Features | Awards

The Even God Can't Kill It Award

By Conrad Amenta | 14 December 2009

Weezer :: Raditude
(DGC/Interscope; 2009)








And lo, the Lord looked upon the Earth, and it was good. The sun hung in the sky in the day, replaced by the moon at night. There were fish in the sea and beasts on the land. And then Weezer released Raditude, and He was displeased.

So strong is Raditude‘s solipsistic force field that even when the Lord drove Weezer’s bus off the road Raditude was there, counterforce majestic, and said No—I am a thing unto myself, outside of the laws of the universe. An object in motion does not have the tendency to stay in motion unless I, Raditude, say it does. The Lord was agog, his concentration temporarily arrested, probably by that cover—such brazen idiocy! Such uncaring flippancy!—and so was spared Raditude‘s naive authors, so much smaller than the thing they had unknowingly unleashed upon the Earth. Isn’t this the band that created Pinkerton (1996), God thought? Did the fact that Rolling Stone hated it at first really hurt so much that it was necessary to create something with such nihilistic malevolence—perhaps the atomic bomb of bad albums—that the Creator himself felt it necessary to intervene?

And so God discovered depression. He had already started to lose faith in us, had long been considering hitting the reset button, but he never thought his fun little fleshbag experiments would capable of this. Forevermore His creation would be divided into pre- and post-Raditude. God thought, “Shit: those things are made out of fucking plastic—they take tens of thousands of years to break down, and those idiots probably printed a million of them.” Like the Voyager satellite, Raditude may remain long after God floods us out of existence. Let it be humanity’s brutal legacy that Weezer’s tragic awfulness will endure.