Alternative Press article - May 2005
| Print interview with Rivers Cuomo | |
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| Publication | Alternative Press |
| Published | May 2005 |
| Interviewer | Trevor Kelly |
| Interviewee | Rivers Cuomo |
| Title | The World Has Turned and Left Us Here |
| Format | |
| References | See where this article is referenced on Weezerpedia |
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The World Has Turned and Left Us Here
It takes roughly 12 hours for the first retraction. Weezer fans, by and large, probably have no idea what retraction is, and that's understandable, seeing that most Weezer fans probably aren't journalists. But basically, "retraction" translates to "I screwed up" when you're conducting an interview. Twelve hours ago, Brian Bell screwed up. He's sitting in an oversized modern char in a high-rise office building off Wilshire Boulevard. You could still generously call this part of town Beverly Hills if you wanted to. AP is here because we're supposed to listen to the fifth Weezer album, most of which is not yet completed. Bell has just come down here to personally ask if he could read this story before it's submitted for print, which is sort of a weird thing to be asked by the guitarist of a rock band that has seven days to finish a record their fans have been waiting three years for. But what's even weirder is that he did this before the record label played AP a song called "Pardon Me," which loosely seems to be about whatever it is he just asked us not to include in this story. Anyway: As for the song itself, you'll probably hate it. Of the literally 200 demos producer Rick Rubin had the opportunity to work on for this record, this is his favorite track, even though it sounds so unremarkably like anything the producer has ever worked on. There are lots of enhanced strings and technological grease. It's classic, like something by the Beatles, and modern, like something we should be listening to in a Saab - in other words, the song approximates whatever being 35 years old feels like. Right now, no one is sure if it will end up making the record. Today it's on the "A list"; tomorrow it could be scrapped. Still, in 2005, "Pardon Me" is definitively Weezer. The album they're still working on in a series of Hollywood studios was supposed to be a "normal" project, as far as this band is concerned. Right now, that idea feels incredibly stupid: Weezer couldn't make a normal record if they tried; and you could reasonably argue that they've spent the last two years proving just that. In that time, Weezer have gone from being one of the most dysfunctional bands in the world to being a band whose members are at least semi-functional, all while remaining incredibly mysterious. Somewhere in-between, the outlook of band leader Rivers Cuomo has brightened. Of course, Cuomo also may have had a nervous breakdown. And, while reading this article, you might say to yourself, "Is this really all we can expect from Weezer now? Is Rivers Cuomo just messing with us? Isn't it possible that all of this has been secretly the most ironic part of this band's career? Could this guy really just be full of @#%$?" Occasionally, these are the sorts of things asked of people like Bell. But we'll get to that. Right now, Bell is listening to a recording of Cuomo singing over a furrow of guitar tracks while I write down notes in my journal. The first lyric jotted down from "Pardon Me" reads: "Sometimes I can be the meanest person in the world." What's so fascinating about Weezer is that, even though they've sold a combined total of nearly 6 million copies of their four major records, they've always managed to feel like a secret. They were a secret when they first got lost in the pulse-taking underground indie scene in Los Angeles upon their formation in 1992, despite the fact they actually began as a hair-metal band. From there, they went onto credibly sell 3 million copies of their self-titled debut to alternative-rock-weaned teens who didn't like Sonic Youth as much as they were supposed to. Weezer's most beloved album - 1996's Pinkerton - remains their biggest commercial failure, and the two breakout releases that lead them to milling around the world's more comfortably sized amphitheatres (2001's Weezer [a.k.a., The Green Album] and 2002's "metal"-influenced Maladroit) are the two entries in the band's catalog most of their true fans vehemently hate. All the while, Cuomo has taken shape as both an icon and an enigma: Since Maladroit's slow fade, he has returned to school, written hit singles for moder-rock jokers Cold, and continued to draw a vague line between himself and the underage female Asian fans that post comments on his MySpace page. But all of this, admittedly, is shifting now. For the past 18 months, across five different locations scattered throughout Hollywood, Cuomo has been at work on what many hope will be the third "classic" Weezer album, the one that will make the last few years' worth of impulsive recording sessions and personal miscalculations feel incredibly distant. Titled Make Believe (which unofficially won out over drummer Pat Wilson's suggestion of One Thousand Soviet Children Marching Towards The Sun), it's a record Weezer could have made five times over by now. In the past week, the band members - Cuomo, Bell, Wilson and bassist Scott Shriner - were photographed for the album's cover, which, like the most successful records in Weezer's catalog, will feature the four of them cast against a single color background. "[The label] very much want that platinum-album success," Bell says the next day, sitting cross-legged in the studio's main control room. "The people in the business, they look backwards and say, 'What worked? Well, you guys were on the cover on that one. You were on the cover of this one. That must be what sells.'" Of course, it's not as simple as putting four guys on the cover of a record to sell what Weezer have become in 2005. If that were so, the band wouldn't be spending all day in front of a tape recorder. And almost no one would be pontificating online about Make Believe, just so they can eventually tear it apart. "My favorite quote about the fans," begins Wilson, "is that 'You can't be a true Weezer fan unless you're unhappy with what the band is doing.' Basically, you have to hate Weezer to be a true fan." People didn't necessarily hate the last two Weezer records - but they didn't love them, either. And they've waited a really long time to hear this one. This is what makes the fate of album No. 5 so fascinating. The only member of Weezer who has anything particularly positive to say about Maladroit is Cuomo, but that might be because he's never actually listened to the record. The first time he opened his finished copy of Maladroit was the night before his AP interview, and even then, he only ran through about 30 seconds of "Death and Destruction." which is a ballad. When Bell is asked about the album, he seems less forgiving. "I do have moments I love on Maladroit, like 'Falling For You,'" he begins. "Really powerful - the band's tight, and we're playing riffs. It would have been an album of that. Instead, I'm a bit confused when I hear it...I like some of the material on it, but the sound of it doesn't do much for me." It's appropriate that Bell uses the world "confused." There isn't a song on Maladroit called "Falling For You" (that's actually on Pinkerton), and when asked how he looks back on the band's last two records, his response is, "I try not to. It was a learning process. That's not what I want this record to sound like." Bell is 36 now. He's spent the last few months at Cal State University of Northridge where he acted in a production of Twelfth Night, playing the role of the Duke. The two classes he completed (presumably with a lot of Blue Album-owning freshmen) were on poetic theory and William Shakespeare. By and large, Make Believe is not a particularly shocking move from four adult men who currently spend their nights at home studying 16th-century literature. But from a fans' perspective, it's a long way from "In The Garage" to "Beverly Hills." "The difference between this album and the first record came to me when I had an interview two days ago," says Bell. "The interviewer said something about 'Surf Wax America' being important to him as a 22-year-old. That was about the age we were [during the Blue Album]. But I don't have that perspective anymore. So anyone thinking that we're going to be able to speak for that age group is going to be wrong." It seems strange that anyone in Weezer would even have to argue this point as they close in on their 40s. The men in this band are now very wealthy grown-ups. When Wilson arrives at a waffle house on Sunset Boulevard for his scheduled interview, he pulls up in a BMW, a hands-free device for a Blackberry clipped to his oversized hooded sweatshirt. Most of the time, he seems he would rather be talking about real estate. But Wilson, 36, remains the member of Weezer who thinks most like a Weezer fan, and he seems to understand the importance of this record better than most people do. "I think [the new album] has a positive vibe to it that is very hard to do," the drummer says approvingly. "I think it's easy to make angry, restless music that expresses that part of the human condition. It's hard to make something that's genuinely uplifting." When it's mentioned to him that, after years of feeling disappointed, just about every fan of the band wants another classic Weezer album, he says something most affluent rock stars do not: He says he understands. "I'm sure they want that," he responds with a shrug. "Why wouldn't they?" Nearly a year ago, Mikey Welsh received a letter at his house in the suburbs of Vermont. The return address was "Hollywood, CA." At the time, it was spring, and he was playing with his dog out back when his wife came to him with a bundle of letters. That Welsh can now effortlessly remember where he was, what he was doing and what particular season they were experiencing is notable. You can probably assume it wasn't his wireless bill. Welsh used to play bass in Weezer. His departure from the band was somehow both vague and well documented. That he left the band due to increasing issues of "mental illness" is known. Just how responsible for his departure the person he will spend an hour on the phone describing as a "fascist," a "genius" and a "friend" is not. "To be honest, I thought it was a prank," Welsh says of the letter he received from Cuomo. "But I read it again, and immediately recognized Rivers' handwriting; just the way he writes and talks and thinks. Needless to say, I was shocked. I assumed I would never speak to the guy again. I didn't really care either way if I did." Welsh joined Weezer when most people wouldn't have touched the band, and quit when most people would've died to be a part of it. When Welsh came into the band, Cuomo was in a creative drought, steeped more in rumors of bouncing a rubber ball against the walls of his Van Nuys condominium than he was in the actual process of writing songs. There was virtually no indication that Weezer would later release their first album in four years, that said album would go platinum within four months, and that Cuomo would reportedly transform into an egotistical monster who placed more value on riding alone on Fred Durst's old tour bus than he did in salvaging the deteriorating relationships with some of his oldest friends. "Once we started becoming successful again, Rivers turned into this robot," Welsh says. "He had ice flowing through his veins, In my opinion, that's when he stopped being an artist." Cuomo eventually fired Weezer's management company and dismissed their publicists after the release of the Green Album, instead choosing to handle the work himself. The stories Welsh tells from this period are appalling. The general understanding Cuomo established at the time was that everyone in Weezer had become "replaceable." Bell was nearly fired during the recording of the Green Album. There was a period in which Cuomo began fining his bandmates for "poor" behavior. This idea now seems so backward and Machiavellian that it's kind of hysterical. "I remember Brian had this sort of lackadaisical attitude about it," says Welsh. "He was like, 'He's just being Rivers.' Then we played a show and Brian's guitar was out of tune, and he fined Brian $2,000. I was like, 'Who the @#%$ do you think you are?'" Welsh left the band nine months later. "The lack of balls displayed by Pat and Brian really disgusted me as much as Rivers did. They went along with anything. I remember feeling like, 'You guys are 37 years old, and you're letting this little prick push you around?'" "During that time, [Cuomo] was trying it out and seeing, 'is this a way to live? Do I make people fear me?'" Bell remembers. "If I have resentment, I already have expressed it off tape, and I certainly don't want to do it in an interview. But I think it's healthy to let someone know, 'That was hurtful, and it didn't do the band any good.'" Like everyone in Cuomo's life at this point, Bell has heard the apologies, and his friendship with Cuomo has been repaired. A year ago, he even urged Cuomo to reconnect with original Weezer bassist Matt Sharp. From that experience, Cuomo eventually sent a letter of apology to Welsh; the two later had a lengthy conversation about why exactly Welsh was forced out of Weezer in 2001. Though he asks that the details from that conversation remain omitted from this article, just know that they are more @#%$-up and insensitive than you could possibly imagine. "I think it shocked him, how he had been and how he had treated people," Welsh says of Cuomo. "You can't treat people like that. You can't just start @#%$ with people because you feel like it." When you ask Cuomo's friends and former bandmates why it is he's changed so significantly, they all say the same thing: It's a good question - probably one you should ask Rivers Cuomo. The short version of Cuomo's response to this is that people always say he's changed. But there's "change," and then there's selling everything you own and disappearing for weeks. "He really vanished for a while," says Kevin Ridel of the band AM Radio, whom Cuomo was also managing. "I think he was doing too much for one person." Ridel and Cuomo grew up together in Connecticut as teenage metal fans; and, though they've known each other for over 15 years, Ridel says he still doesn't always know what to make of Cuomo from day to day. Just before the release of AM Radio's major-label debut, Cuomo disconnected his cell phone. Though he didn't say this to Ridel at the time, this was Cuomo's silent decision to "quit the business." Cuomo eventually proposed that he and Ridel trade lives. Suddenly, one of the most talented and wealthy artists Ridel knew was asking if he could borrow his beaten-up Honda and move into his apartment. In exchange, Ridel would get access to Cuomo's sprawling property and his new SUV. When they were unable to install a broadband internet connection at Ridel's place, Cuomo instead sold everything he owned and moved next door to Rick Rubin. In the midst of this, Cuomo's dedication to these friendships and the fifth Weezer record broadened. No one in the band refers to it as a "nervous breakdown" or a "spiritual awakening," or whatever else rock bands are supposed to call these things; but something happened to the Rivers Cuomo who couldn't stand to be on the same tour bus as his bandmates: He became grateful. It's easy to doubt this version of Cuomo if only because it seems so calculated. It's the VH1 version of how Weezer's story should end - just a whole lot weirder. "I've thought of that, for sure," Bell says when asked why it is that, even when they're disappointed musically, people are still obsessed with Cuomo. "I'm putting everything on the table about myself, and he gets to play 'the mysterious guy.' If he's a genius, it's because he gets people talking about him. In a way, you'd have to look back and go, 'That in and of itself, is genius!' He's created this world where people, unfortunately, will say bad things; but, then again, they are kind of creating this mystery, as well. I don't think it's calculated. But, you know, it wouldn't surprise me if it was." Rivers Cuomo may still look exactly as he did on the cover of Weezer's debut album (second from the left, noticeably sans glasses), but the one thing nearly everyone involved in the band's fifth record will tirelessly insist upon now is how different he is to be around these days. Naturally, it seems far more fascinating to almost everyone but Cuomo how different his life appears from the outside. He no longer lives in the Hollywood Hills home he bought following the success of the Green Album, and he clearly has little interest in owning an automobile. He is a public student of Vipassana (a form of meditation used primarily in India), and he's taken considerably now to the enigmatic Rubin. The explanation Cuomo provides for living next to his producer in an apartment off the Sunset Strip is both ridiculous and slightly admirable: He wanted to be able to walk to wherever Weezer were recording. When the band changed studios, it never dawned on Cuomo to buy a car. Instead, he rented a guesthouse in the center of Hollywood and took to walking. For the past few months, Cuomo has been enrolled at Harvard, the well-accredited university he's been attending sporadically since 1995, living on the same floor as a bunch of teenagers who know him mostly as the lead singer of a successful rock band. One of the main differences that you can physically point to in Cuomo now is his speaking voice. Literally, he sounds like a 7-year-old, despite the fact that he's nearly 35. For the fellow students he had spent three months sharing a shower with, he might as well have been 8,000 years old. It's absurd to think, as he remembers, they never said anything to him other than "Hey." But what seems more interesting is that Cuomo chose to return to school in the middle of tracking the fifth Weezer album. When asked from a practical standpoint why he decided to return to Harvard, Cuomo replies, "I can't tell you. Motivations are always complex. I can't say that I went there for one particular reason. But I did have one thing in particular I was looking for." "He has had a shift," Bell says solemnly. "I don't think it's any secret he's been into Vipassana. That seems to only have been a benefit. We would actually have band meetings that would last hours - we'd go over all years of this crap and put it out on the table, and be able to deal with it and handle it." The songs Cuomo wrote during this time are remarkably different from almost anything you've heard in the last five years' worth of Weezer recordings. At Rubin's insistence, he is now connecting emotionally, if not directly, to the conditions of his life. When Weezer sang of male prostitutes turning tricks on "Hash Pipe," Cuomo was creating works of fiction he could hide in. For whatever reason, this no longer seems to interest him. Undeniably, this is the new Rivers Cuomo. He's apologetic, emotionally forthright, and trying very hard to appear normal, save for the gold shoes he's currently wearing. "The stylist got them for our publicity shots," he says. "This isn't our normal look at all, it's fake-normal." AP: You started recording Make Believe right after you finished Maladroit. Now, three years later, can you still remember why there was such an urgency to record back then? Rivers: I don't think we were too concerned about albums or what album we were on; we just had songs. There as nothing else to do, so let's record. Whenever we have enough songs for an album, we'll just put it out. I think that was the thought at the time. AP: It evolved into reaching around in genres at some point. There was talk of rap and metal influences from those first sessions. Rivers: I remember saying that. I'm not really sure what I was talking about. I love rap music; I always wanted to rap. Some of that is on this album; "Beverly Hills" is a rap song. There's another one, too, that got cut. There's not much in the way of metal. I don't know what happened. AP: Do you think there could ever be a definitive Weezer album? Rivers: I think what Jordan [Schur, Geffen Records president] was suggesting was that we take ou time and make sure we absolutely love every aspect of the record, rather than just jamming out for a month and accepting whatever it is. I think that's what he meant by "definitive." And I think that is achievable. AP: Do you think you have trouble knowing what you're good at? Rivers: Do you mean specifically as a songwriter? [long pause.] Well, it depends on how you define "good." AP: The reason I ask is because, with the last two albums, clearly you've had trouble deciding. Rivers: Well, on this album, I have a very strong point of view, and I voiced that to everyone. I'm willing to stand up for my point of view and argue, but at the same time, I don't want to have a closed mind, so I'm happy to listen to everyone else. I don't want to be, "All right guys, this is how the album is. I don't care what anyone else thinks." Because I think I probably would end up making mistakes that way. What we want is an album that all of us love, including Rick. But like I said, I have very strong opinions and vision for what I think it should sound like. As far as I can tell, it's looking like we're all agreeing on what it should be. AP: I'm still unsure whether or not you think you know when you're good. Rivers: [Long pause.] At times, if you're working too hard, you can lose your perspective. You can't be sure if you like A or B better. But if you get away from it a week later or something, it's usually pretty clear. It's all just a matter of taste. I can't necessarily say that I know when I'm good. But I know when I think I'm good. AP: At some point in writing this record, it seems like there was a big personal change for you. Everyone I've talked to has said, "Rivers is a changed person," but no one can pinpoint what that change is. Rivers: I seem to remember people always saying that about me. I remember people said they were shocked over how much I changed over the last couple of years. I guess that comes out in the songs. I really love the "Pity" lyrics. "Peace," to me [is] kind of fluff. But "This Is Such A Pity," that one is really fun to sing. [Smiles.] AP: With the hope in these songs and your outreaches to humanity, I'm wondering if that's becoming an important part of your life right now. Rivers: [Long pause.] I forget what the lyrics are. I'd have to think about them. AP: But you don't forget the last two years of your life. Rivers: Yeah, I do. [Laughs.] AP: Really? Rivers: Oh, yeah. Well, "Peace" is one of the oldest songs, and that was written at a time in my life that had anything but peace. That was crazy - crazy. That song is saying, "I wish I had some peace. I don't have any." So, I don't know how positive that is. AP: But there's a song like "Pardon Me." Rivers: Oh, yeah, that's epic. I think those are Rick's favorite lyrics. AP: It's the first time I can think of where you've apologized in a song. Rivers: You forgot the big one. AP: Right, except for "Butterfly." The chorus is "I'm sorry." Rivers: The last three phrases of Pinkerton. Actually, that whole record, to me, can be summed up in the words "I'm sorry." Writing that song didn't feel that new or different. It was like, "Here I go again, beating myself up, complaining to myself and saying that I'm sorry." AP: What do you feel like you're apologizing for in that song? Rivers: I did this meditation course, and at the very end of it, the teacher leads this guided meditation, which is called Metta, where you say over and over again, these positive statements in your mind. This is at the end of 10 days of just brutal, ruthless self-confrontation. One of the things he said was, "I pardon all those who have harmed me in action speech or thought." And then he says, "I seek pardon from all those who I have hurt in action speech or thought." After 10 days of working so hard at that course, I had so much pent-up emotion that I started crying, and I was feeling so sorry for being so self-centered in my life. [Pause.] I was feeling so grateful that I have an opportunity to try and turn myself around. I came home after that, and I wrote that song. AP: Can you understand why, to some people, you'll never be able to make anything as good as the first two Weezer records? Rivers: Um...I think that if we made a record 10 times as good as either of those records, probably very few people would think that those first two records were better. Right? I guess an album has a personal significance to someone even if it's not that great; they'll never be able to get over it. I'm like that with some records from my childhood. I know it's not that great; but, to me, it's what I grew up with, it's all a matter of taste. AP: But the people who hold this attachment to those first two records still keep coming back to you, no matter what. Do you wonder why they keep coming back to you? Rivers: Probably because they think we're capable of doing that again. That's the only reason. AP: Can you embrace that faith - or is it a little scary? Rivers: I haven't been thinking about it. I haven't been going to the website. AP: I read somewhere that about a year ago, you stopped going online and that you got rid of your cell phone. Rivers: Oh, yeah. Business? That was about two years ago. I quit the business. AP: You quit the business of Weezer? Rivers: Just the music business in general. AP: Did you think you weren't going to be a musician anymore? Rivers: No, I wanted to focus on being a musician. AP: You didn't want to be a manager or a publicist. Rivers: Exactly. AP: Was part of that from having all this input from other people weighing on you about what you should do as an artist? Rivers: I seem to remember that my main difficulty with it was constant struggle with other people - needing to get funds from the record company for something or needing to haggle with the photographer for a fee. [It was] constantly, all day long. It made me tense, and I felt like it was shutting down my ability to be sensitive to my feelings, and that was hurting the songwriting. As soon as I made that connection, the business had to go. AP: But that seems like something you would see ahead of time, no? Rivers: No, on [albums] three and four, I wasn't using my feelings to write the songs. I had learned on Pinkerton that was a bad idea. So I was like, "All right, I'll shut myself down completely. I'll be like a machine." AP: When you say it was a bad idea to be more emotional, what specifically did you think was a bad idea about that? Rivers: Because I was so indulgent with my inner life on that album, no one bought it. It got panned in all the reviews. The people that were closest to me got really upset with me, and it seemed like none of them liked it, either. It seemed like no one liked it and I was being incredibly egotistical and self-indulgent. Therefore, I concluded that it was a bad idea and I should not - [Long pause.] - use my feelings so much in songs; think more mechanically and more like a craftsman. I spent a while figuring out how to do that. Once I did that, I had tons of free time and energy. Because I could wake up every morning and write a song in half an hour, like a machine. I had another 15 and-a-half hours of energy and confidence, what else was I going to do? So I decided to take over the business. [Laughs.] And it was a lot of fun. It was awesome. AP: Can you relate to some people coming to this band for its behavior and its legacy as much as the music? Rivers: [Laughs.] AP: What are you laughing at? Rivers: It's so weird, because we're not that interesting. Compared to Marilyn Manson or something, what do we do? AP: Marilyn Manson made being a hedonistic rock star interesting. But you made being a very normal, sometimes insecure rock star very interesting. Rivers: [Laughs.] I think it's interesting that people think it's interesting. I don't find myself interesting at all. If you followed me around all day, you'd see. AP: I wonder if Weezer fans are interested in that stuff as much as the music. That would certainly explain why you have these people who are completely fascinated by you, even if they supposedly hate the music. They must wonder why you would go on the web board and talk to them, only to call them "little bitches" in an article, or why you have a MySpace page. These are really normal things, but they're not that normal for people you put on a pedestal. Rivers: These are questions for them. I can't answer. AP: But it's about self-awareness. Rivers: Aware that our fans are unusually preoccupied with us as people? AP: Yes. Rivers: [Long pause.] Yeah, I guess so. I think so. I'm trying to think of some other bands. The Offspring, Green Day - I'm so behind the times. I'm trying to think of how their fans relate to them. AP: Was there a point where you realized that, for these people, it was more than, "this is my favorite band?" Rivers: [Long pause.] From the start, I always felt like it was a relationship that I wanted to have, because I was such an intense fan growing up. When it came my turn to be the performer, I just naturally wanted to cultivate that relationship. AP: But you can't think of when it changed. Is that what you're struggling with right now? Rivers: I consciously always expected it. I don't remember an instance when I saw hard evidence of that happening. Definitely in 2000 - no one expected us to sell out all those shows. AP: Do you think, at certain points, you've intentionally played with the perception these fans have of you? Rivers: Um...You mean led them to believe something that wasn't true? Like what? AP: Saying the fifth record was going to be rap-metal. Saying that you got really into goth, and that you were wearing leather cuffs and drinking absinthe. Rivers: I was completely sincere, but I realized that it would freak some people out. I gained pleasure from that fact. But at the same time, I was totally sincere. AP: That's why I'm drawing the line about calling it lying. I don't think it necessarily has to be untrue. But I think at some point you have to know that calling the fans "little bitches" in an article is going to do something. Rivers: I know. And it is fun, but it is sincere. I wouldn't say something that I didn't believe. AP: Hopefully this will land as a compliment, but to me it's in the same way I look at the Gallagher brothers [from Oasis]. I think they sincerely like the job of rock stars. They're not lying about it, but clearly they're shaping their perception. There's a similarity there. Rivers: I don't really think about it. It's all instinctual. I don't think it's different from how I am in person, really, in my normal relationships. But maybe now, I'm not like that so much anymore. AP: The things that I have seen from you in the last year have been very few and far between. I know that you went back to school and that you moved into an apartment. Rivers: You haven't heard anything wild or wacky from me in that time, I don't think. I haven't said anything today, right? AP: That was wild or wacky? Unfortunately, no. Rivers: Yeah, I'm boring now. AP: You've said before that you never recognize yourself in the articles you read about Weezer. What would this article be about if you wrote it? Rivers: I wouldn't write an article about me. AP: Would you write an article about your music? Rivers: I wouldn't write an article. [Laughs.]
In February 2004, Matt Sharp and Rivers Cuomo played together onstage at a coffeehouse on the campus of Cal State Fullerton. It was the first time the pair had played together in six years, and after it was over, many people speculated original bassist Sharp would once again return to the Weezer camp. The fact is, even though he has spent quality time with the entire band (including his eventual replacement, Scott Shriner) and has written a dozen songs with Cuomo (going as far to play one of those songs alongside two vintage Blue Album cuts at the Fullerton show), it's not happening. "I think in many ways we're kindred spirits," Sharp says about Weezer. "As much as we change, we stay the same." TK: Do you think the songs you and Rivers have written in the last year together will ever be released? The only song that has come out is "Time Song," and that's in some Quicktime file no one can actually own. Matt: Hmm... I'm not sure. TK: At some point you had to realize the value people put in the two of you playing together. The show in Fullerton still stands out as an important event to many fans. People want this to happen. Matt: In some cases, the waterworks going on [in Fullerton] were a pretty easy indication of what it meant to people, yeah. In the last few years, that's something I've come to appreciate. TK: Was there ever talk of you rejoining Weezer? Matt: It's possible that notion was floating around, but it was never specifically addresssed. With Weezer, those things are rarely specific. TK: Most people don't know this, but you were actually asked to rejoin the band when Mikey Welsh left the band in 2001. Matt: There was never a specific dialogue about it. TK: But it would have to had to been then. Matt: It's in that general area. But at the same time, that was not something I would have entertained. It didn't interest me. TK: Are you at a point in your life now where you wouldn't rule that out? Matt: For me, this, since 1997, is the first time that I've been open to that thought - at least let those images into my mind. TK: This is gonig to sound weird, but how did Rivers get to your house when you were writing together? Matt: [Laughs.] Well, Henry Miller never drove a car. I can admire that.
UNBREAK MY HEART "We Are All On Drugs" "The Damage In Your Heart" "This Is Such A Pity" "Beverly Hills" "Pardon Me" "Unbreak My Heart" "Freak Me Out" The final conversation with Bell for this article takes place at the band's management office. At one point, we end up watching a muted TV set in the corner tuned to Fuse. The clip for "We're All To Blame" by Sum 41 shows up. There's a lot of Solid Gold-inspired dancing. Bell says something about how Weezer had that idea first, at which point he's informed that the original idea that Spike Jonze had for using Public Enemy jester Flavor Flav as Weezer's backup singer in the video for "El Scorcho" was later used by Taking Back Sunday. Bell has never seen the Taking Back Sunday video, but the reason he thinks videos like "El Scorcho" work conceptually for Weezer is because they operate under the unsaid rule of using only one setup. He dismisses the idea he had for "Beverly Hills" because it would require more than one setup. (The band ended up shooting it at the Playboy Mansion.) This is precisely the way fans have always treated Weezer: They're a band you love based on very specific conditions. Make Believe operates best when that idea is reversed. The treatment Bell had for the video is loosely based around some reality-TV show it's doubtful anyone with a college education ever watches. In the clip that will never be, the members of Weezer are all subject to severe makeovers: The way they look physically changes completely by the final scene. It's a little too complex and metaphorical for a song that sounds like a soda commercial, which may explain why, the first time Bell goes over the concept in his manager's office, it sinks. But then he explains it again, this time including the ending, which is sort of brilliant, in a typically Weezer way. By the clip's conclusion, the members of Weezer all reveal themselves and their new looks, except for Cuomo. He still appears exactly the way he did when the video started. So everyone changes but him? "Right, except for Rivers," Bell beams, staring out the window at the dimming sun and a still line of palm trees. "He's not allowed to change."
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