When I was in ninth grade, one of my friends told me that she heard Billy Corgan was an asshole.
I responded angrily and cued up “Rocket” on my clunky iPod. I was 14, musically rebellious, and completely enraptured with the Smashing Pumpkins. I ardently refuted the numerous rumors that circulated around my adolescent hero’s character and when people pointed to the universally-recognized failures of the Pumpkin’s later career, I referred them back to Siamese Dream.
A fully realized grunge album, Dream oscillates between trendily aggressive riffs and a theatricality too ambitious for the crowd of Kurt Cobain-imitators that saturated the decade. Corgan wasn’t yet referencing himself as the son of God; his lyrics were too busy reveling in the intrapersonal and the frustrated. Billy Corgan may be an asshole, but Siamese Dream is surefire proof that he is, at least, a damn good songwriter.
