Oliver Houston
Whatever Works

My intellectual dishonesty is measurable by the number of circumstances in which I've railed against genre products. Then, just as gladly, I've enjoyed albums like this, whose reason for existence is satisfying a demand declared by a circumscribed audience, the relevant scene, and nothing more. Whose form adheres philologically to the standards defined by the archetypes, the fetish records, the cult objects for homologous kids on the block.

It's a half scam, yet I buy it, because the scream at Bernie's intro can indiscriminately bring tears to my eyes, raise my fist to the sky as an automatic reflex, or compel me to a disdainful wisdom from "meh, pedantic."

I feel inclined, in these cases, to think in labels: #midwestemo #texasisthereason #mathemo, things like that. The judgment is arbitrary: *, ***,*****, 85.7 or 87.5, :') or :|, best album of the genre or lifeless knock-off. If a communicative urgency exists here, it is difficult to pinpoint, as it is subjugated by the most pressing need to adhere to the standards. The distinction risks being between the well done and the poorly done, at the edge of cultural conservatism.

If, for some strange reason, one feels like reading a detailed adjectivization of reactions, feelings, dynamics, then they should read the much already written by someone else, somewhere else, searching by sphere of influence. Read "what more do you want me to say about emo arpeggios, that they are poignant?"

Despite everything, assuming the only reason for this album is its very existence, I can say it is better that it exists, rather than not: new pieces for theme playlists/the highlight is Bernie. Goodbye.