10 Years of Joyce Manor's Self-Titled

More Joyce Manor talk!?!? When will I shut up about them...

January 11th for me, so far, has been relatively shitty. However, it’s the 10 year anniversary of Joyce Manor’s self-titled record. This album meant the world to me when I was a teenager, and it still does, it never won’t. One of the first times I wrote about music was when I saw them for the first time; I was 17 and it was in November of 2017. It’s honestly a super cute piece, which I will only let you read a small excerpt of below, in which I explain my feelings for the band:

So, as you can infer, Joyce Manor worked their way up to one of my favorite bands (if not my absolute favorite). I went through all the phases—Cody’s youthful, rebellious vibes had me revelling in my bedroom every night feeling like the epitome of an edgy teenager; Never Hungover Again captivated me to the point of tears as I completely lost myself in the badass guitar riffs in In the Army Now and the sick bassline in Falling in Love Again; S/T transformed me into a heartless recluse who harbors an everlasting fury for the past; Collection kept me company whenever all I wanted to do was scream and headbang and put on a dramatic scene to the aggravated words while coordinating my vehement motions to the rhythm; Of All Things I Will Soon Grow Tired was there for me when I needed a balance of lighthearted dancing and wallowing in my depression. This series of ways through which a band’s entire discography comforted me was something I had only experienced with Brand New. It was special, it was intimate, and it was all I could think about for the time being.

HAHA let’s ignore that part about Brand New. Anyway, Joyce Manor was a band that I became close to like a best friend. My love for them felt so large that I had to write it down. This piece was originally on my Wordpress blog, Danielle Goes to the Gig.

Self-titled wasn’t the first record I got into—but, as this excerpt conveys, it doesn’t matter. The chronology of my attraction to their albums doesn’t matter because I fell in love with them in different ways at different points.

Falling in love with self-titled means wearing all black. It means trying to memorize and sing the lyrics to “Orange Julius” like it’s a goddamn rap song. It means picking out little images from the songs to brainstorm tattoos—a train set, a broken tooth. It means clicking repeat on this 19 minute album because it ends too fast every time. It means attempting to headbang to “Constant Nothing” even though you can’t keep up with its pace. It means wondering what the hell an ashtray petting zoo is. It means savoring Barry Johnson’s raspy yells. It means feeling your heart drop when you hear the opening chords of “Constant Headache,” the devastating finale.

A lot of music writers are a lot older than me and were shaped by bands they grew up with, bands I’ve never listened to, maybe even bands I’ve never heard of. Joyce Manor was one of the bands I grew up with that convinced me I was witnessing something so important and inventive—yet so overlooked—that convinced me I needed to get involved. It felt special to be a part of, to try to put into words the way I believed this band was doing something monumental. Back then, I wasn’t able to get a read on their actual impact, because, like I said, I was, lmao, a high schooler talking to an empty room. Now, it’s nice to be able to freak out with a bunch of people—friends and music writers of all ages—over Joyce Manor.

I had the pleasure of interviewing them twice—once the whole band when I was 17, and then just Barry when I was 18. These occasions were why I was ready to devote my life to writing about music—I was given access to a band that, to me, were game-changing, and I got to participate in spreading the word. I didn’t know what the hell I was doing. I didn’t have anyone telling me how to do an interview. I just knew that I loved the music and that I had the chance to talk to them and I was gonna take it. That’s all music journalism has ever been to me—an impulse, an instinct.

Falling in love with self-titled means posting a picture of your outfit on Instagram and captioning it with lyrics from “Derailed.” It means trading soft, whiny emo for this clamorous version that flirts heavily with pop-punk and even a little bit with post-hardcore. It means disposing of slow, tear-jerking songs about people changing and instead putting on “Leather Jacket” and screaming until your voice is gone: “I MISS THE WAY WE TALKED BEFORE YOU WENT AWAY TO SCHOOL.” It means picking anger. It means wishing for a mosh pit. It means feeling so many emotions you could just explode. But the songs explode for you.

I’m happy I was able to grow up with this band—even though I was generally late to the party. No one in my school knew who Joyce Manor was (Long Island is not as emo as you’d think) and the only way I could express my appreciation for them seemed to be online—through digital communities and through Google docs. I’m grateful that those experiences led me to where I am now. One day I am probably gonna get a train set or a broken tooth etched into my skin to hold onto this reckless gratitude forever.