A Cure for Writer's Block

"A richer people could give more, but they could never give as much." -Flavor text from a Magic The Gathering™ card

Tomorrow, I'll probably quit my job that I started today. At least I plan to. Friday, on an unemployment special mid-workday run, I pulled up a tab off a flyer on a phone pole for some kind of grassroots campaigning gig. I called them at 1 in the afternoon. I interviewed at 4 that same afternoon. I started Monday morning, and now, on Monday night, I have decided to quit.

Quitting this job is a luxury I cannot afford. But I'm not just quitting this job; I am quitting on principle. That is a solid gold bidet at Versailles with single-cut diamond taps and that runs aged cognac. And in part, one of the principles that caused me to luxuryquit out of my means was that this job was causing me to contribute to the culture where activism, or doing anything else on principle, is a luxury. Which gives me a nice, hermetically sealed, full-circle(jerk) way to justify leaving. (Wow, two paragraphs in after my return from the Wilderness and I'm already packing in the cock jokes. And I think I just made another.)

The cause. It's a great cause. Let me tell you about how shit is fucked up in our great state of California. Let me phrase that better, since my parents or pastor or impressionable youths might be reading. There are some major issues in the battle for California's future, and one of them is how we're going to handle what forests we have left. I can tell you these facts because I was spitting them out all day to disinterested passersby who were just trying to get their damn kids to soccer practice so they could go home, close the blinds, and read 50 Shades of Gray while eating something vaguely resembling chocolate, or something Greek yogurt-based, in their brief 90 minutes of respite from those little fleshy bags which preserve their DNA at the cost of a ruined 18 years. Here's the deal: we're going to lose over a million acres of forest in the Sierra foothills in the next few years. 65,000 acres get chopped down every year, and then the logging companies, just to add the Mr. Burns finishing kick, spray the ground with arsenic and a cocktail of up to 300 other noxious chemicals, none of which are regulated by the state. Since 80% of our drinking water comes from forested watersheds, this is bad news for everything in the state that needs water, like crops, endangered herons, humpback whales named Humphrey that for some reason swim a hundred kilometers up the Sacramento River, and oh yeah, people.

But you might say we need to replace forests with apocalyptic wastelands and put cancer in our drinking water for the economy! Because jobs! Because, you know, all those loggers are going to be out of work and there will be no building materials to build job-creating infrastructure. Environmentalists are killing progress and it's all Obama's fault, or something like that. The truth is, you can log without clear cutting. It just doesn't give you a big yield right away. Instead, you have to manage your resources so you have both a steady stream of lumber coming to market and enough living trees to keep that stream going. You have to be responsible, budgeting your forest. Investors prefer clear cutting because it provides a quick and dirty return on their investments.

These are real issues, issues which, admittedly, I didn't know about until Friday afternoon. But now that I know, I'm using the only means I have to really do good, writing about it. Because it's out of my hands. It was even out of my hands when I was working for the people trying to stop it.

It's coming down to a lobbying battle. I was standing out in front of a Whole Foods with a Sierra Club shirt on going up to people who conveniently developed a trendy gluten allergy sometime in the last few years, and these people just wanted to sign something. They see a clipboard and a pen and hear me talking about one of the millions of awful things in the world and ask "where do I sign?" Well shit, I don't have anything for you to sign, my superiors just need your damn money. Because the timber industry has its tentacles going deep into the lobbying scene. Since their money comes from commercial ventures and investors, who have incentive for it to succeed, they are going to get however much money they need. The Sierra Club needs to get members to contribute so they can get money to hold their own in this battle. And they will always need more money.

So this is where I come in. The agency I work(ed) for is not actually the Sierra Club, but an organization called Grassroots Campaigns. Basically, they're a progressive gun for hire fundraising institution, contracted by various organizations like the Southern Poverty Law Center, Oxfam, the ACLU, and of course, the Sierra Club. I'm no economist so I don't know whether or not this cuts costs or ads in overhead. Maybe if I were an economist I would reason that if they're doing something, it has to be saving them money, because in the Economist's Dimension, all decisions are made based solely on financial gain. However, I'm not sure if contracting Grassroots Campaigns to do some of their fundraising was the most cost-effective way to do things. Canvassers are paid eight dollars an hour with commission past a certain amount of money raised. This is going to make you pushy. This will make sure you shake everyone by the ankles. And if, in a week, you average canvassing less than $140 per day, then you don't keep your job. This practically makes you mug people for charitable donations.

I spent my first morning getting the rap down, a set of talking points which, although it only takes a minute to recite on rapid fire, is far too cumbersome to give to a bystander who wants to get out of there. Most of the facts pertaining to the issues I have already given, but far more eloquently. Of course, there's also the stuff about "GIVE US MONEY ON A MONTHLY BASIS OTHERWISE YOU'RE BASICALLY PUNCHING A BABY OWL IN THE DICK!" and how you can do it monthly with a credit card to make it easier for the Sierra Club to budget for a long-term Western Front style lobbying battle. (I often wonder if our Lost Generation will be one lost to apathy.)

After a good old fashion grassroots organization let's all get energized meeting, we break into groups to go to canvassing locations. My group was going to the most far-flung location. At least I get to see the world in this limited sort of way. We piled into a rental car with two canvassers for the SPLC who were going to a nearby location. There's another piece of overhead. To get to some of these spots at the periphery of the Bay Area, Grassroots Campaigns has to use rental cars. More getting billed to the Sierra Club.

They listened to top 40 radio. Top 40 radio is a way to identify when people don't really care about music, they just like having it on in the background. They'll like what is convenient to like. Ian, a kid from East Oakland who would be canvassing for the SPLC said he had done some research on them and found that about 60% of what they raise goes to the top of the organization and the rest goes to the actual fighting for causes like taking down hate groups. But all he had to say about it was that it "seemed kinda sketchy." I found myself wishing I could compartmentalize my mind like that, do my job without thinking about how it's all connected, where I fit in the machine. We need someone to fight those hate groups but should it really be people so corrupt? It's hard to find the greater good when nobody is doing it.

Getting farther from the Bay Area's population core now, we lost the top 40 station and someone started flipping through stations until he settled on some kind of 20th century synthpop. "Hahaha, this is so Eighties man!" he said. I need to find a way to bottle the 80's aesthetic and sell it as a tincture in organic stores. I would make a killing.

We set up in front of a whole foods. Two of us flanked the sides and the third covered a park across the street. I got about 15 minutes of observing my supervisor canvassing, and then we switched roles and he watched me. Then he cut me loose and I was alone in the mighty Whole Foodsian jungle. In the next hour and a half I was able to get one donation from a guy who said that he studied marketing psychology and that my tricks would not work on him. (My "tricks" were limited to shaking his hand and telling him my name.) He handed me a 20 and told me to go away.

Now people are supposed to fill out forms with their names and addresses, and we prefer credit cards over cash, probably for purposes of corruption. (First off, nobody trusts you with their credit card information, even if we don't need the security code on the back. We write down the information but we do make a rubbing of the embossed numbers on carbon paper using a coin, but who has time to sit around doing that?) One really strange thing we needed was, from those paying with a check, a second check left blank except for the word "void" written on it. This did not sit well with the one person who gave me a check. Since it was a struggle to get the first check out of her I let her off the hook.

I talked to some people who had been members of the Sierra Club for a long time. Since I was out there for a 3rd party contracted by the Sierra Club, I really had nothing to say to him. I knew nothing about what else the Sierra Club has been up to. I couldn't even tell people what their membership would get them other than a good feeling and junk mail. But these lifelong members, they thought I was awesome. I didn't want to tell them the truth because being told I was awesome already made me feel awful inside. One woman even said "I bet your parents are really proud of you." She thought I was doing a good thing out of passion for the cause. But I was just a lousy progressive gun-for-hire. I know that the reason for feeling awful was because of a discrepancy in how I was perceived and in what was actually going on, and that if I told them it might actually make me feel better. But I just nodded and smiled. I can be a bit of a sadist. Sometimes I would just take the cop-out of "it's my first day." There are so many things that need your attention now, but all they ask for is your money. We've got government espionage, civil wars across the globe, racially motivated violence, and now even my hooded sweatshirt has become political by appropriation! And here I am trying to get you to cough up more than a few bucks to save some conifers! There are awesome people out there, doing awesome things that will make a difference, and I am not one of them. Do not inflate me.

And then the euphoria of not caring came over me. I was a zen monk (not the trendy fake American kind but the real deal) and beheld a sizable chunk of causality in an instant, seeing myself standing in a whole foods parking lot as the logical conclusion of my car breaking down all those years ago, a time trial in American flag running shorts, recycled emotions slapped onto a blank CD, singing Billy Joel in an MRI machine, a late-night phone call to make me useful again and a chance meeting the next day when all I wanted was to be useless, discovering my beard had turned black in a Wendy's restroom, a promise to myself I knew I would break, Flagstaff hailstones the size of golf balls, a spilled Jamba Juice, a concussion on the floor of a blood bank, being stuck one too many times in LA traffic, a few too many empty bottles of Trader Joe's wine, a broken window, the weight of all my blown opportunities, and a road trip to Long Beach which would end up taking me as far as Boston, all coming together like history in the mind of a delusional Saleem Sinai preparing for his birth, all an unbroken chain of accidents and artifacts bringing me to this very whole foods for this very purpose, telling me this was no fault but my own and the only way to break the cycle of the birth and death of my aspirations was to abandon whatever passivity-borne-of-confusion had left me so incapable of transcending my own mediocrity. I used to feel like there was some kind of manual to life that everyone but me had received, but in this moment, it becomes clear that there is no way there could be a manual for all this, for all I've done and seen, and for all the people I've met along the way. It's all just choices in a the wilderness and I was going to have to make one. I think it was around then I decided if i really objected, on principle, to what I was doing, then I would have to do something about it myself.

On the ride back I talked with the other canvassers about how to distinguish who is going to give you money and who is a waste of your time. Sometimes people want to talk about the issues but aren't in a position to give money. We are supposed to get them out of there as quickly as possible, to get money from people who can afford to care more. They told me soon I would undergo a session of "Awareness Training," which would help me better identify who would be willing to give. Isn't the purpose of a "grassroots" campaign to build a broad base of support to the point where it incites a mass movement? All this does is raise money that will get poured into the Sacramento entertainment industry as lobbyists take state senators for a night of schmoozing on the town. It's putting the people who already have the power (and the money) in a position of more power.

During my "debriefing" I brought up how I felt really conflicted about shaking people down for money this way to support a lobbying battle. Notice that I didn't say I felt bad, I just felt really conflicted. This is an issue that needs to be addressed, and unfortunately, lobbying is how these things get done now. My super told me I can't think of it that way. The antecedent to "that" was not the conflict about structural flaws in the ways we make changes to the structural flaws in the macro-structure. I didn't tell him that much. I just told him I was conflicted about asking people for money. He then went on to tell me that I just have to think of what I'm doing as the 100% right thing to do.

And I certainly didn't. The first thing I thought when I walked out was "shit, I need to go do something that does some real good in the world to absolve myself for what I've been doing today." And then I realized that's not what your'e supposed to be thinking after a day of working for a grassroots organization to protect the majestic splendor and beautifully complex system that is God's Spaceship Earth. You're supposed to see all the corporate sellouts, the people splurging on needlessly frothy coffee, and all the conpsicuous consumption around you, and feel like you've done a truly good thing while everyone else keeps their head down.

Whatever other work I end up finding will probably be something where I do nothing for the common good, except maybe help people which brand of toothpaste to buy. I won't be doing the right thing, but at least I won't be doing something that keeps the wrong thing going on.

All I can say for now is try to be one of those passionate people. Follow the news, do research, make your own opinions. Drink chocolate milk if your stomach can handle it. Drive with the windows down, wear silly hats, grow your own food. Vote no matter how long the lines are, give people rides, take the bus, tell your friends to take the bus. Read books that aren't on a screen and reuse all your things until they fall apart. Remember that nothing has to be the way it is (except for things like the laws of physics because we can't change those) and make some fucking eye contact with each other for once! Say hungry. Say free. And dammit, do the best you can. Because that's all I can ask of anybody.


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Brooklyn-Bound Chiropractor

There's something special about being alone on the New York Subway in the middle of the night. Yes, there is someone operating the train but they're so removed and so invisible it might as well be an automated system, a force of nature propelling you beneath the city of illusory insomnia, because everyone must sleep at some point even if their city doesn't. You step in to an empty, silent cavern and a cascade of sound and light fills the building, heralding its destination. The doors open for you and only you. They close and seal you as the solitary entity on this mystic journey through the dark. I wondered if the Warriors would hop on, joining me on their escape to Coney Island but no one else came and I sat in a chair facing backwards.

The gentle rocking of the train jostled my rib cage, it jostled my neck and my lower back. It squeezed my calf and hamstring muscles. It loosened my knees. My back cracked, my neck cracked, my arms popped out of their sockets and back in again. My hands flopped over into the anatomical position, the scar tissue in my forearms and wrists shredding in an instant and then recoiled back, a chain reaction of cracks releasing down my digits. (You'll get arthritis doing that, I clearly remember my eighth grade English teacher telling me.) The handholds came down and grabbed my neck, the best chiropractor in the known universe yanking it to both sides, then up, then down each vertebra, releasing the tension on each one. The metal poles came in and slammed against my glutes, shoving the sciatic nerve into place and a wave shot down my legs causing every molecule to vibrate at the same perfect frequency.

They pulled apart my fingers and my toes, cracked every joint and released every muscle. Each rib was pulled as far from my spine as it would allow without being ripped out and turned into a woman and then snapped back in place, the cartilage stretched and the ligaments made new. The feeling of well-being, of alignment  spread through my body, once again a complete system, no longer a crumpled mass of scar tissue and regret.

And then at the next stop the people got on again. In their suits and their makeup and their put-together personal lives, their places to go, their dates to be on and people to meet in social situations well-defined by the media. Shoes matching hats. Demeanor matching scent. Agenda matching indoctrination. And I was once again misaligned and calcified, bruised and broken, atoms vibrating in a grating dissonance.

Monsanto and GMO Corn: It Aint Easy Bein' Sleazy

In case you haven't heard, while the American public was distracted by the supreme court case on Prop 8 the federal government sneaked an addition to the 2013 agricultural appropriations bill essentially protecting Monsanto and other distributors of GMO seeds. Now it was a last-minute addition, so it's not entirely fair to blame congress for passing it or Obama for signing it in to law, because it was just one point on a much larger bill, but on all levels, it really was a disservice to the American people. The provision basically states that judges can't halt the planting or sale of GMO seeds even if they pose an imminent health risk. This comes a few months after prop 37 was voted down in California, meaning that food products containing GMOs do not have to be labeled. A friend and I were lamenting this today, and he basically said that if GMOs had to be labeled, the free market would decide whether or not GMOs foods will continue to be sold; if they are as destructive as opponents claim, then the market forces will no longer make them commercially viable.

This is the friend of mine who worked at a libertarian think tank and once wrote an article for their publication that was against government restrictions on genital mutation. So I think it's safe to say he's all for a free market. (He is by no means pro-genital mutation. He just treats it as would Voltaire.) Now, I enjoy and appreciate our free market system as much as anyone. But I think in the case of GMOs, and destructive foods in general, the free market will not save us.

Let's use Flamin' Hot Cheetos as an example. If you know something about food, you know that Flamin' Hot Cheetos are bad for you. The ingredients are required by law to be on there, tucked away somewhere on the back in fine print. It's labeled, and if you read it, you realize there are some unholy things on the back, including hydrolyzed soy protein, disodium guanylate, and red 40 lake. You can't stop people from eating Flamin' Hot Cheetos. I once witnessed another friend of mine (now you know I have at least two more friends than you thought I did) down almost an entire bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos. She would have finished the whole thing herself if I hadn't helped out and subsequently got Flamin' Hot Cheeto dust up my nose, killing my sense of smell for a week. Short of a big neon label on the packaging saying CAUTION THIS WILL MAKE YOUR THIGHS BLOAT AND YOUR TESTICLES SHRIVEL! I don't think there's any warning they could slap on it that would discourage consumers.

A century ago, people were able to successfully vote with their wallets against the Chicago-based meat packing industry, thanks largely to Upton Sinclair's The Jungle. It exposed what really went into the meat people were consuming: rat tails, bits of rope, the severed hands of Lithuanian immigrant meat packers, etc. But this was something on a macro scale. We can't even visualize what's going into our food this time around. Rat tails. Everyone can picture it and no one wants to eat it. But a protein that acts as a pesticide caused by the introduction of a vector of bacterial DNA to the genome via a retrovirus? It sounds kind of scary, but what is it to you? Looks like corn. Tastes like corn. It's not as nutritious as corn, and it might give you cancer, and it's making livestock infertile, and it's contaminating the gene pool and contributing to bacterial evolution in a way that is bad for humanity, but hey, at least it's not a rat tail.

People will do things that are bad for them if it makes them feel good. You have probably ate something with GMO corn in it. And it was probably delicious. Labeling is the first step. It will get the health-conscious and the people who can afford regular corn to shy away from GMO. Because standard corn WILL become more expensive and I believe we'll see a day when only the well off can afford non-GMO corn. Don't believe me? All vegetables used to be what is now considered "organic." Now you have to pay more for it. The next step is being able to criminally prosecute irresponsible GMO companies, and make them liable for the ecological and health damage they cause. I would like to trust the free market. I would like to trust the wisdom of the crowd. But we're the same species that can eat a whole bag of Flamin' Hot Cheetos in one sitting, that smokes a pack a day, that gets addicted to heroin. This is the species that has caused desertification, mass extinctions, and once punched a hole in the Ozone Layer all for the sake of sustained exponential growth. I don't know if we can trust ourselves to stop Monsanto.

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Lentcore

"There is nothing so depressing as boundless optimism."
-Wicked Witch of the West, The Wizard of Oz

The very fact that I don't know how to begin this post means that I am lacking confidence in my ability to write an opening sentence. Which is why I should simply begin writing and not look back. Because this year for Lent, I am giving up all negativity, in both thought and speech. This saccharine quadragesimal* period will probably see me dead, crushed under a gigantic pile of good vibes, but I can't exactly entertain those notions at this point.

*You like that word? I think I may have made it up. 

Like every proper writer, I ooze forth a veritably palpable sludge of negativity. (I know that sentence was a bit if a criminal act but I wanted to use the phrase "veritably palpable sludge" and now I'm appeased.) I thrive on it. I thrive on the cynicism, the snarky comments. I take refuge in pessimism. Not that I'm sad. In fact, being negative makes me happy, worrying makes me feel at ease, and I'm uncomfortable saying positive or affirming things. Now that I think of it, I'm uncomfortable when people say positive or affirming things to me. Even when someone likes my facebook status, I feel like I owe them something. The universe is not right when all things are well.

If you think about it, this is really more of a survivalist trait than anything else. Natural selection favors people like me. This is probably the reason why anxiety med usage is so rampant. We had to be on the lookout for predators/Arena Football teams like the San Jose Sabercats, who were lurking behind every darkened corner and rustle in the underbrush. We also had to make sure a rival clan of hominids wasn't going to smash our heads in and carry off our womenfolk. So we evolved to be anxious, pessimistic little assholes.

There was also a race of hominids living in South Africa some thousands of years ago who basically philosophized themselves to extinction with their pessimism. Based on their brain size, anthropologists have hypothesized they had an average IQ of 150. And they just sat around thinking "why am I alive? I will one day die" and didn't hunt or reproduce. Not to mention the fact that we've got a pretty horrible evolutionary strategy going on with big brains and bipedalism; the head keeps getting bigger and bigger and the hole it has to come out of keeps getting smaller and smaller. Meanwhile Homo Sapiens were running around lighting things on fire and getting themselves killed hunting woolly mammoths. And some of these moronic Homo Sapiens probably were a little pessimistic at times, but they kept it under wraps enough to reproduce. Malnutrition also helped keep that cognitive development to a healthy minimum.

Now we grow up with adequate nutrition and schooling and Mozart in the womb. All of a sudden these big old brains get to develop to their potential and they start to realize all the things that are amiss. And some of us come to the conclusion that, not only are we going to die, but the intervening time between now and then will be full of mostly shitty things.

But much like many peoples' religious beliefs lead them to say "no" to evolution, my religious beliefs will have me say "no" to this particular aspect of evolution. For the last few years, I've given up swearing and all associated euphemisms (except for that one year where I decided I wasn't going to use forks for some reason) but that usually just led to me bottling up a little bit more of my negativity and doing a lot of grunting.

I feel like this will be an episode from a sitcom. I, the curmudgeonly character, must be positive, it will make a noticeable improvement in both my life and everyone else's life, but I will then become so obnoxiously positive the rest of the ensemble cast forces me back into my dark and gloomy state. And I will be happy to return to this state, because being negative is what really makes me happy, and is the glue that holds the world around me together. Or possibly like that episode of the Simpsons where homer tries to suppress his anger and all his pent up anger ends up turning into cysts in his neck. Except my negativity will probably manifest itself as some kind of rash or boils.

But for the next forty days, I will let that fall apart. I am going to be the most positive, obnoxious, motivational poster mounting, motivational slogan believing, exercise encouraging, humanity affirming, pastel polo shirt wearing, smile until you melt the paint off the walls optimistic.

Now I know this isn't a personal website, but I may keep a few updates on here, just in case the world worries about my dying from optimism poisoning. Because it has been known to happen.

And I cannot wait until Easter, when I can finally, once again, start acknowledging that the things that suck actually do suck.

Yelp! Review of an Amtrak Train

I continue to waste my writing chops on Yelp! reviews that don't really tell you anything about the establishments in question. The following is based on my journey from LA to Seattle on Amtrak's Coast Starlight line. Surprisingly, I was by no means the first yelper to review this train. If you must know, I gave it two stars (out of five).

This is a long review so:
CLIFF NOTES
1) The workers are rude and don't know snakes from dildos when it comes to interpersonal skills.
2) The wifi does not work so..
3) Bring a book or
3a) Bring Booze
4) The experience and the people you meet are worth it.

Ok people, don't let the two stars put you off too much. The train itself is, just like Amtrak, a pretty crappy establishment, owing its continued existence to annual infusions of cash from the federal government.

However, with the right attitude and supplies (by which I mean alcohol and possibly drugs) this train can be a blast. I took this train all the way from LA to Seattle, a 32 hour ride with no delays, and you will get delayed. Being an Eagle Scout, I was prepared, bringing with me a water bottle full of cheap wine and a flask of tequila. I had planned to maybe sip on the wine while I watched movies on my laptop and save the flask for emergencies. But I was in for a much more raucous ride than I had planned for.

Between Santa Barbara and SLO I headed up to the observatory/lounge car to catch a glimpse of the scenic California coast and the UFOs we all know they're keeping at Vandenberg Air Force Base. There were some other early twentysomethings hanging out in the observation car, playing loud shitty dubstep (is there any other kind?) off laptop speakers and playing dominoes. As I walked by they invited me to sit with them. This may only have been because they thought I was carrying weed on me, probably because I was wearing a drug rug and ripped cargo shorts. But never the less, I had found some friends to pass the time.

Let me break down my crew of fellow wayfarers for you: 1) A model/softcore porn actress with bipolar who had lost custody of her daughter and claimed to have been recently living in Las Vegas with rapper Spice 1. She was consuming copious amounts of Amtrak bar wine since the wifi wasn't working. 2) A guy on ketamine who claimed to be a prophet of the post-2012 paradigm and had smuggled his chihuahua on board in a dufell bag.He would occasionally give it little sips of water. At one point he was complaining his palms were itchy. 3) A guy with blood on his shirt who said he had lost all his stuff at the border then spent a few days staying with and... keeping company a lonely middle aged rich woman living in the Hollywood Hills. 4) A guy who claimed that he was a time traveler. Now, I normally wouldn't give this kind of claim any credence, But this guy was dressed straight out of an 18th century daguerreotype, complete with a handle bar mustache which if it were waxed he could twist while kidnapping orphans.

We soon made friends with a guy who two days prior had been released from prison after serving 13 years for purchasing stolen property. Now he's tatted up to the gills, no one will hire him, estranged from everyone he knew and loved. Another glorious victory for our criminal justice system. We also expanded our crew to a few other people, none of whom were nearly as colorful, but some of whom had pretty sweet mustaches.

Later in the night, when everyone else had left the observatory car, we broke out the flasks and had a pretty good time, drinking, playing cards, cursing, etc., all the things considered to be on the far end of the moral divide pre-20th century. During stops long enough to step out and smoke, some of them would go out and pass around a joint on the platform. We were full on partying on the train. We were even playing music as loud as we could on those woefully insufficient lapotp speakers. The porn actress even flashed her tits a couple times, I shit you not. (I'm sure that Amtrak does not guarantee this will be part of your experience.)

I should warn you that all of this is clearly against Amtrak policy. We had to make sure no one saw us taking nips from the flasks or smelled any alcohol. The music is also technically not allowed but nobody seemed to care.

I would have loved to take this train in the summer to get more daylight hours for looking at the scenery, especially in the Siskyous, which you cross at night, and the mighty Columbia. That's kind of more the sun's fault than Amtrak's though.

My return journey was not nearly as fun. I was seated in the aisle when there were plenty of open empty rows around me, and when I tried to move the porter told me that I had to stay in my seat because "families would be getting on later." I told him I could move back to my assigned seat at that time, and that with a little bit of democracy and diplomacy between us passengers we could all sort this out without his intervention thankyouverymuch. He took this personally and threatened to have me thrown off the train. Maybe he's fed up from dealing with rugged individualists (read: assholes who have problems with authority figures) like myself every day, but I think this was a bit of an overreaction.

Another note about the dickishness of the staff: On a previous trip when I was taking the train from Santa Barbara to Oakland, I was not allowed on the train, although I had already paid for my ticket, because my bag was too large for carry-on. This was two days before Christmas. I asked the conductor "where's your humanity?" and he got in my face and started yelling at me. There were some expletives involved. I don't know his name, but he's a bit pudgy, with an extra chin coming out the bottom of his original one, and wears small glasses that make his eyes, already beady from the folds of fat encroaching on the sockets, look even beadier. If you see this conductor, do me a favor and fart in his general direction.

So, if you want slow (but the good kind of meditative slow) travel that's marginally cheaper than a Southwest flight, filled with fun vagabonds, this is the only way to travel. And honestly, I think it's the best way to see America. After all, it's your tax dollars propping the thing up, you might as well take advantage.

The Top 12 Albums of 2012

So here it is compiled together. And in keeping with the schema used to catalog 2012 in music, this will be:
PowerTier I - The Mobots and the Bolts

Because, let's face it, these guys won the year 2012.

So without any further ado, here they are, your top 12 albums of 2012, all in one place. We'll start with:

#12 Soundgarden - King Animal

I've got to admit, I was worried about Chris Cornell's ability to continue to be Chris Cornell. I saw Soundgarden two summers ago and he looked like he had seen better days. I wouldn't have been surprised if his face had just kind of fallen off. At one point, instead of taking a guitar solo, he just destroyed his guitar by ripping out his pickups with a flathead screwdriver and made us all listen to the strange sounds it made. Being Chris Cornell is a trying occupation, that's for sure. I still can't tell if he is actually a genius or behaves in a way that tricks everyone into thinking he is, but either one is a feat. So he might as well be one.


#11 Hot Water Music - Exister

The Tampa punk quartet got back together for their first LP in eight years, characterized by tight harmonies and even tighter beats. I think what a lot of the albums recognized this year are proving is that you are, in fact, never too old to rock and roll. Especially with Ian Anderson. It makes me wonder how you can keep the attitude up that long. After 2012 kicked me in the balls I don't know if I'll ever be able to outwardly display much of the rock n' roll aesthetic at all. At least right now. I just don't have the willpower. I just want to sit inside and sip mint tea with a little honey in it. Maybe watch reruns of bad sitcoms. But this will hopefully get me out the door. But if the revolution comes before then, it had better be televised, because that's the only way I'll get to see it.


#10 The Gaslight Anthem - Handwritten

The day before I saw them in concert, I tweeted at frontman Brian Fallon. It said that if they played the song "We're Getting a Divorce, You Keep the Diner," we would buy the band a round. Alas, they had a setlist that they were sticking to, and they weren't doing much from their first LP. I'm not complaining, it was probably the last time most of us are going to get to see them in a venue that small. My friends and I kept making requests but Brian Fallon kept blaming it on Benny Horowitz, that he needs the setlist to be exactly as they rehearsed. He was kind of drunk and also probably lying. He also kept ordering expensive drinks for other members of the band and sticking them with the tab. We were rocking out  so hard the band noticed, and Fallon pointed at me and said "watch out for this guy, he's on bath salts or something." Because, you know, it was topical at the time. It's nice to get noticed by the band without needing to show your tits.


#9 Edward Sharpe and the Magnetic Zeros - Here

This is the band that lives in a bus and goes about barefoot. Three years ago, they captured our collective heart with their hit "Home." Now, they face the challenge of following that up, and the consensus is that they haven't. Well I say to hell with consensus. This album may be a bit more laid back, and they've matured a little. Maybe not too much though. Thematically, it's mostly Beatles brand "love" and vague pantheism, not very weighty stuff, but that doesn't really bother me. I'm about the music, maaaaaaaaaaaan. The textures are delicious - rubbery bass, ragged drums, clean guitar work, tight vocal harmonies. Oh yeah, and the horns. There might not be as iconic a horn riff as there was on "Home," but they use it well.

#8 Father John Misty - Fear Fun

Posting by Trevor Crown

Josh Tillman’s latest project, Father John Misty, ascended so mythically into the musical consciousness this year that his emergence deserves comparison to Bon Iver’s in 2008. You’ve heard at least three versions of the mountain-man-in-a-secluded-cabin story, but have you heard the one about the Fleet Fox who moved to California in a van full of shrooms, reinvented his musical persona, and proliferated widespread grooving? If you haven’t already, you will soon.

Misty’s debut for Sub Pop, Fear Fun, pays its debts to Sgt. Pepper’s and 1970’s folk rock with interest by innovating even more than it steals. With Tillman’s strong lead vocals, rich harmonies and tight instrumentation, lyrical substance would almost seem too much to ask of him, but Tillman’s lyrics are perhaps his greatest strength. Fear Fun wryly depicts Los Angeles in all of its glamorous mania, and will keep you dancing (or at the very least, swaying) to its final note. There’s just no sense in fighting it; let the groove take you.


Trevor Crown is made out of sunshine and freedom. With his winning smile, he is everything America needs, and will become president in 2044.


#7 Dave Matthews Band - Away From the World

I'm not sure why everyone identifies DMB as the epitome of conformity and unoriginality in musical taste. Here's something crazy for all you haters to chew on: he makes really good music. Good arrangements, good songwriting, and a tight, professional band. Maybe that's why everyone hates them. They're professional and polished and well rehearsed. Was Steely Dan that hated in their heyday? This album is packed with full orchestrations and phat sounds, deftly shifting through textures and moods. Just like you remember DMB always doing. Except you don't, you just know of Dave Matthews as someone who people you hate and drive trucks listen to. Which I don't understand, because I've never actually heard Dave Matthews coming from a truck. I have heard him in Starbucks, which I guess gives a little weight to the argument. I'll have to ask the Ozone Shack's pop culture consultants, as soon as I get some.

And you know what, for the musical sample, I'm going to give you the nine minute suite, because it's fucking awesome.


#6 First Aid Kit - The Lion's Roar

Post by Justin Flom

There I was. A normal Friday morning grinding through Los Angeles traffic in order to work for Morgan Freeman. As a change of pace from whatever unmemorable thing I normally listened to in the car with my roommate, we decided to cast our luck with NPR. Or at least, I think it was NPR. I may be wrong. Regardless, I was not in the least suspecting that my life was missing a pair of unbelievably talented Swedish sisters.

The radio gave me a small sampler, saying that the timeless-sounding sister act, First Aid Kit would be on the air from 9 until 12. The problem was that my work started at 9.

When we got into the office, I weaseled my way into getting an errand mission from the taskmaster. I borrowed the car and listened the hell out of the reassuring, gentle, yet bizarrely impassioned relationship between these two singers. It turned out that Johanna and Klara were the perfect companions for a grinding caravan to the Santa Monica Costco.

Their message and guitar was hard-hitting when it needed to be, but unlike the par for my style of music, it didn't get you riled up. First Aid Kit exists to make you feel things you never have before.

The next step was to buy tickets for their Hollywood show which was... that night!

I dialed up my folk-loving friend back in Long Beach, and waited for confirmation from a third party, all the while, longing for the reassuring ringing of the multifaceted instrumentals and soft voice of my new discovery.

Then, the taskmaster sent me to the basement to file things for Morgan Freeman. Don't get me wrong, I'm ecstatic I had the opportunity to organize one of Morgan Freeman's storage rooms, but the nature of the basement project put me out of radio contact for two hours and the show sold out. Down, but not defeated, I went home and bought their new album, The Lion's Roar.

It's a journey of unique feelings. The title song stabs into your pride and motivates and convicts at the same time. It flows right into "Emmylou," which turns you 180 and makes you want to fall in love with someone thoughtful. The corners just keep turning on this album, from "Blue" to "I Found a Way" to the concluding, Conor Oberst-featuring "King of the World."

First Aid Kit, at least for me, is helping to set a new standard for up-and-coming mainstream folk. In a genre that will pretty much accept any amalgamation of bearded men with guitars, the Söderberg sisters, with their dozens of inventive instruments and near impeccable melodic play, are queens. The music they make will never admit so, but they know it and you should to.

Justin Flom is a filmmaker, board game designer, and sideburns enthusiast living in Long Beach, California.

#5 Van Morrison - Born to Sing: No Plan B

Continuing with the trend of old dudes, it's Van Morrison coming in for fifth, with what might be the best album title since Guns n Roses' The Spaghetti Incident? This album is the product of a performer who's been perfecting his craft for decades, and it shows. Few have been around the block as many times as Van Morrison, or had a a career with as many ups and downs. But after all the tribulations, coping with fame, (and drugs!) he knows, and we all know, that this guy was born to sing.


#4 Of Monsters and Men - My Head Is an Animal

This album was released in the band's native Iceland in 2011, but the US release was this year, and dammit if I'm not a xenocentric bastard! It's a 2012 release!

It's been a good year for Norse acts. Of Monsters and Men came to fame after winning Musiktilraunir, the Icelandic national Battle of the Bands. Being a Scandinavian thing, I imagine that it resembles an actual battle a lot more than it's American counterpart. Iceland may be a cold dark place half the year, but the tag team vocals of Nanna Bryndís Hilmarsdóttir and Ragnar "Raggi" Þórhallsson (I had to use their full names because they're awesome) resonate with warmth, and the horn section, when utilized, is downright sizzlin'. If you're picturing Bjork when you think of music from Iceland, don't. While the album cover might be deliberately strange, the music isn't. The sound falls somewhere into the fringes of Indie Folk, but without any of the pretension that comes with the genre in the American market. Just listen to the horn riff on "Little Talks" and you'll be hooked, I promise.


#3 Amadou & Mariam - Folila

In May, I submitted something to a publication, which I thought had no chance of getting published. In my attached bio, all I said was that I spend my free time on Google Earth, looking at satellite images of places I will never go. This is kind of true. I will sometimes go on Google Earth and just sort of dick around, looking at Earth from space. I'm kinda weird sometimes. Oftentimes I'll find myself looking at the Sahel of Northern Mali. It's a majestic landscape with some incredible history, even if most of it in the last few hundred years have been depressing. (The loss of the University of Sankore is an event that should be mourned the same as the Library of Alexandria.) And this year's civil war didn't exactly turn the page on a brighter chapter.

But there's still vibrancy coming out of Mali, notably in its musical acts. While Tinariwen may rock out a little harder, Amadou & Mariam have distinguished themselves as the ambassadors of Mali to the World, with their take on the Desert Blues sound, adding in rock guitars, Syrian violins, an Afro-Cuban horn section, Middle Eastern Flutes, Tablas, and percussion of the mysterious Dogon people. The husband and wife couple of Amadou Bagayoko and Mariam Doumbia are both blind musicians who met in a school for the blind have been jammin ever since. On this album they bring in a host of excellent collaborators, including Santigold, TV on the Radio, and Bertrand Cantat.


#2 Andrew Bird - Break It Yourself

I din't realize how great I had things when I discovered this album back in July. The days were long, I was subleasing a room in a great apartment, I slept on a pad on the floor which was great for my back, no furniture except for a rocking chair I found on the curb, the walls were lined with books since I had no bookshelf, I had an amp, a guitar, and my standup bass in the center, and a ceiling fan with three settings. I had lots of time to dick around and write but I was also getting my edumacation in order. And I was dissatisfied with how uncomplicated my life was. Well now shit is complicated. And I'm not exactly digging it. But this album allows me to be nostalgic for a time that almost lasted long enough to be real.

What, you want me to talk about the music? Listen to the fucking music yourself! It's great though. I don't know why I'm such a curmudgeon. I'm listening to the album right now and nobody should be anything but ecstatic while listening to it. If you need me I'll be thinking about going to IHOP but ending up not actually going to IHOP.


#1 Coheed and Cambria - The Afterman: Ascension

You never know quite what to expect from New York based prog-something outfit Coheed and Cambria, so I'll admit that I'm not exactly clear as to whether or not this is the first half of a double album or the title simply is another symptom of being a comic book band. (For those uninitiated, Coheed and Cambria's material tells the story of a comic book series written by frontman Claudio Sanchez.) So it feels a little premature to be giving this album any accolades when it might not be technically finished. However, I couldn't see myself doing anything else.

If we need proof for life in space, we need only to look to Coheed. While it may be the story of a fanciful science fiction universe, there is more real human emotion in the songwriting than most bands could dream of. This is the band that wrote a song about a talking bicycle explaining the pitfalls of love. The songs may  be about strange people in a universe whose mechanics we cannot understand, but in telling their stories, Coheed captures insightful facets of the human condition. Take this lyric, for example, from the title track: "Your selfishness has robbed you of the man you could have been." The band is further energized by the return of the original drummer Josh Eppard and new bass player Zach Cooper (formerly of AM to AM), who stepped in to fill in the big shoes of Michael Todd after he was arrested for robbing a Walgreens in order to fund an Oxycontin addiction. (Rock n Roll muthafuqqaz!) Like 2003's In Keeping Secrets of a Silent Earth and 2005's Good Apollo, this album is an instant classic, something I'm truly happy came out this (last?) year.

In fact, that, I think, has been the criteria for all these albums in the top 12 of 2012. They're the albums that we're truly lucky to have in this time. Sometimes I was torn feeling that the "best" albums weren't always being listed as high as they should have been. But I don't think that's exactly what this project is about anymore. It's about the albums that I can look back on and say "I'm glad that came out at the time it did." Sometimes we didn't get the music we deserved, but we got the music we needed, and I'll take that. Especially in this time. Sometimes it's hard to be optimistic about the future of music, especially popular music, when you hear the state of what's out there today.

PowerTier II - The Mars Rovers

The countdown to the top 12 albums of 2012 is further protracted. First we have to get to the ones that almost made it. Honestly, had I compiled the order on a different day, they might have.

Howlin' Rain - The Russian Wilds

It was the year 2012 and I was convinced rock n' roll had departed for the Undying Lands, marking the end of the third age. I even scribbled down the lines "The fate of rock n' roll proves / That everything I love will eventually leave." But it may be still alive in this cathedral of neo-classic rock, complete with gritty vocals, driving backbeats, crunchy guitars, and an almost 1:1 song to organ solo ratio. Evoking all of the epic sounds I wish I had experienced in the 70's, The Russian Wilds is something like a tour-de-force, but not as overused of a phrase.


Jack White - Blunderbuss

I think I lost a lot of potential friends by going up to strangers on my way to class one day and singing, in my best overdriven falsetto, "I EAT SIX-TEEN SAL-TEEN CRACKERS THEN I LICK MY FINGERS!" But if they didn't get the reference, then maybe I don't want to be friends with them anyway. White comes out with a high energy, hard grooving album, which sounds like higher-fi version of his previous acts.


Lord Huron - Lonesome Dreams

We've had to put up with a lot of self-indulgent indie singer songwriters in the past few years, most of whom were two white to now what a real beat is and instead lost us in a fog of self-indulgent harmonization and flannel. Since they are, on paper, an indie folk band hailing from LA, Lord Huron could easily be a caricature of the aforementioned type of band. Sure, I did discover them via Shazam (on an Android NOT an iphone, people) in an overpriced knicknack shop of some kind (with wooden spoons for forty dollars, why I was there I have no idea) but I went home and listened to them one GrooveShark, not Spotify! While eating spaghetti, made with no organic ingredients! Then I probably watched football, drank a Coors Banquet Beer, and argued against performative gender roles! I guess if I'm going to be usefull they sound kind of like Local Natives but without the weak attempt to sound worldly.


The Sea and Cake - Runner

Last year, I described The Sea and Cake's sound as the molecular distillation of cool. I stand by that statement. When you're trekking through Bakersfield, this is good music to keep the zombies away. (I'm sure Bakersfield is a very nice city with much to offer but I have yet to see it.)


Dispatch - Circles Around the Sun

Maybe if I had got the chance to see these songs performed live I would have rated this a little higher, but I did not get to see this with the added magic of live Dispatch. They're all great tracks in their own way, but what makes you fall in love with a Dispatch song is the live rendition. That's the way it was with the new EP that came out last year, and I hope it will be that way when I see them again. Don't get me wrong, I am ecstatic this exists. January 1st, 2011 the band announced they were touring again, and I got my tickets right away. Then I found out there was a new EP. This wasn't just a reunion tour. This was a full on resurrection. Then we got word of a new album. I know it's not quite the same as when they were a vague rumor on the breeze that you would then discover on Napster and experience full force when they rolled up to your college campus in two beat up vans, but still, they're a force the universe needs. Also, the title track may be the best song about space exploration since "A Space Oddity," which, coming from the Ozone Shack, is saying something.


The Sheepdogs - The Sheepdogs

"My heart is won by southern fantasy / could you understand how much that means to me." These lyrics encapsulate all you need to know about the Sheepdogs, who might be the Allman Brothers Band reincarnated as Canadians. Granted, they are from Saskatoon, which is kind of like the Deep South of Canada. Well, actually, maybe that's Calgary. Much like the Gaslight Anthem wants to be in the universe of a 50's motorcycle movie, I can tell The Sheepdogs want to be the hard rockin, hard drinking, heavy tokin guys raising hell in backwater Mississippi. I don't know, don't quote me on that. Just listen to this album.


The Bouncing Souls - Comet (Also Winner of Album Cover of the Year)

The Bouncing Souls prove that you can keep make high-energy, melodic punk without losing any of the attitude or the edge. These guys have been around for a while, at the forefront of New Jersey's pogo punk scene, making quality music for two decades now. (In fact, they started playing as a band before I was born, so when people tell me to tone it down, I can just point at these guys and say you're never too old to fist pump.) I first put on this album driving myself to the emergency room after I got a concussion.

Why was I driving myself to the emergency room? Well, on a Monday, I gave blood, and since I had probably drank too much Coors Banquet Beer and not enough water during the preceding weekend, and had only eaten a pack of fruit snacks and trail mix that morning, I was dehydrated my blood sugar was low. When I stood up upon finishing the machine sucking my blood out, my blood pressure fell over the fiscal cliff and I passed out, hitting my head on the tiled floor. When they revived me, my blood pressure was 80 over 20 - any lower and they would have had to defibrillate me. I went home with nausea, hating light and sound, but thought it was just my brain starved of blood and nutrients. Tuesday night I went to a wine and dessert thing and puked after two and a half glasses of wine, but I thought "ok, I just gave blood, maybe blood loss affects your blood alcohol content more than I thought." Wednesday I felt even shittier, and I assumed that it was some weird kind of hangover. Thursday I felt even worse and I realized something was wrong. Friday morning I called the blood bank and they told me that I should drive myself to the emergency room to be evaluated for a concussion. ANYWAY, I was worried about my ability to maintain focus, so I put on loud, energetic punk to keep me going. And I made it. I'm still here. Thanks guys.


Stay tuned for the top 12, coming tomorrow and Monday!

PowerTier III - The Ridiculously Photogenic Guys

The continuing countdown to the top 12 albums of 2012

Neil Young with Crazy Horse - Psychedelic Pill

Neil young makes a statement here. That statement is: "I am senile, and I don't care what you think." This album starts with a twenty seven minute jam, and has two other songs well over the fifteen minute mark. He also states that he's going to "get a hip-hop haircut," which is the best evidence agaisnt anybody that they're going senile. And because he's senile, Neil Young does whatevere the hell he wants. Therefore, Neil Young proves that rockers are like fine wine: they can age into the perfect state of coolness. This music is best listened to loud. Headphones are acceptable, as long as they drown out all ambient noise of the supermarket. I listened to this album while grocery shopping and I was lost in a haze of a bygone time, when this supermarket would be smaller and their might be woodchips on the floor. The lighting would be a halogen tone, rather than the weird soft warm brown light they fill that place with now. It was a time when they needed get high and turn their amps up just to breathe man. Neil is keeping it a live.

Silversun Pickups - Neck of the Woods

It's tough to be the Silversun Pickups. When you're a band with such a definitive sound - hell, when you invented your own sound - you have the curse of having to push boundaries and also sound just like you did. I know people who say that the original EP, Pikul, was the only "true" Silversun Pickups album. That is, it is the only thing made by the Silversun Pickups that sounds like the Silversun Pickups should sound. So this might have been a bit of an underwhelming release. But it did what I hoped it would do: retain the Silversun Pickups aesthetic while expanding into new kinds of sounds. And really, that's what every band should do. Unfortunately, that kind of artistic sensibility gets bashed by fans and critics alike. Anyone who does so is a martyr in the Ozone Orthodoxy.

Alabama Shakes - Boys and Girls

This was the perfect soundtrack for riding on a Greyhound bus. I was on the bus because they wouldn't let me use a hamper as a suitcase on an Amtrak train. I apparently need to invest in a duffle bag or something. But this music is the kind of music where you can't buy a duffle bag. You can't even by whiskey to drown your sorrows at missing the train. And there is no nice man who will let you exchange your train ticket for a bus ticket. Also, the protagonist of the title track is 22, which is something I can relate to.

Calexico - Algiers

While I seem surprisingly willing to talk about music on the internet, I have a hard time talking to strangers about music in real life. I don't remember how it happened, but I told someone that I was excited to listen to the new Calexico album. He asked what they sounded like. The best I could come up with was "kinda like if Wilco had a lot of south of the border influences." Laid back, dark and brooding, sweeping horn swells, acoustic guitar montunos, upright bass, the perfect soundtrack for aimlessly wandering the southwest.


Michael Kiwanuka - Home Again

The son of Ugandan parents fleeing the Amin regime, London-based singer Michael Kiwanuka might be the heir to the legacy of Soul music. Home Again mixes old-school sounds in with the singer/songwriter aesthtic and a tinge of afrobeat horns. And he pulls off the duality of the great Motown singers who could project both swagger and insecure longing at the same time.


Macklemore & Ryan Lewis - The Heist

I think this is the first time I've recognized an iTunes number one selling album with more than a blurb. Maybe Dispatch's eponymous EP got to number two, I'm not sure. But that's not the point right now. The album was independently recorded and produced by the duo. No major label was involved. I'm not mentioning it because it's what makes this album remarkable. I'm mentioning it because I think this is what makes this album great. Mainstream rap is clogged with excess and extravagances, but this polished without being ornate. Bonus points for the humility as well; most mainstream rap gravitates to statements of grandiosity, and while I know that trash talking is a viable element of the art form, once you get an album contract you have to deviate from that subject matter. Macklemore will admit he has problems, owns up to his alcoholism, stands up to homophobia, and, allegedly, only has twenty dollars in his pocket.


The Mars Volta - Noctourniquet

Omar Rodriguez-Lopez and Cedric Bixler-Zavala have come a long way since leaving El Paso in a van with At the Drive-In at age seventeen. This album may represent the band coming full circle, in their own strange way. When it was in production, Rodriguez-Lopez described Noctourniquet as "just future punk!" He also was willing to relinquish some creative control, which he has had a notoriously tight grip on previously. This is stripped down, with mostly standard length songs, no ornate horn sections, no ambient buzzing, no five movement suites. Most of the weirdness, and in fact, most of the sounds in general, are electronically generated, and the intricate drum beats, I suppose, make this their dubstep phase.

When I saw the Mars Volta in 2011, they were a minimal five-piece, with one of the members only using a MacBook to make sounds of some variety. Cedric was running around stage, dancing with the mic stand, doing backflips, and at one point tried to rip his shirt off, but for the most part they were subdued. Omar was motionless, the top button on his shirt buttoned, concentrated on picking out the intricate polyrhythms on his left-handed guitar. At this year's Coachella reunion of At the Drive-In, reports indicate, there was no rocking, no thrashing, the energy they brought to the stage as teenagers wasn't there anymore. Being the Mars Volta seems to be taxing on everybody involved. It's been eleven years since De-Loused In the Comatorium, and with every year my hopes that we're going to get another one of those diminishes a little more. This year I think I was willing to put them down for good. But I'm glad for the output from this duo on the last two decades, including this fine piece of whacky craftsmanship.


And speaking of bands in their dubstep phase...

Muse - The 2nd Law

Yes, all you die-hard Muse fans are going to hate me for recognizing this one. It's like the bastard child that should be locked in the closet and fed fish heads and residue from the gruel pot. Say what you will, but this concept-ish album about entropy may be the band's finest effort. Sure, the title suite is a little, well, dubsteppy. They were always trying to be epic, they always had dense carpet of sound going on. Even the haters have to admit, there is some solid guitar work and impressive vocals on this album. Every band has that album when they are at or past the apex of their stardom and puts out their "mature" effort, and I think for Muse, this is that album. Not that it's a bad thing at all. It's much more carefully constructed than The Resistance, and the musicianship is better than even on Absolution. Just don't let the whole entropy thing bum you out.


Check back soon for PowerTier II