So it's all Sunny Day Real Estate's fault, eh? That's what the Los Angeles Times had to say on July 7 about who's to blame for emo's quickening transition from outsider's soundtrack to mainstream, anthemic pop. Though Dean Kuipers' article is years behind the whole blowhard debate on what's emo and what isn't, I have to agree with the author on his point that SDRE may have tipped the wagon that spilled out all the blood and guts of ravaged hearts and broken dreams so they could become watered-down enough to eventually be translated into something even the most untroubled lad or lassie could sing along to.
A little more that two years ago, I began dating a guy in his early 20s. I was more interested in one-night stands in those days than attachments, and what had begun as a late-night booty call on my part had somehow, in less than two weeks, become a relationship on his part. He was sweet and cute, and referred to me as a knockout at a time in my life when I was feeling anything but. (Blackout? Yes. Knockout? Hardly.) So in exchange for taking him to the Showbox to see his favorite band, Sunny Day Real Estate, he wanted to turn the night into a date. The dinner was fine, but before we even got to the restaurant I had already been spooked by the way he walked with his arm around me, as if some agreement had been made, one that I didn't recall. Before the show he spent too much money on expensive bourbon, showing off a knowledge of fine alcohol that he'd gained by working in a chichi restaurant. I began to feel the all too familiar sense of dread....
I suppose Sunny Day Real Estate played a great show, but I was sickened by the display of overwrought emotion on stage, smoothed and softened into melodicism, and the way the kids (it was an all-ages show) were contorting themselves in cathartic ecstasy. I saw a sea of misery, bobbing with kids only too happy to be thrown against the rocks. Though he stood with me in the grownup's section, I could tell my date was really down there in the ocean of angst.
I drank quickly and purposefully until the concert was finished, then walked uncomfortably with my date to his job so he could introduce me to his friends. I tried to play along so as not to embarrass him, then excused myself to go to the bathroom, where I did the most awful thing. I pulled out my cell phone and made a booty call! I lied shamelessly to my date, telling him that a friend was having a crisis, and got the hell out of there, pronto. For the next week and a half I didn't return his phone calls, and I'll be damned if he didn't write some broken-hearted poetry and slip it through my window.
Ever since, I've split emo into two distinct types: The Type I Hate and The Type I Love. Naturally, I love the type that's losing its cred as emo because it's become another form of pop (e.g., the Get Up Kids). The rest just makes me feel embarrassed and uncomfortable. Go ahead, purists young and old, send righteous e-mails arguing the wrongs of this column, how unjust, cruel, or unenlightened my opinions are concerning your beloved bands. To me, it all sounds like bad poetry written by kids who purposely swim with sharks, hoping all along to get chewed up and spit out, just so they can do it again.
