Before I do, I want to explain my method. Some people have requested that I post the list. Key track: "Waiting," a rancid glop of island sunshine so half-baked it'll give you a new appreciation for 311's shants-rap days.So I've alluded to and made mention of how I've ranked every 311 song. On the plus side, this is probably the exact moment when 311 realized that pivoting into a career as a literal cruise-ship band wouldn't be the worst idea. Having seen returns diminish, creatively and commercially, on Evolver, the band upped the reggae quotient for its eighth album and grasped at another "Amber," with middling results. The chorus is absolutely terrible, but I would have no qualms bouncing along to this in a pogo pit with a $15 cup of Leinenkugel in hand. Key track: "Weightless," a serotonin-powered anthem that rides one of the most memorably buoyant licks guitarist Tim Mahoney has written to date. Half the tracks feel like they were written during a wake-and-bake session right in the studio, which adds to a slapdash feel that bolsters the record's energy in a surprising way. T he album art would make a great unisex sarong to wear at What the Festival, too. With only eight tracks, 311's first record for Dave Matthews' imprint ATO Records feels more like a stopgap rushed to market to justify staying on the road for another year. Grassroots isn't the band's best effort songwriting-wise, but it's the one that actually sounds the best today-a vision of what could've been, had they not gone so hard after the Rasta-snowboarder demographic. In the early '90s, the notion of a borderless music world, where rap, rock, funk and reggae could coexist in the form of five Nebraskan cornhuskers, was basically the utopian dream of Alternative Nation, and 311 pulled it off with panache on its second album. Key track: "Down," the band's first big single, which sounds like "Smells Like Teen Spirit" as played by a sentient bottle of Surge soda. Admit it: You've still got this in the secret CD wallet you keep in your car, and rap along to "Jackolantern's Weather" when you think no one is looking. Where Transistor challenged even longtime fans, the self-titled album is peak 311, capturing the band at its chillest ("All Mixed Up"), broest ("Hive"), cringiest ("Guns ") and catchiest ("Don't Stay Home"). PETE COTTELL.Īrriving in the direct aftermath of grunge, when the alt-rock airwaves were fiending for some posi-vibes to help wean itself off all the heroin dirges, the '90s' other Blue Album is where Omaha's chillest bros achieved their idealized form. Key track: "Use of Time," the album's contemplative centerpiece, which pivots between the band's signature reggae-lite sound and an impressive facsimile of Dark Side-era Pink Floyd. All of 311's muscles are flexed across Transistor's 21 tracks, from the tenacious punk-funk energy of "What Was I Thinking" and "Electricity" to the ambling psych reggae of "Inner Light Spectrum" and "Running." Even the haters can't deny that "Stealing Happy Hours" is a sleeper hit, now regarded as one of the band's best, thanks to heavy rotation toward the end of 311's marathon live sets. Aside from lead single "Beautiful Disaster," which adequately satisfied the thirst of alt-rock radio programmers, the rest of the record is basically one stellar deep cut after the next. So, in honor of 311 Day, we decided to dive into their discography, to figure out what's worth revisiting and what you should feel justified in avoiding.Ĭritics and new fans alike initially hated Transistor for its noodly ambition and failure to keep the party going after "Down" lit up the radio, but this sprawling, 64-minute epic has revealed itself over time to be 311's OK Computer. But any artist with that much staying power shouldn't be shrugged off so easily. Music snobs long ago dismissed 311 as a silly frat phenomenon. They even have their own holiday, observed, naturally, on March 11. Today, 311 isn't just a band but a lifestyle, selling branded vape pens and hosting Caribbean cruises for a devoted audience as fervent in their fandom as Phish heads and Dave Matthews acolytes. Somehow, they haven't just maintained, but thrived. When the band first emerged from the cornfields of Nebraska, busting rhymes over chunky-funky guitar riffs, no one would've put money on them surviving the '90s. Hard to believe, but we've been living with 311 for three decades now. In Canon Fodder, we revisit, re-evaluate and rank the discographies of music's most reviled artists, to answer a simple question: How bad are they really?īefore there was the Beyhive, there was the Bro Hive. By Matthew Singer and Pete Cottell Maat 3:02 pm PST
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