Normally, my visits to the orphanage are "all business." I sit the kids down, ask them which novel or current periodical they'd like to hear from today (Popular Mechanics and Maxim are their favorites), and read till they nod off. This last time, however, they seemed to be taking a peculiar interest in my own affairs.

"Mr. Reid, sir, it would please us so if you read from your latest review today, sir," said little Tommy Glass. The other children nodded enthusiastically.

"Well, Tommy," I said, blushing, "Mean old Mr. Schreiber will have my head if he finds out, but I suppose I can read you from one I'm working on." Their eyes lit up. "Ahem. Okay. 'Buzzcocks. Buzzcocks. Merge Records. Rating: 6.7. Eh. Not bad.'" They watched me, bemused, expectant. "Well, that's all I've got so far."

A small gasp escaped from between Phillip Straw's endearingly crooked teeth. "Do you really think Pitchfork will like it, sir? Why, where are the extended metaphors?"

"Well, I was going to pretend to be a reviewer from a time before Spiral Scratch who'd been visited by this time-travelling Billie Joe Armstrong replicant."

"Can we be your extended metaphor, sir?" piped in diminutive Noel St. John. His huge, pale eyes met mine and he began coughing weakly into his sleeve.

"Okay, Noel, sure, why not. Let's see... well, sometimes musical genres get together, just like mommies and daddies, and of course, it seems like an excellent idea at the time, and, by design or by accident-- usually the latter-- they produce a new genre. And it starts out very cute and lovable, sure, but soon it begins to whine and demand and smell funny and then, wham, it gets dropped off a bridge or left in a deacon's mailbox or..."

"Surely, Mr. Reid, you're not blaming the Buzzcocks for creating all of pop/punk!" Sophie Higgins chirped. "Certainly, most of it is wretched, but you can't hold them responsible for what's come afterwards."

"I'm blaming them for making it look too easy, Sophie. When the Buzzcocks started, punk was still something of a reaction against pop, and combining the two has always been a rock-paper-scissors sort of affair-- punk bludgeons the nuance out of pop, and pop sweetness neuters punk attitude. A straight mixture of the two almost always ends up as musical slapstick, and for pop/punk to work in any context besides novelty, the balance has to be close to perfect. Even though the Buzzcocks always sounded like they were always playing with complete abandon-- er, sorry, poor choice of words, kids-- they had the instincts and the songwriting talent to hit that mark with decent frequency. Most every band that followed them didn't. Pop/punk pretty much turned out to be a one-trick genre, and the Buzzcocks were that trick."

"That's a lot of past tense, Mr. Reid," observed Alexis Chittenden. Are we, the Buzzcocks' fans, also orphans, in a sense, sir?"

"Okay, so look at it like this. Blink-182 and Good Charlotte are the mean old orphanage proprietors Mr. and Mrs. Nesbitt, and Green Day is that old gentleman who used come by with candy every once in a while before he died in the mandolin accident: it feels like they've been gone forever, but the Buzzcocks were only ever really broken up for a large chunk of the 80s (negligible, given the fact that they're pushing 30 as a band). They've been a steady act for over a decade now, though; the past tense refers to the fact that their best material has always been the stuff that does the least to disturb the distortion/melody accord they struck in the late 70s. And, while the Buzzcocks wisely passed on innovation this time, they also display only an intermittent control of that distinctive touch that makes the pop/punk marriage worthwhile."

"L-losing their touch, sir?" Nevil Greenleaf stammered, his rheumy eyes moistening.

"Well, maybe not losing it... their albums were always spotty, and few fans ever see the need to probe beyond Singles Going Steady. And, true, a couple of these songs would be right at home on that comp. 'Friends', for instance, finds the band's component parts in inspired cooperation-- the breezy melody, giddily climbing chord progression, and chainsaw guitars all work to whittle the angstful central assertion, 'I don't even know if I'll ever be loved again/ The only thing I can rely on is chay-ee-ange!' down to snotty-sincere perfection. Most, however, fail by inches, not quite tight enough to hold their charm for more than a few listens. 'Sick City Sometimes' works brilliantly as an anthem as long as you can keep the image of Andrew W.K. covering the Gin Blossoms' 'Hey Jealousy' out of your head. The resurrected Howard Devoto-era gem 'Lester Sands', while sharp as ever, only suffers from the much cleaner production and Pete Shelley's newly-acquired snarl. In fact, a lot of the album's problems come from overaggressiveness; the further the balance tips toward loud-and-fast, the deeper the split in their musical personality show. The Buzzcocks have never needed to bash a chorus into our heads as mercilessly as they do here on 'Keep On' and 'Morning After', and the grinding fade-outs of each song seem to announce the cynic's ultimate victory over the sensitive."

"But sir, we need both!" cried Alvin Witherspoon-Devonshire. "How ever are we to deal with our wretched lives without their cheeky take on childhood angst?"

"Well, the Buzzcocks have moved on, Alvin. They've still got angst to spare, but their wit has been ground down by 'maturity,' or whatever you want to call it, into a bitter thing that saps a lot of that reckless energy. Sure, it's great when Shelley matter-of-factly snots in mortality's handkerchief with his declaration 'Life's only temporary/ And then you fucking die!' on the final track, but the drawn-out instrumental interlude and guitar solo drag that pissed-off punch towards mopery. But, you don't have to move on, Alvin! You don't have to imagine a grand, noble death for them, as you have for your parents; The Buzzcocks have left you Singles Going Steady! And there's still that gleam of greatness left in this one."

It was no use. One by one, the children all started bawling. A single tear slid down my cheek, too. Stupid Buzzcocks.

-Brendan Reid, April 22nd, 2003