You Are Here

“Hey, you like Jawbreaker, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you heard Shorebirds?”
“No.”
“Dude, listen to this.”

I fell in love with the band. Boasting the double pedigree of Matt Canino (Latterman) and Chris Bauermeister (Jawbreaker), Shorebirds was an Olympia band that recorded only one LP and one EP before breaking up in the summer of 2008. Only 16 songs, 37 minutes of music. That’s all you really need, though. Quality versus quantity is at play here, my friends.

Shorebirds is a sonic punch in the gut. The promotional blurb describes it as “a pop punk walk through the panic attack of a world in ruins” and that’s exactly what it is. Matt’s gruff vocals and crunching guitar ride effortless over Chris’s notoriously rad basslines (case in point: Jawbreaker’s Want), while Adam Henderson’s solid drumming anchors everything down. Each track practically begs you to sing along at the top of your lungs. By turns uplifting and downtrodden, each song is worth multiple listenings. When I first got into Shorebirds, I listened to them for approximately 3 weeks straight. It’s that good.

You can get both records from No Idea or Rumbletowne (Matt and Erica’s label).

Matt and his mullet still live in Olympia. He’s got a new band now, called RVIVR. They’re good, too, as you might expect. They’ll be playing another Olympia show in March, according to Rumbletowne’s website. Stoked? You know I am.

I made my younger sister a mix CD and she hated every single song on it. If you ask me, this is possibly one of the most devastating things that can happen to a person. However, I should have known it was coming—her music taste is strictly Top 40, which, in my defense, I was unaware of at the time. When I was going through a Le Tigre phase in high school, she was totally down for a dance party, and she loves “Holiday in Cambodia” by the Dead Kennedys. Of course, that was before middle school hit and she got all weird and lame, more concerned with the mall than anything else. (She would probably describe me as “weird and lame” as well).

So I spent 6 hours crafting this glorious gift to her and I sat the girl down and forced her to listen to it. All 22 tracks. She politely listened to the first 10 songs in full, and the rest, she skipped before they even reached the chorus. She reached over me, a sneer on her face, to quickly press the button to skip the song. I tried to stop her, but I have absolutely no muscle whatsoever, and she is a gymnast. It was not a fair match. I sat there, helpless, observing my favorite songs reduced to 10-second clips, quickly tossed to the wayside by the disdain of a 13-year-old.

Some choice criticisms:

“I can tell it’s going to be stupid” (It’s Hard to Know - Hot Water Music)

“I don’t like old music” (Son of a Preacher Man - Dusty Springfield)

“His voice is weird” (Ask the Angels - Patti Smith). I informed her that it was, in fact, sung by a woman. She refused to believe me. A Google Image search only convinced her that she was correct.

“The song name is dumb” (Like Eye Contact in an Elevator - Dillinger Four)

“This is hillbilly music” (Wagon Wheel - Old Crow Medicine Show)

I love the child, I really do, but I still haven’t come to terms with the fact that we are fundamentally different. I like Jawbreaker. She likes the Jonas Brothers.

Dear Henry Rollins,

I need help. Specifically yours. You’re probably the only person on the planet who can be of assistance in this time of need. You see, every year for Christmas, “Santa”–also known as “my mother”–gives me a self-help book. Dude, when even Santa thinks you need to learn a few lessons from Don’t Sweat the Small Stuff For Teens, then you know you have a problem.

Therefore, I need someone older, wiser, and more badass to tell me to stop being a pansy-ass motherfucker. I used to have a friend who would do that, but she moved to Florida and long-distance chastising isn’t as effective. So the position’s open, and I think you would be perfect for it.

See, you’re really kind of intimidating. You are quite large. You’re Henry Rollins! It would be totally awesome if you could pop up in my life every so often (for example, when I am being passive and letting people walk all over me) and tell me to stop being so lame and grow a pair. I need you around to dispense little gems of wisdom like these:

“When you start to doubt yourself, the real world will eat you alive.”

“Don`t do anything by half. If you love someone, love them with all your soul. When you go to work, work your ass off. When you hate someone, hate them until it hurts.”

“Half of life is fucking up. The other half is dealing with it.”

You could save me, Henry. You could be my tattooed fairy godfather. We could go for walks and eat grilled cheese sandwiches. We could drink black coffee and stare at the wall.

So what do you say, man? Help a kid out.

Love, Madeline