February 17, 2009
I found out a month or so ago (maybe longer but my memory is unreliable) that Phantom Planet finally broke up. It’s funny, because I always expected that the band’s split with Jason Schwartzman would have been a nail in the coffin, but remarkably they persevered—without releasing an album—for almost five years. Touring, staying relatively well under the radar considering various members’ personal fame, and making better music than ever before were elements synonymous of this period; a lull in popularity peppered with notable strides in artistry. Take for example the band’s eponymous third album, pictured above. Its definitive quality transcends argument; this is the most impressive, boundary-busting, transcendent release of the band’s career, and yet it probably received the least amount of marketing support from Epic Records—a seemingly common occurrence in major label practice nowadays. On “The Happy Ending,” the opening rattle of Schwartzman’s snare is almost papery, thanks to the booming, messy overproduction techniques of David Friedman (better known for his work with Mercury Rev and The Flaming Lips). The whole album feels like a My Bloody Valentine record on percussive steroids, chunky and blazing and reeking of feedback. The most markedly productive track on Phantom Planet is “Big Brat,” its first and only single. Bluntly overshadowed by its soaring predecessor “California”—not to mention its more prominent placement as the title track for Fox’s The OC—, “Big Brat” received moderately heavy radio play and nothing more. Though, its production value and searing pop hook deserved, at very least, a consolatory nod from Grammy nominators. Of course, it received none, and though the record sold decently, the band’s major cultural member had disappeared in Schwartzman. The band was doomed to mediocrity—or at least the B-list—for the duration of its existence. There’s more to this story, sure; but that’s essentially when it all went down. Phantom Planet released its best album in 2003, spent five years fading, and then became obsolete but to a few dedicated fans. Had there been less dispute among members and former members, things might have gone differently. But they didn’t, and Raise the Dead was little more than a finessed, well-executed death rattle; and like so many others who shouldn’tve, Phantom Planet have gone the way of the buffalo. Their purpose is to be remembered only in times of circumstance, when somebody like me puts on the self-titled record and starts talking about how bands like this one never get enough credit.

I found out a month or so ago (maybe longer but my memory is unreliable) that Phantom Planet finally broke up. It’s funny, because I always expected that the band’s split with Jason Schwartzman would have been a nail in the coffin, but remarkably they persevered—without releasing an album—for almost five years. Touring, staying relatively well under the radar considering various members’ personal fame, and making better music than ever before were elements synonymous of this period; a lull in popularity peppered with notable strides in artistry.

Take for example the band’s eponymous third album, pictured above. Its definitive quality transcends argument; this is the most impressive, boundary-busting, transcendent release of the band’s career, and yet it probably received the least amount of marketing support from Epic Records—a seemingly common occurrence in major label practice nowadays.

On “The Happy Ending,” the opening rattle of Schwartzman’s snare is almost papery, thanks to the booming, messy overproduction techniques of David Friedman (better known for his work with Mercury Rev and The Flaming Lips). The whole album feels like a My Bloody Valentine record on percussive steroids, chunky and blazing and reeking of feedback.

The most markedly productive track on Phantom Planet is “Big Brat,” its first and only single. Bluntly overshadowed by its soaring predecessor “California”—not to mention its more prominent placement as the title track for Fox’s The OC—, “Big Brat” received moderately heavy radio play and nothing more. Though, its production value and searing pop hook deserved, at very least, a consolatory nod from Grammy nominators. Of course, it received none, and though the record sold decently, the band’s major cultural member had disappeared in Schwartzman. The band was doomed to mediocrity—or at least the B-list—for the duration of its existence.

There’s more to this story, sure; but that’s essentially when it all went down. Phantom Planet released its best album in 2003, spent five years fading, and then became obsolete but to a few dedicated fans. Had there been less dispute among members and former members, things might have gone differently. But they didn’t, and Raise the Dead was little more than a finessed, well-executed death rattle; and like so many others who shouldn’tve, Phantom Planet have gone the way of the buffalo. Their purpose is to be remembered only in times of circumstance, when somebody like me puts on the self-titled record and starts talking about how bands like this one never get enough credit.

Comments (View)
blog comments powered by Disqus