A year ago, Forever Yours purchased Tiger Trap’s eponymous album and concluded that Tiger Trap was the band Pennsylvania punk band Weston was always pining for. And let’s be serious: the idea of a 1990s four-piece all-girl twee-pop band sells itself. The album opens with Rose Melberg punishing us for doubting true love.
Mid-January 2010 rolled around, meaning it was time to use my eMusic coin once again, and because I recently described law schools as federal debt money addicts, I have been appropriately cursed by bumbling onto Melberg’s second mid-1990s group’s first album, It’s Love by the Softies. Here’s a taste of the wistful universe I’ve condemned myself to.
It gets worse. Readers don’t know this but I’m blessed with synesthesia, which mainly manifests itself in spatial sequences I see in my mind’s eye when I think of numbers, time, or sides of cassette tapes. It’s more commonly known as number form synesthesia. I didn’t know I had it until two years ago, overturning an ancient conclusion that I was the only person on earth who saw the world this way. On occasion though, I experience mild sound → color synesthesia, with light blue pleasantly clouding my mind when listening to dream pop such as the Clientele.
I also tend to get addicted to new music—sometimes like love at first sight—and I can listen to a new piece I fancy on repeat for days or weeks at a time until it enters my personal pantheon of awesome.
When I first heard the next track I felt so much light blue I thought eMusic spiked my downloads. The rest of the album teleports me to whatever Melberg or Jen Sbragia are singing about. It’s quite draining, yet I can’t stop!
Well, I’m boned. When I’m out, the album’s in my head, and when I’m home, every few hours I find myself working my way to the directory the Softies are in saying:
No LSTB! Don’t listen to it again! It’ll make you sad! No! Stop! Don’t open those files!! NOOOOOO! AAAAAAAAAAAAAAGH! It’s so beautiful…Aaaaaaaaagh…I hate you.
Damn you Melberg. I am enthralled to your voice and clean guitars, and I hate how you make me feel like a pitiful Title IV-snorting law school.