90’s Score – 7.9/10
2020 Score – 5.5/10
The ’90s, without question or debate, is home to some of the greatest pieces of art ever to grace humanity. It’s also home to some of the most forgettable and uneventful moments in music history. Was I aware of the kind of monumental births that we’re occurring, much less the ebb and flow of artistic minds throughout the decade in question? Of fucking course not, I was (and for the most part still am) a fucking child enjoying mundane stupidities like this album in question. Eve 6 out of La Crescenta-Montrose, CA had their moment in the sun in 1998 with their debut self titled record and more specifically a punky alt-rock banger by the name of “Inside Out” that went on to be played at frat parties far and wide. That’s pretty much it. Well, except for platinum status, a number one spot on the modern rock charts and maybe some similar happenstances for the record after but mostly fucking nothing. Mostly.
If you didn’t take the fuckin hint, Eve 6 never were and still aren’t something to cry home about. They didn’t break the mold and their careers weren’t some Netflix worthy love story, but like many success stories out of the ’90s, they cranked a couple of solid hits and padded the rest of their records with lackluster tunes stuffed full of California brand weird-ass lyrics about love, the road, and odd social tropes in vocal patterns that were at the very least unique enough that you could pick them out of a crowd. They did the produced punk thing like Green Day, the Alt edgy thing like Lit, then the painful comeback thing where they seemingly think that singing isn’t a requirement anymore like Puddle of Mudd. Much like this acts career and the 90’s themselves, this records (commonly referred to as The Fly Record unofficially) swings in with strength and vigor, bopping out “How Much Longer” and the immortal drunken karaoke-frat classic “Inside Out,” which quickly fizzles out into forgettable oblivion, and my wee nine-year-old ass drank that shit back like I currently drink my feelings.
This record didn’t need to be anything special and it most certainly wasn’t, which you might have noticed was very much the case for so many artists of this same era. Too soon for the pop-punk boom, too light for the grunge wave, and just right for the gaudy alt-rock scene that ushered us into the new millennium that we’re all currently screaming at for dear life. All it needed, among the timeless efforts of its shared space of our memories the halls of rock ‘n roll history, was to be remembered ever so slightly, which my dumb fucking ass did and thus here we are. That, cunts and cocks alike, is fucking art.
Written by Jason Greenberg
*Edited by Dominic Abate