Galaxie 500 – On Fire

By Robin Smith, August 15, 2010 8:00 am

Galaxie 500 – On Fire

Rough Trade 1989

Rating: 10/10

There’s barely a second that goes by on Galaxie 500’s On Fire without Dean Wareham begging love lost just one more chance, but it’s “Where Will You Come Home” that really sticks out for me. “When will you come home? / watching TV all alone, watching Kojak on my own,” he wails with his eyes potentially closed, but through all the radiating passion I’m left wondering: is this just time passing by a commercial break? Whoever Wareham’s ex is, his high-pitched mopes try and try to convey the blues she’s given him, but he sends her (and all of us) one better – yep, On Fire is an album that couldn’t be without melodrama. Melodrama sets it all alight.

Even if this isn’t true, On Fire succeeds on a similar feeling, a contradiction of terms that makes Wareham sound like he needs the agony more than he needs it cured. It’s a record about romantic things gone the wrong way: a shitty date, a weird acid trip, a sad night alone or even the frolics at the end of the world. Each song exists on its hunger for this darn-shame sadness, and the band accepts this feeling. At times Wareham seems aware of how trivial he is being, side-stepping his problems with silly anecdotes- “I stood in line and ate my twinkies / I stood in line I had to wait” when he’s drugged up; “you said / can I bring my guitar?” when he leaves the planet. Wareham doesn’t patronise us and give us life-lessons on love and pain – hell, even on his band’s tearful cover of “Isn’t It a Pity” he stops short of this – he just shares it with us, he makes a day of it. In fact, his George Harrison rendition sums it up with a grin. Sucks, doesn’t it?

The synchronisation couldn’t be better. The music and emotional weight of On Fireshare a mutual understanding, with the flattened out guitar play reserved when Wareham sets his dull, plodding scene and the blistering solos temperamental when he enters it. That in itself summarises all ten of the album, each explosion of instruments set to its weepy conductor; when he has his serious face on, the music makes us frown as much as he does (“Isn’t It A Pity,” or “Snowstorm”) and when he’s light-headed his band mates respond, just as they do on the glum hoedown that goes on in “Leave The Planet,” the band reverting to an out of tune harmonica to fend off the apocalypse. It’s silly, but serious and touching in the same blow, and in a sense Wareham and co. smooth over their melodrama with something more realistic. The music is realistic, in a way- there are times when Wareham is each feeling he has, and these simple guitar chords deafen us and mellow out when the time is right.

This is my favourite dream pop record out there because, quite simply, nobody is shoving it down your throat. On Fire plays out with only half a heart, spacing out Wareham’s passion as if it were for no one other than him. He repeats himself like he’s the only guy that matters and to hell with bigger problems, but still I can share in every moment of this, even without being told to. It’s immersing at every turn, playing out with the best kind of music- that which reflects mood. Most importantly though, Wareham shows us what we’re all too fond of. He knows melodrama makes us tick, that we’ll use this beautiful On Fire record and make it all about our foolish selves when really it’s just another rock record. I’ve never watched Kojak, though, so take one off five hundred.

Galaxie 500 – “Isn’t It A Pity?”