Your Books Have All Been Read - World Leader Pretend's Punches at 20

Pouting in the backseat.

I wonder how much of that I have done in my life. Not recently. No. But when I was much younger. Saturdays spent traveling from the small, economically depressed Illinois town I grew up in, to the next largest city, less than an hour east. The urban sprawl. The strip malls. The chain restaurants and big box stores. The seemingly endless stretches of traffic and intersections and stoplights. My mother in the passenger seat of her own car, driven by whatever man she happened to be involved with at the time. And me, whatever age I happened to be at the moment, folded awkwardly into the backseat. My headphones on. My eyes, often sullen, watching everything moving past. 

And I would have been 22. Just, like, recently having turned 22. Perhaps too old to be folded into the backseat of a four-door Chevy Cavalier. Perhaps entirely too old to be pouting, or sullen, with headphones on, a battered Discman to my left. 

And I would have graduated from college, like, around two months before this. I was unemployed. I was living with my mother, and the man she was married to at the time, in the small, economically depressed Illinois town I had grown up in. 

Still aching for the kind of freedoms and securities that a college experience and environment offered and afforded. Still really struggling to adjust to the life that came after it was over. Entirely too old to be pouting, or sullen, in the backseat.

And this would have been the last time in my life that I watched really any broadcast television. And I am, of course, dating myself, or showing my age, at the very notion of broadcast television. And of a battered Discman. Because when I moved out, around two months later, returning to the city where I had gone to college, and now residing in a basement apartment in a rundown building, I could barely afford the necessities. I quickly was reduced to sitting in coffee shop parking lots, after they had closed for the night, laptop cradled on my thighs and awkwardly against the steering wheel, to steal wi-fi. 

Budgeting for cable television was never something I considered.

Watching television was something that, once out on my own, I soon realized I did not miss. But it was, during my adolescence, often a sort of security blanket. It was just always there—there when you wanted it. If you needed it. When I was 22, sullen and restless, though, what did it offer.

I am, of course, dating myself here, or showing my age, when I talk about MTV News.

And in 2005, MTV News was certainly nothing like it had been, a decade prior. And a decade later, it barely existed at all—and what the network covered, and how it chose to cover it, had certainly changed over time, as had MTV as a network, or brand, famously with less and less emphasis on contemporary popular music. 

As MTV News “briefs,” which used to run near the end of commercial breaks, before returning to the network’s programming, I would occasionally catch segments about a new, or up and coming artist—I remember seeing one during my third year in college, about the Faroese artist Teitur Lassen, and his debut—on a major label no less, Poetry and Aeroplanes. 

And I tell you all of that to tell you this. That if it had not been for MTV New briefs, and for cable television, and for being a sullen, unemployed recent college graduate living in my mother’s home, I am not certain I would have ever heard about the band World Leader Pretend.

And this is a story I have told before, at least twice. And so, if you’ll allow me to break the fourth wall here, and address you, the reader, directly, I apologize for the repetition.

Because there was a time when this was easier for me, and for you, me, as the one behind the keyboard, using far, far fewer words than I do now, meaning this was much less laborious, or complicated, comparatively. 

And you, the reader, have far, far less to read or try to comprehend. 

And there was a time, within the first year, that I began writing about music analytically, and I would literally write about anything and everything. In the years that followed, I don’t believe I ever really wished to match that kind of tenacity—I don’t think I could. I was trying to find my voice on the page. That, certainly, took a lot longer than just the first year. Maybe that search never really ends. 

I wrote about music analytically, yes, but there was far, far less analytical labor going into how I approached things. Nothing took weeks to put together. I had not yet figured out how to spend time with an album to show it consideration, actively and thoughtfully listening. Taking notes. Looking for ways to write myself into not a narrative—no, not exactly. But my experience with the album in question. Always looking for my way “in” when listening. An anecdote. Or a memory. 

I would literally write about anything and everything. I had the time. I wrote at work—a desk job where I often had little to keep me occupied. I wrote in the evening. In coffee shops on weekends. I was more than fine, back then, writing a negative review—with spending time and a small amount of emotional labor, listening to something I ultimately did not care for, and then putting together something sassy or bratty or mean spirited about it. 

I would literally write about anything and everything. New releases, sure. Singles. And that first year, when I was still finding my voice on the page, I would write about an album from the past without prompting—before understanding the nuance of a tenth or twentieth anniversary retrospective, there were a number of reflections that fell onto odd numbers.

Anything and everything. World Leader Pretend’s second album—their final album, Punches, was eight years old, and the band itself had folded, officially, about five years prior. And within that first month of writing about music with regularity, and tenacity, I reflected on my experiences with the band, and that album. 

This doesn’t happen as much anymore. Or, maybe it just happens differently now. Maybe it was more surprising, or novel, because it was early on, within the first year. But what I had written—as casual, and as brief as it was, comparatively, resonated. It had made its way to the eyes of people who were also fans of the band and had wondered what happened. 

It resonated. And it eventually, roughly six years later, made its way to the eyes of the spouse of Alex Smith, the band’s bassist, as well as guitarist Matt Martin, both of whom reached out and expressed their gratitude.

I would literally write about anything and everything. I suppose, in a way, that is still the case now. It’s just different. Or more thoughtful. I am more selected and deliberate with what I wish to sit down with, and document my experience with. And how I choose to document it. 

Despite how much time has elapsed, maybe I am still pouting in the backseat. Or whatever the equivalent of that is today. Sullen. Headphones on. Staring out the window as things—life, whatever, blurs by. 

I would have just graduated from college twenty years ago. And I would have recently turned 22. And long before the resurgence of vinyl, and of record stores, I bought World Leader Pretend’s Punches on CD, from the Best Buy in Rockford, Illinois—the next largest city, less than an hour east from the small, economically depressed town I had grown up in, and found myself back in, unemployed, and living with my mother and the man she was married to at the time. 

Perhaps entirely too old to be folded into the backseat of a four-door Chevy Cavalier, from which, with my headphones on, connected to a battered Discman, I removed the shrink-wrap and opened the jewel case, placing the disc in, closing the lid, and hitting play. Pouting and sullen as we traveled back west.  

*

The World Leader Pretend that went into the studio to record their boisterous and writhing debut, 2003’s Fit For Faded, is not the same World Leader Pretend that is attributed within the liner notes to its major label follow up, Punches, released two years later, is not the same World Leader Pretend I saw take the stage in a literal hole in the wall in Iowa City in the autumn that same year. 

And we, perhaps, know entirely too much about one another now. We are chronically online. The internet moves entirely too fast sometimes. And in moving as quickly as it does, there are things that get left behind. Things not entirely forgotten, but only really remembered by a select few. 

The internet was certainly not in its infancy in 2005, but the way we learned about artists was. The way the listener, or the audience, could connect with the artist was. Years before Twitter and Instagram, and when Facebook was still a social network for college students, there was MySpace, and there were artist websites. But unless the artist, in question, offered it, there was no peak behind the curtain, per se, the way that there is now. The way that lyrics are annotated on Genius. The way an artist’s Wikipedia entry can be exhaustively updated with minutiae that make us feel like we might understand something just a little more about the artist, or the album, or their process.  

It is perhaps incorrect or glib to say that World Leader Pretend imploded or disappeared as quickly as they appeared, because I don’t think that is entirely fair or true. But the band’s career was incredibly short, coming to an end perhaps sooner than the band had anticipated. 

And there is some mystery. The band’s formation. The four-piece lineup that released Fit For Faded on the New Orleans label Renaissance in 2003. Whatever tensions were perhaps already simmering, as the group signed to Warner Brothers the following year and recorded Punches. Whatever contention spilled over a few years later, when, per the incredibly sparse World Leader Pretend Wikipedia, the band split up in 2008 while in Seattle, working on the follow-up to Punches, due to “artistic differences.”

We know too much about one another, but we still want to know. But maybe it’s better that we don’t. Maybe this adds to something to not the mystique surrounding the band, but there is an allure to it all, isn’t there. Something that hasn’t been scrubbed entirely from the internet but something that, as the internet continues to move faster, is harder to find traces of. Not a secret exactly. But something whispered. Something that existed in a moment. Representative of a moment. Something we have tried as we are able to bring with us through time. To still whisper, if we can. If we wish to. 

*

I would literally write about anything and everything in that first year. 2013. Maybe even into the beginning of 2014. And I had yet to develop, or find, my voice on the page. I was more casual. Conversational. Things were far less heavy-handed than they are today. Everything was more concise, comparatively. 

And in writing about anything and everything, and in writing a reflection on the band World Leader Pretend, I did not have the articulation or vocabulary I have now. I didn’t even really talk much about the album, Punches—about how it sounds, or how it feels. About the songs that are the best executed, or most impressive in the way all of the elements tumble together, or in many cases, collide in pomp and bombast. 

About the life of an album and how an album lives. 

I don’t think, even in 2005, when I was all of 22—the aspiration to be a writer, of some kind, most certainly there, but never had I considered writing about music, or even writing about music in such a personal and detailed way—did I believe that Punches was a perfect album. Rarely, if ever, is an album truly perfect. Even albums I would refer to as my all-time favorites falter, though I try to offer them grace in the moments that I find less effective or resonant. I tell you all of that to tell you this—I did not have the thoughtfulness, or the articulation, or the vocabulary required to listen critically, or analytically, when Punches was released in June of 2005. It was an album I enjoyed, and it was an album I enjoyed because of the vibe or the aesthetic it crafts, often with ease. Unless it was heart-wrenching, and, I mean, this is still the case to an extent, I didn't think to spend a lot of time analyzing or reading into a song’s lyrics. 

And there are phrase turns, of course, that are memorable, throughout Punches—ones that have stayed with me over the last two decades. But in sitting with the album now. Like. Sitting. And really listening to the nuances, I understand that the album is precarious and volatile—a reflection perhaps of the band that created it- and that across its hour-long running time, it hinges on a feeling. It soars. It wants to ascend to the highest point that it can. It often hits its mark, thankfully, or at the very least, doesn’t fall terribly short of what it is attempting to accomplish. The feeling, though. The soaring. The cacophony and the bombast. It isn’t what World Leader Pretend did best, exactly, but it is perhaps what they were striving for on this record—there are moments, or songs, that are certainly more resonant for me, but it is impressive. This feeling, this aesthetic, or this tone was what they sustained for so much of the album.

In a sense, Punches is bookended with these enormous bursts of bombast, or exuberance—these songs that hold on for dear life as they ride the feeling, or the aesthetic, or the vibe. Bookended, and then placed throughout. Bookended. Beginning, and ending, in a most spectacularly audacious way.

And for as many times, over the last 20 years, that I have listened to Punches, the opening track, I suppose fittingly titled, “Bang Theory,” still startles. It begins without a warning. A huge crash behind the drum kit, with seemingly a ringing noise just barely heard, while the noise temporarily clears, as the jittery rhythm is pummeled out by World Leader Pretend’s drummer, Arthur Mintz. And after a few measures, Mintz’s thundering work at the drum kit is joined by the enormous, subtly triumphant notes from the piano, playing out a melody on the lower notes, then the nervy, tight bursts of the electric guitar find their space within the ever-moving, shuffling rhythm.

The real melody, or at least what is present throughout most of “Bang Theory,” is a jaunty string arrangement—sweeping and playful, and later in the song’s second half, is also punctuated with horns.

“Bang Theory” slithers and undulates, propelling itself forward not with a lurch but with a very specific kind of movement, and that is assisted by the swagger in the vocals from World Leader Pretend’s lead singer, Keith Ferguson. And perhaps if the band had formed at literally any different point in time, he may not have exhibited the kind of theatricality to the way he sang, but there is, for lack of a better descriptor, a confidence and an arrogance in the way his vocals are delivered. But I think that’s the point. The band members were in their mid-20s at this point, I think, but it is more than just a youthfulness. It is a kind of leaning into the idea of being the “frontman” for a band—a little moody, just a little smoldering, with some unpredictability. 

And there is an audaciousness to the arranging of “Bang Theory,” yes, but there is also a surprising audaciousness to the song’s opening line. “I’m ready to conquer your kingdom,” Ferguson sings, his voice somewhere between soaring and guttural. 

And here’s the thing. The liner notes to Punches are sparse—mostly just photographs, and a single page of credits. And because this album is a product of a specific time, its lyrics have not been the subject of documentation on sites like Genius. And I am remiss in attempting transcription, particularly because of the theatricality. And that is perhaps not the entire point, but part of it. It always has been, even 20 years later, extremely difficult to accurately hear, or decipher what Ferguson is mumbling breathily or howling.

And of course, I could hear the similarities. Or the influence. You can hear it more on Fit For Faded. Ferguson’s voice is less raspy and breathy. And they are of course all old critiques of Punches, and the band, but many have pointed out how often he was attempting to reach the heights of, or channel Thom Yorke and Bono—U2, as a whole, is seemingly a reference point in a handful of places on Punches, truthfully; Radiohead, less so. 

And here’s the thing. I am still always working on being more of what my best friend calls a “vibe-based listener.” Writing about music, and specifically writing about music in the way that I do, doesn’t take the fun out of listening. No. Not exactly. But it does make it so that I am always looking. Analyzing and overanalyzing the lyrics. Paying attention to the textures within. It is not always easy, though it isn’t impossible, to turn that part of my brain off. I tell you all of that to tell you this—Punches, or at least a bulk of it, in listening with a more critical ear, is a vibe-based listen. The elements are all working together to build something, and the lyrics—yes, in some places, they do lend themselves to unpacking, or have a kind of resonance to them, but overall, that is not the intention. At least I don’t think. 

Like, in the case of “Bang Theory,” the raspy, writhing whispering from Ferguson adds another layer of intensity and enthusiasm to the song, in the way he blurts things out—“Girl, I got your money,” is one thing that can be made out with relative ease, as the final line of the chorus, with the song itself taking a bit of a bit of a sardonic turn with Ferguson seemingly borrowing lines from the Sugar Ray ballad, “Someday,” as he belts out, “So long. So high. So far away,” until the song finds its to a conclusion.

Not every bombastic, or “enormous” moment on Punches is as jubilant, or outwardly rollicking as “Bang Theory.” As the album continues, there are places where the band blends that kind of ramshackle pomp with an edge of menace, almost, or at least just something a little darker. Sometimes its in the way the vocals are delivered, or how the song itself builds until it explodes. Other times, it is just the smallest amount of dissonance within the instrumentation, like on the titular track.

There is a preoccupation of sorts on Punches with both meticulous production and engineering details, and with percussive elements—outside of the more whimsical percussion that is used sparingly, like the glockenspiel, which you can hear on “Tit for Tat,” I am thinking of the band’s use of the sleigh bell. 

And there is a kind of jazzy, playful slant to “Punches.” It begins with a very distant-sounding and briskly paced sleigh bell, before the sharp blasts of notes from the electric piano come in, followed by a bouncy progression plunked out on the lowest keys of a piano, along with the crisp, sharp crashes of the snare drum and cymbal.

And maybe because there is a jazzy, playful slant to “Punches,” it is one of the most restless songs on the album—constantly in motion, building up towards something before it recedes momentarily. And it is here where we are not introduced to a new element of the album’s sonic template, because it does arrive in the songs that precede it, but there is a very ornate, or gilded kind of glisten the band interjects at times, often through a very very specific acoustic guitar tone, and often accompanied by additional lighter sounding instrumentation. Within “Punches,” when it arrives, it serves as a musical bridge, connecting the jazzy, playfulness, to a quick moment of aggressive chugging and bombast—again, the song is constantly in motion.

“Punches” is another one of the countless places on the album where Ferguson in the role of the frontman oozes with this kind of seemingly arrogant swagger, or cockiness—here, after a relatively lengthy build up, before he delivers the unintelligible first line of the song, coughs directly into the microphone and then clears his throat.

Near the end of the album, World Leader Pretend return to this specific tone in a big, bombastic sounding guitar-driven song on “Horse of A Different,” which is structured at times in a similar way to “Punches,” just in terms of the way the instruments, or at least the dueling electric guitars, take turns in prominence or focus, as the pacing of the song stutters and skips along, falling into a somewhat predictable but extremely effective pattern of a brooding kind of restraint in the verses, a small build up, and then chorus that doesn’t so much explode but certainly soars, aimed as high as it could possibly go, both literally and figuratively with the way Ferguson belts out his vocals, and the powerful, almost triumphant feeling of the arranging.

And it is not an inverse of this vibe, or this feeling, or this aesthetic—perhaps, if anything, a reflection in a funhouse mirror. Because within the bombast, and the pomp, and the meticulously engineered layers, and how it can be fun, or a little lighter, or at least it takes itself slightly less seriously, there are the moments when the tone of Punches can shift.

Within the sequencing of the album, the first real shift into something a little more menacing, or at least darker in the vibe it wishes to cultivate, is the explosive, caterwauling “The Masses.” 

And there is this preoccupation, throughout Punches, with percussive elements. With the powerhouse sound of the drum kit, yes, but with additional percussion as well. Like the sleigh bell. And how it can be used to create both a grandeur or an ornateness, or something jangly and ramshackle—seemingly barely held together, always on the verge of collapse.

It doesn’t serve as an intro, really, before “The Masses,” but there is a brief instrumental piece, “Harps,” that is sequenced right before it—a short, mildly eerie progression of keys plunked out on a cavernous sounding piano. The progression, though, that begins “The Masses” is different—oscillating between this kind of charm, and then something slightly more unsettling. Because the sleigh bell is also rattling away underneath it all, there is this feeling that I always get—still, to this day, two decades later—and it’s because of the sleigh bell. That it sounds like Christmas music. And if not Christmas music, something winter adjacent. And in that kind of oscillation that occurs at the start of “The Masses,” before the second piano melody comes tromping in over the top, along with the steady percussion, it is like snow falling. Beautiful, but on the verge of becoming something threatening at any moment.

“The Masses” is one of the longest songs on Punches—over five minutes, and it doesn’t waste a single second of its running time. And it is this long because it has to be. Like it is the kind of song that is designed to skirt on the surface of a specific vibe or feeling. And that feeling is to simmer, or smolder, up to a very specific place until the tension becomes too much and it has to be released. And something that, outside of the rough around the edges bombast and pomp that World Leader Pretend excelled at here, is building tension to the point where it bursts. 

And until it ends in a flutter of dissonance an razor sharp, searing electric guitar clanging, “The Masses” continues to burn slowly then boil over, with the band practicing restraint as Ferguson breathily and moodily delivers his lyrics, with the song detonating, and ascending, with his wordless howling pushing through the torrent of pummeling cymbals and drum hits and frenetic guitar strums in the chorus. 

This kind of structure, or this give and take, is repeated, and expanded upon, in the sprawling penultimate track, “Grammarian Stuck in A Medical Drama”—a cumbersome, and very “of the times” title that still holds a strange sense of allure 20 years later on. And even though it is not the final track on Punches, there is still a real sense of finality to it, and how extremely deliberate it is executed.

In the past, when I was much more casual in how I wrote, and how I thought about contemporary popular music, I would occasionally make the joke, “masturbatory music fails to climax.” I stop short of describing “Grammarian” in that way, though, but there is an obvious self-indulgent nature to it. At eight minutes, it is a song that is more than happy to take its time, sauntering theatrically through its verses before effortlessly lifting off, soaring as high as the band can possibly take it, for the chorus, and then descending into utter cacophony within its final moments. 

Musically, really moves, or slithers rather, through a few different tones. After an extended introduction involving a gently tapped out rhythm and a very playful, short melody plonked out on an electric piano, with an unsettling whirring noise rippling underneath it all, “Grammarian” slides into something that I could only describe as “noir funk.” Like there is a darkness to it—eerie, or creeping. Shadowy. Something mysterious, maybe. But between the rhythm already taking shape, a kind of scratch guitar adjacent chugging that is taking place, and a blaring, edgy melody over the top of it all, it does compel you to almost writhe around with it.

“Grammarian”’s verses put the focus on Ferguson—less so what the lyrics are, but as the music almost recedes completely, save for the lightly tapped out rhythm bouncing behind him, and some atmospheric guitar string plucks, his vocal delivery here is certainly the most theatrical as he whispers and wheezes, brooding along, until more elements of the song quickly tumble together, heading upward, for the jubilance of the chorus.

And what is the most fascinating to me in “Grammarian” is not the verses, even though the way they control the restraint and kind of creeping, eerie feeling those moments have is admirable, but it is the ascent of the chorus. There is something, as there are other places on Punches, that is quite powerful in how the song begins to lift, and how Ferguson’s voice specifically soars. Again, this is a song that hangs itself completely on creating a specific vibe, or it is like walking this line of tone. The emphatic nature of the chorus doesn’t exactly recede in an instant, but there is a shift in a wordless little interlude that takes place, with only the low, rippling warmth of the electric piano underneath, as layered voices wordlessly sing out a melody.

And before the instruments kick back in, perhaps the most arrogant, or dramatic thing that Ferguson does as the band’s front person, across the album occurs in this space, where he lets out this intentionally long exhalation. It’s crisp. It’s overemphasized. It wafts through and serving as a cue, or a little wink, the rest of the band comes tumbling back in.

The final three minutes of “Grammarian Stuck In A Medical Drama” are still, even after all the time, the most astounding—an eight-minute song is a big ask, of course, and for the final three minutes of it to be some kind of big, cathartic, cacophonic conclusion is perhaps an even larger ask, just in terms of the patience you need with a song like this. Because it is extremely deliberate in how it unfolds, and then it is working towards something. At around the five-minute mark, we hear Ferguson’s howl once again, absolutely belting out the wordless melody, sending it as high as it could possibly go, which lasts less than 60 seconds. And from there, it is really just the layers, and layers, of torrential sounds of squalling guitar feedback and dissonance, which overtake everything completely with less than a minute left, screeching and blaring until the sound is cut, and the low whirring sound we heard at the beginning returns briefly before there is abrupt silence. 

*

And there is some mystery to it. Some allure. Of course, to World Leader Pretend’s formation, or their earliest years, leading up to signing a deal with a major label, and recording Punches in a handful of studios, including The Walkmen’s space, Marcata, in New York, as well as spaces in New Orleans. 

Allure to the fact that on a night when, as I was turning 22, and had just graduated from college, less than two months prior, and was living in my mother’s home—my outlook for the immediate future was extremely grim—but on a night when I couldn’t sleep, or did not yet wish to fold myself into the twin bed that was entirely too small for my frame, I turned on the television and, in the darkness of the living room, the only light coming from the TV screen, I watched a short MTV News clip regarding the band. 

Allure, and albeit a little frustration, that I cannot find that clip now archived anywhere on the internet; the same can be said for the band’s performance, in the fall of 2005, on The Today Show. 

Within the clip, outside of short sound bytes from audience members at a recent live show, what I remember the most, is the band discussing how they created a buzz for themselves, leading to the interest of major labels. And maybe I am not recalling this accurately, but it seemed to involve the fabrication of a letter, sent to a music writer, or editor, and within the letter, alleged to be from a venue in Chicago, maybe, it was stated that the band had completely destroyed the stage—and, again, maybe I am remembering this wrong, but that they had ended their set by starting a fire.

None of this was true, of course. But it was, perhaps, enough to begin attracting attention.

Enough snippets of Punches were played in the clip, and I was also, perhaps, a little compelled by this tale they told, of fabricating a reputation, that I knew I needed to track down a copy of the album—striking out at one big box location in Rockford, Illinois, on a hot July Saturday, but grabbing the single copy of it in the white, wireframe racks, filed within the Ws, at a Best Buy. 

I don’t know why I remember so many insignificant things so vividly. I remember I also bought a copy of Longwave’s third full length, There’s A Fire, and I remember being extraordinarily disappointed with it, in comparison, to how much I enjoyed their major label debut from 2003, The Strangest Things. 

I remember I bought the second season boxed set of the cartoon Home Movies on DVD.

I was 22. A college graduate. And perhaps entirely too old to be folded into the backseat of a four-door Chevy Cavalier, from which, with my headphones on, connected to a battered Discman, I removed the shrink-wrap and opened the jewel case, placing the disc in, closing the lid, and hitting play. 

Despite the passing of 20 years, I think I am still pouting in the backseat. Maybe that backseat, even. Maybe it’s just the equivalent of whatever that is today. Sullen. Headphones on. Staring out the window as things—life, whatever, blurs by.

*

And of course, 20 years ago, I did not have the vocabulary to articulate this; and even in 2013, when writing about music was something new, there’s really no way for me to have been able to accurately describe a song’s arranging with any kind of detail, let alone referring to it as both ramshackle and ornate. 

Those are the kind of things you only learn over time, I think.

And it is the best way, or the only way I can think of, I suppose, to describe the album’s third track, “New Voices”—which was, at least at the time of the album’s release, one of my favorite songs on Punches, or at least one of the songs that I would gravitate towards listening to with some regularity. Though of course, with time, as you learn, or understand, different ways to describe, or analyze something, that also means you are able to see the flaws, or faults, however minor they might be, within something you at one time held dear.

The way those things, or those descriptors—the ornate and the ramshackle- ultimately collide on “New Voices” is impressive, and the way both of those things then clear a path for brief flurries of powerful, ascendant bombast.

The rough around the edges, or ramshackle nature of World Leader Pretend, or at least this moment for the band, while recording Punches, is perhaps a product of its time—it is missing from their debut, and who is to say what kind of sound the band would have had if they had remained together and finished recording their third full-length. And there are, of course, places on that album that are certainly rougher around the edges, or feel like they are maybe a little more on the verge of falling apart, but it is the first thing you hear on “New Voices,” in the jaunty piano progression that opens the song. Specifically, how the piano sounds—there is the slightest bit of a choppy kind of echo coming off of it, giving it just a little bit of a warbled or disorienting feeling, before Ferguson’s robust voice comes in, delivering the audacious opening line, underscored by the glistening sound of the acoustic guitar.

Musically and structurally, there are things that I have always noticed or acknowledged about “New Voices.” One of them was the tone, or the feeling, of that piano, and the other was the understanding of just how high the song wishes to soar in certain moments, specifically in what serves, within the way the song is organized, as a chorus and a bridge. It opens up completely in a way that is startling, becoming enormous, rather quickly, before descending back into the reserves, shuffling that is within the verses. But the enormity it channels, and the heights it climbs to, in the thundering percussion, and in the way Ferguson belts out his lyrics, is reminiscent of the earnestness of late 1980s and early 1990s U2.

And what I was not able to really understand about the structure, and sound, of “New Voices,” until now, both because of listening again after the passage of so much time, but listening through an analytical ear, is that it is a song that meanders. That isn’t necessarily a bad thing. But even at just a little under four minutes, there are stretches where there isn’t a lot going on and it really hinges on the glistening sound of the acoustic guitar strings, the quickly tapped out rhythm from the drum kit, and this noodling groove on the electric guitar—all of those things coming together in moments, giving it a little bit of a 1960s rock sound.

The opening line to “New Voices” is the kind of lyric that makes you do a double-take to ensure you heard it correctly. And I suppose, like he exhibits throughout Punches, there is that kind of brashness and cockiness here in what Ferguson sings, and how it creates such an honestly funny juxtaposition between it and the gentle acoustic guitar string plucks and the quick tempo moving underneath him as he bellows, “Let me piss in the wind—it only shows how fortunate we’ve been,” he begins, before adding. “I know how dutiful you are. We slept a lonely seven weeks apart.”

And that is the thing. The thing that I had not given much consideration to in the past was when listening to Punches, about the lyrics. And their meaning. Or the intention.

There is, of course, intention here. Or a meaning. And there is meaning elsewhere, too. Like at the beginning of the first chorus, when Ferguson belts out, “God damn right, I’d never hurt a soul,” or, when he bellows, in the bridge, “I’m always right back where I begin,” which, out of any of the lines that I can clearly understand in the song, are the ones that resonate, or the the ones that suggest an opportunity for a deeper analysis.

And that is the thing though. The thing that I am still working on. Or learning how to do. To listen, and to understand that not everything is intended for analysis. That a song, or an album, can be much less about something larger, and can exist to conjure, and sustain, a vibe, or a feeling.

*

I am not really sure how it has remained open, over the last 20 years, but Gabe’s Oasis, in Iowa City, is still standing. The venue’s calendar suggests they, at current, host a lot of metal, or hard rock acts, though that was not always the case. In the early 2000s, when I was in college, I first heard of Gabe’s when the Christian adjacent emo band The Juliana Theory, riding the success of their sophomore album, Emotion is Dead, played a show there. Years later—and I mean years and years later, I would see the venue’s name as I combed through information and archives about Jason Molina’s tour dates after he retired the moniker Songs: Ohia in favor of The Magnolia Electric Company.

In the autumn of 2005, Gabe’s Oasis was a literal hole in the wall—narrow, tiny, dilapidated. And this was where I had managed to see World Leader Pretend.

And this was, of course, in a time before the Internet moved as quickly as it does now, or when information was as readily available. And I think that I often found myself regularly checking the websites, or in some cases, the MySpace pages, of bands or artists that I liked, for updates. I have this fragment of a memory—of yet another afternoon spent in the library on the campus of the college I had graduated from, as a means of both a reprieve from the apartment I was living in and already realized was an error in moving into, and to use the library’s free wi-fi. 

World Leader Pretend’s website, at this time, less than three months after the release of Punches, was, if I am recalling this correctly, laid out with a scroll of news and updates on the lefthand side of the page, with part of the album’s cover art remaining static on the right. And what I remember is seeing a tour announcement, and amongst the dates, in early November of 2005, was a stop in Iowa City—far, but not that far from where I was living in Dubuque. Roughly 90 minutes. 

And this was a time, of course, just before smartphones—before using Google to assist with your navigation to a place you’d never been before. This was still a time of printing off the directions, turn by turn, and attempting to look at them while keeping your eyes on the road as you careened through the night towards your destination. 

And what I can understand now, and perhaps have the vocabulary to articulate, and couldn’t then, was just how anxious I was as an individual—specifically with regards to going someplace by myself. It is something I am, of course, always working on. And I would like to think that it feels a little better, or is a little easier, now, 20 years later, than it was, but there is still that ripple of unease that has always felt so familiar to me when I am somewhere, out in the world, untethered to another. 

The face value of the ticket was $5—with an additional $3 service fee. And there was, at least, one other band on the bill that, after flying out of work, and driving through the night on unfamiliar roads, was wrapping up their set once I arrived. The group’s name was Go Betty Go—touring in support of Nothing is More, which had come out two months prior. I remember awkwardly standing by the merchandise table during the set change, and making rather forced small talk with a member of the band. She was already seemingly disillusioned by her role in the band, and was a little annoyed with me that I was not going to buy anything from the Go Betty Go side of the merchandise table.

And in the past when I have described this experience, I’ve said the show itself was criminally unattended. There were probably fewer than 20 people total in the venue, and many of them were milling in the back half, near the bar, or were seated. I remember I was one of the only people standing even remotely close to the small, low to the ground stage, and it, at times, felt like I was the only one there watching.

I have no idea how long World Leader Pretend played for once they took to the stage—the drive between Dubuque and Iowa City was, most certainly, longer than their set’s running time. Pulling primarily from material from Punches, they did open with the woozy, jaunty “Fish,” a “deep cut,” you could say, pulled from their debut, Fit for Faded. And this was, of course, long before live shows were meticulously documented on a site like setlist.fm—and I am, with any real accuracy, able to recall the songs they did play, or how many were a part of their time on stage. I am certain that they played the whimsical, shuffling, and sauntering “Tit for Tat,” one of the songs that involved the band’s guitarist, Matt Martin, clapping along to the rhythm, and trying as he might to encourage those with any enthusiasm in the crowd to do the same. 

I, most certainly, clapped along. 

I think the band’s set that night leaned heavily into the more vibe based, raucous material from Punches, like “The Masses,” and “Horse of A Different,” and one of the things that I do remember the most, is a moment, in between songs, when Keith Ferguson asked the audience if there were any songs people wanted to hear, just to shout them out. In retrospect, I wonder if he simply meant requests of any sort, as a kind of bit, or if he in earnest meant songs from the band’s small catalog. 

Regardless, I found it within to bellow out the name of one of my favorite songs on the album—“Into Thin Air.”

One of the things that I do remember most is that the band looked at one another, seemingly surprised by this suggestion. And, they did play it. Or, rather, Ferguson, alone, behind the keyboard, played a somber, slowed-down version of the song, stripping away the sky-high bombast and dazzling shimmer of how the band arranged it on the record. It isn’t haunting—I would be hesitant to describe anything by World Leader Pretend as sounding haunting, but in its sparsity, it does reveal something terribly melancholic and bittersweet about it. 

And it is one of the few things that does remain of the band—this version of “Into Thin Air.” A grainy video of Ferguson, hunched over the piano, wearing the same blue winter coat he wore on stage that night in Iowa City, recorded for Studio U.G.O. was uploaded 18 years ago to YouTube. 

The band closed their set, unsurprisingly, with the eight-minute “Grammarian Trapped in A Medical Drama”—an impressive, slow-burning build-up to a squall of feedback that, right on cue, stopped suddenly. 

Matt Martin, after removing his guitar, seemingly could not come talk with me fast enough, beelining, more or less, to say hello, and to thank me for my enthusiasm during the performance. We chatted briefly—he was, at least in my memory, energetic in his candor and friendly; I tried to keep up with him, but also was, of course, extremely nervous about even the briefest interaction with whom I considered, and would still consider, to be a famous person. 

During the conversation, it came up that I had heard of the band through the short MTV News clip, and that I had spent time searching for, and then successfully finding, a previously owned copy of the band’s debut album—both of these things were cause for Martin to bellow over to Keith Ferguson excitedly. “Hey,” he yelled. “This guy heard about us from that MTV thing!,” or “He found a copy of Fit for Faded!” Like he could not believe that a listener, or a fan, would be as invested, or genuinely interested as I was.

My best friend is always pointing out what “good” or supportive fan I am of a number of artists—especially smaller, or extremely independent artists. I hadn’t given it a lot of consideration until she told me this, but it seems like I may have always been this way, or at least had this kind of tendency.

Martin had asked if I wanted to have a beer with him, at the bar, but I declined—a decision I regretted, and still do. I was nervous at the thought of our conversation extending further than it already had, I had a long drive back to Dubuque ahead of me—I was also not much of a drinker at this point, and did not wish to risk any potential impairment. 

On my way into Gabe’s Oasis, I had quickly grabbed a poster advertising the show off of the door,  folding it up and putting it into my back pocket. During my exchange with Martin, I asked him if he’d be willing to sign it—he did. His inscription, “To Kevin!! You rock the his-house. Matty Phatty Martin,” takes up the most space. The band’s drummer, Arthur Mintz, clutching a drumstick held together by a wad of duct tape, and a fresh wound on his hand from the stick presumably rubbing against his skin aggressively night after night, sketched a small drum kit next to his name. 

Keith Ferguson simply wrote his first name—the “K” is enormous, flanked near the end by a large, lowercase “t.”

I stared at the World Leader Pretend merchandise for a long time—I had already, earlier in the fall, ordered one of the band’s t-shirts online. There were two other shirts available—red, and light blue. I thought about the amount of money floundering in my bank account. A decision that, at times, I have regretted. I bought two stickers and a handful of buttons¹. 

I drove back through the night, propelled in a sense by the excitement of what I had just experienced. 

And what I can understand now, and perhaps have the vocabulary to articulate, and couldn’t then, was just how anxious I was as an individual—specifically with regards to going someplace by myself. And, I mean, it is something that I am always working on. Even now. Because I do still do this now—I have still done this, even recently. I talk myself out of things. Perhaps you, too, find yourself doing this. Specifically with events. Concerts. You buy the ticket weeks or months in advance and you assure yourself that you will have fun. That it is something you want to do. And then the closer the date of the event gets, the less certain you feel. 

That ripple of unease that has always felt so familiar at least to me and maybe for you, also, when I am somewhere, out in the world, untethered to another.

I tell you all of that to tell you this—I had nearly talked myself out of going to see World Leader Pretend. Maybe even the day of, I was not entirely certain about the drive, or the potential of a late evening out. The things that still do contribute to my uncertainty about events I did at one time genuinely wish to attend and think I was capable of doing so. 

It was my spouse—my girlfriend of less than a year at the time, who had to really convince me to go. And that I would be fine. 

I don’t really tell this story much anymore. There was a time, of course, immediately after, that I would, to literally anyone who would listen. And in telling the story, my spouse would make sure to punctuate the events by saying I would not have gone if it had not been for her insistence. 

We would not have that poster from Gabe’s Oasis, framed, with a faded ticket stub, hanging on the wall in the spare bedroom. 

My connection to World Leader Pretend would be different, then, of course.

This story would be much less personal then.

There wouldn’t be much of a story at all, then, would there?

*

And that is the thing about revisiting something, isn’t it. The risk you run. That you’ll see all of the flaws or the things that you had overlooked or just simply did not understand or notice in the past. That in returning to it, years later—years after you initially introduced to it or it made an impact on you, the fear is that it won’t hold up. That will have aged poorly. That you’ll wince or grimace. You’ll be embarrassed. 

That’s the thing about revisiting something. There are times when we have tried to take it with us, over time. We hope it ages with us. Alongside of us. Sometimes it doesn’t though. Sometimes it has to be something that is left behind. And we can try to look back—with a fondness. And some grace. To see why we appreciated it then and wonder how we can appreciate it now.

It isn’t hard, per se, to give a critical analysis or to listen with different ears, to something that I felt a connection to when I was a much different and much younger person. It isn’t easy, either. The opportunity to reflect presents not a rift in time exactly but an unexpected connection to a past self. To give consideration to experiences, or moments, or feelings, you had at a specific time and had maybe not thought about in a long, long time. 

Or maybe you didn’t wish to remember at all.

And here’s the thing. I never, even in 2005, when I was all of 22 years old, believed Punches to be, like, a perfect album. I knew that it was flawed, but even in its flaws, or imperfections, it is utterly fascinating to watch unfold. It runs long, and at times feels a little uneven in how it is paced. And here’s the thing, I can say that now. And I can understand that now. Because with time and age and distance, you do develop the vocabulary to be more thoughtful or articulate about why, or why you don’t, like something. 

And here’s the thing. That is both surprising and not. That the two songs that were most resonant, or that I was the most drawn to in 2005, are still the two songs that are the most resonant, and that I am the most drawn to now, upon revisiting.

Placed near the top and within its final third, “Dreamdaddy²,” and “Into Thin Air,” respectively, are still truly the finest moments on the album—places where the glistening complexities, the sky high ambitions, and the pomp and bombast all collide into something devastating in how beautiful, and powerful it ends up being.

Throughout Punches, and even in one of the MySpace era demos the band shared prior to splitting up in 2008, as a lyricist, Ferguson made much of writing women’s names into songs. The name Diane appears in the line, “Diane, are you with me all night long,” he mumbles in the jittery “Burden Minded Apology.” Or the “Alice” that he pleads to, saying, “Let this be the night,” in the swooning, saccharine “Lovey Dovey,” which falls at the center of Punches, and does ultimately bring the album’s pacing down to a crawl temporarily.

Or Suzette. 

Suzette is not the object of affection, exactly, in Punches’ second track, “Dreamdaddy,” but she is the off-stage character that the song is, at least in part, directed at. 

In the album’s structure, “Dreamdaddy” turns things musically inward, I suppose, with how it is placed as the album’s second track—it smolders, and shimmers, and soars as it needs to, but it does so at a slower pace, and with far less bravado. It opens with a few hits of the snare drum before Mintz settles into the slinky, bouncing rhythm, and he’s joined by very deliberately spaced out and resonant sounds of lower piano keys, working in tandem with the pulses of the bass guitar. And as the song continues to unfold, and before it lifts off slightly into a startling kind of beauty and shimmering grace, the intricate and ornate acoustic guitar flourishes, and punctuating stabs of the electric guitar come in.

And there is a moment, structurally, and musically, in “Dreamdaddy.” A moment that took me by surprise the first time I listened to it. It of course is not a surprise to me now, but it is still a moment that compels and captivates every time.

There is the briefest build-up and swelling right before the chorus. And within the chorus itself, something occurs. The group is joined by a string arrangement, which I think adds to the power and the heightened beauty. But it is also the way that it is executed, I think. The way it dips you slightly, as a listener, in the moment beforehand, and the kind of coasts on a natural rising and falling, before gently sending you back into the slink of the second verse.

It is a kind of gentle bombast—there’s something enormous but something delicate about how it all comes together, that is still so affecting. 

And it is funny. Or maybe not funny. But perhaps it is fitting. Because it hasn’t been difficult, exactly, to revisit Punches, and World Leader Pretend, and to evaluate things with a more critical or analytical ear than I had previously. I knew that the flaws, or the imperfections, were there all along, and if anything, I am just more comfortable, and confident, in pointing them out. 

And it is funny. Or maybe not funny. But perhaps it is fitting. Because the most challenging thing about reevaluating Punches critically is that, for myriad reasons, it is an album that does not entirely lend itself to a lyrical assessment. 

They are difficult to understand. Perhaps intentionally so, in how they were delivered through Ferguson’s wheeze and rasp and bellow. And there is no way to clarify or reference them elsewhere. 

The first thing that Ferguson sings that I can understand as “Dreamdaddy” slinks forward, is when he meticulously stretches and spills the syllables of the line, “We live upon this planet simultaneously,” he sings, before moving into lines that are slightly easier to understand—and have really stuck with me over time, because there is something endearing, and something rather puzzling about them.

“But your books have all been read,” he explains. “And I’d read them all again—I swear I never knew your name.”

“Well, Suzette,” Ferguson continues, now addressing someone directly. “You’re wonderful at best. A victim to the rest—I’ll be the bane of your success,” he exclaims, before repeating, “But your books have all been read. And I’d read them all again. I swear I never knew your name.”

And it is puzzling. Addressing someone by their name, then saying you never knew it in the first place. And this is, again, where it can be challenging to parse through lyrics, regardless of how easy or neigh impossible they are to decipher, because I may be reaching. Or looking for something that simply isn’t there. But I think there is something larger in describing someone as being wonderful, and treading a line where you are concerned that you will be detrimental to them. 

Ferguson addresses Suzette once again—“You smoke all my cigarettes,” he observes. “Letting each one burn down to the calluses on your fingertips.”

And here’s the thing. Or the challenge. In attempting to make out, as best as I am able, the words to “Dreamdaddy.” And to look, as I am able, for something larger within them—a meaning, or a clearer narrative. Because I think there is something there. Or maybe I would like for there to be something there. And that it isn’t just words, void of meaning, thrown against the wall to see what would stick within the melody.

Regardless of what, or who, “Dreamdaddy” is about—the title itself is never referenced in the song, to my understanding, Ferguson, with all of his range and swagger, is able to carry the song, belting it out, his voice taking off from the rasp into an impressive higher register—blending effortlessly into the majesty of the instrumentation swirling beneath him in the chorus where, I think, he utters, “Well, it’s never ever been about our mistakes. Pull him for air if that’s all that it takes. I was always taught to value restraint. We’ll fly on a long night, with the wariness of dust in heart.”

And regardless of what, or who, “Dreamdaddy” is about, it is a song that makes you believe, because there is this contrast created, within the grandeur and beauty of the chorus, where Ferguson is joined by a layer of harmony vocals on the line “we’ll fly on a long night,” and then, in exiting the chorus, he comes down hard and long on the word “heart,” stretching it out longer than you might think he needs to.

What I can reflect on now, with what I think is accuracy and honesty, in revisiting Punches, is that even if “Dreamdaddy” is one of my favorite songs on the album, it isn’t perfect. It does suffer from what a few other songs on the album also are afflicted with—either running slightly too long, or not being developed beyond a certain point. In the same way “Tit for Tat” feels like it shuffles along with a few too many instrumental breaks where there is not enough happening to really push the song forward in a thoughtful way, “Dreamdaddy” also reaches this point as it saunters towards the end, with Ferguson, pushing his higher register maybe beyond where it feels comfortable, wordlessly meanders through the melody as the arrangement of the song glistens and skips towards the end, concluding with one final resonant cymbal crash, truly reminiscent of the way the U2 song, “Stay (Far Away, So Close)” also careens towards a sudden, startling finale.

“Dreamdaddy,” and “Into Thin Air,” are both similar and not—they are similar, I think, in the sense of how they use a shimmering, swirling, and swooning kind of beauty and very specific and intentional moments to push the song forward into something much larger or more impactful. But I think how both of those moments, or devices, within the song’s structure, ultimately feel different. Or, rather, leave us, as listeners, with different responses. 

As they do elsewhere on Punches, “Into Thin Air” begins with a small amount of studio chatter—a mumbled apology, and then a count off, before the truly slinking rhythm begins rolling out from behind Mintz’s drum kit—his dynamism throughout the album, in how he plays, and the meticulousness of the different rhythms and textures he creates, is really one of the most captivating things about this record. And the pattern he seemingly effortlessly shapes on “Into Thin Air”—the way it conjures a saunter, is remarkable. 

A thick, rumbling bass line wanders into the rhythm, then, prior to the twinkling strums of the acoustic guitar—and in how it is organized, “Into Thin Air” does, to an extent, follow a kind of quiet/loud/quiet structuring. It begins from this nervy place of restraint before it completely opens up with a slow-motion grandeur and ferocity. It’s beautiful really, again, like the band does on “Dreamdaddy.” This kind of enormous, cinematic quality the song takes on, even for just a few moments when the massive electric guitar chords come ringing through—so much, at one point, when everything is tumbling together, there is this brief ripple of feedback in a higher frequency that surges through the atmosphere. 

The song soars, and there is really no way to contain it—and if World Leader Pretend worked, and worked well, or seemed most comfortable in riding this edge of the bombastic and the gilded, it is a moment like the build up to the chorus in “Into Thin Air” that reveals what the band was capable of. Not that they could do this all the time—nor should they have aimed that high that often, but it is just stunning in how blindingly bright it shines. 

And like “Dreamdaddy,” “Into Thin Air” also ends with the charm of a percussive sound—though rather than a final cymbal crash here, the last thing you hear, after a long instrumental break, is the dinging of a triangle. And like “Dreamdaddy,” even for as incredible, and resonant of a song as “Into Thin Air” is, in concluding with a lengthier instrumental section, does feel like it either could benefit from a shorter running time, or could have been developed in terms of lyricism a little more.

I’m not asking for the moon—a few small assurances would do

And there are these fragments. As there are throughout Punches. Little mumbled, rasped pieces. Because the whole is, of course, still difficult at least for me, and yes, even after all this time, to understand completely, or clearly. 

But there are these fragments. Mumbled, or bellowed. And like “Dreamdaddy,” they are ones that have stayed with me over time—with specific lines, or phrase turns, “Into Thin Air,” being amongst the album’s most vivid in what is depicted. The name Alice turns up in “Into Thin Air”—the second time, following her appearance at the halfway point of the album. And when you hear  the mention in “Lovey Dovey,” there is a kind of gentle, or romantic pleading that accompanies it. Here, though, there is much more urgency. A pleading still, yes. And I hesitate to say there is desperation, but there is, the larger the song becomes and the higher it climbs, there’s an exhaustive finality to it.

“Give me something, better than nothing,” is at least part of the song’s opening line, as Ferguson continues a moment later, talking about endless hours and drinks gone sour, before the first place in “Into Thin Air” where he lets his voice go and bellows, with a kind of woozy recklessness, “I’m not asking for the moon—a few small assurances would do.”

And I am always looking for something. Something larger. Something more. Something with some kind of depth. A meaning. Something that will resonate. And I understand that not everything is going to be that way. Not every song asks us to analyze it further or comb through its lyrics. A lot of Punches doesn’t require that of us at all. But there is still something here, I realized. That we do ask a lot of others. Often, too much. More than we should, maybe. Emotional heavy lifting that they may not have the capacity or the space for. 

And I don’t think this is intended to be diminutive of that—the need we have of one another. I think if anything, it humanizes it. 

“Alice,” Ferguson begins, before his voice quickly climbs to a howl. “Believe me, we can,” he continues. And then, just a line later, as the music descends and spirals in a majestic and honestly stunning way, he utters the lingering titular phrase. “These tired roads go nowhere. Tonight, I’m on fire—and I will collapse into thin air.”

*

Pouting in the backseat.

I wonder how much of that I have done in my life. Not recently. No. But when I was much younger. 

And even after how much time has elapsed, maybe I am still pouting in the backseat. Or whatever the equivalent of that is today. Sullen. Headphones on. Staring out the window as things—life, whatever, blurs by.

Revisiting something means revisiting a number of other things. 

Often things that I perhaps have not thought about, or given consideration to in a number of years. 

Perhaps I had not wished to think about those things again.

I don’t remember when I read on the World Leader Pretend Wikipedia that the band had officially called it quits in 2008 while trying to work on their third full-length. I feel like, in the year prior, the demos posted on MySpace were a small glimmer that the band was not finished—because even less than a year after Punches had been released, there were signs of instability. Or an uncertainty. The band’s website had vanished—wlpband.com redirected to some kind of sketchy-looking pornographic site. In response, on their infrequently updated but at the time still active MySpace, within their profile information, for “website,” rather than a link, it had been changed to “we ain’t got one of those.” 

And it is both easy, and not, to find out what the members of World Leader Pretend are up to now, 20 years after the release of their major label debut. 

Matt Martin is perhaps the easiest to find, or at least he was. Martin, the band’s guitarist, eventually relocated to Chicago and began releasing music under the name Samuel Stiles—in an exchange he and I had in 2019, when the original, much shorter and less involved piece I wrote, had reached him, he mentioned he was using an assumed name for recording purposes as a means of getting around the recording contract he was still, at that time, under.

Martin’s Bandcamp has a number of digital singles available—the last of which was released a little over a year ago. I am uncertain what he has been up to, though, in the interim. 

It is both easy, and not. 

The band’s raucous drummer, Arthur Mintz, married New Orleans singer and songwriter Theresa Andersson—though Mintz has seemingly left music behind almost entirely. The two co-founded an animation studio, Swaybox, over a decade ago. 

Parker Hutchinson, in the liner notes for Fit for Faded, is credited with contributing much more within his role in World Leader Pretend. And in the songwriting credits for Punches, his last name appears in a number of places, alongside Ferguson’s. Unless it was some kind of oversight, or error, when the album’s details were being transcribed and laid out on the final page of the booklet and sent to print, Hutchinson is listed as providing backing vocals only, as a member of the band. 

By the time the band filmed the video for the single “Bang Theory,” they were operating as a four-piece. Martin on guitar. Mintz behind the drums. Ferguson brooding and writhing at a piano. And the unmistakable curly head of hair on top of bassist Alex Smith’s head, flopping along in time to the rhythm. Hutchinson is nowhere to be found. I remember that in 2005, there was an official forum for the band that you could access through their still-active website, and there was some confusion and minor discourse about Hutchinson’s departure from the group.

Unless there is more than one Parker Hutchinson still living in New Orleans, he is currently a lawyer.

Alex Smith still, per photos on Facebook, still has a curly head of hair. He is married and has twin daughters—his wife, Sarah Ann, was the one who originally found my piece about World Leader Pretend, six years ago, and had reached out to me. 

Keith Ferguson, per the sparse details on his Facebook page, lives in Nashville, Tennessee. 

It is both easy and not.

I am reminded of, in 2021, to celebrate its 20th anniversary, members of the beloved, cult act Flickerstick reconvened and worked with a legacy imprint in Dallas, Texas to reissue the major label edition of their debut, Welcoming Home The Astronauts, on vinyl for the first time. The group had gone through a series of lineup changes, then tumultuously imploded in the late 2000s—the original five members of Flickerstick did reunite for a pair of hometown concerts in 2022, before announcing a formal reformation of the group that included original and newer members.

It is both easy and not, and I do not expect World Leader Pretend to, as Punches celebrates 20 years, reunite even for one performance, on a stage somewhere in New Orleans. And I am reminded of this quote from Hanif Abdurraqib—“Nostalgia is a relentless hunter. Relies on how bad anyone wants to retrieve a feeling, or even an idea.”

It is both easy and not. Punches is not an album lost to time, but perhaps lost in time. And I wonder what kind of herculean efforts it might take for it to be reissued on vinyl. How hard it would be to find the master recording tapes. To remaster for a different format. For it to find an audience again two decades later.

I am never sure how one would measure the metric of something having a “cult following,” but I would contend that even now, there are people still listening. Or would listen again. That original reflection I had written, so many years ago, about World Leader Pretend, was still attracting attention as recently as 2021. 

It is both easy and not. And I am always thinking about the life of an album in comparison to how and album lives. And lives on through time.

It is both easy and not, revisiting something that you once held dear from another lifetime ago. Though in revisiting, you end up revisiting a number of other things along with it, you see. Because Punches, whether it wants to be or not, and really, World Leader Pretend, as a band—it is all representative of a different time and place. A difficult year. Financial instability. A job I did not enjoy. An apartment I did not feel comfortable in. A city that was no longer familiar. A strained relationship with my mother, who was, and I can see this now, growing more emotionally abusive. 

I had just graduated from college. A degree in a field I would not pursue. For myriad reasons, many of them my own mismanagement of money, even into middle age, I am still paying off my student loans 20 years later. There are moments when I regret it. My choices. But make decisions with what is presented to us at the time. 

I had just graduated from college. The last time I saw my father. The space in between the years filling slowly with resentment and contention. You make decisions with what is presented to you at the time. 

It is both easy and not. Revisiting something like this. A piece of media. Or art. Something you once held dear, and you have carried it with you as best you can. And you hope that there are ways you can still connect, or reconnect to it, after all this time. 

I never claimed, in 2005, that Punches was a perfect album. It wasn’t. It isn’t now. It is ambitious. And it is enormous. It still writhes with an enormous ferocity that is impressive today as it was when I was 22 and pouting in the backseat, listening to it for the very first time. You can still feel that urgency pulsating through it. It is a long, at times frenetic exhalation. A moment in time for you. For the band. Nostalgia is a relentless hunter. You can’t really go back, ever. But you can try. And hope that there is still something for you there. 

Your books have all been read. You read them all again. 

^{1- If I may just break the fourth wall here, there was nowhere for me to comfortably put this into the piece, but I have specific memory of wearing one of the buttons I purchased on my maroon, corduroy blazer—it said “Dreamdaddy” on it in a jagged font. I was wearing this button, amongst others, when I met the woman who was the pastor that my girlfriend’s (now wife’s) family regularly attended. She looked at the button, and asked me about it, and more or less said, “You know who else had a dream daddy…”}

^{2- There was no good place to mention these two laments—the first is that the cover art for Punches has always been incorrect on streaming platforms. Additionally, the second half of “Dreamdaddy” is missing and the song abruptly ends when you listen to the song on Spotify. I am not sure why, or who you talk to about fixing that, or where the second half of the song even is, but it is annoying.}