Cracker may be older than the Internet, but don't confuse them with that other '90s crap
by Sean L. Maloney
- Jason Thrasher
- Wry: Cracker
Lately, the imminent attack of '90s music nostalgia has caused quite a bit of consternation in the underemployed, telecommuting little bubble where I spend most of my time. Even though there are only the tiniest indications that the Clinton Years are making a comeback, there's a sense of worry that a vibrant, eclectic decade is going to be reduced to flannel-clad homogeneity. Sure, we should be worried about the collapse of our financial system and whatever the pandemic of the week is, but why bother?
There's a fear that VH1 will cut a straight line from Kurt Cobain's bullet wounds to Scott Stapp's Christ complex so as to facilitate the making of lists and shows about lists. There's a sneaking suspicion that the same radio conglomerate program directors will do the same thing to our memories that they've done to our airwaves: shit all over them. There's also the paradox inherent in arguing about Modern Rock classics, but that's a discussion for another day.
The generation that fueled the alternative explosion has yet to embark on the cultural revision that makes a decade ready for the Time-Life, original-hits-by-the-original-artists codification. We haven't had a redefining moment yet—no American Graffiti or Big Chill to summarize our listening habits, no Dazed & Confused so our offspring can laugh at how awful our choices in attire were—and no, The Wackness doesn't count. But it will happen sooner rather than later, which is why we, as a culture, need to get on top of this thing right now.
To that effect, I nominate Cracker as shining examples of what the last decade of the 20th century had to offer. Owners of three gold records and one platinum platter, and the reigning welterweight champions of boxing-themed Buzz Bin videos, Cracker were a big part of the modern rock landscape while the shit went down but weren't from Seattle and never partook in the personal-tragedies-as-public-spectacle shenanigans that will insure the canonization of certain less talented peers (cough Courtney Love cough). Hell, Cracker didn't spend the '90s doing much of anything besides consistently making kick-ass rock music, which—for all its awesomeness—doesn't have much rubbernecking novelty.
While they could have spent the last decade and a half working on their Chinese Democracy or losing digits to wanton drug abuse in hopes of securing their legacy as gawk-worthy fodder for generational cannibalism, Cracker took the, uh, counterintuitive route of making, y'know, good albums and touring behind them. Crazy, I know. Sometimes it's easy to forget how special somebody is when you see them all the time, and with nine full-lengths in 17 years Cracker is one of the rare groups from the freshman class of '92 that has been a constant presence without getting annoying. (Lookin' at you, Señor Vedder.)
Sunrise In the Land Of Milk And Honey— released on 429 Records last week, roughly when their self-titled debut was old enough to see an R-rated movie by itself—doesn't rest on nostalgia or weak-willed rehashes whipped up to pay divorce lawyers. Songs like "Show Me How This Thing Works" and "Hand Me My Inhaler" crackle with the same propulsion and sly wit that fueled the classic "Teen Angst (What the World Needs Now)," but they don't pretend that we're still living in those heady days of.... Fuck, they weren't that heady, but you get what I'm trying to say. Hell, we didn't even have the Internet back then, so how awesome could it have really been?
The lead single from Sunrise, "Turn On, Tune In, Drop Out" is a sartorial hippie-survivalist take on the world economic freak-out, and the YouTube video is an adorably post-apocalyptic home movie. It's laid back, where songs like "Low" and "I Hate My Generation" were overdriven, but takes the piss out of its subject with equal vigor and greater relish—no small feat indeed. There's a cunning wisdom in Sunrise, a level of insight born of experience and understanding, maybe even maturity. But they still have a song named "It Ain't Gonna Suck Itself."
Email music@nashvillescene.com.
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