Posted: by The Alt Editing Staff
It is impossible for me to write about Jeff Rosenstock without getting deeply personal. This is exactly the appeal of our original DIY hero and punk parasocial. My fascination with Jeff’s music revolves around the idea that sonically it takes me back to my youth but lyrically it speaks to me now. I am sure fans my age would say that they felt as though they grew up alongside him.
Sounds amazing. And yet, my attachment to Jeff started after the release of this record. Despite growing up on punk, ska and emo, I missed the rise of his previous band/musical conglomerate Bomb the Music Industry as it coincided with my prog rock phase. College put me onto indie (of course), which eventually led to rediscovering my love of punk, but by then the chance to get deeply into Bomb had already passed me by. So, the glorious return of Jeff Rosenstock wasn’t exactly on my radar in March 2015. Little did I know how much it was going to change my life.
Today, Jeff is without question my favorite musician. My friends and I travel the country to see him: Seattle (home), San Francisco, Portland, Los Angeles, New York, Chicago, Minneapolis, Las Vegas, Reno, DC, Missoula, and most recently New Orleans. I was at six of the eight shows during the Brooklyn residency last year. 2016’s WORRY was responsible for kickstarting this obsession. But that’s a conversation for next year. This year is for We Cool? and it’s a treasure of its own.
The truth of the matter was initially I liked We Cool?; I didn’t love it. Probably wasn’t the right time of my life. I had just met my wife-to-be and thus was preoccupied in peak honeymoon phase. It was smack dab in the middle of the least frustrating year of my adult life. What a time to be me.
What a time not to be Jeff. The dissolution of Bomb wasn’t merely the end of a band; it was his friends leaving him. The end of a friendship is much like the death of a loved one, only arguably worse because the person is still alive and choosing not to be with you. This proves not only to be a critical topic in this record; it sends Jeff soul-searching.
Much of this record is him coping with aging, insecurity, and fucking up. But it’s not the “Jesus Christ, I’m 26” melodrama Dan Campbell sang about on a 2013 record I was quite fond of. Hell, Jeff was already 32 and in a long term committed relationship. Really at the core of this he just wasn’t ready to give up the dream yet. Turns out, neither was I. As I approached my 30s I began finding myself connecting to these songs more and more. I was afraid of aging; I felt like my life was missing purpose; I made mistakes in my relationship that I worried were doing irreparable damage. So there was a lag, but boy did this one eventually hit.
(Side note: Jesus Christ, I’m 36. Somehow I sprained my wrist in my sleep and I’ve been in intense pain for two days).
By the time Bomb took the stage for the final time at Warsaw in March 2014, the prolific songwriter had already come up with the material that would become We Cool? Having released and toured on an unofficial debut record I Look Like Shit by himself in the dead space between the release of the final Bomb album Vacation in 2011 and their final show, Jeff decided to put a new band together to usher in the new era.
I would be remiss if I didn’t shout out the band. It’s easy to just refer to this music as Jeff’s but these guys are very much a part of it. Per an interview with Vice, everything came together so quickly with SideOneDummy that the solo name ended up sticking. It’s also possible Jeff didn’t expect this to work out long term, that these friends wouldn’t also leave someday, but since the release of this record he’s had a consistent backing group: John DeDominici, the lone carryover from Bomb, on bass and Kevin Higuchi on drums. Mike Hugenor of Shinobu and Hard Girls played guitar on this record and soon after became a full-time touring member as well. Along with multi-instrumentalist Dan Pothast who would join the group in the coming years, the quintet is now sometimes affectionally called Death Rosenstock.
Prior to the release of We Cool?, the gang shot out “Hey Allison,” a short romp that proved Jeff still had plenty of juice. This would serve as the lead single and a concert staple for years to come. Followers may have heard this track and thought, “it sounds like Jeff is doing ok after all!”
The opener of this record “Get Old Forever” tells us, well, not quite. Replete with glockenspiel, some oooohs and a shoutable chorus – classic Jeff tropes – we find our protagonist drinking malt liquor at a house show while his peers are now buying starter homes. Growing up and growing apart is inevitable. Jeff grapples with feelings of resentment and inadequacy, but circles back to what would become one of the major themes in this phase of his career: embrace the time you have with your friends. Life takes us all in different directions, but make sure to love and receive love. Don’t lose touch entirely. Don’t let bad memories get in the way of making new ones.
The outstanding opener of We Cool? acts as a thesis statement for an album about personal and interpersonal triumphs and tragedies. Trying to be the person you’ve always wanted to be, but feeling incapable. Daydreaming and drinking the day away instead of working towards becoming that person and excusing it. Worrying that your friends will abandon you when your life paths no longer run parallel. Assuming your friends will abandon because you no longer suit them. Fearing that you’re already a burden so you pre-emptively shudder yourself. Continuing to make mistakes – because you’re human – but finding it harder and harder to reconcile with yourself and the people you’ve hurt because you should not be making the same goddamn mistakes anymore.
Okay, it’s mostly an album of tragedies, but Jeff’s knack for filtering anguish through catchy anthems can make you feel triumphant even if you don’t deserve it yet. And that’s where the magic lies. You find joy and revitalization against all odds. Through this music you find yourself ready and able to face the world – and yourself – another day.
This feeling is encapsulated in the album’s two classics.
“Nausea,” which still stands today as Jeff’s most popular number, describes a life of depression and anxiety atop a stomping beat, peppy piano and a sax appearance. The brilliance of the songwriting is that toward the end it sounds like he’s getting better – cleaning up, exercising – and just when he finally gets to reaching back out to his loved ones, he immediately hangs up the phone. As someone who has never really suffered from depression or anxiety – backdoor brag I know – but has for some reason or another gravitated towards people who have, this track is something of a revelation. Empathy has, regrettably, not been a strength of mine, but dammit if these songs don’t help me work towards getting better.
And then there’s “You, in Weird Cities” coming in at track two, a song that would be transformed live into an extended version, the ultimate cathartic scream off (RIP crowdsurfing sax man Jeff). It continues the themes of the opener with his friends moving on literally and figuratively while he stays the same, but finds comfort in listening to their music and remembering the good times, pretending that they would not ever have to move on. Well, for Jeff it wasn’t pretending.
And here I am, ten years later, watching the friends I’ve made start having kids, and I have a hard time being happy for them. I don’t like kids. I’ve never wanted kids. Furthermore, if you’re lower or middle class, I feel like having kids is conceding that you’re never going to realize your personal goals and dreams, so it’s time to start raising another human that might have a chance at doing just that. And I know that’s reductive. I don’t mean to belittle anyone who finds purpose in parenthood. But I am still not ready to accept that [Spanish Love Songs voice] I am mediocre, and I am certainly not ready to lose my autonomy.
There’s a delicate balance between accepting that these changes are inevitable and allowing yourself to be happy for your friends getting what they want, while also lamenting that a chapter in your life is closing. And every year I find myself screaming, “I WANNA HANG OUT WITH YOU” just a little bit louder.
While “Nausea” and “You, in Weird Cities” are classic Rosenstock style happy/sad jams, we also see some solemn maturation in the form of “I’m Serious, I’m Sorry.” It’s a tune that takes the irony and sarcasm of the album’s title and cover and makes it, well, serious.
We don’t know the specific subject(s) of this song, and Jeff doesn’t really talk about it, but there is a very clear hurt and regret in this one and not an ounce of snark. Alternating between quiet palm-muted guitar in the verses, and a bristly, loud refrain, there’s never really a moment where you get to “jump and pump” along. Jeff’s actually serious! We’re not allowed to dance to this one. The searing bridge finds Jeff admitting that his constant sarcasm (and drunkenness) is not helpful while his friends are in pain and it’s pushing them apart, ultimately concluding: “I stood there saying nothing while you wept before your new friends.” One of his greatest fears realized and it’s all his fault, every line is delivered with a naked honesty that we hadn’t really to that point heard from Jeff. The song ends repeating the title over and over as a plead that ends with whimper. It’s too late.
So much of Jeff’s music at this time is focused on his failures but set to a catchy tune in a way that sometimes paradoxically tricks the listener into idolizing bad behaviors instead of using it for self-reflection. And that may have been more permissible in the Bomb days, but now we’re in our thirties and there are consequences for our actions: relationships severed.
This feels like a good place to plug “Hey Allison” to cleanse the palette. And it really is a smart placement on what is a well-sequenced record. The front half of the record has its peaks and valleys, some sillier tracks (side note: “Novelty Sweater” is underappreciated) and the aforementioned serious one, while the end run of the record takes us on more of a journey. This is something that we will see executed to a higher degree on WORRY, but the bones are here and they are still very strong.
It begins with “Polar Bear or Africa,” which is finally starting to get its due and finding its way into the regular live rotation. Jeff is lamenting that in America we grow up believing in this American (No) Dream that we can be and do whatever our heart desires only to find that the path to get there is difficult if not impossible. Finding little satisfaction with the grind and not being able to fully realize his dream, Jeff treats himself like crap, knowing we would forgive him, but moreover we would eventually forget him. This devolves into Jeff rationalizing the bad behavior further by considering the burden we become on the people we become close to: trips to the hospital, debt, funeral costs. Why make friends and family when that’s all we have to show for it? The ensuing eruption is the extremist moment of catharsis on the record. You can catch me in the pit launching myself as Mike and Jeff’s blistering tremolo strumming adds melodic mania to the breakdown.
The next few tracks see Jeff bombing out, convincing himself his friends are waiting for him to fuck up so they have a reason to disown him on “Hall of Fame,” lamenting “might as well be no one” on “All Blissed Out.” By the end of “The Lows,” however, Jeff circles back to finding solace in the themes of the opening tracks: “Stop, think, good times are ahead of you / This isn’t the end / We’ll always be friends / And we’ll smile like we’re falling in love when I see you again.”
Between the lines here and elsewhere on the record is that it sucks to grow apart from friends and family, but sometimes it’s also healthy and okay. We are constantly changing, so it only makes sense that our relationships change as well. We can still return to each other at lesser intervals and be able to rekindle the good feelings we once had. We can still enjoy the memories.
“Darkness Records” closes the album tying in themes of recordings from “You, in Weird Cities,” even ending with a pseudo-orchestral reprise of its melody. But this one isn’t about music, it’s letters and photos. The memories we have of our past. Despite Jeff urging the subject of the tune to burn and shred this history for a fresh start and calling these relics “petty moments in a grave,” I believe Jeff knows same as me it’s worth it to have the photos now. I always avoided taking pictures because I didn’t want to be vain, wasn’t a social media guy, whatever, or I would say I wanted to live in the moment. But then I look back at pictures of me and wife looking young and beautiful (note: my wife is still beautiful as ever – I am not) I regret not taking more pictures. They may be petty moments in a grave to everyone else, but that’s my life.
A universal theme, from Green Day’s “Good Riddance,” to the devastating intro scene of the Pixar’s Up to Andy’s closing remarks in the series finale of The Office: You’re in the good old days now. Nothing goes exactly as planned, you’re probably not going to be the person you dreamed you would be, but you find your way through it. You embrace the person you are and you cherish every moment of levity you find with the people you love.
So take more pictures, write more letters and cards, lest you forget those magic moments.
While Jeff’s thematic repertoire has expanded over the years to include more politics, socio-economic issues and other miscellanea, this record has all of the human elements that have attached us to him. It’s Jeff’s last fully personal record: embarrassingly honest, drowning in existential dread and at times honestly being completely pathetic – feigning a shit-eating grin through all of it.
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Chris Favata | @ChrisFavata
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