I’ll be the first to admit Our Love to Admire lacks the immediacy that gave the band its initial power, and that none of its songs reach the dizzying heights of “Length of Love”, but I still think it gets a bum rap.
“Pioneer to the Falls” is a great — and structurally interesting — opener. “Mammoth” is a certified rager. And “Mind Over Time” has is one of the band’s best applications of texture, and easily its best b-side since “Specialist” (without any of the latter’s stiltedness). And while the songs in between range in quality and impact, each of them has interesting moments and more varied use of guitar and drums than the prior albums, and none of them is a total disaster like the worst tracks on Antics.
That said, I found the Julian Plenti album infinitely more refreshing.
Remind me never to take you places.
Yeah, maybe to the beach?
(God, it’s just AWFUL!)
Can I really be the only one who thinks Antics is Interpol’s worst album?
“Next Exit” and “Not Even Jail” are tedium incarnate. “Evil” is so laughably clumsy that I hope never to hear it again as long as I live. “A Time to Be So Small” is basically unchanged from its demo version, released four years earlier by a band not yet fully formed.
Don’t get me wrong: “Narc”, “Slow Hands”, “Public Pervert”, and especially “Length of Love” are stunners, and the bass breakdowns in “Take You on a Cruise” justify Carlos D’s entire time in the band. But my god, are the bad songs ever bad!
No Interpol record since has operated at such contradictory extremes. And none has contained a song remotely as terrible as “Evil”.
You are correct. What is “I got my squeaky voices mixed up”?
It’s Trebek’s terrible botching of the cadence that creates a mental block and makes the question much harder than it should be.
One must block Trebek out completely, and read the words to oneself (imagining Mike D’s voice), at which point the answer just pops to the frontal lobe. But try doing that in front of cameras, and with Trebek staring dumbfounded at your failure to appreciate his ill flow.
Johnny Rotten would like to take this opportunity to remind you that he doesn’t give a fuck.
It’s a pretty darned well-made song, to be honest.
Having seen The Entrance Band twice, I can confirm that Lenchantin is a veritable monster of a bass player and a musician. Shame that she has now thrice signed up to subjugate her talent to the whims of bald, pasty megalomaniacs (Keenan, Corgan, Black).
Oh, well, musicians gotta eat!
As seen in the documentary, the “My lifestyle determines my deathstyle!” lyric was actually Hammett’s delightfully addled brainchild.