I had a dream about Weezer. It was a strange dream, probably the fourth of fifth of the night. I’m in the process of recovering from illness so these dreams come in an array of medicated madness streaming through my unconsciousness like a good Chris Nolan flick. Like all dreams, I don’t remember how it started or I how I got there, but I do remember being there. I was in a park that looked like every other park, wide and green and filled with the indistinct noises of chatter and moving people. I had just downloaded (illegally of course) the new Weezer album, Hurley, which in my dream had a new dark blue sheen to its artwork. In reality, I think if an image of Hurley had imposed itself into my brain during sleep, this is where my dream would have ended- instantly and abruptly.
In a parallel to reality, my subconscious seemingly spared me the relief of having to actually listen to the album in full. Instead, fast-forwarding to the moment where I had finally hit “stop” and was left with nothing but the feeling of disgust and disappointment. Next thing I know I’m in this park, and I come across Rivers Cuomo sitting on a bench. Still geekily bespectacled, he was now looking unshaven and slightly bedraggled- as if the diminished talent had finally taken it’s toll (like that Keanu meme). He soon told me, as I fumbled with the voice-recorder application on my iPhone (the app finally has a use!), that he was tired of being a rock star.
Some of the details here get a little hazy but I ask him why, among other things, he can’t write more music like he did for that first Blue Album. I tell him it’s still one of the greatest albums ever written (okay, so a slight exaggeration by my dream self- I apparently have no critical control of him) and it seems to bring a light to his face, a brief and recollective smile. Almost as if, he too remembers that one time long ago, he was a great songwriter. One that penned uniquely intelligent but accessible pop songs that were neither patronizing or self-absorbed, but that moment was fleeting, a flicker long gone. “My Name is Jonas”, “Undone- The Sweater Song”, “Say It Ain’t So”, all since replaced by an endless array of tripe like “Pork and Beans”, “The Girl Got Hot” and “Beverly Hills”. It has been one big joke at all of our expenses that only Rivers and the label were in on. How many more terrible videos can we be subjected to? How does the album cover just get worse and worse? No answer.
I ask him if there is any difference to being on Epitaph than it was to being on Geffen before he lets out a prompt, but ample sigh, “no” he says.
This is where the dream ends. As quickly as I had begun asking him all these questions, a pack of older, slightly overweight gypsy-looking women appear at our table with what I can only decipher as either a television or a karaoke machine and scare Rivers away.
So as I awake from this rather hazy slumber, I hastily jot down this bizarrely memorable dream. What was my subconscious telling me? Was it that the side effects of this medicine need to be studied further, or that Weezer have become so appalling that even a drug fueled dream can tell you so. I didn’t even need to listen to the new album to know this is true. And I’m sure that when I do, I will come to the same conclusion.
I am not surprised to hear rumblings are abound that a possible Blue Album/Pinkerton-only tour could happen. Imagine a Weezer performance where you wouldn’t have to listen to anything they wrote after 1996. Glorious. Think of it as ‘Good Time Weezer’ or ‘How Weezer Should Have Ended’.
In case you doubted my subconscious, Weezer have released the first single from their upcoming Epitaph debut streaming below. Safe to say gypsies singing karaoke are much preferred.
Hurley is out September 14th via Epitaph.
For the sake of reference, here is a small reminder of Rivers’ one time genius: