Burst & Decay (Volume III) by The Wonder Years

Songs about getting better

Happy Friday evening. A terrible time to send out a newsletter, all the marketing statistics tell me. Who cares? There’s a new The Wonder Years EP! And what business do I have writing this newsletter if not to cover it?

Update: After spending the weekend deep-diving back into the Burst & Decay series, I’ve fashioned my favorites into an album-esqe playlist.

The Wonder Years release days are like Christmas morning to me.

I’m out of bed early, wiping sleep from my eyes. I blitz through the morning routine, stumble down the stairs, scrounge for my headphones, and press play.

This morning, I finally got to dig into Burst & Decay (Volume III) in full. It’s been on repeat since. Coffee in hand, I spent the morning settling into the new songs, like visiting old friends in a new season of life.

I’m happy to report Volume III is perhaps the boldest step forward for the series. It’s bursting (sorry) at the seams with cool and dramatic changes, full of creative re-imaginings and heartfelt reinterpretations.

An ‘acoustic EP’, particularly these days, could easily be a phoned-in effort to boost streams and maintain relevance. I wouldn’t blame a band for doing it. But one of the things I respect most about The Wonder Years is their intentionally.

They simply refuse to half-ass anything.

You hear the thought and effort in the production and recording quality. The acoustics are crisp, resonant, and clear (not easy when they have two or three ringing out at any given time). The strings are full and distinct, vibrant with life and texture. The rhythm section of piano and synths, drums, and bass sound organic and sit perfectly in the mix, driving without overstepping except for a few shining flourishes.

And the vocals! Dan’s signature delivery is front and center, capturing the softer dynamics of his voice more typical of his Aaron West outfit. I just can’t get over how sharp this EP sounds. The other Burst & Decay EPs sound really good. Volume III sounds fucking great.

So instead of a stripped-back, minimally produced, predictable affair, we’re offered an array of lens through which to reconsider setlist staples, album closers, recent releases, and for the first time, a new original.

Junebug

We’ve had “Junebug” for a while, the lead-off single announcing the EP and upcoming tour. It’s a delightful pairing with “Wyatt’s Song (Your Name)” as the two songs written directly for Dan’s two sons.

The B&D setting suits the lyrics, letting the song lead with tenderness and fondness in the foreground. Yet the band maintains their signature dynamics. The intro blooms to life from the droning guitar strings and vulnerable, reverberating vocals into a sweet, swaying chorus full of Beach Boy’s “aaahs”, and big piano chords. Then the fuzzy electric melodies eschew any limitations of what an “acoustic EP” should be.

It’s a Wonder Years song in all the right ways, showcasing what makes the series special in a new release.

Oldest Daughter

Each of the previous B&D releases included at least one song where those versions became the definitive recordings to me.¹ On Volume III, it’s “Oldest Daughter.”

The subdued arrangement allows the ache in Dan’s voice ring out, the space in the instrumentation letting our imaginations picture the story he weaves through the verses. The acoustic treatment also resembles “Madelyn” from The Greatest Generation, bridging the gap between the two companion pieces released almost ten years apart. The strings simultaneously lift the song with soaring high notes and anchor it with an extra emotional weight.

Most notably, Zayna Youssef of Sweet Pill delivers flawless harmonies on the chorus, lilting effortlessly between Dan’s voice and the strings overhead. But her additions on the new bridge stop me in my tracks.

The band invert the dynamics, falling away where the original drives with full-force. We’re left with a stereo’d pair of crystal-clear acoustics, wafting strings, and the back-and-forth vocals. By giving Zayna the bridge lyrics, we see it from Madelyn’s perspective, the reality of her situation all the more visceral.

This change brings a heavier emphasis to the final chorus. It swells in with strings before they fall away, letting the vocal harmonies shine with only empty air beneath. Only then does the full band come back in, driving to the conclusion of the familiar refrain.

I can’t tell you how many times I listened to “Oldest Daughter” when it was the first single off Hum or how many times I’ve listened to the album since. But this version, maybe more than any other B&D iteration, breathes an entirely new life into the song.

Came Out Swinging & I Don’t Like Who I Was Then

If I’m honest, I wish the other features were more like “Oldest Daughter.” That’s not to say I don’t like Joe Taylor of Knuckle Puck or Ryland Heagy of Origami Angel — hell, I just wrote about both of them and highly recommend their respective outfits. But here, for their performances to be only second verse drop-ins, well, it doesn’t do as much to redefine the iconic songs.

Those verses remain some of my favorites in the band’s entire catalog and, personally, I would have preferred Dan singing them. How his voice and delivery has matured is a big pull for these records, and I had looked forward to hearing them on these sections. I wish, instead, we heard the guest vocalists adding new nuances to the songs with either new melodies sprinkled throughout the song, interesting harmonies added alongside Dan, or in back-and-forth dynamics as discussed above.

However, these features represent something else I deeply respect about The Wonder Years; they recognize their role as stewards of the genre and use their platform to lift up other bands who they see as doing things the right way, making cool art, and championing values consistent with their own. I celebrate and applaud those efforts, because the scene is better for it and it speaks to their character and again, intentionality.

Those preferences aside, I love how both “Came Out Swinging” and “I Don’t Like Who I Was Then” use the new setting to allow for reinterpretation of the lyrics.

In “I Don’t Like Who I Was Then,” the intro is given an entirely new melodic treatment, where piano plays a derivation of the original guitars and strings take center stage into the verse. The minimalist approach emphasizes Dan’s storytelling, depicting the younger versions of himself still in the process of becoming. With time offering a more distant perspective, there’s an added gravity and urgency to the second pre-chorus and chorus,

But you deserve more from me,
And I’m trying every day.
I think I’m growing into someone you can trust.
I wanna shoulder the weight until my back breaks,
I wanna run til my lungs give out.
If I could manage not to fuck this up,
I think enough is enough.

This more intimate rendition pulls at the emotions with a different sense of earnestness, bringing to the forefront the desperate necessity of self-growth. The ten years that have passed since the original recording highlight the progress he’s made and the ongoing growth he still strives for today.

On “Came Out Swinging,” Dan subtly shifts the melody for a more melancholic approach. Where the original is a coming-of-age declaration in the midst of finding one’s place in the world, there’s a deeper sense of dejection in these verses and more desperation in the chorus. And yet, the bridge maintains the defiance of the original, now with strings soaring around the melody, sending chills up my arm every time.

I came out swinging from a South Philly basement,
Caked in stale beer and sweat under half-lit fluorescents.
And I spent the winter writing songs about getting better.
Well, if I’m being honest, I’m getting there.

Almost fifteen years later, the iconic refrain remains an anthem of hope and self-determination, but now with a hard-fought perspective and deeper sense of purpose.

Wyatt’s Interlude & Wyatt’s Song (Your Name)

I certainly didn’t have “What if The Wonder Years were on the Bridgerton soundtrack?” on my bingo card, but that’s exactly what “Wyatt’s Interlude” delivers. And it’s so cool! It does something to my brain to hear such a beloved melody in such a pure state, translated into this timeless rendition.

And then, it seamlessly transitions into the lo-fi, distant rendition of “Wyatt’s Song (Your Name).” Dan explained the recording process involved him doing a single take for the vocals to capture the raw performance and then playing it back atop a snare drum to capture all of the resonance and warbling buzz we hear across the song. Oh, and the percussive little loop that opens the track? That would be Wyatt’s actual recorded in-utero heartbeat (it’s 133), which plays throughout the song.

I adore the timelessness quality the consistent hum of noise gives the song. It feels worn, full of generation loss, a memory of a memory, in a good way. It feels like a song lovingly passed down across generations, fitting for a song about becoming a father.

My favorite is the moment of coming up for air in the bridge, where the production clears away, and atop strings and plucked acoustic, Dan confesses,

I’ve never been so afraid of failing at anything,
And I’m glad that you don’t know how bad it is.
I’m gonna go, start to dig, plant the seeds, keep the birds away.
Gonna grow you a place safer than this.

The juxtaposition of the production here emphasizes these fears and aspirations as the focal point of the song and how they underpin the rest of the lyrics. Then the final chorus returns with the static and hum aesthetic, but now with drums and the strings driving it home.

What other band is using their acoustic EP series to make a lo-fi version of a song using the recording of an in-utero heartbeat and then layering the entire thing with a string quartet? Though perhaps not what folks expected, I love the sheer creativity and the boldness of releasing such a unique rendition and I’m so glad it exists.

Teenage Parents

“Teenage Parents” is another absolute standout for me in how it transforms in this new rendition with a fresh perspective. Take the chorus,

All we had were hand-me-downs.
All we had was goodwill.
And you always said it would get better.
“When you’re young and you’re poor,
They hang on your failures.”
You always said it would get better.

In the original, there’s an angst to the delivery, an anthem of self-sufficiency fueled by grit and getting by. The stories are like scars displayed proudly, a testament to growing up stronger for the struggle. And it ends with a refusal to be defined by his upbringing, “I heard the voices, the implications, telling me who I could never be.”

In this new version, it’s Dan looking back, now a parent himself, with a new sense of perspective. I hear so much gratitude in his descriptions of his early life. As a father, the lyrics feel more lived in when he sings, “If you were scared, well I would understand. I don’t think I would have had the guts to handle it,” or the now even heavier, “I’m sick of seeing ghosts, I won’t be here forever.”

And finally, there extended outro with the simple repetition of “get better” adds new meaning to the song; I imagine him singing it in reference to aging parents, now grandparents, as he looks back on their lives and their sacrifices that helped get him where he is.

The Ocean Grew Hands to Hold Me

The original is one of songs that, if it catches me by surprise me on shuffle while I’m driving, there’s probably a 50/50 chance of me needing to wipe away tears. Okay, in fairness, my wife would say that doesn’t narrow it down among Wonder Years songs. But, I digress.

While each of these new interpretations present the lyrics in a new light, this one shines for how it also transforms the melodic refrain as well.

Whereas the original is layers of distant, distorted guitars, this rendition starts with a steady, plucked acoustic. It gives the sense of floating on my back in the waves, as the lyrics describe. You can feel the exhaustion, the downtrodden weariness in Dan’s voice as he sings atop elongated cello notes,

I wish the current would carry me home.
I’ve been running for a decade now,
And I think I’m ready to go,
Oh, I’m ready to go.

And then the instrumental melody, seared into my brain from the first time I heard Sister Cities. The original felt resilient, standing firm against all the things trying to tear us down. Here? The melody feels vibrant, dare I say triumphant. There’s a tangible hope woven into it now.

And alongside the hope, a more determined resolve in the second verse, some of my favorite lyrics from the album,

I’m gonna guard what’s left of the good in us,
When the ash blocks out the sky.
And hold you in my left hand,
And ball up my right.
And if the bastards come for both of us,
I’ll be right there by your side.

And the ending? Fuck, man. I’ve always imagined the ocean in this song as the community and commonality that connects all of us. And so I can’t help but think about the people I love and the desire to be there for them in seasons of hardship, knowing they will be there for me in return.

When I was in shambles,
When I got too weak,
The ocean grew hands to hold me.
I stopped blaming God,
When you said you were sick.
I learned to lean on the people who love me,
When the sutures start to split.
I trust in the current to pull you back in.
I miss everyone at once,
But most of all, I miss the ocean.

And here, at maybe the most bombastic point of the album, the last lyric fades out and the string quartet, still full of hope, triumph and resolve, carries the refrain’s melody, like a receding tide. It’s beautiful, moving, and perfect.

Chills. Tears.

Doors I Painted Shut

The otherworldly vocoder treatment of “Doors I Painted Shut” gives it a dreamlike, ethereal atmosphere that surprised me on first listen, but now feels so well suited to the song. It makes me so happy this interpretation exists alongside the original. Dan cited Imogen Heap in as the inspiration in a Q&A and, whew, what a combination I didn’t know I needed.

The original recording walks a tight rope of dynamics, building and building steadily across a few verses before crashing into a brief refrain. Here, the vocals and lyrics carry all those dynamics with minimal synths offering a foundation and percussion building beneath. There’s a haunting emptiness as he opens with, “I don’t wanna die, at least not without you,” before the layers build up beneath the second verse. Dan’s yell sounds so cool in this setting, drenched in harmony with deteriorating reverb,

I don’t wanna die,
Or maybe I do.
Cause everything’s so fucking dark.
You found my crying in the other room.

Then as the song reaches its emotional zenith, the dreamscape is stripped away; we’re left with piano and shaky vocals and the simple refrain ending with, “I need you to know I love you still, I don’t like me.”

It hit me like a truck when it opened Hum and it delivers the same emotional reckoning here as a closer.

Looking Back & Looking Ahead

There’s magic in this Burst & Decay series.

To reinvent songs, casting them in new lights. To look back, with earned wisdom and perspective in new seasons of life. To look forward, exploring new sounds and ideas, never content to tread ground a second time.

How rare for an artist’s career to offer such an opportunity. How special for the band to deliver such a poignant, heartfelt collection of songs. How impressive to be doing so some twenty years in, with more on the horizon. The Wonder Years, forever.

Hope you have a great weekend and give Burst & Decay (Volume III) a spin or six.

1. Like “Washington Square Park” from Volume II, where the new elements of percussion, pad textures, and the chorus harmonies transcend the song from an early-catalog standout to a high-water mark performance.

Or “A Song for Ernest Hemingway”, a band-and-fan-favorite from Volume I, where the more subdued dynamics really allow the sobering sadness to shine through, adding more weight to the entire song before the raucous ending.

Even from the live EP, we get the recording of “Cigarettes & Saints” with a string quartet and, while it doesn’t overtake the original, my god, do those strings cut right to the heart, making the ending even more of a sonic sucker punch.