Liquid Mike - Paul Bunyan's Slingshot

If shit’s fucked, dudes might as well rock.

I listen to a lot of music that’s new to me, but isn’t exactly “new”. I love picking over the flotsam of the used CD bin to find a forgotten, discarded treasure among the driftwood. Unfortunately, my time is limited and my ears have only so much endurance, so that means I haven’t listened to almost any of the biggest releases of the past year. Absolute Elsewhere kicked ass. You Won’t Go Before You’re Supposed To kicked ass. GNX and You Only Die 1nce were pretty great. I never listened to Chromakopia, Tigers Blood, or Cool World despite interest. Brat, Cowboy Carter, and Diamond Jubilee, I actively avoided.

My album of the year is rarely an album that came out this year. While not the album I listened to the most, the album that occupied my thoughts the most was Oliver Houston’s 2017 album Whatever Works.  That album is crisp lemonade; bright, sour, sweet, and refreshing. It is channeled mania in musical form. If Goalie Fight made a third LP, I would’ve lobbied to make it sound like that. At time of writing, the only copy on discogs cost $125 dollars, which in this economy, I don't have.  If we can’t talk about that, we can talk about my album of this  year, which probably is the album I listened to the most, and which has definitely appeared on some major year-end lists.

Paul Bunyan’s Slingshot by Liquid Mike feels like the little rock record that could of 2024, and their career trajectory so far is proof that music press still has the power to boost an artist’s career. Stereogum contributor and Camp Trash member Keegan Bradford saw that one of his buddies in Del Paxton bought Liquid Mike’s S/T ,   gave it a quick spin , and became their loudest fan on Twitter and its successors. Interest on Stereogum became an   interview in Rolling Stone , an   opening slot for Joyce Manor , and   an article in the National Association of Letter Carriers’ The Postal Record . Their follow-up was hotly anticipated, and in my personal opinion, knocked expectations out of the park. The production is cleaner, but not sterile. The songwriting is casual and familiar, and there’s hardly any fat on this steak. This record has riffs eternal, and yet somehow crams them into 25 minutes and 13 songs.

Did it move a lot of units? Only in comparison to their low-but-realistic expectations of a Guided by Voices-meets-Weezer band from Michigan’s Upper Peninsula. Did it forge new ground in power pop? While not as progressive or downright strange as their inspirations, they make a great case for analog synth and downtuned guitars’ re-introduction to the power pop toolbox. Did it push people to start bands of their own? Only time will tell for that one. I will say that more people than expected have lit up at the Liquid Mike shirt I’ve worn to parties and shows over 2024. You will know Liquid Mike have truly made it when someone who used “Pacer” to confess their love to their friend finally ties the knot with them.

Let’s talk sonics. This is the heaviest thing that Liquid Mike has done so far. I don’t mean that in the sense that “Blackened” is heavy – the melodies are still diatonic, the chord progressions major key. The guitars are just really, really big. They are concrete enough to stand on their own, allowing the bass to throw in embellishments and interesting counterpoint without fear of leaving the guitars unsupported. While on some records by bands with monosynths, they can feel forced into every song, Monica Nelson’s synths always feel like a natural addition, and often an essential one. The contrast between her bright, smooth-edged saw leads and the often fuzzed-out, ragged guitar leads adds depth and breadth to this album. Mike Maple’s voice reminds me a little bit of Nick Zander from Equipment, but with a few more beers to it. It is just loose enough to sound spontaneous, but the melodies and harmonies imply years spent honing his craft. I cannot stress this enough – the tones on this record, from the drums to the feedback hum, are all great or better.

Liquid Mike’s biggest strength is their ability to convey sense of place and time through their songs. The snowy steel town of Marquette is perhaps better known in emo circles as the home of revival-revivalists Charmer – with whom Liquid Mike shares a bassist in Zach Alworden. Here, it’s purgatory, and every other song is either a lament on the state of the neighborhood, or a plea to be plucked out of it. Mike Maple’s Marquette is a microcosm of America, a missed opportunity at best and a broken promise at most realistic. “Given what you know/The American dream is a Michigan hoax/Tell me something that I don't know/Your cause for alarm is as pure as the snow”, he sings on “Mouse Trap”. Someone better versed in history than I can tell you all about how rock music turned inwards in the wake of the grunge boom and how the primary emotional palette of many of the biggest acts shifted from heartbreak and lust to self-loathing and frustration.

Paul Bunyan’s Slingshot  is about arrested development; frustration with a stagnating society, as well as a smirking refusal to grow up and perpetuate it. Live free, don’t join. “Where there’s destruction, there’s an outlet for fun”, sings Maple on “USPS”, and he brings that little stinker energy all over the record. I get the impression that Liquid Mike probably would have tormented me in high school. The first verse of lead single “K2” is about choking his friend for the possibility of a free, fleeting high; the second is about them smoking the titular spice on the school bus and getting sick. There’s also a Coldplay punchline. It’s smart, it’s fun, but it knows that being smart makes you either a target or a Cassandra. So Liquid Mike plays dumb, knowing that nothing they could do could reverse this decline. But there is some optimism, especially later on the record.

The disc itself is nothing special, but nothing offensive either. It’s a hot red base that goes all the way to the center hole with black, slightly smudgy text, which screams “independent band trying to save a few bucks”. As an independent band member who has tried to save a few bucks, I respect it. The insert is a single page, with basic credits and a photo of the band. As much as the flash and angle want us to believe that they’re an early 2000s Brooklyn blog-hype band, they just look like people you’d see at the train station to me. I think that’s the whole point.

The album cover is a collage with three main elements. In the background, a picturesque wooded landscape with a lake and rolling hills. In the foreground on the bottom, a black and white photo of some cowboys, hangin’ out. In the midground, a portal to hell.  It’s a clever reiteration of the themes of the record, the looming horror of existential meaninglessness and rotten society contrasted with a group of dudes chilling in the woods. They’re not necessarily oblivious, but they’re not focused on their doom: they’re focused on each other. On the back - a man, a boy, a wintery landscape, fresh fried donuts. A handwritten tracklist.

When I saw Liquid Mike in Brooklyn earlier last year, Mike Maple was chatting with some people in the merch line, and he told them that this was his first show since quitting his job as a mailman. With mail privatization on the table with the upcoming administration, I don’t blame him. If shit’s fucked, dudes might as well rock.

Paul Bunyan’s Slingshot by Liquid Mike is a good album, and I like it.