Bad Religion
Stranger Than Fiction

THE REVIEW

Too cumbersome was 1994 to get entangled among eleven million, Dookie and Casino Salzburg.

Then I didn't experience it, so what the hell am I writing (wait, Casino Salzburg yes)?

I wisely stay on the sidelines, fascinated by the monolithic certainties of the Professionals of the Solution in Pocket. Unwavering dispensers of exit polls, 4-4-2, and abbassolemegior.

Repertoire n°1

“The story is this: once, in a hole-in-the-wall venue in New York, towards the end of the nineties, there was a kid leaning against the wall with his Bad Religion patch prominently displayed on his jacket. Above the band's name, with a marker, he had written the word "OLD". That's how much Bad Religion fans had come to hate the band after its foray into the major world.” (from Vice)

Is our champion right here? Or is he a bit of a fool?

The truth is never in the middle, but at three-quarters: so he's a fool with a bit of sense.

Because Stranger is a great melodic old school album, but it's a bit of a bastard. Not so much in its content, but in its premises. Everything stems from that gasping and slobbering mantra that arabesques the speech of the crest-bearing celodurists: abbassolemegior, solely responsible for the pussification of whatever band is at hand.

And the first to slip into the maze of supercazzole are precisely Bad Religion, so paranoid about being on megior that with every track they seem to tell you: “Who? Us? Yes okay but there's the tupatupa”.

And in fact, it's true: away with those slightly fuzzy riffs, those skewed riffs from “Recipe for Hate” ("All Good Soldiers", so to speak), and we set up some nice in-your-face FUs the old-fashioned way.

“Incomplete”, “Better Off Dead”, the splendid “Marked” and “News from the Front” work like a charm, but there's a however. The work appears regimented, insulated, combed. Beautiful, for goodness' sake, but so aseptic.

Like those villas in San Donato all clean, dusted, dewormed, where the father of the family then shoots himself in the mouth.

“It was a calvary. What a struggle to choose the songs: those not published on the US version were rejected by majority. You should have heard the pressure we were under.” Jay Bentley doesn't mince words: Atlantic insists on a (more mainstream) turn, but it’s not like the band is rowing against it. On the contrary: the load from eleven is theirs.

And “Stranger than Fiction” is a trivial consequence of the script: the stylistic features of “Against the Grain” are there, but tamed by rock mannerisms to exponentially expand its enjoyment. No melodic ambition à la “The New America”: just good, well-behaved punk rock.

Proof of this are the bonus tracks: not by chance “News from the Front”, “Markovian Process”, and “Leaders and Followers” (discarded in favor of the more watered-down version, “Individual”) represent the most nostalgic and abrasive side of the work. Not to mention the discarded demos, those “Truth”, “Fucked Up Children”, and “Mediocrity” decidedly more challenging than a “The Handshake”. It’s all about the money.

But this is only one of the problems of “Stranger than Fiction”.

Guest appearances on albums.

Let's talk about it: I hate them. And calling them “feat.” significantly lowers the tolerance threshold. They seem to me the sneaky equivalent of an ad, a sponsor of a live aid in free download on Deezer. The DIY must inform not only the production but also the execution of a "punk" album. Who cares about Tim Armstrong declaiming while duetting with the silly jingle of “Television”. The record is the premise of the live: why betray even an ethic that would coexist perfectly with billion-dollar contracts?

But the deck is stacked with this. The restyling of “21st Century (Digital Boy)”. Because Brett wants the “pop hit”, verbatim. Who cares if you have a formidable collection of singles (“Infected”, “Slumber”, the title track), we deny the present to riffle through the past and reputation. One thing is Epitaph's echo chamber, another is Atlantic's: better safe used for (many) safe dollars.

We are not talking here about an experienced band fishing for a roughly arranged track from their beginnings: an album considered - rightly or wrongly - the pinnacle of the group is dusted off, betraying its instinctive innocence and smoothing its edges. “Stranger than Fiction” thus finds itself prostrated to the empire of marketing, with a song thrown in a bit randomly. There's the heavy load from eleven.

It's the true emblem of betrayal, given the authors. A very beautiful betrayal, given the authors.

For three-quarters it's their fault. Not always ubi major minor cessat.

3.5/5