There are some records whose awesomeness can only be measured in a very special way: on the Patented Personal Performance Listener Fantasy Scale. Basically, if an album, or even a particular song on it, can inspire me to fantasize myself performing it, it is automatically awesome. If the fantasy involves singing the song as a kiss-off to my high school (which I graduated from over a half-decade ago) and the people in it, then I know that, while it's still an awesome song, its shelf-life is short, as high school fantasies are usually only good for a quick, angry masturbation session. If the fantasy takes place in the present day, with me as a band member in a club I'm familiar with, then I know the song has staying power, because that fantasy still has a chance of coming true.
One of the first song-fantasies I had that didn't involve those cheerleaders who now worshipped me was with Firewater's "I Still Love You, Judas," off their last record, The Ponzi Scheme. That daydream involved a rehearsal space, a recording studio, and accomplished backing musicians who were very impressed by my raw, yet focused, musical talents. The songs just poured out of me-- the drama burned a hole in my chest and climbed out, and bile poured out of my eyes like tears. I was a brilliant, untapped suburban prodigy. And my Judas would want me back.
The rest of The Ponzi Scheme was pretty good, but none of the other songs put me in a state of ecstasy like "Judas." What was so good about it? Well, there were the slow-build verses. There were the phlegmy guitar hooks. There was Tod A.'s prison laundry spoon-shiv pipes. And there was that chorus. My God, that chorus. So huge, it was. Transcendence as a liquor-soaked biblical-sized "fuck you."
So how could Firewater make me like their new album? Well, they could just take the elements that made "I Still Love You, Judas" my bloody-toothed grin of a fantasy, and reassemble them ten times. Did they do that? Well, eight times. And that's more then I could have hoped for. Each one of the first eight tracks on Psychopharmacology is a pureblood home run; the title song rides in on the keyboard riff from Three Dog Night's "One," and rides out on a cloud of crushed prescription pills; "Car Crash Collaborator" looks at the world through the eyes of Edward Norton's Fight Club character if he'd had a phalanx of bitchin' horns backing him up; and "Get Out of My Head" makes me the premier rock star of my inner world.
What's weird about my "Get Out of My Head" fantasy, though, is that I imagine myself fronting a band featuring my brother on lead guitar and my sister on keyboards. A family-oriented rock star fantasy is something I've never had before, yet in this album's case, it seems strangely appropriate. Psychopharmacology has largely abandoned the exotic forays into Eastern European traditionalism that characterized the first two Firewater efforts, and to good effect. This record brings everything home that has ever made this band any good: (1) The big, poppy choruses; (2) Fabulous melodrama; and (3) A sense of family. That's right, family. This band had previously been a rag-tag collection of Tod A. collaborators, hanging out and helping him achieve his musical vision. On Psychopharmacology, however, for the first time, there is a real, solid Firewater lineup, where everyone is comfortable. And it feels that way. Just like the way I feel with my siblings.
For staking out new ground on my Patented Personal Performance Listener Fantasy Scale, this record gets mucho points and praise. You may not hear a better pop/rock release this month. And you definitely won't find one that will make you want to play make-believe more. Thanks for your time. Now, I've got some serious pretending to get to.
