neurological dryer lint

 #2: bad religion - stranger than fiction



this disc, along with recipe for hate, signaled BR's move from big fish (one of the most successful bands on epitaph) to sellout on a major label (atlantic). their sound gradually polished over the past five years, they hung one foot over the fence between traditional punk rock and a more mature (some would say boring) rock group. before the release of these two albums they were punk icons... afterwards, they were backdrops in MTV promos.

that's all crap to me, personally. this is the most complete punk album i've ever heard. lyrically BR is consistently competent when few others are. there wasn't much special about the writing of this collection of songs that stands out over any other album... but musically there's a balance there between late-80's fast (marked, television) and some of the slower things they've done (slumber, infected), and everything else sidles in between somewhere.

more meaningful to me at the time, more than the head-nodding along with STP or weezer about angst and searching for love and contentment, was graffin singing about individuality versus conformity, finite life on earth, alienation, leaving the fog of dumb entertainment for more useful intellectual exercise (guess that didn't sink in). i really think this disc helped me to think more.

it certainly introduced me to the genre, and raised my expectations for the stuff i listened to from then on. unfortunately few artists are bold enough to speak so honestly about their real beliefs, and bother to devote the energy to locate words with more than two syllables. even now i will listen to inner logic or tiny voices and it will force me to stop and listen and digest what's being said, and analyze - a rare gift from an album.

this is individual:

individuals run for cover,
for the multitudes of thoughtless clones have reached a critical mass,
individuals hide in fear, under cover,
sheltered by the wafer thin veil of intelligence

individuals, nowhere to be seen

urbana is oozing like a bloated carcass,
with maggots cooking in the desert heat,
oozing, with progeny writhing and desperate
for input from someone more determined

congregating in invisible circles,
half apart and half apart,
all too aware of the insignificance,
pushing on with soul and heart

individuals don't pray for forgiveness,
when pinned up against the wall under siege of persecution,
individuals command exception,
and accept dichotomy,
maybe you can't choose anymore

procreation without gain or purpose,
languid wills and torped minds,
catapulted ever faster by the arrow of time
you take yours and i'll keep mine