Sublime’s Sublimity
Louis Miller
If this were a spoken word review, I would ask you to close your eyes and listen to my story. Seeing how that’s a fucking stupid idea for an article, I’ll simply ask you to read along and “see” through my eyes for a couple of minutes.
In the fall of 2019, Lana Del Rey drops Norman Fucking Rockwell!, which plays on most radio stations at the time. Lana is barely related to this story, but hey, you need some context. Anyway.
I’m around 14 at the time, and, for some reason that I’ve forgotten, I am in the car with my step-father. The air is hot - my back sticks to the leather seats as we cruise back home. My father (feeling like a bad bitch, apparently) has the windows down, with the radio on, and on comes Lana’s new album, specifically, her cover of Doin’ Time, by none other than Sublime.
The track starts, Rey starts the lyrics with her sultry, wispy voice, and in his eyes, (his entire demeanor, actually) something shifts. The melody kicks in, and his ears pick up, his body shifts upright in his seat - he is attentive, present in the moment. Rey has awoken something in this 50 year old man. I do not know what yet, but I will very soon.
“Do you know who sings this?” Is all he asks. Being a little smart ass, I look at the dashboard and respond “yeah, Lana Del Rey.”
“No, no, like you know this isn’t her song right?”
With more smartassery: “Oh really? Are you sure?” (Yes, I was a little douchebag, and yes, I said it exactly how you’re envisioning it; snobby, condescending tone and all.)
“Just wait, I’ll show you who actually sings it when we get home.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about up to this point, but okay, I wait the 15 or so minutes until we pull into our driveway, and he opens his center console. It’s now dark, and my back is still sweaty and sticky, but the anticipation unglues me from the seat to get a closer look. I peer in and see CDs. They line the inside, cases and covers I have never seen before. CDs that connect him to a younger self, now old and beat up. The cases are worn, eroded away from time, friction, and simple entropy. The discs inside are semi-scratched, but still readable. Shuffling for a second, he finds the one he’s looking for, and out from this little car drawer comes Sublime’s self-titled, but 14 year old me does not know that - all I see is a tattooed man and lettering that is familiar to me in an odd way.
In the same way that black/death metal fans can’t read for shit the logos of their bands, but understand exactly the type of music the barely delineated cobweb-like design evokes, I hear the music by seeing this cover. Put differently, I can see what kind of music this is going to be. The lettering on this man's back is reminiscent of latino gang lettering, with long cursive strokes and an emphasis on boldness. The same on my fathers back. The same father that is skipping through the tracks to get to the final one: Doin’ Time.
Sublime has such a distinct and yet frustratingly difficult sound to describe. You could say it’s a ska punk band, and on a gay technical music nerd scale, you’d be correct, but in reality, their songs, and truly their albums, constantly evolve and differentiate themselves. What I can say is that Sublime has a penchant for long, drawn out melodic guitar sections and an excellent bassist. Bass in general is almost always underrated, but the construction and level of skill Eric Wilson (their bassist) brought to the songs is simply nut-quaking.
The anchor of Sublime is, unsurprisingly, their late singer and guitarist, Bradley Norwell. Without lyrics, without a voice, the musicality exists untethered, simple noise, and Norwell is the cohesion of it all. The energy is inherent and obvious; the groove, the direction. It’s hit or miss, but when he hits, he fucking obliterates.
Bud Gaugh also plays drums.
Music is about a lot of shit. Today, it is about feeling. Reviews are often simply extrapolations of feelings: the why, how, and what behind what the music attracts, what memories they pull from the unconscious. For this reviewer, Sublime takes me back, to my stepfather, to sticky leather seats and a wondrous discovery of something new, amazing, and personal. For this reviewer, Sublime is a landline running 453 miles to home.
In the fall of 2019, Lana Del Rey drops Norman Fucking Rockwell!, which plays on most radio stations at the time. Lana is barely related to this story, but hey, you need some context. Anyway.
I’m around 14 at the time, and, for some reason that I’ve forgotten, I am in the car with my step-father. The air is hot - my back sticks to the leather seats as we cruise back home. My father (feeling like a bad bitch, apparently) has the windows down, with the radio on, and on comes Lana’s new album, specifically, her cover of Doin’ Time, by none other than Sublime.
The track starts, Rey starts the lyrics with her sultry, wispy voice, and in his eyes, (his entire demeanor, actually) something shifts. The melody kicks in, and his ears pick up, his body shifts upright in his seat - he is attentive, present in the moment. Rey has awoken something in this 50 year old man. I do not know what yet, but I will very soon.
“Do you know who sings this?” Is all he asks. Being a little smart ass, I look at the dashboard and respond “yeah, Lana Del Rey.”
“No, no, like you know this isn’t her song right?”
With more smartassery: “Oh really? Are you sure?” (Yes, I was a little douchebag, and yes, I said it exactly how you’re envisioning it; snobby, condescending tone and all.)
“Just wait, I’ll show you who actually sings it when we get home.”
I have no idea what he’s talking about up to this point, but okay, I wait the 15 or so minutes until we pull into our driveway, and he opens his center console. It’s now dark, and my back is still sweaty and sticky, but the anticipation unglues me from the seat to get a closer look. I peer in and see CDs. They line the inside, cases and covers I have never seen before. CDs that connect him to a younger self, now old and beat up. The cases are worn, eroded away from time, friction, and simple entropy. The discs inside are semi-scratched, but still readable. Shuffling for a second, he finds the one he’s looking for, and out from this little car drawer comes Sublime’s self-titled, but 14 year old me does not know that - all I see is a tattooed man and lettering that is familiar to me in an odd way.
In the same way that black/death metal fans can’t read for shit the logos of their bands, but understand exactly the type of music the barely delineated cobweb-like design evokes, I hear the music by seeing this cover. Put differently, I can see what kind of music this is going to be. The lettering on this man's back is reminiscent of latino gang lettering, with long cursive strokes and an emphasis on boldness. The same on my fathers back. The same father that is skipping through the tracks to get to the final one: Doin’ Time.
Sublime has such a distinct and yet frustratingly difficult sound to describe. You could say it’s a ska punk band, and on a gay technical music nerd scale, you’d be correct, but in reality, their songs, and truly their albums, constantly evolve and differentiate themselves. What I can say is that Sublime has a penchant for long, drawn out melodic guitar sections and an excellent bassist. Bass in general is almost always underrated, but the construction and level of skill Eric Wilson (their bassist) brought to the songs is simply nut-quaking.
The anchor of Sublime is, unsurprisingly, their late singer and guitarist, Bradley Norwell. Without lyrics, without a voice, the musicality exists untethered, simple noise, and Norwell is the cohesion of it all. The energy is inherent and obvious; the groove, the direction. It’s hit or miss, but when he hits, he fucking obliterates.
Bud Gaugh also plays drums.
Music is about a lot of shit. Today, it is about feeling. Reviews are often simply extrapolations of feelings: the why, how, and what behind what the music attracts, what memories they pull from the unconscious. For this reviewer, Sublime takes me back, to my stepfather, to sticky leather seats and a wondrous discovery of something new, amazing, and personal. For this reviewer, Sublime is a landline running 453 miles to home.
