Written By: Lisa Melograno

In a world where music can often feel like an endless cycle of sameness, Quiet Time emerges as a refreshing breath of bubblegrunge air. Their debut EP, “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me,” encapsulates the spirit of a generation grappling with isolation, nostalgia, and the absurdity of modern life. Hailing from Philadelphia, this band blends the raw, emotional edge of grunge with bubblegum pop sensibilities, creating a sound that’s both familiar and strikingly unique. Quiet Time’s inception during the COVID-19 pandemic gives their music an added layer of significance. Lead singer MaiAda Carpano and her husband, guitarist Nick Tuttle, found solace in songwriting within the confines of their basement. This intimate setting is palpable throughout the EP, where vulnerability meets creativity in a raw, unfiltered manner. The band’s name, a cheeky nod to a neighbor’s plea for quiet during their practice sessions, perfectly encapsulates the juxtaposition of their sound—joyful yet tinged with the chaos of reality.

“Shout Out, Mrs. Albertson,” the first track on Quiet Time’s debut EP, encapsulates the emotional turmoil and existential musings of a generation yearning for connection and understanding. With its blend of bubblegum pop and grunge influences, the song emerges as both a catchy anthem and a poignant exploration of self-identity. The lyrics are a compelling tapestry of vulnerability and introspection. MaiAda Carpano’s voice carries a sense of urgency and sincerity as she navigates the complexities of wanting to be loved while grappling with feelings of inadequacy. The chorus’s refrain about being the “derelict darling/of the deadbeats club” speaks volumes about feelings of alienation. The reference to Mrs. Albertson and the science teacher adds a layer of irony. In seeking to be “saved” and molded into a “good girl,” the narrator recognizes that conformity will never satisfy her deeper need for authenticity and love. “Shout Out, Mrs. Albertson” strikes a perfect balance between upbeat and introspective. The infectious melody, driven by jangly guitars and punchy drums, creates a contrast to the weight of the lyrics. Oren Roth-Eisenberg’s drumming provides a steady pulse that propels the song forward, while the dual guitar contributes to the vibrant soundscape. The production is polished yet retains a raw edge, echoing the band’s roots in the ethos of the Philadelphia music scene. The song’s emotional resonance is heightened by MaiAda’s vocal delivery. Her voice oscillates between vulnerability and defiance, capturing the essence of someone caught between longing for acceptance and the harsh realities of self-doubt.

“No Stars. Just Trash,” the second track on Quiet Time’s debut EP, “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me,” showcases the band’s knack for blending raw emotion with an infectious, upbeat sound. Clocking in at just under three minutes, this song packs a powerful punch, both musically and lyrically, making it a standout moment on the EP. The verses are introspective, exploring feelings of inadequacy and the desire for validation. MaiAda’s vocal delivery here is particularly poignant, capturing the frustration of feeling overlooked in a world obsessed with celebrity culture. MaiAda Carpano’s voice conveys a mix of vulnerability and defiance, reflecting the internal struggle of wanting to believe in someone despite their shortcomings. The repetition of “I’d still take them” emphasizes the longing for connection, even when it’s clear that the other person is unreliable. “No Stars. Just Trash.” is anything but slow. The track bursts with energy, driven by punchy drums and vibrant guitar riffs. Oren Roth-Eisenberg’s drumming is particularly noteworthy, providing a relentless rhythm that propels the song forward. The guitars, courtesy of Nick Tuttle and Randy LoBasso (former Origivation Editor), create a melodic interplay complimenting Tom Farnham’s bass playing that is both catchy and textured, blending the upbeat energy of pop-punk with the grunge influence that Quiet Time embodies.

“No Stars. Just Trash.” is a testament to Quiet Time’s ability to craft songs that are not only catchy but also deeply reflective of the human experience. The song’s tempo and arrangement contribute to its lively feel, making it perfect for those moments when you want to scream out your frustrations but still feel a sense of joy. “No Stars. Just Trash.” serves as a perfect bridge between the playful and the profound, showcasing the band’s unique ability to convey complex emotions through their music. It’s a track that embodies the essence of bubblegrunge. “Shut Up, I’m Trying to Cry Over Here” is a striking exploration of emotional turmoil and the complexities of modern relationships. With its driving rhythm and relatable lyrics, this song captures the essence of vulnerability while maintaining an upbeat energy that keeps listeners engaged. The lyrics are a poignant reflection on the frustrations of love and the often-messy reality of emotional connections. From the outset, MaiAda Carpano’s voice conveys a mix of defiance and weariness as she confronts a relationship that is both enticing and tumultuous. “Shut Up, I’m Trying to Cry Over Here” is vibrant and energetic, striking a perfect balance between pop-punk catchiness and grunge-infused angst. The driving beat, complemented by punchy guitars and dynamic drumming creates a compelling sound that invites listeners to nod along. With its infectious sound and relatable lyrics, this track resonates with anyone who has experienced the tumultuous highs and lows of a complicated relationship.

Quiet Time successfully captures the essence of navigating love in a modern world, making “Shut Up, I’m Trying to Cry Over Here” a must-listen for fans of emotionally charged music that doesn’t shy away from the complexities of the heart. This song invites listeners to embrace their feelings, dance through the chaos, and find solace in the shared experience of longing and vulnerability. “Scheherazade” is a bold and provocative exploration of gender dynamics, power, and the complexities of victimhood. Drawing inspiration from the legendary storyteller of “One Thousand and One Nights,” the song intertwines themes of survival and deception, making a powerful statement about the narratives surrounding women in a patriarchal society. The lyrics delve into the manipulation of perception: “She set up a hoax and married a rich man/ Slayed him with her wit.” Here, the protagonist uses her intelligence in a world that often underestimates women, showcasing the theme of cunning as a survival mechanism. “Scheherazade” combines energetic instrumentation with a driving rhythm that complements its urgent themes. The arrangement features a blend of catchy melodies and grunge-inspired elements, creating a compelling sound that draws listeners in. The dynamic interplay between the musicians adds a layer of intensity that mirrors the emotional weight of the lyrics. “Scheherazade” is a track that sets the stage for Quiet Time’s ambitious debut EP. With its incisive lyrics, infectious melodies, and a potent social message, the song challenges listeners to confront uncomfortable truths about gender dynamics and societal expectations. “Scheherazade” is not just a song but a call to action for anyone willing to listen. It invites reflection on the complexities of female agency and the narratives that shape our understanding of victimhood. In a world that often silences women’s voices, Quiet Time’s bold proclamation through this track is both timely and necessary, ensuring that “Scheherazade” resonates long after the final note fades.

“Last Year at Elf Camp,” the closing track on Quiet Time’s debut EP “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me,” is a poignant and introspective examination of nostalgia, growth, and the struggles of navigating a world filled with uncertainty. The song captures a complex emotional landscape, blending vivid imagery with reflective lyrics that resonate deeply. As the song unfolds, themes of disillusionment and the passage of time emerge. This sentiment resonates with anyone who has grappled with the weight of the future and the fears that accompany maturity. The contrast between youthful idealism and the sobering realities of adulthood is a central theme, underscoring the struggle to maintain hope in a world that often feels broken. The chorus reflects this tension beautifully: “How do broken people save a broken world? We couldn’t even save ourselves.” It encapsulates a feeling of helplessness while yearning for agency—a relatable struggle for many in today’s chaotic landscape. “Last Year at Elf Camp” combines a driving rhythm with melodic elements that enhance its emotional depth. The instrumentation is layered and textured, allowing MaiAda Carpano’s vocals to shine. Her delivery is both heartfelt and earnest, perfectly capturing the song’s reflective tone. The arrangement builds gradually, creating a sense of urgency that mirrors the lyrical themes of change and liberation. The interplay between guitars and drums contributes to a sound that feels both organic and dynamic. The chorus bursts with energy, reflecting the enthusiastic yearning for change and connection that permeates the song. This blend of melodic hooks and rhythmic intensity makes it an engaging listen, inviting repeated plays. “Last Year at Elf Camp” is a compelling closer for “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me,” encapsulating Quiet Time’s ability to tackle profound themes with honesty and emotional depth. With its rich imagery, engaging instrumentation, and heartfelt lyrics, the song resonates on multiple levels, making it a powerful anthem for anyone grappling with the complexities of life, growth, and the desire for change.

The chemistry among the band members shines through every note. Their collaborative effort is evident, with each member contributing to the band’s distinct sound. Tom Farnham’s bass playing and Oren Roth-Eisenberg’s drumming are both energetic and nuanced, providing the perfect backdrop for the melodic explorations of the guitars. Nick and Randy’s guitar work complements MaiAda’s vocals beautifully, creating a rich tapestry of sound that is both intricate and accessible. “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me” is not just an EP; it’s a reflection of a moment in time. Quiet Time captures the essence of a generation navigating uncertainty and isolation while yearning for connection and joy. The band’s ability to blend introspection and catchy melodies makes this debut a must-listen for fans of both grunge and pop. For anyone looking to find solace in music or simply a good time, “Everyone’s Having More Fun Than Me” is an EP that deserves a spot in your playlist.

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Written by : Lisa Melograno

Quiet Time’s “Scheherazade“ is an electrifying, dance-punk anthem that reimagines the ancient tale of Scheherazade through a contemporary lens. As the second single off their upcoming EP “Everyone Is Having More Fun Than Me,” the Philadelphia-based emo band skillfully combines their unique sound with thought-provoking commentary on modern society. The song delves into themes of victimhood, power dynamics, and societal double standards, inviting listeners to question their biases and challenge preconceived notions of victimhood. Lead singer MaiAda’s lyrics offer a powerful critique of modern society, reimagining Scheherazade navigating today’s social media landscape, where public scrutiny and misinformation campaigns are all too common. Driven by gritty instrumentation and MaiAda’s incisive lyrics, “Scheherazade” demonstrates Quiet Time’s commitment to addressing important social issues through their music. MaiAda’s exploration of “feminine rage” serves as a poignant reminder of the ongoing struggle for equality and understanding faced by women today, both in the story of Scheherazade and in the present day. As Quiet Time continues to make their mark in the emo and punk scenes, “Scheherazade” stands as a testament to their ability to craft bold, introspective anthems that resonate with audiences. The band’s fearless approach to storytelling and their distinctive sound have garnered them attention and acclaim, positioning them as a compelling act to watch in the alternative music landscape. With their unique blend of engaging narratives and punk-inspired sound, Quiet Time proves that they are not only skilled musicians but also thoughtful storytellers, addressing pressing social issues through their art. As fans eagerly await the release of their upcoming EP, “Scheherazade” offers a tantalizing glimpse of what’s to come, cementing Quiet Time’s status as a rising force in the world of emo and punk music.

Quiet Time :

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By Randy LoBasso

Philadelphia’s City Council is sort of like the latest Michael Bay remake of a classic horror movie: Terrible.

I’d like to tell you all about their should-be criminal acts upon the residents of this city, like just last month raising property taxes 9.9 percent, voting to keep their free Eagles tickets (“gifts”) and forever installing the sons of former awful mayors as councilmen-at-large instead of letting them find real jobs, but I won’t. Because now they’re fucking with the local music scene.

Quoting Philadelphia City Paper sort of sucks, but credit needs to go where due. On Thursday, May 13, in their “Million Stories” piece, they broke news of an April 22nd bill (No. 100267) introduced by Councilman Darrell Clarke and Bill Greenlee meant to hit event promoters with new requirements and restrictions.

“Under the proposed rules,” the paper wrote, “promoters would have to apply for a permit from the Philadelphia Police Department (PPD) 30 days before every single event – meaning if you promote a weekly club night, that’s 52 permit applications per year. More than just a bureaucratic nightmare, this would all but abolish last-minute shows or pickup parties. These applications would have to include detailed security plans, the promoter’s business-privilege-license number, the venue’s capacity and the expected crowd. Perhaps most importantly, the bill would hold promoters liable for the actions of the crowds at the events they promote.”

If that doesn’t sound bad enough, consider this: According to the bill’s original language, even if you file your event within the 30 days required (which assumes tiny venues like the North Star and, hell, the Danger Danger Gallery, for that matter, have the staff to deal with all these forms) the Philadelphia police have the final say over whether or not you’re able to throw your event. They could cancel your show 10 days prior, as well. That not just means local bands who’re used to jumping on a bill at the last minute can’t, but bands touring the country and stopping by Philly can get their plans changed at the last minute, completely outside of their control. (The language regarding these parts of the bill has just been changed…see below.)

Here’s from the bill’s language:

Application for such promoted event permit shall be made in writing to the captain of the police district in which the event is to take place at least thirty days prior to such event, upon a suitable form prescribed and furnished by the Commissioner. The application shall be deemed approved unless it is denied at least ten days prior to such event.

Leor Galil at True/Slant referred to the proposal as “Cultural Fascism.”

But here’s your good news. The people fought back. In a Philadelphia Weekly piece published May 19, writer Tara Murtha detailed a roundtable of musicians’ and promoters’ reactions to the bill.

Here are some of the reactions she received:

Andrew Lipke, musician and promoter:

“This is absurd. Even if everyone filed the necessary paperwork the city would never be able to review all the information and would become backlogged and overwhelmed, making the whole enterprise worthless. Besides that, what’s the reasoning? There are already strictly enforced zoning laws for the location of music venues and people are certainly allowed to throw parties with music/entertainment/alcohol in places they own.”

Brandy Hartley, venue manager, Johnny Brenda’s:

“[This bill] would put a lot of legitimate promoters and venues out of business if we would have to file paperwork for individual event permits to our local police district, who could deny the permit up to 10 days prior for any or no reason at all. Since JB’s puts on approximately 300 events per year, this requirement would be onerous not only for us, but for our local police … I also do not believe that the venue-promoter contracts should be a matter of public record … It seems as if a few out-of-hand events have led to a bill that cripples a lot of legitimate promoters and venues with its bureaucratic requirements, when what the Council really wants to do is punish a few fly-by-night promoters and special-assembly licensees. In essence, the current bill is so indiscriminate that it is akin to using a crop duster when a fly swatter would do.”

A petition was started online and signed by hordes of people (http://www.petitionspot.com/petitions/bill100267). As of this writing, more than 12,000 have added their name to the list. A Facebook page titled “Sign the Petition TO SAVE PHILADELPHIA’S LIVE MUSIC SCENE!” was also started, and as of now has about 10,000 confirmed “guests.” It took almost a month after the initial bill was written, but local media and those within the art scene have made their voices heard regarding this issue. NightlifeGay has a great recent post on how the original bill would have effected LGBTQ events, as well (nightlifegay.blogspot.com).

Originally scheduled for vote June first, Councilman Greenlee now says he’s going to continue meeting with event promoters throughout the month, but wants to complete the bill before the council’s vacation on June 18. He’s also decided to get rid of the 30- and 10-day notices for, respectively, scheduling and having cops cancel, an event.

The outrage worked and some of the worst parts of the bill are dead, but the fight isn’t over. Something is still going to be voted on and if this whole ordeal proves nothing else, it’s that the city of Philadelphia has the power to give the music scene a severe strike to the kneecaps.

By Randy LoBasso

“I’m always looking around a room and going, ‘Okay, who’s full of fucking shit here?’ And usually, the answer is everybody,” Ben Weasel tells me over the phone from his Madison, Wisconsin residence.

It’s tough being one of the most distinct voices in punk rock, let alone a stay-at-home dad. Screeching Weasel frontman Ben Weasel has got his opinions, and he’s not shy about sharing them. They’re probably surprising if you’re familiar with the scene but not the man. Though fans who’ve been following Weasel’s lyrics over the past 20+ years, at this point, probably can’t help but to take the midwesterner’s cynicism with a spoonful of love.

Since forming Screeching Weasel with John “Jughead” Pierson in 1986, the pop-punk icons have formed and reformed more than a dozen times with more than 20 coming and going members. The band’s most notable albums differ by who’s calling what ‘notable,’ but 1996’s Bark Like a Dog ranked 35th on the Billboard’s Heatseekers chart and BoogadaBoogadaBoogada, Wiggle and My Brain Hurts have become staples in any punk rock collection – though the bubblegummy pop-punk put forth in these releases often put a happier face on what’s really lurked behind Screeching Weasel’s curtain. Turns out, the Chicago 4-to-6-some has gone through a lot of shit.

There’d always been some conflict within the band, in its many forms. And lots of that had to do with touring, something Ben tells me he’s not built for. “You put me in a van with a bunch of other guys, there’s going to be fists flying within a few days, someone’s going to be flying home soon. It’s just not going to work,” he says.

It got so bad that bassist Danny Vapid and Ben spent years not speaking to each other due to incidents that happened while on the road. Screeching Weasel officially split three times, they stopped touring long ago, and now Ben’s got no tolerance for the cheapening of recorded music.

“One of the consequences of illegal file sharing is that music has really been devalued to the point where it doesn’t mean any more to record it than to just play it,” he says. “Concerts have value as a social event but I think people care less now about music than they have at any point in time. For a lot of people Screeching Weasel is interchangeable with ‘insert the name of any mediocre, middle-of-the-road pop punk band that’s playing in someone’s basement or a VFW hall.'” This, he says, is why Screeching Weasel sticks to a one-show-per-year-per-corner-of-the-country formula, and this year just happens to be Philly. “In terms of what [touring] would do to the band, and also financially,” he says, “we can’t run around catering to people in every little town. Those days are over. There’s just not enough money in it anymore. The lack of money combined with the toll it takes on the band, it’s not in the realm of possibility.”

Ben Weasel’s always had a special relationship with his fans. That is, he’s never seemed to overtly respect them as a whole. And he’s taken to the studio to denounce them, as well as the entire punk scene. Regarding punk bands and fans with exploitative political agendas, there’s “Nicarauga,” the 11th and intentionally misspelled track off 1988’s BoogadaBoogadaBoogada. Weasel facetiously sings, “I don’t give a fuck about Nicaragua/I don’t give a shit about the president…Politics are boring/Yeah, politics are fucking boring.”

More than a decade later, in “You’re The Enemy,” off 2000’s Teen Punks in Heat, Weasel sings, pertaining to fans at a show: “I stand here bored and look at you/Clapping like monkeys in the zoo/A horde of maladjusted miscreants all pumped and primed/Just what could possibly be limping through your one-track minds?”

Regarding the so-called blue collar punk scene, presumably bands like the Dropkick Murphys and Rancid, Weasel wrote what became a B-side titled “Tightrope,” appearing on 2000’s Thank You Very Little. The overtness is pretty clear throughout: “I’ve never heard a member of the working class/Singing punk rock songs to kids/They’re too busy working… The bar is not a pub, your friends are not your mates/A pack of badgers filled with bitterness and hate/If all the boys have died in bloody fights/Then maybe you should stop behaving like a petty thug/Singing anthemic eulogies at gigs, you dope.” The song, like many others from the band’s catalog, fits into a mold outside the punk rock cast, and was later noticed by the bands of which Weasel was talking. In fact, in the liner notes to Rancid’s 2003 snoozefest, Indestructible, that band mentions they’d been referred to as a pack of badgers on “several occasions.” Rancid glorifies the term, however, saying being a pack of badgers means, “if you fuck with one of us, you fuck with all of us.”

A former writer for San Francisco-based punk zine Maximum Rocknroll, Weasel once wrote an article titled “The Punk Rock Dress Code.” In it, he details the ‘dos and don’ts’ of dressing for a punk rock show. The author meant his words to come across as sarcasm, but at later Screeching Weasel shows, he recalled members of the audience adhering to his standards. Some of these standards include, “Anyone who wears a ball cap to a gig is a fucking jerk,” “Nobody is impressed by that stupid goddamn chain on your wallet hanging down five feet like a pair of mittens your mother clipped to your parka,” and “if you think you’re a punk and you don’t own a leather jacket, you’re not a punk.” (After his side project, the Riverdales, opened for Green Day in 1995 on an arena tour, he was let go from the magazine.)

The Screeching Weasel tune “I Wanna Be A Homosexual,” off 1995’s collection of B-sides Kill the Musicians finds Weasel presumably mocking punk rockers who, he feels, do whatever the leaders of their respective scenes ask of them. “Homosexual” is essentially a song telling his straight fans to become gay, much as they deferentially likened themselves to “The Punk Rock Dress Code.”

But Weasel’s lyrics reflect a man’s double-dog-dare win. He bets being queer is too much for those within the punk rock scene and lets the faces in the crowd go along unharmed. He sings, “Shock the middle class, take it up your punk rock ass/You rub your puny thing, when you see studs with tight jeans pass you on the street/Who wears short shorts, you wear short shorts/You’re so full of shit/Why don’t you admit that you don’t have the balls to be a queer?”

As this article is being written Screeching Weasel’s only two album-wise permanent members have been Ben Weasel and John “Jughead” Pierson, with whom Weasel started the band after attending a Ramones concert. Pierson won’t join the band’s latest small tour (Philly on April 23 and 24, Toronto on May 14 and 15, Orlando on June 11 and 12) nor will he be involved in any future albums. And though Weasel doesn’t discuss his and Jughead’s relationship during our interview, he’s spoken of it on several other occasions.

In 1995, when Weasel toured with the Riverdales, he came home to the realization he wasn’t meant to tour – luckily, Pierson, unlike Dan Vapid and Dan Panic (permanent members of both projects), wasn’t a member of the Riverdales (according to Weasel, his exclusion from the side-project would become an early form of tension). After the 1995 tour, his relationship with Danny Vapid deteriorated to the point where they wouldn’t speak for years. He told Piet Levy of True/Slant regarding his mid-90s relationship with Vapid: “That really killed me, because we had our disagreements, but he was my friend. I really liked the guy.” Vapid and Weasel have since made up and are currently working together on the Riverdales’ new album, Tarantula. Vapid joined both bands on tour this year and last.

Weasel suffered from what he once called a “very, very brief bout with agoraphobia” – a condition highlighted by a fear of public places and open spaces (which doesn’t seem a convenient disease for a band’s lead singer). Many have speculated the band stopped touring because of the singer’s condition, though he contends the lack of touring had to do with the band’s internal problems and faults other members of Screeching Weasel for giving the agoraphobia excuse to media. He told True/Slant the real issue concerning his panic attacks: “Ultimately take enough prescription drugs and you can get out on the road and do what you need to do.”

In 2004, Screeching Weasel decided to get back together for a tour, though no album had been planned. According to Weasel, their booking agent told them the offers weren’t there for a reunion. So they changed booking agents: Same story. Weasel allegedly suggested the band play just two shows, in Milwaukee and Chicago. The thinking was the massive draw would find agents on the phone with venues all over the U.S. and a tour would be had. But Pierson didn’t agree to this – he wanted a full-on tour or nothing – and everything changed.

Weasel then took three years off before releasing his second solo album, aptly titled These Ones Are Bitter (his first was released in 2002 and titled Fidatevi), along with Mike Kennedy of the All American Rejects, who played guitar and produced. Weasel says Kennedy is “really more responsible than anyone for revitalizing my career and giving me a kick start and getting me out there playing. Working with him made me excited about music and made me recognize there’s a lot more there with my songs than I’d been doing with it.”

Weasel played a few Chicago solo shows in support of the solo album, some of which featured Danny Vapid on bass, who participated in several Screeching Weasel and Riverdales tunes.

In 2009, Weasel decided to get Screeching Weasel back together. He’d been toiled in a legal dispute with Pierson, with whom he was no longer friendly, over the rights to their band’s name. Pierson, who’d been playing with acoustic punk band Even in Blackouts, allegedly wanted Weasel to sign a document saying unless the two of them are involved, there would be no Screeching Weasel, as he claimed they’d discussed. Weasel wouldn’t agree to this because this initial discussion, he says, came about when the two of them were just teenagers (they’re now both in their 40s), and therefore meant nothing. After all, Weasel had done the majority of songwriting and believes he’d always been the group’s leader.

The legal dispute ended and so did Weasel and Pierson’s correspondence. They’d been friends since Weasel was 12 years old. When Weasel announced the reformation of Screeching Weasel, Pierson, who’d begun a career as a novelist and Neo-Futurist performance actor, found this out from his social networking friends. He took to his MySpace page on March 29, 2009 and wrote the following:

“If it weren’t for the fact that I actually enjoy conversing with the fans of my prior bands, I would never have found out about a new band called Screeching Weasel beginning to tour. “This can’t be the band I was in.” I say to myself. “I would have been preparing.” My mind would much prefer going to a place of calm contemplation than into a dark cold room filled with anger and the emotions associated with betrayal. So to avoid painful emoting I first took the facts that Ben and I started a band together called Screeching Weasel, we both spent all our days making that band a home for ourselves, and 18 years later we put it to rest… As for people like Ben Weasel, Dan Vapid, or even John Jughead, I have nothing to say, because they never really existed, they were just made up names for a bunch of friends that tried to do something different in order to survive and make a living in this world. And I imagine they are all still trying to make a living somehow, seeing that their band’s prominent “leader” never wanted to tour in order to make it financially viable to continue on.”

On April 22, 2009, Pierson wrote the following to his fans torn between allegiance to him and wanting to see Screeching Weasel perform live: “I completely understand people wanting to go to any upcoming SW show, but I would only hope they would buy my book to have a little bit more of an understanding of where I am coming from. Plus it would make me feel better monetarily because I am being ripped off.”

Today, Ben Weasel doesn’t need to talk about all that. A stay at home dad, he spends his days living quietly in Madison, Wisconsin. He takes care of his two daughters, goes to church on Sundays, follows Sarah Palin on Twitter, and is cynical as ever. Except where there was once a punk dress code, now there’s overt passive aggressiveness regarding the overall phony genuineness of punk rock. The passion he once felt toward those who can’t spell Nicaragua (yet want to criticize the U.S.’s foreign policy there) has been replaced by a distinct anger toward the punk rockers who shill for career politicians, simply because they aren’t Republican.

The first thing he gripes to me about, though, is his hatred of “scenesters” – people who are more interested in being friends with bands than appreciating the music. They don’t give a shit about the actual music, he claims. And it’s because of them, he feels, Screeching Weasel wouldn’t be able to work as a start-up band today. “We’d be fucked out of the gate,” Weasel says. “No one would give a shit, because no one gives a shit. I’ll hear these bands that are so head and shoulders above everything else that’s happening in pop punk and they have nothing. Nobody gives a fuck. When I meet young bands that are trying to build a fanbase, I tell them to keep these fucking scenesters at arm’s length because they’re going to drag you down. They don’t give a shit if you live or die, not these scenester cocksuckers.”

It’s part of a cycle of punk bullshit, he says. He believes many punk rock fans aren’t fans of the music as much as they’re fans of being in with the right crowd. Bands, too, are often more interested in portraying an image than writing good songs. “Punk rock presents itself as being genuine and it’s as phony as a three-dollar-bill,” he says. “It’s like any other form of rock and roll or pop music. One-hundred percent artificial. It’s total bullshit. It’s an act. And the more genuine someone appears, the better the actor they are. It’s not real. As far as bearing your souls and wearing your heart on your sleeve, the blue collar tough guy stuff, that’s not what this genre is about.

“When I see things like that, I think, if you make a living making music you’re not blue collar, by definition. I don’t why I feel compelled to point that out, you’d probably have to ask a psychiatrist, but as it relates to politics, it’s the same thing.”

Weasel remembers the 2004 Rock Against Bush compilations released by Fat Wreck Chords in which many bands, punk and otherwise, contributed political-driven songs with the eventual, unsuccessful, intention of getting those normally uninterested in politics a reason to vote against George W. Bush after listening to their favorite bands’ stances regarding the issue.

The set of rules existing within the punk scene have long catered to what brought about Rock Against Bush, he says. “If you’re in punk rock, there are certain unwritten rules. You’re not meant to break them and one of those rules is, you vote for Democrats. I don’t know why. I have no idea how that became something. I can understand being ultra liberal but I could never understand how being a Democrat coincided with that. The anarchists, as wrong as they are about everything, at least they’re consistent in their views. They’re not out there voting for guys like Obama and Joe Biden and Hillary Clinton.”

Weasel’s views on this often make their way to his blog and Twitter account, to which he’s gotten strong, often negative reactions. “I get a lot of reaction from people revealing their ignorance, calling me a Republican – which I’m not – calling me a right winger, which I don’t think I am.

“People don’t like it in punk rock when you express contrary opinions. It angers them. People also have certain expectations of musicians. You’re supposed to be a certain way and that involves everything from your business decisions to your politics and the second you pull the covers off and say, ‘This is a bunch of bullshit,’ they get really mad at you.”

Weasel calls the Rock Against Bush movement “stomach churning” and “nauseating.” He also admits, “I felt bad for everyone involved in that. And I had a few friends involved with that. I was like, ‘This is what it’s come to? You’re shilling for a career-fucking-politician? John Kerry?’ I still can’t wrap my mind around that. The idea that voting for John Kerry was somehow radical was just so bizarre to me. I’m surprised more people didn’t comment on that.” And though it wasn’t a surprise to him, the movement made him more distrustful than ever. “Punk rock is not a social movement,” he says, “at least not of anything that matters. So I don’t think a person should necessarily be anything because of this style of music.”

But what really bothers him is the fact that most of the bands active in politics during the Bush years have essentially quit singing about politics. “It surprises me that when Democrats get into power, like the Democrats are now, no one has a fucking thing to say. These lazy fucking drunks that want to run around and say shit when a Republican’s in office need to hold guys like Obama accountable. It’s like, ‘We’re just going to lull ourselves to sleep. We vote for the Democrats and then we don’t have to think about anything,'” he says, mockingly. “Now all those bands can go back to partying, getting drunk, and writing songs about getting drunk, partying, drugs, and tits.

“And you know what? Write your songs about drugs and tits, just don’t fucking lecture me about fucking politics and not expect me to point and laugh when you try to mobilize a bunch of retard punk rockers. Obviously, we learned on Election Day [2004] that that whole thing didn’t amount to a God damned thing. Because Bush stayed in office – thank God – and it didn’t work.”

The first thing you hear when you pop in Bells Bells Bells’ new album, A Ghost Could Live Here, is the heavy, reverbed fingerplucks of Kevin Fassett’s (a fitting word might be…) axe, coming at you with the apathetic force of a horror villain.

For more than seven minutes, we travel through the mire and fog, every so often whipped in the face by singer Amandah Romick’s poignant echoing high operatic notes.

Those familiar with the Fishtown band recognize the dim sound as part of a steady musical evolution. Newcomers may be pleasantly surprised, if not creeped.

Journalists have a good time writing about local act Bells Bells Bells, mostly because their music could so easily have been written by a score composer of 70s exploitation and creep flicks. The oft-vocabulary in their reviews is the stuff music writers dream about using, if they only knew the right band. On January 30th, Bells Bells Bells held a CD release party at South Street’s Tri Tone, showing off their dark sound, which, since the band’s inception, has sunk deeper into the grave, emanating a pitch-black psych opera through songs like the Velvet Undergroundy “Little Hours” and “A Prophet On The Horizon,” reminiscent of Pink Floyd’s Syd Barrett era.

This foursome have been celebrating in their corner of Philadelphia’s music scene since 2005. They’ve independently released three albums, their two most recent, Throw Down Your Anchor and the aforementioned A Ghost Could Live Here with producer Isaac Betesh of GreenHouse studios in Bucks County. “He has a great ear for songwriting and he knew our sound,” Amandah says. “We’ve been working with him for a couple years now, and he knows the sound we want to go for.”

Romick’s unmistakable vocal chord tinkering isn’t a mistake. She’s a former student of opera, which becomes a unique quality in Ghost’s favor. Keyboardist Kat Paffett’s soft organ has a creepy lurking sense to it, lingering in the background of each track, helping straddle the line between hard rock and psych-folk (adding up to what we might call…prog-rock). Fassett’s guitar can go from resonant reverb to heavy metal in a single stroke, as is the case on Ghost’s fourth track, “August is a Month,” in which the guitar licks take up it a notch, summoning a Master of Puppets crunch. He can also lead us astray at times, down a banjo-lined blue-colored path.

Though each of the ten songs on A Ghost Could Live Here have been the product of two years of musical dissertation, Amandah says Betesh – who joined the band on a couple tracks, and whose pregnant wife turned their production into a “race against time” according to the singer – helped resolve those songs into a sound the band had dreamed of since birthing the tunes.

She says he pushed the foursome to the limits this time around, which she calls “risky” and “stressful, but good stress.”

“The cool thing about the studio is that you can lay down, basically, as many tracks as you want. We took a lot of risks this time around when it came to that,” she says. Those risks led to at least one song on the album – “Little Hours” – taking on a second life since its first as a live performance piece. What made that new life possible: 11 additional tracks with which to record.

“While experimenting in the studio, we did things, sometimes, that were, I guess, ugly. Sometimes they worked well, sometimes they didn’t,” says Amandah. “Some of the tracks we laid down were intentionally, for lack of a better word, incongruous. Sometimes the tracks alone didn’t go with the overall feeling of a song, and it altered the tune. And we found that to be a good thing.” Some of these additions, she says weren’t even musical in nature – but they worked.

What’s most interesting regarding A Ghost Could Live Here is the questioning feeling of the album’s title becoming the theme for the process of songwriting and recording – spooky, vaporous, ambiguous. The additional laying of tracks, the recording of intentional ugliness over ugliness to create a bittersweet cocktail, this led the songs down a pathway in which they became a life of their own, she says. “We’d spend a lot of time listening back, seeing if the guitar tracks and everything else worked together. Sometimes they worked really, really well, and sometimes they didn’t work at all. And sometimes they worked in an unexpected way, creating the song and turning it in a different direction,” Amandah says. “We kind of went all out.”