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Wednesday, July 16, 2003 

Wednesday's Emotional Setup: 1995



Hopefully by the time I write and post this it'll still be Wednesday, as I forgot about it (for the first time) this morning.



Originally I was going to do a song from Elefant's fine new LP Sunlight Makes Me Paranoid (the review's a bit naff, but gives you the idea), but today at work once I remembered that I forgot to remember, the urgent '1995' from Luna's best album, last year's Romantica, became lodged there.



Luna have always sort of been indie classic rock, a contention borne out by the sturdy stylings and extended guitar bliss of their live album (it's indie my dad might even be able to love). But as worthy, and indeed good, as Luna have been, Romantica is noteworthy because it is where Dean Wareham and company strip most of the extraneous material from the songs and produce 45 minutes of fine, off-kilter pop.



'1995' marks the most drastic shift on the album, as it is loud, short and sharp. As most of Luna's endevours are wry rather than surging, '1995' sticks out like a sore thumb.



A very good sore thumb, mind you. Starting off with Wareham's bitchy assessment of a male rival (Talking to your friend was like talking to a shoe/His hair was stupid blonde and his eyes were stupid blue), it quickly thrashes into the chorus, as succint an explication of a certain frame of the male mind as I've heard:



Searching for the crime

Searching for the crime

Something slipped my mind and I'm searching for the crime

In 1995 I told a thousand lies

Let me tell you 'bout the agony of love



He knows he's done something wrong, or at least, he knows he's done something wrong according to her. He doesn't remember it either because he's a cad (who's told a thousand lies), or more likely just because us guys quickly learn that it all too easy to accidentally piss off the fairer sex. It's not so much that he's done wrong as that it's slipped his mind.



In other words, '1995' is the purest musical evocation I've heard of that sweaty, desperately nervous moment when you realise you've forgotten something, but can't remember what. You just know she's going to think you did it on purpose.



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Ian Mathers is a freelance writer whose work has appeared in Stylus, the Village Voice, Resident Advisor, PopMatters, and elsewhere. He does stuff and it magically appears here.

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