my power pop addiction, no. 73 (145)

A friend of mine complains that every song the Feelies play sounds the same. True, but who cares as long as it's a great sound? Their music brings me back to the summer of '89, living in the Westcott Nation, Syracuse, NY. I pretty much wake and bake every day that summer. Hazy days, blurry nights, watching Bergman films on VHS cassettes, reading The Magic Mountain, and falling in love with Sarah, a jewess from London finishing up her MA in critical cultural studies. The two of us have fun together for a few months. The relationship doesn't end so much as fade away, like an exhaled cloud of bong smoke. The Feelies and their strummy guitars are a constant through all this. The Good Earth, with Peter Buck manning the control booth, sounds like the Great Lost REM album. They have flashes where they're even better than REM - purer, cleaner, more in line with the concept of what all these types of bands should be. There is admittedly a certain monotony in what they do after awhile. It can put you into a sleepy trance. But it's hard to find music that's more pleasurable if you limit things to about 20 minutes here and there. ...Towards the end of that summer I go back to visit with my family in New York and see the Feelies play at Maxwell's in Hoboken, where they are more or less the house band. The place is packed to the rafters. Bob Mould is in attendance. He does not seem like a very affable guy, perhaps a little embittered by the experience of being a gay hardcore punk, once upon a time. The Feelies take the stage. After two or three songs, I come to the conclusion that they're a great live band. I also develop an instant crush on the bass player. The two guitars make the whole room sizzle with electricity. I dance with anybody who will dance with me because I'm young, and I'm free, and I don't quite know where I'm headed, only that I'll go anyplace where there's music that makes me feel this good...