You ever just sit and stare at your record collection?
It doesn’t have to be records; you can supplement that with anything, really. Maybe you collect books, or movies, or comics. Having a collection is like having this weird living memoir that’s always staring at you. You can look at it and map out full sections of your life.
I like to lay on my belly and look at all the different versions of me I’ve been over the years.
Right here I can see where I tried hard to get into the Grateful Dead that one summer. Over there is the era when I first became obsessed with John Prine. What keeps catching my eye, though, the ones who most often call out to me to give them a spin when it’s been too long, are my punk records.
Tonight, I want to listen to Masked Intruder.
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The Review
Masked Intruder
Masked Intruder
2012
Masked Intruder is criminally good.
I first came across the record while standing in the sun-soaked computer room of my first California residence. It was still new, and I was immediately taken with the album art and this golden sound that felt like it should be bouncing off the back of arena walls. My roommate and I agreed that Masked Intruder was how pop punk should sound, and then I shuffled off to take a shower. I bought my own copy and really dove into it several years later, after I moved back to Georgia. When I put it on my turntable that time, I don’t think I took it off for a month.
When done correctly, there’s almost nothing that can beat dumb, campy fun.
Masked Intruder dress like bank robbers and write songs about committing crimes. That’s just so simple and entertaining. They’re not the first band to pick a theme and stick to it, sure, but aside from the Aquabats, it’s hard to think of another band who understood and executed the assignment so well. Keep your demure musings on love and heartache; I’ll take puns and hilarity wherever I can get it.
Like everyone else, I first fell in love with their song “Heart Shaped Guitar.” It’s a high-energy, blistering instant pop punk classic about stalking with a chorus that hits so hard it makes you want to punch your steering wheel. The joke is amplified by featuring both perspectives on the relationship in a duet featuring Maura Weaver of the Mixtapes. If that song fails to make you a convert to these lovable scamps, then you might be dead inside.
The album begins with guitar feedback which, anyone who gobbles up punk records like I do can tell you, usually means you’re in for a good time. Setting the stage with the title track and then catapulting into the exquisite one-two punch of “25 to Life” and “How Do I Get to You” is enough to make anyone want to pay the admission fee and stick around for the rest of the tour.
At the risk of making this a track-by-track guide, which I could easily do, let me just stop here and say that it’s damn near perfect. They take 13 shots, and every single one of them hit the target. There’s only one track that barely touches the three-minute mark. Masked Intruder burn through their debut record like it’s the only chance they’ll ever get to tell you who they are. It’s one of the few albums I’ve ever heard where the B-side is equal to the A-side, if not stronger.
If you’re in a hurry and want to pick a few songs at random as a quality control test, allow me to recommend “Breakin’,” “Crazy,” and the aforementioned “Heart Shaped Guitar.”
Earlier in this review, I referred to “Masked Intruder” as dumb, campy fun. I stand by that, but I would be remise if I didn’t add that behind the shiny veneer of bombastic pop punk jams, there are some surprisingly earnest moments. The lyrics, while often amusing, also offer some moments of sincere insight and introspection. In my opinion, that’s what makes the record stand head-and-shoulders above its peers.
We don’t even know who these guys are, for sure. Their stage names are simply the color of their masks. That is unimpeachably cool. The only real crime here is that the band haven’t released any new material in five years.
Masked Intruder is insanely well produced, melodic as hell, and features an almost Beach Boys-level appreciation of vocal harmony. It’s a murderer’s row of short, punchy songs that feel like successfully outrunning the cops on and celebrating at an all-night house party with your best buds.
I started falling for Masked Intruder around the same time I started falling for a girl, which leads us to today’s tale …
…
The Tale
We didn’t know each other; we just happened to be at the same party.
A friend was explaining something to me, and I completely lost focus when she walked by. If it were a Cameron Crowe movie, everything would have gone into slow motion as our paths crossed and “That’s The Way” by Led Zeppelin played around us. My friend snapped his fingers to regain my attention, and I immediately started asking about her. By the end of that conversation, I knew two things: Her name was Ramona, and I had to meet her.
As I would find out later, we had been just missing each other our entire lives. She lived in the next town over; we were the same age, had loads of mutual friends, and her sister even came to several of the old punk shows I used to play.
Approaching her with an unearned swagger, I began stammering through my best bravado. I could tell she was becoming, in equal measures, charmed and annoyed by me. That, ladies and gentlemen, is my sweet spot.
While we were talking, we discovered that we reading the same Stephen King novel. We were both hard left of center in that way almost everyone is in their 20s. We liked the same shows, the same movies, and had a strikingly similar taste in music.
The more I got to know Ramona, the harder I fell for her.
On our first date, we literally just made out while listening to records. I would take two showers before she came over, partly because I was working in a dirt factory, but mostly due to nerves. On one occasion we drove around the county showing each other where we grew up, the places we hung out, and where all the big events took place. The first time I slept over, we got up the next morning and drove 90 minutes away to eat lunch at a barbecue restaurant that had won a bunch of blue ribbons. We listened to KISS records and made fun of each other.
Ramona had a dark sense of humor. She was a tough-as-nails, badass she-wolf who also had a vulnerable side she hid from the rest of the world. She felt things deeply and earnestly cared for the people she loved. She was generous and fun while simultaneously being measured and guarded. She was passionate and warm and had an uncanny ability to make anywhere feel like home. She was a total nerd, but in an endearing way. She would argue for the importance of feminism and make a fart joke in the same sentence.
We were two broken people who fit together like a puzzle piece.
And not for nothing, but to paraphrase Todd Snider, she was hotter than the hinges hanging on the gates of Hell.
I knew I wanted to tell her that I loved her, but that’s a tricky moment when you first start dating someone. The where and the how are dreadfully important, or at least, they seem like they are in the moment. To properly prime her for it, I made her a mix.
Putting together mixes is something I always loved. I made mix CDs for girls in high school; I’ve made streaming playlists as an adult, and I’ve even taken the time to make an honest-to-goodness vinyl-to-cassette mix tape. I am a big fan of the medium. I love making my own personal “best of” collections for bands I like, long genre explorations, and just about everything in between.
Making a mix specifically for someone I like is my favorite of them all.
To me, making a mix is like making a movie. You’re essentially telling a story meant to elicit strong emotion in a set amount of time with a soundtrack included. The only missing factor would be the visual element, but if you do your job well enough, they will take care of that with their own imagination anyway.
My rules, more like parameters or guidelines, tend to go as follows:
Define the Relationship
If we’re sticking with the metaphor laid out above, then you need to figure out what kind of movie it is you’re making. Is it a romantic comedy? Is it a slice-of-life piece of indie Americana? Is it anime? It’s important to figure that out first. Try to be sure you’re on the same page with your person because that will bring you greater joy (and less embarrassment) in the end.
Tell a Story
You’ve picked your genre; now flesh out the story. Are we friends to lovers? Have we just started dating? Are we falling in love? Have we been married for years? Use your song choices to make that story come to life.
Pace it Out
Everyone knows that a good mixtape should rise and fall. That’s essentially the only golden rule. Don’t make it wall-to-wall party jams or sad bastard acoustic nonsense. Let it mirror a real relationship. Have it start off fun, then ease into that warmth and peace, and then let the temperature naturally rise and fall.
The Left Turn
The wonderful and terrible thing about making a mix is there are an infinite number of songs to choose from. Use that to your advantage. A great mix should feel like a conversation. Include bits of both of you, like a back-and-forth. What I’ve always found the most interesting challenge is aiming for emotions they might not be expecting. Instead of pure romance, try to make them laugh with an inside joke, or make them feel nostalgic. Anyone can include songs about rubbing butts, be the person who makes them think about screaming along to the Backstreet Boys in the ’90s.
Double Check the Lyrics
This one is the simplest and most important rule of them all. Always, always, ALWAYS go back and read the lyrics. Maybe something cool to say in the ’80s has aged like milk now, or maybe you don’t realize it, but a song you thought was about light romance is actually about proposing marriage, or worse, a loved one dying. If you’ve gone through all this trouble, don’t ruin it by thinking “Neon Moon” is about new love when it’s really about divorce.
At this point in our bourgeoning romance, like all new couples of our generation, Ramona and I had already started sending each other songs. We had a rule about not sending each other anything that had been used for anyone else in the past. This was something new, something that belonged to us. I knew former beaus had made her mixes, and somewhere deep down I think I took it as a personal challenge.
This was my Olympics, and I was going for gold.
Every record was pulled off my shelf at least once. I poured through every old text we had sent each other, every memory of every lunch and dinner we shared and all the conversations I could remember. I even went back through songs John Lennon had written for Yoko Ono. I didn’t want to make a good mixtape, I wanted to make the perfect mixtape.
The original playlist of probably 100 songs was narrowed down to 50 and then painstakingly down to 22. For better or worse, it was in fighting shape. I burned it into a CD, because that’s what people did back then, and then scribbled “Creed: Human Clay” across the front. Our relationship was built on roasts, and I couldn’t pass up the opportunity to have someone get into her car, clock that CD, and assume she was a massive Creed fan. Even if the mix missed the mark, at least I would have a solid prank.
When I dropped by to pick her up for lunch one day, and as we were departing, I left it on her desk. She listened to it on the way home and then kept listening to it exclusively. When she came over later that week, we said the magic words to each other for the first time.
I made the perfect mix.
…
The Aftermath
Ramona and I did not live happily ever after.
About six months into our relationship, after we had just started talking about all the big-picture stuff, she was offered her dream job. She had to leave the state to take it. I, obviously, couldn’t let her give up on her dreams for a six-month relationship. Unfortunately, I couldn’t go with her, either. I needed the job I had, with its amazing insurance benefits, that was unfortunately going to leave me sewn into the fabric of our city for a while.
We had no choice but to break up, even though it broke both of our hearts.
It was time to retire from making mixes after that. I had already made the perfect one, and I liked the idea of leaving that as part of our legacy. We may not have forever, but we would always have those 22 tracks.
This story may not have a happy ending, but that doesn’t mean it has to be sad. Ramona and I still talk, I even got her permission to tell this story. The only real stipulation was that I change her name to Ramona.
The reason I wanted to tell this tale was to demonstrate how powerful music can be. It really might be the closest thing we have to magic in real life. It comes from pure imagination, and it has the power to make you laugh, cry, or fall in love. It can do that without even using words, just arrangements that swell in the right way.
I used music to make an amazing woman fall the rest of the way in love with me. Even if it was fleeting, so what? All of life is fleeting.
Music is the memory.
