something about neck deep facilitated them, though, the first half of every album lashing out in a vaguely nihilistic manner, controlled chaos always resolved by a sardonic riff. they swirled around my dissociative aura, reaching a deeper core, filling it with splatters of frustration, honor, hope, confidence, lamentations that i could not express. by the end of each album ben reached such a wistful and plaintive nostalgia, singing as he tied the crown of thorns to anchor the old memories and dread to his head. those songs captured what it meant to me to be old and young, old enough to be disgusted and exhausted of the would and too young to do anything about it, too cold and tired to smile and play but knowing life is worthless without those things. his lyrical characters are cassandras of hindsight, homers of insight, longing for the past as the world thrashes on.
anyways, the only things that helped me cry then were a string of late-album songs from their first few studio albums:
candour — wishful thinking
december — life’s not out to get you
wish you were here — the peace and the panic
honourable mentions:
a part of me — rain in july
kali ma — life’s not out to get you
i hope this comes back to haunt you — life’s not out to get you
empty house — all distortions are intentional
