Supple
Puppet’s Night Out (Futurist)
by Scott Hefflon
Once I got past the initial shock that Futurist releases alterna-rock, I realized I love Supple. I don’t even like college rock, but Puppet’s Night Out really tore me up like Pinhead in Clive Barker’s Hellraiser. Hooks shooting out of nowhere, hitting their mark and tearing at those soft spots – oh, the beautiful, welcome pain. (It’s 5 AM, I’m tired, O.K.?)
Imagine if the Goo Goo Dolls weren’t so dippy and wrote about longing like they did in the early days. Imagine if any band in this new vulnerable rock (vulnarock, sensitive core, cuddle core, Emo ’96) craze could actually move you with a voice hoarse with desperation and a need to communicate, rather than the simpering whine of how lost and confused they are. Pathetic. I want to slap the lot of them. Imagine if any alternashit band actually turned up their guitars really loud, but then didn’t need to because the songs were so damn strong anyway. The first three songs on this disc lunge through their paces so fluidly, you have to listen to them a few times to pinpoint how they’re yanking so insistently at those telltale heartstrings you left dangling again. While “Guilty” is the single/video pick/first song (surprise, surprise), “Dead Television” gets so personal, you might as well just rip your own heart out with your bare hands and club yourself. Ouch! Powerful stuff.
Actually, “I Don’t Know” does much the same, but it begins with a mild-mannered Nirvana-esque intro before launching into the frantic fit of self-loathing frustration. I first mistook “Cindy Crawford Can’t Cook” for a spoof, a cute little ditty, but it too, disembowels America’s bloated underbelly. Pure poetry (God, who writes the lyrics?). As for “Special Friend,” I’m not going there. Some innards should stay inside. Not a favorite song, anyway, despite the co-vocaling of Thumper’s Amy Romesburg. Then, well… the songs all kinda slow down. My attention wanders. “Deep Pockets” is a nice Nirvana unplugged thing, and the others kinda keep that strumming-ballad-with-occasional-bursts-of-loud-guitar motif going, but they ain’t shit compared to the emotional sucker punch of the first few songs. Call me a fool for loving peppy, upbeat-sounding songs about being thoroughly miserable. Ah, but what wit with which they whine.
