ARTS

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May 25, 2001

Cuomo gives up the lesbians and embraces wiener

British accents make everything better. I'm not talking about stupid Americans pretending to be British. Fuck Mike Myers. Fake Scottish accent equals funny. Fake British accents equals vast quantities of open ass. But authentic British accents make everything better and by everything I mean sex. They make sex better. They are erotic as all get-out. If you were gonna have sex with somebody, and you had to choose from like, a line-up of accents, you're gonna choose British every time. French? No. French people actually are all assholes. I thought that was just a silly caricature of the French that we made up because they hate Americans. But it's actually pretty accurate. Every single French person I have ever met is an asshole. Maybe the French accent is a little sexy, but when you know it comes part and parcel of the asshole package, without fail, it loses its appeal. Moving on, let's examine the unspecified Eastern European accent, which we can refer to as the Vladimir. It's a good accent. It's very funny. I like it, up to a point. No sex for Vladimir, however. Italian, no. We all know about Italians. Same for the Spanish. Asian accents, no. A nice subcontinental drawl? Out of the question. Australian? Noooo. God damnit no. I'd rather fuck a British person. I'm totally and completely straight, but given the chance, I would have sex with George Harrison. Why? Why the fuck not? He was the only Beatle with a soul. John, no fucking way. He abandoned his wife and kid to bang some fucking nutso Japanese artist. Then he cheated on her. No soul. McCartney? Vegetarian hippie bum. He wrote some unbelievably insipid shit there. No soul. Ringo? “Octopus's Garden?" No soul. George does have fucked-up teeth. But he wrote some good songs there. “Something." “Here Comes the Sun." “I Me Mine." “If I Needed Some One." “Thanks for the Pepperoni." These are good songs. You took Soc. This is like fundamental Lockean shit. The social contract. George Harrison writes you these songs, and you service him sexually. John Stuart Mill would have screwed that guy real nice. But he was British too. John Stuart Mill wrote some good books. I should do him too, given a time machine that also made me gay. Anyway, the reasons we are going to build the gay time machine is so we can have sex with these British guys.

So why do we love the British accent so much? Because it's fucking hot, that's why. But it's also just the tiniest little bit gay, too. That's the secret. When you think British accent, you think about monocles and top hats and Sherlock Holmes. But you also think about tea and rose gardens, both of which are a little gay. How does this relate to Weezer? No offense to all those real manly Weezer fans out there, but Weezer is a little gay.

It took Rivers Cuomo five years to put together 28 minutes worth of music. That's less than six minutes of music per 365 calendar days. The resulting album is subtly and imaginatively retarded. You could lock yourself a room with this record for a month and never ever discover anything that's not readily evident after one or two listens. Ugly people like to say that beauty is only skin-deep, but they only say that because they're ugly, and they're trying to confuse everyone so that their ugliness is not pointed out. Beauty is skin deep. If something isn't pretty, it's probably not worth the time of day. Exceptions to this rule: dogs and ice cream. Babies? Nope. If a baby starts out ugly, it's gonna end up ugly. Anyway, Weezer has a new album and we're going to review it, you and me together.

I will now proceed to tear this fucker up eschatologically. Themes addressed on album opener “Don't Let Go": not letting go, also known as “sticktoittiveness." This one is a winner. Everybody can relate to this. As a subtheme of not letting go, Cuomo and associates bring you “Photograph," which stresses the following truism: if you, the listener, are not yet in possession of something to not let go of, and you would, in point of fact, like to be in possession of said object (which we could reasonably assume to be love) you must reach out there and grab that shit, if indeed you want it.

“Hash Pipe" is about smoking hash, I suspect. “Island In The Sun" is about going to an island in the sun, and it might just make you feel so fine you can't control your brain. Again, these are very real issues Cuomo has brought to the surface. “Crab" is probably about sexually transmitted diseases. It only makes sense. On the Blue Album, Rivers was, more or less, looking for something to poke on, or lamenting the recent loss of something to poke on. Pinkerton opens with “Tired of Sex." Rivers has annihilated his desire to poke. It's almost Freudian or something. Except it's not. He wrote all these songs in the hope he would become a rock star and pull some serious ass. Then he became a rock star and pulled some serious ass. Then what, says you? The missing horse in this power-pop troika is “Crab." He wanted sex. He got sex. He got tired of sex. Then he got swamp crotch. So simple. So true.

I bet “Knock-down Drag-out" is about how this big fight Cuomo had with his girlfriend is like some big knock-down drag-out war they'll be waging on each other forever more. Some day they'll get back together, but for now, he has to go rock out with his cock out. The world has turned and left her there, anyone? I think so. I know so.

“Smile" is about how you have to open your heart and let the good stuff out. If you want some love, you got to make it happen. Cuomo could be accused of really, really pushing his luck at this point. Open your heart and let the good stuff out? First of all, if anything, you should open your heart and let the good stuff IN, not out. You don't want to share the good stuff. According to the extant Gospel of Rivers, one of the Four Pillars is Not Letting Go. Opening your heart and letting the good stuff out would imply Letting Go of that Good Stuff. You see now, Weezer can be complicated, primarily in the way that all dumb things are complicated, on account of being so dumb they fail to meet expectations.

Then there's “Simple Pages" which is about kicking it on back to what you know, and giving me some love. Again, universal ideas. This song is framed nicely. I think it's a song about writing songs. Rivers writes songs about people giving him some love, from which he can kick on back to what he knows on the simple pages in his notebook. Simple pages. It's an escalation of “Across the Sea," where he sends his songs to Japan, for the little girl who wrote him letters. This man is amazing.

On the heels of “Simple Pages" comes “Glorious Day." Rivers is gonna make his move. He's gonna hit the ground with a brand new sound looking for romance. “It's time I got back/It's time I got back/I don't even know how I got off the track?" Maybe? Just a little bit. Yes.

Then there is another song and the album ends. The last song is called “O Girlfriend." Rivers misses you. Suddenly, you're apart. He misses you. The chorus goes “O Girlfriend/It's the end." I see. In your arms, he was as a happy as a little boy could be. Yee haw. It doesn't get much better than this. It can't get better anyway. The album ends.

There is not much more to tell you. This album is so amazing it makes my ass hurt. Words that are relevant to this album: Cliched. Dumbed down beyond comprehension. Simplistic even. Subgenius perhaps. Canned. Power-Pop. Trite. Cloying. Saccharine. Two-chord wonders. They might have the world fooled. They sure as hell have me fooled. If this be ignorance, give me more of it. Lots more. I fucking love ignorance. I fucking love Weezer. I can sing along with the songs.