Spring is finally upon us. The sun — should we be lucky enough to have a lecture hall with windows — tempts our attention spans. When warm breezes replace brutal winter winds, Frisbee at James Madison takes precedence over writing papers. Sitting on Bascom has priority over studying for exams.
In my own preparation for the season, I naturally made a wardrobe change. Putting away all those bulky sweaters, pulling out the skirts. At some point, I came across an artifact — the skinny jeans. Every girl knows what I am talking about. Every guy knows how to appreciate them. Those jeans have an unparalleled power.
It isn’t that they are a size smaller than you normally wear. It isn’t even that you look good in them — and you know you look good in them. It is how you feel while wearing those pants. Nothing can touch a lady donning her skinny jeans. Upon discovering I still fit into mine, I was quite possibly happier than Miranda and needed to share it with my ever-so-sexy city.
So I sauntered aimlessly down State Street, looking every stranger in the eye and greeting any passersby with a smile. That is the force of the skinny jeans. Even the fiercest pessimist finds some positive feelings. Walking past B-Side, and eventually entering in, I realized what I wanted a sound in my ears that could create the same feeling as those jeans on my ass.
Unfortunately, I did not know what exactly that meant. Do chill acoustic bands offer the optimism of springtime? Does danceable hip-hop bring the happiness of confidence? This began to present itself as quite a project.
The only certainty I had was that the answer would be found with something new. Music stores are currently stocked with an abundance of arguable sophomore slumps — sub-par releases from the Doves and the Kills. Shelved right next to those are the questionably over-hyped debuts from the likes of Bloc Party and Eisley. Terrified of finding Guero a disappointment and shattering my ideal Beck, feeling hesitant to believe Elevator rivals Hot Hot Heats’ previous albums, I avoided following the path of my usual preferences.
Had I been wearing anything else, I would have refused seeking assistance. But on that day, regardless of the ridiculousness of the question, I asked for some recommendations. “Can you suggest an album that can do more than make me happy? One that can give me assurance, confidence?”
Those guys are the best. More than new beats and riffs, new metaphors and allusions, I discovered my new expression.
It took some time to find. I have never before been so conscious of the negativity in our musical culture. Artists insist on creating records centered on the variations of a theme of negativity. Generally, this poses little problem.
Let’s face it, who wants to hear about anyone else experiencing requited affection or finding an inner calm? Why sing about progress in policy when there can be stabbing sarcasm of our president? If a song’s subject does include something positively profound or intellectual, it is often overshadowed by a heavy bass, a wonderfully assaulting guitar or clashing percussion.
The upbeat songs — where one might expect to turn when searching for a parallel sunshine emotion — tell you what to do. In this disposition, I do not want J-Kwon instructing me to get tipsy unless his rhythms can make me feel an accompanying staggering step. I do not need Ben Lee telling me to wake up unless he can give me something beyond “Catch My Disease” for which to interrupt my rest.
Irony of ironies, the metaphor became complete as the sound found me — the discovery of Madison’s The Selfish Gene. Though the group’s debut album Self-Defeating Human Beings does not stick strictly to 11 tracks of pure bliss I sought after, “Sun Song” alone made a reality of the sound I feared was too abstract.
With that blasting through my headphones, I am the fool you scowl at when a line or two slips out in song. Scowl as you please. It might be the tightness and simplicity of the driving guitars and drums. Perhaps it is the three-part harmony creating depth in the chorus. This kind of song has an unparalleled power.
Formerly Long Story Short, legal difficulties with a band of the same name could easily have taken all positivity from this quartet. In the end, this may not have been so detrimental. Eric Andraska, Matt Allen, Mike Weber and Mark Heiss reemerged as The Selfish Gene with Self-Defeating this past February — an album as solid in its use of complex arrangements as expressions of complicated emotion.
The strength of this band falls in such ability to convey a sentiment reflected in the sound. The finger-picking notes and marching drum-line that carry “Prince Anthony” offer a sense of the sinister supporting such lyrics as “I’m thinking that the time is right / We’re here, the next heir to the throne.”
Similarly, the folk rock paired with the psychedelia of “Mind for Minutia” mirror the confusion evident in the lines “Labyrinths of doubt / Retrace my steps back to the start / I can’t get out.”
Singing intellectual lyrics paired with a similarly precise sound, The Selfish Gene provides a new frame. When resting on Library Mall under the musical influence, I cannot resist wondering whether we are reducible to our self-defeating tendencies. In such interaction with the auditory ideas, I experience my assurance. I spy a girl across the quad stop a boy whose backpack is wide open. I see the fruit guy throw in an extra orange for the man who spent minutes finding enough change for the first one.
Indeed, those pants will likely become my new uniform. But it is nice knowing I have an alternative to their power. When the skinny jeans split — which they inevitably do — I always have The Selfish Gene.
Christine Holm is a junior majoring in English. Optimism is not her forte, but neither is remembering to write these footnotes. She can be reached for comment or question at [email protected].
