The hype is oh-so-right

The Hold Steady almost killed me. How could I have never known about this band before? Was I blind? Was I deaf? Was I just stupid?  

Now, all of you kids who've been into them forever can laugh at my tardiness. Mock my newfound devotion—you have my permission to do so. The independent press picked up on them pretty quickly, bowing in adulation (Pitchfork gave their new album a 9.4, if that's any indication of the hype surrounding this band). 

They've been getting glowing reviews since their first album. But Pitchfork's burned me before (The Knife just plain sucks—deal with it people), so I was wary. Most of the time hype tends to be a capitalization on certain popular trends, leaving the greater context by the roadside to hitchhike back with a bundle and an empty bottle. But sometimes—rarely, mind you—the hype is right.

My father grew up Catholic in Minneapolis. I read a lot of Kerouac and drink more than I should. The Hold Steady play songs mainly about growing up Catholic in Minneapolis, reading Kerouac and drinking more than you should. By all logic, they should be my favorite band of all time.

Lead singer Craig Finn isn't a singer so much as he's a beat poet, spitting out caustic lines about street rats, small-time pimps, and, of course, boys and girls in America and their struggle to discover themselves and the world around them.

Not to mention how usually that discovery is fueled by taking drugs—lots of drugs. Uppers, downers, weed, booze, cigarettes, mushrooms, pills and everything you could imagine in between. Hunter S. Thompson would have been proud, rest his soul. Take notice, kids. I'm not going to actively promote drug use amongst teenagers, but I'll tell you one thing: The Hold Steady almost killed me.

This isn't so much an album review (though you should buy their latest album, Boys and Girls in America, because it's pretty much one of the best records that has come to light this year) as it is a passionate rant about the glories of a band I'd never really spent so much time with. Art-punk meets classic rock. Epic keyboard riffs. Wicked guitar solos. Combining biblical references with tales of drifters and substance abuse, odes to whiskey and ginger, oranges and cigarettes, mixing them all together into a portrait of the seedier side of America that most people tend to gloss over when they speak about the grand American dream.

But dammit, if partying down by the Mississippi River, cruising chicks, getting a suntan, and basking in the golden light of bar fronts and the golden sounds of bar bands isn't part of that American dream, then I want out.

Maybe I'm getting too old for this. But the Hold Steady almost killed me.

Reach Intermission columnist Jeff Echert at jeffechert@thedaily.washington.edu.