. It is certainly not out of place for me now.
At any rate, since I had no expectations, I was pleasantly surprised when the album blew me away. My theory about genre shift was partly correct. Bookended by a 7- and an 11-minute song, the album accomplishes a variety of styles. Furthermore, each of the styles function incredibly well in their moment. Every song is given a chance to breathe. From the anthemic opener to the melodic close, the album resonated with me, fairly immediately and constantly.
Although musical styles evolve during the album’s run, each song has a personability which remains throughout. Even the most raw songs are endearing, as if Rosenstock is presenting a gift. The energy is both simplistic and brilliant. And despite the repeating oppressive nature of the words, there is a sense of hopefulness nothing short triumphant.
The best art comes from turbulent eras, and POST- feels very much a part of its time. The opening track is an angry, resilient yelling match about the state of life, appropriately titled “USA.” This bleeds directly into an equally angry, yet equally resilient “Yr Throat.” The finale reassures us that we will do anything but “Let Them Win.” (You can fill in your personal ‘them.’) All of this should come as no surprise in 2018. In fact, it becomes more difficult not to listen to the music without the lens of time and place.
Only a couple listens of this new album were enough to make me go back to his older material. With POST-, I found, Rosenstock doesn't really do anything new. I know this sounds like an indictment, but it's not meant to be. Instead, what I mean is that there is a melding of a variety of different sources. These sources are evident throughout the record. There are echoes of Weezer, shades of Titus Andronicus, even bits of DIY punk. In effect, I think this is why the album appeals so much to me. Is nostalgia enough to win over an album? Can you even call it "nostalgia" if it is for something you have never before experienced? Over the course of 40 minutes, POST- effortlessly manages to transport me to different eras of my musical tastes. It would not sound out of place to me in high school or in college. It is certainly not out of place for me now.
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