Review Summary: Breathe in bitterness, breathe out bitter relief
Given just how self-castigating Nick Hartkop is, ‘Cut Out the Pieces’ might be an attempt to anthemise self-mutilation. I mean,
it’s not -- on ‘Trailer Trash,’ he breaks the fourth wall to encourage listeners to “get [themselves] out there” -- but the song is no less an ode to fucking up, and
thanks. sorry. sure. (
TSS) is no less anthemic. Despite this ostensible self-hatred, however,
TSS, in both its themes and once improbable existence, represents for the band a rebirth of sorts. Because at the bitter, beating, beaten heart of the project lies an iteration of McCafferty that is more focused and mature than any other.
TSS is, as a result, a mosaic of greens and oranges, regrowth and ignition; a bitter acrylic of attesting and attuning the insurmountable.
And with such paints, and upon such canvases, the band shed colours as vibrant and honest as can be afforded, with as much gusto and appetite as can be spared for the starving artist. Whereas the band’s debut album,
Beachboy, was a muddle of exciting, albeit half-baked ideas,
TSS feels a lot more meticulous, deliberate. Evan Graham finds a voice in zealous, stringed ramblings, unexpected and spurring, providing Nick Hartkop, frontman and lead songwriter, with a sort of competitive surge, prompting some of his most memorable songs and melodies to date. After several short releases, a hodgepodge of an album, and a major hiatus (or minor breakup, depending on what kind of dramatic you want to be), McCafferty have, against all odds, crafted an EP that is as distinctive and representative of their sound as one might hope for the band at this point in their career. Whereas in the past the band had drowned in their influences – from the likes of modern emo and indie rock outfit The Front Bottoms (a frustrating comparison, I admit) to that of self-titled era blink-182 in its mature, pop-punk bliss –
TSS demarcates McCafferty from the crowd, as well as their older selves. Of course, Hartkop’s vocal inflexions, in spite of their relative gruffness, are reminiscent of a Sella/Delonge lovechild; and indeed, the brief synth passage during the bridge of ‘Cut Out the Pieces’ might be a subtle nod to
Love-era Angels and Airwaves. It would be amiss of me, however, to overstate such comparisons as more than shallow points of references. From the band's verbal tirades on bassist Chris Joecken to Evan's consistent willingness to outdo Nick's talents as a songwriter - and furthermore, his often gritty lyrical ability - with bouncy, galvanic riffs and sombre flourishes, McCafferty manage to carve a niche of their very own.
‘SOWK’ is a short, sample-based intermission, interpolating a child’s rendition of Keane’s ‘Somewhere Only We Know.’ It feels inconsequential, to an extent – middling and redundant – but what it lacks in immediate headiness it makes up for in structural and thematic relevance. On either side of the interlude, the band showcase a distinct strength of their sound, each manifesting and demonstrating their own unique conceptual grasp. ‘Trailer Trash’ and ‘Cut Out the Pieces,’ despite their aching intimacy, are written, at least to some extent, with an audience in mind; that is, importantly, not
for an audience, but rather the songs maintain a certain appeal in their flirtation with fun and comfort. Charming openers - "can you pass the happiness please / I need to top off my drink" - are soon replaced with touching refrains - "this my fault, now don't you forget it - but this one-two punch that is 'Trailer Trash' and 'Cut Out the Pieces' is inclusive in its bitterness. Indeed, as despondent and self-chastising the songs are, the former is the band at their most energetic and dare I say bubbliest. And whilst ‘Cut Out the Pieces’ – an anthem for, if not self-mutilation, self-hatred – is Hartkop at his most comprehensively despondent, the laundry list of fears is far from discriminatory: lost love, loneliness, failure, a lack of control are forms of trepidation that plague most. Which might sound like a bad thing, but it’s easily one of Hartkop’s greatest strengths as a songwriter; the ability to reflect the listener’s experience through anything other than self-effacement, intentional or otherwise, deserves to be lauded. Still, it’s the latter half of
TSS that most adequately reflects McCafferty’s growth as a band. ‘SOWK,’ through its cheap, albeit smooth aesthetic, lulls its listener into a state of quiet reflection that compliments ‘Outlaw’ and ‘Dead Bird II’ so well. “I’m such a fucking outlaw,” Hartkop sings, through gritted teeth. His restraint is impressive. As self-hating (and -mutilating, and -effacing, and -castigating) he is throughout
TSS, it never quite feels selfish. Perhaps I shouldn’t praise this sort of obsession with inwardly directed hatred, but it is at the very least cathartic, and Hartkop knows the importance of cleaning up. I don’t think McCafferty would exist otherwise. On 'Dead Bird II,' Hartkop bleeds his words:
“Heroin makes me feel less crazy
All your outlets provide no safety
Dead Angel, please, wake up safely.”
I’ll admit, neither Nick Hartkop nor
TSS ever seem to anthemise self-mutilation. (Get help if you need it, please.) But attesting these hardships, regardless of the outcome, is vital to conditioning a response to them. You know, not all experience has to be cathartic, some realities are sad and insurmountable. Weep if you must. Chant, sing, grit death. Get help, be alone, reach out. Breathe in, breathe out. Be uncertain, self-affirm. On
TSS, McCafferty capture, masterfully, the interplay between bitterness and relief. Neither is promised. God knows the dead angel might not wake up. But here it is.
