#recently my camera roll has been flourishing in comparison to before and I think it might be indicative of my mental state

[iindigo-puff]

excerpts from april - july 2023

[lifeonashelf]

CHURCH, THE

I feel kind of bad for The Church. Here you have this outfit who perfected a strain of moody indie rock with lush psychedelic flourishes, except they did so a few zeitgeists too early and peaked about twenty years before the sound they were instrumental in shaping started being deemed stylish by hipster tastemakers (actually, they did it about twenty years before hipsters were even a thing, back when cassettes were fashionable the first time). If their most enduring record—1988’s Starfish—was released today, Pitchfork writers would be tripping over themselves while racing for their laptops to vigorously espouse its merits (then after everyone else caught on to how good The Church is, these same writers would inevitably turn against them and start including them in articles with titles like: “20 Crappy Bands That Hipsters Love”). The group would likely be enjoying the same level of chic esteem as squads like Interpol and Black Rebel Motorcycle Club—bands that are regarded as cool both because they actually are cool, and because people who regard themselves as cool also regard those bands as cool. It naturally follows, then, that The Church would be the third or fourth-billed name in the Saturday line-up for next year’s Coachella, after which assorted dudes with excessively-manicured facial hair would pause between gusts of mango-papaya vape to expound on how “ah-may-zing” their set was (though they would go on to insist the true highlight of the festival was Sia’s performance, which they would—also—designate as “ah-may-zing”).

The Church also arrived a bit too early to benefit from the 1990’s alternative explosion, an epoch during which they would have surely gotten along famously, probably sold at least as many records as the Gin Blossoms, and ostensibly been written in as a favorite band of the character played by Claire Danes on My So-Called Life (Angela Chase never specifically mentioned The Church on that show, but I still sincerely think she probably did like them and I’m reasonably certain “Reptile” was her go-to cut; I doubt Jordan Catalano enjoyed their stuff very much, though—Angela would have been all, like, “hey, let’s listen to this Church CD,” and he would have fluttered his eyelashes and been all, like, “nah”).

Unfortunately, even in their own era, the band’s timing was inopportune. An effective LP like Starfish had all the potential in the world to set up The Church as a benchmark of the thriving college radio circuit, which reasonably could have segued them to continued success in the decidedly guitar-friendly age to come. However, they had to settle for relegation to the middle-ground because they happened to release that record in 1988, a year during which numerous sonic purveyors who would ultimately define the impending alt-rock movement in The Church’s stead released seminal works that were so trailblazing they inevitably made Starfish’s more discreetly-admirable fare sound underwhelming by comparison. While the album boasts four stellar tunes and six solid others, I don’t think anyone could successfully argue that Starfish is anywhere near as exhilarating as Jane’s Addiction’s Nothing Shocking, Sonic Youth’s Daydream Nation, My Bloody Valentine’s Isn’t Anything, The Pixies’ Surfer Rosa, Soundgarden’s Ultramega OK, or Dinosaur Jr.’s Bug—to name just a few of the 1988-alumni discs which effectively set the tone for much of the decade following their release. Even if The Church wrote ten songs as fabulously hypnotic as “Destination”, they couldn’t have possibly competed against a roster of that caliber.

As things stand today, the group’s legacy rests in the realm of far more humble peers such as Soup Dragons and Aztec Camera—which is to say The Church is fondly remembered by dudes in their late-40’s who still wear Happy Mondays t-shirts and scour vinyl bins looking for elusive Charlatans UK singles, yet they rarely earn more than a passing mention in broader critical symposiums about the fertile ambit of 1980’s indie rock. Most people under the age of thirty-five only know The Church even existed because their song “Under the Milky Way” appeared in the most slavishly overrated cinematic offering released so far this century, Donnie Darko (granted, Donnie Darko is far from terrible—in fact, it very well may be one of the best movies ever made about a disturbed teenager who hangs out with a demonic ghost-bunny and travels back in time to masturbate in front of Drew Barrymore—but for all its meandering allegories and figurative virtuosity, the film is nowhere near as mind-bending as its Cult Classic status suggests). And here’s the kicker there: even with their best song prominently featured on a popular soundtrack during an era when popular soundtracks were still a thing—a circumstance which would seem ideal to trigger a contemporary reappraisal of The Church’s prowess—the band was outshined yet again. And this time it wasn’t a cadre of future legends who shoved them into the backseat, it was a now-forgotten singer-songwriter named Gary Jules, whose admittedly first-rate cover of “Mad World” usurped “Milky Way” as Donnie Darko: The Album’s breakout anthem and sparked a contemporary reappraisal of Tears For Fears instead. Even though Tears For Fears was objectively a better band than The Church, it still kind of sucks that Gary Jules dropped a fucking jet engine on the latter’s shining moment.

I hope The Church at least takes solace in knowing they are responsible for one of the most killer tunes ever recorded. “Under the Milky Way” remains an utterly magnificent creation, a five-minute slice of brilliance which is nigh impossible to dislike. Though only a modest hit when it was released—the single didn’t crack the Top-20 anywhere, not even in the collective’s home country of Australia—“Milky Way” nevertheless demonstrates the sort of definitive song-craft most bands could only dream they were capable of summoning. Its hooks are melodic and mesmerizing enough to immediately satisfy the ears of the most jaded pop purists, yet the multifarious arrangement is layered with supple intricacies which invite, and richly reward, a more duteous immersion (to put it in more articulate terms: the song sounds really simple, but there’s actually a whole lot of shit going on there). The brilliantly ambiguous lyrical stanzas are ripe for personal interpretation, unfurling the sort of stream-of-consciousness reverie that any listener searching for revelations can self-apply as they see fit (“Something shimmering and white leads you here, despite your destination / Under the milky way tonight”… ah-may-zing). As for me, I’ve listened to the track well over a hundred times in my life, and I still have no idea what it’s about—although I assume it’s either about fucking or dying, since just about every song ever written is inevitably about one of those two things. “Milky Way” is so entrancing, not even the presence of a densely-processed solo which sounds like braying bagpipes can shatter its dark spell (an old joke comes to mind here: Why do Scotsmen always walk while they’re playing their bagpipes? They’re trying to get away from the noise…). The sole other tune I can think of that accomplishes a similar feat is Korn’s “Shoots and Ladders”, which would still be extraordinary even with ten sets of bagpipes pealing through it, since it holds the distinction of being the only song in the history of recorded sound which inspires moshing alpha-males to savagely pummel each other while growling the words, “Knick knack paddywack, give the dog a bone, this old man came rolling home” (these lyrics naturally lead me to assume “Shoots and Ladders” is about both fucking and dying, concurrently).

I need to back up for a second here, because the more I listen to The Church, I’m starting to think their interment in the crowded mausoleum of ‘80s one-hit-wonders is probably more fitting than not (this concession sort of negates my original thesis for this piece, but fuck it). I do dig several of the tunes on Starfish a whole lot (I have yet to mention “North, South, East And West”, which supplies five more of the finest moments on the record), yet none of them are remotely as transcendent as “Under the Milky Way”. And my appreciation for the band’s dexterity, while potent in single-serving dosages, has not inspired me to seek out the rest of their surprisingly voluminous discography. Until I started writing this, I wasn’t even aware they are still active, nor that they have issued a full dozen records since Starfish (I just now checked out a couple clips from their most recent offering—2017’s Man Woman Life Death Infinity—and they were about what I expected: competent, but not remarkable). I am much fonder of The Church than I am of Soup Dragons or Aztec Camera, I would definitely select one of their shirts over a Happy Mondays tee if it came down to it, and I would be far more excited to stumble across the 12” for “Destination” in a record store bin than a whole stack of Charlatans UK singles. Nonetheless, I can’t think of any persuasive criteria under which I could possibly contend that Starfish is as essential a record as Daydream Nation (although, it is a way better record than Sonic Youth’s 2000 release NYC Ghosts & Flowers).

Ultimately, I guess all I can really say about The Church with conviction is that they made at least one really great album that I own and enjoy. Which is good enough for me, even if that rote conclusion makes all of the needlessly flowery paragraphs leading up to this one rather pointless. But I already wrote all that other shit, so I’m not going to go back and excise it now; there were a few decent jokes in there, and at my age, I can’t really afford to delete pages that I squandered several nights working on. It was a dumb premise, though—who the fuck am I to insinuate that the dudes who wrote a timeless classic like “Under the Milky Way” somehow didn’t realize their full potential? Especially when they’re still touring on the strength of that creation 30 years later, and all I’ve really managed to do in the last 30 years is get myself savagely pummeled by alpha-males at a few Korn shows while Jonathan Davis scatted nursery rhymes at me from the stage.

I suppose if I ever write about The Church in the future, I’ll give my notions a bit more thought before I type myself into a corner. For now, I think I’m just going to close this piece and allow it to simmer in its averageness. If I start tweaking these entries just because they aren’t any good, I’ll never finish a single one. And then who’s going to author middling essays about the hundreds of bands in my collection I haven’t gotten around to yet?

Like a bagpipe-wheezing Scotsman, I’ve got to keep moving. It’s time for this old man to come rolling home.

 June 28, 2018