music review

Favorites of 2025: The Cords – The Cords

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The Cords: how a band turns pop instincts into craft

If rock and roll really is dead, then The Cords clearly missed the memo, because their new self-titled record kicks the coffin lid open, steals the eulogy notes, and sets the funeral pyre dancing like it’s 1979 again and tomorrow doesn’t exist. This thing isn’t just a debut—it’s a declaration, a sugar-buzzed jolt of pop-bright indie rock that doesn’t pretend to be cool, doesn’t hide behind irony, and doesn’t give a damn about whatever trend some influencer is spoon-feeding their followers this week. It’s melody as oxygen, chorus as lifeline, guitars strummed like they’re trying to shake loose every last excuse you’ve ever had for not feeling something. And thank God for that—because in a year drowning in algorithmic uselessness, The Cord showed up with color, conviction, and the kind of hooks that tattoo themselves on your spine: refreshingly infectious, all-ages indie-pop and jangle pop collection with bright, melodic hooks and irresistible harmonies.

When a band chooses to release a self-titled record deep into a career or at a moment of reinvention, it’s rarely an accident. A self-title asks listeners to pay attention: this is who we are, for better or worse. On The Cords, that gesture reads less like self-importance and more like quiet confidence. The album crystallizes a group whose greatest gift is the paradox of seeming easy: songs that land as immediate, catchy pop but reveal, on repeat listens, careful craftsmanship — arrangements that balance lift and restraint, choruses that stick without shouting, and lyrics that prize specificity over cliché.

This review explores why The Cords has quickly emerged as one of 2025’s most beloved releases (or at least for us at Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative), examining how the record was made, what each musician brings to its radiant clarity, and how the band’s sound fits squarely—and confidently—within contemporary indie-pop and power-pop currents. Reviewers have praised the album’s effervescent hooks, bright harmonies, and early-Beatles-meets-C86 charm, calling it a reminder that joy, immediacy, and craft can still feel revelatory. By looking closely at the songs and the meticulous yet exuberant musicianship behind them, this piece makes the case echoed by critics across the board: The Cords proves that in an era of over-processed noise, genuine craftsmanship not only still matters—it stands out.

Who are The Cords?

Asking “Who are The Cords?” is entirely reasonable, especially given how quickly the duo seemed to burst onto the 2025 music landscape with a fully formed sound and a debut record that feels more like the work of seasoned veterans than newcomers. Their name appeared almost overnight in reviews, playlists, and year-end lists, prompting curious listeners to wonder how a band this polished could arrive with so little advance fanfare. The question reflects both genuine intrigue and the natural impulse to understand the people behind a record that has connected so widely, so suddenly. Ok, ok… let’s answer the question directly: The Cords are a rising Scottish indie-pop sister duo, Eva (guitar, vocals) and Grace (drums and percussion) Tedeschi, known for their catchy, jangle-pop sound reminiscent of ’80s/90s C86 indie, featuring loud guitars, drums, and infectious melodies. They gained buzz in the UK indie scene, playing with major bands like Belle and Sebastian, and released their self-titled debut album this year, solidifying their place as exciting new musicians with a fresh take on classic indie pop.

So, sure, The Cords are a rising indie rock band whose self-titled debut has pushed them from regional curiosity to one of the year’s most talked-about new acts. That love comes honestly. It is built around a shared love of sharp pop melodies, jangling guitars, and choruses designed to ignite rooms both small and large. The band blends classic power-pop instincts with the earnest shimmer of modern indie. While each member brings a distinct musical background to the project—ranging from DIY home-recording scenes to more polished studio work—they come together with a unity of purpose: to make songs that feel immediate, heartfelt, and boldly melodic. Their chemistry is unmistakable, the kind of collaborative spark that makes a first record sound less like a beginning and more like a band arriving fully formed.

A band in the room, not a solo project on a laptop

One of the first things you notice about The Cords is its sense of feel. The record breathes the way a live band breathes: near-mic’d guitars trade phrases, the bass doesn’t merely hold down the root but sings counterlines, and the drums are both precise and human — they click when they should and push when the song needs momentum. That sonic chemistry suggests an actual group in a room rather than a single songwriter piling tracks onto a click-track.

On this record, the players are careful taste-makers: a lead vocalist who carries the melody with an effortless honesty; a guitar riff is economical but unforgettable; bass lines that anchor and color in equal measure; a drummer who doubles as a dynamic architect; and occasional keys and backing vocals that thicken textures without smothering them. The album’s production is shaped in large part by Jonny Scott and Simon Liddell, who not only handled the recording and overall sonic direction but also contributed additional bass and keyboard parts. Their involvement adds depth, texture, and subtle melodic detail, helping the songs land with a clarity and fullness that elevate the duo’s core ideas. That production leans toward warm melody rather than slick overprocessing — vocals swirl, the guitars ring, and harmonies bloom in native stereo. The effect is immediate and intimate, like a favorite radio station that somehow still surprises you with classic Scottish indie pop, bringing energy and authenticity to the genre.

Classic hooks, modern precision

Musically, The Cords live at the intersection of indie-pop and modern indie rock. If power-pop is the art of building irresistible choruses around smart songcraft, this record nods to that lineage while keeping its feet in the present. The guitars often prefer jangle and concise counter-motifs over endless studio tinkering with reverb; the drum sounds favor snap and presence within the mix; the bass is melodic. Production choices keep the songs forward and communicative.

What’s clever about the album is how it uses contrast. A sleek, hummable chorus might follow a verse that’s rhythmically skittish or harmonically unusual; a bright hook will sit atop an unexpectedly rueful lyric. That push-and-pull keeps songs from flattening into mere earworms. The band knows how to write a chorus that hooks on first listen, but they’re more interested in building shoulders for those hooks to stand on so the singer can mean what she has to say within the sway of the song.

Ordinary detail, emotional honesty

Lyric writing on The Cords resists broad platitudes. Instead of grand pronouncements, these songs live in particulars: a lit street outside an apartment window, the wrong song playing on a cheap jukebox, saying goodbye, not knowing what to say. Those details anchor the songs emotionally; they make choruses feel earned rather than handed to the listener.

Themes recur — the ache of imperfect relationships, the friction between wanting to leave and wanting to belong, the peculiar loneliness of modern urban life — but the band treats these themes as lived experience, not albums’ worth of slogans. There’s tenderness here, an ability to hold both humor and regret in the same line. When the chorus opens up into sing-along clarity, the words are often small but direct, the kind that a listener can latch onto and repeat in daily life.

Rather than a list of titles, the album’s architecture is worth noting: it opens with a confident, urgent cut, “Fabulist” that announces the band’s melodic ambitions; it centers itself with a pair of mid-album songs that reveal its lyrical depth while stilling rocking (“You” and “I’m Not Sad”); and it closes with a return to the jangle with a reflective piece that leaves more questions than answers, “When You Said Goodbye” — a satisfying structure that mirrors human experience rather than manufactured catharsis.

The opener works as a thesis statement: brisk tempo, jangly guitars, a pre-chorus that sets up the payoff, and a chorus that lands like a bright bruise — it’s immediate and impossible to ignore. The arrangement focuses on guitar and drums, yet leaves space for letting the lyric breathe before swelling into a harmony-rich chorus. That dynamic — economy vs. abundance — is where the record’s emotional intelligence shows. The listener feels tugged along rather than pushed.

Musicianship: pop instincts, instrumental care

One of the pleasures of The Cords is hearing instrumentalists who understand restraint within the landscape of Scottish indie pop. The lead guitar rarely indulges in long solos; instead, short melodic figures become hooks in themselves. The bass often carries melodic interest in places a secondary vocal might have; the drums use space and silence as effectively as fills and cymbal swells. These are not instrumental showpieces; they are choices made to serve the song.

Backing vocals are used sparingly but to great effect: stacked parts in choruses heighten the sense of communal voice, whereas single harmony lines in bridges add emotional nuance. Keys and synths make tasteful cameos — a pad here, a tuned key there — supporting rather than competing. The overall musicianship communicates a band comfortable with pop’s mechanics yet allergic to disposable glitz.

Production plays a crucial role in a record like this. The engineers and producers behind The Cords opt for a live-room warmth; you can hear the string of the guitar and the breath before the vocal. The mix privileges midrange clarity so the melodies cut through without overwhelming the low end. Transients on percussion are preserved to give the drums snap, and the stereo image is used to place instruments in space rather than to dazzle with effects. That sonic philosophy — preserve the room, let the song guide the mix — keeps the album feeling human. It’s pop music with a pulse rather than sterilized pop.

For whom this record is made

The Cords will appeal to listeners who prize tunes that reward attention. Fans of classic power-pop and jangly indie rock will find the hooks irresistible, but casual listeners will also appreciate the plainspoken choruses and immediate melodies. The record sits comfortably between the worlds of radio friendliness and indie credibility: radio programmers get singable choruses; critics get craft and nuance.

Younger listeners who grew up with playlist culture may be surprised by how an album built around consistent melodic logic can still create small shocks of recognition — the kind of “I know this” feeling that a succinct chorus can produce. Older listeners will appreciate the band’s affinity for tradition without nostalgia.

This record matters

In a popular music moment dominated by hyper-production, viral singles, and an ever-shortening attention span, a record like The Cords is quietly radical. It insists on songcraft: beginning, middle, and end; it assumes the listener will return; it foregrounds human voices and real instruments. The album’s lack of pretense is, paradoxically, its statement. It shows how pop can be both pleasurable and thoughtful, how choruses can be cathartic without being manipulative.

For a listener who wants immediacy without cheapness — a hook that doesn’t insult intelligence — The Cords offers reassurance: good songs still matter, and a band playing together still sounds like something worth cherishing.

A self-titled album is a claim. The Cords lay claim to that title gently but firmly: here is a band confident in its pop instincts and literate in its emotional choices. The record’s charm rests on the marriage of classic pop construction with modern precision, the musicians’ disciplined instincts, and songwriting that values detail over slogan. It isn’t a manifesto; it’s a practice. And in an era of flash, there’s a particular pleasure in watching a band quietly do the work of making songs that last.

Favorites of 2025: Kim Ware and The Good Graces – Grand Epiphanies

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I’ll just say it: Grand Epiphanies is one of the most human records you’re going to hear in 2025, and maybe one of the few that doesn’t insult your intelligence along the way. While many releases this year seem hell-bent on either drowning themselves in studio varnish or hiding behind hipster irony, Kim Ware walks in like someone who’s survived a few things and isn’t afraid to speak plainly about the bruises. These songs don’t howl, they don’t posture—they breathe. And in an era when pop throws confetti over every emotional breakdown and calls it catharsis, Ware has the guts to sit with the silence, to let the ache settle, to make music that’s actually about feeling something and not just Instagramming the wreckage. This is a record that believes in sincerity, and for that alone, it hits like a revelation.

Deepening the craft: Why Grand Epiphanies matters

When Grand Epiphanies was released in September 2025 via Fort Lowell Records, it arrived not as a gimmick or a throwback — but as an earnest statement from a songwriter who has spent nearly two decades refining her voice. For fans of Kim Ware and The Good Graces, the EP represents both continuity and evolution. It retains the emotional honesty and Southern-tinged indie-folk roots listeners have come to expect, while embracing fuller arrangements, sharper lyrical clarity, and a maturity of perspective that only time (and living) can provide.

What emerges is a collection of songs that treat heartbreak, regret, longing, and self-doubt not as melodrama, but as shared human truths. Ware doesn’t write to shock, to boast, or to gloss over. She writes to reach — to offer a mirror to listeners, and maybe a little company in whatever dark or quiet moment they find themselves. This EP is a reminder: vulnerability doesn’t have to be pretty. It just has to be honest.

The team: musicians behind the music

Although Kim Ware remains the creative heart of The Good Graces — vocals, guitar, and songwriting — Grand Epiphanies is a collaborative effort, supported by skilled players and producers who understand how to highlight nuance rather than mask it.

On this release, producers and multi-instrumentalists Steven Fiore and Justin Faircloth play central roles, adding guitar, piano, keyboards, bass, and even backing vocals, and in doing so, help shape the record’s rich but still intimate sonic layers. Their presence builds on a long tradition within The Good Graces: throughout previous albums, different collaborators have drifted in and out of the lineup, each contributing something distinct to the band’s evolving sound. That kind of fluid membership has always been part of the project’s identity, keeping Kim Ware’s songwriting deeply personal while allowing the music itself to remain open, flexible, and continually renewed rather than fixed in a single form.

This flexible model echoes what Ware once said about the band: not as a fixed entity but as a “very talented group of friends,” coming together when inspiration, time, and circumstance allow.

In practice, this means Grand Epiphanies doesn’t feel overproduced or manufactured. Instead, it feels like friends gathered in a room, listening, playing, and creating together — a mood that invites trust and intimacy rather than distance and gloss.

Sound and style: picking up old threads, weaving new ones

Listeners familiar with earlier Good Graces albums — from Sunset Over Saxapahaw (2008) through Ready (2022) — will find much that’s familiar on Grand Epiphanies. Ware’s Southern-tinged twang, her blend of folk, country, and indie-rock sensibilities, the unhurried melodies, the earnest vocal delivery — these remain essential.

Yet this EP also feels more expansive than some earlier efforts. The production, led by Fiore and Faircloth, layers guitars, piano, subtle harmonies, and occasionally banjo or other acoustic touches to build a richer emotional landscape around Ware’s voice. Although personal taste will always shape which tracks linger the longest, several songs on Grand Epiphanies stand out for the way they crystallize what the record does best. Take the track “Old/New”: its guitar strumming and vocal lines evoke late-afternoon melancholy, but as the song unfolds, piano and backing instrumentation widen the space — giving the listener room to sink into memory, longing, and possibility. unfolds like a gentle meditation on what we leave behind and what we carry forward, its subtle layers of instrumentation creating room for genuine emotional reflection.

“Wish I Would’ve Missed You” approaches heartbreak without melodrama, turning regret and longing into something more like the experience of leafing through old photographs—quiet, tender, and unexpectedly overwhelming. And then there is “Missed the Mark,” a song that speaks directly to the insecure, the hopeful, and the uncertain, offering both an appeal for human connection and a confession of imperfection that feels disarmingly honest.

The choice to include a cover — a reimagined version of Some Guys Have All the Luck — also signals the confidence in balancing reverence and reinvention. On this EP, the cover doesn’t feel like a novelty; instead, it sits comfortably alongside Ware’s originals, transformed gently to align with the EP’s mood and tone. “Some Guys Have All the Luck” serves as a bridge between past and present, inspiration and reinterpretation. It doesn’t overshadow the original; it complements it, reminding listeners that songs evolve just as people do.

Overall, the sound of Grand Epiphanies suggests maturity without restraint, emotional depth without melodrama — the kind of record that lingers long after the final note fades.

The gift in the songs: everyday life, honest reflection, and human connection

What often sets the best singer-songwriters apart is a gift for translating ordinary moments into emotional touchstones. On Grand Epiphanies, Kim Ware exercises that gift with clarity and courage. Rather than lean on clichés — heartbreak melodrama, romantic tropes — she mines the subtler, messier terrain of real experiences: regret, nostalgia, second chances, self-doubt, hope, and quiet resilience. Many of these themes resonate universally: longing and loneliness, memory and loss, the ache of roads not taken, the fragile optimism that hums beneath everyday life.

In “Wish I Would’ve Missed You”, Ware reflects on regret and longing with a spare lyricism that strikes more powerfully than most breakup ballads. “Spent it all on grad school… every now and then a memory stops me in my tracks,” she sings — not flaunting heartbreak but confessing to being human, vulnerable, flawed.

Elsewhere — in songs like “Missed the Mark” — she turns the lens inward, wrestling with feelings of inadequacy, uncertainty, and the desperate hope to connect. “I scan the room and hope the messages I send / Somehow reach a brand new stranger, and they become a brand new friend,” she confesses, exposing the artist’s fear and longing behind performing.

The album doesn’t promise closure. It doesn’t pretend that “everything works out.” Instead, it offers companionship: a voice that says, “I feel a lot of this too.” In that way, Grand Epiphanies avoids insulting the listener’s intelligence by offering simplistic solutions. It acknowledges complexity. It honors pain. And it believes in healing — not as a fairy tale but as a slow, sometimes messy process.

How Grand Epiphanies compares to previous work

To appreciate Grand Epiphanies, it helps to see it against the backdrop of Kim Ware’s musical journey. The Good Graces began in 2006 after Ware picked up an old acoustic guitar and started composing songs rooted in Southern indie-folk traditions.

Earlier records, like Close to the Sun (2014), showed a willingness to experiment — to mix folk and country, to play with ambient touches, drum machines, and subtle electronic textures. But even then, the core remained familiar: Ware’s voice, simple guitar patterns, emotionally candid lyrics.

With Ready (2022), the songwriting felt sharper, more intentional; melodies caught between wistful longing and restless urgency. Yet Grand Epiphanies pushes further. The songs are more cohesive; the instrumentation more deliberate; the emotional stakes clearer. Listeners can trace how time, experience, and loss have deepened Ware’s perspective.

This latest EP also suggests a renewed trust in collaboration. Rather than relying solely on acoustic minimalism — the refuge of vulnerability — Ware embraces fuller arrangements. The result isn’t flashy, but it feels abundant in feeling. It’s as though she’s saying: “These aren’t just my stories alone anymore; they are ours.”

Why Grand Epiphanies feels especially relevant in 2025

We live in a time when noise is constant — in our politics, our social media, our media cycles. Simplicity and quiet reflection often feel like luxuries. In that environment, an EP like Grand Epiphanies doesn’t just matter musically; it matters morally. It represents a kind of resistance — not flashy or confrontational, but human.

Kim Ware doesn’t demand answers; she offers empathy. She doesn’t pretend life gets clean after the hard parts; she reminds us that even when scars remain, beauty can survive. For listeners who feel worn down, uncertain, or haunted by memory, these songs can be small lamps in a dark room. For those simply seeking honest songwriting in a sea of glossy distractions, the EP offers relief.

Moreover, the collaborative, evolving model of The Good Graces — weaving friends, producers, rotating musicians into a living tapestry — speaks to music as community, not commodity. In an age of streaming algorithms and viral hits, that matters.

A few honest limitations — and why they don’t hurt the EP’s purpose

As with any release built around vulnerability and introspection, Grand Epiphanies may not cater to all tastes. Listeners expecting polished pop hooks, glossy production, and immediate gratification might find its pacing too slow, its mood too muted. The EP’s strength lies precisely in its restraint — in accepting that some feelings don’t come wrapped up neat and loud.

And with only five tracks, Grand Epiphanies can feel more like a snapshot than a full portrait. Themes are introduced, emotional arcs hinted at, but not always resolved. The sense is less of closure and more of continuation. Which, in many ways, may be the point: life rarely offers tidy endings.

Still — if you’re open to being held in uncertainty for a little while; if you’re willing to sit with a guitar, a voice, and a few gentle chords — the EP offers something rare: a place to breathe.

Kim Ware and The Good Graces — still speaking, still feeling

In a musical climate often dominated by spectacle, loudness, and overstated sentiment, Grand Epiphanies stands out not because it demands attention, but because it deserves it. Kim Ware’s songwriting remains a gift: honest, gentle, unguarded, but never cloying or insincere. Backed by The Good Graces, she continues to prove that folk and indie rock can still speak to our messy, uncertain lives with clarity and heart.

For longtime listeners, the EP will feel like a meaningful evolution — a band maturing, growing more confident, more open to collaboration. For those just discovering Ware, it offers a doorway into a catalogue full of stories that don’t hide behind cliches or affectation. And for anyone longing for music that reflects rather than distracts, that comforts rather than commodifies — Grand Epiphanies is a small, glowing jewel.

In 2025, when the world often seems determined to overwhelm us with noise, Kim Ware and The Good Graces invite us to slow down, listen, and remember: we are not alone. We are human. We are trying. And maybe — just maybe — that’s enough.

Favorites of 2025: Bruce Springsteen – Nebraska 82 Expanded Edition

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Look, Nebraska was already perfect in that cold-coffee, blackout-3-a.m. way that records sometimes accidentally are—Springsteen mumbling ghosts into a four-track like he’s afraid the neighbors might hear him unraveling. You don’t “improve” a hallucination. But here comes Nebraska ’82 with its alternate visions, its rust-belt apparitions, and suddenly you realize perfection isn’t the point anyway. What we’re getting now is the messy archaeology of a masterpiece—the dirt under its fingernails, the tape hiss, the roads not taken. It doesn’t dethrone the original bedroom-confessional monolith; it stands off to the side like a cracked mirror held up to the same bleak American sky. And damn if that mirror doesn’t show something worth staring into all over again.

Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition arrives at the right time

With the 2025 release of Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition, Springsteen and his team have delivered the most comprehensive, honest, and vivid portrait of one of the most haunted, intimate, and influential albums in rock history. The box set includes a newly remastered version of Nebraska as originally released, previously unheard demo outtakes, the long-rumored “Electric Nebraska” sessions with the full band, and a newly recorded live performance filmed in 2025.

For newcomers and longtime fans alike, this release offers both context and extension: context for how Nebraska came to be — from home demos on a TASCAM to a full LP — and extension in the form of alternate takes, jukebox-ready electric arrangements, and reflections of the songs through decades of memory.

It’s not just nostalgia or archival shelf-cleaning. What emerges is an album whose darkness, subtlety, and emotional power remain urgent. Nebraska ’82 still speaks — perhaps even more clearly now — to lives marked by uncertainty, longing, and resilience.

The original Nebraska — stark, personal, unforgettable

When Springsteen recorded Nebraska in late 1981 and early 1982, he did so not with a studio full of musicians but with a four-track recorder in his bedroom, an acoustic guitar, and a stark vision. The result was an album unlike anything else in his catalogue: bleak, intimate, confessional, but not confessional in a self-pitying sense. These were songs born from solitude, from the rawness of fear, regret, despair — made real by economy of arrangement.

Tracks like “Atlantic City,” “Johnny 99,” “State Trooper,” and “My Father’s House” traversed the margins of the American dream: economic hardship, moral desperation, violence, yearning for redemption. The spare instrumentation — sometimes only a guitar and a voice — made every lyric, every tremor of the vocal, every pause between notes count. The result is widely considered one of the great solo records in rock.

Decades later, Nebraska remains the gold standard for how quiet, low-fi recordings can deliver emotional immediacy. For many, it’s not just an album — it’s a private confessional, seen through the lens of loneliness and lost dreams.

What the Expanded Edition adds — and why it matters

Remastering with care

First, the 2025 remaster brings Nebraska into sharper focus without erasing its haunted intimacy. In a landscape where remasters often polish away character, this one preserves the album’s texture — the creaks, the echoes, the warmth of an acoustic guitar reverberating in a home studio — while improving clarity and depth. Critics who’ve heard the new edition note that the remastering reveals subtle layers previously buried: the quiet background of a mandolin here, the soft echo in the final chords there, the breath before a harsh lyric.

In short: the remastered Nebraska doesn’t feel like a revived relic — it feels alive again.

Solo outtakes and previously unreleased songs

The set’s first discs unearth acoustic outtakes and songs from the original 1982 sessions that didn’t make the album: Child Bride, The Losin’ Kind, Gun in Every Home, and On the Prowl — material fans have traded as bootlegs for decades or assumed lost forever.

Hearing them in official, high-quality form is revelatory. Tracks like “Gun in Every Home” offer a nightmarish portrait of domestic collapse and despair; “On the Prowl” pulses with a restless, searching energy that resonates with the rest of the album’s themes. Even though these songs were originally omitted, they expand the emotional terrain of Nebraska — reminding listeners that the darkness had multiple facets and that the record’s focus was always selective, not total.

Electric Nebraska — the “what might have been”

Perhaps the most dramatic and controversial addition is the long-rumored “Electric Nebraska” sessions. In April 1982, shortly after finishing the solo demos, Springsteen brought several members of the E Street Band into the studio (including Max Weinberg and Garry Tallent) and attempted full-band recordings of several Nebraska songs. In 2025, those sessions have finally emerged publicly — the first time many had heard them.

The results provoke awe — and ambivalence. On one hand, songs like electric versions of Atlantic City or Johnny 99 have a muscular, rock-ready energy. A demo of Born in the U.S.A. — originally written in the same era — appears in trio form (Springsteen, Weinberg, Tallent), described as “punk rockabilly.”  It is electrifying, raw, and historically fascinating.

On the other hand — and critics largely agree — turning Nebraska into a full-band rock record would have gutted much of its power. The original’s bleak intimacy, its ghost-town loneliness, its moral urgency — all flowed from isolation and austerity. As Uncut’s review put it: “Electric Nebraska might have produced a competent rock album, but it wouldn’t have been Nebraska.”

The electric versions often feel like exercises — intriguing, occasionally thrilling, but never quite as honest. The contrast only strengthens the myth of the original: a man alone with a guitar, bearing witness to the American underbelly.

A 2025 live performance: memory as lens

Rounding out the set is a newly filmed live performance — Springsteen playing the full Nebraska album in order, at the Count Basie Theatre, Red Bank, New Jersey. Accompanied subtly by veteran musicians such as Larry Campbell and Charlie Giordano, the performance is respectful rather than grandiose, earnest rather than nostalgic. In a press statement, Springsteen remarked on the experience: hearing the songs again, he was struck by their “weight” — their capacity to move, even after decades.

The filmed concert is not a re-creation but a meditation. Compared with the original 1982 recordings, the live versions reflect the distance of time — a deeper voice, more lived-in phrasing — but they carry the songs’ sorrow, hope, and grit into a present that, for many listeners, remains uncertain.

What Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition reveals about Nebraska’s enduring power

Listening to the full box set is, in a way, a masterclass in artistic decision — what to keep, what to discard, what to preserve, what to experiment with.

The original Nebraska stands undiminished. If anything, the contrast with the electric takes and outtakes sharpens what made it special. The sparseness, the solitude, the haunted tonal space — all reveal that Springsteen’s choice to release demos instead of studio recordings was not a compromise but a commitment to emotional truth. As one critic writes, the set underscores that “even when testing out the material with his most intuitive collaborators … the definitive version of Nebraska remains the one he captured on tape… tracking solo demos.”

Yet the collection is not purely about preservation — it expands the artist’s vision. The outtakes and electric versions show songs as living things: malleable, re-interpretive, incomplete. They reflect a period of creative restlessness, of questioning whether Americana songs needed to be acoustic, dark, personal, or if they could rock, rage, and roar.

For fans and historians, Nebraska ’82 offers context. For new listeners, it might serve as the entry point. For all, it’s a reminder that rock — stripped-down or electric — can still carry the weight of real human stories.

A few tensions and enduring questions

The Expanded Edition is not without controversy. Some reviewers warn against over-romanticizing the demos and dismissing the electric takes outright. As one Guardian column argues, if listeners imagine full-scale E Street–style treatments, they’ll likely be disappointed: the electric tracks “take the edge off, neutralising their impact.”

Others worry that the outtakes and alternate versions — while fascinating — might dilute the mythic purity of Nebraska. After all, part of the record’s power lies in its restraint. The expanded set invites comparisons, second-guessing, and reconsideration that can feel like peeling away a protective layer.

But perhaps that is precisely the point: art is not a mausoleum. Revisiting is not desecration — it is re-examination. And Nebraska ’82 gives listeners the tools to understand not just what the album was, but what it might have been, and what it still can be.

Why this edition matters — now so many years later

2025 is not 1982. The world Springsteen sang about — poverty, despair, moral compromise, broken dreams — has changed in many ways, yet in others remains startlingly similar. Economic instability, social dislocation, disillusionment with institutions — many of the conditions that haunted Nebraska then still haunt us now.

In that sense, Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition arrives not as nostalgia, but as relevance. The spare melodies, the tales of desperation and longing, the fractures in the American dream — they resonate with renewed urgency. And by revisiting them alongside alternate takes and newer interpretations, listeners are invited to reflect not just on the past, but on how songs age, shift, and heal.

For younger listeners who might only know Springsteen from his arena-rock anthems or later work, this box set offers a different face of “the Boss” — quieter, darker, more human.

For longtime fans, it’s a gift: a chance to listen again, to compare, to reconsider.

A masterpiece re-examined — and still alive

Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition does more than archive a landmark record. It reopens its doors, pulls back the curtain, and lets us hear not just the final songs, but the echoes, the experiments, the what-ifs, and the near-misses.

In doing so, it reaffirms what made Nebraska a classic: the courage to strip away everything but voice and guitar, to trust silence, to speak plainly about fear, regret, and survival. But it also acknowledges that songs are not static. They breathe, shift, and can be reborn.

Whether you come for the electric sessions, the unheard demos, the 2025 live film — or simply to hear Nebraska again — the result is the same: you feel the weight of its stories, the depth of its sorrow, the faint but persistent light of hope.

Forty-three years after it was first recorded in a bedroom in Colts Neck, Nebraska still matters. Nebraska ’82: Expanded Edition proves that not just as history, but as living, breathing music.

Video of The Day: Tamar Berk – Chicago

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“CHICAGO” OR: HOW TAMAR BERK FOUND A MIRAGE IN THE MIDDLE OF A DYING DREAM

So there I was, chin-deep in a bowl of Frosted Flakes, when “Chicago” dropped through the ceiling like a sigh you forgot you were holding for thirty years. I was reviewing music and videos for YTAA when Tamar Berk, that sparkle-voiced assassin of suburban malaise, spins up something here that’s not quite a love letter, not quite a breakup note, sort of a tear stained note to her hometown. Or perhaps it is something more like a sonic postcard from the corner of hope and loss.

The song opens with this gauzy, aching shimmer—guitars jangling like they’re trying to remember what joy used to feel like. And Berk’s voice—wow, that voice—it floats in like an old Polaroid burned around the edges. It’s part Liz Phair, part Aimee Mann, and all that unnamable ache you get when you realize your childhood bedroom is now a guestroom with beige walls.

“Chicago” is about the place, sure, but also not. It’s about your Chicago—whatever town you left and keep returning to in your heart. Tamar doesn’t sing to the city as much as she sings through it, like she’s tunneling under Wicker Park and digging up old mixtapes and unread diaries. There’s a part where she sings, “It’s not that bad, it’s just sometimes I get so sad,” and if that doesn’t make you want to cry into your last CTA transfer, you’re probably already lost to us.

And the video! God. It’s a melancholic fever dream dipped in filters, grainy and glorious. We see Tamar playing the song, but the video also wanders through neighborhoods, streets, and venues that used to be the places she played in the past. Those places have a hold on us, a feverish dream of what was and isn’t where we are now, but has become inescapably a part of our identity. She doesn’t posture, doesn’t play cute—she just exists, like a memory you can’t delete, even though the file’s corrupted. There’s a stoic poetry to it all, like she’s auditioning for a role in the past and already knows she’s gonna get the part.

What Berk manages to do here—somehow, miraculously—is take nostalgia, which is usually just a cheap phony thought, and make it ache honest. “Chicago” is not some gimmick about going home; it’s a reckoning. It’s the realization that going back doesn’t fix anything, but you keep doing it anyway because sometimes ghosts are better company than strangers.

In the end, this song isn’t about Chicago. It’s about you. Me. All of us who traded in magic for rent payments, who look at our hometown skylines and see a mausoleum instead of a monument. Tamar Berk nailed that feeling to the wall like a love letter returned unopened. And for that, I thank her.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to go cry in a parking lot outside a now-defunct Denny’s.

Wussy: The Best Rock Band in America

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Wussy is one of those bands that everyone should know. They are an ongoing musical effort for over two decades with a deep catalog. The band’s lyrics — courtesy of Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker — are inescapable without being cloying or false, and the band’s observations are relatable, accurate, frighteningly honest, and perhaps more than a little sad. Yet, the dark lyrics hold a unique power to connect deeply with listeners, offering catharsis and shared understanding. They articulate complex emotions like heartbreak, grief, failure no matter what we do, the creeping realization of loss, or loneliness in ways that often resonate universally. We all have felt this way. We have all had to pick ourselves up and pack it up and continue.

This band does not ‘talk down’ or excuse the all too often unbearable. This shared complexity alongside relatability can provide solace, reminding us that struggles and loss are part of a broader human experience. Artists like Leonard Cohen, Nick Drake, XTC, and Wussy use poignant imagery and evocative language to turn personal pain into something captivatingly beautiful and communal. Research in psychology suggests that sad music, especially lyrics, can paradoxically uplift by helping listeners process emotions, offering empathy and a sense of emotional release.

Wussy’s music thrives on atmosphere and contrasts: jangly, distorted guitars and bending pedal steel coexist with heartfelt melodies, while lyrical introspection is paired with propulsive energy. The driving drums and bass arrangements further cement the band’s gravitational pull. This mix defines their aesthetic, often drawing comparisons to The Pixies, Sonic Youth, and Yo La Tengo for their dynamic range.

The band’s dual-vocal approach, featuring Chuck Cleaver and Lisa Walker, adds an emotionally layered dimension to their sound. Their harmonies weave between tenderness and grit, reflecting the tension and warmth present in their lyrics. Themes of heartache, resilience, and the mundane beauty of everyday life emerge vividly, often set against rich, guitar-driven arrangements. Wussy’s sonic identity also incorporates regional pride, as clearly evident in their references to Cincinnati and the Midwest. Critics frequently praise their ability to turn intimate, local stories into universal experiences. Their use of reverb-heavy production and jangling guitar textures evoke both nostalgic warmth and emotional depth, earning them cult status among fans and critics alike. This unique fusion of raw emotion, lyrical storytelling, and sonic experimentation cements Wussy as one of the most compelling voices in contemporary music. Their music is deeply personal yet profoundly accessible, it reminds us that we are not alone.

I consider Wussy an iconic band. Not because of a pose or prophetic statements. Their swirl and sway of instruments and voices are completely unique. No one sounds like them. Wussy, may be labeled an indie rock band from Cincinnati, Ohio, but that does not fully capture what they do. The band has returned with a highly anticipated album titled Cincinnati, Ohio (released on Friday, November 15, 2024) and we are all better for it. This record marks their first full-length album in six years and their first since the passing of guitarist and co-founder John Erhardt (who had been in The Ass Ponys with Cleaver) in 2020. Known for blending honest heartfelt storytelling with robust, guitar-driven sounds, Wussy’s latest work reflects a nuanced exploration of loss, resilience, and their enduring love for their hometown.

The new record, released through hometown label and actual record store, Shake It Records, features ten tracks, including the singles “The Great Divide,” “Sure as The Sun,” and “Inhaler.” The band’s characteristic mix of Americana, Post-Punk, lo-fi noise pop, and introspective lyrics remains central to their sound. Tracks like “The Great Divide” showcase their ability to layer droning, propulsive rhythms with deeply evocative storytelling, capturing the emotional intensity fans have come to expect from Wussy’s catalog. These songs signify a period of renewal and creativity after a period of reflection during their hiatus. Many fans are excited about the release of these songs having heard acoustic versions of several of them during live streams during the lockdown of the Covid Pandemic.

The album draws from personal experiences and the band’s shared history in Cincinnati, a city they frequently reference in their music and where they live. Themes of identity, community, and memory are woven throughout the record, with a tone that both mourns and celebrates. This duality underscores the resilience of a band that has endured significant changes while staying true to its artistic roots. The band members do not pretend or play false flag arguments about their ties to their hometown. The ties that bind here are part of the band’s identity.

Wussy also released two accompanying EPs, The Great Divide and Cellar Door, further showcasing their ability to experiment with sound and storytelling. This multi-release strategy highlights their dedication to producing layered and diverse music for their audience. And Wussy fans are happy for these releases.

The band is known — and rightly celebrated — for its DIY ethos and deeply collaborative nature. Since their formation in 2001, Wussy has been widely praised for their raw authenticity and ability to merge genres seamlessly. Cincinnati, Ohio continues this tradition while evolving their sound to address both personal and universal themes, making it a compelling addition to the discography.

You can explore the album further, and I recommend that you do so! Or better yet purchase it through Shake It Records or Bandcamp. For more insights into the band and their new music, check out their official site or the well-deserved recent press coverage.

Faves of 2023: Van Plating – Orange Blossom Child

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In November, we wrote a review of Van Plating’s excellent “Orange Blossom Child.” The record is not only one of our favorites of 2023 but carries an important legacy forward. Honestly, that review still expresses some of the reasons that her record spoke to us here at Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative. It was a real, authentic record made by a true original.

Place, Music, and Family Matter: Van Plating is an Orange Blossom Child

Authentic country music is more than just a genre; it’s a soulful narrative that weaves together the threads of everyday life, love, heartbreak, challenge and the “ups and downs” and occasional sideways glance of the anything but simple, human experience. Rooted in the rural landscapes of America but over time about far more than bucolic existence, this musical genre emerged from the folk traditions of the 19th century and has since evolved into a distinct and influential form of artistic expression while exploring the problems of place. One can become too rooted. However, for Van Plating that is not a dilemma without solution. Her music answers the mysteries of place and self in a language that does not speak down to the listener. That authentic puzzle solving is part of what makes Van Plating’s music so damn powerful. Through this record we come to see ourselves and wonder about the places, spaces and home that made us.

At its core, authentic country music resonates with credible, truthful and genuine storytelling. The lyrics often mirror the struggles and triumphs of ordinary people, reflecting the joys and sorrows of life. Artists like Hank Williams, Johnny Cash, Willie Nelson, Loretta Lynn, and Dolly Parton have become iconic figures, not only for their musical talents but also for their ability to capture the essence of the human condition through their songs. And equally important is the characteristic of real country music that all too often becomes a punch line of a bad joke — a sense of place. This idea of place, town, community, neighborhood, or area becomes part of the music. Whether the lyric is focused on an effort to escape the clutches of being held down because of where you come from or a reflection of the myriad influences of the place you once called home. Those experiences — in that place — made you who and what you are as a person. Home is inescapable because it lives within you. These musicians, and we count Van Plating among them, have played a pivotal role in shaping of modern country music and contributing to its enduring appeal.

One hallmark of authentic country music is its connection to the roots of lived experience and culture. With influences from folk, blues, and gospel music, country songs tell the stories of hardworking individuals, the beauty of the countryside, and the complexities of human relationships. The twang of a steel guitar, the melancholy of a fiddle, and the honesty in the lyrics create a unique and evocative sound that speaks to the soul.

Furthermore, authentic country music serves as a reflection of one’s cultural identity. It often embraces regional nuances, providing a snapshot of life in that place, that home. Whether it’s the dusty trails of the Southwest, the rolling hills of Appalachia, or the vast expanses of the Midwest, country music paints a vivid picture of the landscapes that have shaped its artists and their stories.

In a world where musical genres continuously evolve, authentic country music stands as a timeless sacrament to the enduring power of storytelling through song. Its ability to connect with listeners on a deeply personal level transcends generations, making it a cherished and enduring form of musical expression. As long as there are stories to tell and emotions to convey, authentic country music will continue to resonate, carrying the rich tradition of music into the future. And Van Plating with her spirited and vibrant “Orange Blossom Child” carries that tradition forward.

Faves of 2023: Elephants and Starts – Get Your Own Army

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Why do some bands mean something to us? What is it about the sounds, the instruments, the lyrics… the whole of the sum of parts that resonate and make us care?

The appreciation of music is a complex and multifaceted experience that varies from person to person. There are several reasons why people care about certain music. Music has the power to evoke strong emotions and connect with people on a deep, personal level. Certain songs or genres may resonate with individuals based on their life experiences, memories, or current emotional states.

Elephants and Stars, the Canadian band led by singer and guitarist Manfred Stittmann and bassist Mike MacMillan, is a muscular blend of musical prowess and lyrical brilliance that captivates all who hear their songs. For us at YTAA, Elephants and Stars are a perfect band. Their sound transcends rock and roll boundaries, imagine fusing indie rock with catchy pop elements, creating an atmosphere that feels both familiar and refreshingly new. All too often today bands run screaming from power chords, danceable bass lines and crisp, solid drumming as if creating hooks in songs was wrong and to be avoided.

However, being limited is not a problem for Elephants and Stars! From album to album through the band’s impressive discography that was created in a few short years: “Recovery” (2020), “Dreamland” (2021), “Last Chance Power Drive” (2022) and “Get Your Own Army” (2023) — the band only becomes better and stronger at creating incredible melodies, passionate guitar driven tones, and powerful vocals that carry a sense of surreal and absurd on topics that matter such as relationships that fail no matter how much effort we extend in order to try and save them (“Bled Out At The Scene”) and the over powering sense of loneliness that accompanies being surrounded by distant, non-caring others (“Lost in New York City” and “Green Light to Pasadena”). As R.E.M. noted we are all “alone in a crowd, in the crowded barroom.”

One of the band’s standout qualities is their ability to craft melodies that linger in your mind long after the music stops. Each song feels like an intimate journey, a maze of personal introspection because their lyrics feel torn from our secret personal diaries, weaving through intricate layers of instrumentation while maintaining a sense of raw authenticity within a powered rock and roll framework. Stittmann’s hauntingly emotive voice adds depth and sincerity to the already evocative lyrics, drawing listeners into a world of introspection and contemplation all the while the music feels as if it is veering into the pathway of a runaway train; and that ride is thrilling all along the way. Going off the rails never felt so real and so good.

What truly sets Elephants and Stars apart from so many bands is their knack for personal storytelling through music. Their songs often explore themes of love, loss, and self-discovery, resonating with audiences on a deeply personal level — see our previous full review of their fantastic Get Your Own Army. Whether it’s an upbeat anthem or an emotional yet scratchy heartfelt voice, the band infuses every track on “Get Your Own Army” with an undeniable sincerity that tugs at the heartstrings and reminds us that we may be flawed but we are still worthy of care and concern.

Their live performances are nothing short of mesmerizing. The band’s chemistry on stage is palpable, creating an electric atmosphere that leaves the audience spellbound. Each member’s talent shines through, delivering a performance that is both technically impressive and emotionally stirring.

Overall, Elephants and Stars is a band that possesses the rare ability to transport listeners to another realm with their music. “Get Your Own Army” is a passionate continuation of the band’s efforts to make rock and roll songs that matter, that mean something. Their songs have a resonating personal and timeless quality that makes them instantly relatable yet endlessly captivating within a classic rock and roll approach. With their distinctive sound and genuine artistry, Elephants and Stars have undoubtedly secured a place among the most promising rock and roll bands today. For all of these reasons and more, this music spoke to us at Your Tuesday Afternoon Alternative and is one of our favorite releases of 2023.

Faves of 2023: Smug Brothers – In The Book of Bad Ideas

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As we continue to pause and reflect on some amazing music from this year, we turn to an amazing local band. Smug Brothers, the indie rock veterans hailing from Dayton, Ohio, returned with their highly anticipated 2023 album, “In The Book of Bad Ideas.” Known for their eclectic sound and thought-provoking lyrics, the band has consistently pushed the boundaries of indie rock, and their latest release is no exception. “In The Book of Bad Ideas” not only showcases the band’s evolution but also serves as a clarion call to their ability to craft intricate and unconventional musical narratives.

“In The Book of Bad Ideas,” is an adventure through the space that indie, psychedelia, lo fi share together in a flat where Robert Pollard has Big Star’s “Third” playing in the background. This album — one of the band’s best — defies expectations and solidifies the band’s status as indie rock innovators who connect to their influences without sounding derivative or contrived. Smug Brothers’ breathe new life and vigor into the musical consciousness of indie. From the opening chords of “89 Lullaby” where the band jumps immediately into the song like leaping into a rushing river, the album grabs listeners with its raw energy and doesn’t let go. That first song sets the tone for the sonic journey ahead. The intricate guitar work and dynamic drumming create a sense of urgency, drawing the listener in with its raw energy. Lead singer and songwriter Kyle Melton’s distinctive vocals add a layer of authenticity, immediately grabbing attention.

The back-to-back tracks, “Mistaken for Stars” and “Let Me Know When It’s Yes” encapsulates the band’s ability to seamlessly blend genres, creating a musical tapestry that is familiar and unique. Imagine songs that are both complex, catchy — damn catchy — and accessible.

“Bend Blue The Copper” is a standout piece that exemplifies Smug Brothers’ ability to blend genres seamlessly. The track weaves through indie rock, punk, and even elements of folk, creating a sonic landscape that is as unpredictable as it is captivating. The lyrics seem to explore the consequences of impulsive decisions, adding depth to the already complex musical arrangement.

The album is a testament to the band’s evolution, showcasing a willingness to explore uncharted territory within the arrangements associated with independent music. Tracks like “Pattern Caveat” and “Since The First Time I Heard You Laugh” introduce experimental elements, with atmospheric soundscapes and genre-bending instrumentation. Smug Brothers’ frontman, Kyle Melton, delivers poignant lyrics throughout, exploring themes of impulsive decisions, nostalgia, and reinvention. These tracks seamlessly blends elements of psychedelic rock with electronic flourishes, creating a kaleidoscopic sonic tapestry. The result is a mesmerizing journey that defies categorization, showcasing the band’s fearlessness in pushing their artistic boundaries.

“What Starts Out as Fun” takes the listener into uncharted territory with its experimental instrumentation and atmospheric production. The use of synthesizers and layered vocals creates a dreamlike quality, offering a stark contrast to the more straightforward rock elements present in earlier tracks. The band’s willingness to explore new sonic realms pays off, adding a refreshing dimension to the album.

“An Age In An Instant” is a poignant ballad that showcases Smug Brothers’ ability to convey emotional depth through their music. The stripped-down arrangement allows Melton’s heartfelt lyrics to take center stage, touching on themes of nostalgia and loss. The subtle use of keyboards and acoustic guitar enhances the overall intimacy of the track, leaving a lasting emotional impact.

“Stiff arms At The Still Waters” introduces a rhythmic complexity that keeps the listener on their toes. The interplay between the drums and bass creates a sense of urgency, while the guitar riffs add a layer of sophistication. The track’s dynamic shifts and unexpected twists highlight the band’s prowess in crafting music that is both intellectually stimulating and sonically engaging.

“Enceladus Lexicon” stands out as a cinematic storytelling piece, with its evocative lyrics and sweeping musical arrangement. The instruments create soundscapes that transports the listener into the narrative woven by the song. Smug Brothers demonstrate their ability to create sonic landscapes that feel expansive and immersive.

“Paradise Farms” injects a burst of energy into the album, featuring upbeat rhythms and infectious melodies. The track pays homage to the band’s Midwestern roots, capturing the spirit of resilience and reinvention. The juxtaposition of the lively instrumentation with thought-provoking lyrics adds layers of complexity to the overall listening experience.

“In The Book of Bad Ideas” is more than just an album; it’s an experience that takes the listener on a rollercoaster of emotions and sonic landscapes. The band’s ability to balance introspective moments with energetic bursts creates a dynamic listening experience that resonates long after the final notes fade away. With this release, Smug Brothers have crafted a musical gem that pushes the boundaries of indie rock, inviting listeners to join them in the exploration of the unconventional and the brilliant. Throughout the record, the band, demonstrates their growth as musicians and their commitment to pushing the boundaries of indie rock. The album takes the listener through a diverse set of experiences in sound, from the raw energy of the opening track to the introspective moments of emotional vulnerability. With each track, Smug Brothers prove that they are not content to rest on past successes, but instead, they continue to evolve and explore new sonic territories. “In The Book of Bad Ideas” is a must-listen for anyone who appreciates music that challenges, engages, and ultimately transcends genre conventions. Smug Brothers have once again proven that they are at the forefront of indie rock’s creative frontier.

Going back to the old “Headquarters”

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Recently, Dr. J was able to find a rare pressing of The Monkees’ “Headquarters” in pristine condition for a steal of a price. Scouring record stands at antique malls can pay off!

“Headquarters” is a pivotal album in the band’s discography, marking a significant shift in their creative direction. Released in 1967 after the end of the tv show, this third studio album by The Monkees stands out as a turning point, as it represents the group’s desire for greater control over their music and image. This the band’s third album and first that was recorded under the group’s artistic control, but still strangely consistent with their first two albums made under the control of Screen Gems executive and rock and roll impresario Don Kirshner. 

One of the most notable aspects of “Headquarters” is that it is the first album on which The Monkees took charge of the recording process. Unlike their previous releases, where session musicians were predominantly responsible for the instrumentation, “Headquarters” showcases the musical talents of the band members themselves. This newfound autonomy allowed The Monkees to establish their musical identity and demonstrate their proficiency as musicians.

The album opens with the energetic and catchy “You Told Me,” a track that sets the tone for the more mature and diverse sound found throughout “Headquarters.” The album’s lead single, “Randy Scouse Git,” penned by Micky Dolenz, is a whimsical and unconventional song that reflects the band’s growing desire to experiment with different musical styles and lyrical themes.

“Headquarters” also features notable contributions from each member, with Michael Nesmith’s “Sunny Girlfriend” and “You Just May Be the One” standing out for their folk-rock influences and introspective lyrics. Peter Tork’s “For Pete’s Sake” became synonymous with The Monkees and was later used as the closing theme for the second season of their television show.

The album is not without its lighter moments, such as Davy Jones’ romantic ballad “Forget That Girl” and the playful “Early Morning Blues and Greens.” These tracks, along with others, demonstrate the band’s ability to balance both serious and lighthearted elements within their music.

“Headquarters” may not have been as commercially successful as some of The Monkees’ earlier releases, but its significance lies in the artistic freedom it afforded the band. It paved the way for future albums like “Pisces, Aquarius, Capricorn & Jones Ltd.” and “The Birds, The Bees & The Monkees,” where The Monkees continued to exert more control over their creative output.

In retrospect, The Monkees’ “Headquarters” remains a fascinating chapter in the band’s evolution, showcasing their transition from a manufactured pop group to a more self-directed and musically adept ensemble. Fans of The Monkees will appreciate the album’s historical importance and the musical strides made by the group during this period of their career.

Faves of 2023: Tamar Berk – Tiny Injuries

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Tamar Berk has made songs with a passionate and uncompromising melodic twist since the mid-90s in Chicago-based Starball. Her first solo record was released in 2021, the excellent “Restless Dreams of Youth.” Then a year later following the passing of her father she released the deeply personal and passionate “Start at the End.” This year she shared another impressive record, “Tiny Injuries” which holds a sonic roadmap of vulnerability and resilience. In the realm of musical exploration, where artists often delve into the complex tapestry of human emotions, Tamar Berk emerges as a distinctive voice. This captivating collection of tracks serves as a testament to Berk’s prowess as a singer, arranger, and songwriter. Tamar is more than a tripled threat –she contributes to this record across vocals, backing vocals, guitars, bass, piano, synth, organ, percussion, and even strings. She demonstrates over and over again her ability to weave intricate narratives through her music while the melodies and arrangements make every song accessible, and just damn catchy.

The album kicks off with the Cheap Trick like “if u know, u Know,” setting the tone for the introspection yet resilient journey that unfolds. Berk’s breathy vocals, accompanied by keyboards, guitar, percussion, drums draw the listener into a contemplative yet rocking song space. The lyrics may unfurl like fragile threads themselves, delicately explore the vulnerability that is an intrinsic part of the human experience wrapped in a direct rock and roll embrace. Who doesn’t want to dance around the room to your feelings?

Transitioning seamlessly into “sunday driving,” Berk showcases her versatility, incorporating classic rock and roll soundscapes that create a recognizable experience that rips out the heart while creating an imminently danceable track. The track resonates with a sense of driving away from your problems, as if the listener is wandering through the echoes of their own thoughts while driving “Three thousand miles away.” But, of course, you can drive as long and as far as you want but there is always the return to our problems, our work, our challenges the next day. The melodies and poetic lyrics invite introspection while you find yourself swaying to the infectious chorus making the song a standout piece on the album.

The third song on the record marks a hauntingly beautiful, “what’s become of me, my friend,” where desperation, desolation, and exhaustion reach a fever pitch where tears cannot come and the problems are inescapable to the point where the narrator no longer recognizes themself: “What has become of me, my friend.” The need for a break, a day of fun is not forthcoming. Again, you can drive away, you can go, you can try once more to get away but all that is left is personal writing of a desperate email that is never sent. As the song builds – the incidental piano that swirls before the bridge and the release of emotion and the song does not end with a whimper but an explosion. The crash of the cymbals, the pounding of the piano, strumming of a guitar merges into the voice and drums crying out by the end.

As the album progresses, “permanent vacation” introduces a dynamic sonic palate. The rhythmic pulse of percussion and the interplay of electric guitars add a layer of intensity. Berk’s vocals, now imbued with a raw emotion, carry the weight of shattered reflections and fractured memories. The song builds to a powerful crescendo, leaving an indelible mark on the listener. The inclusion of some trumpet only adds dimension to a brilliant song.

The beautiful “cash out” swings with an almost waltz like rhythm that encircles the listener. Perhaps acknowledging that no book, no self help guru can solve the problems that someone is feeling. We all eventually succumb to the wait of what we carry. And coming to terms with that fact is real understanding. The next song, “drop in the bucket,” feels as if the writer has pulled themselves up and dusted off and walked back into the fray. The keyboards create arpeggios of anxiety that heighten the tension of the song. Berk’s layering of her vocals creates harmonies that are inescapable, we may feel like we have to keep going but we do not have to like it or enjoy it. Berk’s exploration of sonic textures and unconventional arrangements adds a layer of intrigue throughout but especially on “i was saved by the beauty in the world” and “’til i get home.”

The song “1997,” serves as the heart of the album. Berk’s songwriting prowess takes center stage, crafting a narrative that explores the resilience found in life’s smallest wounds. The delicate balance of vulnerability and strength is artfully portrayed, creating a poignant anthem for those who navigate the complexities of existence within an unavoidably catchy rock and roll arrangement.

Consistently throughout the record, the lyrics, like breathy ephemeral whispered truths, float through the air, inviting the listener to decipher their just slightly hidden meanings. This departure from conventional structures showcases Berk’s willingness to push boundaries and venture into uncharted musical territories within rock and roll.

Closing with the introspective “if i could fix one thing,” Berk brings the album full circle. The minimalist arrangement and introspective lyrics create a sense of catharsis, as if the listener has traveled through the shadows of their own emotions and emerged on the other side. It’s a reflective conclusion to a musical journey that leaves a lasting impression.

“Tiny Injuries” marks a significant evolution in Tamar Berk’s artistic expression. Drawing on influences from folk, indie, rock, spoken word, and ambient genres, Berk crafts a unique sonic palette that defies easy categorization. The album’s production, marked by its atmospheric elements mixed with classic rock and roll guitar, powerful drumming and percussion and nuanced instrumentation, reflects a meticulous attention to detail.

Berk’s lyrical prowess is equally commendable, drawing inspiration from the human experience and the intricacies of relationships, goals, connections to one another both passionate and frayed. The themes of vulnerability, resilience, and self-discovery resonate throughout the album, creating a cohesive narrative that unfolds with each passing track. The album benefits from a stellar production, with notable contributions from all of the musicians – each instrument, each note is given the space and interconnection it needs to fully flourish. The attention to sonic detail is evident, with each instrument finding its place in the mix, creating a lush and immersive listening experience.

Collaborations with musicians add another layer of depth to the album. Standout performances from instrumentalists bring a dynamic quality to the tracks, enhancing the emotional resonance of Berk’s compositions. The synergy between Berk and her collaborators is palpable, resulting in a cohesive and polished sonic offering.

On her third solo record “Tiny Injuries,” Tamar Berk invites listeners on a transformative journey through the complexities of the human experience. The album’s strength lies in its ability to balance vulnerability with resilience, creating a nuanced portrayal of life’s intricate tapestry. Berk’s evocative lyrics, coupled with her almost ethereal vocals and inventive musical arrangements, establish her as a formidable force and for all of these reasons, and perhaps more, this is one of our favorite records of 2023.

As “Tiny Injuries” resonates through the speakers, it leaves an indelible mark on the listener’s soul. Berk’s ability to navigate the delicate nuances of emotion with authenticity and grace elevates this album to a place of musical transcendence. In a world saturated with sound, Tamar Berk’s “Tiny Injuries” stands as a beautiful example to the enduring power of art to touch the heart and soul — and in those most painful, most vulnerable moments remind us that we are not alone.