"You can't see how I matter in this world," sings Matthew Sweet on "You Don't Love Me," a track culled from his 1991 album, Girlfriend. Though Sweet is actually pleading to an unresponsive lover in the song, he might as well be singing directly to me. No, I've never been romantically involved with the guy; I'm just having a hard time grasping Sweet's significance to '90s music. It's true that with his modern rock radio breakthrough, "Girlfriend," Sweet immediately stood out as the premier power-popper of the decade. But three years later, Weezer came along, instantly seizing the crown with their perfection of the genre and pushing Sweet into runner-up position.
In 2000, Sweet emerges as a somewhat inferior predecessor to Elliott Smith; they're both undoubtedly well versed in writing catchy melodies, and they both adore their own voices enough to multi-track virtually every vocal delivered, harmonizing with themselves throughout their hook-laden choruses. But whereas Smith comes off as a brooding troubadour that grew up listening to Lennon and Garfunkel, Sweet often seems like a smiley, shiny chap who was fed a steady diet of Zeppelin and Big Star.
Matthew Sweet boldly embraces his influences, seemingly unconcerned about the highly derivative nature of his music. Not that there's any post-modernist mechanism at work; Sweet's music is far too simple to hold any grand, elusive meaning. In fact, Sweet's willingness to snatch ideas from his best-loved artists is often the very thing that frees his music. Let's face it: the stuff is pretty enjoyable, and doesn't pretentiously proclaim to be anything but that. And when Sweet is successful, he's truly masterful, like on the lovely mid-tempo shuffles, "We're the Same," "Sick of Myself," and "What Matters."
When Sweet veers away from his usual mid-to-uptempo brand of arena pop, though, he's likely to fall on his face. The worst career highlights documented on Time Capsule include all-out ballads like the too-Phil Collins sap-fest "Until You Break," and the aforementioned "You Don't Love Me," which is redeemed only by its quotability. Here, Sweet does his best James Taylor, and predictably, winds up sounding... a lot like James Taylor.
It's hard to say how history will remember Matthew Sweet. Less than a decade after the then-labeled "seminal" Girlfriend LP, there don't seem to be many people around who still care all that much about him. But at his best, Sweet made music that was at least fun, and Time Capsule suggests that while that may not secure him a place in the annals of Important '90s Rock, the attempt to get there sure was a blast.
