I had assembled a trio of my own to play songs from my solo album Could Be Bitter Forever, and we had received an offer to play at a venue called the Firehouse with some local groups. I met Greg Strong, the leader of the Portland, Maine power trio, last January at a show in Worcester, Massachusetts. Was this album, which I was enjoying thoroughly, merely another example of folk-punk schlock masquerading as a more refined, ‘mature’ brand of punk music? If not, was my reflexive distaste for that style of music truly a sign of maturity, or just a sign of pretension? I’m not sure if I’ve figured out the answer to either of these questions, but I can say that I sincerely enjoy this record. Although I wasn’t exactly surprised to find that their “Love Song for the Post-Industrial Age” references the very same Wingnut track that graced my old mix CD, I experienced a moment of cognitive dissonance.
#FUCK SHIT UP WINGNUT DISHWASHERS UNION LYRICS WINDOWS#
Perhaps Wingnut Dishwashers Union’s “ Fuck Shit Up! (Whanana)” holds some nostalgic value in the dark recesses of my heart, but Pat the Bunny’s spirit didn’t exactly compel me to roll down the windows of my mom’s SUV and blast it throughout the streets of New Haven.Īnyway, it was around this time that I gave my first listen to Street Sity Surf’s new album, Running Away To Join The Massachusetts Army. In the midst of unyielding chestnuts from Neutral Milk Hotel and Bright Eyes, I was forced to confront the reality of my folk-punk phase, a bleak rite of passage that I imagine most music fans my age would rather forget. Some of my choices hold up well-Girls’ “Alex,” from that year’s Father, Sun, Holy Ghost is an undeniable track-but others do not. On a nostalgic whim, I decided to give it a listen as I drove around town. I found one in my parents’ car last month from a trip to Providence in 2011. It’s been a few years since I made one of my masterpieces, but every once in a while, a vestigial CD will turn up somewhere in my childhood home. To my adolescent mind, my mixes were more like epic poems-vast, multi-disc compendiums of tracks culled from my recent listening habits, painstakingly drawn together in some grand conceptual narrative. These were no ordinary 10-track CD-Rs, mind you. When I was younger, I used to make mix CDs for my family’s frequent road trips.
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