Weezer’s latest self-titled release (one of six, so far) is constitutive of the faded pinkish-red tassel on a hat (bought for a laugh at a flea market corner stall on a weekday) whose originally marginal utility has long since outpaced its worth as a fashion item. This is to say, a hat so ludicrous that it renders its enjoyment inherently ironic.
2016’s Weezer, at least, called back to the bittersweet kitsch that made the band the powerhouse it once was. In comparison to their first three records, that 2016 release did away with any attempt at progress in favour of focusing on hedonism, on fun. In comparison to 2016’s Weezer, 2019’s Weezer has forgotten how to have fun but tries really hard to pretend it still knows how, hoping we won’t notice.
So again we find 2019’s Weezer to be a hat at a flea market, a knock-off of a product whose original manufacturing business has fallen into disrepair, sold at a 70 per cent markdown. It’s still enjoyable, sure, but the final product is only a shadow of the original model, made by a company who at the moment remains only a shadow of what they once were, forced to peddle their brand on a knockoff of their earlier success in a bid to remain solvent.
