Ships Ships Ahoy

People been up in the crow’s nests peerin out to the horizon looking for the next Hold Steady joint (due October), because during these bleak times they’re the only ones who indicate there’s even a drop of sweetness to be squeezed out of the lattices of today’s empty and cynical pop from the dance floor; people are panicking at the disco and everything’s gotten so sad that my friends are starting to write personal essays again.

Pitchfork has the dibs on the latest MP3 from the Hold, but the track shouldn’t be new to the devoted few. They definitely played it at their landmark show at the Warsaw this past July, and we were definitely more excited about it then than we are now.

But seeing the Hold Steady live is a religious/rebirth thing, and not just because of their overt Catholicism-dropping or the community displayed amongst the 30-somethings who hired a babysitter so they could go to the show, and it’s safe to guess that from now on the album tracks are always going to pale in comparison to the heat of the live performances.

Here’s why.

Almost Killed Me and Separation Sunday laid the groundwork for what the Hold Steady have been searching for the whole time; enjoyable pop music in the vein not of their obvious musical influences (Thin Lizzy, Bruce Springsteen, Billy Joel, and every other musical influence critics were clever enough to see name-dropped in the lyrics), but rather in the vein of the two of rock’s greats: the Ramones and the Beatles.

Finn and co. were smart enough to realize that “And Your Bird Can Sing” couldn’t exist properly without the context of the Stones’ “Gimme Shelter” and “I Wanna Be Your Boyfriend” wouldn’t have made sense without “Gimme Danger.” It’s the contrast between the squeals of joy and the wails of sorrow that give rock its get-you-high vibe. The contrast is what rock used to be about. No band knew that better than Nirvana, whose dynamic changes forced nearly every song to live in the tantalizing space between the dregs and the cream.

Rock has two tonal poles that have been nearly completely neglected in this era of stylistic mimicry and cute postmodern allusion. We have well-worn grooves to get into now that rock is creeping towards being a hundred years old (if you count my way), but the tension between pure joy and pure agony is what separated the classic behemoths of the genre (the aforementioned Beatles, Ramones, Stooges, Stones) from the mere sonic vehicles bands ride nowadays in an effort at getting there (Queen, Led Zeppelin, pretty much everyone else).

No band in recent memory has so deliberately and carefully built towards the sweet side. Witness “Chips Ahoy.” Lurching in this direction has been their goal all along. Forget the 80’s and its dances. We’re going for a drive. Pretend this matters.

(Credibly) couching hard drug references in a song with whoa’s should be every rocker’s dream. Listen to them yell “Ahoyahoyaho.” Then hear Craig Finn singing now, not shouting, but doing his damndest to make that shitshow of a voice squeak out a couple notes, sometimes even hit them.

“How am I supposed to know if you’re high if you won’t let me touch you?” Finn’s not setting a scene; a guy cares about a girl, they’ve been through hell together, and now it’s all coming an ambiguous end, but an end all the same.

Tilting toward a belief in anything external is the ultimate goal for the children of the aughties. For all the sadness and confusion of our times all we’ve gotten so far is Indecision by Ben Kunkel and a bunch of decent R&B tracks. And Indecision was only good when it was sad, and the R&B hasn’t been anywhere besides inside the comfortable confines of sexiness and groping on the dance floor, big butts etc.

But that’s where “Chips Ahoy” wins the race. The music had been hard rock, now it’s pop. We’ve gotten through the E, the gutter, the bars, the taxis, all the youthful American stuff our parents laid down so firmly for us to tread upon, and now the two of us are laying down together, one grey and cold, on a bad trip, the other just trying to reach for it. The “Whoas” are the only way to get there, and it’s in the franticness of this simple and anti-intellectual space where rock and roll has always thrived.

There’s still a little hope.

October awaits.

_____ ______.