Imagine discovering an album that its own creator calls 'dull, numb, and vacant'—yet you're hooked from the first listen, eager to dive deeper into its world. That's the unexpected allure of Rangers' Suburban Tours, an album that flips conventional music expectations on their head and invites you to question what truly makes a record resonate. But here's where it gets controversial: in a time when underground music was embracing the 'uncool,' did this shift truly challenge norms, or was it just a clever way to repackage the mundane? Stick around as we explore this fascinating story, revealing layers you might have missed.
It all began for me with a quirky interview in The Wire magazine featuring Joe Knight, the solo artist behind Rangers (check out his profile on Pitchfork at https://pitchfork.com/artists/29974-rangers/). Describing his songs in such unflattering terms was bizarre, to say the least. It made me think, 'Why would anyone do that?' And that oddity was exactly what pulled me in—I had to experience Suburban Tours for myself to understand the intrigue.
To grasp why a musician might label their own work this way and why it sparks curiosity, let's rewind to the musical landscape of the late 2000s and early 2010s. The American underground was buzzing with styles dubbed chillwave, hypnagogic pop, and glo-fi (that's my personal favorite term, as it vividly captures the dreamy, hazy sound of the genre, even if it never quite caught fire). Pioneers like James Ferraro (explore his work at https://pitchfork.com/artists/28709-james-ferraro/), Oneohtrix Point Never (visit https://pitchfork.com/artists/28187-oneohtrix-point-never/), and Emeralds (see https://pitchfork.com/artists/28293-emeralds/) were reviving overlooked genres such as New Age music and yacht rock, turning them into something fresh and exciting. Across the Atlantic in the UK, hauntologists from labels like Ghost Box were sampling or mimicking the subtle, forgotten sounds of library music and radiophonics. Suddenly, background noises—those tunes you were never supposed to focus on—became the center of attention. What was once 'square' became hip; the soporific turned thrilling, and the mundane foregrounded itself. For beginners diving into this era, think of it like rediscovering old vinyl records in your attic: sounds that seemed bland at first reveal hidden depths when you really listen.
This cultural shift echoes what philosophers call 'transvaluation,' where we flip our judgments on what's good or bad. Words like 'bland' or 'slick,' typically negative, were now positives. It wasn't just about questioning assumptions; it was about the thrill of defying expectations—listening to music that was originally deemed 'uncool' or inspired by it. And this is the part most people miss: how this appreciation for mellow rock and calming New Age tunes marked a major break from the aggressive alt-rock of the late '90s. By 2008, the 'raw, dirty, warm' vibe of bands like The White Stripes felt outdated, almost clichéd. Sure, those qualities persist in what I call 'Studio Dirty'—that overpolished grunge aesthetic—but they've worn thin, with newer bands still chasing this exhausted style at the bottom of festival bills.
Yet, when I finally listened to Suburban Tours in spring 2010, it wasn't dull or vacant at all. It felt alive, buzzing with emotion and exhilaration. Ironically, the album taps into underground rock's prized qualities: it's raw around the edges, with distortion adding grit. Clearly a DIY project, recorded on cheap gear, it's worlds away from the polished studio magic of the Doobie Brothers (learn more at https://pitchfork.com/artists/24367-the-doobie-brothers/) at Sunset Sound. But Joe Knight's self-description makes sense—there's a serene, almost vacant glide to the tracks, evoking a glassy, empty-headed vibe. He was in San Francisco at the time, using music as an escape from draining jobs, but the accumulating songs stirred memories of Texas, his recently departed home state. The guitar work captures the blinding dazzle of suburban sprawl in the sunny South—think of it as shielding your eyes from sunlight reflecting off car windshields, pool surfaces, and windows in a vast, sun-baked landscape.
As the album evolved, Knight named tracks after subdivisions from his youth, like 'Deerfield Village,' 'Bear Creek,' 'Woodland Hills,' and 'Glencairn'—places that claim to evoke wilderness but are really just tamed developments. 'Golden Triangles' nods to a mall near Denton where he'd visit his grandparents as a kid, while 'Out Past Curfew' playfully references the arbitrary rules teenagers love to bend in quiet American towns, where there's little excitement after dark anyway.
The title Suburban Tours perfectly encapsulates the album's essence: a calm, steady journey—driving, biking, jogging, or walking the dog—through the orderly, tranquil grids of suburbia. Picture single-story homes spreading out where land is abundant, interspersed with parks, fields, and those meticulously watered lawns that often go unused. This visual aligns with Rush's 1982 hit 'Subdivisions' (check out Rush at https://pitchfork.com/artists/rush/), which became a touchstone for Knight, not for the music itself, but for its promo video showing aerial views of Toronto's cookie-cutter suburbs and the struggles of a lonely teen. Geddy Lee's lyrics about conformity and isolation resonate deeply. Though Alex Lifeson is one of Knight's guitar idols, Suburban Tours doesn't sound like Rush—except for the occasional dated Yamaha synth peeking through the reverb, as if borrowed from Geddy himself.
For me, Suburban Tours stands as the greatest guitar album of the past 15 years, crafted by a modest guitar virtuoso. Intricate melodic solos weave through a shimmering haze. Knight began studying classical guitar at 12 and devoured guitar mags. If he'd explored alternative zines or Spin magazine instead, he might have adopted a different rock ethos. Instead, his influences span the spectrum: from Eddie Van Halen (read about Van Halen at https://pitchfork.com/artists/6895-van-halen/) to Felt's Maurice Deebank (https://pitchfork.com/artists/1596-felt/), Robert Fripp (https://pitchfork.com/artists/6049-robert-fripp/) to Royal Trux's Neil Hagerty (https://pitchfork.com/artists/3610-royal-trux/), and Adrian Belew (https://pitchfork.com/artists/323-adrian-belew/) to Johnny Marr (https://pitchfork.com/artists/2684-johnny-marr/). This eclectic mix put him ahead in the 'transvaluated' space that chillwave popularized.
Key inspirations included Ariel Pink (discover at https://pitchfork.com/artists/3447-ariel-pink/), whose lo-fi recreations of classic rock and '80s pop through a fuzzy radio lens showed Knight that solo home recording was possible, using tools like a Tascam Portastudio. James Ferraro, especially under his Lamborghini Crystal persona, was another catalyst—Knight calls those releases 'weird audio graphic novels.' Early Rangers works, such as the tape Low Cut Fades and the lengthy no-fi pieces on Europe on TV, echo Ferraro's prolific tape output and Ariel Pink's noisy albums like Worn Copy. But Suburban Tours stands out as a unique voice emerging from the collective energy of the time—genius born from 'scenius.'
Recording alone with basic equipment—plugging his guitar directly into a multitrack—forced Knight to innovate in a confined space. He used a budget Digitech multi-effects processor for reverb, phaser, and more. The 8-track's varispeed slowed tracks for dreamy intensity. GarageBand allowed stereo-field manipulations, treble removal, and extra distortion to unify the sound. The rhythm section's hypnotic groove adds charm: a funky, sprained bass (often slapped) and hand-played drum pads with an '80s gated effect simulate a band, though it's clearly solo work.
Picking favorites is tough since the album flows as a cohesive whole, with each track echoing a beautiful theme. The swirling synths and plaintive melodies of opener 'Deerfield Village' set the tone. 'Golden Triangles' charms with its sentimental tune, reminiscent of the smooth jazz-funk from the soundtrack of Gregory's Girl, a 1980s rom-com about Scottish teens. The gentle euphoria throughout evokes Vince Guaraldi's Peanuts scores (learn about his trio at https://pitchfork.com/artists/23556-vince-guaraldi-trio/) and Ernest Hood's Neighborhoods (reviewed at https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/ernest-hood-neighborhoods/), with the Texas setting echoing Richard Linklater's meandering films like Slacker and Dazed and Confused. Suburban Tours fits into the 'slackerdelic' tradition of humble guitar icons like J. Mascis from Dinosaur Jr. (see https://pitchfork.com/artists/1087-dinosaur-jr/) and Curt Kirkwood of Meat Puppets (https://pitchfork.com/artists/2725-meat-puppets/).
It's easy to overlook that Suburban Tours features Knight's vocals, buried and processed in the mix. Later works like Texas Rock Bottom and Late Electrics emphasize his charming, mumblecore-style singing. The Rangers catalog includes sample-heavy Spirited Discussions, nostalgic metal-inspired Out in the Sticks, and archival scraps in Reconsider Lounge—all worth exploring, but Suburban Tours captures pure magic. Its follow-up, 2011's Pan Am Stories (check the review at https://pitchfork.com/reviews/albums/16028-pan-am-stories/), a double album using similar setups, is close; 'Zeke's Dream' is a 13-minute masterpiece, with its lyrical noise section that begs for extension.
Did Suburban Tours and the chillwave era truly reflect 2010? It's tricky to recapture that time. The 2008 financial crash lingered, the economy sputtered, and Obama faced relentless opposition—from Congress and the Tea Party. The Affordable Care Act passed that March, a win but incomplete without the Public Option. It felt like a stagnant, frustrating midpoint, though now it seems almost utopian.
Personally, the album arrived just as I moved from New York City's East Village to suburban east LA—a big change, yet a fresh start. Bustling streets gave way to quiet sidewalks and nocturnal raccoon packs. Suddenly, records by Ferraro and Spencer Clark resonated amid palm trees, jacarandas, parakeets, and drive-thru signs against mountain backdrops. Suburban Tours unknowingly prepped me for this shift, back to a warmer echo of my English childhood suburb after decades in cities.
Stemming from Knight's unexpected Texas nostalgia—he later returned home—the album's bittersweet longing is universal, wrapping around anyone's yearnings. Geddy Lee sang that suburbs lack charm for restless youth, but Suburban Tours uncovers bliss in the bland, balancing alienation with dreamy reverie. And this is where debate flares: Was this album's embrace of the mundane a radical reclamation of 'uncool' culture, or merely a nostalgic gimmick that avoided deeper critique? Does it genuinely capture the era's frustrations, or does it romanticize them into something comforting? For instance, some argue that chillwave glorified suburban emptiness without addressing its real-life pitfalls, like isolation or environmental sprawl—did it challenge the system or just aestheticize it? What do you think? Is there true beauty in blandness, or is this just a passing trend? Does this music resonate with your own experiences of suburbia? Share your agreements, disagreements, or personal stories in the comments—let's discuss!
