Dear Haggus,
The last Lemuria album I listened to was the CD that ended up
on the floor of your car, its case smashed because somebody stepped on it.
It took me awhile to give that record a chance. I completely dismissed it - and Lemuria - due to our mutual friend, the one who had a crush on their guitarist. He would drag me to the Park and Shop so he could watch her run the register while I sat in the car, sweating, too embarrassed to play wingman, too spineless to say no. He had his own car, and I had no nerve, so I just played along, hiding the fact that I wanted to slug him while he made up reasons to visit the bottle return counter at a grocery store 25 miles away.
It took me awhile to give that record a chance. I completely dismissed it - and Lemuria - due to our mutual friend, the one who had a crush on their guitarist. He would drag me to the Park and Shop so he could watch her run the register while I sat in the car, sweating, too embarrassed to play wingman, too spineless to say no. He had his own car, and I had no nerve, so I just played along, hiding the fact that I wanted to slug him while he made up reasons to visit the bottle return counter at a grocery store 25 miles away.
That's a stupid reason not to listen to a band. Even so, it took me awhile to get over myself. It takes awhile to get over a lot of the weird
baggage we carry with us from our youthful travels and travails. You know that
better than anyone else.
* * *
Listening to Lemuria's latest (which drops today - on Bridge
9 Records, no less), I'm struck by two things: first, these guys sound like the Martha Dumptruck Massacre with a more fragile
version of Jenny Lewis from Rilo Kiley on a second mic (I know at least one of those means something to you). Second, why the hell aren't we putting out records on Bridge 9?
Why aren't we famous?
We've been wailing away on our respective axes since we were
kids. Two members of Lemuria come from the same place we do. We've
spent our lives fighting our way out of the cow shit and the meth labs of New
York's Southern Tier, same as these guys. We've been to the same punk shows,
grew up in the same scene. How come we're not being reviewed on NPR? How come
we're not sharing a record label with Agnostic Front and H2O?
How come we're not famous?
It might have something to do with the fact that the last
time we tried to record something we stopped halfway through,
too hung over to finish, too lazy to come back to it later. Lemuria have been working
their asses off for the past ten years, putting out solid tunes while touring
like it's their job. You and I couldn't even stick to a schedule of playing
Dungeons and Dragons when you were unemployed and we lived in the same town.
Maybe it's because Alex Kerns drums like he's been
practicing during the years you and I were drinking and calling each other
names, and now he can put weird time signatures into the middle of any song
while still sharing lead vocal duties, and you still can't play our fills right.
Maybe it's because I can't put together an original bass line to save my life,
while this Max Gregor guy - who's only been with the band since 2010 - is able
to put some muscle behind a sound so perfect and porcelain, like someone set
the table with the good china, and he can choose either to keep a close watch, or he can
jump around like a drunk asshole, smash everything against the wall in a
precious white mess, and piss off the guy who lives upstairs.
But he doesn't get sloppy. He keeps it tidy and makes sure
no one else gets too rowdy.
You asshole.
* * *
I've made some kind of peace with our friend. For one thing,
I don't have to sit upstairs anymore, watching One Hour Photo with his parents
while he's in the basement, making out with some girl. We're not teenagers, for
chrissake. And these days I have something resembling a backbone.
We're adults now. Listening to this album, though, I can't
help thinking about where we've been; about the things we were supposed to do,
but were too hung over or lazy or stupid to get done. And I think about the
things we're about to do - me, having a kid and writing in public; you, moving
out and up, finding real love and, in a few months, moving across the country.
"It's never too late to be what you might have
been," they're singing while I write this.
And I'm telling you to pick this one up. Unlike the last CD you bought, nobody can
step on a digital copy. And when you're on the road, headed west - after you've
driven a mile or two and you've run through the Queers and the Lawrence Arms
and Slick Rick for the thousandth time and Ronni's given in and stopped to let
you pick up a six pack so you'll shut up, put Lemuria on.
It'll get you thinking about what could have been, or what's
going to be. Either way, you've got the time, and the distance is so big.
Love,
Vince Malero
Grade: A
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