The riffs were simple but catchy.
The percussion pounded. The lyrics were relatable as hell.
Modern Baseball was my professor in the intro course of melodic punk, emo and modern indie rock. There were a few times in my life during which it felt like those four were the only friends I had, or at least the only people that really understood how I felt on a daily basis.
They bounced around my mess of a brain for weeks after hearing them. They rang true for me, and maybe for a lot of other people growing up. A byproduct of the social media age, at least for me, is an unnecessary interest in what others are doing.
Modern Baseball captured what it felt like to grow up. They composed witty, sometimes funny songs about the perils of being in love and being alive.
Can you sing it with your friends? Or alone?
It cancelled its tour and went on an indefinite hiatus, citing multiple mental health issues as their reasons for putting the band on the back-burner. I wish I had more adjectives to describe the band's riffs because those guitars go so hard.
Make room for the new, but you can at least leave a space on the mantle for a snapshot of a simpler time. Maybe not every day, but definitely for hours. Thank you, MoBo, for being there for me when I was growing up.
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