I was a terrible music snob years ago, unable to listen to domestic dub without scoffing, tap a toe to jazz by white dudes without rolling my eyes, eye the cover of Spin without laughing. Worst of all were my opinions regarding bands anointed as the pioneers of “Screamo,” with their black t-shirts and fists in the air, who I was always convinced were out specifically to bastardize everything that all rock legends (indie and major alike) had worked so hard for decades to establish. They threatened everything I actualy did love and I hated them for that.
Thrice was one of those bands. Hell, they were that band. Leading the charge of that sordid Screamo movement from my Orange County homeland, they rocked the fists and the tshirts and the bitchin’-but-sad guitar solos that my record bag and I simply didn’t understand. I didn’t even bother hating them, I just ignored them.
But it’s been almost a decade and about eight records later for Thrice, and having just heard a half-dozen of their newest tracks, I realize that they’ve grown up a lot since forging the way for Screamo. (It’s a part of their past and forgivable offense, I guess. I mean, my god, what was I doing then? Writing bad poetry?) I’ve been ignorant for too long.
We all grow up, it seems. And, okay, I have a kind of unreasonable crush on lead guitarist Teppei Teranishi.
Check the discography here.
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