Blisters In The Pit of My Heart
When I was young I thought adulthood was some far off time when I’d have the freedom to do all the things I didn’t have the time, or ability, or funds to do in my youth. “When I grow up” was a mythical wonderland when I could travel the country to see my favorite band, I could party all night in strange towns with strange people and make memories. Life would be one big party, one never ending concert that bled into the next and the next one after. Life soundtracked by the ever-shifting movement of myself, and my super hot, super cool girlfriend who was totally into the same music as me (when I dream, I dream big), as we surfed through the underground music scenes that would surely be the backdrop to our lives.
Of course, the harsh reality of adulthood involves the dumpster stink roadblocks of things like day jobs, bills, and responsibilities. We all gotta “work for the weekend,” even the musicians. Martha, an indie pop act with heavy ’90s tones out of the aptly named town Pity Me in England, make an art of being the average Joes and Janes. The urgency of squeezing in band practice in between work shifts, and playing late night gigs that leave the band members if not hungover (these cats are old school straight edge, according to their bio) than sleep deprived and high off of a rock ‘n’ roll night — it bleeds through their new record, Blisters In The Pit of My Heart.
The foursome share vocals like a bunch of friends piled in a car singing along to their favorite song, and the result can take some acclimation of the ears. What at first can sound a bit strained, a bit off key, very quickly becomes endearing — like a hyperactive puppy that falls asleep on your lap and wins your heart. Luckily, this happens pretty quickly, in song #2, “Chekhov’s Hangnail,” the pop punk hooks that never fail to reel me in. “Precarious (Supermarket Song)” takes that hook and twists it deeper and I’m done for. A fun pop record spread on a cracker of collegiate discourse that uses SAT words and imagines Emma Goldman as a sleuth (“Goldman’s Detective Agency”)? I’m freakin’ IN!
The Frank Turner-esque “St. Pauls (Westerberg Comprehensive)” closes out this delightfully youthful record that speaks to my inner 16 year old dreamer. Call in to work, pick up your friends (or, as in my case, your super hot, super cool girlfriend), and drive around listening to this record until you can scream along to every last refuse-to-grow-up word! Because, like the band professes in the highly infectious “Do Nothing,” Everything is infinite/ But nothing is eternal.