This week's "Albums That Changed My Life" contributor is none other than Mariel Loveland of the New Jersey pop/rock outfit, Candy Hearts.
The band are currently on tour with New Found Glory in support of their awesome new EP, "The Best Ways To Disappear", which is out now through Violently Happy Records. All dates and ticket information can be found here.
Alanis Morissette - Jagged Little Pill
There’s no real story behind why I will always regard The Weakerthans as the best band that ever existed, though I did learn how to play the title track in an attempt to impress someone who liked way cooler things than I did (it didn’t work). As a writer, both of music and the kind of writing that pays my bills, I focus intensely on lyrics. To me, John K. Samson set up this new standard of lyric writing that was so different from what people generally consider the great story tellers (Bob Dylan, Elton John, Bruce Springsteen, the list goes on). His lyrics are bathed in subtleties, like the character’s small movements or thoughts, that mean so much more than just explaining what actually happened, and almost all of his words dance around a brand of uncertainty and nostalgia that I believe everyone possesses. When I put on "Left and Leaving", it’s all-consuming and hits me in the core. It’s grown with me and the stories have changed meaning a thousand times throughout my adolescence and young adulthood, like how parts of memories can fade to make room for things you thought you had forgotten. This band is the single most important influence on my writing, but I should also mention that I think Samson’s voice is adorable and maybe that’s why it’s easy to relate to his music.
I first heard The Lemonheads at a party in a run down college apartment. It was one of those apartments that was stuck somewhere between teenaged and grown up with empty beer cans piled on the windowsills like they were hanging in a trophy case. Christmas lights were strung around the edges of the walls – a replacement for crown molding that would never exist in a place so shoddy -- and the only thing of any value in the living room was a record player propped up on a broken nightstand. That particular night, the record player was playing The Lemonheads, and with the too loud conversations of a group of students whose main purpose on the weekend was to get drunk, I didn’t really pay attention. That’s what The Lemonheads were to me – drunk music. Music for the ride home when I was more concerned with blabbing endlessly about the meaning behind everything, knowing when I woke up the next morning I wouldn’t really remember any of my life altering revelations -- the same truths that I continued to forget and rediscover for the next four years. I don’t know what it was that clicked for me, whether it was one of those epiphanies that I can’t recall, but when it hit, it hit hard. After numerous car rides home sitting in the passenger’s seat letting "It’s A Shame About Ray" quietly drone in the iPod tape adapter, it got to me. All of it got to me -- the guitars that sounded like the sparkly, dreaminess of falling head over heels, the lyrics that made me really feel like I’d lost something important, and Evan Dando’s low, empty voice that made me feel like I was talking to my best friend at 3 a.m., away from the party, outside smoking a cigarette and saying something really meaningful.