The first time I listened to Kero Kero Bonito’s sophomore album, “Time ‘n’ Place,” I almost crashed my car. I remember it clearly: it was autumn of 2018, and I was wandering through a CVS parking lot, looking for an open space to park. “Only Acting” was playing, a seemingly innocuous pop-rock tune about putting a face on for people. The final chorus has a bright key change, but it suddenly skips and glitches like a broken record covered in slashes and debris. The abrupt blasts of noise in my 2014 Subaru Impreza’s sound system were enough for me to believe that the car speakers were totally busted, and I immediately stomped on the brakes. I made a diagnosis and found that everything was fine — the noise was intentional. I let out a little cynical chuckle. That’s “Time ‘n’ Place”: a cynical chuckle.
The album keeps some twee and synthy elements from Kero Kero Bonito’s earlier work and combines them with bits of noise rock and shoegaze. It creates a meticulous blend of genres and moods that aren’t often mixed, despite working together perfectly. I had “Time ‘n’ Place” on repeat for well over two years.
Courtesy of Polyvinyl Record Co.
I first discovered the album during a turning point in my life. I was a junior in high school, and my close friends were dwindling in numbers. I had just gotten my driver’s license the previous spring, and I was clawing for any feeling of independence. I had multiple friends from the grade above me, and they took me to their prom so I could see them one last time before they went to college. Little did I know that I would never get a prom of my own because of the COVID-19 pandemic.
The track “Flyway” reminisces on the vocalist’s dead pet bird. It’s surprisingly dark in contrast to the playful chiptune and backing vocals texturing the noisy guitars. It ends with a profound statement on death and departure, with the vocals speaking directly to the dead bird:
“So ride the rising currents/ I trust that I will see you again/ When I pick up the courage/ I hope that I can join you someday.”
One night, later during junior year, my parents were out to dinner without me, and I was home alone doing homework. I looked around my room and knew I needed to clean it. I cleared my bookshelf of the karate trophies I won in middle school. I took the racecar painting off my wall (not once in my lifetime have I ever expressed interest in racecars), and I tossed every piece of old sports equipment I could find. I didn’t know how to decorate my room to make it embody me, but I sure as hell knew that something about my self-expression needed to change.
“Dump” embodies the monotony of the suburbs. It details a day’s events at the local dump, with people all over town “dropping off the things that they no longer need to keep,” like a rusty birdcage and a dial phone. Everyone emerges from their homes to toss away their baggage.
After what felt like an eternity, my senior year arrived. My group of four friends had a falling out, and I was the only person still on good terms with everyone. I became more bitter. I left my house less frequently. I wanted to move on to the next chapter of my life.
“Swimming” is a sonic calm before the storm. It’s a relaxed dream-pop track about leaving your old life behind, swimming away into a detritus-filled ocean. The melancholy tone and imagery of the song suggests that it’s difficult to move on, but I kept listening in anticipation for those hardships to finally arrive.
Then COVID-19 happened. And all of my efforts to escape my hometown, the goodbyes I never got to say, the arms I stretched toward a free future — it all froze. For months, I was left with my thoughts alone, stuck in the home I was desperate to leave.
“Rest Stop” is the album’s closer. It tells the story of a weary traveler entering a vacant rest stop. As the narrator falls asleep on a table, the song bursts with color: “I pick out a booth sliding in from the side/ And then I start feeling quite tired/ So I know that I’ll be here a little while/ When I go I’ll get right back on the road.” After the energetic blast of sound subsides, a distorted prayer emerges with optimistic lyrics about how we need to stick together during our trying times.
As the pandemic subsides and I gain my independence, I wonder why “Time ‘n’ Place” hasn’t deterred me from wanting to grow up. It’s the pessimistic sibling of “Bonito Generation,” exploring the pain of growing up. If anything, it encouraged me to move on. I feel ready to swim through the debris, throw out my childhood baggage and drive away full-speed ahead. This time, I don’t plan on slamming the brakes.
Michael Blankfein (24C, he/him) is from Westport, Connecticut, majoring in Anthropology. He is also a violist in the Emory University Symphony Orchestra. He’s a huge music nerd, plays a ton of video games, and loves murder mysteries.
