Thursday channeled frustration into forward motion on Full Collapse

Thursday Full Collapse

I spent many weekends in my twenties driving around Texas in my best friend’s blue Toyota Tercel. Our friendship was rooted both in our mutual love of music and our divergent ways of experiencing it. We drove across Texas attending all manner of indie rock shows. After working the closing shift at The Christian Source in The Woodlands Mall, we would drive down to the indie clubs of downtown Houston. On Saturday, we would work the morning shift so we could drive to Austin, Dallas, or San Antonio and back that night. 

Much of the time on our drives was spent listening to music while talking about some combination of girls, God, and politics. You know, the stuff that most twenty-something straight dudes talk about. But while it’s an obvious cliche, the difference always lies in how the unique details and truths of our story forged our friendship.

A fundamental part of these conversations about music consisted of me taking notes about new bands I needed to check out. Not only did Lance have a greater breadth of knowledge than I did, but he knew where to go online to stay in the know about the newest trends, topics, and bands. Back at the turn of the millennium, the Internet still wasn’t what it is today, and it felt like more of an open frontier in terms of possibilities. You literally had to visit a range search engines to learn about a topic, as there was no Google that dominated how and why people locate information online. I knew how to conduct scholarly searches for my college classes, but I didn’t have much exposure to the pop cultural niches.

This combination of regularly going to shows and online exploration put us at the forefront of where indie rock was heading in the 2000s, especially the growth of third-wave emo. Sonically, it was a palpable amalgamation of much of the underground rock that preceded it. Whether it was the vigor of ‘70s punk, tension of ‘80s indie, emotional tenor of ‘50s rock, or angst of ‘90s alternative, they all had a seat at the table. Depending upon which ratio of those elements you preferred, there was a band or three to match your tastes. The joy came from debating with your friends why your favorites were better.

But nothing really compares to the visceral experience of hearing the music—much less seeing a band play live, no matter what genre it is. Music is made to be heard and felt. It is a sensory experience that can change you, convert you, convince you. That’s why emo made such an impact on my expanding music fandom. I saw so many these bands play across Texas from 2000 to 2005 while hanging out with Lance.

Now, I fully realize that most emo bands were composed entirely of guys: specifically, 20-something straight white dudes just like me. We were all trying to figure out what it meant to fall in love, fall out of love, suck at relationships, struggle with your beliefs, or grow up in general. That was much of the appeal for me—especially when you factored in the prevalence of multiple over-driven guitars and screaming vocals. These were people singing about the same stuff I struggled with, which meant that I immediately connected with the tunes, even as the aggressive nature of the music was initially out of my comfort zone. The themes were universal, but at the time, it helped that it was presented by people who looked like me.

Before we continue, let’s get this out of the way—the word “emo” was traditionally used by fans, critics and publicists. Much like the Uncle Tupelos of the world hated “alt-country,” emo bands hated the term used to describe their music, a most of them felt they were making their version of rock or punk. I’m not going to spend time here defining the genre, much less its popular or critical reception over the years. I’ve always been a fan and a defender of the sound, and, with great apologies to ‘90s progenitors like Fugazi, Pedro the Lion, Sunny Day Real Estate, Braid, and more, my feelings are rooted in Full Collapse by Thursday.

Pardon the hyperbole, but it’s simply one of the best emo albums of all time. This New Jersey quintet arrived with a sonic approach that fused Slint, The Smiths, Jawbreaker, and Converge into a passionate whole. Multiple layers of snaking guitars, complete with sweeping counterpoint, formed the crux of the group’s sound. Thick bass lines that enjoyed freedom of movement provided a strong melodic core while brisk but heavy drumming kept everyone in line. 

However, Thursday’s calling card was and is the powerful mix of lead singer Geoff Rickly’s clean, keening vocals and the searing screams delivered by the band’s guitarists. The band took great pains to step outside of generic call-and-response delivery common in punk and hardcore circles. Instead, the lyrical arrangements felt more like conversations—whether between the conscious and unconscious mind; the id, ego, and superego; young lovers; or political combatants. True to the loosely understood tenets of emo as a genre, Rickly’s lyrics overflow with personal, poetic, and political valence.

As a bit of deeper insight into my psyche at the time, let’s examine the song “Understanding in a Car Crash.” I have two favorite lyrics in this song. The first is repeated throughout the song like a classic pre-chorus: “I don’t want to feel this way forever / A dead letter marked return to sender.” Nearly everyone who’s ever been in love has felt just like that. Take the sentiment at step further, and it even applies to the feeling of losing a friend or family member unexpectedly. It’s the deep-seated frustration of an aching heart when there’s no one on the other hand to reciprocate those feelings. I can’t imagine a better encapsulation of the angst felt by your average teenager or twenty-something.

The second is a beautiful, tragic stanza that establishes the song’s theme and tone: “So push the seats back a little further/I can see the headlights coming/So push the seats back a little further/Roll the windows down and take a breath/I can see the headlights coming/They paint the world in red and broken glass

If this had been written by Byron or Keats, whole college courses would be based upon it. Geoff Rickly effortless captures that post-adolescent sensation of the whole world collapsing around you because of a broken heart. It’s the one that screams out, “I know I should be more emotionally mature about what’s happening, but THIS SUCKS! SO HARD!” Or at least that’s what I always took away from the song. 

Then again, that’s the beauty of good art—everyone can take away what makes sense to them individually, and we can all still appreciate it collectively. I honestly believe that there are some forms of music that you can’t truly appreciate until you’ve stood in a dingy room with 100 of your peers singing along with a band at the top of your lungs. Some music truly is more visceral than others. 

Emo will always represent to me the curious blend of anger, frustration, and confusion I felt during the first half of my twenties. The music, literally, by description is “emotional.” Lance and I blared it as loud as possible in the cheap speakers of his Toyota Tercel. I did the same thing in my Toyota Corolla while driving to work, school, church, hanging out with friends, or just blowing off steam. The music was an ever-present accompaniment to my struggles with faith, love, and growing up. 

Because by 2004, I was not a happy person. I was conflicted, burned out, confused, and unsure of what to do next with my life. After graduating from college in 2001, I was offered my choice of two trajectories: become a Graduate Assistant in the History Department or help lead the Christian school operated by the church I attended at the time. I had considered graduate school as my next step, but when the pastor of my church offered me the chance to work for him—i.e. “work for Jesus”—I jumped at the chance. 

I’d always loved being involved at church, as I felt that doing so would help me be closer to God. I was taught that, the more of my time and self I gave the church, the better Christian I would be, the better Christian example I would show to others, and the better chance I had to make it to heaven. So, even though I believed that God had blessed me with the intelligence require to attend graduate school and succeed “in the world,” I also believed that God wanted me to set aside my dreams and goals to serve the Church.

My euphoria didn’t last long. During my first year of teaching, I also attempted to take classes in graduate school. But between working at the school, being involved at church, and working another part-time job because the church job paid so little, my education took a backseat in my priorities for the first time in life. In fact, I performed so poorly during the three semesters I took classes that I was placed on academic probation. When I didn’t correct my failing grades later, I formally flunked out of grad school. 

I felt like an absolute failure. I felt like I’d made several wrong decisions about my life. I felt disconnected from what I was good at. I felt disassociated from what was important to me. And by 2004, I was also going through a profound crisis of faith. Not only did I not hold the same religious beliefs any long, but those lapsed beliefs had put me on this trajectory where I felt everything was crumbling around me.

Emo was there for me at a time when nothing else in life made sense. The guys in bands like Thursday singing songs like those in Full Collapse channeled all the rage, hurt, fear, ignorance and confusion I felt, while still showing me the importance of getting on with your life. To me, that’s always been the subtle message of the best emo acts: Yes, life can suck, and yes, you certainly should address your feelings and emotions, but it’s also a good idea to pick yourself up and engage in some sort of forward motion.

Ultimately, Thursday and Full Collapse served as my personal bridge into the wider world of indie rock. By the time I graduated from college, my music tastes ran the risk of stagnating—not because I didn’t listen to music, but because I didn’t know where or how to find new music that wasn’t on the radio. My ears and heart came alive with this album. It was artful, heavy, and without pretension. I loved how it sounded thoughtful and aggressive at the same time. The music featured creative arrangements that rejected the traditional rock conventions I heard on the radio and music of my youth. And the production quality in particular stood out, in that you were supposed to hear everything from the pristine distortion and Rickly’s voice to the taut rhythm section and careening melody lines. 

Because of a Toyota Tercel, I learned how to scour through used bookstores for old copies of the stuff I missed while exploring the internet for newest, best, greatest, most underground, most under-appreciated, most yet-to-be-discovered bands possible. Because of emo, I gained a whole new musical, lyrical and emotional vocabulary that informed the next stretch of my musical fandom. Without either of them, I wouldn’t be writing this two decades later.


Treble is supported by its patrons. Become a member of our Patreon, get access to subscriber benefits, and help an independent media outlet continue delivering articles like these.

View Comments (0)

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published.

Scroll To Top