Nerf Herder

(My)
by Scott Hefflon

We seem to have a new sub-genre here. That’s right, another one. This is Golfshirt Power Pop. Clean-cut guys in touch with their Rush-listening feathered-hair days, and apologetic about not having been in hardcore bands since they were old enough to draw an X. That, and the ability to quip, is the essence of Nerf Herder. Without using the word “quirky,” I’d like to convey how touching, silly, poignant, heart-felt, and refreshing their lyrics are. With a voice cracking with emotion (or the fact that he can’t sing very well) Parry Gripp tells of a girl that rides the Midnight Train going anywhere who lies in a field smelling of nicotine and peanut butter and how we’ve really got to love her. As a non-violently adamant sap, willing to melt in your hand, not in your mouth, who keeps tissues by the bedside for your comfort, I’m prone to fall head-over-heels in really, really like-a-lot with girls like that. A few songs later, trustworthy- guy-in-a-band-you-wouldn’t-mind-bringing-home-to-the-folks Parry tells of a crush on “Nosering Girl.” Funny how the guitar sounds kinda like Radiohead’s “Crush.” Coincidence? Yeah, probably. The closing song, “I Only Eat Candy,” which professes their post-vegan dietary regulations, is similar to the convoluted what-I-want-to-do-with-my-life speech from Say Anything where the sensitive kickboxer says, “I doesn’t want to process anything, produce anything processed, or sell anything produce ed by processing.” Or whatever he said.

I originally heard Nerf Herder on Happy Meals, the My Records comp, performing “Sorry,” and I was under the impression that the Offspring-esque “No Self-Esteem” schtick would wear thin fast. But after being boinked on the head repeatedly by Nerf’s schtick, I still chuckle at the litany of apologies. Beware: High self-conscious giggle factor. Aside from the fact that Parry sounds mildly like Tyson Meade (formerly of the Chainsaw Kittens before someone told him a multi-talented, cross-dressing fruit like him ought to sing into pop obscurity solo), I have no complaints. And what can be said of “Van Halen,” the song that ambles down memory lane pointing out fond memories of buying each Van Halen record? You’ve just got to hear it. No hype, no bullshit; it rocks. Unlike Nada Surf’s “Popular,” that vastly over-played King Missile rip-off that was funny the first gazillion times, but now rivals anything by post-Tiffany phase Alannis or the “Achy Breaky Song” for “songs most likely to cause me to smash something repeatedly into my stereo to make it stop,” I still really like “Van Halen” after repeated listenings. And now I know all the words. I sing them often. My friends are learning the words, too. They don’t seem to appreciate them as much as I do, but they will. Oh yes, yes they will.