Megadeth's Final Album, & An Easy Goodbye

Time passes by faster than we like to admit, but it doesn't feel like it was that long ago that the 'big four' were having what seemed to be a second coming. Metallica had returned from the alternative wasteland, Slayer reunited a few times with Dave Lombardo, Anthrax had Joey Belladonna back, and Dave Mustaine brought Megadeth back from the abyss that was "Risk". No one was releasing classic records, but they were as close as they had been in twenty years, which felt like a good omen for metal as a whole.

That didn't exactly come to pass. Metal feels even less mainstream than ever, with less bands and albums giving me any reason to care. Slayer retired, only to start playing festival shows again. Anthrax has taken a decade to make an album, because Charlie Benante would rather spend his time pretending to be in Pantera. Metallica is treading water, which makes them the highlight of the bunch. And then there's Megadeth...

I haven't spent much time writing about Megadeth, because I haven't spent much time listening to Megadeth. Their recent albums have gotten solid reviews, but I am of the opinion they are graded on a soft curve after "Thirteen" (sorry, I refuse to spell it the idiotic way) proved "Risk" wasn't a one-off display of Mustaine's wretched taste. Hearing more thrash written for the sake of playing guitar solos, or attempts at 'melodies' from a voice that cannot sing them, didn't hold much appeal, but I would be remiss if I didn't address the band now that they are retiring.

One of the singles leading up to this final album is titled "I Don't Care", which lists off a slew of things Mustaine claims not to care about, ignorantly unaware that writing a song talking about not caring shows that indeed he does care. That has always been Mustaine's weakness; he cares too much that he hasn't gotten the same respect and success as Metallica, despite still outperforming nearly every other metal band that has ever existed. Mustaine comes from the zero-sum world that operates under the assumption that if anyone is doing better than you, it means you must be a failure.

That psychology is cringe-worthy when you read the bad high school lyricism of that particular song, but it becomes sadly laughable when you see that Mustaine closes out his career by covering a Metallica song. He has spent his entire career living in Metallica's shadow, and his retirement statement is to pretend he's back in Metallica for six final minutes. No, it doesn't matter if they list it as a 'bonus track', the fact it's there at all says everything. It's no coincidence their career paths have nearly traced the exact same line, but it didn't have to end this way.

At this point, is there anything we can say about this album that would have any impact at all on how we think about Megadeth? What's more interesting is to contemplate what Megadeth's retirement means for both metal's history and future, and if there are latter-day sins so grievous they can tarnish the gold-plated legacy a band established years ago.

We started to deal with our musical mortality when Slayer retired, but that felt more like the result of a tragedy finally registering than it did the beginning of the end. Musicians are notorious for staying on the stage long after their decline becomes impossible to ignore, so addicted to the rush they can't see how sad the spectacle has become. Whether it's Bob Dylan croaking songs because it takes less breath than blowing out the almost uncountable candles on his birthday cake, or the myriad singers who spend entire shows with their eyes glued to the teleprompter, age cannot be fought off forever.

Megadeth's retirement is just the first that will mark the end of the era that defined metal. In the coming years, we will have to say goodbye to Judas Priest, Iron Maiden, and yes, Metallica as well. Once those bands are gone, those of us in these generations will be facing a world with two options; we either subsume our identities into what the younger generations have made of our building blocks, or we spend the rest of our lives living in the past. Given how many of those bands tried and failed to stay with the times during the 90s, and how the inevitable 'return to form' was embraced, I think it's pretty clear which option we are most likely to take up.

Over time, a band's impact concentrates as we add new memories, and the weight of them collapses the layers. Megadeth was a mighty force at one time, but time has rendered them quaintly irrelevant. There is no wave of Megadeth-inspired bands I can point to as an obvious legacy, and the band is perhaps known as much for the embarrassment of "Risk" and the cringe of "Sweating Bullets" as they are for "Rust In Peace". Unlike their contemporaries, Megadeth was never a good live band, so they haven't been able to prop up their legacy by pleasing both new and old fans with tours that remind us of the glory days. Seeing Megadeth, or at least listening to Mustaine try to sing, is very much like drawing a pencil line on your scalp to watch your hairline recede.

That is to say Megadeth's retirement hardly feels like the momentous occasion it should. Mustaine has done plenty over the years to make it hard to root for him, and perhaps the feeling that is coming through the strongest right now is that of relief. I won't miss the feeling of obligation to listen to yet another album that keeps the inertia moving along, nor will I miss the countless stories featuring Mustaine putting down the past in an effort to convince himself the next chapter of Megadeth would be even better.

Megadeth's legacy isn't complicated. Theirs is that of a band who did some great things, but who spent their entire career in a competition that was entirely one-sided. Megadeth was always trying to be someone else rather than figure out who they were, and it comes through in their discography. They shifted their sound and style to chase popularity, to chase the audience, to chase Metallica. They cycled through more disposable members than all the other bands, because there never really was a Megadeth, there was only Dave Mustaine's need to create something bigger than himself.

That fire might be the reason why Mustaine wrote every great Megadeth song, but it's also the reason he burned so many of us out. Now that Megadeth is ready to say goodbye, they exist more as a one-night-stand who still calls every so often trying to relive a particular moment in time rather than as someone you could truly find yourself caring about.

That is to say; it doesn't matter what the last chapter is when you put the book down long before you could get there. 

Do "Birds Still Sing" If We Can't Hear Them?

I am well aware that there are ways my personality can be obsessive. When certain thoughts enter my mind, they loop and swirl with the regularity of a celestial orbit, held fast to my consciousness by a gravity I don't know how to fight. I have had many of the same dreams for as long as I can remember, and the same regrets have bloomed as if hearty perennials that cannot be killed by drought or neglect.

The same applies to music in rare circumstances. When a song hits the right mark, I can find myself listening to it repeatedly, as if creasing a piece of paper so it can more easily fit in a place I can hold it close. These songs come at unforeseen times, and they have come more infrequently as time has gone on. When one's situation becomes more unique, finding a shared ethos will obviously become more difficult.

The best thing about 2025 was discovering the music of Taylor Acorn. Her album "Poster Child" was my Album Of The Year, but the gift extended further, as her two previous releases combined with it to be the most exciting revelation I have had in several years. For as much as "Poster Child" and "People Pleaser" won me over for touching on pieces of my psychology, the eerie silence of the holiday season revealed which song of Taylor's was echoing in my head, and it was neither of those.

"Birds Still Sing" is the closing track off her "Survival In Motion" release, and I find it all too fitting that I did not hear the impact it would have upon my first listen. Adding a new song to my list of all-time favorites has become increasingly rare, but as the song replayed again and again, I began to realize what was happening. Last year might not have been the greatest year for music, but it led me to a song that can sit comfortably among those I have relied on for decades. That's the highest praise I can offer.

"My arms feel so heavy holding onto the hope/And I could sink into silence/I could blame anybody else/For this battle I'm fighting."

Hope is indeed a heavy burden to bear when there is little evidence of its success in your fossil record. When you have "bones in the closet", as Taylor calls her regrets and fears, finding the faith to believe they will ever be ground into a fine enough powder to blow away on the breath of a prayer can feel like an impossible task. Positive reinforcement is a very real thing, but so is the negative side, and when life has trained you to expect nothing good to come your way, mere thought is not going to be able to re-wire the practiced path.

In these recent times, I have found myself becoming more silent. As I have questioned the nature of friendship, and how tenuous many of the connections I have are, I have been pulling back. Whether that is a conscious experiment or an unconscious acknowledgment, the battle I'm fighting is one of my own expectations. Maybe my perception of friendship asks too much of people, or maybe I have overestimated the social score of everyone else that I observe. In my mind, we are celestial objects drifting further away as does the entropy of the universe. That is, of course, unless we make the effort to hold on to one another. But a rope grasped at only one end does not hold people together, it holds one person back.

"Birds still sing on bad days/Flowers grow around graves/Not everyone stays but the real ones do."

I have grown angry with people when they give the 'advice' to merely act happy, or 'manifest' happiness, and everything will improve. They don't realize the implication of saying such things is to blame the depressed for not wanting to be happy. Maybe we don't know how to be happy, or maybe there are aspects of life that are beyond our control. Not everything can be solved by contorting your face into a smile to trick your body into releasing dopamine. Especially when things pertain to other people and the ways we interact, we cannot control what they do or think.

Could I have done more to stay in contact with the friends who have faded from my life? Of course I could, but I cannot force what they don't want. I was never the one to cut ties, I was never the one to walk away without a warning or goodbye. There is a unique pain that comes from sending your hope to someone you cared about, only to have it marked 'return to sender' when they refuse to acknowledge you anymore. 'Just smile' isn't going to help.

"Give yourself a little grace/And if you look close where the cracks meet/We're still blooming in concrete."

That line was the only resolution I made for this year. I am attempting to give myself grace for not holding onto the people who have already let me go, for not spending my energy on people who are black holes of attention. I have been facetiously theorizing about the Laws Of Interpersonal Thermodynamics, the first of which is that energy between people cannot be created or destroyed, only transferred from one to another. That means when you care about someone who returns none of the favor, your energy is then given to people you don't even know, who are blessed with more love than you ever had within you to begin with.

What that leaves some of us are 'energy deficits', where every instance of caring takes more and more from us, even when there is almost nothing left. We have to choose whether to risk what little remains, or use that fuel to keep ourselves going long enough for fortune to find us.

It isn't that I don't believe blooming to be possible, despite what I said about The Wallflowers' song "Some Flowers Bloom Dead" being a perfect metaphor for me, but rather that such blooming will not be what I might expect. Taylor's song is the rare encouragement that remembers dark times are not merely inventions of our minds, and happiness might not come from the place other people tell us to look. It's ok for us to feel what we feel until that day comes.

I'm not saying any of that is intended in the song, but it is the meaning and feeling I have taken from it, which has been essential. I've lost count of how many times I've listened to that song over these last couple of months, but I know I won't stop anytime soon.

Let's call it a mantra.

Album Review: Greywind - Severed Heart City

Sometimes, I find it difficult to figure out if a common sentiment is genuine, or is merely the inertia of the past hitting terminal velocity. In the last couple of years, there has been a resurgence of emo, which has happened to coincide with me reaching my emo phase far older than I should have. There have been numerous records that fit the bill to one degree or another that I have been fond of, which has propped up my listening and lists as some of the old stalwarts have been failing me. The biggest attention getter from all of this was the return of My Chemical Romance, who have been touring in huge venues, and who put out one rapturously received new song to herald this era of backwards looking affection.

I ask the question about how genuine the emo revival is, because My Chemical Romance in particular is a phenomenon I do not understand. Yes, I think "The Black Parade" is a great album, but nothing else they have done has ever spoken to me, and that reunion single was one of the most worthless songs I've ever heard in my life. That so many people treated it as the second coming felt to me much the same as the devoted Christians who seem to have never read the words spoken by their God.

Greywind cite My Chemical Romance as an influence, but they approach emo from a different angle. They are less maudlin and melodramatic by nature, but Steph O'Sullivan's voice would give a different color regardless. Her delivery comes without the sharp and cynical snark that dominated that wave of emo, instead giving Greywind's music a more natural and genuine quality. That lets the songs breathe, and it stops me from wondering if "Let's See If You Can Float" is intended as a musical version of the old David Letterman bit, "Will It Float?". Damn, that's not the worst idea, is it?

Over the course of these ten songs and half-an-hour, Greywind focuses on delivering their emo with plenty of pop sheen. This is more "Bleed American" style Jimmy Eat World than "Futures" style, where the darker edges of our negative feelings are bleeding in around the edges, as opposed to being the focal point slowly seeping over the entire scene. That means while we are facing the issues and questions brought up by the self-exploration of the songs, we are doing so through the kinds of jaunty melodies that make us feel as if we are dancing with our demons, and not practicing to dance on our own graves. Feeling terrible is too easy to bring it on intentionally.

My favorite track is "Moon", which is a lovely sing-along that reminds me not so much of the aforementioned emo bands, but of The Nearly Deads. Like that band, Greywind is remembering that if you take a tacky Velvet Elvis, you can repurpose it into a soft pillowcase. Listening to "Swerve" is like feeling that caress, and the tactile rush that comes along with focusing all your attention on your sensory experience. Non-ambient music can't really be ASMR, but the idea is similar in theory.

All of that is to say Greywind has made an album that manages to hit different marks depending on your mood as you listen to it. The songs work as pure pop songs to deliver us feel-good moments if we want to lift ourselves up. The songs work as emo bangers if we want to know someone else has felt the way we feel. That sort of versatility goes a long way to keeping the album fresh as we go back again, as does the brevity of its running time. This is the sort of album you can listen to, and then go back and listen to the highlights again, all without feeling burned out.

Album Review: Soen - Reliance

I have long had a theory that every listener has a limit at which a certain sound will lose its impact, because we have already heard and absorbed it. That would explain why long-running bands get accused of losing steam, and not making albums as good as their 'classic days', even as they keep gathering new fans to replace the old ones. The bands aren't always (ok, sometimes they are) making music that is inferior, they are playing to an audience that is less receptive to more of the same thing. It's natural to seek out new highs, both for artists and the audience.

Soen has carved out a niche for themselves in the metal world, establishing a sound that it entirely their own. They have honed this across their last four records, sharpening their writing on each successive album. They have mastered the blend of heavy, complicated rhythms and emotional melodies. That those records have finished #1, #1, #1, and #2 on my year-end lists speaks to how fond I am of what Soen does.

That's why I started this review off as I did. Soen is not doing anything different on this album than they have on the last few, but I wonder if I am perhaps different than I was when "Memorial" came out. Since then, the world has been upended yet again, and there are multiple ways of reacting to those events. Soen has put their anger into the music, writing songs about how they think we are straying from the path. I have mostly resigned myself to understanding there are far more people who perhaps don't deserve respect or empathy than I ever believed. Soen is still fighting, while I have lost a lot of hope.

This is embodied by "Primal", a surging cascade of metallic riffs that ebb and flow with Joel's passionate vocal to warn us about the destruction technology is setting upon our lives. I would like to think we have lived with these things long enough now to know how to use them in the proper way, that does not seem to be the case. We become addicted to the information itself, needing more and more to fill the time our minds are no longer capable of filling with thought and contemplation. It's a worthwhile message, but delivered with a bit of clumsiness as the lyric turns to warning about "violent pornography". Compared to "Mercenary" warning us about "turning vultures into kings", the language is stilted, and one of those moments that snaps me out of the immersion.

I have always struggled with visualizing music as math, which means rhythms often blend together. Soen's music relies on chunky, muted bursts of guitar, some of which are becoming difficult for me to distinguish from the rest. There are a few riffs that pop up through the album that my brain tries to fill in with bits from earlier albums. That's a 'me problem', not an indication of the quality of the songs. "Discordia" and "Axis" still hit hard, and admirably fill the roles songs like "Covenant" established.

"How does someone become so heartless," Joel asks in "Indifferent", which is the question of our time. We have leaders explicitly telling us that empathy is a weakness, and that anything short of brutalizing those who aren't on 'your team' is a character flaw. The 'zero sum game' only adds up to zero if you want it to, and somehow we have trained ourselves into believing anyone else succeeding means we must have failed.

In that same spirit, we should not treat art as a competition either. We are guilty of comparing everything to everything else, creating hierarchies where any album that doesn't measure up to the absolute best begins to feel like a failure. That is as ridiculous as thinking that a rainbow drawn with seven markers is an accurate representation of the color spectrum. Nuance is difficult, but without it we will only see the extremes, and miss the majority of existence.

That is to say; "Reliance" is an album I need to keep perspective on. Soen is still operating at a high level, and hasn't lost any of the vim and vigor that has propelled them to the elite of modern metal bands. That being said, this album has not hit me as hard nor as fast as "Lotus" or "Imperial" did. I believe that is because Soen is hitting a spot that has already been bruised and scarred over, so the next impact cannot be felt in the same way. There is a degree of being inured involved, and again, that is entirely on me and not the band. "Reliance" is Soen being as good as they've ever been. I imagine it will dig in deeper as the year goes on, and much of what I've written will be an honest moment in time that is not frozen as such.

Single Review: Morrissey - Make-Up Is A Lie

We haven't heard from Morrissey (at least musically) in several years, as controversy and spite had reportedly led to several full albums being shelved, because no suitable contract to release them could be reached. Who blinked first is not known, but Morrissey and the world have come to terms, and a new album will be arriving in early March. To 'celebrate' this liberation of his music, the first new Morrissey song in years is upon us.

If you can look past the absolute tripe of the photograph chosen as the cover, what we get is a song that echoes that laziness and bad decision making. This is not a lyrical statement, nor is it a bop of a song. "You Have Killed Me" was not a masterpiece of literature when it signaled "Ringleader Of The Tormentors", but it had a compelling guitar hook and a singable chorus. This song, by contrast, is the pencil sketch before the thick black ink is applied to the outlines of a paint-by-numbers template.

The production is a thin warble of electronics that have no power, the limited frequencies highlighting the age in Morrissey's voice. He strains and cracks to deliver a lyric that is barely a lyric. He thinks he is telling a story about the Paris art scene, but the verses are so bare-bones they only say that the narrator is in Paris and with a poet. No other context, no other details. That poet then says "make-up is a lie" again and again, with no further explanation, nor anything to break up the monotony.

It might be argued this is Morrissey's take on the way society views beauty and aging, but that would be us giving him credit for something he isn't saying. There is no insight in the lyric, no commentary about the hypocrisy of men like him being able to get gray and stupid without the same standards being applied, and no indication he's thought this through on a level deeper than the layers of powder and foundation he is singing about. He doesn't wrestle with the implications of women needing to wear a cosmetic mask to garner the attention and approval of society, nor does he even bother to say he prefers people in their natural state. When the third 'verse' mentions seeing those words on the woman's gravestone, it is clear Morrissey is one of those people who would read an epitaph and believe that tells him enough to claim to know the heart of the person they speak for.

I have written before that Morrissey's reputation as a lyricist may have never been deserved at all, but certainly should have been called into question over these last twenty-plus years of tedious and terrible language. "You Are The Quarry" was twenty years ago now, and looking back at the start of Morrissey's 'comeback' is an exercise in how low we set the bar once it has already been cleared. That album featured childish insults, petty whining, and the general stench of someone whose head has been lodged firmly in their own ass. It also featured the one insightful song Morrissey has written in all this time, and the few true melodies he bothered to sing, so the problems were overlooked. With no poetry, no insight, and no melody, Morrissey has nothing left to distract us with.

The only way this song is interesting at all is to consider the title snark, and that the idea of Morrissey making up with the world at large is a joke upon us. Morrissey has, for years, given the impression of being nothing but a musical shit-poster, and if this is a genuine effort to put his best foot forward after years of being rendered irrelevant, it would be yet sadder. The part that angers me is not that Morrissey is disappointing me, because I don't actually care if he ever releases another song I enjoy or not, but that I've already read many fans speaking rhapsodic about this song and this vocal. How? Why? Where can I get lobotomized the way they have?

Listening to this song, and considering the last two or three Morrissey albums, I'm struck by this thought; Is it better to be thought a washed-up asshole, or open your mouth and remove all doubt? That is the question...

Album Review: Alter Bridge - Alter Bridge

When a band releases a self-titled album well into their career, it can mean one of two things; either the band is completely out of ideas, or they are attempting to 'reset' expectations of who they are. Self-titled albums are viewed as being 'back to basics', and all about solidifying the band's identity. Perhaps that's what Alter Bridge needed to do, because they might be losing the thread as much as I am.

Over the years, as Mark Tremonti and Myles Kennedy have embarked on solo ventures, those projects and Alter Bridge have been converging on a single musical focus. Tremonti and Alter Bridge were supposed to be the difference between metal and rock, but these days they are distinguishable only by the different vocalists. Myles Kennedy started his solo work exploring folk and blues, but his latest album was also a heavy rock album not too dissimilar from Alter Bridge.

That leaves us with the inevitable question; if the two writers are already making Alter Bridge sounding music on their own, do we still need more Alter Bridge music?

I'm not sure I know the answer to that question. To be perfectly honest, I haven't been a huge fan of anything they have done since "AB III", which was another quasi-self-titled album whose name could take a few paragraphs to fully ruminate on. What has struck me about Alter Bridge since then is the shift in focus away from the hookiest heavy rock they could write to a sound that feels far more focused on the metallic riffing than on the ear candy that separated Alter Bridge from a lot of other bands. Combine the shift in focus with productions that emphasize the guitars that are tuned down so far they often sound more like basses, and it creates an atmosphere that can feel like an hour of soupy darkness.

The other aspect to the production is that it leaves the entire bright end of the spectrum to Myles' voice, which you might think means he has plenty of space for his voice to shine in the mix, but what it does is make clear the elements of his voice that can read as 'shrill' when he pushes himself. Still, none of this would matter much if the band is delivering top-notch material. The same issues could be raised about "AB III", but those songs hit me in a way that I seldom think about anything else when I'm listening to that album.

There are moments like that on this record. "Rue The Day" is classic Alter Bridge, with all the heavy riffs you could want, and a chorus where Myles locks in and delivers a stirring hook. It's the king of writing that is deceptively difficult, and an album that can do it time and again deserves all the praise we can muster. Unfortunately, these dozen songs aren't able to keep up that momentum from beginning to end. There are stretches where the songs get bogged down in the guitar churn, where Myles' melodies become flat drones rather than moving strings of notes.

Between the production and the melodies, the album's hour-long running time can be a chore. With the exception of the acoustic-based "Hang By A Thread", the rest of the album hits the same tone time and again, and the songs were not uniformly memorable enough to stand apart in my mind. The aforementioned are great, and "Playing Aces" fits that bill, but much of the record blends into itself. Going back for repeated listens wasn't exciting so much as it was work.

I've been wondering for a while now if putting out so much music between all these projects is not only making the sound too pervasive, but draining the creative well too quickly, and those questions are at the front of my mind after listening to this record. It isn't bad by any means, far from it, but it's one of those records I don't find enjoyable to listen to.

Why? "Because The Night", That's Why.

Salvador Dali's most famous painting, featuring the imagery of melted watches, is titled "The Persistence Of Memory". That is an irony, because memory is flexible, fallible, and often a figment of our own imagination. By the time we conjure a memory, we can't be sure if we are remembering the event itself or our prior memories of that event. That is why there is no such thing as a reliable narrator, even when we are telling our own story to ourselves.

There are songs in our lives that become obsessions. These are the songs we came across at just the right time, in just the right circumstances, to become the backbeat of the metronome by which our hearts pump. If we are lucky, we don't lose that feeling as time wears on, and the list of songs continues to grow. That is by no means guaranteed.

One of the songs that has infected me in such a way is Bruce Springsteen's "Because The Night". Over the years, I have listened to the song countless times, I have watched nearly every live performance the search algorithm would provide me. I made sure to use Springsteen's name, because it is his performances that always struck that chord with me, not the version Patti Smith turned into a hit. Why I found myself in the author of the song and not the most beloved rendition is a question I never gave much thought, but perhaps makes sense in the context of my life. Not including it when I made the list of my ten favorite songs ever now feels like an intentional oversight, because part of me still prefers to ignore what connection exists between Springsteen's music and myself.

There has always been something heart-wrenching about a song that opens with a minor key piano figure, as well as something hypnotic about a circular rhythm and melody such as that of the bridge. The composition of the song centers on the haunting piano line (which would resurface in Creeper's "Midnight", a good song that doesn't have the same mesmerizing appeal), before it erupts in the percussive bursts of the chorus. Within the three minutes of the studio version from "The Promise", the song is cinematic in its own way, part romantic noir and part carnal horror. In the expanded running time of Springsteen's live versions, the extended guitar solo is a drawn-out manifestation of ecstasy, where the key change rises like... well, you can draw your own picture.

"Because the night belongs to lovers, because the night belongs to lust," Springsteen's studio version of the chorus sings. Though it was meant in different context, the night is indeed when those subjects come to 'life'. In the song's story, attraction becomes a physical timekeeper as each thrust counts off the increments before the day will surely come. For some of us, night is when we are left to our thoughts and dreams, and we can create a world more accepting of ourselves than the one we live in. Is this why I have never been a night owl? Perhaps. Is it why I have written much of my own centered on the idea of preferring the dreaming state, because that is the only place love exists? Absolutely.

While I often joke that love is a 'four-letter word', it comes from a very real place that exists somewhere between the conscious and subconscious. My family never said that word to each other, and I was once given the dead-serious advice to never seek it out, which combined with my psychological wiring to convince me that my dreams were all I would ever have. So far, that lack of faith has paid off. When I talk about music being my 'currency of thought', this is what I am referring to. Springsteen (and Patti Smith) did not intend the song to mean this, but I found in the words a way of explaining the mental drains my thoughts swirl around. Songs like this one allow me to understand what the chemicals in my head are doing as they poison the well.

I have known all these years how much "Because The Night" haunts my thoughts and echoes in my subconscious. What I did not realize until recently was how my memory had failed me. It was not Springsteen who brought this song into my life, nor was it Patti Smith. It was... 10,000 Maniacs.

Hearing their name come up in a joking context recently spurred my memory, and gave me back the first experience I had with a favorite song. The band covered "Because The Night" on their MTV Unplugged performance, which became their biggest hit. It is that live version that I remember hearing emanate from the car speakers on a summer day as we drove past the lake. It is that interpretation that I remember seeing again and again on tv when music videos were still what their programming consisted of. It is Natalie Merchant's voice that burrowed into my mind in ways I am only now remembering.

Her lilting tone is utterly unique, and matched precisely for the haunting presence of the song. Whereas Springsteen's performance of the song is that of a man exhausted of everything but the fuel for love, Merchant's performance is that of someone weary of living only for the night. The vulnerability of her voice has an undertone in which we realize that love is more than passion, and that whether we are awake or asleep, the dream only lasts for so long.

Even if it is a mere moment in time, it is one I am still trying to inhabit, one I am trying to stretch the way Dali skewed and distorted the watches in his painting. Love is something we cannot live without, but we cannot control. We try to hold onto it when it comes, because we never know if it will come again. Of course, that's if it ever came at all. Until that day, we still have our dreams, "because the night" belongs to those of us who crave the connection.

Singles Roundup: Guns N Roses, NMB, & Blank Era

I never found the holiday spirit when it comes to Christmas, but did I find it when it comes to new music? Let's check out a few new songs and see how generous I'm feeling.

Guns N Roses - Nothin'/Atlas

The string of songs the 'reunion' of Guns N Roses have put out continues here, fleshing out material from the "Chinese Democracy" years with extra bits of Slash's guitars. There have been rumors of the band working on an album, which is not a thought that inspires much optimism from me. One of two things is going to happen; either it will be more "Chinese Democracy" era songs that weren't good enough to make an album people already talk about as one of rock's biggest disasters, or it will be an entirely new batch of songs Axl no longer has the voice to sing.

That's what makes these songs so disappointing; they aren't GNR as they currently exist. We know these songs were written to be produced in the "Chinese Democracy" style, and adding a few Slash overdubs doesn't change the issues with the songwriting. Axl was not writing typical rock songs, and a new guitar solo doesn't make them any less self-indulgent than they already were. For as flawed as the album was, Axl at least wrote a few songs that had artistically interesting melodies interspersed in his experimentation. These songs, like the last few the band released, lack that key element.

These two songs are a good example of the psychological trauma of perfection. By spending twenty years trying to make these songs live up to an idea in his head, Axl has sentenced them to exist in a time and space between versions of GNR. New guitars sit alongside what I assume are twenty year old vocals, attempting to update songs that sound entirely behind the times. It's ironic that going back even further would feel fresh, but that might be the most amusing part of this whole thing.

If this is all GNR has left to offer, I don't think I want to hear any more of it. We've now proven there never were three albums worth of great "Chinese Democracy" songs as we were once told. We don't need to keep getting beaten down.

NMB - Fully Alive

Leave it to prog to continue coming up with ways of annoying me on a philosophical level, before ever getting to the music itself. I was pissed off when Neal Morse and Mike Portnoy used the last Transatlantic album as a vehicle to put out two completely different versions that could not be reconciled without buying both of them, and then burning your own preferred playlist. I found it offensive that 'artists' could not settle on a single vision they believed represented their work. If they had no belief in either one, why should I?

This is less annoying, but the first single for the new NMB album finds those same two once again experimenting with the limits of honesty. This song is the first advertisement for the record, but it will not appear on the album. No, this single is an amalgamation of two tracks, which is a strikingly weird thing to do. If I listen to this repeatedly and love it, I'm inevitably going to be disappointed when I don't hear it as I play the full album. Why set fans up for disappointment?

The good news is the song is not going to cause that kind of angst in me. It continues the long-running theme of Neal Morse's music no longer speaking to me. I don't know if it's the familiarity that does it, if Neal's knack for catchy melodies has been suffering, of it I'm that put off by his continued slathering of effects on the vocals. I swear, Bill's vocal section on this song is unlistenable, sounding more artificial and fake than the music I've heard sung by AI recently. It's perhaps the one thing in modern music I hate more than anything else these days, and Neal is the single biggest offender.

So am I excited for the new album? I think you know that by now.

Blank Era - Yesterdaze

A few years back, A Light Divided ended up #1 on my top songs of the year list with "Rain". They have been on a hiatus lately, which is being filled with singer Jaycee Clark's new project, Blank Era. After putting out an EP last year I did not hear about until months later (hence why I never covered it or included it on my year-end lists last year), she returns with a new single to perhaps kick off a new batch of music.

Jaycee is a unique voice, with a gritty tone that balances melody and aggression in a way few singers can match. She is the highlight of anything she is on, but Blank Era is more than that. This song is a propulsive bit of modern rock that balances electronic atmosphere with crushing guitars, all the while injecting a stirring hook that demands our attention. I would expect nothing less from Jaycee, who has a knack for doing this. Hopefully there will be more songs coming, because she and her band are a bright spot in a modern rock world that often seems colorless and faceless. She is neither, and Blank Era has a lot to offer.

No, I Do Not Like Bob Dylan

Perhaps the most aggravating question that can be asked of someone with fickle, or very particular, tastes is this; "Why don't you like ___?"

It's a simple question, and it's usually asked with genuine curiosity, but it carries with it a subtle implication that the default position should be to like anything and everything until we rationalize a reason not to do so. I fundamentally disagree with this position, and I have found myself vacillating between frustration and anger when I am looked at with suspicion for not being generous enough to the things I come across. There is a discussion to be had about whether an opinion is worth anything if one enjoys everything, and a discussion to be had about what kinds of people are incapable of criticism, but we will leave those for another day.

If we were dealing with an issue strictly of thought and reason, it would follow that our words should be able to explain the process that leads us to our decisions, that explains why we love the art we are fans of. But that is not the reality we live in. Perhaps it is still more of a philosophical maxim I hold than an unambiguous fact, but I believe our artistic taste is not academic, but it dominated by our feelings and emotions. Great art moves us in a way that is hard to explain, because we aren't thinking about why it happens. Songs 'pull on our heartstrings' rather than overwhelm our logic, and that leaves us at the mercy of chemicals and consciousness that has yet to be fully understood by science.

"Why don't you like Bob Dylan?"

That is the question that set me down this path today. As I have mentioned countless times over the years, I am (or was) both an amateur songwriter and a fan of words. It would seem logical, then, to say that I should be a fan of the man considered the greatest songwriter in modern history, and the recipient of a Nobel Prize in literature.

And yet... I don't like Bob Dylan at all. In fact, I have said for longer than I have been writing these things down that Bob is not even the superior Dylan. His son Jakob's work with The Wallflowers has resonated far more with me than any of his father's greatest hits, and I continue to come away more impressed by songs he has written than those that are more celebrated as genius by the mainstream.

Why?

There isn't an easy way to explain that. Academically, I can know how important Bob Dylan is to popular music, and how revered his words are as the voice of a generation. Emotionally, I get nothing out of his work. Whether his metaphors are couched in narrative stories in ways that make them feel dishonest, or his voice is simply too difficult an instrument to take seriously, the songs of Bob Dylan hit me as if unearthing fossilized relics of a previous incarnation of the human species. That's an overly dramatic way of saying what I intend, which is to say I cannot recognize the world Bob Dylan is singing about because I was not part of it. His phrasings might have spoken to people who were coming of age in that time, opening their eyes to the way time was beginning to move to a new chapter, but that isn't all that different than trying to read a book written in old English.

I have tried several times to dive in and find the missing thread I can pull on to reveal the answers, but it never happens. One of my favorite comedies even mentions "Blood On The Tracks" as the soundtrack to our most miserable moments, which is a bit of connective tissue that dissolves each time I try to grab hold.

I keep trying to unravel "Tangled Up In Blue". I hear Bob Dylan telling a story out of time, with no insight, reciting the events as if filing a newspaper report. There is no evidence these characters have ever known what love is, let alone been in that state themselves. Dylan goes from chapter to chapter, giving us no reason why he (or the character) would miss the woman he is singing about, and showing us nothing about their passion.

Reading the lyric along with the song, I cannot escape thinking about Jack Kerouac's "On The Road". That book was written in a manic state as a single paragraph typed across one-hundred-and-fifty feet of paper. Bob Dylan is writing in much the same way, throwing out a frenzy of details of life without giving us the humanity that turns it into art. Kerouac's book was hugely influential on me as a writer, because it showed me everything I didn't want to be. The prose was so bare and arid, it was a book entirely of plot points, devoid of anything interesting for those who didn't care about hearing him count and recount every sexual experience as if he was trying to remember how many miles of tread were left on a set of tires before both would be abandoned for something new. Bob Dylan's language is often much the same, telling stories with no panache, with no care for if he was entertaining the audience or not.

Worse than that, I don't get the impression listening to Bob Dylan that he has even entertained himself. He often sounds bored singing the words that made him famous, save for when he's calling the thoughts of others an 'idiot wind', which serves as context telling me not to care about what he is trying to say. In a way, Bob Dylan is a prophet of language in the same way Yogi Berry was; hitting on genius turns of phrase only by sifting through entire avalanches of the most mundane language.

The more I listen, the more I get distracted by the songs written in narratives and characters. Songs have never struck me as good vehicles for telling deep stories. The limited amount of words we get (I say limited, but like bob Dylan and others, I have had a penchant for using far too many to comfortably fit in a melody) demands efficiency, and the repeating nature of choruses or strophic structure necessitates a phrase or image that can paint an emotion in our minds that sticks through time. Bob Dylan's stories are sepia-toned, like watching a black-and-white movie outside the historical context and knowledge to appreciate the older art form.

The old form is a sentiment I cannot escape. Bob Dylan's music is rooted in both early folk and blues, neither of which has aged well as the world has sped up. His musings and lamentations come often in the form of long-winded recitations of words without concern for songwriting as a different art than journaling. Between his flat delivery and preference for repetitive form, the majority of the songs I have heard could be recited as poetry at an open mic night without missing anything of the performance. Bob Dylan, the greatest living songwriter, doesn't come across as having put much effort or thought into a key aspect of being a songwriter. Philosophically, there is a fundamental disconnect between his approach and my belief of what makes a great song truly great.

And perhaps part of this is that I did not try listening to Bob Dylan until his last 'comeback', when the genius I was reading about released records where he sounded not like death warmed over, but just like death. My first impression was that of someone so far past his prime it was difficult to imagine one existed.

Some people read for the story, praising Ernest Hemingway as a titan of the form. I read his clipped syntax and pine for the artistry that separates writers from storytellers. Bob Dylan is less a songwriter to me than he is a storyteller, and storytelling is not what I turn to music for.

I'm sure many (if not most) who read through the lyrics I have penned would grow frustrated by the way I struggle to say much of anything without cloaking it in a rhetorical flourish. I understand that, and I would not fault anyone who says my style is not for them. By that same accord, I don't think it is incumbent on me to keep searching for something in Bob Dylan's style that would allow me to enjoy his songs. He and I simply do not align on an artistic level in almost any way or form.

Now that I've written this much trying to explain myself, I'm hoping this means I can ignore Bob Dylan in peace for many, many years.

A Short Story: Boxing Day

Editor's Note: Since it's the holiday season, and there isn't much going on in the world of music, I'm feeling festive by instead giving you, the readers, this Christmas-themed short story I wrote a few years ago. Enjoy!

 "Boxing Day"

Strings of lights stretched from pole to pole, carrying the Christmas spirit across the city, casting the bright cheer into any window not covered top to bottom in thick velvet. The light was inescapable, turning the snow a sickly shade of red, the only color lights that were still available in such large supply. The color was one shade of festive, rather sinister when not in conflict with the green of renewal. How an entire industry had arisen from such a violent clash of colors was mysterious, but color-blindness would not be the first or only way people don't see what is directly in front of their faces.

Plumes of smoke rose from chimneys like dirty cotton blotting the black of the night. From afar, they could be taken as signs of good cheer, families gathered around the fireplace to share company and warmth on a special occasion. Or, they could be seen as the industrial incineration of the trappings and wrappings of the day. Paper and boxes being turned into heat, saving money on a heating bill while splurging on the excesses of consumer culture. A healthy thermostat can't be bragged about as can having a television a few inches bigger than anyone else in a social circle. Size envy comes in all forms, after all.

The lights dotted red circles in the snow below their line, but they were not alone. Smaller circles followed the sidewalk, painting the path from one horror to another, not deformed by the haste of escape. They were the art of calm violence, a signature clear enough for anyone to read, if literacy had not fallen out of vogue long ago.

As the morning sun rose, the snow glistened like the tears of a God who could no longer recognize his own creation. Sadness permeated the air, the disappointment of never having enough mixed with the longing for time to move faster so the next bout of hope could be within reach. It was offensive to many that civility was seasonal, so the answer they arrived at was to fight the climate, to stop the seasons from ever changing.

With Christmas dinner still in the bottom of their stomachs, the people stepped out into the crisp air, looking upon the garish displays they plastered across every inch of their town. The trinkets and baubles replaced having to actually care about their fellow humanity, as symbols were just as good as the real thing. Perhaps even better, because they could last longer than the warmth of a hug caught in the fibers of a sweater.

"I know it's early, but we'd might as well get started with these decorations," Morris said.

His family stood behind him in the doorway. The air left their lungs as he spoke, as though they were coughing out the wadded paper that kept their gifts from getting crushed as the packages were shaken while the tree was unguarded.

"But you know the rules," Mickie reminded him.

He would not have argued with his wife the day before, but with Christmas spirit now packed up on Boxing Day, he had no fucks to give for holding back.

"Fuck the rules. There's no such thing as too much Christmas spirit," he bellowed.

"Wait, what?" she asked.

"Did you think I was taking the decorations down? No, we're going to start putting next year's decorations up," he said.

Mickie held her face in her hands, hoping the mottled colors from the pressure pushing against her eyes would be a better sight than her house covered in even more garish accoutrements. If she had known then what she knew now, she would have tied a ring of rope around his neck, rather than put one of gold on her own finger.

She reached down and picked up the newspaper, shaking the powdery snow from the bag. She slid the roll from its sheath, feeling the satisfying thunk of it hitting her outstretched hand. Bad news hit hard, and the metaphor pleased her.

In large red letters, the headline read, "Christmas Killer Takes No 'L' - Wins At Murder Again."

"Look at this," Mickie said. "That Christmas killer struck again."

"Well, that's one less person to compete with in the house decorating contest," Morris said, without realizing the callousness of his statement.

"It says here," Mickie added, "the killings begin and end every year coinciding with Christmas decorations."

"What are you getting at?" Morris asked.

"The police are saying if we all take down our decorations, the killings might stop," Mickie said.

"Balderdash!" Morris responded. "If a few people have to die, it's a small price to pay to rub it in everyone's face that I have the most Christmas spirit."

Mickie wondered if it was possible to murder someone with a newspaper, if the edge was sturdy enough to slash through the neck and drain Morris of the red liquid masquerading as his soul. She hated him, not just because he was growing more cruel by the day, but because he was now extending the holiday season to the entirety of the year, and he would tell her the holidays are no time to leave someone alone. She knew he was controlling her, but she did not think him smart enough to do it intentionally. He was, as so many are, a lucky asshole.

"You do you," Mickie sighed.

As the sun descended, the sky around Morris' house did not grow dark, as thousands of new lights became a glowing beacon, in case Santa got lost and circled back for a second night. Mickie pulled the blanket over her head, trying to find peace, but the incandescence seeped through her eyelids, no matter how hard she crimped them together.

Morris got in bed, his self-satisfaction swollen. At least, Mickie knew, that meant other parts would not be. She would at least have respite from that.

"Say, honey," Mickie cooed. "Why don't you wear your Santa hat with the lights on it? Really get the spirit flowing."

"Great idea, for once," Morris agreed.

He primped the hat, massaging it into the perfect shape, fitting it over his head as though he was being crowned King Of Christmas. He laid down, turning on his side, the flashing lights direction in front of Mickie's eyes. She knew it would be a long night.

As the sun rose again, Mickie felt unburdened. She could not see the flashing lights through her closed eyes, but they danced on the ceiling when she opened them. The light bounced on the points of the stucco, diffusing into a wash of color. She hated painting anything white, but she was sick of red and green.

She turned her head toward Morris, who was quiet. She stared at him, or at least what was left of him. A fake beard was stained red on his chest, two candy canes jabbed through where his eyes had been. A ball of mistletoe was wedged in his mouth, the same one from his obnoxious belt-buckle.

Mickie rolled back over, putting her hands on her chest. She took a deep breath, tasting the calm and peace in the air. Her fingers traced the edges of the Star Of David hanging from her neck.

"Now I get why people like Christmas so much," she said to herself.