Front Page Reviews & AIR

Half-drunk, we careened through the aisles of 7-11, mixers on our mind.  Myself, my old friend Ryan, and the two girls that I had talked into coming with us.  I was feeling quite persuasive; beforehand I had actually convinced Ryan to come out.  He wasn't feeling it, but...I was.  I was hooked on a feeling.  Rather, hooked on a girl.

We grabbed some juice and soda and ended up in Kate's Kenmore Square apartment.  I mixed drinks and (pay attention to subtle differences here) figured out what to say to Katie.  She was a friend of a friend at the time; a girl who I'd seen more in Facebook pictures than in the flesh.  I'd been putting in time, though, pulling the "tell her I said hi, OK?" and even "tell her I said Hola."  Results were mixed.  I knew I liked her, based on our cryptic exchanges and a few minutes we'd spent at a party together.  I also knew I was still alone, kicking through the bluster of downtown Boston, most nights retiring to sad dark bars where no one knew my name.

But tonight was different.  We'd met mistakenly (or she thought so) and clambered together in a big group at one of those blurry bars near Fenway that all smell the same, like pool tables and stale Budweiser and regret.  Now there were four of us, and then, when I looked over, there was only her.

We drank and talked Tahoe.  I'd lived there, she'd snowboarded there.  Then, like a Keith Richards lick, at once improvised and familiar, the topic of music popped up.  I had a show coming up (I'd been told girls like surfers and rock stars, I was neither but was determined to mention both) what songs should I play?  G Love?  She loved him and knew all the lyrics, I barely knew his stuff.  But I'd covered "Rainbow" before, did she know that one?

"Oh...that song sucks," she said politely, dismissively.

"Right, totally."  What about Sublime?  Both loved them.  A discussion of Bradley Nowell’s heroin addiction led us right to Hendrix (both obsessed at different times), Zeppelin (same), Rustic Overtones (she dug, I didn't), and on and on, through metal hallways and hip-hop highways and hippie freak-outs (Oh, little did Katie know the Phish shows I'd eventually drag her SevenDust-loving soul to).

"What about Pepper?" she said, nursing her drink -- I was on my second, hoping the booze would help my cause in some way (it usually didn't).

"Yeah," I said, stalling.  "Totally."

"Yeah, they're sick," she said, her eyes finally lighting up a little.  "You heard them?"

"Oh, yeah!  They're good."

"You sure you've heard them? Or heard of them?"

 "Um, pretty sure I've checked 'em out."

Sly laugh, eye roll.  "I'll give you some CDs, OK?"

"I would love that."

I nodded. Outside, the streetlights swayed in the empty square. The lights dimmed.

We got drunk and put ridiculous things in Kate's ice trays, laughing at the absurdity of it all.  I offered to walk Katie home.  She accepted.  Inside her apartment, I killed a bug for her and she handed me three Pepper CDs, and on a yellow Post-It note, she wrote the numbers of the top tracks on each album.

“This is the best one,” she said, pointing.  On the walk home, under a crescent moon, I noticed the album was called No Shame.

In the days that followed, I thought about Katie a lot, but listened to Pepper very little, or…never. The CDs disappeared in a stack of papers on my desk, and I was wrapped up in a Phish phase at the time, anyway.  I knew that Katie had said that Pepper reminded her of Sublime’s Bradley Lowell, and I loved Sublime, but hadn't listened to them in a while. How good could a band with the name of a common table condiment be, anyway?  I waited three days, basing my etiquette on the Vince Vaughn in Swingers strategy, and texted Katie.

"I'm loving Pepper," I wrote.  "Sounds a lot like Bradley, you're right!"

"Glad you like it!" she wrote.  "What songs?"

Shit.  Really?  I frantically found the No Shame CD in the jumbled mess of my bedroom, and cranked the songs that she'd suggested.  "Green Hell" was first.

Wow, this does sound like Sublime.  (Looking back, this shouldn't have been such a shock since Sublime producer / Butthole Surfer member Paul Leary worked on the record.)  But there was something else there; I couldn't quite dismiss the song as I thought I probably would.  The simple snare kicks and warm tremolo riffs are beachy and chill, sure, but listen:  "Tell me when you wake up, is this where you're gonna be? You don't think I know this, but I can't wait for you to leave."  This was jaded love!  Was Katie trying to tell me something?  "All your life has been wasted, chasing after me, and now you've got the nerve, to come and put it all on me, I love how these things come full circle, every time, swinging around like a wrecking ball in your fragile mind..." With the click of the high hat, Kaleo Wassman and Bret Bollinger were combining the green of the surf in their Hawaiian hometown Kailua-Kona with the hell of a fucked up relationship full of crazy love and absurd drama.  And I loved it.

"Green Hell is sick!" I texted.  Onto the next.

"Crazy Love," Katie's second recommendation and the ninth track, hooks me with the ascension in the chorus and the lyrics "I want a part of your crazy love, that's really all I'm ever thinking of."  This is a classic-sounding reggae song, complete with the Marley reference to "putting on a record and singing dread natty dread now," but it's also a beautiful, simple, funky love song.  Katie scores again.

"Your Face" starts with an anthemic electric guitar progression, nice and dirty, and one of the dudes laughing in exaltation before the bass and drums kick in.  "You know I had to use my senses, I slammed the door right in your face, how's it feel, how's it taste?"  An organ drifts over the verse, the chorus slams hard with accusation, and the opening progression weaves back in as the tune builds.  I thought the name of the song was, to be blunt, really stupid, but it's one of my favorite Pepper songs.

"'Your Face'" is good, too!" I text.

"Glad you like 'em!" Katie texts back.  This is going well.  One more song and we're gonna hang out again.

"Bring Me Along," the album opener, is pretty much what you'd expect from mellow surf rock, but it's so hard not to like it.  The harmonies over the chorus, the crash of cymbals, the low-key verse that shows that these guys can actually sing, unlike Jack Johnson.  Damn good, that's what this is. These guys can write a catchy song pretty effortlessly.

There are other good songs here, of course.  "Lost In America" and "Old Time Problem" each have a, punchy, dub feel, and rock hard when played live.  "Nice Time" is raw and though it sounds vaguely familiar, it quickly becomes its own song, with an easy, sing-along chorus.  "Outta My Face" has a nice acoustic guitar and tambourine vibe, and "No Control" is full of funk and power chords, almost showcasing some actual aggression to go along with the rasta feel.  Some of the songs blur together, and the skits are altogether unnecessary and unfunny, but overall, this is a record that kicks ass.

The knock on Pepper is that they are a one-dimensional beach band -- good looking surfers who write simple songs about sex and drinking that all sound the same.  After listening to all 6 of their albums and seeing them live 4 times, I'd have to agree…and disagree.  I agree that the songs are simple and a lot of them hit the same themes, (See "Point and Shoot" from No Shame -- it's a straightforward funny-ass sex song) but what's wrong with that?  Perhaps with all the mellow, introspective stuff around (Bon Iver, Ryan Adams, Wilco) it's good to have a band who aren't apologizing for screwing up, begging forgiveness, or wallowing in self-pity.  Pepper tell it like it is.  There are guitars to break, groupies to invite backstage, bottles of booze to drink, and waves to be surfed.  They are young and lucky in America, and if you don't like it, have another Corona, take a cruise around the bar, and come back to check out the next song.

Back to Katie.  Our texting, and my listening, led to another date, a real date.  We talked about music for 75% of the time.  I admitted that I had lied that night; that I'd never heard of Pepper, and barely listened to them until I had to.  But I wasn't lying when I said I now dug their music.  In the months that followed, we realized that we were both so passionate about music that, if it was late at night and we'd had a few drinks, (especially tequila) the discussion could get fierce.  The only disagreements we had, actually, were about music.  So Katie made a sign, and I hung it in my room.  It said "When Drunk, No Discussion Of:  Peter Gabriel, Pearl Jam, or Green Day." 

But we could talk about Pepper, and their kick-ass album No Shame.  And we still do.