Weezer are a terrible band in the best possible way. Frontman Rivers Cuomo is a pretty good pop songwriter who, much to his own detriment, seems fixated on writing the same ‘90s rock that his career started with. In the 30 years since, the band have become known for their rather ridiculous album covers, their consistently bizarre lyrics (“I will ape a Goomba if you tire,” “I’ll be here to sex you,” “cranking Mrs. Dalloway”) and their slightly exhausting self-awareness about the internet memes about them (the Buddy Holly riff was practically inescapable for a good few years). Whether my appreciation for the band is ironic or not, I do still consider myself a fan—they were my first real concert! And they do have some great music: their first self-titled album, colloquially referred to as simply Blue or The Blue Album, is a charming, geeky and genuinely fantastic power-pop record, flush with ambitious arena-rock guitar solos and endearingly awkward lyricism. Their hotly anticipated follow-up, 1996’s Pinkerton, was a complete left turn: Cuomo, high on painkillers following a knee surgery, wrote a rock opera as fascinating as it is messy and uncomfortable. 

In the now 18 albums (and one Christmas EP) since Pinkerton’s initially negative reception, Weezer’s output has grown frustratingly stale, Cuomo trading his emotional songwriting for a sound that’s more accessible and polished. As a result, their music has slowly transformed into a vague imitation of the pop-rock brilliance they struck on Blue, recording mostly underwhelming albums at a breakneck pace. For every unlikely gem in their 30-year discography—2002’s Maladroit, 2014’s Everything Will Be Alright in the End and 2021’s OK Human—there’s an abundance of unambitious attempts at recreating their signature pop-rock sound, such as the catchy nothingness of 2001’s Green or the genuinely hilarious abomination that is 2009’s Raditude. The band’s most recent offering, their seventh self-titled record (formulaically known as The Gold Album), has made it clear that Cuomo is still desperate to convince their fans that Weezer is a certified rock band, that they can still return to the garage that Blue was recorded in. Whilst I probably didn’t need to listen to their entire discography to better articulate my thoughts on their newest work, it’s clear that Gold is firmly one of their better records—but that doesn’t mean a whole lot at this point.

Gold starts off with Say Yes, a surprisingly great song about wanting to make the most of the time you have. Beginning with only Cuomo’s voice and an acoustic guitar, before bassist Scott Shriner slowly worms his way into the mix, the verses slowly build up to an explosive chorus. The lyrics are refreshingly self-serious and earnest, even if there is an unintentionally funny line here and there (crazy to think that Rivers knows what “gaslight” means). Say Yes is Weezer doing what they do best: a fun showcase of their power-pop roots, ambitious arena-rock guitar solos and all. If not for the excess polish of the production, courtesy of Kenny Beats (who also mixed Geese’s acclaimed Getting Killed), the song would sound right at home amidst the charming cheesiness and catchy choruses of Blue. It is a great way to start the album, but all of the self-referential worship of their ‘90s work gets tiring as soon as it reaches the aimless second track, Shine Again. Whilst the song’s guitar work is reasonably interesting (I’m a sucker for the descending semiquaver riffs in the chorus), the lyrics leave me feeling “demoralisedahhhh,” as Cuomo enunciates.

From there, the majority of the record acts as a kind of rollercoaster: for every Say Yes, there is a bafflingly terrible counterpart like Hoops, a frustrated love song that takes the form of Cuomo complaining about technology and the other assorted things he feels are wrong with today’s society. It’s similarly out-of-touch to Screens, a song from OK Human, but that at least has some interesting string instrumentation and a catchy cello bassline to make it tolerable. Instead, we’re subjected to some uninspiringly typical power-pop fanfare, and some lyrics that had me laughing embarrassingly loud in the Baillieu Library when I first heard them. Opening with the one-two punch of “bought a toaster, just to make some toast / first I had to scan a QR code,” Cuomo treats us to a trove of questionable lines, describing himself as a “straight-talkin’ man” before directly citing Calvin Broadus (Snoop Dogg’s legal name) as the one who taught him “all about hoes” and “paint[ing] toes”. I would honestly recommend Gold even if it’s just for the ridiculous one-liners, which also pop up on songs like The Show Must Go On, where a screaming Cuomo compares the life of a rockstar to “BIG TIME FOOTBALL” in a way that reminds me of that one Riverdale quote, or in Don’t Make It Weird, where he complains about people making puns with his first name—“some people call me River / And then they tell me that I don’t got any flow.”

The lyricism isn’t all bad, though! Even though Cuomo’s writing is often a little cheesy, on Gold you can see him taking inspiration from other songwriters in a refreshing way. One such example is Wednesday’s Karly Hartzman, who contributes a verse to the song We Might as Well Be Strangers. Hartzman is known for her masterful songwriting style, characterised by taking little scenes and anecdotes from her life and weaving them into a beautiful tapestry. Whilst her one verse on We Might as Well Be Strangers doesn’t give her a ton of room to work with, her voice complements the song’s tone nicely. It’s also clear that she’s been rather influential on the band, as Cuomo adopts her method of songwriting in his own slightly awkward way. He describes a series of scenes with a past partner, jumping through images of taking Valium on their birthday, leafing through a “stack of dirty magazines,” debating Nietzsche and describing schools of “parasitic fishes down in the sea.” Despite occasionally being questionably executed—the allusion to the abusive relationship between Sid Vicious and Nancy Spungen feels more than a little tasteless—it’s good to see Weezer, a band that I’d somewhat apprehensively call myself a fan of, collaborate with a band that I love wholeheartedly, letting their influence bleed (get it?) into The Gold Album.

The album closes with The L.A. Sound, a cheesy ode to the life of a rockstar. It starts off with a description of the platonic ideal of a shitty basement gig: “the club smells like piss / and there’s three flights of stairs / but such is the folly of youth.” In some ways, it’s a charming idea, but it’s so painfully obvious that the band hasn’t played anywhere near a small venue in years that it comes off as a little disingenuous. There’s a limited extent to which they can “melt your face” in a seated stadium show, and there’s no way the description of “grab[bing] the headliner’s hummus plate” happens in a world where Weezer is a headliner. Even the guitar solo feels almost too safe, the harmonies too polished for the rough world of rock and roll they romanticise. Whilst I do really enjoy the song, it comes more from a place of finding it incredibly funny, letting myself enjoy the disconnect between the music and the people performing it.

As the album finishes, The L.A. Sound ending with a chorus of four-part barbershop-quartet vocals, I was left with a massive grin on my face. Even after their three-decade-long career, the jury is still out as to whether Weezer remains a good rock band, but there’s no doubt in my mind that they have the makings of a good (or at least entertaining) band in them. As fun as it is seeing them try their hand yet again at returning to their rocky roots, Weezer are at their best when they let themselves be a little weird with it, like on OK Human, an orchestral pop record that I think usurps Pinkerton for the title of second-best Weezer project. Whilst Gold is, unquestionably, a rock album, the pretence of rock music often feels more like a limitation than a feature: its best moments come when Cuomo lets himself simply be himself. The rocking is more than covered by the younger generations, as proven by bands like Geese, Wednesday and Fontaines D.C.—hell, on the same night that Gold released, Manchester four-piece Westside Cowboy released their debut album It Goes On, a spectacular record that convinces me that the genre is safe in the hands of Gen Z. Weezer are long past the need to stick to their roots: they’re probably never making another Blue or Pinkerton, but there’s so much fun (and comedy) to be had in letting them make whatever music they feel like. They just need to wake up and realise it.