January 19th 2020 marked the 25th anniversary of Extreme’s arguably most divisive album, Waiting for the Punchline. Often regarded as the band trying to catch up with the grunge explosion of the day (especially after most hair metal adjacent bands had been left in the dust), Waiting… is a comparatively stripped back affair when you look at the albums that preceded it. Cynically, it’s often felt as a last attempt to regain pop culture relevancy after the relatively modest performance of III Sides to Every Story. The prevailing narrative however remains that, stylistically, Waiting… sticks out like a sore thumb in Extreme’s discography.
Predictably, I disagree. Yes, the production and recording both have a notably drier feel, with Nuno Bettencourt’s guitars feeling particularly abrasive, but all the hallmarks of Extreme are still there. The deceivingly complex riffs, groove-laden bass lines and even the occasional vocal harmony all provide the foundation for what is ultimately a set of hooky, pop-infused rock songs. The biggest production difference however is that the whole band has far more room to breathe, with less layering to guitars and vocals leaving a lot more space between each individual instrument.
Production aside, the biggest argument for Waiting… not fitting Extreme’s canon is thematic — it’s uncharacteristically negative sounding when stacked up against its predecessors, with songs languishing in cynicism (…obviously ‘Cynical Fuck’), criticism (‘There Is No God’, ‘Hip Today’) and casual self-loathing (‘Leave Me Alone’, ‘Shadow Boxing’). While many have attributed that to trying to match the Seattle sound dominating American airwaves at the time, I’d argue that the downbeat nature of Waiting… was always the logical resolution to this arc of the band.
Bar a few standout cuts (‘Play With Me’, ‘Kid Ego’), Extreme’s debut never quite clicked with me. Relatively cut-and-paste hair metal with some incredible musicianship for sure, but at least half the songs didn’t hit the mark of the genre’s best (‘Mutha’ and ‘Watching, Waiting’ both make my skin crawl). With Extreme II: Pornograffitti though, it felt like something had changed. Still present was the shiny hair metal of the previous album, but the song-writing was spit-shined in to greatness. Obviously most known for its heartfelt ballad ‘More Than Words’, Pornograffitti is overall an eclectic mash-up of glam, metal, funk, pop and balladry that sees the band flexing their creative muscles and clearly having fun with it. However, scratch beneath some of its good-time surface and it’s clear the album isn’t all sunshine and rainbows, pointing fingers at consumerism (‘It (‘s a Monster)’, ‘Decadence Dance’), misogyny (‘He-Man Woman Hater’) and sex-sells-marketing (…obviously the title track).
Follow-up III Sides to Every Story starts where Pornograffitti left off musically, with ‘Warheads’ and ‘Rest In Peace’ following the same path as ‘Decadence Dance’ and ‘Get The Funk Out’. However, the album sees Extreme focus their attention inward instead. Songs take a far more introspective glance at the world and our position in it and, with that, the music goes from soaring highs to the more introspective and morose. Touching on family (‘Our Father’), relationships (‘Seven Sundays’), low self-esteem (‘Tragic Comic’), faith (‘God Isn’t Dead?’) and race (‘Peacemaker Die’), III Sides… takes on a notably darker tone than the relatively upbeat Pornograffitti. The album culminates in a three-song opus, ‘Everything Under the Sun’, that starts with the quiet and plaintive ‘Rise ‘N Shine’ and ends with the despondent ‘Who Cares?’. During those tracks, Extreme throw every musical tool in their arsenal (not to mention the kitchen sink) at us to create an epic finisher; sweeping orchestration, layered vocals and prog-rock tinged arrangements all give III Sides… a bombastic ending. As much as I love it though, it’s overblown and it feels like Extreme taking their proggier side to its absolute extreme.
With the band asking, “Who cares?”, the bubble of III Sides… and its grandiosity bursts. All that’s left is the debris and rubble, making the rawer, grittier and rougher Waiting for the Punchline feel like the perfect follow up to the rest of their career. After wearing your heart on your sleeve for the last two albums, you’d have to get angry, right?
