Review Summary: "Hold your damage done close. I'll take you as far as my tail feathers go."
“Tell me: are you just pretending to care？I bet your fingertips have never felt so bare.”
With that,
Dead Language jogs ahead, skips to the thematic conclusion of the album. While
Resuscitation of the Year does not hold my favorite spot, it primes the listener for the emotions to come.
Jealousy, fury, and self-hatred choke the first listen. The point of the album--the undergirding hope that the band wants you to feel--hides under the bite and snarl of his words, the spit that you can almost hear hit the microphone, the way his voice cracks and screams, the muffled shouts from the background vocalists.
The Flatliners wrote a catchier but ultimately more confused album in
Cavalcade. This feels more stripped down, simpler, focused on the resonance instead of the now-former ska elements. The guitars and drums remain less central, and while that usually marks a mistake, the lyrical substance by nature almost requires it.
Change takes effort, pain, and grit: waking up when your eyes want to seal shut, treading forward despite a zombified appearance, spitting out your blood because the taste hides just past your teeth, shoulders up while feeling down, hair dry and skin drier.
He Was a Jazzman from the previous entry in their discography talked about what it’s like to lay on a hospital bed when, by all accounts, “the world's become a hospital.” But it doesn’t matter if the whole world’s a hospital or a graveyard; either way, you’re out of luck.
“Cause the skies of mine are clear, and for that I'm forever in your debt, my dear friends. I'm coming back to life again, resuscitation of the year.
Move forward, idiot. No one wants to grip the railings of a hospital bed, deal with the consequences of your greatest mistakes, withstand a panic attack cloaked in your forehead. Like the band notes in
Sew My Mouth Shut, you could get by with heavy-handed restraint, or care for another like in
Tail Feathers. Maybe you can find solace in someone else. Maybe you can’t. The details don’t occupy any place of importance. It matters that you drown in blood and use it to push on.
