Inspiration springs from the unlikeliest of places, imbuing everything from old photos to ten second radio jingles with the power to conjure up torrential emotions and get our creative juices flowing. But, much like that now-empty bottle of whiskey that put you on the phone with your ex-girlfriend or boyfriend late last night, the sources of our inspiration have the potential to be as embarrassing and regrettable as the fruits they bear. Let’s talk about some of those sweet songs that would be oh-so-much sweeter if they weren’t about the lamest crap ever.

From their nerd-boner inducing album Nightfall in Middle Earth fantasy metal greats Blind Guardian drudge through the nuances and subtle beauties that exist only in JRR Tolkien’s much celebrated trilogy The Lord of the Rings. Voice acting and sound clips comprise half the album, covering everything from prodigious battles to lute accompanied troubadours. Cool? Totally beside the point. This is an act of love, a public declaration that their dice have 16 sides and that individual band members have seriously considered whether they’d rather be an elf or a dwarf. If you can stomach all that, then you’re in for a treat. “Mirror Mirror” is a searing tribute to Middle Earth. The group flexes its metal muscles as it rips through five minutes of screaming guitars, soaring vocals, and the sort of double bass drum work that would make the guy from Slipknot shit his pants. Vocalist Hansi Kursch seems to have a ceiling-less range, filling the track with full harmonies and a voice that sounds both urgent and controlled. The Viking looking frontman somehow manages to produce a strained effect without compromising his tone or vocal movement. It’s unfortunate that the lyrics rely on dark imagery and ambiguous references to some sort of conflict. It’s even more unfortunate that the track appears on such an odd concept album.

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The Explosion’s Flash Flash Flash is as fun a street punk album as ever recorded. It’s well produced, relatively catchy, and has enough vaguely rebellious messages to keep the more political fans of the genre at bay. Its opening track even takes a stab at commodified rebellion, pointing out that the frequency with which old political mantras and ideologies are thoughtlessly evoked belies their true meaning and disgraces their accompanying legacy. Then there’s the song about spiders. “Tarantulas Attack” is as simple as it sounds. Weighing in at just under 90 seconds, this burst of arachnophobic punk rock documents the fall of the United States by way of tarantula infestation. And, to make matters worse, the chorus crushes all hope of self-defense. “Tarantulas attack / Missiles do nothing, eight legs and hairy backs / Whoa-ohhh, tarantulas attack!”

Lyrics and the need to call John Goodman aside, “Tarantulas Attack” never stops to catch its breath as it follows a simple yet effective verse/chorus progression. Its brevity is a byproduct of the band’s careful execution and certainly illustrates a familiarity with the genre. “Tarantulas Attack” is strikingly similar to GBH’s “City Baby Attacked by Rats.” Both songs play at roughly the same tempo, rely heavily on a simple guitar lead, repeat the plain and plainly worded chorus as much as possible, and pertain to really nasty pest problems. However, the latter was filled with social commentary and a palpable anger about the world of squalor into which some children are born. The former is—well, a song about spiders.

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In 2000, Rancid set out to prove to their fan base that they could create an album as fierce as 1993’s Let’s Go. Thus Rancid was born. It was a blatant response to criticism and what I imagine to be an endless flood of taunts from angry fans too young to remember the band’s earlier work. Hell hath no fury like a 15 year old yelling “sellout.”

While several of the tracks do sound like an unfortunate parody of the band’s earlier material, much of the album manages to blend their competing styles. As a whole the disc sounds both gritty and heartfelt. Rancid has a long tradition of singing about the world around them and their life experiences, covering everything from breakups and divorces to drug addiction and prostitutes (is there a connection there)? But this album is as much about looking tough as anything. So what do they scream about now that they’ve become rich and famous, Tim Armstrong has fallen in love, and Lars Frederiksen has had a successful side project? How about the Norse god Loki?

“Loki” shows Rancid desperately trying to prove that they are as capable of writing hardcore punk bursts as they are ska-inspired radio hits. As if they were afraid of losing the listener’s attention, the band makes no effort to establish any sort of song structure, keeping it short and angry. “Loki” relies on the band’s strengths: heavily distorted palm-muted guitars; Lars’ this-shit-is-so-serious screams; bassist Matt Freeman’s double-picked bass cutting through the clutter. The band even employs that old hardcore trick of matching the down strokes of the lead guitar riff with a kick/crash combo to break up the intensity of the near-thrash speed drumbeat. Despite the inherent lameness of chanting “Loki’s playing tricks again” to close out a song, it works.

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