Elvis Costello - National Ransacking of the Treasury

It's rather ironic that Elvis Costello, a man so essentially British, has somehow risen as one of the primary protectors of the American history of music. He'd already staked his claim toward this position back in 1986 with the release of King of America, which, like Exile on Main Street before it, seemed to affirm that the Brits really understood America better than most Americans. But King of America was viewed more as a digression from his normal affairs, it was, after all, followed up by the scattered Spike. But while it was somewhat ignored at the time, Americana persisted in Costello, manifesting itself thrice in the 21st century in the albums The Delivery Man, Secret, Profane, and Sugarcane, and National Ransom.

With these albums, Costello seems to have entrenched himself alongside Emmylou Harris and Levon Helm, as some bastion of America in music. Last night, on The Colbert Report, Costello appeared alongside Harris and Don Fleming to discuss American folk music. It should be noted that folk is, by definition, the point from which American music begins, and, as a result of that, one of the most truly American genres of music in existence. Costello's worked with a veritable who's who of Americana, and somehow has found himself as one of its foremost revivalists.

In concert, Elvis Costello is not a country-western performer. He doesn't sing slow, twangy ballads. He doesn't put on a stomping bluegrass show (although he did, for a while, mostly because he could). No, Elvis Costello is a rock and roll performer. Country, folk, bluegrass, the old American music isn't what he is, it's just something he can do, and as a result, it means he introduces the old America to a new audience. He's like the Jack White, for an older audience.

Now, the real question here isn't how Costello came to reach this rather odd position, but why. What possessed this most assuredly un-American man to pick up a musical textbook and wander through history the way he did? Well, aside from what I assume to be an overabundance of curiosity, it would seem that the answer is quite simple: the music. The music is good, the music is powerful, the music spoke to Costello in a way so universal that nationality no longer mattered, all that mattered was the music.

And I say amen to that.

Weezer, or Falling Out of Love in One Easy Step

I mean seriously, Weezer, what have they done to you? You used to be so good. I know this sounds like some meaningless ranting, and it probably is, but damn, you really had a good thing going. There was something on The Blue Album and Pinkerton that you don't really see that often in music: the truth.

Not the truth as in some idea of honesty, but the Truth. You know. The Truth, capitalized, because it was more of an entity or an idea than anything else. It was the same Truth that the Violent Femmes expressed so well on Violent Femmes, the Truth about coolness, or the lack thereof. The Truth that Buddy Holly embodied but ran from, the Truth that Elvis Costello kicked around before outgrowing, the Truth of what it's like to be uncool. Not just a little uncool, but uncool to the point where it's the defining characteristic of your being.

I guess it's also the Truth about being an outsider, of not fitting in, of wishing to fit in. All that. The Blue Album is just like one article of awkward acceptance of outsider status. It's not angsty, angst is too cool, Kurt Cobain had angst. Not to mention, angst is so hopelessly annoying and impotent that it would have debased everything. No, there was no angst, there wasn't anything there except the Truth, and that's why it was so damn good. From the yearning to fit in of "Undone" to the love letter to the original rock nerd himself "Buddy Holly". The Blue Album is so bare, so open that I latched onto it. Nevermind the fact that I was over a decade late to the discovery, The Blue Album might as well be timeless for just how well it sums up those awkward teenage years. So suffice to say, I clung to it, related to it, generally took it far more seriously than anyone is supposed to take any album ever.

And then I got Pinkerton, which is basically just all that but with more loneliness. Amazing. I related to "Across the Sea" so much you could be mistaken for thinking it somehow related to my life. "Butterfly" was some sort of acoustic anthem. "El Scorcho" was just everything I wanted to be, or wanted life to be, or something. Needless to say, it was great.

And then there's Make Believe, which I guess is the one you're supposed to hate or whatever, but fuck that I like Make Believe too. I mean, it's not the grand summary of my life that the others were, but it's still got the vestiges of outsider life ("Beverly Hills"), and despite its attempts to prove the contrary, Make Believe was still not cool, "Peace", "Perfect Situation", delightfully uncool. And "The Other Way" hit so close to home I should have charged it rent. So, like me, Weezer was still awkward, lame, geeky, and completely unable to fit in.

Until The Red Album. I should have noticed something was off, "Troublemaker" was not the Weezer I'd fallen in love with. Sure, the narrator in "Troublemaker" was an outsider, and a rebel, but he was cool, or if not cool, then he was stupid. And not just a little stupid, but really stupid ("You wanted arts and crafts/how's this for arts and crafts/DNDNDNDNDNDNDNDNDN"). This was not me, this was not Weezer. Or rather, it wasn't what Weezer used to be, it was something else. "The Greatest Man That Ever Lived" was more of the same, albeit, in a much nicer format, at least the song structure demonstrated some creativity. But "Pork and Beans" was just like three minutes of dumb jokes told by the cool kids.

I wasn't one of the cool kids. When did Weezer become the cool kids? What the fuck is going on? "Heart Songs" was something of a respite from the severe abandonment I was feeling, in that it was lame, and geeky, but it was also straight up bad. Where once Rivers Cuomo had been writing songs that delved into his personality (which felt like mine at this point), now he was writing songs about...being a rock star? I don't know, but it wasn't the kind of personal exploration I came to love and identify with. Hell, it only got more obvious with "Everybody Get Dangerous", which basically just sounded like the younger brother of a cool kid, trying desperately to fit in, and in the end just being a pest.

And then there's the three songs sung by the rest of the band. They're cool, or whatever, I guess, they're nice songs, but they're not my songs, they're not the songs I bought a Weezer album looking to hear. There's really only one moment on the entire Red Album that comes anywhere close the personal revelations of The Blue Album or Pinkerton, and that's "The Angel and the One". It's the only song that admits inferiority, that allows the bravado of "Troublemaker" to be stripped away, and it's the only song on the album that makes me think of Weezer.

And it's the last of its kind. Because I can't really listen to Weezer anymore. The Red Album is like finding someone else's blood on your bedsheets; you can wash it away, but you'll always know it's there, and you can't look at your bed without remembering the blood. I can still listen to The Blue Album and Pinkerton, but they're not speaking to me anymore, they're speaking to the audience, and that's not me. So I'll always view The Red Album as Weezer's last stand, and "The Angel and the One" as their grave.

And that just sucks.