In another life, MJ Lenderman is no more than an unnamed guitarist backing Karly Hartzman in Wednesday, the Asheville grunge group of which Lenderman remains a member. There would be worse fates; Wednesday’s critical acclaim and crossover appeal among fans of indie rock, punk, and alternative country have given them a devoted, if not massive, following.
This was the reality that Lenderman seemed destined for until the release of 2022’s Boat Songs, his breakthrough album. He’d been releasing music as a solo artist for three years at that point, dating back to his heart–wrenching self–titled debut, a zealous foray into slowcore featuring his signature sardonic lyricism and tasteful country influence. Even then, two things about Lenderman were clear: for one, he was a real student of the game, making wholehearted auditory reference to both the OGs of 1990s slowcore and his heartland inspirations, like Neil Young and Drive–by Truckers. However, he brought a wholly unique voice to the worn paths of alternative rock.
Threading the needle between plaintiveness and a rejection of all things sincere with a deftness arguably unseen since the likes of David Berman, Lenderman sang confessionals about basketball in an uncaring monotone that somehow managed to strike as harsh an emotional chord as anything by his decades–old, downtempo forefathers.
These lyrics are the centerpiece of Manning Fireworks, whose promotional materials included, naturally, a limited edition Danny Manning–themed basketball. Whether the changes to Lenderman’s lyrical style constitute a growth or an abandonment of maturity is up for debate. Where he previously sang about grief and loneliness in absolute terms, he now cloaks them in six degrees of metaphor and allusion that sometimes renders him an absurdist poet as much as a confessional one. But beneath his playfulness always lies a nuanced rebuke, either of himself or an unnamed muse.
The album’s first track, which describes killing a man with shorts full of sand and shooting fireworks from a funeral pyre, paints a vivid portrait of a character who seeks to turn the world into a stage for his hedonistic performances. That Lenderman is capable of crafting this character from jokes, plays on words, and lyrics about the circus is exactly the self–awareness that sets him apart. Is he the baby–turned–jerk who is incapable of accepting his own seriousness? Perhaps not, but his willingness to pose the question is exactly what makes his pen so rich.
Just about every line in Manning Fireworks deserves its very own review, and his production choices highlight them beautifully. Whereas his previous album—the equally stellar Boat Songs—features fuzzy no–wave on “Dan Marino” and the raucous “SUV,” as well as discordant anti–melody on its closing track “Six Flags,” his latest release settles into a relatively steady groove of alternative country.
He turns down the amps and turns up the twang on a couple of songs, and leans into classic rock distortion on some others, but never uses production as a tool for attention. The songs aren’t boring—Xandy Chelmis’ pedal steel cuts through Lenderman’s distorted guitar with a beautiful contrast, and Lenderman’s ear for pop hooks finds its most gracious home yet. The cinematic ups and downs that made Boat Songs both rewarding and challenging, however, are gone, instead placing the spotlight unequivocally on Lenderman’s words.
Following the title track on Manning Fireworks are the four songs that Lenderman released as singles, starting with “Joker Lips,” whose lyrics paint the singer as the chilled–out foil to the equally careless addressee of the opening track, set against an easygoing Chelmis' steel riff. “Rudolph,” released as a single last summer, remains unremarkable to me—the contrasts between childhood characters and their seedy backstories fail to make me laugh as hard as they seemingly made Lenderman, and its vocal melody doesn’t catch my ear. It’s not bad, and it’d probably be a highlight for an artist of lesser caliber, but it’s been out for a year, and I’m not sure I could even really sing along to it. Last summer’s reworked single version of 2021’s “Knockin’” would have been a better inclusion.
“Wristwatch” was released just a few days before the full album, and it’s worth the choice as a hype–driving late single release. Its structure is the most reminiscent of Wednesday’s grunge affinities—even compared to its Hartzman–featuring successor in the tracklist, the equally stellar “She’s Leaving You”—with a driving lead guitar and mischievous plays on words that paint Lenderman as a modern–day J Mascis. The singles range from decent to stellar, tending strongly towards the latter, and my strongest complaint about them is that their inclusion means half of the tracklist is songs I’ve already heard.
“Rip Torn” is another stripped–down country track, a welcome respite from the high–energy heavyweights that precede it, and “You Don’t Know the Shape I’m In” features a similarly repetitive drum machine to 2022’s “You Are Every Girl to Me.” Its minimalistic acoustic guitar backing and subtle female vocals prevent it from being notably out of place, and with brushed snares entering the mix at the first chorus, right before an amusing reference to a half–mast McDonalds flag, it’s affably laid–back and folksy, refreshing without being unwelcome in anticipation of the noisy final two tracks.
“On My Knees” is maybe the most straightforward rocker in the tracklist. When I first heard it outside of the context of the album, I thought it was a Freedom–era Neil Young cut that I had forgotten about. It’s heartland rock through and through, conceivable as a song that would fill midwestern arenas in the 20th century and written from the well trodden perspective of someone who’s had too much to drink. But Lenderman’s coolness is derived from not trying to be cool, and what could be an unconvincingly swaggering self–aggrandizement in the hands of another writer is instead wry, witty, and surprisingly profound. He writes that “every day is a miracle, not to mention a threat,” lending us perhaps the most transparent vision we’ve had of Lenderman’s unique perspective, and it’s precisely this balance that makes him so compelling.
The album concludes with arguably its poetic peak, the similarly propulsive folk–rocker “Bark at the Moon,” whose first two verses alternate between Lenderman's signature wordplay and his observational frankness. The song is ten minutes long, and it’s catchy and thought–provoking enough to warrant it, but sadly the final seven minutes are an ambient drone that, while not unpleasant, has little replay value. Without it, the album is only thirty–one minutes long, yet has a triple–album’s worth of jaw–dropping couplets, earworms, and wink–and–a–nudge unseriousness that allow it to grab attention and hold on to it as unrelentingly as Boat Songs, even without any songs that are especially weird on their own.
MJ Lenderman may be the best songwriter alive, but he performs as if it’s something he just stumbled upon, rambling about beer, TV, and fast food until it all coalesces to reveal emotional realities you’ve never even considered. Set against the most accessible instrumentals of his career, Manning Fireworks is the perfect album to reward his day ones while continuing his ascent to the throne of modern indie.
