NINE INCH NAILS

BACKDROP:
NIN, a/k/a Trent Reznor, brought the term industrial into mainstream consciousness, and I believe almost every kid I knew in high school was a fan to some degree. And why not? With the combination of abrasive soundscapes, slit-your-wrist poetry, and tortured delivery, this was every teenager’s musical wet dream. Few things were able to match the catharsis of the NIN experience.



PRETTY HATE MACHINE:
Synth pop at its scariest. Synth pop? That’s right. This albums borders more on synth pop than industrial. Sort of like Depeche Mode if they weren’t so effeminate and had some serious issues to work through. I’m sure this was pretty dangerous and breakthrough stuff at the time, well for the mainstream anyhow, but with what came later, this clearly stands as the work of an artist struggling to find his voice. There are several missteps: the rapping/spoken word attempts on “Down In It,” the overwrought melodrama of “Something I Can Never Have,” the all-around clunker “Kinda I Want To.” But when he hits the target as he does with “Head Like A Hole” and “Sin,” it’s with deadly pin-point accuracy. A good way to get in touch with my inner teen angst. You know, as opposed to my aging, on-the-cusp-of-30 angst. I just hope Reznor is embarrassed by these lyrics. I sure am.



BROKEN:
Short. Aggressive. Brutal. Perfect. Though I do prefer live versions of “Gave Up.”



THE DOWNWARD SPIRAL:
It’ll be damn near impossible for me to be objective with this album. It just meant so much to me in high school. But what was once an undeniable masterpiece is… still an undeniable masterpiece. It seemed like everyone I knew had this album, and with good reason. The lyrics dole ruminations on death, loss, faith, and identity. In other words, all the good things that weigh heavily on the teenage mind. Trent’s slit-your-wrist poetry has become rather poetic. Sure, it’s fun to yell, “I want to fuck you like an animal.” But the song really is about using carnality as an attempt to achieve a transcendent sort of intimacy that borders on spiritual, but ultimately realizing it’s a futile avenue. Okay, enough dimestore analysis. Musically, Trent carefully constructs a complicated cacophony of noise (hooray for alliteration!). This is what Beethoven would be doing if he were alive today. And unlike, say, Marilyn Manson, Reznor does not use vocal effects to disguise his voice. Rather, he is giving rise to the voices inhabiting his mind. Whether on the angry “Mr. Self Destruct,” the schizophrenic “The Becoming,” or the reflective “Hurt,” Reznor sings with such conviction, you can’t help but get sucked into his insanity. Sure, the album could be trimmed a bit, but that’d just be nitpicking. A definite must-have.



THE FRAGILE:
I’m always wary of double albums. I admire the ambition but very few artists have that much to say. I’ve gone back and forth on this, trying to decide the best way to approach THE FRAGILE, and I’ve settled on treating the two halves as separate pieces rather than tackling the album as a whole.

LEFT:
What strikes me immediately is that, despite the wide scope, the music is actually quite scaled back. For the first few tracks, Trent doesn’t assault us, mixing the white noise down and bringing melody to the forefront. The shock and contrast when we reach the pummeling “We’re In This Together” proves most effective. While not as symphonic as DOWNWARD SPIRAL, this album shows Trent’s maturity as a songwriter. Sure, thematically, he plumbs the same depths he’s done before—loss, death, isolation, et al—but this time with more restraint and sincerity than in the past. Unguarded and irony-free, this is Reznor at his most intimate and vulnerable. Even the instrumentals display heart-on-the-sleeve emotion. Is it balls-out brilliant? No. But in its own way, this is a perfect song cycle. Unfortunately, we are then led into…
RIGHT:
Truth be told, I’ve never been a fan of this disc. It always seemed to me to be little more than a collection of outtakes from the LEFT disc. I tried to give this a chance and judge it on its own merits. Problem is that after the first few tracks, there’s little of merit here. A jumbled mess that quickly loses focus and comes off as inconsequential. Taken out of context, individually, each song is not as bad as I remember. But put together, it falls short of satisfying. The solid craftsmanship of the LEFT disc just makes the patchwork of the RIGHT disc all the more frustrating. And “Starfuckers Inc” sticks out like a sore thumb; its juvenile jabs at Marilyn Manson stand in stark contrast to the mature introspection found elsewhere. Though Reznor does out-Manson Manson, the song would find a better home elsewhere.



FINAL THOUGHTS:
NIN keep releasing albums, but I haven’t given it much thought. Did I outgrow NIN? I don’t know, perhaps. But having rekindled my appreciation, I may have to check out the newer stuff. Trent Reznor is too talented for it to be all bad. The question is whether or not there’s enough good. And I don’t see the point in any of the remix albums when he mostly got the stuff right the first time.

STONE TEMPLE PILOTS

BACKDROP:
Arriving amid a slew of grunge-come-latelys, STP were quickly branded a Pearl Jam clone. I remember a friend once called them Stone Temple Pearl Jam, and in a review for WWF Magazine, Jeff Jarrett referred to them as Stone Temple Pirates. I kid you not. Considering the fact that I didn’t like Pearl Jam at the time, I’m not really sure why I gravitated towards STP.




CORE:
This is the first CD I ever bought. I had gotten a CD player for Christmas and my mom gave me money to buy some music. I chose this because, well, simply because I happened to hear “Creep” on the ride over to the store. Ah, the impetuous days of youth when you could plunk down someone else’s hard-earned cash for the flimsiest of reasons. Almost two decades later (damn, I suddenly feel old), this album still provides plenty of fodder for the PJ/STP comparisons. I don’t think Weiland wasn’t aping Eddie Vedder so much as they were both aping Jim Morrison. Either way, the quality songcraft cannot be denied. Sure, Weiland falls into the alt-rock trap of writing nonsensical lyrics that aren’t nearly as deep as he thinks they are. Aside from that, though, this is a solid rocker from heavy opener “Dead and Bloated” to mesmerizing closer “Where The River Goes.” Even the artsy-but-not-really “Wet My Bed” serves its purpose in providing a respite from the powerhouse “Plush” and preventing “Crackerman” from being overshadowed.



PURPLE:
This one’s pretty much been in heavy rotation for me ever since I got it. If I were ever to compile my list of Top 50 Albums Ever, I’d reserve a spot for PURPLE, if only for the perfect pop of “Interstate Love Song.” By the way, I do not subscribe to the indie mindset that you can’t like the singles. In theory, the singles should be a band’s best songs since they’re the ones selling the album. And in the case of this album, any song could easily have been a strong single. I wouldn’t mind “Meatplow” or “Still Remains” receiving heavy airplay. And the hilarious tongue-in-cheek hidden track provides a great capper. I can’t see myself not liking this album in the foreseeable future. Interesting side note, the title of STP’s 2nd album does not appear anywhere in the artwork, much in the same way that the title of Pearl Jam’s 2nd album does not appear anywhere in the artwork. [Interesting aside to the side note: Wikipedia tells me that the Chinese character on the cover does mean “Purple,” and the title “Vs” does appear on the sleeve of some printings of the album. Whatever.]




TINY MUSIC:
Well, it certainly lives up to the title, doesn’t it? Everything about this album—the music, the vocals, the songwriting, the production—feels extremely thin. The hooks that kept TINY MUSIC afloat for me have not aged gracefully. The catchy “Big Bang Baby” is not so catchy anymore. The dreadful “And So I Know,” well, it pretty much remains dreadful. The album’s not a complete wash. The reflective “Adhesive” and “Lady Picture Show” still carry plenty of resonance, and “Seven Caged Tigers,” a song I did not care for originally, stands among STP’s finest moments. With Weiland’s well-documented drug problems, it’s a miracle this album got made. It’d have been more of a miracle if it’d had actually been good.



NO. 4:
This disc would make an excellent anti-drug campaign. “Hey kids, look at how smack can kill your voice.” To be fair, Weiland’s voice was equally ravaged on TINY MUSIC, but with that album's smaller musical scope, the problem wasn't as noticeable. On the other hand, this plays like an audition for Velvet Revolver. The band flexes their cock rock muscle more than they have since... well, they never really flexed this much cock rock muscle. This could easily be a lost relic from the 70s. Yet something seems off. The pieces seem to fall into place too easily, as if placed there instead of gelling there naturally. Hard rockers for the boys? Check. Tender ballads for the girls? Check. Mid-tempo numbers to change things up? Check. This is, sadly, rock by the numbers, though delivered with enough swagger to keep it palatable. Only on the beautiful closer, "Atlanta," do they drop the pretense, and to great effect. NO. 4 would be a minor classic if only it weren't trying so hard to be a minor classic.





FINAL THOUGHTS:
STP went on to release another album (which I couldn't care less about) before the friction between Weiland and the brothers DeLeo finally got to be too much. Weiland went on to front Velvet Revolver then Slash & Co. decided they didn't want another Axl. The rest of the band went on to oblivion, and the promise of a big fat payday cooled temperments enough to allow a reunion. Hopefully they won't release a new album.

MARILYN MANSON

BACKDROP:
Crashing through the gates in the mid-90s, Manson provided what every teenager wants from their music: an outlet for their angst and a way to piss off their parents. I didn’t get into Manson to anger my mom; she didn’t care much anyway. But I did enjoy the campy theatrics and the shlocky entertainment. And unlike much of shock rock, there was a semblance of intelligence and a kernel of satire. Hell, even the name brilliantly commented on how celebrity and notoriety are given equal value in our society. And I can safely say that he’s never made me want to kill anyone.



PORTRAIT OF AN AMERICAN FAMILY:
A solid rocker that’s better than it has any right to be. Manson’s growl is effectively used here, though I don’t know if it’s due to him or the songs being tailored to his limited capabilities. Probably the latter, with the music being powerful but mostly straight ahead, with the weird flourishes being left as exactly that: flourishes. This is due in no small part to the fact that the former Spooky Kids are a real band and not just a ragtag group of hired guns (which Manson’s future backup band lineups would more or less be). There’s genuine chemistry at work here and nowhere does it coalesce better than on the excellent “Dope Hat.” Crank it up, turn my brain off, pump my fist in the air. I feel like I’m in high school again.



SMELLS LIKE CHILDREN:
I think this was meant as a stopgap, but even so, it’s pretty weak. Running 16 tracks and 54 minutes long, this is nonetheless considered an EP, and probably would’ve worked better as a true EP. Pointless remixes and skits that are pretty much scraping-the-bottom-of-the-barrel-stuff that belongs on a box set, not a band’s 2nd release. There are some creepy interludes in desperate need of good songs to interlude in between. The album’s only redeeming value comes from the covers of “Sweet Dreams Are Made Of This” and “I Put A Spell On You.” The cover of Patti Smith’s “Rock N Roll Nigger,” however, is utterly worthless. Manson attempts to add in some of his own lyrics the way Smith did to her cover of Van Morrison’s “Gloria.” The difference? Smith’s additions actually added to the song.



ANTICHRIST SUPERSTAR:
This is the album that made Manson a (no pun intended) superstar, the piece of work that cemented his status as cultural scary monster and convenient scapegoat for society’s ills. The apex of his career, commercially speaking anyway, it’s no surprise Manson continually returns to the imagery he developed here. Problem is, clever title and imagery aside, very little of this concept album holds up. Sure, we get the brutal rhythms of “The Beautiful People,” the sick leads of “Tourniquet,” and the genuine creepiness of “Cryptorchild,” but the majority of the songs here are hack jobs. Trent Reznor’s nihilistic production better serves his own talent than Manson’s lack of it. The weaknesses of the flat, monotone vocal delivery are highlighted rather than masked by the layers of effects. The music dredges on for long stretches of time, that by the time we reach the otherwise gratifying closing suite of “Minute of Decay,” “The Reflecting God,” and “Man That You Fear,” it’s hard to care. This used to be a cornerstone of my music collection, now it’s more a slight amusement.



MECHANICAL ANIMALS:
Remember how Terminator was the perfect role for Arnold Schwazennegger? Using an actor that can’t convey emotion to play a creature that can’t convey emotion? The same principle is more or less at work here. Manson enters his David Bowie-lite phase with this concept album about something or other. An alien, I think? While Manson is more restrained and subtle here, he’s still the weakest point of any given track. And the music itself seems to be just a glammed-up version of ANTICHRIST (listen to “The Beautiful People” and “Rock Is Dead” back to back). Reportedly, Billy Corgan secretly wrote a lot of the album, and I’d believe it. His grubby, 70s-worshipping fingers are all over this. Not that that is a bad thing. “Great Big White World” and “Coma White” are perfect bookends, and most of the tracks move along briskly. Not a masterpiece, but agreeable enough. On a side note, “I Don’t Like The Drugs” is pseudo-white boy funk, and white boy funk is pretty much pseudo-funk to begin with. Does that make the song pseudo-pseudo-funk?



FINAL THOUGHTS:
Marilyn Manson took his own hype too seriously and began to believe he truly was a genius voicing the truths society is afraid to hear. In doing so, he’s lost sight of what made his music fun in the first place. Of all the artists he’s aped over the years, he is most akin to Madonna in that they both contrive controversies in attempts to remain culturally relevant. I think Manson’s cultural relevance is best summed up in the classic Onion article, “Marilyn Manson To Embark On Boo Tour.”

PEARL JAM

BACKDROP: I didn’t care much for Pearl Jam when they first appeared on the scene as part of the grunge explosion, pretty odd considering how quickly my tween self took to the other grunge bands. I’ve always admired the band, from tackling Ticketmaster to releasing CDs of every live concert so that fans wouldn’t have to shell out ridiculous amounts for bootlegs. Their music though, particularly Eddie Vedder’s voice, took time to grow on me. But grow it did, and for a brief while, Pearl Jam hovered in my top ten.



TEN: I haven’t listened to this album in a while, but holy fuck! This clearly remains a benchmark of 90s music. I can’t believe there was ever a time when I didn’t love this album. It has that combination of loud guitars and depressed lyrics that was all I’d pump out of my stereo. Actually, that type of music is still pretty much all I still listen to. But from the majestic force of "Alive" to the sublime beauty of “Black,” this album hits so many high notes, it’s only natural that the band would never again release anything to rival it.



VS: Despite 103.3 still overplaying half the tracks off this album, I actually didn’t feel sick of these songs when hearing them in their proper context. It’s a step down from TEN obviously and at times, it feels like they’re slacking in the lyrics department (“Animal,” I’m looking at you). The band is actually successful in attempts to stretch out their sound in songs like “W.M.A.” and “Rats.” “Daughter” and “Elderly Woman” are still touching, and the rock of “Rearviewmirror” cannot be denied. If not quite essential, it’s a worthy addition to any music collection.



VITALOGY: For the longest time, I kept the notion in my head that this was the point that Pearl Jam took a downturn, giving in to their worst indulgences. In truth, this album is actually a step up from VS. Perhaps because it didn’t saturate radio as much, though mainstays “Corduroy” and “Betterman” still pack quite the wallop. The songwriting is tighter and the production crisper. Even oddball excursions like “Pry, To” and “Bugs” work for the most part. The only saving grace of “Stupid Mop,” however, is the fact that it appears at the end of the album, allowing you to stop the record at the much more appropriate closer, “Immortality.”



NO CODE: I’ve always felt mixed about this album. Listening to it now, I feel like I want to like it, but I just can’t. Even the songs I used to enjoy, like “Hail Hail” or “Habit,” feel curiously incomplete now. There’s a sense that the band attempted to explore new areas but ended up mostly mining familiar territories with diminishing results.



YIELD: Ironically, this was the album in which I originally began to enjoy Pearl Jam’s music. Ironic in how short it falls of my memory of it. Like NO CODE before it, YIELD isn’t a bad album, just more a half-baked one. While the Led Zeppelin-spawned “Given To Fly” and the muted “Wishlist” deliver the goods, should-be rockers “Pilate” and “Do The Evolution” seem to be missing that extra something. And the less said about their weird-out experiments, the better.



FINAL THOUGHTS: I used to have RIOT ACT, but I listened to it once, grew bored with it, and traded it in. Nothing else they’ve done has really built in any desire in me to check out. I don’t begrudge Pearl Jam for wanting to expand their artistic horizons, I just don’t think they’re much good at it. And I don’t know what it says about them when their best two songs (“State Of Love And Trust” and “Yellow Ledbetter”) are non-album cuts. The completely unnecessary TEN REDUX seems a curiosity coming from a band that’d seem to be against this type of cash-in.