Such a Pity
Album Review: Make Believe
For the last few weeks, I’ve been on pins and needles over this new Weezer album. To borrow a paradigm from fellow blogger Jeremy, I was afraid I might get lured back into an old relationship, only to have my heart broken all over again. The mixed reviews surfacing over the band’s latest venture only served to complicate my feelings about the allure of a new Weezer album. Trust me, you’d be confused too. On one hand, we had the renowned pretentiousness of Pitchfork decrying the album in a blatant hail of disgust, and on the other Rolling Stone, who seems to be giving every new Weezer album 4 stars in an effort to make up for initially panning the dark masterpiece Pinkerton.
With such extremist opinions, I ultimately decided that I simply had to get it and decide for myself.
I think that I can now confidently say that the album resides not in the extremes of either side, but squarely in the middle. It isn’t brilliant, true, but it doesn’t forsake human kind like some would have you believe. And in fact, the album might become much stronger over time. But for the moment, I’m placing excruciating standards upon it, simply because I refuse to let another mess like Maladroit pass.
Actually, I thought Weezer was delivering the next Maladroit when I first gave Make Believe a whirl. The reason why I was led to this suspicion was because of the atrocious album opener, Beverly Hills. I swear, the only thing I can think of when I listen to that song is a mental picture of the horrid music video filmed at the Playboy mansion. No wait…I also think to myself, “Spike Jonze used to direct videos for these guys. And the songs were good too”.
Beverly Hills isn’t a good song. It’s the exact kind of crap publications like Rolling Stone would have you believe is good. They take one listen to it and declare, “Weezer has found the spine of the Blue Album once again!” The thing is; Weezer’s promotional machine would have us believe they found the spine behind The Blue Album way back with the Green Album (and again with Maladroit). Realize that if this were the case, there wouldn’t be any issues with Weezer. But it isn’t the case, because Beverly Hills is a festering pile of musical excrement. It’s brilliant in the Abercrombie and Fitch sense, and as a result, I wouldn’t blame you if you turned the album off right at this point. Weezer deserves it for serving up this shame.
If you did turn it off however, you’d miss the next song, Perfect Situation. And what a crime it would be to give up at this point, because if any song from Weezer’s current output can truly claim to recapture the spine of golden days, Perfect Situation is it.
There it is, out of nowhere. Crashing in with those memorable jagged guitars and the sorrow of Rivers Cuomo. Years of songs like Island in the Sun and Keep Fishin’ would have us believe that the world is a beautiful place rife with opportunity and good times. Just sit back, enjoy your friends, and kick around a few balls on the beach. The sheer façade behind those songs is sickening. However, the raw unmasking behind Perfect Situation becomes so utterly brilliant because of their previous diabetic misfires.
Let me calculate a good song for you
Yes, Rivers Cuomo, tells us that life isn’t peachy keen. He still hasn’t found a soul mate and as the years dwindle on, he probably won’t. Sure, the lyrics aren’t all that brilliant. In fact, compared to the underhanded lyrical play of Pinkerton, they’re rather glib. But here’s the thing: I believe these lyrics more then any other he’s written since Pinkerton. And when he entreats us, “Though I can’t satisfy all the needs she has, and she stars to wander, can you blame her?” we truly feel for him. This is Rivers at his finest. He’s finally acknowledging that he’s the hero to legions who claim to feel the exact same way he does.
Then the album continues on with the clever, if not terribly resounding, This Is Such a Pity. No complaints can be found here, assuming you don’t have a bias against Synth in your Weezer songs. Let’s hope you don’t, because they repeat this theme a few times to some interesting results. But like I said, it’s nothing brilliant. It’s just unique enough to keep you interested. And it’s far more engaging to hear Rivers tell us about how girls see him as a fascist pig then it is to hear him tell us there’s plenty of fish in the sea.
The album stays strong with Hold Me, another almost reclaimed Blue Album track, before it falls prey to the mediocre Peace, which sounds just like every other track playing on MTV at this moment. In fact, I’m sure Peace will go over quite well with that crowd. Rivers isn’t here to entertain them though, because he’s been doing that for the past 4 years. He’s here to reclaim the fans he’s so earnestly alienated. And sadly, this is where the album makes a near-fatal mistake, because he follows this lazy track with the inexcusable We Are All On Drugs, a song so poorly conceived that it should have never been spoken of outside of the studio. Yes, this song is so terrible that I almost stopped listening right then and there. Clearly, it’s trying to be clever.
It isn’t.
The word play in this song is so pathetic that it’s hard to imagine it was written by the same guy who once made inquires about how his female fans masturbate seem profound. The silliest moment has to be when “I want to confiscate your drugs, I don’t think I can get enough” seems to blare out of nowhere, promptly followed by a roaring solo. My ears can’t decide what they want to bleed too, the music or the lyrics.
Thankfully, he picks the album back up with The Damage In Your Heart, another fine, brooding track that doesn’t let us forget what Rivers is still capable of. “One more time, I have crossed the line, now you won’t be mine anymore”. The mantra of forgiveness thus continues. The album manages to get in a few more solid punches before the end. Freak Me Out in particular takes the cake for being the weirdest song on the entire album. In fact, the combination of synth and a very Beach Boys sounding harmonica is just enough to put a smile on my face.
The album could end a champion if it would only deliver a final track worthy of the ranks of Butterfly and Only in Dreams. Sadly, this was not to be. I actually don’t care to keep listening after Freak Me Out; that is the true ending of the album.
Ultimately, Make Believe is the disc Weezer should have delivered in their comeback years ago. It’s sharp and concise, and each song, good or bad, flows so well into the next, that the entire piece carries a true sense of unity. And the most amazing thing about this album is its ability to prop itself up should it accidentally fall down. You may find yourself disgusted by Beverly Hills or We Are All on Drugs, but take heart in the fact that the album rectifies itself with something more winning on the next track.
Now here’s the hard part: Make Believe still doesn’t reclaim the former glory of Pinkerton or The Blue Album. And this is a shame, because it tries so hard. This is the first time Rivers tried to achieve what his fans always wanted him to. The worst thing however is that it’s far too late. Had he attempted something like this back with Maladroit (or even better, The Green Album) he would be able to walk away with a shred of awe. Instead, we get the sense that he didn’t care to try something like this until his fan base prompted him (repeatedly) to. Make Believe is a sincere album, but it would be far better if he had done this right off the bat instead of jerking us around for years with meaningless ditties like Dope Nose.
Oh well. Let him go cry about it. If he does, maybe the next one will be even closer to Pinkerton.
