There’s a tendency to initially consider all music as some kind of encoded relic. We plunder an artist’s lyrics in search of weighty universal truths, or whittle away at a song’s structure until there’s nothing left to discuss. That’s what music writers do, and that’s what we get slammed for: misinterpretation, or missing the point completely. There are songs that need dissection, bands who are esteemed for their skill and their prose, but there are also bands who make music that doesn’t require any sort of great reveal.
In my experience, Boston’s Pile are always talked about in extremes: Fans would gladly offer up their first-born to be listed for a sold-out show, while others just don’t “get” it. Whenever someone leans into me and mutters, “I just don’t really get Pile,” it always feels like they’re unloading a great burden, as if the rabid Pile fans are going to climb out from their haunts and commit a heinous act in the name of loyalty. Sitting around trying to understand this band is like waiting for Godot — an absurd and inconsequential waste of time — because there is nothing to get. Pile write songs about the most inane elements of our daily lives; they write songs that sound angry and frazzled and totally primal. They’re the kind of band that you need to plunge into — drop any attempt at lyrical discernment in the gutter because there’s absolutely no way that will be more fun than picking out the one-liners that emerge every time the tempo churns. DUMPY WOMAN IN A TRACKSUIT, Rick Maguire spits out and then and pauses on “The World Is Your Motel.” IT’S ALL THE SAME TO ME. At least, that’s what I think he’s saying.