writing papers + Camp Concentration by Thomas M. Disch

It’s the terrible part of the semester where I just have to sit down and write papers even if I don’t feel like it. I like to think I’m a pretty disciplined writer, pretty productive even when I don’t have deadlines. But that doesn’t mean I want to produce 18-20 pages about a specific facet of modern poetry between now and next Thursday. I have my research all done, I have a working thesis, now I just need to sit down and put it all together into actual sentences that make sense, and hopefully, that I don’t hate the sound of. But that doesn’t sound fun at all. It will be good for me, I suppose, but no, it doesn’t sound fun at all.

Over Thanksgiving break I finally finished reading Camp Concentration by Thomas M. Disch.

a story about book hoarding: I first bought Camp Concentration ages ago, back before Magers&Quinn moved their sf section. I was Christmas shopping in uptown with Emma, and it was a couple bucks. It sat ignored on my shelf for years. I picked it up over spring break, either my sophomore or junior year of college, where I started it, and then brought it to the Como conservatory, where it got left behind, and then I was too lazy to go back and check lost and found or whatever. Last year, before Christmas, I was at Uncle Hugo’s, looking for presents for Emma, and there was a copy for a couple bucks, so I picked it up. It sat ignored on my shelf until last week, where I needed something good to read while I was home, and god, picking it up again was a great decision.

I don’t want to explain anything about the concept, because it’s complicated, and I think it’s probably more enjoyable to go in knowing nothing. Also, I could explain the initial set up, but it takes several sharp turns over the course of the book, including two very close to the end.

I cannot remember being more impressed by the end of a novel more than I’m impressed by the end of Camp Concentration. It reorientates itself suddenly, startlingly, but still in a way that is perfectly true to what preceded it, and casts the whole story in another more brilliant light. It was breathtaking.

If I was really sharp I’d do something to link the themes of Camp Concentration — appreciating poetry, coercement to productive genius, etc. It would be terribly pretentious, but I could do it. But if I’m going to commit any brain-power to in-depth literary analysis, it should really be in one of the papers I’m writing. So I guess you’ll have to read Camp Concentration yourself in order to make connections to my sad semester’s end complaining.


this is just to say

bad feelings. tried to be a responsible human, stuck waisting time on campus with shitty headphones and work I don’t want to dig into. throwing myself a pity party, dig into a cliff bar, wash it down with water from my dented metal bottle, the sticker chipping off.

two hours to kill at the library, and then a class on modern poetry. we’re reading the canonical modernist poets, so that means white people, only two women, too straight for my taste. well, the canonical modernists, and arthur symons. today: marianne moore. all the male poets except for symons get two weeks, but moore and HD only get a week each. I understand the reasoning, it makes sense if you’re trying to teach us what we need to know about the canonical modernists, but it bums me out.

trying to get through an article about william carlos williams and neuroscience, but I like my science a lot more fictional than this. it wants me to know things about neurons and synapses, and I’m all for interdisciplinary scholarship, but also I can’t hold those forms inside my head very well. my neurons and synapses will not allow that. I skimmed through it and gave up, it doesn’t focus enough on his early poems.

what I like about williams is that he’s just there. he’s simple, and present, and sitting on the kitchen counter for you to reach out and have however works best for you. there’s more too him, sure, but he’s so gloriously accessible, almost frighteningly so. modernist poets aren’t supposed to be this plainspoken, they’re supposed to be fucking eliot at his most extra.

it’s getting to the part of the term where I’m having to actually produce academic writing, and it’s reminding me how much I hate doing that. it hurts to give up my own voice and be subsumed into the style of academic prose. I resist it, or at least I try to resist it, I try to do my best, but there are conventions that must be observed. or maybe I’m just not fighting hard enough, hard to say. this is just to say I’m trying.

Todd Haynes Films Ranked

Even before I started reading Vulture’s list ranking Todd Haynes’s films I knew I would disagree with it. It’s probably fairly accurate judging by the strength of the filmmaking, but it fails to account for what I’m actually looking for from a Todd Haynes’s film, which is something more than strong filmmaking. Todd Haynes is my favorite director because he makes really queer films. His major in college was semiotics, and I swear, it shows. What follows is a list of his films based on how much I love them, which says more about the kind of things I love than how good any of the films are. But my list is still better than Vulture’s.

  1. Carol

Maybe this makes me a bad lesbian, but I don’t care — Carol is a boring movie. It’s very pretty, and I’m happy it exists, and that lots of straight people went and saw a film about happy lesbians, and all the memes are great. But it’s a kind of boring movie.

  1. Far From Heaven

There’s something restrained about this film which is a problem for me. It reaches towards all these things, but never quite touches them. It’s such a prestige movie — a well done prestige movie and everything, about issues, a period piece with accent design. But it doesn’t do anything surprising or exciting. It’s just well done, without making me care enough.

  1. Posion

I need to see this again, because I watched it before my Genet kick, and Haynes films are more fun when you recognize what he’s poking at. This was his first feature film, and it’s three different things braided together, and it’s super intriguing, but also baffling? I don’t know how well it works, or how enjoyable it is, but it’s thought provoking, and an important statement in queer cinema.

  1. Wonderstruck

I just saw this, and I’m probably going to try to write about it more soon, but it was a very sweet movie, and inspired me to listen to “Space Oddity” on repeat for weeks. It’s kind of precious, and there sure are a lot of tidy coincidences, but it’s a kids movie, and I don’t care. I don’t think it always succeeds, but at least it’s trying to do something special and odd.

  1. Safe

Objectively, Todd Haynes’s best movie? I’ve only seen it once, and I want to see it again. It’s very smart, and very cool, and Julianne Moore does this breathy little voice, and is so fantastic. (How good Julianne Moore is in so many Todd Haynes movies is another discussion, but just: wow, I love her.) The problem with this film is that it’s too a bit close to things that I worry actually worry about.

  1. I’m Not There

I lied. This is my favorite Todd Haynes film. But I couldn’t bring myself to rank it any higher, because on some level it isn’t very good? But I love it. It’s about Bob Dylan, and the many masks he’s worn. It’s very fragmented, and I have no idea how much sense it makes if you aren’t a huge Dylan nerd (which I am). But it has Cate Blanchett playing a version of Bob Dylan, and that alone is transcendently amazing. I’ve watched it more times than any other film on the list, and really, find it endlessly rewatchable, probably because the plot is really tenuous while the soundtrack is great. Which is actually a weakness, but whatever, it works for me.

  1. Superstar: the Karen Carpenter Story

This is a biopic shot with Barbie Dolls, and it’s brilliant. It’s just, so good? And so weird? And its legend is enhanced by its status as a cult object, circulating on VHS copies before the web, because he couldn’t get music clearance for a real release. Do yourself a favor and watch it right now.

  1. Velvet Goldmine

A feature length film of David Bowie/Iggy Pop fan fiction. How could I love anything more than this? The soundtrack is so good, the world is so bright and shiny. I honestly can’t believe this film exists, and the fact that it does, and is such a wild trip, makes me have faith in the universe. The reason why I love Todd Haynes is because he makes films I want to see that I can’t imagine anyone else making. Lots of people can make nice prestige films, but I can’t imagine anyone else making this, and that’s why I love it.


The first word of every line from Tennyson’s “The Defense of Lucknow” :
















































































































I had to read “The Defense of Lucknow” for class last week. We’re doing a unit on post colonialism. It is important to read these kinds of things to look at how Englishness was created, to look at the terrible things in our history, to acknowledge that the important poetic figures of our past were also incredibly racist. There’s an important conversation to have. It’s just such a miserable thing to read.

In another class, we spent the last two weeks reading Ezra Pound. And Pound is just such a fucking problem, I don’t know what to do with him. How do we reconcile his imagism, and the incredible influence he had shaping modernism, with the fascist he became later in life? We can’t not read him, he’s too central, and too good, to be honest. His imagist poems are gorgeous, breathtakingly inventive uses of language. But he still thought Mussolini was awesome, and was antisemitic, and actually committed treason. And how America treated him for ineffectively committing treason was inhumane. But he still did some fairly terrible things.

How do we consume problematic art? This is an incredibly urgent question. And an incredibly vast question, big enough to include everything from Louie C.K jokes to Tennyson poems. It isn’t a question I have an answer for.

The only thing I’m sure about is that it’s a question we should be asking instead of taking things in without interrogating them. I’m less absolute, but believe for myself at least, that there’s value in consuming problematic art, in picking it apart, and having hard conversations, puzzling out the problems, the contradictions, and maybe even finding something worth holding onto.

Tonight one of my classmates read the first words of a handful of lines to say something about the overall tone of “The Defense of Lucknow.” “Death / Death / Death / Striking / Death.” I liked that better than the actual poem, and wound up reading down the whole thing. I find the first three stanza’s particularly effective. Tennyson ends his stanzas with the repeated line, “And ever upon the topmost roof our banner of England blew!” which in the context of the poem is a lot of imperialist bullshit, but taking on the first word, the “and” signals an incompleteness, calling for more, leaving things open.

We consume problematic art and…


Modern Baseball remind me of everything good about being seventeen, and I hate how much that makes me love them. This is the nostalgic music of my youth. Whatever wave of emo they are is my classic rock revival. Here are some guys my age making music inspired by what we were both listening to in middle school and high school.

I saw them last fall. They were the first opening act playing before The Front Bottoms and Brand New. I was sitting in the first row of the balcony at the Roy Wilkins Auditorium. The room was half full at best, and they were so small below me. I really dug their set. They didn’t play my favorite song of theirs, and I don’t remember anything smart or cute or funny they said, but I fell a little bit more in love, a fact I deeply resent.

I wouldn’t say they’re good. I just love them with my whole heart. They’re derivative, and their lyrics have some oddly phrased mazes, and their voices are the worst kind of emo boy whining. I’m not sure how to describe the guitar tone, but it’s kind of shrill, and the overall effect can be kind of discordant in a bad way. These are things that make me love them. These are things I didn’t know I was missing in my life until they came around.

I’ve been trying to write about what Modern Baseball mean to me for about a year now, and I still haven’t figured it out. But it’s time to put what I’ve come up with out in the universe, as a snapshot of my relationship, to be updated with further developments.

I have to start by explaining emo, and my relationship to it, which isn’t a simple proposition. I went through a phase where I considered emo deeply uncool. Something fun, I guess, fine pop music, but unessential, less meaningful than the other things I had discovered, absolutely lesser. I was a terrible snob, but I’m a lot better now. I can can be into all kinds of pretentious weird shit and hold onto the most formative music of my youth.

There’s this whole gang of “emo” bands that were incredibly popular when I was a teenager. I get confused about what wave they’re supposed to be, so let’s just call them Peak Emo, like Peak Oil. That was emo’s mainstream high, the most emo possible. I’m not calling it Peak Emo was the best (though that argument could be made), but because at this point there was maximum emo saturation in the world. There was this moment when Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic! at the Disco, and many others were a huge deal. There was a style: swoopy bangs, lots of eyeliner, shopping at Hot Topic — a sound: glossy punk pop with confessional lyrics and odd imagery — and a moment: my life, approximately age 13-18. These bands toured together, and were on the same labels, and all seemed connected. They shared an audience and an aesthetic. I was the perfect age to get caught up in this storm.

The first rock concert I went to was Panic! at the Disco. I was in seventh grade, and it was the Nothing Rhymes with Circus Tour, with all of the dancers, the queerbaiting almost kiss, and Ryan Ross’s infamous rose vest. It was beautiful.

A lot of Peak Emo bands still exist in some form, but the moment is over. Panic is just Brendon Urie doing his thing, making pop music and weird tentacle music videos. I respect that, but there isn’t the same cultural relevancy anymore. I more or less can’t listen to post-reunion Fall Out Boy. My Chemical Romance aren’t around as a band, but those guys are, making horror punk and comics for strange humans. Emo isn’t a thing that gets talked about much anymore. It was a trend that’s faded away. Music for teenage girls who grew up and aren’t supposed to need it anymore.

Someday, somebody, possibly me, is going to write a long re-evaluation of these bands as an important part of rock’n’roll music. Someday, we’re going to understand that Three Cheers for Sweet Revenge, and From Under a Cork Tree, and probably a couple other albums are classics, that they should make our lists of essential listening. Somebody, somebody, is going to write something really embarrassing about how important those bans are to them. Possibly that’s what I’m doing right now. Those bands are so important to me. I don’t know what I can do to make you understand.

I’m not going to say that they saved my life. There are a lot of people who say that about MCR, and I love those people, and I love MCR, but that wasn’t my experience. They didn’t keep me alive, but they defined what my life was in some important ways. They continue to inform what my life is. They shaped me in profound ways that are hard to explain because I internalized this shit at such a young age. I don’t know who I’d be if I hadn’t listened to these bands when I did, and I am incredibly grateful for their influence.

God, that sounds so pathetic. That sounds so emo. Fuck.

Enough about that — it’s 2017, and I was lecturing about Modern Baseball.

(Part of proving that something was important is showing that it influenced what came next. Being influential is in itself an achievement, leaving aside the merit of what was influenced.)

Modern Baseball are not a good band. I love them with my entire heart. The more I consider it, the more certain I am that both of those things are true. Modern Baseball are definitely not good, but I care about them more than so many artists that are objectively much better. Modern Baseball mean so much to me.

I really can’t figure out how to explain this, which makes writing an essay about it kind of a terrible idea, but I do know that this is an important thought that I want to share with everyone. Modern Baseball matter. An incredible amount. Unreasonably so.

I’m listening to Modern Baseball’s latest album again, for maybe the fifty-seventh time, maybe the eighty-sixth, maybe the three thousand and twelfth. The first half dozen times I didn’t like it nearly as well as their old stuff, and even after it started to break through, I was still deeply skeptical about it’s overall quality. I’m still not sure. I just know it’s something I listen to a lot because I like the way listening to it makes me feel. It doesn’t make me feel good exactly, that’s definitely a simplification, maybe downright wrong. It doesn’t make me feel good, but it makes the rest of my room sound like the inside of my head, and that might be the best thing an album can do.

This isn’t a lyrical phenomena, not really. Like, we’ll get to the lyrics, I got to the lyrics eventually, but this phenomena is operating on other more accessible levels. This is what rock music is supposed to sound like to me in the year 2017.

It isn’t the most interesting thing, but that’s the point. They aren’t really trying anything new. This isn’t experimental, isn’t pushing any boundaries, isn’t making me question what rock music can or should be. At the same time it isn’t obnoxiously referential, isn’t trying to be retro or some shit. They’re just doing their thing, which is good and firm. They’re four young men with instruments making noise and singing about feelings. They are Modern Baseball, and it’s not great, except for how it’s perfect.

I just realized, that I should possibly explain some basic facts about Modern Baseball. They’re a band from Philadelphia, or at least they were. They’re on hiatus now, and who knows what that means. Their first album, Sports, is very uneven, but it’s only half an hour, and they were very young. It still has something, a spark of something worth pursuing. Their second album, You’re Gonna Miss It All, is a gem, and I will explain why in a bit. I didn’t like their third, and possibly final album Holy Ghost, but now I love it. I cannot tell you what has changed about me to make that happen, but it feels important.

They have two singer/songwriters, Brendan Lukens and Jake Ewald. I cannot tell their voices apart unless I try really hard, or I’ve seen the music video, and even then I have a hard time keeping them straight. They both have reedy emo boy voices, and sing about similar things. Their bass player looks like Martin Starr’s character in Freaks and Geeks — I mean this as a compliment. Their drummer is older, and sometimes sings too, but in like, a screamo way, like how Pete Wentz sometimes sings on Fall Out Boy songs. If you want to learn actual things about the band, this video about the recording of their last album is very good.

I don’t actually know a whole lot about these dudes. I’ve considered following them on twitter, doing something to make them more like humans, but I sort of like the distance. It’s useful, considering I can only give their band backhanded compliments. So much of my enjoyment of their thing is the idea that these guys are my peers, that we’re about the same age, and responding to a similar sort of cultural experiences, and if that isn’t true, I don’t really want to find out.

I am not trying to tell you about Modern Baseball the humans. I am barely trying to tell you about Modern Baseball the band. I’m trying to tell you about Modern Baseball the experience. This is about me, and various phenomena that exist only in my head, not four dudes in Philly. They abbreviate their band to MoBo, which I think looks stupid, and am not doing, even though it would mean I would have to type less.

I should talk about the lyrics, but I don’t know where to start. My love for this band is not literary. There are no lines that have really stuck with me. I can sing along to a song that’s playing, but couldn’t parrot the words back without the melody as a guide. My favorite thing is how ordinary, dull, and specific things are.

Their strengths as lyricists is a sort of nostalgia for the recent past. Their lyrics are full of stories about things that happened, and how those days felt, and they include a lot of small observations that aren’t really exciting, which make their stories seem real, because if a writer was coming up with details to throw in they’d pick something more interesting. I love the quotidian beauty in their storytelling.

But as soon as I say it, that seems wrong — I love the quotidian beauty in their songwriting, but putting it like that is wrong, it makes it into something it isn’t, makes it into a literary device. Modern Baseball’s lyrics are at once effortless and incredibly self conscious, a combination that shouldn’t be possible, let alone work as well as it does. There’s a tremendous amount of anxiety here, which is relatable, in an unfortunate way. Like, oh, I don’t want to be analyzing myself so heavily, but at least I’m not alone in my misery, there’s some good rock songs about feeling this way. Or maybe not good rock songs, but greatly relatable rock songs, which may be more valuable.  

There are plenty of good rock bands, a lot of absolutely great rock bands, but none of them make me feel like this, I don’t feel as reflected in any of those other, maybe better bands. The idea of doing a track-by-track breakdown of You’re Gonna Miss It All sounds Really Extra, but also, like, so is everything that I’m doing, and it might be fruitful. This is the Modern Baseball album I fell for, it’s what drew me in, it’s what I’m most likely to put on if I find myself missing them. I don’t even know if it’s their best album — I’m pretty sure Holy Ghost is more mature sonically and lyrically, a stronger more cohesive album. But maybe I don’t want strong cohesive and mature from Modern Baseball. Maybe I just want You’re Gonna Miss It All, whatever “it all” is — maybe my life before I got semi-obsessed with this band?

I will now undertake a close reading. If you want to listen along it’s on all the streaming places, or bandcamp. I’m not going to make any effort to differentiate the songwriters. There are differences — Brendan has more wordplay, Jake has more storytelling. But they’re more similar than different, and I don’t know what would be gained by reading them as the work of two creators, when my goal is to articulate something about the overall affect of the band.

Somedays the first track, “Fine, Great,” is my favorite Modern Baseball song. It’s such a strong opening lyric, “I hate worrying about the future / Because all of my current problems are based around the past.” I feel that. “Based around the past,” is such an awkward phrasing, but I sort of adore it — it works. It’s a song about awkwardness, and worrying, and lying to yourself and other people. No wonder why I like it so much!

“Broken Cash Machine” gets stuck in my head, and I don’t like it. It has this simple, relentless, annoying guitar riff, that I can’t really describe right, but oh does it get on my nerves, which is good! It’s incessant! The big question in the chorus is, “hey why did I do that / why does everything collapse / even when it’s glued together.” Dudes. If I knew, I would let you know. Damn fine question.

Both these songs also do a thing where they repeat lyrics, but add the word “fuck” to a line they’ve already sung before, for added emphasis. “All my fucking problems are based around the past.” I think this is juvenile and pretty stupid, but also, I love it? A lot? It’s so in character of the whole situations described by the songs. I don’t think this is an intentional style thing, I don’t think they stepped back and were like, hey, if we swear for emphasis that will show how actually unsure of a place this lyric is coming from. I think they just felt like swearing for emphasis, because that’s fun. The authenticity just slays me. I feel it so strongly. I’m living for it.

“Rock Bottom” is a remarkably romantic song considering the title. Maybe it isn’t supposed to be romantic? It’s a perverse sort of millennial romanticism. This is romance for my generation, a declaration that, “There’s no good reason why I should leave your bed tomorrow / We can watch planet earth and brainstorm tattoos.” I know that doesn’t sound like much, but also, it’s perfect. This is The Modern Baseball Phenomena — it doesn’t sound like much, but it’s perfect. Yes, let’s ignore our responsibilities, let’s ignore our illnesses, let’s lie in bed and watch stoner television and imaging about adding art to our bodies that we can’t actually afford. I ache for it.

“Apartment” does this fabulous thing, where it starts slow, and sets a scene, and then offers a rush of words and social anxiety. Slowly, “I looked in your direction for excessive inspection,” and the the hurried panic, “And I could not muster the courage to say a single word.” And then the song rocks out. This is a prime example of the specific storytelling I like so much about their lyrics. I fully believe that this is based off a couple of nights that actually happened, it feels like such a lived in memory. It could all be made up, but why would someone make up a story this mundane? Mundane is a good thing. It makes me think of José Esteban Muñoz’s idea about quotidian utopia, but I’m not going to find a quote from a smart person book for my essay about Modern Baseball. It’s a song about small things. When he finally does gather his nerve, all he asks is, “I was wondering if, maybe, you wanted to hang out tonight / We could make dinner or something.” Not even get dinner, make dinner. Nothing fancy, but people have to eat, right? That sounds so nice — just a simple moment. It’s such a small thing to ask for, and yet the nervousness he has to get through to reach the point where he can ask is so much, which makes the smallness of the ask all the more beautiful.

I don’t have anything to say about “The Old Gospel Choir.” I don’t really understand the title. “Sharp as a tack, but in the sense that I’m not smart, just a prick,” is a solid gold line though. I really don’t have anything to say about, “Notes.” It’s a nice quieter moment in the middle of the album I guess.

“Charlie Black” has another great first line — “I’m pretty good at feeling sorry for myself.” And it’s got an almost killer chorus, with all the “woah-oh-oh”s. It’s a really solid song, a foot tapping song, a pogoing in your living room song. It’s really good, but never quite gets to the next level, because it’s still a Modern Baseball song. There’s something almost restrained in the very texture of the song, something that stops it from kicking into another gear and reaching it’s full potential. I did not intend for that description to be a metaphor for the millennial experience, but like. That wouldn’t be wrong.

I did not realize there was a song called “Timmy Bowers” on the album. It is a very short song — they’re all very short songs. Twelve tracks in twenty-nine minutes! Now that’s what I call punk!

“Going to Bed” is the longest song on the album, at three minutes and five seconds. It’s an oddly jaunty little tune about having to deal with terrible people. Very millennial. The lines, “I’ll admit I’m in the same boat / Caught between my adolescent safety net / And where the world wants me to be,” is a Big Feel. That’s millennial speak for a little bit too close for comfort. Fortunately the rest of the song is goofy enough to laugh it off and keep going.

“Your Graduation” is an honestly awesome story song, and one of the best tracks of the album. It’s a good wordy moody emo song with jam-packed verses and big choruses. There’s even a shouty bit! Totally epic. The graduation in question is, I believe, a high school graduation, presented here as something that still feels recent, just far enough away to produce nostalgia. Complicated nostalgia — like, hey, maybe things weren’t great back then, but it was familiar. The shouty part asks the listener to, “Remember all those countless nights / When I told you I love you / And to never forget it.” There’s something to hold onto, a memory to cling to. But then the very next line, the last line of the shouty part, is “Oh, just forget it.” It’s an abortive attempt at nostalgia, grasping towards it before giving up.

I was struggling to articulate exactly what it is that makes this song hit the way it does, and found myself rewatching the music video, hoping for inspiration. It isn’t a great video (they aren’t a great band!) but it captures something, the image of being unable to communicate to the person sitting next to you. He’s frozen, unable to respond, unable to walk away, unable to talk about his problems, stuck. But that’s almost alright, as a state of being, because there’s something else — the band. The petrified one-sided conversation is intercut with typical music video performance video, which is probably intended to be its own thing, but I don’t want to do that. Taken together there is the petrification, a hopeless nostalgia, that is ultimately abandoned because there is also the band. He lets the person he’s singing to walk away. It’s a frustrated song, but the ultimate decision is to move on, as much as that hurts. It’s about trying to grow, and how much that hurts sometimes.

Or maybe I stared at the lyrics too long, looking for something deeper, and that’s a lot of bullshit. But hey, literary analysis is just bullshitting with conviction. I listened to this song at least seven times in the process of writing the last two paragraphs, and I have very few regrets.

“Two Good Things” is just about perfect. All of the words sound good together. The first lines are, “Trying hard not to look like I’m trying that hard / Failing miserably at everything including that.” The last lines are, “Just walking in circles, replaying high school songs in my head / Because it’s better than lying awake” explains so much about what I love about Modern Baseball. Because I know that feeling, and it’s terrible, and inescapable, and not the worst thing really. It’s frustrating, but survivable. There gets to be a point where replaying high school songs don’t have the same power, they’ve been worn into oblivion. And they’ll gain their power back again, but you need to let them rest, and listen to something else for a while, something that offers the same comfort, but something that hasn’t been rattling around in your head for almost a decade now. Modern Baseball does that for me. In between the first and last lines are a lot of other lines that I like a lot too.

“Pothole” is the soft quiet end to the album. I like the way you can hear his hand moving up and down the neck of the guitar. It gets on my nerves, but I like it. It’s amatuerish and intimate, while the strings in the background is the band at their most polished, a contradiction living in the recording. It trails off, into nothing. The album is over. You’re Gonna Miss It All. Twelve tracks. Twenty-nine minutes.

That isn’t very long. I shouldn’t have written anything specific, I should have ordered you to pull it up and listen to it and come back to me in twenty-nine minutes with your own opinions. Except like, fuck your opinions, this is about my relationship to Modern Baseball as band/concept/way of life.

I don’t know what else there is to say. By now, you either get it, or you don’t. Hell knows I sure don’t understand. There’s this band that sounds like everything I need in my life, but they aren’t that good, and I don’t like telling other people how much I like them, because it makes me seem crazy, and like, I say a lot of shit that might make me seem crazy, but this seems more personal. This semi-shitty defunct “emo” band says so much about my life. Too much. Much too much, it’s overwhelming, I can’t stand it.

I love it. This contradiction is key to emo as a genre — the feeling of loving something so much that it hurts, loving things that cause you pain, holding onto things that hurt you for reasons you can’t really make sense of, and holding onto that confusion, and loving it too. To quote the American proto-emo poet Stephen Crane, “I like it / Because it is bitter / And because it is my heart.”

I don’t know where to go from here. Modern Baseball might never release another note of music. Would I be okay with that? I don’t know. Will I keep coming back to these albums years from now, will they make me think of the years between graduating college and starting grad school, the same way Panic!’s first album is an aural montage of everything I didn’t hate about seventh grade? Or will they fade out of rotation, songs showing up on shuffle only to get skipped past, unless I’m doing the dishes or driving, and can’t swipe onto the next track.

Venture into prophesy — ten years from now, they play a reunion show at First Ave, and I have to talk Gus into going with me. I’ll be thirty-five, the boys on the stage will be thirty-something, not boys, but grown men, still singing songs about high school romances, and I’ll be a grown woman singing along. Standing in the cold after the show, waiting for the train home, tired feet, but too much adrenaline to sit still. Thrilled, but exhausted and anxious to get back to whatever’s waiting for us at home, a babysitter or a cat who thinks we were gone too long, and should feed her dinner again. I can picture it.

Or maybe I forget all about them. Maybe I move on, and they move on, and we all forget about this thing that happened. It’s hard to say. Right now I’m still living through the uncertain years, and Modern Baseball is the perfect soundtrack for that.