Here’s a bold statement: sometimes the most unexpected words can make you fall in love with an album. Take Suburban Tours by Rangers, the brainchild of Joe Knight. In an interview with The Wire, Knight described his own songs as ‘dull, numb, and vacant.’ Odd, right? But here’s where it gets intriguing—it was this very description that hooked me. I thought, ‘I have to hear this.’ And this is the part most people miss: why would an artist describe their work this way, and why did it spark such curiosity? Let’s dive in.
To understand this, we need to rewind to the late 2000s and early 2010s, a time when the American underground music scene was obsessed with genres like chillwave, hypnagogic pop, and glo-fi. Artists like James Ferraro, Oneohtrix Point Never, and Emeralds were resurrecting forgotten styles—New Age, yacht rock—and making them cool again. Meanwhile, in the UK, hauntologists were sampling the mundane sounds of library music and radiophonics. Suddenly, the overlooked and the background became the stars of the show. Square was the new hip, and the soporific became exciting. Philosophers call this transvaluation—a complete flip of what we consider good or appealing. But here’s the controversial part: Was this genuine appreciation, or just the thrill of being counterintuitive? Were we truly moved, or just daring ourselves to like the uncool?
By 2010, the raw, dirty, ‘warm’ sound of late ’90s alt-rock felt tired. Enter Suburban Tours. When I finally listened to it, I didn’t hear dullness—I heard excitement, a tingling sense of ecstasy. Yes, it’s a DIY record, rough around the edges, but it’s also oddly serene, with a vacant, gliding quality that’s almost hypnotic. Knight, living in San Francisco at the time, channeled his Texas roots into the album. The guitar sounds like suburban sprawl under the Sun Belt sun, blindingly bright and frazzled. You can almost feel the glare of light off swimming pools and car roofs.
Knight named tracks after subdivisions like ‘Deerfield Village’ and ‘Bear Creek,’ places that replaced wilderness with neatly plotted neighborhoods. ‘Golden Triangles’ is named after a mall near Denton he visited as a kid. The album captures the steady, tranquil transit of suburban life—driving, cycling, even walking the dog—through a landscape of single-story homes and artificially green lawns. And this is the part most people miss: It’s not just about the music; it’s about the feeling of being in that space.
Rush’s 1982 single ‘Subdivisions’ became a talisman for Knight, not for its sound but for its music video—aerial shots of characterless suburbs, zooming in on a lonely teenage boy trapped in soulless surroundings. While Suburban Tours doesn’t sound like Rush, it shares that sense of isolation and longing. But here’s the controversial part: Is the album a celebration of the suburbs, or a critique? Or is it something in between—a bittersweet ode to the blandness we all secretly yearn for?
Knight’s guitar work is the heart of the album, a blend of influences from Eddie Van Halen to Maurice Deebank. His use of a $99 Digitech multi-effects processor and GarageBand adds layers of reverb and distortion, creating a sound that’s both makeshift and magical. The rhythm section has a sprained funk feel, with gluey bass and gated drum pads, giving the album a simulated band vibe—a man grooving alone in his home studio.
It’s hard to pick favorites, but ‘Deerfield Village’ sets the tone with its swirling radiance, while ‘Golden Triangles’ enchants with its sentimental melody. The album reminds me of Vince Guaraldi’s Peanuts music and Ernest Hood’s Neighborhoods—gentle elation without the specifics. And this is the part most people miss: It’s not just a guitar album; it’s a mood, a feeling of bliss in the blandness.
Knight’s later albums, like Texas Rock Bottom and Late Electrics, feature his mumblecore voice more prominently, but Suburban Tours is where he bottled magic. Its successor, Pan Am Stories, comes close, with tracks like ‘Zeke’s Dream’ and ‘Sacred Cows’ showcasing his lyrical genius. But here’s the controversial part: Does Suburban Tours capture the era it was made in? 2010 was a time of economic uncertainty, political frustration, and centrist muddle-through. From today’s perspective, it feels almost idyllic. But does the album reflect that, or is it a timeless escape?
For me, Suburban Tours was a spiritual preparation for my own move from New York’s East Village to suburban LA. It made sense of the palm trees, parakeets, and drive-thru signs against the San Gabriel mountains. Knight’s nostalgia for his Texas youth became a vessel for my own yearnings. And this is the part most people miss: The album’s wistfulness is universal—it’s whatever you need it to be.
So, does Suburban Tours find bliss in the blandness? Absolutely. But what’s your take? Is it a celebration, a critique, or something else entirely? Let’s discuss in the comments.
