"We weren't thinking what it would sound like on radio, or what fans of the old band would think," says Wonderlick vocalist Tim Quirk of his band's self-titled debut album. "It was just, 'Let's get in the studio and have some fun.'"

In a music world where artists' every blink seems calculated for maximum commercial impact, Quirk's brazen disregard for the marketplace sounds like suicide. But given that the old band he speaks of is Too Much Joy, his comment just seems like more good-natured nose-thumbing.

Back in the grunge-obsessed early Nineties, Too Much Joy muscled their way onto the radio with the pure pop of "Crush Story." With its sing-along hook and twisted look at love and infatuation, the song brought some much-needed levity to overly earnest airwaves. Too Much Joy's brainy wit became their trademark on college-radio-friendly albums such as Cereal Killers and Son of Sam I Am, helping build them a sizable cult following and a reputation as -- depending on who you asked -- either too-clever wise-asses or brilliant pop insurrectionists. But even their sophomoric sense of humor couldn't insulate them from the pressures of the music biz, and the Joy was gone by mid-decade.

By the beginning of the new millennium, Quirk and Too Much Joy guitarist Jay Blumenfield had settled into more conventional lives, becoming husbands and fathers and joining the workaday world. Distanced from their brush with success, they were ready for a reunion of sorts, and the pair began meeting in towns midway between their respective San Francisco and Los Angeles homes.

"Ostensibly, the reason was to get together and write songs," Quirk says, "but it was really an excuse to get together and remember that we used to be friends before the music business."

Considering the two thirtysomethings have been playing music together since their early teens, it was inevitable that their meetings would develop into something more. Quirk, who works at Listen.com, a Web portal for digital music files, had witnessed firsthand the possibilities of distributing music on the Internet. It wasn't long before he talked Blumenfield into recording some of their new songs, with the intent of giving them away on the Web.

The results surprised them. Quirk and Blumenfield's modest aspirations fostered an anything-goes approach in the studio. Setting aside the familiar guitars and drums, the two tinkered with electronic percussion, samples, vocal effects and just about every other technological toy at their disposal.

"I hadn't expected it to change the way we recorded as drastically as it did," Quirk says. "It was the combination of having no real goal beyond amusing ourselves, coupled with the radical ways in which recording technology had changed in the four years since I'd last been in the studio. We just both found it incredibly liberating."

So liberating, in fact, that they began recording tracks with little or no preparation, building songs around a wordless vocal, a snippet of lyric or less.

"Doing this record was probably only the second time in my life I felt the true spirit of punk coursing through my body," says Blumenfield. "The first time was when I played in my first band and it sounded loud and awesome and I felt like I was invincible. Putting this stuff together and not knowing what we were doing -- it was that same sort of punk feeling. [Even] the fact that the technology was almost daunting was exciting."

Given the way it was created, Wonderlick is surprisingly cohesive. Though the adventurous spirit that spawned the album is apparent in every track, the songs hang together on the same strong melodic sense and sharp lyrics that made Too Much Joy records such a delight.

But that's not to say that this is merely Too Much Joy version 2.0. From the opener "Donner Lake" to the closer "Monti 8," with its "We're all gonna die" coda, it's clear that Wonderlick isn't something you pull out with a case of beer at a frat party. In Quirk's lyrics love -- both romantic and familial -- co-mingles with infidelity, death and an unnerving fatalism. The duo's humor is still apparent, but this time they aren't so quick to get to the punch line.

"It's just the stuff that was on my mind," Quirk says. "Because we were writing in the studio, I didn't have a chance to cross out all the bits that I didn't really want the world to hear, that I didn't want myself to hear. The other part is being old enough to have really close friends just drop, and I don't think you ever recover from that. It's the same with being desperately in love and/or becoming a dad. Part of loving something is realizing that it could be taken away at any moment. That's tough to work out."

"The way we tore everything down and built it back up, it feels like we got closer to some sort of honesty in the lyrics, in the sound, in the emotion of the songs," Blumenfield adds. "These songs are closer to my heart than anything I've ever done."

But despite the album's sometimes unsettling themes, Quirk and Blumenfield have hardly gone from merry to maudlin. If anything, they're quick to point out how life-affirming the whole experience has been.

"A lot of people say, 'Oh it's your mature record. You're all grown up,'" Quirk says. "But that doesn't feel right to me. In the studio and playing live, I feel like I used to feel when I was fourteen and Jay and I first started playing in bands together. All that joy the music business had beaten out of me has come rushing back."

MICHAEL ANSALDO
(May 31, 2002)