(4) house of pain, "jump around" defeats (13) candlebox, "far behind" 110-35

Read the essays, watch the videos, listen to the songs, feel free to argue below in the comments or tweet at us, and consider. Winner is the aggregate of the poll below and the @marchfadness twitter poll. Polls closed @ 9am Arizona time on 3/5.

Which song is the best?
(4) House of Pain, "Jump Around"
(13) Candlebox, "Far Behind"
Poll Maker

throw the lights away: farid matuk on "jump around"

I was 18 years old in 1992 when House of Pain released “Jump Around.” It’s a party jam with staying power and maybe that’s all there is to say. That year in Southern California white men were setting each other free all kinds of ways. It was a tradition.
     Traditions march proud, or they march in complicated ways. Sub rosa: everything under the cover of something else, something prettier? Goddamn 1998’s American History X. What passed as an unflinching look at white supremacy always seemed to me more of a visual love letter to the physicality of Ed Norton’s Derek Vinyard character. Do you remember the film’s opening sequence? Derek’s little brother Danny, played by Edward Furlong, sleeps in one room while in another Derek violently tops his skinhead girlfriend, his boots still on. What was it with boys’ feet as substitutes for their dicks in these kinds of scenes from the 90s? Three years earlier Larry Clark’s well used eye made sure we saw a similar shot in Kids, only that time it was Telly’s sweaty socked foot looking for purchase on the bed sheets as he pushed further into the next virgin girl we knew he was exposing to HIV. Thinking without subtlety, trading in only the cheapest likenesses of categories, I ask, if white boys are dangerous in a viral way, who’s the host?
     By the time Derek disentangles himself from his girlfriend to confront two young black men who were messing with his car we know their black bodies will be the film’s first sacrifices to our civil sympathies. Beneath the cover of that sympathy the camera eagerly enlists its high contrast film in the passion of Derek’s nearly nude, glowing white body stalking the night itself. Beneath that, we get the still more operatic passion of glances exchanged between Derek as he gives himself over to be cuffed by the police and Danny, whose grow-in buzz cut and swan neck make him look like some misplaced Joan of Arc (to borrow a phrase from Patty Smith) trying with his big eyes to pull his brother back from a moral abyss I’m still not sure ever really opens up to interrupt the paths of white men.
     When Derek gets out of jail, the film needs to show him arguing with his mom’s liberal boyfriend about the “L.A. Riots.” I was among those nerdy poor kids of color who, despite our deep immersion in police surveillance, mostly avoided encounters with actual officers, a streak that gave me a sense of what it must have been like up in the hills and along the coast where SoCal WhiteLife looked like nothing but expansive possibility. In retrospect it seems that whether we felt some claim to that expanse or not, we nonetheless spent the rest of the decade talking in one way or another about the last days of April and first days of May 1992. We were experts on policing and on staging civil disobedience, we knew the names of all the officers who beat black motorist Rodney King and we knew the names of the men who beat white trucker Reginald Denny, we had opinions about how batons should work. Or if we kept our mouths shut, we were still steeped in the air of those who affected this expertise, chiasmus as fuck in our host and virus dialectic.
     Based in L.A., House of Pain released “Jump Around” only six or so months after King’s attackers were acquitted and many years before Marshall Mathers’ internal rhymes would expand the pantheon of emcees to include the outline of an ideal white boy. So when House of Pain’s Everlast claimed, “I never eat a pig, cause a pig is a cop/ Or better yet a Terminator, like Arnold Schwarzenegger,” [1] we heard him making a sympathetic overture to kids like me who already knew how to sleep through the glare of the LAPD’s helicopter search light.
     Categories persist in failing. Failure can be a kind of street style, or it can be a particular street’s style if that street is the place where poor and lower middle-class folks of different ethnic and racial backgrounds share air and time and materials. The Internet tells me that only a handful of years before “Jump Around,” Everlast was just a kid trying to be a graffiti artist. He came out of Taft High School in the Valley where, incidentally, Ice Cube was a peer. On the graffiti scene he fell under the tutelage of a revered black artist going by the name of Divine Styler (née Marc Richardson). Divine was just a kid too, but his work across graffiti, genre-blending experimental rap, and graphic art would make him a legend in the West Coast underground hip-hop scene. It was Divine who introduced Everlast to Ice-T who in turn welcomed both boys into his Rhyme Syndicate collective.
     None of the ways those men failed, which is to say exceeded the boundaries of their categories really complicated how their images were marketed to me in 1992. If we wanted to jump around my freshmen dorm, we already had Black Sheep’s “The Choice is Yours” and Tribe Called Quest’s “Scenario.” But House of Pain was white. And while they nodded to the ways the Irish neighborhoods of their heritage had once been policed the way mine was policed, beneath that overture I only wanted to see them as rude and proximate embodiments of white masculine power. It was privately electric the way that song made me feel my relation to public whiteness, like I could be at once in their crew and one of the “ho’s” they might smack. I heard misogyny in some of the songs by my favorite black hip-hop acts, I heard misogyny everywhere, and I was boy enough to think it served me. But I was brown enough to know House of Pain was white. Have you ever felt the whiplash speed with which you can convert being hurt into wanting to be hurt? It can still draw saliva into my mouth, even though I’m old enough and queer enough to know sex can even be simple. From where could a brown kid marshal enough critical grace to treat white thuggery like just another pop pose when more than twenty years later white men still need “Jump Around” to set each other free in the stands of hockey and football games? Yes, I know all kinds of bodies are in those stands and that all kinds of bodies like to jump around to that song. Such is the capacious poetics of white dick, and white dick is nothing if not a universal work of lasting value.
     Would violent masculine whiteness (or violent white masculinity?) have had a weaker claim on me if I’d never been an undocumented immigrant, if I’d never overheard a stray detail or two about the rapes my mother survived, if I’d never been sexually assaulted myself? Poor little wound sack, the literature of the object is already stacked high with the likes of me. In the place of a fuller rendering of my stories I’ll finish annotating not so much “Jump Around” but the labor of listening to it with transcripts of homemade intimacies between white men and of white “alphas” offering their dominating services to willing customers. I don’t care to police or shame anyone’s consensual power play; I know all manner of care and calibration can be worked out under the cover of something else, something uglier. The point here is the surface of the coin, so I will mention as a heads up that these transcripts frontload white supremacy, misogyny and base, hateful homophobia, but so does what passes for freedom in this country, and I’m trying to learn from James Baldwin who said, “I know one thing from another… so I give you your problem back.” [2]

“fuck yeah” found on the porn site xvideos.com

good fuckin mouth take that white cock take that fuckin dick nice and hard suck that dick fuck yeah pig suck daddy’s white dick hell yeah suck that dick, pig, suck it suck it fuck yeah fuckin faggot suck that dick bitch deepthroat that mutherfucker deepthroat it bitch suck it suck it faggot suck it fuckin suck my big fuckin dick sick bitch fuck yeah suck that dick fuck yeah fuck yeah suck my big fuckin dick fuck yeah oh fuck yeah mutherfucker fuck suck it suck it suck daddy’s dick fuck yeah fuck yeah pig, [spit spit] fuck yeah suck my dick suck my big fuckin dick fuck yeah suck it suck it suck it fuck yeah suck it suck it suck it dayum suck it suck it yeah good pig spit good pig suck a dick faggot fuck yeah bitch smoke it [gives joint] good pig good pig [sniffs poppers] say its Monday bitch I suck off daddy on Monday on it on it fuckin gag on it bitch you gag on my dick bitch gag gag vomit bitch fucking vomit bitch good boy good boy good boy want fucked yes sir you want fucked or you want raped I want raped sir you want raped yes sir good answer you want knocked up yes sir you want my baby yes sir get on your fuckin hands get on your knees get on your hands and knees you want fucked yes sir you want fucked bitch I didn’t hear yes yes sir ugh ugh ugh ugh fuck ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh ugh fuck yeah fuckin pig fuckin bitch [spit] [spit] you want fucked you want fucked yes sir beg me to fuck you yes sir please fuck me sir you want fucked bitch huh you want fucked with my dick in your ass say please sir please sir fuck me sir beg me motherfucker yes sir give me that cock sir you want that fuckin big dick fuck you motherfucker you’re getting a big dick big dick in that fuckin ass fuck you bitch fuck you that’s daddy’s ass that’s daddy’s muther fuckin ass you want it bitch yes sir fuck you motherfucker fuck you spit fuck you mutherfucking cunt fucking faggot cunt you want fucked yes sir you want hard yes sir gotta say fuckin hard daddy yes sir fuck me hard daddy huhu you gonna get fucked hard bitch yeah ugh fucking take it faggot mutherfucker fucking take it take that dick bitch fucking faggot mutherfucker take that dick fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck yeah fuck yeah you got daddy’s dick fucking throbbing mutherfucker come’re fuck yeah [sniffs poppers] fuck yeah bitch fuck yeah work my fuckin dick faggot fuck yeah fuckin fuck that face faggot fuck the face faggot fuck the face faggot fuck it fuck it work it work it you got long dick big dick suck it faggot fucking knock you up on that fuckin floor you want knocked up yes sir fuckin bitch I’ll let you know when I’m ready to knock you up bitch suck it suck daddy’s hard fuckin big fat fuckin cock fuck yeah bitch fuckin breedin that hole you want that hole bred then suck it bitch swallow it I said fuck yeah mutherfucker swallow it fuck yeah mutherfucker swallow that mutherfucker fuck yeah fuck yeah mutherfucker suck it suck it suck it work daddy’s big fuckin dick yeah you fucking faggot pussy bitch fucking faggot worthless piece of shit suck it get it hard get it hard fuck yeah suck daddy’s big fuckin mean dick you getting knocked up bitch fuckin knock you up fuckin rape you so fuckin hard you want raped bitch yes sir beg me yes sir I want raped sir you want raped how hard you want raped hard sir yeah I’ll rape you so fuckin hard get on your ass lie down on your stomach fuckin you don’t even live bitch yeah good pussy good fuckin hole good fuckin hole faggot you like that fuckin dick in your ass yes sir fuck yeah tell me how much you want my fuckin dick in your ass yes sir tell me how much you want my dick in your ass yes sir be a good faggot fuck you faggot mutherfucker fuckin piece of worthless shit fuckin bitch that’s my pussy I own that pussy fuck yeah fuck yeah oh fuck him good pussy I’m breeding that fuckin bitch hole I’m gonna breed that bitch hole fuckin bitch mutherfucker fuckin take my fuckin big daddy dick am I the fuckin best fuck you ever had yes sir I’ll always be the fuckin best fuck you ever had fuckin bitch fuckin pussy yes sir want my cum yes sir want my cum want my fuckin load in your ass fuckin bitch yes sir beg for it yes sir give me your cum sir yeah yeah faggot fuckin fag you want my load in your ass yes sir give me your beg for it cum sir fuck alright awh fuck uh huh cheese cheese I fuckin love you so much good fuckin pig good fuckin pig peace out bad boys ga-gow!



YouTube Muscle Stud Verbally Cocky

What up there boi? Name’s fuckin Josh, I go by fuckin YoungInCharge. I’m a dominant motherfucker, as you can see, fuckin ripped to the fuckin core, got your fuckin jeans on, yeah, that’s what I’ma fuckin ‘bout, boy, get on your fuckin ass knees and get ready to see this mutherfucker get pumped the fuck up, yeah I know you like that shit, lick those mutherfuckin abs, bitch, say you’re not offended by shit, now fuckin sit back and enjoy the mutherfuckin show. These are sixties and that I’m fuckin ‘bout to pick up. Let me adjust this lighting. Yeah, there we go. Lookin’ great as ever. Sixties ‘bout to be fuckin in your fuckin face. Ooh yeah, you fuckin like that mutherfucker. Fuckin all day pick your ass up over my fuckin head fuckin toss your ass up. Fuckin admire the fuckin biceps. No one got abs like me, bitch. I’m the fuckin most dominant mutherfucker you’ll ever meet. Yeah, look at those fuckin triceps. Yeah, fucking beg my ass to take those off, show you fuckin these, ha ha ha. You wanna lick those fuckin veins? Fuckin get on your knees and lick those fuckin veins. What we’ll first starting to do, we’ll go down to the fuckin, get down to some fuckin boxers, boy. If you wanna purchase these boxers, fuckin beg my ass to fuckin purchase them, bitch, you won’t be the first mutherfucker you fuckin wants them. Yeah, look at that fuckin’ “v.” Straight off of, straight off of the movie 300, boy. Yeah, oh yeah, you fuckin like that? Fuckin faggot. Ha ha ha. Like I said, don’t be offended, I’m fuckin perfect in all ways, my smile and my fuckin physique, we’re gonna do it again, get even more fuckin pumped up. Pumped up, bitch. Curl some more sixties. Oh yeah, you like that shit. You like when I’m in your face. Callin you out, boy, like fuckin, c’here, test me, test me mutherfucker. Ugh I lost count. You countin, boy? cuz I’m not, I’m just curling, I’m just fuckin you up. Ugh. Look at those fuckin traps. Yeah, oooh, these are fuckin deathly fuckin traps. Fuckin beg me to take this shirt off, mutherfucker, beg my ass. Yeah, love fuckin dominating little pussies. Fuckin little pussies get on the fuckin floor. That’s what I love to say. Get on the fuckin floor, mutherfucker, and fuckin worship at this fuckin god right here, I’m a beat. Ugh yeah, you like that? You like that traps? Fuckin lick those veins, boy. Yeah. Ahh. Oooh, I’m startin to fuckin sweat. Yeah, that’s right, you’re comin back for more, I know you are. This is only my 720 hp, hd. You ready, mutherfucker? Huh. You’re gonna be on the ground as I do my fuckin one-handed push-ups, bitch. Yeah, that’s right, that’s how I do ‘em. Ugh, ugh, ugh, yeah, bitch, fuckin bam, bitch. Now some more. Who’s counting? Ugh, yeah. I’m a fuckin beast, bitch. Can’t you fuckin tell? Here we go. Yeah that felt good. What you think? You thinkin you wanna fuckin step to me, boy. Fuckin feel these fuckin abs? Lick these fuckin veins? That’s what you fuckin think? I think not. 173 pounds, and I’m fuckin training to be in the Mr. Olympia fuckin try-outs, boy. You can be my first fuckin sponsor, bitch, cuz I’m fuckin com’in for your ass. Time to do the fuckin sixties. Like I said, fuckin support this mutherfucker right here, cuz this guy? this guy’s fuckin goin places. Ugh, motivated. Celebrated. Progressin’. Aw yeah. Get on your knees, faggot, get on your fuckin knees. Let me pull these up. Yeah, that’s how it’s gonna look in them trials. Yeah, there we go. See my fuckin junk like a real fuckin alpha. Yeah, feels good to be fuckin alpha. Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Oooh, Ooh, Oooh, Oooh, ugh, yeah. Dayum no one can fuckin handle me. I don’t think you can, Gary. Was that your name? Is that your name? Is that your fuckin fake-ass name? Ha ha ha. I want you to lick these abs, Gary, I want you to lick these abs, these rock fuckin solid abs. Let’s put this shirt, or these pants back on. Sometimes they look sexy when you got a beast mutherfucker like me. See what it looks like. Imagine me in the … [unintelligible]. What I really want you to see, I want you to see the veins. The fuckin vascularity, mutherfucker. How fuckin dominant I am when I enter the room. Let me get fuckin pumped. Ugh. breath, mutherfucker. Now fuckin thank me… [unintelligible]. And whenever you want the fuckin beast like me, I’m here, and I’m ready for your ass. Let’s see if I can even fit this shirt back over after I just pumped up. If I break it, you owe me a fuckin new $45 shirt. Ugh yeah, Aw, yeah, bitch.


YouTube Master Ginger here. Straight alpha GOD

What’s up, faggots. Master Ginger here. I’m here to fuckin control and run every fuckin aspect of that fuckin pathetic little life of yours, you fuckin worthless little piece of shit. Bow down and worship a real fuckin man in every aspect of my fuckin alpha lifestyle. I’m here to fuckin control you, rape you, and fuckin dominate you, you fuckin degraded worthless piece of dogshit is what the fuck you are. You fuckin understand me, homo? US dollars, great British pounds, Australian dollars, euros, I want fuckin all of it. I deserve all that fuckin hard-working cash that you bust your fuckin ass 9-5 doin, give it to me so I can spend that fuckin money, you piece of shit. Fuck you and pay me, mutherfuckers!


Spit in the mouth, posted by dippingthatdip

I’m ready to spit in this boy’s mouth. Skoal! Go for it. Open wide. Show the camera. Awh Jeezuz. Now, how you gonna spit? All over my fuckin face, like I’m fuckin juicy ass shit.

[1] Everlast, DJ Lethal, Danny Boy as House of Pain. House of Pain. Tommy Boy Music, Inc., 1992. CD.

[2] Take This Hammer. Prod. Richard O. Moore. Perf. James Baldwin. National Educational Television/KQED, 1964. DVD.

Farid Matuk is the author of This Isa Nice Neighborhood (Letter Machine) and, most recently, of the chapbook My Daughter La Chola (Ahsahta). He serves on the editorial team at Fence, on the board of the conference Thinking Its Presence: Race & Creative Writing, and on the MFA faculty at the University of Arizona. With the support of a New Works Grant from the Headlands Center for the Arts, Matuk is currently at work on two books of poems that in their distinct ways consider the question with which Orlando Patterson’s ended 1982’s Slavery and Social Death: “must we challenge our conception of freedom and the value we place upon it?” 

nick greer on "far behind"

Like many one-hit wonders of the 90s, Candlebox may be off your radar, but they’re still very much active as a band. Last April they released their sixth album, Disappearing in Airports, and are currently touring in support of that album. The tour is an extended jaunt across the inland East Coast that will see them hit most of the major wineries and performing arts centers along the Hudson and Allegheny Rivers, and if you’re lucky enough to be in Orlando, Florida on April 22, you can see them play WJRR’s Earth Day concert at the Central Florida Fairgrounds & Exposition Park, where they’ll share the stage with Sevendust, Nonpoint, and Alter Bridge (ex-Creed). 
    There, and at any other stage they take, they will surely play “Far Behind.” They don’t always end all their sets with this, their most popular and memorable song, but that’s only because they won’t risk saving it for an encore. A smoldering, G-major ballad, “Far Behind” is one of the more bruised, wistful songs to have emerged from the Seattle grunge scene of the early 90s. The song is a heartfelt tribute to friend and fellow Seattle musician, Andrew Wood of Mother Love Bone, who died of a heroin overdose in 1990. 
    “Far Behind” is a tribute, but it’s also an apology, one laced with accusation, regret, and even resignation towards that regret, often in a single line. “Now maybe,” sings Kevin Martin, Candlebox's singer and founding member, “I didn't mean to treat you oh so bad, but I did it anyway.” Martin delivers these lines with a kind of exhausted passion, as if this is the last gasp he’ll let himself have before lowering his shield for good. His pain is so evident, so sincere, you can’t help but drop whatever you’ve been holding onto, everything except your lighter, raised high above your head in votive offering. 
    And isn’t that the joke? That somebody—now a nobody—would write music this sentimental. That we—having moved on since the song’s day—are able to see the song for what it really is. That time has not been kind to this song or Candlebox, but we can be—or not—it’s our choice as the sophisticated consumers we are. You can sing the song at karaoke or add it to your Buzz Ballads playlist. You can plug the lyrics into a Flesch-Kincaid Readability Test and laugh to learn that the song scores at a second grade reading level. You can relearn its wailing, solicitous guitar solo, half-offended and half-amused to discover that Guitar World—the very publication whose tab first helped you teach yourself how to play the song—later, in a 2008 article, lists it as the 46th Worst Guitar Solo of All Time. 
    We have the choice, and yet we don’t do an especially good job of exercising that choice. The ways we remember a band like Candlebox and a song like “Far Behind” are not exactly creative and are even less honorable. Most people don’t make it as far as the actual music, content to tie a flannel shirt around their waist or buy a pair of ripped jeans. Even a more thoughtful, well-intentioned exercise like, say, writing and publishing essays that revisit the hit songs of bygone eras, has the potential to devolve into a performance, a game of who’s the most media literate, whether that literacy is sincere, ironic, ironically sincere, or any permutation thereafter. 
    And there’s an argument to be made that this is actually a fitting tribute for a band that has been called “a watered-down version” of grunge. A band that “unwittingly helped usher in the post-grunge era…show[ing] how the more challenging aspects of grunge could be ironed out and polished into a sound that mainstream rock radio could embrace without reservation.” Candlebox formed in December 1991, shortly after the albums BadmotorfingerTen, and Nevermind were released on major labels. Within a year, they had signed to Maverick, then known inauspiciously as “Madonna’s label,” on the grounds of an 8-song demo tape, and in another year they would release their first album, Candlebox, which went Platinum four times over. Candlebox aren’t as cynically contrived as a boy band, but they were latecomers to the grunge scene and were not above riding its wave to pretty serious commercial success. 
    They might not deserve our love, but do they really deserve scorn, pity, something a little more lukewarm? Do they even deserve to be remembered? How watered-down were they really and, whether they were or not, what kind of creative agency are we willing to grant them? In an interview in 1994, the peak of their success, the band answers questions in that cautiously optimistic tone any good interviewee knows to use, all except the band’s bassist, Bardi Martin (no relation to the singer, Kevin), who’s riding the band’s wave a little more luxuriantly when he opines, “We’re a rock band, you know, I mean, we just do what we feel.” They’re just doing what they feel, which is to say, exactly what an intoxicating mix of youthful exuberance, latecomer’s anxiety, and market forces says you should do. This is the portrait of a band doing all the right things. 
    It’s not surprising then that “Far Behind,” the song that made Candlebox, goes with the flow and doesn’t ask many questions. It plays like a caricature of a successful grunge song, imitating its idioms down to the smallest of details. The guitar slide that opens the song, a lilting but lonesome A-to-B, clean-toned except for a slight flange, is nearly identical to the slide that opens Blind Melon’s “No Rain.” Looking for a landing zone after the guitar solo, the band touches down ever confidently on that call-and-response E7#9, so much so it’s like they think Candlebox wrote this riff, not Jimi Hendrix for “Foxy Lady.” Consider that “Far Behind” isn’t even the only or first or best song written in tribute to Andrew Wood of Mother Love Bone. Two years before the song came out, one of grunge’s more persistent characters, Chris Cornell, dedicated an entire band, Temple of the Dog, to his late friend. That band’s big single, “Hunger Strike,” is, unsurprisingly, another wistful, major-key grunge ballad, perfect for ending a set. 
    This isn’t to say that “Far Behind” is disingenuous, but something more like its opposite. The song is sincere and self-assured to the point of disbelief, which of course makes the band’s eventual decline all the more obvious and fatalistic. We’ve heard this story before, so we can doze off or change the channel, skipping over the boring, little details, or we can luxuriate in them, which is what I find myself unable to resist doing. 
    I learn that in the two-plus decades since we left them, Candlebox have only become even more of a simulacrum. The band has been whittled down to just one of its original members, Kevin Martin, who—along with another lifer from the early 90s grunge boom, Pearl Jam’s Dave Krusen—has repopulated the band with anonymous mercenaries so they can play matinees for graying Gen-X’ers, an audience presumably there for some of the same reasons you and I are here now—nostalgia, schadenfreude, curiosity, boredom, all of the above—except that their memories of the band, or maybe the time when they were listening to the band, are fond enough that they’ll shell out $25 to see the band play what is branded as an “Intimate Acoustic Duo Performance.” 
    It’s an audience whose members, I imagine, wouldn’t smirk to learn that Candlebox’s official website is http://www.candleboxrocks.com. The band’s Wikipedia page links to this site, to a PDF of a 1994 Playgirl article titled, “Set to Ignite: Candlebox,” that comes up as a File Not Found. Their Wikipedia page is a litany of these killed buzzes. “Hot off the success” of their first album, they wrote three album’s worth of material for their follow-up, Lucy, which went Gold but “marked the beginning of the band's decline in poularity [sic].” The highlights from later in their career are even more embarrassingly glass-half-full. Did you know their song “Glowing Soul” was recorded for the soundtrack to The Waterboy at the request of writer-producer, Adam Sandler? That, “[i]nspired by the film, the song was based on a Bo Diddley rhythm and recorded with vintage equipment.” 
    Maybe this is all good for a laugh, but if I’m being honest, I find these details almost unbearably bittersweet, for reasons equally vague. When “Far Behind” was at the peak of its success, I would’ve been seven or eight, watching the song’s video on MTV, not old enough to actually understand what was I was watching, but old enough to know that it was important, that feelings were being felt, the very adult feelings my well-meaning parents were trying to protect me from by banning MTV. Watching the video again now on the CANDLEBOX OFFICIAL YouTube channel, I can see that the video is an overwrought, high-contrast treatment of grief and addiction, one so juvenile I can’t bring myself to describe it as “art-school,” but when I first saw it, I was convinced I was witnessing something raw, impactful, essential. 
    You’d think that, being older and wiser now, I’d want to serve up a canny but loving mockery of the song—and in doing so, my younger self—but that would suggest that I’ve evolved in some way. That, unlike the audience at WJRR’s Earth Day concert, I’m not a sucker for consumerist nostalgia, or if I am, at least I’m a deliberate, conscious one. That I’d prefer to write a glib, equivocal essay about song I once loved, rather than simply owning that I still love the song as earnestly and simply as I did when I was the hyperactive, precocious kid I somehow no longer am. That I don’t enjoy both—loving to hate and loving to love—and that this contradiction isn’t perfectly natural. Is it so sad and laughable that a song that came out of Seattle in 1993 sounds like a song that came out of Seattle in 1993? 
    Sometimes I worry that corporate America is so clever, so good at capturing my attention, at taking away my ability to choose, that I need to stay one step ahead, refining my tastes to depths so subterranean or meta-levels so terraced that they—whomever they are—won’t be able to get to me. Other times I surprise myself by dropping whatever I’ve been holding onto, happy to be like a rock band, you know, I mean, just doing what I feel like. The machine we’re all connected to is large and frightening and beautiful, as amazingly powerful as it is flawed, so who can blame us for getting caught up in it once in a while? 
    This is the potential of a song like “Far Behind,” why I think it deserves to be remembered. It’s a song that embraces without reservation, reminding me it's okay to do the same once in a while.

Nick Greer is a writer from San Francisco. He's an editor for Territory, a literary project about maps, and Goodnight, Sweet Prince, a zine about side characters in movies and other media.

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