Published on May 13, 1997
When I got the promo for this, I gave a dull shudder when I saw
Weezer’s new album,
Pinkerton, was self produced. The band’s debut album was
geek rock at its finest. Funny, self depreciating lyrics about
rejection and air guitaring to old Kiss albums along with some damn
nice hooks made
Weezer a way better than average release in the middle of
the Alternative boom – see also Gin Blossoms, Better Than Ezra and
Stone Temple Pilots.
The biggest thing going for the band was the producer, ex-Cars
maestro, Ric Ocasek. He gave the songs on the first album the
head-bobbing punch that made it such a blast. Unfortunately with
Pinkerton, that punch is now a forgettable brush of the
shoulder.
It had promise. The funky, boppy bass line intro of “Tired Of
Sex” immediately stuck in my head. Unfortunately, the noisy,
surprisingly weak guitar duo of Brian Bell and Rivers Cuomo didn’t
back up the simple beat.
It goes down from there. I opened my eyes in amazement when I
discovered three tracks had vanished from the opening song.
“Getchoo,” “No Other Name” and “Why Bother.” Why bother indeed; the
guitars and the almost annoyingly whiney voice of Cuomo seemed to
just sort of ooze into a three-song soup full of weak guitar riffs
and droning vocals.
Weezer still can surprise you. Just when I was about to hit
stop, “The Good Life” comes on. It has probably the only real great
guitar riff on the album. The “da na na na na” riff is reminiscent
to Bruce Springsteen’s “Fire.” It truely rocks.
Unfortunately, it goes downhill from there. “Pink Triangle” is a
funny little ditty. They even were innovative enough to use a
triangle in the song. The lyrics are the usually self-depreciating
lot: “We were good as married in my mind, but married in my mind’s
no good.” But it doesn’t live up to what the song should sound
like. Sorry, a song about rejection by a lesbian shouldn’t sound so
limp.
Ah, guys, I’m sorry. I just hope for the next album you can get
a decent producer. There’s definitely potential for the band. Their
first album had that great “Friday’s payday, lets get a couple of
sixers and a pizza” sort of feel. The first time I listened to it,
my roommates and I made a beer fort outside of our rental house
when it snowed 12 inches. Though I’m more refined in my taste, it
was bliss listenin’ to Weezer, pulling out cold bottles of
Budweiser every 20 minutes from outside and making a killer shrimp
dip. Unfortuately,
Pinkerton hasn’t the same appeal. Its appeal is about as
pleasing as a flat bottle of Bud Ice and cold Domino’s pizza.