There is a point in Modest Mouse's third album and masterpiece, just at the start of Tiny Cities Made of Ashes. You've just experienced the first four songs of the album, songs that sound like Isaac Brock poured absolutely everything into. You're invigorated, yet emotionally drained at the same time. Brock senses this, and as the outrageously funky bass line of Tiny Cities takes over, it's as if he's saying 'Come on bro, check out some of this dope shit!', and when Isaac Brock asks you to check out some dope shit, you damn well check it out. You do as he says, and, predictably enough, are immediately rewarded.
Such a moment typifies the beauty of this incredible odyssey of an album. Songs such as the Cold Part drag us to the depths of depression and back again, and it sometimes feels like Brock has lost control of himself, like this is all he can give. But whenever that moment comes, he's always there to remind us that, sometimes, he just wants to have a good time.
Modest Mouse, of course, do have some other really excellent albums, but none of them approaches the sheer ambition, the hurt, the feeling poured into this album. Not only have they never surpassed this album, I don't think they ever can surpass it. It is Isaac Brock's definite statement. Of course he had, and still has, other worthwhile things to say musically, but it all seems like an afterthought of this remarkable record.
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